R. Salvatore - The Bear

The monks and the lead force held their ground. Bodies piled around them, but they sang and they stabbed, and explosions of lightning crackled and thundered repeatedly. The Highwayman ran to them to bolster their position as the hundreds of enemies who had marched past that spot came rushing back, fleeing Gwydre.

For a long while, Milwellis's men had no organization to their retreat and were cut down with ease. As soon as a determined group had formed and begun its charge, Bransen again leaped out, evoking the largest fireball of all in the road before them. The vice closed as their coordination shattered in that moment of shock.

Most fled haphazardly only to be slain. Others just threw down their weapons and fell to their knees, begging mercy.

"Now turn!" Bransen yelled to the monks and the strike force, for Gwydre's army was upon them and the fight to the east in full control.

From the west, Milwellis's force streamed into battle through the firebreak, but the Highwayman and his allies met and turned them back, pushing right to that choke point between the burning lines of trees, and in that smaller bottleneck their fury and magic could not be withstood. More than a mile back from the fighting, Laird Milwellis, riding beside Harcourt, heard the commotion brewing in the east. He kicked his mount to a trot, pushing through those footmen marching before him until he met up with the fleeing forces and saw the burning trees across the fields before him.

"Dame Gwydre!" men shouted.

"Monks of Chapel Abelle!" others keened in terror.

"We are routed!" yelled one.

Milwellis turned to Harcourt, panic evident on his young face.

"Now is your moment, laird," the general advised.

And so it was. Milwellis had seen enough combat to understand the implications of a rout, the potential catastrophe suffered by a force turning and fleeing in terror. He had used such tactics to turn the enemy forces at Pollcree; those enemies had never recovered.

Gwydre could do real damage here. He didn't believe that she had a sizable force, but that wouldn't matter.

Milwellis drew out his sword and lifted it high in the air to catch the light of the morning sun. He called for his trumpeters to blow loudly as he kicked his mount into a gallop off the road to the south, then swung about to the north.

"This is our moment!" he shouted in his booming, resonant voice. "Our foes have left the walls of their chapel prison! They cannot match us! They cannot withstand us! Charge, o you from the west! Form your groups and charge! Bang your shields and know that we win the war here and now!"

He looked to Harcourt as he finished, motioning his chin back to the west. The general kicked his mount into a run to help the formations and organize the waves of metal and flesh.

But Milwellis did not ride to join him. Determined that Dame Gwydre would not inflict a major wound on his army, the Laird of Palmaristown rode the opposite way, to the east, rallying the fleeing men to his wake as he went, calling for defensive squares upon every piece of high ground, reminding the warriors of who they were and who they served. The Highwayman led the charge through the firebreak, running down fleeing soldiers and turning more in terror before him.

But then he saw Laird Milwellis upon his steed, rallying his forces. How he wanted to rush out and engage the man then and there, to decapitate this invading army so soon into the campaign!

But he could not take that risk, for beyond Milwellis came the dark cloud of an army more vast than anything Bransen had ever imagined possible, rolling across the fields like a swarm of locusts with such girth and depth that Bransen could not understand why the earth itself did not collapse beneath their boots.

"To the firebreak! To the firebreak!" he called to monk and warrior alike, charging to and fro, collecting brothers and warriors and turning them back. He kept glancing at the distant Milwellis as he did, though, hoping for some opportunity for a personal battle to present itself.

It didn't, and Dame Gwydre and Brother Pinower were waiting for him when he came back through the firebreak.

"We must be gone from here at once," Bransen said to her. "The fires burn low, and Laird Milwellis will vigorously pursue."

No argument came back at him. This had already been decided long ago, a quick strike and a quicker retreat.

Dame Gwydre directed his gaze to the northeast, where a sizable force was already fleeing the field. "The prisoners, many score, to St. Mere Abelle," she explained. "We must hold here long enough for them to be safely away."

Bransen looked to Brother Pinower.

"Do you wish to attempt it?" the monk asked, and Bransen nodded.

Pinower immediately began rounding up the many brothers. "Graphite!" he instructed them, forming a long line just back from the firebreak while Dame Gwydre and Dawson set up a shield wall at the breach itself.

Milwellis's bulging front line came on, stopping short and filling the air with spears. Up went the shields, but still many men fell screaming, monk and warrior alike.

With a roar, the army of Palmaristown and Delaval came on.

The shield wall re-formed but seemed a puny thing before that massive charge, seemed as if it would surely be swept aside like parchment in a gale. At the last moment, Dawson shouted the command and the shield wall collapsed-just fell to the ground-and the line of monks, Bransen at their center, all joining hands left and right, leaped forward past them.

As one, the brothers fell into their graphite stones, building the charge and sending the lightning forth before them. Bransen improvised, reaching his own lightning out, angled left and right. His bolts intersected those of his companions, crossed them and caught them and turned the whole of the barrage into more of a net of lightning than a series of sharp bursts.

"Continue!" Brother Pinower cried. "Let the magic of the stones flow through you!"

And they did, and if one faltered, another rushed in to take his place. Bransen did not falter, though. His energy was the binding force here, the cross-link of the web, and the crackling air fanned out before them, engulfing Milwellis's front ranks as they neared.

Men stumbled, others toppled, and even those who somehow held their feet could not move forward with any force or determination. More warriors piled in behind, but the stubborn net of lightning did not dissipate, and they, too, were stopped short, shaking, teeth chattering, as they fell to the ground.

Behind the monks, Gwydre called for the retreat to the southeast.

Bransen fell into his soul stone at that call, sending his thoughts out left and right, connecting with the brothers. He felt the magic coursing through them, exiting their hands to fill the air before them. He heard Brother Pinower call for them to run away behind Gwydre's retreat. He heard Pinower call for him, the monk's voice growing distant, for he, too, obviously, had fled. But the Highwayman held his ground and somehow held the web of lightning intact. It seemed to him for many heartbeats as if he were somehow keeping that energy of his brethren left and right alive, as if he had stolen their magic with his own.

And, indeed, he had. He couldn't hold it, of course, not for any length of time, but when he at last released it in one final burst of power, he opened his eyes to see piles of trembling, shaking men, lines of disoriented and fallen soldiers so deep that those pressing in had to pick their way, their long way, to come at him.

A hundred spears did reach out at him, thrown in frustration by those behind the cluster of fallen attackers, but they landed harmlessly, for Bransen reached again into his malachite and sprang away ahead of the barrage, leaping far to the southeast.