R. Salvatore - The Bear

More than one commander raised an eyebrow at that, but these were skilled warriors, men who had trained and fought under the able command of Laird Delaval. They scattered to their respective battle groups, turning the lines, readying the archers, and forming defensive squares as the fields south blackened with lines of warriors marching under the flag of Pryd, not Delaval, then charging without hesitation to the command of the Bear of Honce.

The ground shook when they came on, driving into King Yeslnik's flank, led by Bannagran and his devastating wedge of veteran charioteers.

The sky blackened with arrows.

The fields reddened with blood.

The air filled with the screams of battle, of rage, of agony, of terror. There was no shortage of second-guessing on the ridge west of the low field known as Blenden Coe when all the higher ground north and east darkened with the soldiers of Laird Milwellis. Shoulder to shoulder and many ranks deep, their sheer numbers mocked Dame Gwydre's plan or any rational hope that she could win the day.

Those enemies in the north held their ground, planting their long spears in the turf and standing at ease, while in the west, the great force began to move, spilling down the northern slope into the bowl of Blenden Coe, forming into squares.

"How many to each?" Gwydre asked Dawson McKeege, who stood beside her.

The old sailor snorted. "Five hundred? A thousand?" he said as square after square rolled over the eastern crest and marched down into Blenden Coe. Three squares across and five deep, fully fifteen were in sight.

"Beware the line in the north," Gwydre warned.

"The ground up there is difficult, and we've archers and monks ready to sting them if they try to run about us," Dawson assured her. He left it unspoken, but his ending snort told Gwydre that he was thinking the same thing as she: With the overwhelming force marching straight at them, what need did Laird Milwellis have of any tactical flank?

Fittingly, the sky darkened as storm clouds rushed on brisk late-summer winds and stole the late-morning sun.

"If we sting them hard enough, be prepared to break and run," Gwydre said to Dawson and to all the other commanders about her. "To the south and Pryd Town."

"If Bannagran won't come to us, we'll go to him," Dawson muttered under his breath, and, like Gwydre, he looked to the south.

Milwellis's leading squares were halfway across the mile-long field by that point, all shields and spear tips and the rattle of armor and the thunder of marching boots. The storm clouds above seemed to mirror their approach, the sky darkening as the field darkened with cavalry groups, few chariots, but scores of riders, positioned between the second rank of squares, riding about the lines and tightening the formations, barking orders and encouragement.

"Come on, then," Dawson muttered when the first line paused just beyond the slope at the western end of Blenden Coe. He glanced back over his shoulder at the second contingency, and he noted a rider fast approaching along the western road.

Dawson tapped Gwydre's shoulder, and when she turned to regard him, he motioned to the distant man. Both were still looking on curiously, back to the west, when the storm broke in the east, the leading three squares coming on with a howling charge.

"Let fly! Let fly!" the commanders shouted to the lines of archers up on that ridge, and lines of Vanguardsmen bent their bows and sent their killing darts into the air.

But the shield walls stopped most of that with only minimal damage.

Behind the leading squares, groups of Palmaristown archers rushed into place and tried to return the volley, but from the lower ground, they couldn't yet reach Gwydre's position. Seeing that as their enemy's only advantage, Milwellis's commanders urged those first squares on faster.

Up the slope they charged, screaming wildly and beating their weapons against their shields.

And a second storm broke, a thunderstorm, and not from the skies above, but from the ground before them, as the brothers of St. Mere Abelle popped up from their concealment and blasted Milwellis's ranks with stunning bolts of graphite lightning.

And most powerful of all, centering the line of Dame Gwydre's monks, came the magical explosions of the Highwayman, and while many men fell wounded to the lightning of the monks, those who fell to the power of the Highwayman did not rise up.

Stroke after stroke crackled into the tight formations, scattering electrical charges across the iron-banded shields like the interconnected strands of a spider's web. Men staggered and stumbled as the focused assault became a confused and faltering jumble.

More lightning came forth, and atop the ridge Gwydre called for more arrows. Again the sky filled with deadly darts, and this time, with the enemy formations compromised, with much greater effect.

"Let fly! Let fly!" Gwydre and all of her commanders implored their archers, for the only hope for the brothers below, who were now running up the hill and stopping only occasionally to launch a weak lightning stroke, was continued confusion among Milwellis's front ranks. The Highwayman bounded among the fleeing monks, helping brothers to their feet and shoving them along their way. When he stopped and turned and let fly a blast of lightning, all pursuit in that region simply ceased.

Still, arrows chased those monks up the hill, and several brothers fell thrashing to the ground. From the ranks below came riders, just a few, galloping up the turf, braving the hail of arrows to catch a wayward brother and cut him down.

And farther below, the second rank of squares methodically marched past the retreating first groups, continuing up the hills.

"They're not all up," Gwydre said to Dawson when he turned to shout out more commands.

Dawson turned to her, shaking his head. "Now or not at all," he said. "And sure if not at all, then we're all lost."

Dame Gwydre closed her eyes and tried to steady herself with long, deep breaths. She thought herself a fool for continuing her march; she should have returned to St. Mere Abelle… or to Vanguard! Come along and ride hard," Milwellis said to Harcourt and Father De Guilbe as they watched the second rank of squares ascend the hill, victory all but assured. "I wish to be there when Dame Gwydre begs for her life."

The two shared a laugh at that long-awaited prospect, and both were just about to kick their mounts into a run when over the crest of the far western ridge came a curious sight: several burning logs in a long line. At either end of each stood runners, holding ropes affixed to those clever barriers. The runners didn't hesitate and didn't slow, charging down at the marching enemies, pulling the logs between them. With their fires raging along their oil-soaked lengths, those logs gained momentum and outran their pullers, bouncing and rolling down the hill.

How the soldiers of Milwellis scattered before that conflagration! More logs appeared atop the ridge and followed the first barrage down the sloping ground and more after that.

Running beside that third wave of rolling firebombs came the brothers of Abelle once again, gemstones in hand, and with the ranks confused and dodging and scattered, their lightning strokes sent many men shuddering to the ground.

"The beasts!" exclaimed Father De Guilbe.

Laird Milwellis let out a growl of outrage. "Onward!" he bade Harcourt, as if he meant to turn the tide all by himself.

Harcourt grabbed Milwellis's mount's bridle and held the laird back. "Swashbuckler's flash," the general explained, referring to a sea term to describe the technique of a particular type of swordsman, who used exaggerated movements and flair to disguise often ineffectual maneuvers. "Be at ease, laird. Their display is far more impressive in appearance than effect, I am sure."