R. Salvatore - The Bear

So they waited and watched, and Gwydre's forces pressed from the top half of the ridge with volleys of arrows and magical explosions. The screams of pain echoing in Blenden Coe were those of Milwellis's men, then and for what seemed like a very long while.

But it was not, and, as Harcourt had predicted, nothing dramatic changed in the greater scheme of things. Gwydre's ploy had killed many of Milwellis's men-a couple of hundred, perhaps-but the swarm of the laird's army continued their indomitable march, and even those shattered formations worked fast to regroup and begin again the press.

"Swashbuckler's flash," Milwellis said back to Harcourt, great relief in his voice. "How many more tricks might Dame Gwydre have to play?"

"Not enough," Harcourt assured him.

His actions toward strengthening the loyalty of his soldiers, particularly those given to him by the very king they now battled against, had worked handsomely, Bannagran knew in the first confusing moments of that collision of armies. He had worked hard to make them view Pryd Town as their home, had given them land on which to build houses instead of living in tents, and had invited their families to join them. Well-rested, well-fed, and fighting for a man they had come to love and for a town that all of them could now call home, the legions of Pryd slammed hard into Yeslnik's flank, determined to be done with this miserable fighting once and for all.

But these were seasoned Delaval soldiers opposing them, in superior numbers, and Yeslnik's men did not break and run.

And so Bannagran and his charioteers had to be everywhere at once, omnipresent on the battlefield, thundering in wherever the line of Pryd seemed most shaky and vulnerable. None could withstand those powerful charioteers and their godlike leader. None dared remain on the field before the Bear of Honce.

But the enemy line was long and disciplined and turning in to flank the smaller Pryd force, east and west. Even if they won the day, Bannagran knew that he would have little in reserve to meet Laird Milwellis on the field.

In the height of the fighting, with men dying by the score, horns began to blow and every warrior, Delaval and Pryd alike, turned to see a new force entering the fray, charging hard from the northeast.

"Milwellis has come! Milwellis has come!" those men and women around the coaches of Yeslnik and Olym cried, and the foppish king dared come forth and climb again to the roof of his carriage. His smile nearly took in his large ears as he peered to the northwest, to see a great legion rushing in, sure to slam against Bannagran's exposed flank.

"They will split our enemy asunder!" one of the nearby commanders shouted. "Even the great Bannagran cannot hold his line together! Swiftly will come the end of Bannagran!"

"Death to the Bear of Honce!" another commander shouted.

"Milwellis has come!" King Yeslnik cried, and all about him cheered. "And so you die, Bannagran the traitor!"

All along the line of Delaval, the cheering heightened, for who else might it be but Laird Milwellis of Palmaristown?

The force closed, the cheering continued, and King Yeslnik hopped about with glee… and such relief. But gradually, interspersed with those cheers, came questioning remarks from Yeslnik's commanders.

"Light horses?" one asked.

"Milwellis is armored," another added.

King Yeslnik's smile dissolved as he looked around at the gathering, some commanders in trees, others atop wagons, and all peering intently to the northwest.

"Laird Milwellis was wise enough to lighten a force to come to our cause," Yeslnik said after many more comments and doubts filled the air about him.

"It is not Laird Milwellis, my king," one commander dared remark, and Yeslnik fixed him with a look of surprise and anger and fear.

"It is Laird Ethelbert!" another added, as the first shrank back from that dangerous look. "He has come forth in all his power!"

The blood drained from Yeslnik's thin face. He turned fast to look to his wife for support, to the woman who had given him such courage and daring in these last months.

But she stood staring wide-eyed, her hands up before her gaping mouth, and when she noted Yeslnik's look, she let out a ghastly screech and retreated fast again to the sanctuary of her armored coach.

Yeslnik looked back to the approaching force.

He trembled. He sweat. He tried to call out an order to his commanders to regroup and tighten their lines.

But all he could do was squeak. Friend or foe?" the driver of the chariot beside Bannagran asked when the identity of the new force entering the field of battle became clear.

"The men of Ethelbert dos Entel hate Yeslnik," another driver insisted.

"They hate Laird Bannagran, too," said the first.

"Follow!" Bannagran commanded, and he swung his chariot around and charged away from the raging battle, straight toward Laird Ethelbert's approaching line. He lifted his great axe high above his head as he came in clear sight of the group and began waving for them to turn north, a course that would veer them from Bannagran's flank and toward the approaching eastern edge of Yeslnik's forces.

Across the field, horns blew-not the typical trumpets of Honce, but more exotic and rich wind instruments whose sharp notes often graced the wide avenues of Jacintha in Behr. Kirren Howen appeared, astride his charger and surrounded by his trusted generals. He lifted his sword in salute to Bannagran and turned his force to the north, as directed.

It occurred to Bannagran then that this Dame Gwydre was a most remarkable diplomat. And the Highwayman, too, though it pained him to admit it!

A cheer went up all around Bannagran, who wasted no time in reversing his direction, and now, with unexpected allies ready to turn the tide of the battle, the Bear of Honce drove even more furiously back into King Yeslnik's ranks, spears flying, his armored team churning men into the mud, the spiked wheels of his famous war chariot cutting enemies apart, his great axe clearing groups of men with a single powerful swipe.

None stood before Bannagran and his team; more fled than fell, and the integrity of King Yeslnik's line weakened along its entire center.

East of that press, Ethelbert's charge overwhelmed the spur of Yeslnik's line, speeding to battle, launching volleys of spears from shoulder-held atlatl, swift cavalry cutting through the lines of confused footmen, and, within minutes, it was Yeslnik in danger of being flanked, not Bannagran. Oh, the treachery!" King Yeslnik cried dramatically when it became clear not only that his archenemies had come to the field in support of Bannagran but also that the eastern city's forces would make short work of Yeslnik's northern flank.

"Go forth, my king!" one of the nearby commanders implored him. "Now is the time when great men may recapture the press of battle."

"What?" Yeslnik asked him incredulously.

"Our lines are breaking," another commander explained. "The peasants are confused by the betrayal of Bannagran and the arrival of this new and furious enemy. They need to see you riding among them, rallying them back to the cause of King Yeslnik."

"Your presence will strengthen them and turn them back to the battle," a third added.

"And we will win?" Yeslnik asked, somewhat meekly, his gaze drifting across to Olym on her wagon as he spoke. The severity in her expression was not lost on him.

The three commanders looked to each other.

"Or we will die in glory," one finally admitted, and Yeslnik let out a little shriek.

"My wife is here on this field of death," he said, more to cover his own fear than anything else.

"The queen to Delaval City!" a commander yelled, and men began hustling all about, putting fresh horses to Queen Olym's wagon and ordering an escort for the desperate run.