John Dalmas - The Lion Returns

The patrol had left three men to observe from a copse. They'd watched till dusk, then ridden north to report the details. Its report had been encouraging. The earlier report-that the dwarves had no pikes-had been accurate. They'd be wonderfully susceptible to cavalry charges. And their mobility would be impaired not only by their short legs, but by the burdens they carried. Their packs alone were large enough that a human would find them burdensome, and large, recurved rectangular shields were slung on them. Some carried crossbows, some six-foot stabbing spears, and others two-handed battle axes. (They'd failed to notice that the axes were steel-handled, and tricked out with hooks.) A sheathed shortsword was fastened to each thick waist. And they wore knee-length hauberks that looked to weigh thirty pounds or more.

If their formation was broken, they'd be unable to flee.

Astonishingly they wore no coats, but none of the observers were troubled by this remarkable lack.

It was a bitter cold midmorning. Major Gert Ferelsma, hithik commander of the 4th Cavalry Battalion, sat in his saddle on one of the two highest points locally available. The dwarven legion had formed its defensive formation, a box with walls of spearmen six ranks thick. Its center was occupied by others, who presumably would provide both crossbow fire and replacements for casualties in the walls.

Their position was on a ridge. A low gentle ridge, but even so, to charge it on the long sides required riding or running uphill. With or without pikes, it wasn't something to throw cavalry at.

The dwarves waited stolidly. The major's spyglass showed their beards parted and braided, hanging to their thighs. Their torsos appeared thick, even allowing for their hauberks, and the quilted doublets they undoubtedly wore inside as padding. Their helmets seemed decorated-embossed or carved, though Ferelsma couldn't make out the details-and he wondered if precious metals might not be involved. It also seemed to him their heads were larger than the average human's. Their legs, he judged, would hardly be two feet long, and their hands hung to their knees.

Surely their minds were as different as their bodies, and he wished he knew what went on in them. He'd read the ancient description of the expedition to Vismearc, and been properly skeptical. Then the sea dragons had failed to materialize, and the man-eating birds, the bees large as sparrows…

But when Chithqosz's army entered dwarven territory, its punishment restored credence to the tale.

Through his rakutik communicator, Ferelsma recommended to Trumpko that they let the dwarves wait there unmolested. After a bit the cold would weaken them, numb their fingers and minds. When the infantry arrived, they could surround the dwarves and rain crossbow bolts on them. By the time the infantry was out of bolts, dwarven casualties would be high. Then the spearmen could close with them. There was no sensible reason to expend valuable warhorses and trained cavalry in this situation. Save them to counter ylvin raiders.

Trumpko acknowledged the recommendation without comment.

Ferelsma was not entirely happy at having a communicator. A few rakutur were born connected with the voitik hive mind, and rakutur could ride. A contingent of them had been trained as communicators for hithik cavalry units. Most were with rakutik units patrolling forest roads, but two had been assigned to the Merrawin base, one of them to him. His rakutu was tall by hithik standards-well over six feet-broad-shouldered and muscular, and trained to weapons from childhood. But more important, he was the general's voice, and Ferelsma distrusted the general's, or any voitu's, knowledge of cavalry warfare.

It was past noon when the first hithik infantry battalion appeared. It bypassed the dwarves, and took a position to the south of them. Over the next two hours, other battalions arrived and completed the closure. Ferelsma and his battalion remained on their prominence, out of crossbow range.

Trumpets called. The hithik crossbowmen cranked and loaded their weapons, and held them ready. Ferelsma watched. Again trumpets called. The crossbowmen fired, sending a curtain of heavy bolts toward the dwarven box. As quickly as they'd fired, they lowered their weapons and cranked them again, bending the steel bows. Again they loaded. Trumpets called, and they fired again.

The dwarves did not answer. They stood sheltered by their large shields, taking what came, glad for the warnings by hithik trumpeters. This continued for half an hour. They'd taken numerous casualties, but their defensive box had not shrunk.

Their shields, Ferelsma told himself, must be remarkably strong. But why hadn't they shot back? Meanwhile the infantry's supply of bolts had to be low. Supply wagons should have come up by then, but hadn't.

"Major!"

It was his communicator. Ferelsma turned to him. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"The general orders you to send a company of your people north, to learn why our supply wagons haven't arrived. I am to go with it. Quickly!"

A company, a fifth of his battalion. Ferelsma sent them, of course.

The company had hardly left when Trumpko's trumpeters ordered his crossbowmen to begin firing again. This time at will. Again the trumpets called. Now kettledrums began beating a cadence. The rest of the hithik infantry started marching toward the box, seven-foot stabbing spears gripped in hands that were numb and clumsy with cold. From every side, they advanced toward the box, in broad ranks not a dozen feet apart. They'd stood stationary so long, and gotten so cold, they stumbled at first.

Now the dwarves began shooting back, their bolts launching like great flocks of focused and deadly swallows. And dwarven crossbowmen "had the eye"; hithik soldiers began falling. Again trumpets called. The drumbeat accelerated, and the advance speeded to a run. The troops began to shout, to ululate. The hithik lead ranks reached the dwarven box, and began to pile up despite the drumbeat. But the hithar showed no sign of breaking off and retreating. As the men before them died, those behind pressed forward.

Ferelsma watched, awed. "Ensorceled," he murmured. A chill passed over him that had nothing to do with the weather.

A courier arrived, a long-legged voitu. "Major," he said, "General Trumpko expects us to be attacked by mounted ylvin raiders. Be prepared to engage them on my order."

The major felt a sense of relief. The waiting was over. He sent two of his own couriers to notify his company commanders. Then his attention went back to the struggle. The box hadn't broken anywhere. Soldiers were clambering over bodies to get at the dwarves.

The communicator's hand gripped Ferelsma's arm. "They are coming!" he said. "Over there!"

Ferelsma peered where the voitu pointed. A force of cavalry was coming into sight over a low rise-several companies, perhaps a mile away. He snapped orders to his trumpeter. The man blew a short series of notes, and the battalion adjusted its ranks, orienting on the enemy. Then, with another series of notes, the major led his four remaining companies at a slow trot toward them, forming ranks for a charge as they went.

The enemy had stopped, and sat waiting as if to receive his charge passively. Uneasy, Ferelsma wondered what that meant.

As the distant cavalry started toward him, Macurdy halted his force. His earflaps were up, exposing his steel cap, given him by Finn Greatsword at Macurdy's last visit in the mountain. A cap powerfully spelled. From where he was, he couldn't see the infantry battle, but Blue Wing could. The bird was flying a hundred feet overhead, calling down an occasional observation.

Horgent, with the 2nd Cohort, still waited to the south, out of sight but ready.