David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘They will come at us head on first,’ said Alahir. ‘It is the way of the Guards. See the enemy, kill the enemy. They have great belief in their martial supremacy.’

‘I agree. It matches everything Decado told me.’

‘Then what is worrying you?’

Skilgannon grinned. ‘You mean apart from being outnumbered four to one? If we are cut off then I will not be able to reach the temple site, and this whole venture will have been for nothing.’

‘There is nothing there,’ Alahir pointed out. ‘We have seen that for ourselves.’ His body almost dry in the bright sunshine he picked up his tunic and slipped it on, and then his leggings. ‘So, let’s just finish off these Guards and head back for Siccus.’

‘The magic is still emanating,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It must be there.’

‘I know nothing about magic, Skilgannon, but if the temple is gone, perhaps they took the source somewhere else. Another country. Over the sea.’

‘True,’ admitted Skilgannon wearily. ‘But the prophecy said I would find the answer. And I am here -

not across the sea.’ Taking the reins of the two mounts he led them to the far side of the pool.

Alahir helped him with the unsaddling and they rubbed the beasts down. Then Skilgannon gestured for Alahir to follow him and they walked back through the deep cut in the rocks that led out to the trail. It was some thirty feet wide here, dropping steeply away to the north. Skilgannon walked to the edge.

From here they could see the great crater where the temple mountain once stood. Skilgannon stared at the distant ring. Heat waves were shimmering over it. Reluctantly he turned away. ‘We have an advantage here,’ he said to Alahir. ‘The ground dips away to the east, which means the enemy will be coming at us uphill. The cliffs and the precipice mean they cannot flank us.’ He walked on down the old road, which narrowed to around fifteen feet at the bend, where it swung away sharply before continuing down to the canyon below. ‘They will have no time to form up properly for a charge,’ he continued. ‘The formation will break at this point, where only five or six riders can stay abreast of one another. Once past this they will be in arrow range. I can’t see them risking their horses against trained bowmen on high ground.’

‘No,’ agreed Alahir. ‘They will dismount and come at us fast on foot.’

‘Or send in their beasts.’

‘I think they will hold back the beasts at first,’ said Alahir.

‘Why so?’

‘I don’t wish to sound arrogant, but we are the elite, Skilgannon. The Legend Riders have a reputation. I think the Guards will want to test that. Once we bloody their noses then they’ll send the beasts.’

‘That sounds right to me,’ admitted Skilgannon, walking once more to the edge. He gazed down. ‘It is only half a mile to the canyon floor, but the enemy, following a winding uphill road, will have to travel four, perhaps five, times that far. I don’t know how long they will have been without water, but even with supplies their mounts will be tired, and the warriors will be hot, their mouths dry, their eyes gritty.’

They stood in silence. Alahir gazed at the winding road, picturing the Eternal Guard in their black and silver armour, their high plumed helms. Skilgannon was right. The road, some hundred and fifty paces from the entrance to the rock pool, was too narrow for them to form up for a charge. They would have to attack in relative disorder, trying to create a strong formation even as they ran towards the bowmen.

Moving to the narrow point he turned and began to run back up the slope, counting as he did so.

‘How many?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘I would be surprised if we couldn’t loose six volleys before they hit our front rank.’

‘Roughly fifteen hundred arrows,’ estimated Skilgannon. ‘Against one thousand heavily armoured men carrying shields. At least half the shafts will be blocked. Half again will strike breastplates or chain mail and do no damage.’

‘And at least half of the remainder will wound, but not incapacitate,’ added Alahir.

‘That leaves around one hundred and twenty-five taken out of the fight. Leaving eight hundred and seventy-five engaged in hand to hand combat with two hundred and fifty. Sheer weight of numbers will drive us back.’ Skilgannon strolled up the road to the entrance leading to the rock pool. ‘It would be natural,’ he said, ‘to pull back into here. The entranceway is narrow, and could be easily defended. Yet it would be suicidal, for there is no other way out.’

He walked on another two hundred paces. Here was the top of the rise. After this the land opened out, as the road meandered down to the desert below. ‘Once past this point and they will flank us, encircle us, and kill us at their leisure.’

‘You are beginning to depress me,’ muttered Alahir.

Skilgannon laughed, and clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Plan for the worst, expect the best,’ he quoted. Then he walked back to the main trail and squatted down, studying the land.

‘We could send a small group of riders down the trail,’ offered Alahir, ‘and hit them as they climbed.

That would increase their losses.’

‘True — but then the Jems would probably come first, chasing our riders. We need the Guards to make the first attack. Then we can strip away their arrogance, and leave them terrified of failure and death. The sending of their beasts must be an act of resignation and defeat. Then, when we have turned back the beasts, the day will be ours.’

‘Ah, this is more to my liking,’ Alahir told him.

‘What is the fewest number of men you need to hold the line there?’ asked Skilgannon, pointing to the widest point of the old road.

‘A hundred. Perhaps a hundred and fifty.’

Skilgannon remained silent, his expression intense. Twice he looked back up the trail, then glanced up at the towering cliffs to his left. Telling Alahir to stand at the widest point, Skilgannon retreated up the slope some fifty paces. After a while he returned. ‘We need to keep shooting at all times,’ he said.

‘When the first attack comes we will meet it here. Once the Guard engage, the rear ranks of our bowmen will move back to the high ground, and shoot over our heads into the mass beyond the fighters. They will be crammed together, struggling to get to the action. How many shafts does each man carry?’

‘Thirty.’

‘If we break their first attack we can replenish our supply from the dead. Everything depends on that first charge. We need to hold them until their confidence breaks. Decado and I will be at the centre of the first line.’

‘As will I,’ said Alahir.

‘Indeed. Wear the Armour of Bronze, Alahir. It will lift the men.’

‘I had that in mind. Where will Harad fight?’

‘He is a concern,’ said Skilgannon. ‘He is brave and he is powerful, but he is unskilled. Added to which no axeman can fight in close quarters, surrounded by comrades. He needs room to swing that weapon. I shall send him with Stavut and the pack to watch the other passes.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Alahir. ‘You are right that the Armour of Bronze will lift my men. So would the thought of Druss’s axe being used in the battle.’

‘It may come to that by the end,’ Skilgannon told him.

Harad followed Shakul and Stavut up a long rise, and onto a wide plateau overlooking a narrow pass snaking east through the mountains. Here the rest of the pack were waiting. Harad took a swig from a water canteen, loaned to him by a Legend Rider. Swishing the water round his mouth he spat it out, seeking to remove the taste of rock dust. Sweat trickled down his back. He glared balefully at the arid land, and found himself longing for the green leaves in the forest back home. This brought an instant image of Charis, smiling as she brought him his food. His mood darkened, a mixture of sorrow and rage swirling through him.