Two hundred dismounted nomad archers gathered well out of pike range and began loosing volleys of arrows at the closely packed militia. Their shields went up, along with makeshift covers of scavenged planks, canvas, and wicker. The standoff continued.
Zala wiped gritty sweat from her forehead with an equally gritty hand and drew Tol’s attention to Tylocost. The elf sat atop a broken column in full view of the enemy, legs crossed and floppy hat tied securely under his chin.
She pronounced him a fool, but Tol, shaking his head, said, “He is one the finest generals of this age.”
“You beat him.”
“I was fortunate. Even the gods can be undone by an unexpected turn of fate.”
Horns blasted to the right and left. A solid wall of horsemen, brandishing swords, rumbled past the archers and started up the hill toward the center of the Ergothian line. As they had done this many times before (though never with so many riders), no one was overly concerned. The militiamen-once craftsmen, traders, and merchants, now increasingly seasoned as fighters-braced for the onslaught.
Ten paces away, the massive column picked up speed.
“They’re charging home!” Tol said, looking left and right along his lines. “Dig in! Stand firm!” He drew Number Six.
Three paces was as close as the nomads could approach and still have room to turn their ponies aside. That limit was reached-and still they came on. A spontaneous shout went up from the Ergothians, a third of whom were kneeling with their pikes butted against the ground.
“Juramona!” cried a thousand hoarse voices.
The nomads hit the Seventh and the companies on each side, the Third and the Eighth. Sheer weight of numbers bowled the Ergothians down. Many were trampled. An equal number of nomads and their horses were shredded by the hedge of spearpoints.
The Ergothian line was eight ranks deep. In moments the riders had bludgeoned halfway through. The clang of iron, the screams of the dying and their killers rose to a deafening roar. A nomad herald raised a horn to his lips and blew, but not a note could be heard over the unimaginable din.
A flash of color caught Tol’s eye. Red-haired Tokasin was flank to flank with his men, driving them forward.
Tol pushed through his tightly packed men, heading for the nomad chief. More than once he fended off attacks, cut at enemy riders, and felt the whiff of a blade through his hair, but he was making progress toward his goal. Then, a horse’s hindquarters swung around and caught him full in the chest. Down he went.
Unshod hooves kicked at his ribs and back. He scrambled to his feet, only to find himself directly in the path of a sword-wielding horseman about to cleave his head in two. Suddenly, a Juramonan thrust a fire-blackened spearhead into the nomad’s neck. Tol was astonished to see his savior was Wilfik. All this time he must have been hiding, in the ruins.
The dishonored guardsmen said nothing. Neither did Tol. Battle drew them apart again.
Tol continued to fight his way through the press toward Tokasin. When a riderless pony came across his path, he swung onto its back and bawled a challenge. Whooping with joy, Tokasin spurred his red horse at Tol.
The two horses collided hard enough to loosen both men’s teeth. Tol thrust overhand with Number Six. The chief leaned out of reach and aimed straight at his opponent’s eyes. Tol parried, noting the nomad chief wielded an Ergothian cavalry saber.
Tol urged his borrowed pony forward. Seizing the collar of Tokasin’s fox mantle, he drove his hilt into Tokasin’s jaw. The chief’s head snapped back, but he kept his seat. Tol hit him again just as their horses stumbled apart. Nose streaming blood, Tokasin fell sideways off his horse.
There was no opportunity for Tol to push his advantage. A heavy blow fell across his shoulders. Instantly his arms went numb, an icy chill racing to the tips of his fingers. He knew he was falling-the dust-veiled sun wheeled past his gaze-but he didn’t even feel himself hit the ground.
All sound ceased. Horses towered over him, pirouetting in the dance of battle. Blades and spears continued to fall. Yet he could hear nothing. He thought this must be what it was like to die.
You never see the blade that kills you, Egrin used to say.
That homily was meant to reassure nervous new shilder. Now Tol knew it was true.
He became aware of a shadowy figure standing over him. He thought it was Tokasin, come to finish him off, but soon realized the figure was in fact defending him from any who drew too near. Vision blurred by the stunning blow and the roiling dust, he couldn’t make out his protector’s identity.
Tol struggled to rise, cursing his awkwardness. The figure looked down at him, and he caught a glimpse of a bushy black beard and formidable brows over pale eyes.
Wilfik.
A set of hooves suddenly came plummeting toward Tol’s head, and he had to roll swiftly aside. Continuing the motion, he retrieved Number Six from the dirt and sprang to his feet. When he got himself upright, Wilfik was gone.
Tol was a good nine paces from his own line. The nomads had broken his half of the militia in two, driving the right portion northward, back to Tylocost’s position. Pride swelled in Tol as he saw the remaining Ergothians withdrawing in good order to the stump of a tower that had once graced the wall of Juramona.
Coated with dust, Tol was indistinguishable from the mounted foes around him. This fact saved his life. The nomads took him for a fallen comrade, as no other Ergothian had dared break their line. He wended his way through the milling horsemen, felling only a sole nomad who tried to stop him.
When he reached the broken tower, the militia regarded him in breathless wonder. They thought he’d been killed.
Tol nodded tiredly. “I thought so, too. Where’s Wilfik? I have him to thank for my rescue.”
The soldiers regarded him blankly. Tol said the disgraced soldier had fended off nomads until he could get back to his feet.
The captain of the Eighth Company shook his head. “It couldn’t have been Wilfik, my lord. I saw him slain before you were unhorsed. A nomad blade took his head from his shoulders.”
If the captain was certain of what he’d seen, no less certain was Tol. Apparently, even after death, Wilfik had been determined to redeem himself.
A furious blast of rams’ horns ended the discussion. Plainsmen wheeled their ponies about and flowed back down the hill. The slope before the broken tower was heaped with the slain and wounded from both sides. Injured horses fought to stand. Men cried out for water, or mercy.
One of the pikemen near Tol cried, “Mishas spare us!”
He pointed. The nomads were re-forming, plainly preparing to charge again. The brave defenders of Juramona could not withstand another assault.
Before panic could take hold, another blast of horns sounded, this time from the far right of the nomad host. A sizable body of horsemen faced about and rode off to the west. The remaining nomads milled about in confusion, an emotion mirrored on the faces of their foes.
Tol shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun, trying to see what was afoot. At the same time, he warned his people to stand fast.
Yet another fanfare sounded on the left, from east of the ruins. A roar went up in the distance, which was quickly drowned out by the thundering sound of horses approaching at the gallop.
A battered pikeman sank to his knees, blood draining from his face. “We’re dead!” he moaned. “More nomads have come!”
The leather-clad host before Tol’s position wavered, then spontaneously broke apart. Half the riders turned their steeds east and galloped away. The rest scattered to the winds.
The horns sounded again, closer, and a great rush of relief surged through Tol’s veins. He lifted Number Six high, shouting, “Those are brass trumpets! Ergothians! Riders of the Great Horde!”