He wanted to lie down, but there was no place but the filthy ground. His wagon was gone, and the tent he had given to Belphan and Zorlan was too far away. One of the generals went to bring him something to eat, but Offendorl could tell that he had pushed himself too far. He still had great power, but his physical body could no longer handle the strain.
“Someone help me onto this horse,” he groaned.
Another of the generals dismounted and helped Offendorl climb up into the saddle. The wizard’s skin was pale.
“I need rest, Zorlan. I trust you can manage this siege with me.”
“Yes, of course,” King Zorlan said.
“Good, I will be in your tent. If I am needed, come to me there.”
Zorlan nodded.
As Offendorl rode slowly away, another rider came galloping up. He threw up a quick salute and then reported on the army’s efforts on the far side of the city.
“We have been repelled on all fronts,” the soldier said. “Our scaling ladders are pushed off the walls and no one has been successful in breaching the city’s defenses.”
“Stop the attack,” said one of the generals. “Have everyone form up here, on this side of the city. There’s no need to waste our strength trying to scale the walls. The main gate’s been destroyed for us. We can concentrate our efforts there.”
“If we are going to continue the attack,” said another general, this one from Osla.
“And why wouldn’t we?” Zorlan asked.
“Our King is dead,” said the soldier.
“But you heard the wizard. He wants the attack to continue.”
“I don’t fight for him.”
“Well,” said King Zorlan, “you can certainly be the one to tell him that. As long as you remain on the field of battle, you will carry out your duties as I command you. Now, I agree with General Wessel. Let’s concentrate our attack here, at their ruined gate.”
* * *
Offendorl wasn’t sure if he could climb down off the horse. His body was shaking and he could barely hold his head up. Then, one of his tongueless servants appeared. There was blood soaking the left side of his head, but he was walking normally and seemed well enough to help.
The servant supported Offendorl as the wizard slid down off the horse and then helped him into the tent. The general who had gone in search of food returned to the tent with wine and bread.
“It’s all I could find,” the general replied.
“It will do,” said Offendorl in a weak voice. “Return to your post.”
He sipped wine, but the drink only made his stomach hurt worse. He needed to heal himself, but he didn’t have the magical strength to do it. He lay back, fearing the worst.
“Go and get the golden crown,” he told his servant. “It was in the wagon. You must find it.”
The servant hurried away. Offendorl felt his stomach; it was stiff and painful to touch. Something had split apart in his abdomen, and he was bleeding internally. He needed to get help, but he wasn’t sure what to do, or where he could get someone to help him. Perhaps if he gave himself time, he would be able to heal himself, but he didn’t know. Never in his life had he been so helpless, and the feeling terrified him.
He forced himself to eat, even though he knew he would only vomit the food back up. Still, eating and drinking had always been the way he restored his magical powers in the past. The wine burned down his throat and set his stomach on fire. He waited as long as he could, but soon he felt himself growing sleepy. He knew if he fell asleep he could die or become too weak to work magic. He had to heal himself now, or he was lost.
He let his mind look into his stomach. The effort was excruciating, but he managed to see the problem. His stomach had torn loose from his small intestines. Blood and food were filling his body cavity. He would have to deal with the blood later. He focused on healing his organs. It took longer than he expected, but he was able to repair the damage. The pain eased considerably, and he passed out.
* * *
Zollin and Quinn had climbed up to the ramparts of the city wall, near the destroyed main gate. They had a clear view of the army that was regrouping along the vast plain that spread out in front of the city. Zollin remembered seeing the city for the first time from the high hills in the distance. There had been a sprawling village of makeshift homes and shops in the plain, but they had been destroyed in anticipation of the siege. Now it was a killing field that the troops would have to cross in order to attack the city.
Zollin looked back, just inside the city gate. Commander Hausey had soldiers lined up, ready to make a human wall across the expanse left vacant by the ruined gate. He also had men stationed on the mounds of rubble that Zollin had built up against the city walls. The King had arrived only moments before with his generals. They were inspecting the lines of defense with approval. Commander Hausey had done his work well.
Zollin turned back to the empty plain and began stirring up an immense cloud of dust. The dirt rose into the air, swirling and churning until it blocked Zollin’s view of the opposing army. Then he sent fear and panic through his magic toward the invaders. Soon he could feel their terror as the dust cloud approached.
“Now,” he told Quinn.
His father signaled to Commander Corlis, who had been waiting with the entire force of Orrock’s Heavy Horse. Whereas the cavalry in Felson were considered light horse, meaning their horses were smaller and built for long-distance riding, the Heavy Horse squad consisted of half a legion of fully armored riders. Their mounts were large warhorses, slower than the light cavalry but bred for war: they would kick and trample anyone who got in their way. The horses’ massive weight made them difficult to bring down in a melee, and when they were moving at a full gallop, nothing could stop their charge.
Quinn waved his arms, and Commander Corlis lowered his visor and raised his own arm. The cavalry filed out of the ruined gate and formed a long line between the city and the opposing army. The riders were completely hidden by Zollin’s dust cloud. Commander Corlis gave another command, and the horses started at a trot, quickly accelerated to a canter, and then reached a rumbling gallop. They covered the ground between the city wall and the opposing army in less than a minute. Zollin’s dust cloud had moved out in front of the cavalry, enveloping the opposing army, and he could sense that the invaders’ panic had devolved into chaos. The enemy soldiers were turning on one another.
“Havoc!” cried Commander Corlis to his troops, ordering them to fight as wildly as possible.
The horses smashed into the unprepared soldiers. Their officers had heard the thunder of hooves, but in the cloud of dirt they couldn’t control their own troops. The cavalry soldiers used long lances, dealing death en masse to the foot soldiers across the plain.
The thunder of hooves diminished as the horses slowed in the throng of soldiers, to be replaced by the cries of the wounded. Men screaming in agony was a sound that Zollin knew he would never forget. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his bowels felt watery. He was glad that he was high on the city wall, rather than trapped between the panicking soldiers and the massive horses. Once their lances snapped, the soldiers drew long swords. The heavy blades were finely honed and cut indiscriminately through armor, flesh, and bone.
Five hundred men faced well over four thousand, but the Heavy Horse soldiers were practically unstoppable, and Zollin’s dust storm terrified the invaders. More men were killed by their brothers in arms, either due to sheer panic or mistaken identity, than by the Yelsian cavalry.
* * *
“What is that?” King Zorlan asked his generals, who were gathered with him behind the massive army that was forming in ranks ranging along the plain before Orrock’s main gate.
The dust cloud was just beginning to form, and a sense of unease was settling over the army. They watched as the cloud thickened and moved toward them. Some men broke and ran, only to be cut down by others. Desertion was not tolerated in any army.