At last, his head broke the surface. Choking, he fought to get his feet under him, then got his bearings. He was a hundred paces from his warriors. The battle continued, but its tenor had changed. The Skorenoi were looking back now, shouting in terror.
He turned, gazing across the river, and froze. The bank where he'd been standing was littered with bodies. Hundreds of Skorenoi lay dead, fallen where they'd stood. Above, silver wings glinting with reflected starlight, hovered hundreds of sprites. As he watched, they fired a second volley from their little bows, which sang like harps as the shafts flew. Another wave of his warriors toppled, succumbing to the arrows' strong poison.
As he stared in disbelief, the sprites laid waste to the rear ranks of his horde. His warriors jostled and shouted, swiping at the air with their weapons, but the winged folk only laughed, hovering out of reach as they loosed shot after envenomed shot upon the horde.
Soon not a single Skorenos remained alive on the riverbank. Slowly, the sprites started flying across the river, working their way forward through the horde's ranks, leaving only corpses in their wake.
It was over. Years of capturing centaurs so Grimbough could warp them, of victory upon victory over the horsefolk-it was all coming to an end. Watching the sprites slaughter his warriors, Leodippos knew he was doomed. The centaurs, who only moments ago had been on the verge of ignominious defeat, would prevail.
He resolved, then, that he wasn't going to die by the sprites' arrows. If he fell, he'd do it fighting the enemy, as it should be.
He turned away from the deadly, winged swarm-they were a quarter of the way across the river already-and looked to the far bank, where the battle raged on. His eyes scoured the riverbank, and soon found one of the Circle, near the end of the enemy's lines. It was old Nemeredes: sword in hand, bellowing at his warriors. Gyrtomon stood nearby.
Sneering, Leodippos searched the water, finding a cudgel to replace his lost lance. Quietly, he moved toward the riverbank.
Arhedion's painted face, now wet with Skorenoi blood, tightened into a grimace as an enemy lance pierced his shoulder. Pain shot up and down his arm, and he lashed out with both forehooves. Fortunately, the wild double-kick broke his opponent's arm instead of killing him: Arhedion had seen more than one centaur collapse, his legs smashed by the magic that destroyed whatever weapon slew one of the Skorenoi.
His foe staggered, clutching his useless arm, and Arhedion thrust his spear into the creature's face. He let go of the lance, and it erupted into splinters, sending the Skorenos splashing lifelessly into the river. The water, already pink with blood, turned scarlet where he fell.
Arhedion pulled back from the battlefront as another Skorenos came forward to fill the gap in the enemy's ranks. "Weapon!" he shouted, looking behind him.
A young, black filly ran to him, a bundle of spears and cudgels across her back. She drew a lance from the bundle and tossed it before cantering onward, answering more calls down the line. Arhedion caught the lance, then turned back to the battle, searching for a gap in the horsefolk's defenses. He soon found one: near the end of the line, not far from where Gyrtomon and Nemeredes were overseeing the fight, the line was beginning to falter. As he watched, a Skorenos used a scythe to cut a centaur's forelegs out from underneath him, then swept the weapon up, gutting the horse-man as he fell.
With a fierce yell, Arhedion galloped toward the scythe-wielder, recklessly shouldering his way into the ranks. He blocked the scythe with his lance, then spun the spear expertly, cracking its shaft against the scythe-wielder's neck. The Skorenos rocked sideways, knocked off-balance, and the white stallion to Arhedion's right smashed its skull with his club, then flung the weapon away. The cudgel tore itself to shreds as it flew through the air.
"Thanks," Arhedion said as the white stallion fell back, shouting for a new weapon.
So it had gone, since the skirmish began. There was a rhythm to the battle: fight, kill, fall back, take a new weapon, then fight again. The struggle had been hard and bloody from the start, with the horsefolk so badly outnumbered, but it had been necessary: they had to hold the Skorenoi at bay until the last of them were on the river's far bank. Scores of centaurs died valiantly, but many more of the enemy went down as well. Since the battle first joined, Arhedion had killed nine of the enemy and helped his fellows slay a dozen more.
He glanced above the massed forces of the foe, and saw the air atwinkle with motes of silver: starlight flashing off the sprites' wings. The little folk moved ever forward, now almost halfway across the stream. Their bows made sweet music as they shot down the Skorenoi. Arhedion grinned. It wouldn't be long before the sprites neared the riverbank. The battle was already won; all that remained was to finish the last of the foe. In an hour, none of the enemy would remain.
He nearly didn't live that long. Staring at the sprites, he almost didn't see the hunchbacked Skorenos who lunged toward him, swinging his club with both hands. With a shout, he twisted aside, and the cudgel whistled through the air a finger's breadth from his chest. He blocked the return swing with his lance, then brought the spear down again, slashing the creature's leathery scalp with the weapon's head. The Skorenos screeched, dropping its club, and he rammed his spear into its breast. The lance splintered as he backed out of the fight one more.
"Weapon!" he bellowed.
It took longer this time for the runner to reach him. She was down the line, passing out spears as quickly as she could. He shouted a second time, waving his tattooed arms, then glanced quickly back toward the line. It was holding, but the Skorenoi continued to press, and several other centaurs had lost their weapons. He cast about, seeking something to fight with. To his left was a large rock, sunk into the muddy riverbank. He started toward it-then stopped.
Something was moving in the darkness beyond Nemeredes and Gyrtomon. He squinted, then made out a shape-a large, horse-headed Skorenos. It charged toward them out of the dark, cudgel held high.
"My lords!" he shouted. "Behind thee!"
Too late. Leodippos fell upon them as they were turning to look. He swung his club, striking Nemeredes's jaw. There was a sickening crack, and the old chieftain went limp his neck bent at an impossible angle.
"No!" Arhedion yelled, horrified.
With a roar of rage, Gyrtomon lunged, thrusting with his lance. Leodippos grabbed the spear's shaft and pulled with all his might, jerking it out of Gyrtomon's hands and tossing it away. Thrown off-balance, Gyrtomon slammed into him, and they fell together in the mud, long legs kicking. Arhedion watched for a moment, stunned, then shook himself and ran to the rock he'd spotted. Gritting his teeth, he tried to pry the stone out of the ground.
Leodippos and Gyrtomon struggled together, grappling and clutching. In the end, the Skorenos came out on top. He'd lost his cudgel, so he leaned on Gyrtomon, forcing the centaur's face into the soft mud, trying to smother him. Gyrtomon flailed, strugging desperately, but it wasn't enough. His strength began to flag, and his thrashing grew weaker. Leodippos brayed a harsh laugh as mud bubbled up around the edges of Gyrtomon's face.
Arhedion scrabbled at the rock until his fingers bled, tears of frustration on his face. Frantic, he glanced up, and saw that Gyrtomon had almost stopped struggling entirely. He hauled with all his might on the stone, deciding that if he didn't pull it out this moment, he'd attack Leodippos with his bare hands. Better to lose his arms, if it came to that, than let Gyrtomon die.
With a loud, sucking sound, the stone at last came free. Arhedion nearly fell over, then rose, hefting the massive rock. Propping it on one shoulder, he charged toward Leodippos.