Pirvan was not one of those rare people who could face such a threat without replying in kind. No doubt such people had their uses in the True Gods’ plans-but those plans would have to go forward without Pirvan’s assistance.
Not so the fighting at the breaches. It seemed Carolius Migmar-probably that figure on the big gray war-horse-was trying to shift men around to join Zephros’s column on clear ground. Meanwhile, those inside the ring of fire were mounting their own attack, on the other breach.
The best tactic now would be to hammer the lesser attack flat at once, then move his own men to hold the other breach against the greater one, for as long as necessary.
Which meant it was time for the commander of Belkuthas to show himself on the ground.
Today half his guards were Gryphons, the other half sell-swords under Rugal Nis. He beckoned to them.
“Follow me. We’re going to fight at the lesser breach.”
Tharash had “deserted” to an ill-ordered company of dubious sell-swords under Zephros’s command. There were more men here who hated and feared the “lesser races”, but fewer who asked questions about anyone who joined up and did his share of the work.
It also helped that Tharash had exchanged his elven bow for a human longbow. He thought it was a disgrace to the good name of archery, in truth, but he had used one often enough before that his skill came back. Within a few days he knew he would be able to use any opportunity that came his way, to good purpose.
The problem was finding the opportunity. He had more chances to shoot Zephros than he could count on his fingers and toes, but that would merely warn the enemy. It might even lead to Zephros’s men being broken up and placed under other captains-who might ask more questions about archers with pointed ears.
Thus far, Tharash had been lucky. Those who had noticed his ears reasoned-if one could call it such-that no elf would lower himself to use a human bow.
Now the last battle had come, and since dawn Tharash had been hoping to find himself within range of his principal target. However, the warrior seemed even more reluctant to come around Zephros’s men today than he had been during the siege.
All this changed, however, within minutes after the fire circled Belkuthas. Tharash heard shouts and cheers, then drums and trumpets. He saw banners waving, one of them the standard of his target.
Then, over the helmeted heads of his comrades, he saw the banner approach. The warrior rode up to the head of Zephros’s column and drew rein beside Zephros himself. Tharash could not hear what either said over the shouting, but he could see from gestures what the plan was.
Reinforced, Zephros’s column would have the honor of carrying Belkuthas. Reinforced, and led by Tharash’s target, who would have his face to the foe and his back to his own men throughout the assault. And who also might die without Tharash’s assistance. But with Tharash in the press of battle behind him, the man would die.
Pirvan led a solid body of fighters toward the lesser breach. Overhead, the archers had turned their shooting in the same direction. Zephros’s men were not yet threatening the greater breach, or the wall to either side.
Behind and around Pirvan moved Gryphons, Rugal Nis and the survivors of his half score sell-swords, Solamnic men-at-arms (both Pirvan’s and the newcomers, led by Sir Esthazas), and a double handful of Belkuthans with Tulia at their head. Had anyone told Pirvan that such an unlikely array of fighters would ever follow one man, let alone him, against a common foe, he would have laughed.
But he led, they followed, and he realized that even if only one Belkuthan survived today’s fighting, they would still have won a victory of sorts. That one survivor could say that he or she had seen humans of half a dozen homelands, both men and women, full elves, half-elves, dwarves, kender, pegasi, and centaurs fighting in a common cause, living and dying beside one another.
Every time that tale was told, it would be one more blow to the “lesser races” vileness.
As they approached the smaller breach, Pirvan saw men appearing in it. So did Sir Esthazas-and from the howl of rage he let out, some of them were no pleasant sight. As if his feet had grown wings, he dashed forward, passing through the ranks of the Gryphons and sell-swords ahead of him, leaving Pirvan behind as though the senior knight was rooted to the ground.
“One of my men is there with the enemy!” the young knight screamed over his shoulder. “He is mine!”
It seemed to Pirvan doubtful who would be whose. But arrows and bolts chose this moment to fall heavily among the enemy’s ragged ranks. They were more ragged still after a dozen men went down.
The burly red-bearded man-at-arms that Sir Esthazas sought was not among the fallen. He stood his ground, with shield and mace, as Sir Esthazas charged him. Then he swung the mace and raised the shield.
He was too clumsy with the first and too slow with the second. The blow barely grazed the knight’s helmet. The knight’s sword found its way around the shield, deep into the flesh over the man-at-arm’s ribs. He reeled, Sir Esthazas opened his thigh, a crossbowman shot Sir Esthazas in the back, and then both the knight and his dishonored foe toppled together down the stony rubble of the breach.
They landed just far enough from Pirvan that before he could reach them, several more attackers leapt down around them. Pirvan started to draw his dagger, then altered his draw and came up with his throwing knife. He was not as deft with it as in his younger days, but one of the men facing him was unarmored. The man fell with Pirvan’s knife in his throat, and a gap opened in the circle around the bodies.
There were still too many for Pirvan alone to wipe aside. There was also as strong a duty as ever not to let a fellow knight’s body fall into enemy hands. That Sir Esthazas had certainly died of his own folly, and perhaps his own wish, made no difference. The Measure was strict.
Pirvan feinted to the left, hoping to draw at least one man into the open and create flanks in the circle. He wanted to break up the circle regardless of the bodies inside anyway. The longer it stood there, the more attackers could shelter behind it, well within the breach and ready to swarm down into the citadel at the least opportunity.
Nobody took his bait, but someone ran past him on the right, straight at the circle. The runner stumbled, regained his footing, and threw himself-no, herself-on the point of both a spear and a sword at once.
Pirvan did not question a heroine’s gift. He flung himself on the two momentarily weapon-bound men, and cut both of them across the neck and face. The circle gaped wide. Pirvan burst into it, leaping over Sir Esthazas’s body to attack the men to either side of him.
Those men died with steel both in front and behind, as the rest of Pirvan’s fighters swarmed up the rubble and over the attackers upon it. Only when there was not an armed enemy on the inward side of the rubble did Pirvan have the time to look at who had given her life to hold the breach.
He wondered afterward that he was surprised to see Tulia. Only some dust and a trickle of blood from her mouth disfigured her face, otherwise as fair in death as in life.
The surprise passed. In its place came rage. If Pirvan had been surrounded by fifteen men, he would have cut them down without a thought. If he could have turned the rubble in the breach into molten lava and sent it pouring over the retreating attackers, he would have sung a victory song loud enough to drown their screams.
Then he became aware that someone was screaming-many people, judging from the noise. Not in this breach, though. Over toward, even beyond, the greater breach.
Pirvan turned and had his feet in motion before his eyes reported what they saw. All he could think of was that the enemy had forced the greater breach, and Belkuthas had only moments to live.