If so, he had hardly longer. He hoped Tulia had died for a better reason than to make that his duty. It would have been his, whether she lived or died.
Chapter 20
Tharash waited a long time for his shot, letting several merely adequate chances pass by.
Surviving this day hardly mattered. The elf considered himself a corpse with the use of its arms and legs. Indeed, the prospect of dying for nothing chilled him far more than the prospect of mere death ever had, let alone today.
But now his man was riding almost directly ahead. The back of the neck was a small target, but one Tharash knew he could hit at this range. It was also one where a long-point arrow, striking deep, killed so quickly that no healer’s simples or spells had any power.
Tharash waited until the man reined in to instruct his standard-bearer. The standard-bearer moved a trifle to the side. That improved the shot further. Now the banner would not flap into the path of the arrow. Not that there was much breeze, but when one had only a single shot-
Now.
Tharash’s body, mind, bow, and arrow ceased to be separate entities. They became four aspects of a single creation.
The arrow flew. Tharash saw it dwindle, as if it moved at the pace of a child’s crawl. He saw that it was flying true, but held down exaltation. In this moment he was as close to the Abyss as to a more rewarding future.
The arrow struck home.
Carolius Migmar dropped his reins and reeled in the saddle, then toppled from his horse.
The commander of the host was dead before he struck the ground.
Zephros was close enough to Carolius Migmar to see the arrow sprout from the back of his neck, so he knew why the commander fell out of sight.
He also knew that the arrow had come from the rear. He tried to turn his horse, to look back without facing his mount’s rump. He had a sense of ponderous doom impending, but knew he could hold his own panic at arm’s length by action.
Others could not, or perhaps did not even try.
“Treason!” someone howled.
“Migmar’s dead!”
“Shot from behind!”
“Kill the traitors!”
From what happened then, Zephros concluded that either every man thought his neighbor the traitor, or every man saw that the traitor was some twenty paces off, on the other side of the thickest part of the column.
The column writhed like a snake with a broken spine. Men pushed, shoved, cursed, punched, and with increasing frequency and fervor slashed and thrust at one another.
From the walls, arrows sleeted. Whether aimed so or not, they fell thickest among those crowded around Migmar, trying to at least carry his body to safety. They had just lifted him in their arms when half a dozen of them fell to a single flight of arrows. The dead commander dropped back to the ground, with more than a few of his men now keeping him company.
Ahead of Migmar, several hundred men were bolder than the rest, or else trusted their enemies more than their comrades. They surged forward, scrambling up the rubble, falling to arrows and broken legs but advancing nonetheless.
Zephros rode forward. If he put himself at the head of these men, he might die. That would at least solve the problem of being suspected of Migmar’s death. He might also lead the vanguard into Belkuthas-and whatever might happen there, he could say that on one day of his life he had really been a soldier.
He overtook the vanguard before they reached the rubble. A balding man turned and stared at Zephros. The captain glanced over at the pale, scarred face-and he remembered seeing that face on a day when it had not been scarred.
The man hefted a short spear.
“For Luferinus!” he shouted, and threw.
The spear took Zephros in the stomach. He was in the air long enough to remember that belly wounds took a long while to kill you. Then he struck the ground, except for his head, which struck a rock.
The rock saved Zephros from a long, painful death.
A good half of the men who climbed the rubble in the greater breach made it to the top and started down. Some of them were wounded, but they were either the bravest or the most insensate of the attackers. It would take a good deal to stop them.
They were halfway down the inner slope of the breach when that good deal appeared. Its name was Grimsoar One-Eye, and he rushed forward at the advancing besiegers, an axe in one hand and a dwarven hammer in the other.
Ignoring friendly arrows from the flanks, he waded into the nearest half dozen men. He split skulls and lopped limbs with the axe, crushed skulls and chests with the hammer, and let out war cries that were remarkably penetrating for ones coming from a man with weak lungs.
They certainly penetrated the minds of the attackers. They began to realize they could die. Would die, if they came within reach of this madman, wielding dwarven weapons with a giant’s strength.
They began to try staying out of his reach. This left gaps in their line.
Into those gaps drove the next counterattack-Haimya, Eskaia, Hawkbrother, and Gerik, at the head of a few Gryphons and a number of dwarves.
The two women seemed sprung from the Abyss, nothing less. Those who did not give way before them soon wished they had, in the few moments allowed for wishing anything. Haimya was a more finished sword fighter than her husband, and carried a shield as well. Eskaia preferred sword and dagger, and enjoyed much of her father’s speed.
Hawkbrother’s leg was not healed enough for him to have his full swiftness, but he put down one man with a flung spear, charged into the gap with his scimitar, and widened the gap on either side until the blade ran red. Gerik followed close behind him, and the Gryphon found himself wishing Gerik would not follow too closely.
It would be an evil omen if, in the first battle he and his betrothed’s brother fought side by side, the brother was killed.
Gerik’s principal danger in this battle, therefore, proved to be not finding an opponent left alive long enough for him to kill. Hawkbrother saw to that, with some assistance from Threehands, as soon as the elder Gryphon joined the fight in the breach.
Meanwhile, the dwarves were busy, glad to at last be able to get to close quarters on their own terms. Dwarves on foot have certain advantages over opponents who do not think to look down. While the opponent is looking over the dwarf’s head, an axe that the dwarf may well have used to trim his beard that morning will chop off the human’s legs. When his skull is down within the dwarf’s reach, the axe will then crack it like an egg.
Soon after Threehands joined his brother, Pirvan came at a run with the survivors of the men he had led at the lesser breach. All were determined to avenge Sir Esthazas and Tulia on the nearest enemies. They charged with a fervor that nearly trampled some of their friends into the rubble, and swept their enemies up the rubble like a storm tide carrying flotsam up a beach.
As the attackers retreated down the outer side of the breach, archery from the walls played on them again. They quickened their pace. The sight of them breaking into a run finished the work of turning confusion and fear among their comrades into panic.
Pirvan did not need to lead his men down the outside. He was able to stand-prudently close to cover from hostile archery-catch his breath, and watch man after man in the enemy column fight his way to the outside of it, then start to run.
Not all or even most of them dropped their weapons or threw away their armor. They were not giving up soldiering, but they were giving up the cause that had brought them to Belkuthas.
This being a very bad cause, Pirvan-despite his three minor wounds and breath that rasped like a dragon’s exhalations in his throat-was glad to see them going.
He had enough wind to call back a few eager fighters who wanted to chase the enemy all the way to the forest. He did not have enough for all of them, but he recognized the two who ignored his calls.