There was cause for some hope. More than half the army had survived the initial attack and had regrouped magnificently, holding a line at right angles to the position it had originally staked out. Captains shouted themselves hoarse, and as the enemy paused-even hardy goblins knew fatigue-the moment arrived.
Later, no one would remember which captain organized the decisive charge. Reynaud was there, along with several others. Most likely it was everyone, recognizing the enemy’s faltering and their last opportunity. The mounted knights mustered a stirring charge between the ranks of their own infantry, companies overlapping, hundreds of horses starting at a trot, accelerating to a canter, and finally into a mad gallop.
They surged over the goblins and draconians as though they were sand formations on a beach-and clashed with the worgs, more than a thousand riders on each side. Horses and men, goblins and wolves, bit and gouged, slew and died. There was no semblance of rank or order-it was a cacophony of death, with every steed trying to keep its feet, every rider lashing out to all sides at any and every enemy who came within reach.
Inevitably in this fight, the heavy horses and their armored riders prevailed against fleet, but smaller and lighter, opponents. At first only a few worgs broke from the fight, then more of them, until at last the whole mass of Ankhar’s cavalry wheeled and streamed away, racing through the broken camp, past the burning catapults and wrecked wagons. Those who could not run away fast enough were ridden down and trampled by the vengeful knights. Even the knights’ horses seemed caught up in the bloodlust as, nostrils flaring and lungs heaving, they bore forward.
The three Thorn Knights stood firm for a long time, magic spells blazing and crackling against the riders, knocking Solamnic Knights from their saddles, destroying horses. But they were unable to break the great charge, and when the line of armored cavalry smashed through, Sir Hoarst teleported to a Garnet hilltop. His two fellow mages, however, were trampled and stabbed.
Now, at last, the tide seemed to have turned. The wolves and their riders fled headlong in a route the knights could not follow for very long, back toward the foothills. They sped into a narrow valley, a steep cut between two frowning cliffs. The wolves bounded and leaped and loped on the rough ground, climbing slowly up from the plain, and the knights, crowded together, came after. The Solamnics hacked at the stragglers, as the rougher ground took its toll on wolves and horses both.
At last the goblins and their canine steeds turned and made a stand, and the horsemen converged on them, packed so tightly between the two cliffs that they could barely move, they could only press ahead. The goblins dismounted, took up positions on large boulders and in narrow draws. Still the horsemen plodded on, packing into the valley, knights and their horses frantic for vengeance.
It was then that Ankhar sprang his greatest trap. The half-giant materialized atop one of the highest cliffs, hefting a huge boulder in his hands. Raising the heavy stone over his head, he cast it into the first of the tightly packed ranks of mounted knights. Two men and a horse died under that massive boulder.
That was but the beginning of a rain of death. Archers, this time the human mercenaries of Blackgaard’s Brigade, appeared on the cliffs, gleefully shooting down into the pinned ranks of the horsemen. A hundred ogres, the surly brutes who had accompanied Bloodgutter from Lemish, took their place beside their chieftain and added a steady barrage of large rocks to the fray. In the press below, most of the knights could not even turn their horses around, much less make an escape from the lethal mess.
Countless boulders tumbled from the heights, crushing knights, breaking the backs and legs of terrified horses. Ankhar himself heaved over one hundred boulders. More than a thousand archers showered the knights with their arrows until it became a killing ground such as Krynn had hardly known.
At the start of the charge, a thousand proud knights rode into the valley. After an hour of slaughter, less than a hundred straggled out.
“Rally to me, men! Hold the bastards here!” Sir Marckus cried, leading his charger back and forth along the line of swordsmen he had scrounged from the remnants of broken units. They were terrified, but his voice steadied them, made them remember that their best chance to live was to hold together.
“Stand and fight, man!” Marckus called, when a wild-eyed captain, one of Crawford’s aides, came thundering past on a panicked steed.
“Make way!” screamed the man. “Fall back to the south! Every man for himself!”
Marckus grimaced as he turned away, but not before he saw the man fall, pierced through the back by a plunging arrow. He spared no time on regret-better to try and save the lives of those who faced the foe than to worry about the fate of those who died trying to flee.
The cause was hopeless. The entire right wing of the army had been shattered, and their most powerful striking force, the armored knights, had been lost in the foolhardy charge into the narrow valley. The barbarian half giant, Marckus knew, had outgeneraled the Duke of Caergoth at every turn.
The captain found his duke, ashen faced and trembling, astride his stallion at the rear of the army. Reynaud, grim-faced and furious, was with him. Marckus glared for a moment at his fellow captain. It was Reynaud who had scouted the hills, reporting them impassable for a flanking maneuver. It was too late for recriminations-now, survival was all that mattered.
“Take the duke to safety!” ordered Marckus. “I’ll lead a fighting withdrawal.”
Without a word, the other captain slapped the hindquarters of the duke’s horse, setting the steed to flight. Reynaud joined him, the two of them galloping southward across the plains.
Marckus did the best he could, trying to hold the men together in retreat. When the line was intact, at least each man could draw on his comrades. They battled stubbornly, giving up ground. In doing so they gave the majority of the survivors a chance at escape.
Glancing back, the captain could see the catapults and ballistae, the wealth of supplies and cargo in the great baggage train. All were overrun by goblins and draconians. The enemy swarmed around the artillery pieces, hacking at the wooden frameworks, igniting them with oil and torches. At least they wouldn’t be able to turn those captured weapons against the army of Caergoth.
That was slight consolation, and the retreat continued. By late in the day, the army of Caergoth, those who remained, had left the field, and the goblins only ceased their pursuit when they were too tired to kill any more.
CHAPTER THIRTY — TWO
T hings have gone very badly.” Coryn announced calmly, but Jaymes sensed disaster in the uncharacteristic way she bit her lip as she spoke.
She met him in the skeletal gatehouse of ruined Garnet. They had spent most of the day in the abandoned city, hearing the sounds of battle, seeing the smoke smudging the northern sky. Neither had wanted to go and witness the slaughter, but late in the afternoon Coryn had departed for a reconnaissance.
“So Ankhar pulled a surprise and attacked out of the hills?” Jaymes asked.
“Yes. Come, you can almost see from up here.” She led him up the damaged stairway to the top of the gatehouse. Staying low, they looked across the western plains.
They could see troops streaming past. The nearest were a mile or two away from them, and all were heading south as fast as they could march. A few horses, including one that looked like the duke’s proud stallion bearing a whip-wielding rider, raced among those afoot, quickly outdistancing them.