“I know where we are!” the kender cried. “These are the Cleft Spires-we’re come out of there standing right between them! Hey, am I a great pathfinder or what?”
“True enough,” Jaymes grunted, feeling generous. “It looks like we’ve arrived in the middle of Solanthus.” He slipped his sword into its scabbard, slung it once again over his shoulder, and started along the narrow gap toward the light, the open air, and the besieged city.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
General Dayr stood on the west bank of the great river. The land on the opposite side was concealed by a dewy mist that hung low across the placid water, but over that cloudy vapor, the first rays of the sun already poked from beyond the eastern horizon. For now, the fog provided valuable cover for his gathering army, but it wouldn’t last long in the face of warming sunlight. To take advantage of the obscuring mist, he needed to launch his attack now, get his army most of the way across the river before they could be discovered by Ankhar’s troops-troops that were firmly dug in, and poised to meet an attack.
Unfortunately, the Crown Army was not yet ready. Dayr could only watch and wait in frustration as the boatmen labored to finish assembling their flimsy craft, and as the columns of infantry-divested of much of their armor in order to reduce weight-gathered impatiently on the riverbank. One by one the boats were slid into position on the bank, but by first light there were still only a few dozen of them.
The general knew that ranting and railing at his men would only undermine their spirits. The men could see the mist as well as he could, and they understood the dangers they faced in this risky assault. So Dayr bit his tongue and simply paced back and forth.
By the time the mist burned off, after an hour or so, there were fifty boats in position, but that was only enough to launch a small fraction of Dayr’s force. Now the far bank was revealed to all, and he could only curse and pace in agitation, knowing the attack would be far bloodier than it needed to be.
And, indeed, the enemy looked prepared to fight. On the opposite bank stood rank after rank of goblin archers. Between the blocks of bowmen, lines of brutish cavalry-more goblins on their savage wolf mounts-waited. Their lines extended up and down the bank, as far as Dayr could see, and his scouts reported there were more enemy troops beyond his sight in both directions.
General Dayr had no choice but to proceed with the attack. Two other wings of the Solamnic Army would be driving forward at the same time, and the coordinated triple prongs of the offensive would be mutually supporting. Even if his army didn’t get across, the theory went, the enemy would be forced to commit vital reserves in the defense.
It was nearly noon before Dayr had the four hundred boats he deemed necessary. There were other craft still gathering, but they would help form the second wave.
“Commence the attack!” he shouted. The Crown pennant fluttered in the breeze over his head, and all along the line, signalmen hoisted similar flags, so flags communicated the command along nearly seven miles of river frontage. Immediately the boatmen slid their canvas-skinned craft into the water, where they splashed and bobbed lightly beside the bank. While the launchers held them against the current, the lightly armored infantry and archers climbed in. Six men in each craft took up paddles, and the boatmen began to stroke the water, pulling for the middle of the river.
More boats remained on the bank, with others still being assembled. Reserve troops advanced to nearby positions. Dayr was unwilling to crowd the river with too many boats at once. So the second wave would set out only after the first group had almost landed.
“General-Father! I beg you-please allow the knights to go as well!”
The speaker was Captain Franz, leader of the Crown Knights, a veteran of every one of Dayr’s-and Jaymes’s-battles in the campaign of liberation. And he was the general’s only son. Franz had risen through the ranks to become an eminent leader in his own right. He and his armored warriors, the White Riders, were not part of the river crossing force, a fact that had caused him considerable frustration during the day of planning.
“My son, we’ve been over this-the boats are too small.”
“But, Father, if we establish a foothold on the far bank, you will need us to drive back the counterattack that is bound to ensue. You’ll need us there! We could go in the reserve boats-at least two horses can fit into each boat!”
“I wish I could honor your request, my son,” said Dayr, not unsympathetically, “but each boat can hold twenty footmen, as compared to two knights and their horses. If we secure the bridgehead on the far bank, we’ll swiftly send across your regiment, and you’ll have plenty to do, taking the lead role in breaking away from the bank.”
It was also true, Dayr through grimly, that a heavily armored knight, in a sinking boat, was doomed to drown, while lighter infantrymen would have a chance to swim to safety.
“But, Father”-the knight’s tone was almost frantic-“it’s not fair to shield us from the risk!”
“I’ve made my decision, Captain. Your regiment would be of little use in the landing. Now stand ready to move when you are needed,” the general ordered.
The knight captain stood beside his father, both watching the progress of the boats. The line of fragile little craft was more than halfway across the river by now, paddles still churning. The current bore the boats slightly downstream, but this effect had been factored into the launching. To Dayr, it looked like they were on course.
As the first boats drew closer to the far shore, volleys of goblin arrows arced through the air, soaring high above the water then plunging down to hiss into the river, with more than a few of them slicing into the boats and their human cargo.
Dayr heard the screams of the wounded, and each cry was like a cut in his own flesh. He knew the men were all but defenseless in those watercraft. The water churned as the troops redoubled their paddling efforts. They knew their only chance was to reach the opposite bank as quickly as possible. Even as the boats moved faster, however, ranks of goblins advanced toward the riverbank. And more arrows, volley after volley, filled the skies, showering down on the water and striking the Solamnics.
“Launch the second wave!” General Dayr commanded. He and several of his officers, as well as a half dozen couriers and aides, climbed into a boat bobbing in the shallows. They started across with the next group of vessels, churning toward the far bank with agonizing slowness despite the frantic paddlers. Burly young men stroked at the water, but the liquid seemed to resist fiendishly, slowing their progress to a crawl.
The first boat was nearly ashore, however. The general could see countless others boats drifting aimlessly, crews slain to the last man. Some careened and wobbled, propelled by only one or two unwounded oarsmen. Dayr saw two boats capsize within a dozen paces of the far bank. Men scrambled into the shallow water, stumbling across the muddy riverbed, flailing as they tried to scramble up the muddy slope into the very teeth of the goblin resistance.
Still the arrows fell, and now the boats of the second wave had become the target. Dayr’s aide-de-camp fell silently into the hull, pierced by an instantly fatal arrow that had plunged almost straight downward into his skull. A boatman in the stern was bailing constantly-the frail craft tended to be leaky-and when he went down with an arrow in his back, the water began to accumulate.
The battle on the bank raged, a bloody tangle of goblins and men. Swords clashed against shields, and spears stabbed right and left. Howls of triumph mingled with cries of pain-a ghastly cacophony. Men tumbled backward, bleeding and dying, to slump in the shallow water, too weak or injured to pull themselves to safety. Their companions, locked in the desperate battle for survival, dared not pause to offer aid.