He resolved to leave the fighting to someone who knew what he was doing, and had his guardsmen fall back a short ways behind the rampart. They took up a position on the shoulder of one of Marnevale’s hills.
The Ghoeran ranks advanced, marching uphill in even rows. They were divided into three distinct columns; the left and right flanks were composed of solid Ghoeran infantry, carrying spears and shields, protected by chain and leather armor, while the center consisted of plate-armored knights carrying pikes, halberds, and battle-axes.
The knights were having a hard time of it, slogging uphill in the soft mud, and the other columns slowed their pace to keep close. Between the columns, companies of bowmen marched, but their bows were slung over their shoulders – Mhorien bows were more powerful than the lowland weapons of the Ghoerans, and with the disadvantage of height the Ghoeran archers didn’t even pretend to threaten the Mhorien position. They carried mattocks and short swords for the hand-to-hand assault.
The drums grew louder and deeper, reverberating from the rocky walls of the defile. The shrill sound of Ghoeran fifes drifted through the air, setting ghostly claws to Gaelin’s backbone.
From where he sat on Blackbrand, he could see rank after rank of the enemy army. Tuorel was pulling out all the stops, and he guessed that somewhere between six and eight thousand men were mustered under Tuorel’s banner.
“Ready the archers,” said Baesil. One officer raised a distinctive red flag, and a trumpeter sounded a blast. Along the rampart, the Mhorien archers nocked arrows on their bows.
“Archers, draw,” said Baesil. There was another trumpetcall, and the archers raised their bows, drawing the arrows to their ears. The Ghoerans were still a little far, but the leading troops were well within their range. Baesil started to speak the words to fire, but the Ghoerans halted, with a flourish of trumpets. The last rattling echoes of the drums rolled back from the hillsides, and then the battlefield fell silent. Baesil scowled. “What on earth? Archers, hold.”
Along the line, the bowmen relaxed their aim and lowered their weapons, craning their necks to see what was happening downfield. In the center of the enemy lines, a dark figure stalked forward, leaning on a great staff. The soldiers nearby shifted and muttered restlessly as he passed by.
“Bannier,” said Gaelin. “What is he up to now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out,” said Baesil.
“Archers, skewer that wizard!”
A moment later, a ragged flight of arrows rose from the Mhorien ranks, lofting high into the air. Bannier continued forward, ignoring the missiles. Hundreds clattered to the ground all around him, but not a single one seemed to touch him, although a number of arrows flew astray and inflicted casualties in the Ghoeran ranks near him. The wizard paused and grounded his staff into the earth, freeing both hands to begin a flamboyant invocation of some kind. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Gaelin thought. “Seriene? What’s he doing?”
The princess was whispering and making passes with one hand, involved in some spell of her own. She found a moment to reply nonetheless. “I’m not certain, my lord Mhor. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it. I’m taking steps to protect us here, just in case.” She continued her enchantment.
Bannier’s preparations continued for ten minutes or more.
From time to time, a Mhorien archer would loose a carefully aimed arrow at the wizard, but somehow none of these managed to strike Bannier. The Mhorien troops were growing nervous, muttering to each other and subconsciously slinking backward a step or two, fearful of what the wizard’s magic might do. Finally, he finished. With one glance at the Mhorien line, he picked up his staff and turned away, heading back down the hill.
“That was it?” said Erin in disbelief.
Seriene’s face was pale. Her horse picked up on her nervousness and pranced, pawing at the ground. “I don’t think that was it,” the princess said quietly. “We’d better fall back to the second line.”
Count Baesil shot a hard look at her. “Without even fighting for the first line?”
Seriene swallowed. “There’s powerful magic at work here, and I have no idea what it might be,” she said. “Give the signal for retreat. I beg you!”
Baesil looked at Gaelin. “Should I, Mhor Gaelin?”
Gaelin’s stomach was knotted up. “All right. We’ll give Bannier the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he didn’t just bluff us out of our position. Fall back.”
The bannerman raised the signal. Along the rampart, the Mhorien soldiers stepped back, hesitating. A few began to slide down the near side of the rampart, or milled about trying to keep in ranks.
In that moment, a black mist began to rise from the ground, surrounding the earthworks. Dark corruption welled silently out of the ground, a spring of blackness, as if the ground itself was burning and giving off smoke of purest midnight.
The stuff swelled up from the earth, sending tendrils of inky fog racing ahead to catch and envelop the re t reating Mhoriens.
Men shouted and screamed in fright. Many broke and ran rather than face the darkness, while others held their ground on the ramparts while the sea of ebon mists lapped around their feet and then rose to overwhelm them.
“By Haelyn! What sorcery is this?” said Gaelin.
Seriene’s eyes were wide with terror. “It cannot be! No one is strong enough to do that!”
“Seriene! What is it? What’s he doing?”
The princess only shook her head in horror. “We must flee.
Now! Or we are lost, too!”
Gaelin looked out over the battlefield, where his men were vanishing into the dark mists. He heard their screams and shouts, and a dim clangor that might have been the clash of arms heard from an impossible distance. Here and there, a few men were outdistancing the encroaching mist, fleeing the scene. Even as he watched, the center of his line was overwhelmed; a knot of sixty or seventy men stood on top of the rampart, back to back, while the mist surged and seethed over them. With the earthworks inundated in darkness, the mist started rolling uphill toward the rise where Gaelin and his guards waited. It moved with malign intelligence and speed. “I can’t leave them here!” Gaelin cried. “I can’t abandon them!”
Baesil Ceried leaned over and caught Blackbrand’s reins, turning the horse toward the rear. “That’s fine, my lord Mhor, but I don’t know how we can fight that. Let’s go!”
Gaelin threw one more glance over his shoulder. The mist was receding from the earthworks now, having flowed over and past the ditch and dike. There was no one there. The mantles and stakes still stood where they had been, unharmed, and here and there he saw a discarded helmet or a dropped bow – but of the men themselves, there was no sign. Eight hundred men had just vanished without a trace. And the thing that had taken them was now only a few yards short of Gaelin’s position, and gathering itself to lunge up the hill after him.
Gaelin spurred Blackbrand hard and fled for his life. Behind him, the Ghoerans cheered raggedly and ran forward in pursuit of the few Mhoriens that remained, although they were careful not to follow the darkness too closely. Within another two hundred yards, the mist suddenly halted, roiling in place for a long moment, and then it sank down into the ground as quickly as it had risen. But now the Ghoeran cavalry was sweeping forward, charging ahead to ride down the surviving Mhoriens. They’d just barely missed annihilation by Bannier’s spell, but Tuorel’s horsemen would quickly overtake them. Gaelin cursed viciously.
Erin halted abruptly, wheeling to one side as the rest of the royal party streamed by. She took in the scene with one quick glance, and then raised her hands, singing under her breath.