“Harbard arrayed the army in an arc to protect Fangoth. The archers were twenty paces to the fore, and the yeomen were drawn up shield to shield to withstand any charge of Burnond’s horsemen. We Knights sat under the walls of the city, in reserve. Lord Harbard told us we wouldn’t have much to do! A few volleys of arrows, and the goblins would run away-that’s what he said.
“Burnond formed his goblin infantry into a solid phalanx six ranks deep. They were armed with long pikes, twelve feet long. The rear ranks laid their pikes on the shoulders of those in front of them, making a moving hedgehog of steel points. To motivate the goblins, Burnond placed young fanatics of the Dark Order at their backs with whips, to scourge the goblins if they faltered. Can you see it? Vile vermin, driven like pigs to slaughter by blows of a rawhide whip! Where is the glory in such warfare?”
Crickets chirped in the deep shadows. A rich tapestry of stars covered the sky from horizon to horizon. Somehow the faint glitter of a million stars made the night seem darker rather than light.
Howland wrung the last drops from the cider flask. It was mild stuff, not like the rotgut sold in Robann taverns.
“A veil of archers could not stop two thousand pike-men propelled forward by whiplash,” he said dully. “The elves loosed and loosed, finally aiming over their knuckles at the black wall of spear points coming at them. In the last moment Lord Harbard gave them leave to withdraw. The elves wore no armor. No one expected them to fight infantry of the line.
“The goblins pushed on, driving deep into the yeomen. Their pikes were so long, our men couldn’t reach the enemy with their swords. Hundreds of yeomen were slain without striking a blow! When the curved lined began to bow backward under the press, Lord Harbard ordered his Knights forward. We rode around the right end of our own line, thinking to take the goblins in the flank. Burnond had foreseen this move, curse him. The Saifhumi were waiting for us. Lord Harbard thought they would scatter if charged with sword and lance, but they had been trained by Lord Burnond to stand before cavalry. Harbard, Harbard, you should have ignored the halberdiers and gone after the goblins!”
“What happened, Sir Howland?” said Malek.
“We were cut to pieces. The Saifhumi had hooks on the ends of their bills, and they dragged our men from the saddle and hacked them to bits. They cut off Lord Harbard’s head then his arms and legs.… His bloody limbs were thrown back to us! I was unhorsed, and trampled. When I awoke, I was a prisoner of the Knights of Takhisis.”
The balance of the battle went just as badly for Harbard’s army. The yeomen fought and fought until horsemen of the Dark Order threatened to cut them off from the city. Then they broke. The city, unprepared for a long siege, surrendered to Burnond Everride six days later.
“Defeat wasn’t the worst of it. My ruin had just begun. After the battle of Fangoth Field I served the man who murdered my liege,” Howland said, whispering. He acknowledged Hume’s shocked expression. “Shocked? Garab uth Dreher was Lord Burnond’s cavalry chief, and I lent my sword to his service. We captured men were given that choice-service or mutilation. Warriors who refused to serve the Knights of Takhisis had their eyes put out, or had a hand or foot chopped off. Then they were turned loose, to wander as beggars, object warnings to anyone who would resist Takhisis’s rule.
“I was young and vain, and like most young men, I valued my body more than my soul. I could not bear the thought of being maimed and useless. I told myself, if I stayed whole, I could one day fight to bring down Burnond Everride and his kind. I joined them and fought battles against my former companions.
“When Chaos raged loose on Krynn, the Knights of Takhisis joined the Knights of Solamnia. I tried to rejoin my comrades, but they rejected me, calling me a turncoat. After the war, that reputation stayed with me.
“You’d think that sort of reputation would be good for a hired warrior, but it’s not. It’s death. Keeping faith with your companions is the only virtue a mercenary understands, and they demand it above all. For decades I scratched the barest living from my skill at arms.”
Howland stood and drew a deep breath. “Now I’m no good to anyone any more as a warrior, except to dirt-poor farmers from Nowhere.”
Hume hung his head, unable to speak. Malek burst out, “Your past doesn’t matter here, Sir Howland! Save my betrothed and my brother’s son, and you’ll always have a place of honor in our village!”
Howland said nothing to this promise but stood by the slumped Hume. “What say you, soldier? Do you think me worth following now?”
Hume raised his heavy head. His broad, bald brow glistened with sweat.
“I am one-quarter ogre,” he said, choking. “Do you know what that means? Not human. Not ogre. Used for my strength and steadfastness and despised for my broken ancestry. Do you think me worth having as a follower?”
Howland laid his hand on Hume’s shoulder. “No child chooses his ancestors. If you are true, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Hume stood and met his leader’s gaze. “If you keep faith with your soldiers today and tomorrow, then yesterday means nothing.”
Truth breaks many strong bonds, but sometimes it also forges them.
They found Nils’s stream before dawn and followed it eastward. Howland reasoned a mounted outfit like Rakell’s would need plenty of water in a dry region like this. Sure enough, they found a spot where the clay bank had been churned up by many shod horses’ hooves.
“How old would you say these tracks are?” Howland asked.
Nils felt the yielding clay with his fingertips. Ferns just above the creek bank had been trodden down, but the leaves were still green and pliable.
“No more than day,” said the farmer.
“I agree. What does that imply?”
Hume said, “They water here often!”
Howland nodded. He waded through the shallow stream to the opposite shore. “There’s nothing like twenty or thirty horses’ tracks here. More like six or seven.”
“A patrol!”
“Yes. Rakell is careful. He sends out patrols every day to sweep the plain for signs of trouble.”
“Or useful prisoners,” Malek added bitterly.
“We’ll set our trap here,” the old Knight assured him. “Four men can ambush six right enough. We won’t pick a fight with Rakell’s entire force, just whittle him down a bit and take some prisoners, maybe.”
The watering spot had little obvious cover from which to stage an ambush. Both banks were gentle, grassy slopes without big trees or boulders. Greenery on the banks was lush enough to hide in, but men on horseback might see them lying on their bellies in the weeds.
Nils wandered away from the others, probing the bottom of the stream with his walking stick.
“Look here!” he called. “The water’s deep enough here to hide us!” He demonstrated by sitting down in the stream a few steps west of the ford. He drew his knees up to his chest, and all but the crown of his head disappeared beneath the silvery water. He popped up again, gasping.
Howland said, “That’s a start. We’ll need more than two feet of water to make this work.” Gathering his comrades to him, he explained his ideas.
Like a silent furnace, the sun came up. The steam-colored sky returned, and the air was heavy with unbroken sweat. A line of riders appeared, shimmering in the morning heat. Seven horsemen, lean and alert, rode slowly down the path to the creek, four on the left, three on the right. Marching disconsolately between the lines of horses were eight prisoners, bearing balks of timber across their shoulders. Long leather buckets hung from both ends of these timbers. The daily water detail was near its destination.