As they drew closer to the tree line, Vambran saw that the lead soldiers among the cavalry had met up, closing the line, and several had dismounted and turned toward the advancing Crescents. He saw the archers among the enemy begin to bunch together in front of them, preparing for the confrontation. To either side, the marching columns were also deploying, spreading out into lines and beginning to advance more quickly, hurrying to cut the Crescents off before they could defeat the more lightly armed skirmishers and slip away.
It would be close.
Vambran began to realize his miscalculation as soon as the first magical effects materialized among his troops. It naturally occurred to him that some among the enemy would be able to draw upon magic to aid them, as he often did himself, but he had not expected them to be concentrated so heavily among the mounted skirmishers. But it made sense, he realized, for they could wield their magic from afar and on the move, much in the same way they often engaged the troops from a distance with their ranged weaponry. Plus, the lieutenant realized, they might have expected the Crescents to make a run for the forest and needed to be prepared for it.
All of that understanding of military theory did nothing to change the fact that Vambran's plan to break for the trees was being thwarted. In the very center of the line, the coarse sea grass that grew heavily in the sand came alive, growing and squirming about, wrapping tendrils of plant fiber around the soldiers' feet. Several men went down, thoroughly entangled in the animated, writhing growth that had a hold of them. As they tumbled into the sand, more of the greenery latched on, pinning them helplessly.
At another point, on the left flank where the crossbowmen moved obliquely, the ground seemed to become as slippery as a lard-coated floor, causing several more Crescents to stumble and fall to the ground. They scrabbled about, trying to find some purchase on the greasy, slimy terrain, but it was pointless. They could not maneuver effectively at all and fell behind.
"Keep moving!" Vambran ordered. "Run!" He hated the words as soon as they issued from his mouth, but the lieutenant understood the tactic all too well and realized he couldn't save everyone. To stop and aid the other men would only allow the larger forces to close in and cut them all off.
Just like in the water, Vambran lamented. Damn you, Lavant!
The remaining Crescents began to charge the skirmishers' position, and Vambran sprinted along with them, peering ahead. Beside the mercenary officer, three soldiers stumbled and dropped to the ground, apparently unconscious-or asleep, Vambran decided. He considered stooping down and trying to wake them, but he had already given the order not to pause, and he knew hesitating would only mean his capture or death. His heart heavy for the fate of the three, Vambran pressed on. He tried not to think of their names, their families, as he moved away. He shoved the knowledge to the back of his mind as he fled. He could grieve later.
When a wave of fear washed over Vambran, he was able to maintain his composure and ignore it, but two more soldiers on either side of him froze in mid-step, turned, and fled back the way they had come. Even as he lamented the loss of two more devoted members of the company, Vambran spotted the spellcaster responsible for the magic. The man was still mounted and was issuing orders as he prepared another incantation. The lieutenant stopped momentarily, bringing his crossbow up. He had only a handful of bolts, having received a share from the remaining ammunition, but he did not hesitate to use it. The cord on his weapon was fresh and dry, and the missile flew true, striking the spellcaster squarely in the chest. The man let out a panicked scream and clutched at the bolt. He lurched in the saddle, drawing back on his reins such that his mount spun away awkwardly, dropping him to the ground.
Vambran ran on.
Other members of the company had slowed in order to fire a bolt or two in the direction of the enemy line blocking their path to the trees, and the missile fire was doing its work well. Already Vambran could see that three or four skirmishers were down, and numerous riderless horses milled about in their midst. The rest of the lightly armed soldiers were moving aside, unwilling to stand before the charging remnants of the Crescents' double-wing formation.
Vambran felt a missile of some sort whistle past his head as he rushed toward the cover of the trees, and when he was a few paces from the initial foliage, one of the skirmishers loomed up before him, a staff held out in both hands threateningly. The other soldier was sallow-skinned, his facial features long and narrow. Absently, Vambran guessed he might have been from the plains of the Shaar. He monitored the man's stance warily as he rushed toward his enemy, and just when the skirmisher shifted and began to bring the staff around to swipe at the lieutenant's head, Vambran altered his direction and lowered his shoulder.
The maneuver sent Vambran plowing into his opponent, who managed to get a single, feeble strike in against Vambran's back, the blow made ineffectual by both his breastplate and the too-close distance between the two. As the lieutenant collided with his adversary, he heard the other man's breath leave his body in a rush, and the pair tumbled across the ground haphazardly.
Vambran wanted to yank his dagger free and deal a killing blow to the skirmisher, but there was no time. Already the main force to his left had closed to within bow range, and a hail of arrows was dropping down among the straggling Crescents behind him. In another few moments, the troops would be on him and his men, and there wouldn't be enough time to disappear into the depths of the forest. Instead of finishing the man off completely, Vambran rolled to his feet again and rushed on, leaping over the heavy underbrush that marked the very fringe of the tree line.
As he crashed into the bushes and began to push through into the taller trees, vines and branches began whipping at Vambran and enveloping him, trying to ensnare him.
Waukeen! he thought, desperately yanking his arms and legs free and trying to surge forward. Can't get hung up here! Must get to cover!
Vambran could hear the frustrated shouts of other members of his company, all around him in the heavy undergrowth, as well as the sounds of enemy soldiers gathering just beyond the edge of the trees. The proximity of the infantry forces closing in lent a desperate fervor to his efforts, but Vambran was unable to make any headway through the enchanted plants.
In one last panicky effort, Vambran managed to yank one arm free. He reached up and took hold of the medallion hanging from the chain on his neck and spoke a beseeching prayer to Waukeen for strength. Immediately, the lieutenant felt a surge of energy course through his limbs, and with his newfound power, he succeeded in breaking free of the worst of the grasping, coiling tendrils of plant growth. He lunged forward, each step a superhuman effort, and finally, he was able to slip beyond the range of the enchanted growth and dart deeper into the forest.
Vambran turned after a dozen or so steps and peered back toward the open ground. He could see several soldiers, armed with crossbows and a variety of bladed weapons, pushing into the trees where he had just been. One of the men spotted him and shouted a warning to the rest, but as they neared the edge of the writhing, clutching plant life, they had to hold up, and they instead chose to shoot at him from where they stood. Vambran turned and slipped away, darting behind the first thick tree trunks to evade their missiles.
As Vambran moved deeper into the forest, the shadowtops that predominated the woods became taller and thicker, their high branches forming a heavy canopy that left him in gloomy dimness. The area around the base of the trees became more open and easily traversed, for little undergrowth could gain the sunlight needed beneath those towering shadowtops.
Knowing he was moving in more open terrain made the lieutenant wary, and he cocked his crossbow and kept a watchful eye all around. At one point, he heard the soft, rustling sounds of movement to his left, but he could not see anyone. Unsure of whether it was friend or foe flanking him, Vambran gave a whistle, a birdcall he had taught his company to signal one another. The answering whistle came back, and Vambran angled his progress in that direction.