Authors: R.A. Salvatore
“How many might them monks be killin’?”
Midalis shrugged; he knew not the extent of Abbot Agronguerre’s magical resources, though he understood that they would not be significant for long. “If we can get to the wall and away without a fight, then that is our best course,” the Prince said. Several men around him, grim-faced warriors thirsty for goblin blood, groaned. “Let winter break the siege—if the monks are supplied they might hold out until the first deep snows,” Midalis explained.
“Too many goblins,” Liam agreed, speaking to the others.
“Ah, but they’ll be on us afore we get near to the wall,” one man in the ranks behind remarked, and Midalis noted that there was indeed a hopeful tone to his voice. In truth, the Prince could not argue the assessment.
“Then we fight them as hard as we can, and for as long as we can,” he replied. “Our valor and the magic thrown from the abbey walls may scatter them quickly to the forest, where we can hunt the smaller bands down one by one and eliminate them.”
He spoke with conviction, but the seasoned men of his fighting force understood the truth of the situation, and so did Midalis. The goblins would indeed come at them, and hard, and the ugly little creatures wouldn’t be quick to retreat. Midalis and his men had one other gambit: The Prince had sent his archers around to the south with orders to hold their shots until the situation turned grim, then to concentrate their fire on the weakest section of the goblin line, hoping to give the riders a breakout route.
It was a plan of retreat and of loss, of salvage and surely not of victory.
“Comes the dawn,” Liam remarked, looking to the east, where the red curve of the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.
Midalis shared a grim look and a strong handshake with his dear friend, and he led on, slowly down the trail at first, but gaining speed with each loping stride.
I
n the bell tower of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre breathed a profound sigh of relief when he heard the cries, “Riders to the south,” and turned to see the dark shapes moving along the path toward the back corner of the abbey.
“Catchers to the rear corner!” the old abbot cried to Brother Haney, and then he hustled, huffing and puffing, toward the front wall, for he knew that Midalis and his brave men would soon need his assistance.
He heard the cries and shrieks echoing through the forested hillock, heard his own men crying out, predictably, “Goblins!”
Abbot Agronguerre resisted the urge to rush toward the back wall and offer magical support there. Prince Midalis and his riders would simply have to outrun the pursuit!
Agronguerre was inside then, scrambling down the spiral stairs. He met Brother Haney on the lower landing, then they ran through the tunnel that brought them to the parapet along the front wall. Several monks were already there, as they had
been ordered, holding gemstones—the few graphite stones within St. Belfour—and peering out, pointing to the thick forest beyond. Agronguerre joined their ranks and produced his own stones, serpentine and ruby, while Brother Haney did likewise, taking the most potent graphite stone of all the abbey’s inventory from his pouch.
Cheers arose inside the abbey courtyard behind them as Midalis and his men swooped past the rear corner, slowing only enough to toss saddlebags up to eager hands.
“Eyes ahead!” Brother Haney scolded another of the front wall contingent, as the errant monk turned to view the scene. “Keep watch on the forest, to the true enemy we know will come forth.”
“Goblin!” another monk at the wall yelled, pointing to the thicket across the field and to the right. The young brother lifted his hand and gemstone, as if preparing to loose a stroke of lightning, but Abbot Agronguerre quickly brought his hand to the younger man’s arm, bringing it down.
“Let them swoop out in full,” the abbot explained, understanding the limitations of their magic and knowing that they had to make use of the stones for emotional as much as physical effect. “When the goblins charge out in force, and before the battle is joined, we hit them quickly and hard. Let us see if they have the stomach for the fight.”
The lead riders came around the southeastern corner then, across the front of the abbey, with Prince Midalis and Liam O’Blythe leading the charge.
The Prince slowed enough to share a salute with Abbot Agronguerre and a smile.
And then the goblins came on—a hundred goblins, a thousand goblins—swarming from every shadow.
In a matter of a few seconds, Midalis understood the dire trouble. Goblins rushed from the south and west, ringing the field in deep ranks; and more goblins came behind them, charging down the hillock, blocking the trail and throwing spears at the trailing riders of the Prince’s line.
Then came the barrage,
boom, boom, boom!
, of lightning strokes flashing out from the abbey’s walls, dropping lines of goblins, and then another flash from Abbot Agronguerre, a line of fire spurting forth from his serpentine-shielded hand, to immolate the largest goblin as it barked orders to its ugly kin. Shrouded in fire, the creature’s commands became high-pitched squeals and it ran wildly, flapping its arms. The abbot wasted no time, shifting the flow of flames to engulf the next creature in line.
But for all the sudden shock—the fast-flashing, brutal, and thundering retort—very few goblins went down and stayed down. After the initial moment of terror, in which half the goblin force turned as if to flee, the creatures came to understand the truth—that a dozen well-placed archers could have done as much damage—and quickly tightened their ring.
Another report thundered out from the abbey walls as Midalis pulled his ranks
into a tighter defensive formation,
boom, boom, boom!
as Agronguerre sent forth another line of flame, but again to minimal real damage.
And even Midalis noticed that those lightning bolts didn’t thunder quite as loudly.
The call came up that the last of his line, with goblins on their tails, had delivered their saddlebags, and the Prince and his men formed a tight wedge and charged into the closing goblin ranks. And from the abbey walls came another volley, this one of arrows and quarrels, and the goblins scattered before the charging horses.
And those goblins behind, trying to catch up, got hit from behind, as Midalis’ archers slipped over the back of the hillock, replacing the charging monsters.
“Break to the back!” came the cry, and the Prince swung the wedge around—swords slashing, spears stabbing, hooves trampling—thinking to flee back along the trail.
Or did they even have to flee? Prince Midalis wondered, for if they could destroy the goblin pursuit, opening the way back around the hillock, they could make a stand on the field, slaughtering many; and as long as they didn’t allow the goblins to flank them they could retreat if necessary.
Midalis brought his men back around the southeastern corner. Many of the goblins in pursuit, having a wall of horses suddenly turned back against them, skidded to a stop and whirled to retreat.
Right into a wall of arrows.
Cheers rent the air from Midalis’ men, the monks with their magic and bows joining in from the abbey walls. The goblin ranks along the eastern wall of St. Belfour quickly thinned.
And for a moment, just a moment, the Prince and his men thought the day was theirs.
A scream from atop the hill showed them the truth: another goblin force had swung around the back of the hill, pressing the archers. Now those men came running down, stumbling and sliding, some crashing headlong into trees or tearing through brush. Before Midalis could react, the crucial high ground was lost. Now he and his horsemen worked furiously to scatter those goblins who remained by the side of the abbey, so that the archers could join them.
More thunderous reports issued from in front, and those were followed by a host of screams and fierce goblin war cries. When Midalis glanced back over his shoulder at the abbey’s wall, he was dismayed, for many, many spears and arrows arced over the front wall or flew away into the air, a tremendous barrage.
The Prince turned his force yet again, spearheading the wedge, putting the infantry archers in the second line with a wall of horsemen behind, to fend off the goblins regrouping atop the northern hillock. They could not slip into the forest from this area, for too many enemies had come to the hillock, so around to the front of the abbey they went, hoping for some break in the goblin line.
And when they came around that corner, when they saw all the field before
them thick with goblin masses, when they saw a hundred spears and arrows flying against the abbey walls for every one the monks could throw down, the Prince knew the grim truth. He thought of charging the abbey door, of calling for it to open that he and his men could seek refuge within.
But who, then, would break the siege? And would they even hold out through the morning from inside those stone walls?
“Fight on, for all our lives!” he cried. “For the lives of those in St. Belfour and for the memory of those who this morn will fall!”
The magic coming from the abbey showed weaker now, one lightning bolt hitting a goblin squarely in the chest and not even dropping the creature. That fact did not go unnoticed among the enemies, and the goblins, no ragtag band, howled and pressed even farther.
Midalis and his front riders plunged into the goblin line, swords slashing, spears piercing goblin chests. But the goblins swarmed around them in a rush as strong as the tide, filling every channel, every opening. One man was pulled down from his mount, a host of ugly creatures falling over him, slashing and stabbing; another had his horse slashed out from under him and died before he even hit the ground.
The archers in the second rank kept firing their bows, most behind at the pursuit from the hillock; but within moments, they, too, found themselves hard-pressed, with many using their bows as clubs, smashing goblin heads.
On the field, Prince Midalis knew it; on the wall, Abbot Agronguerre, his magical energy expended, knew it. St. Belfour was doomed. The Prince of Honce-the-Bear was doomed. The Vanguard army would soon be shattered and the region would know only blackness.
Another mountain of shadow flowed through the forest, another legion of goblins, the Prince assumed, and he could only wonder in blank amazement at how many had come to destroy his homeland.
Out of the trees came the forms, screaming and howling, a primal, feral cry that sent shivers through the spines of all who heard it, that froze the battle for a long, horrifying moment.
Wearing browns and greens that rendered them practically invisible, the barbarian horde swarmed onto the field. The front line came on fast but stopped almost as one, pivoting, then launching heavy stones from the ends of swinging chains into the closest goblin ranks, opening holes, knocking monsters back into their wicked kin.
Again came that unified war cry, drowning all other sounds, bringing shivers to the goblins and hope to Midalis and his valiant men. And through the ranks of the hammer throwers stormed Andacanavar, his mighty claymore cleaving down goblins three at a swing. Like a gigantic wedge, the hardy Alpinadoran barbarians of Tol Hengor drove on.
“Fight on!” Midalis cried, but this time, hope replaced resignation. Now for the first time, the goblins seemed unnerved. The Prince seized the moment to pull his cavalry back together, to begin the determined march that would get his vulnerable
archers to the abbey’s front gate.
He signaled to Agronguerre on the wall, and took hope that the wise old man would understand his intent and begin calling to his monks to secure the portal.
With sheer determination, Midalis got there, the horsemen shielding the running archers from monstrous goblin spears, the monks pulling wide the doors and battling those few goblins nearby until the archers could get inside.
The battle threatened to disintegrate into chaos again, except that the barbarians, the great warriors of the north, followed Andacanavar with fanatical bravery, keeping fast their lines of defense as the mighty ranger plowed on. Midalis and his horsemen would have been overwhelmed right there at the wall, goblins coming at them from every angle, but then the ranger broke through, his elven-forged claymore cutting a goblin in half at the waist right as the Prince raised his own sword to strike at the creature.
Before Midalis could begin to thank Andacanavar, he stabbed his sword into the ground before him and gave a howl, lifting his arms above his head and putting his fingertips together, his arms mirroring the barbarians’ wedge formation. Then Andacanavar slid the fingers of his right hand down to his left elbow, and the right line of the formation followed the command, turning with practiced efficiency, so that Andacanavar was now the trailing man on the new right flank, and Bruinhelde, the man who had taken the rear position on the initial left flank, was now the spearhead.
Prince Midalis understood the beautiful maneuver, the brilliant pivot, and knew the role that his men must now play. He swung away from the mighty ranger, charging his horse along his ranks, then, when he reached the midpoint, breaking out onto the field, his men flowing behind him, left flank and right.
And by then, the rescued archers had gained the abbey’s parapets and their bows began to sing anew, leading the Prince’s charge.
F
rom the wall of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre watched with tears welling in his gentle eyes. He had been in Vanguard for three decades and knew well its history—knew of the massacre at Fuldebarrow, where his Church had tried to establish a monastery. He knew of the many skirmishes between the men of Honce-the-Bear and the hardy Alpinadorans, knew the prejudice that lingered on both sides of the border.
But now, apparently, both the men and women of Honce-the-Bear and of Alpinador had found a common enemy too great to be ignored; and if this enemy, these minions of the demon dactyl, could bring these peoples together—could get the Alpinadoran barbarians to fight for the sake of St. Belfour of the Abellican Church!—then perhaps the light had begun to shine through the darkness.