Authors: Alexey Pehov
“What kind of idiot is commanding them?” Hargan muttered.
Running in a crowd, simply inviting the arrows to strike, without even holding up your shields in front of you, was stupid. Very stupid. But now the traitors already had no choice.
“Arc five fingers upward! Together, fire!” Blidkhard commanded, shouting above the howls of the attackers.
The bowmen raised their bows, there was a sharp crack, and the arrows went whistling up into the leaden sky.
“Arc seven fingers upward. Correct for wind half a finger left! Together, fire!”
The new swarm of deadly bees took to the air at the very moment when the first wave of arrows came crashing down on the attackers’ heads. Some managed to hold their shields up to ward off this deadly rain; some were simply fortunate enough to escape being hit. But the greater part of the first wave knew the bitter taste of death. His scythe sliced through the ranks of traitors as arrows fell on heads and shoulders. Their impetus drove them straight through cuirasses and chain mail, deep into men’s chests, finishing off the wounded who had already fallen.
More than eighty bodies were left lying on the ground, and the survivors ran on doggedly in an attempt to dive into the fog of the ravine as quickly as possible and conceal themselves from the eyes of the bowmen.
The second swarm of arrows had been launched along a steeper arc and it fell on the men almost vertically. Screams . . . Now there were only thirty men left in the first wave—all the rest had met their death on the other side of the ravine. And they still had about fifty yards to run to safety.
“Number twos! Three paces back! Arc six fingers upward! Number ones! At the survivors! Choose your target! Fire!”
The line of bowmen trembled and split into two halves. The second line fired along an arc, sending death to the new wave that was already advancing. The first line fired directly, picking off the remaining soldiers of the first wave.
The bowmen shot down the men who were left—not a single soldier from the first wave managed to reach the safety of the ravine. Black bodies bristling with white-feathered arrows littered the brown ground.
Meanwhile the arrows of the second line were already falling on the heads of the new wave of attackers.
“Number twos! Three paces forward! Close ranks! All together! Arc eight fingers upward! Fire!”
The reconstituted line of bowmen all fired their arrows at once.
“At the enemy! Choose your target! Correction for wind half a finger left! Shoot at will!”
The arrows stuck in the ground had been used up long ago, and now right hands were lowered to the quivers hanging on men’s hips. The arrows rustled out and were set on the strings. . . .
“Fox! Get ready! The ones who have broken through will be here soon!” Hargan shouted.
“No they won’t!” Fox laughed. “They’re not stupid enough to try breaking through with just twenty men! They’ll wait for the others!”
Blidkhard issued a constant stream of commands, altering the direction of fire every second, setting the arrows flying, first upward in an arc that seemed impossibly steep, then straight across, sowing death in the ranks of the attackers. There were even fewer fortunate fellows in the third wave than in the second: No more than fifteen men reached the shelter of the ravine.
“Look out!” one of the soldiers cried.
The commander of the attackers had kept his bowmen back until the fourth wave. While Blidkhard’s lads were dealing with the third wave, the fourth, which was armed with short bows that could not fire as far as the Dog Swallows’ weapons, came within firing range. . . .
Before he ducked behind the huge wooden shield that had been cobbled together out of planks from the wagons for just this occasion, Hargan caught a glimpse of the flock of hornets heading toward them through the air.
The swordsmen fell to their knees, raising their shields above their heads,
protecting themselves and covering their comrades. Blidkhard’s men came off worse—not all of them were quick enough to put down their bows and pick up the wooden arrow shields lying at their feet.
Hargan felt one arrow strike the board, then another. Another buried itself in the ground beside his foot. The soldier beside him, trying to take cover behind a small round shield, cried out when one of the arrows hit him in the thigh, uncovered himself for an instant, and took a second arrow in the neck. He wheezed hoarsely and tumbled to the ground.
The bombardment finally ended, and Hargan cast aside the board bristling with arrows. The enemy’s arrows were everywhere—in the ground, in shields, in the wall of the fortifications, and in men.
“Crush those bastards!” Blidkhard yelled hoarsely. “Come on then, you sons of whores!”
The bowmen took up their bows again.
“Fire at will!
”
“Wencher!” Hargan roared. “What are our casualties?”
“Eighteen killed!” the answer came back after a while. “Mostly Blidkhard’s lads! I haven’t counted the wounded yet!”
“Fire!”
Slap! Slap! Slap!
The bowstrings thwacked against the mittens and the arrows whistled through the air, drowning out even the howls of the dying.
The fifth wave of attackers had taken advantage of the pause in the bombardment by Blidkhard’s bowmen and fused with the fourth. They were running toward the ravine, with the sixth wave already following them. The enemy’s bowmen were no longer firing; they didn’t want to become a target for the Dog Swallows. The Wind Jugglers began choosing their targets. One of the enemy fell every second, but time had been lost and a large body of men disappeared into the ravine, bolstering their courage by shouting.
“Wake up, you whores! Keep your eyes open! As soon as the enemy appears, move back behind the swords! Target the sixth line! Together, fire!”
“Stop them shooting!” shouted Siena, bounding up to Hargan. Her chain-mail hood had slipped back off her head, her light brown hair was tousled, her face was pale and determined. “Let them get down into the ravine! And as soon as that happens, move back from the wall!”
“Cease fire!” Hargan roared. “Withdraw behind the swordsmen!
”
“
Cease fire! Withdraw! Withdraw!” The order ran along the line.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Lady Siena?” Hargan would be taking a risk by trusting in the young enchantress’s talent.
“Yes! Now just don’t interfere!”
The only ones left by the wall were the enchantress, the two shield-bearers from her bodyguard, and the centurions.
The sixth wave slithered down into the ravine, shouting triumphantly. The seventh and eighth waves were on their way.
“We won’t be able to hold them,” the commander of Siena’s bodyguard hissed through his teeth. “By Sagra, I swear we won’t be able to hold them!”
Hargan didn’t answer, hearing only Siena’s whisper, which seemed to drown out even the shouts of the enemy.
All of a sudden the fog burst into flames and was transformed into a mass of liquid fire, making the ravine look like the inside of one of the gnomes’ furnaces. The blast of heat struck Hargan in the face and he felt as if his eyebrows and hair had burst into flame. The men staggered back from the heaving fiery abyss, and the enchantress was left alone, staring unflinchingly into the scorching flames. Everybody down below in the ravine must have been burnt to a cinder.
Siena had incinerated about four hundred men at a single stroke!
The enchantress began slowly sinking down onto the ground, but her shield-bearers dashed over to her and caught her before she could fall.
“Are you alive, milady?” asked the sergeant from the Borderland.
“Y-yes,” she said uncertainly, and spat blood. Her hand was clutching the amulet and there were glowing strings of sparks running across the silvery droplet.
“Quick! Get her to the healer!” Hargan barked.
After seeing what had happened to their comrades, the seventh and eighth waves were beating a hasty retreat. Blidkhard’s men managed to fire several times more before the enemy moved out of the range of their arrows.
Silence fell in the ranks of the defenders.
The opposite side of the ravine and the road were littered with bodies. The black, charred walls of the ravine gave out a smell of soot and burnt meat. Thick smoke from this hellish scene rose high into the air above the soldiers’ heads.
“Ah, we gave them a good battering,” Wencher said delightedly as he came up to Hargan. “It’s just a shame that the swords had no work to do.”
“You’ll get your turn! We haven’t killed all of them.”
“Yes, there are about three hundred left. But they’re not likely to attack. They’ll wait for the orcs.”
Morning came and merged imperceptibly into day. But the road remained deserted. The enemy had pulled back and concealed himself behind the dark wood, and the only sound from that side of the ravine was the cawing of the crows feasting on the corpses. By noon the sky was clouded over even more thickly, the rain had become a downpour, and the road was almost invisible behind the wall of falling water.
From somewhere beyond the shroud of rain there came the faint rumbling of drums.
“Everyone to his station!” yelled Hargan, emerging from under the lean-to and putting on his helmet.
The rumbling of the drums was moving closer; the orcs had moved onto the offensive.
“Can’t see a thing!” said a bowman with straw-blond hair and no helmet, gazing into the white shroud.
“Listen, then!” barked Bildkhard, who was walking along the line of bowmen. “Listen to what your commander tells you!”
Hargan could not stand giving impassioned speeches. He was not Grok, nor was he some pompous, self-important colonel, to go ranting on about duty, honor, and devotion, but right now he really ought to offer his lads some kind of moral support.
“Soldiers! Our time has come! Let’s show these Firstborn what we’re made of! Let them break their teeth on our shields! The more of the brutes we kill, the fewer our lads will have to stick and bleed at Avendoom! Let’s make Grok’s job easier! Slash, stab, and cut! Kill them the same way they kill us! Show no mercy!”
And, like the last time, the cry echoed down the ranks of men:
“NO MERCY!”
The volley of arrows struck at the orcs but, unlike the men of the First Human Assault Force, they made rational use of their shields. The huge rectangular sheets of metal covering the heads of the Firstborn allowed them to weather the attack of Blidkhard’s bowmen with practically no casualties. The shields parted, and another swarm of arrows flew out at the humans through the gaps. Now Hargan’s soldiers had to hide behind their shields and wait out
the bombardment. The orcs seized their chance, losing no time in moving forward to the very edge of the ravine.
Another volley from the brigade’s bowmen. The impenetrable barrier of the orcish shields. And an immediate volley in reply.
Hargan had no time to hide, and an arrow bounced off his breastplate. He swore vilely as he saw the orcs flood over into the ravine.
“Come on, you whores! Shoot! Or they’ll roast your heels for you!”
While the orcs were climbing down and then climbing up again, the bowmen managed to loose off six salvos. During the storming of the ravine the shields of the Firstborn were less effective, the formation fell apart, and the arrows finally began to inflict significant losses.
On the orders of their commander, the Wind Jugglers once again divided into two sections. The first lashed at the advancing wave of the enemy, while the second sought out the archers constantly firing at the men from among the mass of the orcs.
Another arrow whistled past Hargan’s head and yet another hit the light-haired archer in the stomach. His light chain mail didn’t save him and he dropped his bow and fell.
“Swordsmen!” Hargan commanded. “Another twenty paces back! Maintain your spacing!”
The order to leave the wall might have seemed stupid to many. After all, this was a spot where you could take a stand and repel attack after attack, while withdrawing meant giving the enemy the chance to maneuver, gather his wits after the climb, and go on the attack. But a simple defensive trick like that wouldn’t work against the orcs. The only thing that would save you here was to close formation and strike like a battering ram, and for that you had to move back. The line of men began slowly withdrawing, protected by shields and bristling with spears, swords, and axes. The orcs had already reached the stakes set in the ground and the bowmen’s final arrows were striking them, piercing straight through their armor.
The bowmen were already running toward the waiting swordsmen, slipping between them and forming a new second line of defense. Hargan withdrew with them, leaving only Fox’s crossbowmen behind.