Keeping a tight grip on his shield, Morgan blocked the blow, though the impact sent pain shooting up his arm. His lack of ability on a horse would find him out, he thought, as he saw the speed
with which the knight checked his charge and swerved his steed to come at Morgan again. Still keeping his shield held high, he readied his sword. This time, though, the flail caught a glancing blow
on his helmet, making his head sing like a bird. He rolled in his saddle and only kept himself upright by the skin of his fingernails. He felt the bruises on his head rise immediately – if he
lived through this, it would take weeks before they subsided.
The knight readied another blow, but this time, almost reflexively, Morgan swung his sword. It was not a great aim, for his original idea was to strike the man’s face. Instead, it caught
the man on his wrist where he held the flail high. Though clad in full plate, the sword bit deep. It sheared through the armour and sliced into flesh, and then bone. The flail fell to the ground as
the knight looked in horror at his ruined hand, for it swung loose, only remaining connected to the arm by sinews and a thin strip of flesh. The blood that shot from the stump hit Morgan in the
face, for he wore no visor like the other knights. He spat it out of his mouth, as the knight lost control of his horse and it carried him forward as at last he started to scream.
Morgan looked at his strange sword. The blood on it had solidified and, as he watched, fell from it on to the ground. What exactly, by Mytha and all the Gods, was he wielding?
‘Morgan!’ he heard the call – it was Dominic. ‘Morgan, to me! We have him at bay!’
And Morgan saw he was right. The King, or his imposter, was almost exposed to them. Much of his bodyguard had fallen or was engaged in battle with other foes and, seeing this, the King turned to
flee.
Morgan spurred his horse forward; Dominic, too. A knight went to block Dominic but he grabbed his assailant around the throat and, not even using his sword, wrestled the man off his horse on to
the ground where it stamped on the prostrate fellow in its panic before haring off. Dominic used his own horse to try to finish the man off, riding him down like a dog. Morgan, though, made the
killing blow, a sweep from his sword taking the man’s head clean off. As he rode past the dead man, he saw that there was no one between him and the King, whose attempt to flee had been
baulked by the press of fighting men behind him.
The King, or at least the man in the King’s armour, turned his horse at bay, and Morgan trotted slowly towards him, sword in hand. The King’s blade was a magnificent weapon. Morgan
wondered how many times the steel had been folded and how many hours had gone into fashioning the snake patterns that ran along the blade’s length. It was a piece of art but he guessed it was
not the match of his own.
The King swung at him. Morgan blocked it with his shield, then returned the blow, but with the same result. They rode around each other trading tentative blows, chipping pieces off their
shields, Morgan became suddenly aware that much of the fighting around him had stopped and they were all watching his duel – King against Baron, General against Commander.
The King struck again, this time getting partially past Morgan’s defence. He sliced at the mail rings on the Baron’s torso, pushing some of them through his woollen undershirt and
into his flesh, breaking the skin. Morgan winced as he felt blood trickling from the wound; the man was skilled, indeed. He lowered his shield into its correct position again – skilled he
might be but he was not as skilled as Morgan.
Morgan sliced downward, carving a chunk from the King’s shield. It fell to the ground and the King swung his horse around, trying to get past Morgan’s defence and to land a killing
blow through his ribs. Morgan swung his mount around in turn and, as he did so, the King lowered his shield, so determined was he to get this crucial strike at his foe. His over-eagerness was a
mistake, just the mistake Morgan was waiting for. With the King’s shield lowered, he could get a blow in at his head; he meant to bring his blade down in a great slicing arc, splitting the
King’s head in two and killing him instantly, but the distance was a little too great. Instead, the great blue sword chopped through the front part of the helmet, severing it, the great
pointed visor, mouth guard and the King’s face from his body, the excised items falling limply on to the bruised ground.
Morgan beheld the remains of the King – the dark jellied pits of the eyes, the opened nose cavity, the fragments of teeth that still held to the shattered jaw, the pulpy bloodied brain and
the severed blood vessels spitting their contents on to his breastplate. Through the mouth cavity the man gurgled and choked, he was still conscious, still aware. For mercy, if no other reason,
Morgan ended it driving the sword into the man’s heart cutting through the armour as though it were silk. After he twisted and withdrew the steaming blade, the King, or his decoy, clattered
off the saddle and fell dead on to the grass.
A great roar went up around him as the knights cheered the victory. Morgan realised now that identification of the dead man would be impossible; no one would know that he was likely an impostor,
even the enemy, for they too would not be privy to the truth. Dominic obviously saw this, too. He rode up to the gold-encased corpse and with a well-aimed blow struck the head from the body. Using
a spear taken from another knight, he impaled the gruesome trophy and held it up high for all to see, the remnants of the golden helmet still easily distinguishable.
‘The King of Arshuma is dead. Behold the head of the King. Death to Arshuma!’
And it worked. The cavalry of the enemy broke, giving way before Dominic as he charged them again, the Silver Lances following close behind and his bloody prize lofted high before him. Only
General Terze among the Arshumans knew the truth, that the real king was secure in the city behind them, but no one paid heed to his words as his own knights swept past him, panicked and routed,
past their own infantry, past the lofted yellow banners of the Arshuman spear, before finally stopping and turning again at the city gates.
And Dominic would have pursued them all the way, his blood was up so much, if it were not for the recall given on the horns behind him. After he had checked himself he rode back with the others
and, as he did so, he stopped and thrust the butt of the spear into the soft earth, the head atop it facing its own people. Pleased with himself, he let it remain there and as he did so he heard
their trumpets, too – loud, brazen, discordant. For the Arshuman infantry were being given the order to advance.
Morgan had used the time well. While Dominic ensured that the enemy were harassed all the way back to their own lines, he had joined his infantry again, allowing his horse to be led away to
where the other cavalry had been ordered to go, somewhere behind their own lines. Itheya and the elves too, who had ridden alongside Dominic assisting in the rout, halted their advance and turned
back. All of this was planned, and discussed with every captain, before the battle had even started. Everyone knew what they had to do.
At last, the cavalry gathered together behind the battle, their part fully played for the time being. It was the time for the men on foot to show their mettle, and it was more than possible that
they would have to do that and much more besides. Morgan stood beside Captain Mirik and watched as the sound of twenty thousand booted feet rolled towards them over the grass.
For the enemy infantry were advancing on them.
Ten thousand men against three at a rough guess, Morgan surmised. Pretty much everything Arshuma had to offer. More and more he realised that he had brought these brave men here pretty much on
blind faith alone. At the time he had believed everything the strange girl had told him – that, backed up with the silhouette of something massive lurching skywards into the moonlight, had
been enough to convince him at the time.
At the time
. But that was then. Now, with a line of men stretching as far as the eye could see coming towards him, he was hurriedly re-evaluating his
opinion. He looked up at the sky. Nothing. What was this girl going to do exactly? He had a vague idea, but that was hardly sufficient for comfort at the moment. Behind him he could hear men
praying.
‘Mytha, make my shield arm as iron and my sword arm straight and true. Turn my blood to fire but keep my head cold and clear. Let me deal death in Thy name and know that every soul I reap
will be dedicated to Thee...’
‘Artorus protect me, let Thy spirit be my shield. Though I face foes innumerable, let me stand tall and true and not flinch in the face of death. And if Xhenafa sees it fit to take me from
this world, guard my family, keep them fed and sheltered for they were born to serve Thee just as I have been. I commend my spirit to Thee.’
Morgan had manoeuvred his men so that they backed on to the lake at an angle; any flanking attack would be through marshy ground to the north and would face the wrath of the cavalry to the south
where they presented the broadest flank. It reduced the risk of being overwhelmed, but did not eliminate it. It was not the brightest of outlooks. He pulled out his sword and turned to face them,
standing on a low bluebell-encrusted hillock so that as many of his army as possible could see him.
‘Men of Felmere,’ he said, doing his best to sound commanding and fearless. ‘You can see what is heading towards us; you can see their banners and all of you know what that
means. For eleven years now we have not known peace because of them; we have all lost something in that time, whether it is land, property or something even more precious. You all know me, you know
of my past and many of you have a similar tale to mine. Edgar, I remember your daughter well, how she used to come to my farm and we used to barter wool for meat; Carl, you and I know how your wife
helped care for my son when he had the colic. Now they have all been taken from us and the reason for it is there.’ He gestured at the advancing soldiers, the front ranks close enough now for
individual shields and spears to be seen. ‘For all of us, this war ends today; remember, though, many of their troops know nothing of war, not as we do. The Gods are with us. Do not quail
before them, show them that you are men of Felmere – loyal, steadfast, determined. Stand together in this and even now we shall triumph, even now we can claim victory, even now we can end
this war in our favour. For Felmere! For Felmere and Tanaren! Our victory is at hand!’
He hated public speaking, far preferring to lead by example, but for once he seemed to have got it right. The response was electric. Clashing spear on shield, the men repeated his call.
‘Felmere and victory!’ they roared and heeding the call of the drums and horns moved into battle formation.
Morgan joined them and watched, there was nothing more for him to do. The Arshuman line was less than half a mile away now; their steady drums could be heard as they marched. ‘Their line
is quite ragged,’ Mirik said, loud enough for many to hear. ‘Raw troops, undisciplined. Let’s see how they react when we start to skewer them!’
Men laughed at this. Morgan could sense that they all knew the hopelessness of their predicament, but that they were all grimly accepting whatever was going to be thrown at them. If he were to
die, he thought, then here and now would be just the place he would choose.
Closer and closer the enemy came, their spears lowered now, the distance between the lines probably not more than a hundred yards. Morgan held his shield tightly, preparing to command the
formation of a shield wall. It would not be long now, before the enemy charge. Morgan had taken his men to the west of the road to the city and they had turned at bay to face it. The Arshuman army
was now crossing the road and were close enough for him to hear them shouting at one other, exhorting one another as they summoned up their blood lust. They were as nervous as he, Morgan thought
wryly.
And then there came another sound, deep, low, rumbling like a hundred logs rolling down a steep hill. It perplexed everyone, Morgan looked around him to see the source, as did everyone else in
both armies. It came again – a cavernous bellow. He felt the ground vibrate under his feet. And then he saw – saw exactly what he had made a deal over four long days previously.
To his left, on the great spur of rock that thrust into the lake by the city, it watched them. A thousand vibrant incarnadine scales clothed it and they glittered in the sun as it moved its
colossal head slowly, tasting in the air the sweat of the men beneath it. And their fear. Finally, it threw its head back and roared, a full-throated cry that shook the earth and had grown men
stopping up their ears. Morgan did not do so, only to realise that he was deafened for a few seconds and could not hear what Mirik was saying to him.
Then, finally, it leapt off the rock. For the briefest of seconds it looked like it would plummet to the earth, for what wings could carry a creature like that? And then it fully unfurled them
and Morgan had his answer – vast, powerful and ribbed with thick veins, they lifted it upwards and forwards. Directly towards the far right of the Arshuman line.
‘It was no god we saw casting flame the other night,’ said Mirik. ‘It was this ... creature. Say not that it is a dragon.’
Morgan smiled. ‘You would not have believed me if I had said what it was. A god, yes, but a dragon?’
The Arshumans had stopped marching; no one, including their captains, seemed to know what to do. Instead, they watched, dumb, open-mouthed as the great beast came towards them; its shadow alone
could cover a hundred puny men. And the Arshumans on the right flank started to edge away as it approached; they were in shock and their captains did not stop them.
Lower and lower it flew, closer and closer it got to the enemy lines. Afterwards Morgan came to think that, if the Arshumans had kept their discipline, spears pointed outwards, they might have
stood a chance, might have deterred the creature. But it was never going to happen. For a being long thought extinct, or thought never to have existed except in the wild deliriums of the brain
fevered, was here, advancing relentlessly upon them. And as it advanced it opened its great jaw, baring teeth the length of swords, yellowed by aeons of time. And then finally it breathed, bathing
dozens or even hundreds of men in molten fire.