He heard a sound and a swift shout, and suddenly a horse and rider appeared at the edge of the ford. It was a warlord on his black steed, and Theido could tell that he was unhappy with the time it was taking his soldiers to cross the stream. Without understanding the crude language at all, Theido knew that he was ordering his men to move along quickly; it was exactly what he would have done in the same situation.
The warlord sat straight in the saddle and looked long up and down Deorkenrill. Theido held his breath. Had the warlord spotted something amiss? Was their trap discovered?
But the grim lord swung his horse around and shouted once more to the scores of footmen trudging through the fen. Then he plunged through the stream and disappeared on the other side.
Nin’s soldiers were crossing in masses now, a hundred at a time. They staggered muddily to the ford and plunged in, then flung themselves up the far bank like fish flopping out of water.
Another warlord appeared, surrounded by twenty horsemen. He waited, as the other had, watching the men cross the stream, and then splashed across.
The forest echoed to the sound of something ponderous and heavy crashing through the underbrush. The wagons! thought Theido. Get ready!
The wagons were what they had been waiting for. According to Myrmior’s knowledge of the movements of the Ningaal, they most often traveled with their weapons and supplies in the wagons, half of their troops going before and the rest after. It was the second half of the Ningaal host which the defenders would attack.
Theido peered cautiously through the man-high ferns to see the first of the heavy wains mired nearly to its axles in the hollow, now trampled into a swampy bog by the hundreds of feet of men and horses which had passed before. Around each wheel twenty or so footmen grunted and strained to push the wagon along, and the four-horse team leaned into harness to the cracking whip of the driver.
Theido’s hand sought the hilt of his sword. He knew that even now a thousand arrows were being notched to their strings in anticipation of the signal that would not be long delayed. Each archer readied his cannkin of live coals and arrows with shafts wrapped in cloth soaked in palbah-flammable spirits. Myrmior, seeing Theido’s unconscious move, placed a hand on his arm and whispered, “Not yet. Give the others time to move up into position, and allow those who have passed on to distance themselves from the ambush.”
Theido took his hand away from his sword hilt and drew it across his perspiring face. He let his breath escape between clenched teeth.
The Ningaal, by sheer force of numbers, had succeeded in hauling the wagons to the brink of the ford, but now other wagons were entering the hollow and succumbing to the morass. Shortly, the hollow was filled with wagons hopelessly enmired and hundreds of soldiers clustering around them in an effort to budge them along.
“Now!” whispered Myrmior shrilly. “Do it now!”
Theido drew his sword silently and stepped calmly from the ferns. He raised the sword, knowing that all eyes were now on him. He dropped his arm, and suddenly the air was filled with a sound like an enormous flock of birds taking flight from the treetops. The dim air of the dank dell was instantly alight with darting flames arcing to earth like stars falling from on high.
A confused cry of alarm went up from the unsuspecting Ningaal as the flaming arrows found their marks: the wagons. In moments the wains were afire and the befuddled soldiers overwhelmed with terror. The Dragon King’s archers then hailed down arrows upon the enemy without mercy. Ningaal dropped where they stood, never seeing their assailants nor hearing the sting that felled them.
The rout had only begun, however, when it was turned by the appearance of the two remaining warlords. One came pounding out of the wood, his bodyguard with him. Shouts rang out and orders flew, and in moments the chaos had resolved itself, though still the larger part of the Ningaal did not have weapons, confined as they were in several of the burning wagons.
That was soon remedied. A group of soldiers, in response to the warlords’ command, rushed upon one of the burning wagons, jumped into the flames and began hurling weapons to their comrades. When one was overcome by the fire, another leapt in to take his place.
The other warlord with his mounted bodyguard pointed his sword across the stream, and his warriors came galloping across the ford toward where Theido and Myrmior waited with a dozen knights. Arrows took two from their saddles at midstream. Another came on, and Theido found himself suddenly ducking savage thrusts which chopped the fern and sent greenery flying.
He threw up his sword to parry the slicing blows and grabbed the enemy horse’s bridle, pulling its head down. The animal went to its knees and Theido lunged at the rider, knocking him from the saddle. The knight’s poniard did its work before the warrior could disengage himself from his thrashing mount.
The murky wood now rang with the sound of battle. Men shouted their battle cries and fell to with a fury. Swords struck upon shield and helmet, axes whirled and bit, splintering anything which sought to stay the deadly blades. Theido stepped away from the riderless horse beside him and saw a dozen Ningaal axe-men splashing toward him-some screaming, the handles of their axes still smoldering in their grasp.
He caught the first one in the throat as the warrior raised his axe. But he had not withdrawn the blade when a second was upon him. He saw the glint of the blade swing up and he raised his shield, expecting his arm to be crushed by the impending blow.
But the blow never came. Theido dodged aside and saw Ronsard’s familiar face beside him, grimly determined, his sword streaming with blood as the wounded man at his feet writhed in agony. Behind Ronsard a host of knights stormed out of the wood where they had been concealed.
“I will take me a warlord!” shouted Ronsard, leaping into the saddle so recently vacated by the rider at Theido’s feet.
The Lord High Marshall cut down two charging Ningaal as he flew across Deorkenrill; the dark water now bore the corpses of the enemy by the score.
The warlord, wearing a helm of white horsehide with a plume of a horse’s tail, whirled his mount around to meet Ronsard’s charge with lively skill. Ronsard’s sword flashed and flashed again, but each time the warlord met his thrust and turned it aside. Neither could gain the advantage and soon Ronsard, surrounded by enemy footmen, was forced to break off the attack and scamper once more across the stream lest he be hauled from the saddle and stabbed through a crease in his armor.
The archers poured arrows upon the battlefield in a deadly rain. Flight after flight streaked down and Ningaal fell by the score. The unhappy waters of Deorkenrill flowed red with the blood of the dead. And on the far bank-that slimy incline of a death trap-the fallen lay like corded wood. In the quagmire of the hollow the living surged ahead over the bodies of their comrades.
Myrmior had planned the fight well, and the Ningaal struggled in vain to gain the advantage. Myrmior dashed along the far bank, calling out orders and strengthening the position of the defenders where necessary and directing the archers to new and threatening targets as they emerged from the dim wood. Had there been more time, or had the Dragon King’s forces been larger, it would have turned out a day of victory for the stouthearted defenders. But it was not to be.
A mighty shout went up from behind the defenders’ position. It rang in the dell like thunder and even the most dauntless among the knights felt his blood chilled. It was the howl of the raging Ningaal who had passed over Deorkenrill, now returning, summoned by the sounds of battle. In moments the Dragon King’s forces were surrounded and would have been swept away instantly; but Myrmior, ever alert to the unexpected, had saved one last trick.