Part 39 (1/2)
”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 ma.s.s 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 s.h.i.+eld-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 h.e.l.lish 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 impa.s.sioned 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 s.h.i.+elds! 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 a.s.sault Force, they made rational use of their s.h.i.+elds. 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 s.h.i.+elds parted, and another swarm of arrows flew out at the humans through the gaps. Now Hargan's soldiers had to hide behind their s.h.i.+elds 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 s.h.i.+elds. 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 wh.o.r.es! 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 s.h.i.+elds 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 ma.s.s 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 s.p.a.cing!”
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 s.h.i.+elds 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.
”Come on, Fox!”
But the old war dog knew well enough what to do.
Forty crossbows suddenly appeared before the eyes of the startled orcs who had already begun climbing over the wall.
Thwack!
A ma.s.sive, invisible chain crashed into the ranks of the Firstborn, sending them flying backward so that they knocked their own comrades off their feet and dragged them back down to the bottom of the ravine.
The soldiers slung their crossbows behind their backs and dashed toward that secure wall of s.h.i.+elds and swords. The first orc climbed over the fortifications and immediately collapsed with an arrow in his neck. He was quickly followed by another two, then another four ... and then there were dozens of the Firstborn jumping down onto the ground.
”Swordsmen! On one knee!” Hargan barked.
The sergeants repeated their commander's order and the front line went down on their right knees.
”Fire, you wh.o.r.es!”
The bowmen standing in the second row didn't need to be reminded of the basic rules of war-if the front line gives you the chance, then lash away at the enemy until your arm is exhausted or he manages to reach you! The arrows whizzed over the heads of the swordsmen and halted the running orcs.
”Will you look at that!” someone beside Hargan said with a whistle. ”Stubborn, aren't they, the mangy dogs!”
The orcs weren't bothered at all by the death of their comrades. There were at least a hundred of the enemy facing the ranks of humans now. And more and more of them kept climbing over the wall of the fortifications. Then the orcs' bowmen appeared on the fortifications constructed with such care by Hargan's soldiers.
Before the two forces clashed, Blidkhard's men fired for a second time. And while the bowmen mostly tried to pick off the orcs' archers, Fox's lads, who had already reloaded their crossbows, aimed them at the advancing ma.s.s of Firstborn.
”Stand firm! Lock s.h.i.+elds! Lower spears! Maintain formation! Stand fiiirm ...”