at his senses. A quiet, almost imperceptible noise, like the whining of a mosquito. It sounded almost like voices. Almost like whispering …
A cry, loud and stark, snapped him out of his contemplation of the symbols and he turned and ran from the chamber, memories of the burnt icons forgotten, the insistent whispering dying away into frustrated silence.
***
The Savaran came in a thunderous charge of martial might, steeds galloping, topknots trailing, yet it wasn’t the brandished weapons that unnerved the waiting Tulador Guards.
It was the silence.
No war-cries, no oaths, no threats or vows or hungering shouts for glory. Only eyes that stared in silent torment from taut, grey faces.
“End their misery…”
At Hofsted’s growled command, the first rank of Guards touched taper to barrel, the thunder of hooves drowned out, momentarily, by the cacophony of detonation. Tongues of fire leapt out from the ends of the cannons, almost blasting the braced Guards backwards off their feet, and the leading Savaran disappeared, mounts, riders and all, torn apart like paper in the storm of red-hot shrapnel.
“First rank, reload! Second rank, fire!”
The first rank dropped to their knees, fumbling with pouches of Marlyn’s mysterious black powder, even as the second rank behind them unleashed their own fusillade. And so the cycle went on, the fearsome power of the Tulador Guards’ new weapons matched against the brutal charge of the Clan Cavalry. Long seconds passed into minutes, guardsman limbs growing weary, fingers growing tight, till at last the smoke cleared from the Plain before them and silence prevailed.
Before them, the last of the Savaran, charred, smoking, in pieces.
A cry of triumph from the Tulador Guard, yet Hofsted didn’t smile beneath his moustache, for he followed the gaze of Arbistrath who stood next to him, staring through the dissipating smoke. For the cavalry may be dead, but the Legions of Clansmen were still very much alive.
And they were marching, inexorably towards them, by the thousand…
Hofsted called out to his troops, his voice loud, clear and strong, taking his example from the leadership of Master Wrynn.
“Remember your orders; we hold, as long as we can. The Shamans will aid us, have no fear.”
He looked up, behind him, to the hill, where stood, silhouetted in the sky, the distant figures of the mages.
“Have no fear…” he repeated, with a whisper.
***
Wrynn soared high, the wind beneath his wings keeping him aloft with no effort, his keen avian eyes scanning the battle below. The first wave of the attack had been repulsed; with Stone’s aid, the invention of Marlyn had proven its worth. But the real tests were yet to come. The Clansmen stretched out across the steps in a vast and dark tide. The Tulador Guard would hold out as best they could, which, given the aid of the Shamans, should be a while. But before long the numbers of the enemy would tell and the Guard would be forced to withdraw.
Then it would be the turn of the Plainsmen to shine.
Hopefully the enemy would be weakened enough for the Plainsmen to fight them to an impasse, allowing the elite of the army to move around the flanks, make their way, unnoticed, towards the Beacon while the battle played out behind them. Hopefully.
Flanks on his mind, Wrynn’s beady black eyes scanned to the left, now, zooming in with incredible acuity, picking out, even half a mile below, the distinctive shapes that raced out from the Pen, hoping to catch the
A cry, loud and stark, snapped him out of his contemplation of the symbols and he turned and ran from the chamber, memories of the burnt icons forgotten, the insistent whispering dying away into frustrated silence.
***
The Savaran came in a thunderous charge of martial might, steeds galloping, topknots trailing, yet it wasn’t the brandished weapons that unnerved the waiting Tulador Guards.
It was the silence.
No war-cries, no oaths, no threats or vows or hungering shouts for glory. Only eyes that stared in silent torment from taut, grey faces.
“End their misery…”
At Hofsted’s growled command, the first rank of Guards touched taper to barrel, the thunder of hooves drowned out, momentarily, by the cacophony of detonation. Tongues of fire leapt out from the ends of the cannons, almost blasting the braced Guards backwards off their feet, and the leading Savaran disappeared, mounts, riders and all, torn apart like paper in the storm of red-hot shrapnel.
“First rank, reload! Second rank, fire!”
The first rank dropped to their knees, fumbling with pouches of Marlyn’s mysterious black powder, even as the second rank behind them unleashed their own fusillade. And so the cycle went on, the fearsome power of the Tulador Guards’ new weapons matched against the brutal charge of the Clan Cavalry. Long seconds passed into minutes, guardsman limbs growing weary, fingers growing tight, till at last the smoke cleared from the Plain before them and silence prevailed.
Before them, the last of the Savaran, charred, smoking, in pieces.
A cry of triumph from the Tulador Guard, yet Hofsted didn’t smile beneath his moustache, for he followed the gaze of Arbistrath who stood next to him, staring through the dissipating smoke. For the cavalry may be dead, but the Legions of Clansmen were still very much alive.
And they were marching, inexorably towards them, by the thousand…
Hofsted called out to his troops, his voice loud, clear and strong, taking his example from the leadership of Master Wrynn.
“Remember your orders; we hold, as long as we can. The Shamans will aid us, have no fear.”
He looked up, behind him, to the hill, where stood, silhouetted in the sky, the distant figures of the mages.
“Have no fear…” he repeated, with a whisper.
***
Wrynn soared high, the wind beneath his wings keeping him aloft with no effort, his keen avian eyes scanning the battle below. The first wave of the attack had been repulsed; with Stone’s aid, the invention of Marlyn had proven its worth. But the real tests were yet to come. The Clansmen stretched out across the steps in a vast and dark tide. The Tulador Guard would hold out as best they could, which, given the aid of the Shamans, should be a while. But before long the numbers of the enemy would tell and the Guard would be forced to withdraw.
Then it would be the turn of the Plainsmen to shine.
Hopefully the enemy would be weakened enough for the Plainsmen to fight them to an impasse, allowing the elite of the army to move around the flanks, make their way, unnoticed, towards the Beacon while the battle played out behind them. Hopefully.
Flanks on his mind, Wrynn’s beady black eyes scanned to the left, now, zooming in with incredible acuity, picking out, even half a mile below, the distinctive shapes that raced out from the Pen, hoping to catch the
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