Tarsis. Regobart’s force, nearly all cavalry, had been bent backward like a huge bow.
In the center of the battlefield was a bizarre sight: four enormous turtles, each six paces high, and each carrying upon its back a tall wooden hoarding. The Tarsans had bought the creatures at great expense from the breeders of Silvanost, where they were used to tow ferries across the Thon-Thalas. From the makeshift platforms on the turtles’ backs, Tarsan archers showered the Ergothians with arrows. No weapon in the imperial army could penetrate the shells of the giant turtles.
“Quarter turn, right!” Tol shouted.
The marching block of men slanted off, avoiding the slow-moving, implacable turtles. Arrows fell on them like a deadly squall. Men toppled, pierced in the head or shoulders. The phalanx closed the resulting gaps and kept going. They had no choice but to ignore wounded comrades; if they paused, more men would fall. The surest way to save Ergothian lives was to come to grips with the enemy as quickly as possible.
Riderless horses galloped past, eyes wide with pain and terror. Broken weapons cracked underfoot, and the sand was stained with large scarlet patches. At Tol’s order, spears were leveled. A section of Regobart’s cavalry scrambled to steer clear of the approaching block of warriors. Catching sight of the banner of Juramona, Tol’s hometown, the cavalry let out a roar of approbation.
“Tolandruth! Tolandruth!” they chanted, raising high their bloodied sabers. Tol’s footmen pushed through open lanes between the cheering horsemen.
The Tarsan soldiery grouped behind the spearhead of giant turtles was composed mainly of mercenaries, with a few city dwellers pressed into the ranks. The mercenaries were a mixed lot: leather-clad plains nomads, Thoradin dwarves wielding double-axes, and a few wild elves from the forest lands, their faces painted with red, blue, and green loops and lines. Tarsan officers led this contingent. Their bright golden headgear made them easy targets for the Ergothians.
Tol swung his phalanx smartly in a half-turn left. The leading ranks of the Tarsans, long-haired sailors now serving as spearmen, recoiled at the sight of five hundred Ergothians maneuvering with such unity and precision. Tol watched them brace themselves for the inevitable collision, setting their feet firmly as inexperienced soldiers were wont to do. To his expert eyes, the Tarsans with their spears couched looked like a picket fence standing in the path of an avalanche.
For the last few paces the quick-moving Ergothians leaned forward, now almost running. Arrows flickered in from the platforms atop the creeping turtles. One creased Tol’s cheek. He ignored the sharp sting, blinking away involuntary tears. The clash of arms was at hand.
Iron spearheads, backed by the weight of a full phalanx, hit the Tarsan line. They went down like grass before a scythe, hurled backward into their comrades and knocking them likewise flat. Tol’s men penetrated five ranks deep before they were stopped. Ergothians in the rear ranks laid their spears on the shoulders of their comrades and pushed. All the maneuvering and strategy came down to this: bodies of armed warriors shoving at each other.
On either side, other blocks of Ergothian spearmen struck the enemy line. Horns blared, and the Tarsan ranks opened to reveal a corps of archers. At spitting distance they lashed the Ergothians with arrows. The soldier on Tol’s right dropped, pierced through the eye. Tol put up his shield in time to block an arrow coming at his face. The bronze-tipped shaft penetrated halfway through his shield.
“Get those sons of snakes!” he cried.
Men four ranks in the rear broke formation and charged. The archers were northerners, from the wild coast east of Thoradin. They stood their ground admirably, bombarding the Ergothians with deadly missiles. At the last moment the archers melted back into the Tarsan army, several lofting arrows backward at their foes as they ran. It was a masterly performance, and Tol grudgingly admired their skill.
Freed by the pressure of Tol’s counterattack, Lord Regobart re-formed his horsemen and charged again, aiming to cut off the Tarsans from their city. A small band of mercenary cavalry tried to defend the gates but proved no match for the fury of Regobart’s Great Horde. With their guard routed, the Tarsans had to close the city gate to keep Regobart out. The massive brass portals swung shut just as the lead riders reached them. From atop the walls, stones, molten lead, and arrows scourged the Ergothians. Lord Regobart recalled his men.
Cut off now, the Tarsans did a remarkable thing. Instead of surrendering or trying to fight their way back into the city, they continued to drive toward the distant row of tents where the imperial priests labored. For a moment the Ergothians did not react, so surprising was this bold move. The four giant turtles ponderously changed formation from a wedge to a line. One of Tol’s phalanxes tried to stop a green behemoth, jabbing it continuously with their spears. The beast’s shell and leathery hide turned aside all their efforts.
Frez appeared at his commander’s side. “They’re not themselves today!” he shouted in Tol’s ear. “They fight like wild men.”
Tol nodded. “They’ll expend every life they have to reach our mages-then their fleet will have a chance to save the city!”
“Can we stop those monsters?”
Tol craned his neck to see over the sprawling battle. The hoarding on each turtle’s back held fifteen to twenty archers. The wooden structures, pointed at the fore, reminded him of the forecastle of a ship. That thought brought a grin to his face.
“Let’s board ’em!” he said, clapping Frez on the back.
Tol withdrew his phalanx, ordering the rest to keep up the pressure on the Tarsans. Marching swiftly behind the line of battle, his men grounded their spears and drew swords. With about four hundred men fit to fight, Tol sent a hundred against each of the four turtles.
“Scale them any way you can,” he ordered. “Rope and grapnels, a human ladder-whatever you can devise!”
One group dashed off to the closest turtle. Bracing themselves against the nearly vertical slope of the beast’s shell, they laced their arms together. More of their comrades clambered up their backs to their shoulders and repeated the pose. Tol’s band used shields to create footholds for the next wave to scale the great creature’s side. All this occurred under a constant hail of arrows. Fortunately for the Ergothians, the safest place to be was up close to the crawling giants. There the turtle’s bulk shielded them from the Tarsan archers.
Tol, Frez, and a dozen soldiers climbed the staircase of shields to the top and threw themselves onto the turtle’s back.
The shell was steeply curved here, but the Ergothians were able to crawl up the smooth shell. Tarsans on neighboring animals shouted and pointed at the encroaching enemy. More arrows whistled in and several of the climbing Ergothians tumbled to the ground, their bodies studded with white — fletched Tarsan missiles.
Tal reached a more level area and drew himself into a crouch. Survivors of his band gathered behind him. All drew sabers.
With a shout, Tol vaulted over the low wooden hoarding and planted a booted foot on the chest of a wide- eyed Tarsan archer. His men swarmed in behind him, howling for blood. Some of the archers had star-headed maces for close combat, but these were no match for Tol’s swordsmen. The Ergothians cleaved through the enemy in short order, shoving dead and wounded foes over the side to clear the small structure. Soon only the turtle-driver remained.
The driver, a Silvanesti hired when the turtles were purchased, sat on the forward slope of the shell. Bare- chested, wearing loose white trousers that ended above his knees, the elf was screened on each side by a low wooden wall. His bare feet rested in niches carved into the forward face of the shell.
Tol put the edge of his saber to the elf’s throat and demanded he halt the beast.
Calmly the driver replied, “Kill me, and nothing will stop the great Zeboim.”
The turtle named for the tempestuous sea-goddess was by now only half a league from the tents housing the imperial clerics. Frustrated, Tol sheathed his sword and ordered the insolent Silvanesti dragged from his perch.
There were no reins or other obvious means of control, but with its driver gone, the turtle did slow a bit. Tol slid into the leather seat and tried yelling for the creature to halt. Zeboim continued to plod directly toward the vulnerable tents.
Frez leaned over his commander’s shoulder. “The elf’s nearly naked,” he said. “Mayhap the beast needs to feel skin?”
Tol unwound his leggings and removed his boots and stockings. Planting his bare feet in the carved niches, he tried to influence the giant with pressure from one foot, then the other.
