Once upon a dreadful time

diagonal. Bah! It matters not, for still my plan will work.

“Stand fast, you slime,” he bellowed. Then he looked to his right, beyond Bogles and beyond Goblins, to where stood his Serpentines at the end of the long rightward arc of the throng, and he gestured for them to mount up. They would simply ride down the angle of these pitiful humans and round their flank and come at them from behind. And in that moment he would signal his own forces to charge the enemy and crush them in between.

As lightning flashed and thunder roared in the dark skies overhead, Bolok watched as the enemy horsemen out front-

a paltry fifty or so-rode toward his two hundred Trolls. The fools!

. .

And in the bowels of the swamp, at Orbane’s command, up from the under-bottom of the morass roared the Sickness, a dreadful miasma, spewing outward through the vast bog, fettered only by Orbane’s control.

. .

Down the angle the Serpentines hammered, the riders sissing cries as onward they plunged, with long, cruelly barbed spears in their grasp. Hairless were their steeds, scaled instead, a glittering green in the lightning, with pale undersides and long, lashing, whiplike tails, the mounts an impossible crossbreed of serpent and horse. And they blew and grunted with effort, and the ground shook under their pounding cloven hooves as down the phalanx they galloped.

And in the lead Hsthir gloated, his long forked tongue flicking out and in, tasting the scent of the humans they would spit on their spears. And tonight the clutch would feed, yet not on fire-ruined meat as the stupid Trolls were wont to do, but on raw gobbets of flesh swallowed whole, as was only proper.

And reveling upon the feast yet to come, Hsthir heeled his spikes into the plated flanks of his soth to urge it even to greater speed, though it was already running at full gallop.

. .

Bolok watched as the fifty or so enemy riders neared. But then-

What’s this? — they reined to a halt. It was as if they were waiting for something to occur. Can this be some sort of trickery?

And under roiling black skies, Bolok grasped his great horn and stepped forward, ready to call the charge as soon as the Serpentines rounded their flank, and his gaze swept the field, seeking, seeking. .

. .

Hsthir and the Serpentines neared the last of the phalanx, and he cried out the command for the clutch to-

. .

Running full tilt, Luc and the cavalry smashed headlong into the Serpentines’ flank, lances piercing, their horses bowling over the scaled steeds of the foe. The Serpentines could not bring their own spears to bear, and Luc and the cavalry drove on through, leaving nought but devastation in their wake. They spun their horses about and charged back into the disarrayed enemy, and some men, their pikes gone-embedded in fallen snake people-drew their sabers and laid about, hacking, hewing, slashing, while others hurtled back through, lances skewering foe.

And from somewhere within the phalanx, a horn sounded, and the riders facing the Trolls parted, and concealed behind them had been the heavy crossbowmen, and they released a deadly volley into the massed enemy, bringing down some fifty of the hulking brutes, Bolok out front being the first one slain.

And then with a shout from Laurent, he and Blaise and Roel and fifty others lowered their lances and charged.

And at the horn cry as well, the shields of the phalanx warriors were unlocked, and through the now-opened lines stepped the archers, Michelle among them, and they loosed a great flight of arrows, the shafts to arc down among the foe, slaying Goblin and Bogle alike.

Yet the enemy answered in kind, their arrows sissing through the air in return, but the archers had stepped back behind the first row of the phalanx and once again the shields overlapped.

And Michelle stood directly behind Galion, his shield to cover them both.

“Yahh!” cried Laurent as he smashed in among the Trolls, his lance stabbing one in the throat, to lodge in the creature’s spine, and the weapon wrenched from Laurent’s grasp as the slain Troll fell. To Laurent’s right, Roel’s spear was lost to another of the foe, but Roel hewed about with Coeur d’Acier, the silver-flashed rune-bound steel blade keen and devastating.

Blaise yet held his pike, and stabbed and stabbed as he hammered on through, but then a Troll smashed down the knight’s horse, and Blaise crashed to the soil, stunned.

The Troll loomed above him and raised his great club to crash it down upon Blaise, but then the monster jerked back, his arms falling to his side, and he looked down in astonishment at the point of the heavy crossbow bolt now jutting forth from his chest. And with a sigh he fell sideways, dead ere striking dirt. And Blaise scrambled to his feet and caught up a free-running mount and reentered the fray.

On the left flank of the phalanx, surviving Serpentines in full disarray fled from Luc’s cavalry, and the prince and his men now turned and spurred toward the enemy’s right flank. A few of the Goblins there spun ’round and bolted back into the mire, and others, seeing them flee, ran into the bog as well. Yet some stood their ground and loosed arrows at the oncoming men, some to fatally strike, others to wound, and still others to miss altogether.

In the main body of the allies, again the shields unlocked, and again archers loosed, and arrows flew and enemy fell, and arrows flew in return, some to bring down men, most to bounce harmlessly from the again- overlapping defense.

In the center, one of the Trolls bashed through the knights to reach Bolok’s corpse, and he took up the horn and blew a blast even as a crossbow bolt slew him. With ululating yells, the elements of the foe charged, and the phalanx closed ranks, the spearmen ready to meet the onrushing foe.

Luc’s cavalry rounded behind the masses of the throng, and they smashed into the unprotected rear of the enemy, and some Goblins threw down their weapons and fled, though most turned to give battle.

Luc fought his way toward the melee taking place among the Trolls and knights, even as the Bogles and the Long-Armed Wights and the throng’s greater numbers managed to smash open the phalanx. .

. . and the battlefield turned into chaos.

The Goblins rushed in among the men with dreadful effect: Skrikers shrieked out long, wordless death cries as they hacked with axes; Dunters clacked grinding noisemakers even as they laid about with clubs; Redcaps shrilled and stabbed with pikestaffs. And the Bogles and Long-Armed Wights smashed and slashed with their flails and scythes, and slew man after man.

But the men with their spears and swords and shields and greater discipline managed to form squares and deal devastating death in return.

Next to Galion, who watched for arrows and fended with his shield, Michelle stood on the battlefield, surrounded by seven Wolves, and she calmly nocked and drew and aimed and loosed, choosing Bogles and Wights as targets.

The foe veered away from Slate and the pack, all but the most foolhardy, and those that attacked paid with their lives, their throats torn away by fangs.

And still knights and Trolls and men with heavy crossbows fought in their own private battle, for should the Trolls come in among the army proper, then their effect would be overwhelming.

Elsewhere the battle raged on, and the cavalry swept through the enemy again and again, and, even though outnumbered, the humans slowly gained the upper hand, though at dreadful cost.

But then, oozing outward from the swamp came a bilious yellow-green vapor. And slowly it began to envelop the battle.

Slate lifted his muzzle and then postured before Michelle: Bad smell bad. Go!

Michelle frowned and looked at him: Go?

Slate: Go!

Of a sudden, Trit landed upon Michelle’s shoulder. “Princess! The Sickness-from the swamp it comes. You must flee.

Now!”