all but defenseless in those watercraft. The water churned as the troops redoubled their paddling efforts. They knew their only chance was to reach the opposite bank as quickly as possible. Even as the boats moved faster, however, ranks of goblins advanced toward the riverbank. And more arrows, volley after volley, filled the skies, showering down on the water and striking the Solamnics.
“Launch the second wave!” General Dayr commanded. He and several of his officers, as well as a half dozen couriers and aides, climbed into a boat bobbing in the shallows. They started across with the next group of vessels, churning toward the far bank with agonizing slowness despite the frantic paddlers. Burly young men stroked at the water, but the liquid seemed to resist fiendishly, slowing their progress to a crawl.
The first boat was nearly ashore, however. The general could see countless others boats drifting aimlessly, crews slain to the last man. Some careened and wobbled, propelled by only one or two unwounded oarsmen. Dayr saw two boats capsize within a dozen paces of the far bank. Men scrambled into the shallow water, stumbling across the muddy riverbed, flailing as they tried to scramble up the muddy slope into the very teeth of the goblin resistance.
Still the arrows fell, and now the boats of the second wave had become the target. Dayr’s aide-de-camp fell silently into the hull, pierced by an instantly fatal arrow that had plunged almost straight downward into his skull. A boatman in the stern was bailing constantly-the frail craft tended to be leaky-and when he went down with an arrow in his back, the water began to accumulate.
The battle on the bank raged, a bloody tangle of goblins and men. Swords clashed against shields, and spears stabbed right and left. Howls of triumph mingled with cries of pain-a ghastly cacophony. Men tumbled backward, bleeding and dying, to slump in the shallow water, too weak or injured to pull themselves to safety. Their companions, locked in the desperate battle for survival, dared not pause to offer aid.
Finally the watercraft of Dayr’s command mingled with the surviving boats of the first wave, pressing against the shore. The general tumbled out, drawing his sword, bellowing commands and encouragement to the men battling for their lives on the muddy riverbank. He took note of the piercing cry of a horn and knew his enemy was issuing some new command but was unsure what it was.
There came a gap in the surging line, and he saw: the goblin cavalry, on their fearsome warg wolves, was advancing at a trot, ready to commence a lethal charge.
General Rankin ignored the water that filled his boots, the chill liquid that sloshed over his saddle as he whipped his charger through the center of the great river. His army was crossing one of the best fords on the upper Vingaard: nearly a quarter mile in length but relatively shallow across the entire span. Furthermore, the gravel bottom, packed down by centuries of wagon wheels, formed a solid bed underfoot. The liability of the ford, of course, was that the enemy knew about its virtues as well as the Solamnics; they had a company permanently posted there on guard, and had already summoned reinforcements when dawn had revealed the Sword Army on the far bank.
The general rode just behind the vanguard, three companies of the Spireshadow Swords, with their shields and long blades, who were wading the river that, in places, came up to their chests. The solid footing in the ford made a path perhaps a hundred yards wide, and this was crowded with a column of brave soldiers from the Sword Army.
As they approached the far bank, the men raised their shields over their heads. They were approaching a mixed group of enemy troops, goblins and humans mingled together. The humans formed a shield wall near the bank, while the goblins launched volley after volley of arrows from their stout, curved bows. The missiles showered the men, many thunking into the upraised shields, but others finding gaps, piercing shoulders and arms and torsos. Still, the Solamnics moved forward, keeping discipline.
Rankin rode past the body of a footman who floated motionless, facedown with an arrow through his throat. The bloodletting was increasingly staining the water red. Another arrow scored a deep gash along the withers of the general’s horse, and the big gelding bucked in sudden fear, almost dumping the wing commander into the water.
“Steady, steady!” Rankin urged, clinging to his seat as he stroked his animal’s neck. After a moment the charger put its big head down and plunged forward.
More arrows swished past, and Rankin repressed the urge to duck or flinch. He wouldn’t display any sign of weakness. He carried no shield, and with his gleaming breastplate-emblazoned with the image of the Sword-and his silver helm, he made a conspicuous target. But it was important to him that the men see their commander’s courage and take heart from his example, so he remained erect and continued to press forward, even amid the hailstorm of deadly missiles. Perhaps Kiri-Jolith had protected him with an immortal shield, for even as his aides and escorting knights were struck down, the general himself remained unscratched as his horse finally plunged through the shallows, churning through water as it heaved toward the gentle, graveled bank.
The edge of the river here was dry and firm, unlike so many other stretches where the banks were muddy and choked with reeds. Now, along with Rankin, the first rank of his troops struggled out of the river, swords drawn.
Hoarse cheers erupted from the men as they made a ragged charge into the waiting defenders.
“Solanthus!”
“For the Swords!”
“By the Oath and the Measure!”
These men, many of whom called that besieged city their home, hurled themselves at the enemy with a vengeance.
A whole row of human fighters, formerly pledged to Mina’s army, met them with their own steel unsheathed. Within moments a tremendous melee raged along the river’s edge. More and more of Rankin’s men surged forward, and the defenders’ line slowly yielded. Grotesque leers, growling determination, and frantic slashing and stabbing rippled along the ranks. In places the Dark Knights fell back, stabbed and bleeding, but in other parts of the line, the Solamnics faltered, with many of the dead and wounded rolling right back into the river.
Even so, the fury of the attack was carrying Rankin’s men forward. He sensed the weakness in the defending line and steered his men to exploit the gaps.
“Knights of the Sword-form ranks, multiple lines abreast! Charge!” cried the general.
The armored knights of the Newforge Regiment, on heavy chargers, came hard behind the footmen. The infantry was well drilled, and the line separated in many places, the swordsmen forming tight squares with the waves of knights charging between them.
Relieved to be on dry ground, Rankin yelled exultantly. His sword raised, he led a contingent of knights right through the enemy line. The general himself cleaved a man from forehead to sternum with one blow. Overwhelmed by the armored riders, the defenders stumbled back. Many were trampled under the heavy hooves, while others were cut down from behind as they tried, with utter futility, to outrun the horses.
But now there were more humans joining the enemy line. Rankin saw the long shafts, tipped with gleaming steel heads and razor-sharp blades, and his heart fell. He grimaced in dismay, but there was nothing else to do, no choice but to continue.
There was only one infantry formation that could stop a charge of knights, and that was a disciplined formation of pikemen. The enemy captain had prepared a three-rank line of pikemen some three hundred yards long. The men in front knelt, those in the second line crouched, and those in the rear stood. All of them held their long-shafted weapons securely braced against the ground, with the heads of the pikes forming a lethal hedgerow of deadly steel. The pikemen blocked the army’s path onto the plain.
“Ride them down!” cried Rankin, hoisting his sword and steering his horse with his knees. Hundreds of knights joined him in shouting as they thundered forward.
There was really no alternative. Retreat, back into the river, through the hail of arrows, would be ignominy. To General Rankin, it was the pikemen or certain death.
“Form on me!” he cried as his own signalman raised his horn and brayed a call that echoed up and down the line. “Men of Solanthus-those wretches stand between us and our city! Ride them down!”
It seemed as though the wind itself ceased to blow, holding its breath for the results of the clash, as the line of knighthood plunged toward the immovable array of pikes.
General Markus watched his Rose Wing column as they crossed at the south ford, meeting fierce resistance. Then the commander’s attention was drawn elsewhere.
He called Sir Templar over.
