“So we are being stuck in the reserve!” Vartek said, frowning discontentedly.
“Just do it, guardsman!” Izmi’s voice suddenly had a hard edge.
“Yes, lieutenant!” Vartek picked his snow-dusted helmet up off the ground and ran to carry out his orders.
Before he went to the king for his final instructions, Izmi looked round the field one last time. For some stupid reason someone had called this huge open space, almost a league in length, the Field of Fairies. The lieutenant didn’t know how they had come up with this name, and he didn’t want to know. So it was the Field of Fairies. Would it have been any easier to fight here if it was called the Field of Ladybugs, for instance? Or the Field of the Great Prophecy?
Of course it wouldn’t.
So what difference did it make now? The military council hadn’t chosen this place for the general engagement by accident. It was four days’ journey from Avendoom, and the Nameless One’s army had to pass through it. At the southern end of the field stood the Pimple, a tall hill with shallow slopes. The king’s headquarters were on its summit. The gnomes had set up two of their long-range cannons up there, and another monstrosity that hadn’t been seen before—a Crater. Unfortunately there hadn’t been enough time to bring a second Crater and its crew of gnomes from Isilia.
The huge hill was the basis of the entire defense, and the core of Stalkon’s army was there. Two thousand infantry of the line, five thousand cavalry, and six thousand Wind Jugglers. A powerful force, especially taking into account that the enemy would have to climb the hill under fire from the bowmen on the summit, and a cavalry charge downhill had a more shattering impact.
Izmi wasn’t too concerned about the center. Six thousand bowmen could stop anybody. And there were a thousand light cavalry on each flank of the center. He and his men were on the left, and on the right there were the Moon Stallions, brave lads. If anything went wrong, the archers would help out, and they could always be moved across to the army on the right.
The transports and the healers were behind the hill.
Half a league away, directly opposite the Pimple, was the dark Rega Forest. Two roads came down from the north, skirting round the forest on the left and the right. They ran parallel to each other for the full length of the field.
The left road cut across the Wine Brook and ran between the Pimple and another forest—the Luza. The right road ran between the hill and a narrow but deep and swift-flowing little river—the Kizevka. Standing on the road right between the hill and the river was a village—Slim Bows.
The village had provided the base for the army on the right. It had been a good decision to position soldiers in Slim Bows. If the enemy came along the road on the right, he would have to pass through the village, unless he wanted to storm the hill under fire from the bowmen, or sail along the river. And there was no need to worry about the flanks of the right army—they were securely defended.
In one week the army had transformed Slim Bows into a small fortress. They dug out a moat and ran water into it from the river, built an earthen rampart and stuck enough stakes in it to make every hedgehog in Siala jealous, dismantled all the houses and used the materials to build walls and towers for bowmen.
They built two walls, and if the enemy happened to take the first one, the defenders would have time to pull back behind the second. Now there were two thousand crossbowmen and three thousand swordsmen, selected from various detachments, ensconced in Slim Bows. The gnomes had put three cannons on the first wall. About nine hundred yards behind Slim Bows stood the dark wall of the two-thousand-man reserve.
Izmi was far more concerned about the left army. Nine thousand infantry, of which four thousand were militia and guardsmen from Avendoom, standing in the road between the Pimple and the Luza Forest. The soldiers had been divided up into battalions so as to completely cover the space between the hill and the forest. The battalions were stationed about fifty yards beyond the Wine Brook.
Although it wasn’t very wide—only about a yard—the brook was deep, and it was not going to freeze. There had been a bridge here, but the eager soldiers had dismantled it, and now the enemy cavalry would have its work cut out to cross the brook. In any case, they wouldn’t have enough space to get up a gallop. And the enemy infantry would have to break formation crossing the obstacle and then, before they could raise their shields again, they would be treated to thousands of welcoming crossbow bolts.
The three hundred elfin bowmen had been positioned between the battalion on the left (based on Jolly Gallows-Birds taken from twelve ships) and the Luza Forest. The dark elves themselves had insisted on being placed there. Izmi hoped that their bows would help the left army to stand firm.
But Stalkon’s left army was the most vulnerable spot in the forthcoming defensive action, so two thousand of the reserve had been placed here.
Izmi looked into the distance, to where he could just make out the wall of the Rega Forest. On the bank of the Kizevka, right beside the road snaking out of the forest, stood the Castle of Nuad. Its twelve-yard-high walls and four round towers rose up menacingly above the road. The castle’s garrison of four hundred men had been reinforced with five hundred Wind Jugglers. The enemy would either have to take the citadel by storm and delay his attack on the right army, or cover this section of the route under constant bombardment from the defenders of Nuad. There was another unpleasant surprise waiting for the Nameless One in the form of two gnomish cannons. And if the enemy did get by, he would be hit from the rear by three hundred horsemen lying concealed within the walls of the castle. No great force, but even so it was capable of causing plenty of trouble.
Izmi’s arms bearer appeared in front of him.
“Milord?”
“Prepare my armor.”
The young lad nodded his hatless head, and Izmi set off for the king’s tent. Stalkon’s headquarters were surrounded by a formidable ring of Royal Guards and Beaver Caps. Several other warriors, holding flambergs— terrible two-handed swords with wavy blades—were guarding the royal standard.
The king was in the tent with his younger son, Stalkon of the Spring Jasmine, who was in command of the cavalry in the center, and the head of the Order of Magicians, Artsivus. There were also two magicians unfamiliar to Izmi—a man and a woman. Both of their staffs were marked with three rings. So they were powerful, even if they weren’t archmagicians.
The king noticed the lieutenant, nodded in greeting, and gestured for him to wait until the conversation was over.
“It is a real solution to the problem, Your Majesty,” Artsivus continued, huddling under his warm rug.
“And what if the wind blows in our direction? Blows it onto us? We’ll lose the army before the battle has even started!” the king’s son blurted out abruptly.
“I assure you,” the unfamiliar magician droned, “this spell will not affect people and—”
“Please remind me, Mister Balshin,” the king interrupted. “Are we talking about the same spell that wiped out the entire population of a village to the south of here only this summer? What was the place called, now?”
“Vishki, Your Majesty,” the woman replied reluctantly.
“Thank you, Madam Klena. You are most kind. It was Vishki. The very same village where you almost captured the people who were carrying out a special Commission for me?”
“That was a regrettable misunderstanding,” said the head of the Order, interceding for the two magicians. “The thief and the elves were not in any danger.”
“I can well believe that,” the king agreed, although there was not a trace of belief in his voice. “Of course they were in no danger, except from your experiments, which cost me an entire village. When I gave my permission for this insane experiment in spring, Your Magicship, I had no idea that there would be civilian casualties!”
“Believe me, Your Majesty, neither did we,” said Klena. “The ogre’s books that we used contained an error. It has now been corrected, and the tragedy at Vishki will not be repeated.”
“You must give permission, Your Majesty,” said the old magician, still trying to persuade the king.
“No, Artsivus. Don’t you understand what a great risk it is?”
“I understand,” said the magician, lowering his head like a bird. “But you know I understand these matters … I guarantee that the spell will work properly.”
The king drummed his fingers on the table without speaking.
“The scouts report that the Nameless One has fifteen thousand ogres. Fifteen thousand! They’ll simply brush aside our left flank without even stopping. After the Nameless One himself, that is the greatest danger that
