shadow of his horned helm, and they cantered out of sight.
There was a moment of stillness. Then it started.
SCENE XXVIII Chaos
We heard the raiders before we saw them: They came charging in through the mist, loosing arrows that flashed out of nowhere and streaked like sparks into the open wagons. They appeared only for a moment, their crimson cloaks whipping about them, their faceless, bronze helms crested with scarlet horsehair. Their bows were drawn again almost as soon as the first arrows left their hands. They aimed and shot in a single motion as their horses pounded the earth beneath them. Our soldiers fell back with terror as the crimson specters materialized, loosed their arrows, and wheeled away. Then there was a moment of stillness, a shocked hole in the morning.
The silence was filled by the groans of the injured or dying. Officers cried out to regroup or extinguish the flames, and the panic-stricken infantry shot bows and crossbows blindly into the mist, hitting nothing. Then came the drumming of hooves and the cry of realization as they came again, the scarlet soldiers shooting their flaming arrows.
They never came within more than thirty or forty feet of the spear line, but by the end of their second assault I could see seven or eight of our men dead or close to it and one wagon already well ablaze. Mithos was screaming for crossbowmen and lining them up behind the kneeling rank of spears. Renthrette joined him and they stood at either end of the line, their bows drawn back and ready.
There could be no more than a couple of dozen raiders attacking, but their skill and training made each of their men worth several of ours. Mithos ordered our cavalry back and out of danger. The blond officer protested angrily, then wheeled his horse with contempt and rode it back to the blue-cloaked horsemen. I heard him calling to them, saw the light on his raised saber again, and thought vaguely about how noble and courageous he seemed. Mithos was crouching with the archers. I think I called something encouraging out to the cavalry officer, but I’m not sure.
They came as before and their arrows rattled into the wagons like burning hail. Two more infantrymen fell before Mithos gave the order to shoot.
The heavy crossbows jolted in the inexpert hands of the infantry and several bolts flew wide, but there was also a staggered smack as some found their targets, and two of the crimson-cloaked horsemen fell. A great chestnut stallion, a jet of blood shooting from where a bolt had pierced its neck, stumbled and crashed down, casting its rider over its head and pinning him to the earth. The others reined their mounts and turned them about, their order momentarily broken. A shout of triumph rose up from the spear line.
The young cavalry officer roared something at Mithos and spurred his horse through the spears, his sword lifted high above his head. Without waiting to see who followed him, he galloped after the raiders. About thirty horsemen went after him, through the ruptured spear line, vengeful elation in their raised voices and lowered lance heads. Mithos, his arms spread wide, shouting incoherently, tried to bar their path, but they brushed him aside and he fell into the ditch. I was running towards the infantry, who now stood cheering their comrades on, when I saw the fear in Mithos’s eyes as he stumbled to his feet. Dimly, I realized that he was listening.
I stopped running as all about me fell simultaneously still. There were horses coming from the north. A lot of them.
Through the mist we could just make out the blue and silver of the cavalry as the raiders they chased slowed and turned to face them. Then we saw the others, fifty or more of them, their scarlet and bronze blurring through the fog as they bore down on the Greycoast cavalry. The raiders hit them side-on at unbearable speed. I doubt that the young officer knew they were there till he felt the tip of a lance tear through his side.
I was close to Mithos now and I saw him wince as the two forces clashed, the blue swept aside by the crimson. He watched, unflinchingly, trying to piece together the carnage that the mist veiled. Then came a sound from our ranks: slow, horrified disbelief, like the gasp that ripples round a theatre audience, stupidly amazed.
Lisha appeared among us.
“Where’s Garnet?” she demanded. Mithos didn’t respond, so she seized his arm and shook him.
“Where’s Garnet? Mithos! Did he go with them?”
In a dazed tone, his eyes still staring towards the sounds of clashing steel and shouts of pain, he said softly, “Yes. Yes, I think so. I didn’t see him go, but I think he did.”
Lisha turned away and shouted, “Renthrette! Get the rest of the cavalry together and take them to the rear of the column. The raiders will come back and I want what’s left of the cavalry to hit their flank. Orgos, get that spear line together. Now! Will, get down here and make sure every crossbow is loaded and ready. Then help me get these archers into a line behind them. Shoot over the top and bring the horses down. If we hold out against the first wave, I want the spear line to advance and deal with the fallen enemy. Orgos, are you listening?”
She turned back to Mithos and he nodded once and began calling orders to the spear company. Orgos threaded himself through the line, hurriedly repositioning hand grips and adjusting shield straps. Lisha watched Mithos for a split second and then leapt onto her horse.
“Will,” she said, “take care of the archers and crossbowmen.”
“Me?”
She kicked at the stallion’s flanks so that it shuddered away. I turned to the frightened archers and waved them into a line behind the spears. The crossbowmen bent double over their weapons, drawing back the slides and fitting bolts with their free fingers. They were about ready when the sound of hooves set us staring into the soft, dreadful greyness ahead.
Before the riders emerged it was clear that there weren’t many of them. There were in fact four, in ragged blue cloaks, with their weapons shattered and their eyes mad. Garnet was with them. He tore the helm from his head and gasped the air as he rode. His shield was splintered and the left side of his face was covered with blood. He raised his ax for us to see but there was no pride or joy in his eyes. He looked numb with shock, almost lifeless. Afraid.
The infantry watched them as if they were ghosts. Close by, somebody began to weep. The four cavalrymen stopped and stared about them, unsure of what to do next.
“Join the cavalry at the back,” shouted Mithos. They passed outside the spear line to where Renthrette and Lisha were silently walking the remaining horsemen away from the caravan, into the misty field. Mithos turned, and for a moment, his eyes met mine. No expression showed in his face. I smiled despite myself and longed to be elsewhere.
“Stand firm, Will,” said Orgos darkly as he passed, reading my thoughts.
For a minute or two there was silence. The soldiers around me shifted uncomfortably, their nervousness increasing. Then Mithos called, “They are coming! Crossbows to the front.”
I pushed forward through the double ranks of spears and the others followed me. We found ourselves on the front line at the edge of the road, nothing between us and the lines of shadowy crimson horsemen. I turned to Mithos in alarm. “We’re all going to die,” I whispered.
The words just came out: Honest. Scared.
“Quiet, Will,” he answered, quickly, without looking at me. “They will charge any moment now: try to break the line by hitting us directly. When they are in range, shoot. Then drop into the ditch and let the spearmen advance over you.”
I think he was going to say more, but the mist suddenly thinned and a gasp of dismay slid out of our troops. The enemy were trotting towards us, no more than 150 yards away now, in a long, tight line. Their horses were calm and massive, their lances raised like a thicket of steel. Even at this range you could see their uniform bronze- faced helms: a true army.
I looked for the remains of our cavalry but they were nowhere to be seen. The line of crimson-cloaked soldiers kept coming. God, there were a lot of them. Seventy or more. Half of our sixty cavalry were dead and the rest were gone with Lisha and Renthrette. I stood with seven other crossbowmen in front of about sixteen spearmen and nine or ten archers. We didn’t have a chance, but the raiders weren’t going to give us an option.
And I think it was then that I noticed that one of the raiders was different from the rest. His bloodred helm was topped with a pair of horns, and his cloak looked heavy, like it was made of fur lined with crimson silk. He
