enough to chase fleeing cavalry on foot, Azoun had ordered that no one, from himself to the lowest paid mercenary, be given a horse.
The Tuigan appeared on the horizon, at first only a black line against the dust cloud they were churning up. The thunder of their horses' hooves drowned out the murmured prayers and muttered curses in the western lines, and the hundreds upon hundreds of carrion crows that had roosted in the nearby trees took to the air again. In only a few moments, the horsewarriors rode far enough that Azoun could discern a few individual riders. Over the sound of the hooves and the crows, the Tuigan war cry rose.
'Ready the archers and mages!' the king yelled to the standard-bearer. After closing his visor, Azoun said a brief prayer to Tymora, the patron of adventurers, and lifted his shield.
Razor John was afraid.
From where he stood, at the center of the army's second rank, he couldn't see the field very clearly. The section of road the king had chosen to defend was level. Trees protected their flanks, but the troops to the rear of the array found their vision hampered by the geography. Still, the fletcher could make out the massive dust cloud rolling toward him from the east. It was clear that the barbarians were going to attack, and a horrible, numb feeling had taken hold of John's heart. He was certain he would not live to see the sunset.
Even though he feared for his own life, the fletcher was more concerned about Kiri Trollslayer. She was stationed with the infantry in the army's first rank. Perhaps, John concluded darkly, we'll both be killed. At least we'll go to the Realm of the Dead together.
The king's standard, rising up above the crowded first line of infantry, waved a command. John didn't know what the signal meant, but the commander of the archers, Brunthar Elventree, soon made the order clear.
'Ready to fire!' Brunthar shouted from nearby.
John watched as the dalesman lowered a helmet gingerly over his bandaged head. Brunthar hadn't worn any armor in the first battle, an act that was partly to blame for his wounded ear, but now he wore a visorless steel helmet and heavy chain hauberk.
As he gripped his bow, Razor John wished that he had armor, too. Like most of the archers, he dressed in the rough-spun tunic and trousers he wore on any normal day. The reasons for this were simple: plate or chain armor would hamper his ability to move and fire quickly, and leather armor provided little protection against arrows. And since the archers were all in the army's second rank, arrows would be all they had to face from the Tuigan.
'You!' Brunthar bellowed, cuffing John hard on the ear. 'Stop daydreaming and prepare to fire!' The general stood a foot from the fletcher, scowling and staring with hard, anger-filled eyes.
'Yes, sir,' John murmured and quickly pulled an arrow from the ground.
The fletcher sighed as Brunthar moved off, barking orders and pulling other soldiers to attention. When the general was a few yards away, John bent over and picked up his battered black felt hat, which the dalesman's blow had knocked off his head.
'If he not hit you, I would,' someone grunted to John's right. The fletcher turned to the speaker, an orcish soldier with one broken tooth jutting up from his yellow-green lips. 'Sleep here and you not wake up, arrow-man.' The orcish infantryman leaned against the wooden spike planted in the ground next to him and casually poked the earth with his sword.
Before John could reply, Brunthar's voice called out another command. 'Nock arrows!' After walking past John, repeating the command, the general stopped and stood on a wooden block, which would afford him a better view of the battlefield.
Like the king and his other advisors, Brunthar Elventree was certain that Yamun Khahan would not waste time trying to draw the Alliance out of its secure position between the trees. He expected the barbarians to charge with their full army without prelude. But when he stood upon that wooden block and looked out over the field, he was surprised to see a group of only one thousand riders racing ahead of the Tuigan horde, brandishing their bows.
'Gods,' Brunthar cried. 'They're fools!'
Stunned, the commander of the archers watched the charging riders. When the Tuigan were within seventy- five yards, the king's standard waved the command to fire, which Brunthar relayed immediately.
'Fire,' he cried. 'Range for seventy-five yards!'
The order was carried down the line, as sergeants called out the range. The archers leaned back slightly and, despite the fact they were unable to see their targets clearly, fired. The swarm of arrows that arced out onto the field was amazingly accurate. The shafts cut down quite a few Tuigan, but the surviving riders raced on toward the western lines.
For an instant, Brunthar thought the riders were going to charge into the illusion that hid the holes the dwarves had dug the night before. Luckily, as the Tuigan got fifty yards from the Alliance's front rank, only forty feet from the nearest hole, they reined in their horses. With a swift, fluid movement, each barbarian drew a single arrow and dipped its tip into a small leather bag dangling at his side. The arrowheads smoldered, then burst into flame.
Again the signal for the western archers to fire was sent, but it was too late. The Tuigan line sent the burning arrows into the sky. They trailed streams of flame as they passed over the western troops, then disappeared into the trees to either side of the road. The western archers cut down most of the remaining horsewarriors, but that was little consolation. Thin trails of smoke were already working their way out of the forest.
The orc standing next to Razor John struck himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. 'That old trick,' he growled. 'Orcs use fire to drive elves from trees in plenty battles.'
The fletcher barely heard a word the Zhentish soldier said. His mind was occupied with the growing coils of smoke that were wafting over the western armies. For an instant John imagined himself driven from the security of the western position by the fire, at the mercy of the Tuigan. As in the nightmares the fletcher had suffered for the past few nights, the barbarians appeared in his mind's eye as grotesque ogres, drooling blood and wearing little other than uncured animal hides and human bones.
Panicked murmuring broke out in the western ranks as the fire spread. To quell the growing fear, Brunthar jumped down from the wooden box and paced before the line. 'Stay in formation!' he shouted. 'The king will take care of us. You know that.'
Silently the dalesman hoped Azoun would think of something fast.
Brunthar didn't have to wait long to find out if the problem was under control. The thick clouds overhead grew dark, and soon they were roiling angrily in the sky. The rumble of thunder echoed over the plain, and a few large drops of rain splattered on the dalesman's armor. He looked up at the clouds just as the downpour started.
Standing next to Razor John, the orc snorted as the pelting rain fell. 'Wizards make storm,' he muttered. 'Now armor wet and stinky.'
A cheer went up in the Alliance's lines as they realized the War Wizards had foiled the barbarians' plan. A low, insistent rumble answered the cry, but some of the men dismissed it as a peal of thunder. Anyone who could see the Tuigan line knew otherwise.
The khahan had ordered his entire army forward. The terrible rumble crossing the field was the sound of their horses pounding the sodden ground.
'Here they come!' Azoun shouted, and the signal went up to prepare for an assault. The king glanced at Vangerdahast.
'Are you ready?'
The wizard smiled wickedly, but Azoun could see a quiver shake his cheek. The strain of casting the spell to make it rain had obviously worn down the aged Vangerdahast. 'Ready as I'll ever be,' he said.
All eyes turned to the Tuigan charge. The rain was slowing their mounts somewhat, especially those racing through the fields rather than up the Golden Way itself. The downpour had already loosened the topsoil enough that the horses kicked up clods of muddy earth with each step.
At fifty yards, Azoun spotted the khahan's banner. The nine yak-tails that hung from the pole were dripping with water, and the mud churned up by the charge had hidden their color. It was clear nevertheless that Yamun Khahan rode near the standard; it was the tallest and most prominent in the Tuigan line. As ordered, the western
