bowmen and fused with the fourth. They were running toward the ravine, with the sixth wave already following them. The enemy’s bowmen were no longer firing; they didn’t want to become a target for the Dog Swallows. The Wind Jugglers began choosing their targets. One of the enemy fell every second, but time had been lost and a large body of men disappeared into the ravine, bolstering their courage by shouting.
“Wake up, you whores! Keep your eyes open! As soon as the enemy appears, move back behind the swords! Target the sixth line! Together, fire!”
“Stop them shooting!” shouted Siena, bounding up to Hargan. Her chain-mail hood had slipped back off her head, her light brown hair was tousled, her face was pale and determined. “Let them get down into the ravine! And as soon as that happens, move back from the wall!”
“Cease fire!” Hargan roared. “Withdraw behind the swordsmen!”
“Cease fire! Withdraw! Withdraw!” The order ran along the line.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Lady Siena?” Hargan would be taking a risk by trusting in the young enchantress’s talent.
“Yes! Now just don’t interfere!”
The only ones left by the wall were the enchantress, the two shield-bearers from her bodyguard, and the centurions.
The sixth wave slithered down into the ravine, shouting triumphantly. The seventh and eighth waves were on their way.
“We won’t be able to hold them,” the commander of Siena’s bodyguard hissed through his teeth. “By Sagra, I swear we won’t be able to hold them!”
Hargan didn’t answer, hearing only Siena’s whisper, which seemed to drown out even the shouts of the enemy.
All of a sudden the fog burst into flames and was transformed into a mass of liquid fire, making the ravine look like the inside of one of the gnomes’ furnaces. The blast of heat struck Hargan in the face and he felt as if his eyebrows and hair had burst into flame. The men staggered back from the heaving fiery abyss, and the enchantress was left alone, staring unflinchingly into the scorching flames. Everybody down below in the ravine must have been burnt to a cinder.
Siena had incinerated about four hundred men at a single stroke!
The enchantress began slowly sinking down onto the ground, but her shield-bearers dashed over to her and caught her before she could fall.
“Are you alive, milady?” asked the sergeant from the Borderland.
“Y-yes,” she said uncertainly, and spat blood. Her hand was clutching the amulet and there were glowing strings of sparks running across the silvery droplet.
“Quick! Get her to the healer!” Hargan barked.
After seeing what had happened to their comrades, the seventh and eighth waves were beating a hasty retreat. Blidkhard’s men managed to fire several times more before the enemy moved out of the range of their arrows.
Silence fell in the ranks of the defenders.
The opposite side of the ravine and the road were littered with bodies. The black, charred walls of the ravine gave out a smell of soot and burnt meat. Thick smoke from this hellish scene rose high into the air above the soldiers’ heads.
“Ah, we gave them a good battering,” Wencher said delightedly as he came up to Hargan. “It’s just a shame that the swords had no work to do.”
“You’ll get your turn! We haven’t killed all of them.”
“Yes, there are about three hundred left. But they’re not likely to attack. They’ll wait for the orcs.”
Morning came and merged imperceptibly into day. But the road remained deserted. The enemy had pulled back and concealed himself behind the dark wood, and the only sound from that side of the ravine was the cawing of the crows feasting on the corpses. By noon the sky was clouded over even more thickly, the rain had become a downpour, and the road was almost invisible behind the wall of falling water.
From somewhere beyond the shroud of rain there came the faint rumbling of drums.
“Everyone to his station!” yelled Hargan, emerging from under the lean-to and putting on his helmet.
The rumbling of the drums was moving closer; the orcs had moved onto the offensive.
“Can’t see a thing!” said a bowman with straw-blond hair and no helmet, gazing into the white shroud.
“Listen, then!” barked Bildkhard, who was walking along the line of bowmen. “Listen to what your commander tells you!”
Hargan could not stand giving impassioned speeches. He was not Grok, nor was he some pompous, self-important colonel, to go ranting on about duty, honor, and devotion, but right now he really ought to offer his lads some kind of moral support.
“Soldiers! Our time has come! Let’s show these Firstborn what we’re made of! Let them break their teeth on our shields! The more of the brutes we kill, the fewer our lads will have to stick and bleed at Avendoom! Let’s make Grok’s job easier! Slash, stab, and cut! Kill them the same way they kill us! Show no mercy!”
