degenerated into the kind of slashing match Tol could not afford with his slender line of men, so he called for Fellen’s company to hit the enemy’s flank. The engineer arrived like a whirlwind, bowling over the mercenaries in their weighty suits of iron mail and bronze plate. In the center, five thousand Tarsans were pinched between Tol’s two hundred sixty and Urakan’s three thousand. Lighter troops might have fought their way out, but the heavily armored foot soldiers were trapped by their inability to maneuver.
Lord Urakan felt the tide turning, even before he understood why. The pressure lessened on his beleaguered riders. By his side, Egrin declared, “My lord, Lord Tolandruth has hobbled them! It’s up to you to knock the enemy down!”
Brandishing the standard of his own horde, the Golden Riders of Caer, Lord Urakan charged straight into the center of the melee. His Ergothians broke the first line of infantry, then the second; by the time they reached the third, however, they had no momentum left. Mercenaries closed around Lord Urakan. Halberds whirled and struck the standard from his hand. He replaced it with his saber, but the foot soldiers used the hook ends of their pole arms to drag him from the saddle. Fighting furiously, brave, arrogant Lord Urakan was pulled into the mob of Tarsan soldiers, and brutally slain.
Seeing this, an angry Egrin took command and re-formed the center of the imperial line. The center held, but the Ergothians were now in difficulty on both flanks. The unhorsed warriors on the left had been beaten and were streaming away from the fight with howling nomads in pursuit. On the right, the Tarsans and Ergothians battled back and forth, neither side gaining an advantage. Everything depended on the center, on which side would outlast the other.
Tol left the front line long enough to climb a small pine tree and survey the battlefield. The enemy center was pinched in the middle, leaving two large blocks of troops joined by a thin line. Egrin was sending waves of mounted attacks against this narrow line. Men and horses were piling up in heaps.
Sunlight flashed off a brilliant object in the midst of the Tarsan center. Tol shaded his eyes and saw an officer on foot wearing a tall, silver helmet with a brightly polished comb. Such workmanship had to be elven. Could this be Tylocost himself?
Shinnying down the tree, Tol shouted for Darpo. Covered in blood not his own, the intrepid warrior raced to his commander’s side. Tol pointed out the shining helmet.
“Tylocost?” Darpo exclaimed, his scarred face brightening. “I’ll bring you his head!”
“Only if it’s still attached to the rest of him!”
Darpo grinned, nodding. He knew his commander did not approve of butchery. He called together a dozen men and prepared to thrust deep into the enemy formation. Tol joined them, moving shoulder to shoulder with his brave foot soldiers.
They rushed through a gap in the line and used their spears to lever apart the armored Tarsans. Because they didn’t stop to fight, Tol and Darpo were able to force their way through enemy lines quickly. They found a gap, where wounded Tarsans were sheltering from the battle. Idle archers, their bowstrings made slack by the recent rain, grabbed maces and tried to drive the Ergothians out, but were no match for the spears and shields of Tol’s men. Half the archers perished. The rest broke and ran.
From the open ground, Tol could see Lord Urakan’s army as it pressed forward, and the mercenary infantry bending back under the strain. He spotted the bright helmet again. Its owner was up a birch tree, watching the attack of Urakan’s hordes.
Tol, Darpo, and their small group ran through the wounded and dying men, leaping over them as they lay on the bloodstained soil. They reached the birch tree with Tol in the lead.
“Tylocost! Come down!” he shouted, striking the slim trunk with the flat of his sword. “Come down, or I’ll cut the tree down with you in it!”
The warrior in the shiny helmet showed no sign of hearing, much less complying. A handful of nearby Tarsans rushed to their leader’s rescue. Darpo’s men fought them off while Tol, Darpo, and two guardsmen chopped at the tree with discarded Tarsan swords. Chips flew. With a loud crack, the slender birch sagged and began to fall.
Hardly had the tree come to rest when Tol and his men swarmed over it. The Tarsan in the bright helmet stepped nimbly from the branches and whipped out a fine sword with a long, slender blade. Tol rushed in, dagger in his left hand, saber in his right.
The Tarsan’s blade flickered in and out, close to Tol’s throat and face. He knew his opponent was trying to unnerve him, but he refused to be cowed, and bored in with his saber while blocking his opponent’s attacks with his dagger. At last Tol pinned his foe’s blade with the dagger and brought his own weapon down on the Tarsan’s grip. The cup hilt saved the fellow’s hand, but the blow broke three of the Tarsan’s fingers. The slender sword fell to the ground.
Tol brought the edge of the dagger to his opponent’s neck. “Surrender!” he panted.
“Will you spare my men if I do?”
“Yes!”
The Tarsan pulled off his helmet. He was an elf all right, but not at all what Tol had expected. Instead of the handsome gallant of bardic song, Tylocost was downright homely. His hair was long, but more gray than yellow, and his pale blue eyes were closely set over a long, thin nose. His fair skin was blotched with large brown freckles, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. He asked Tol’s name, then confirmed his own identity.
“I am Janissiron Tylocostathan, called Tylocost by the Tarsans.”
The men of the storming party surrounded the enemy general. Tol guided his prisoner at sword point to the center of the Tarsan line, where Tylocost called for a cornet. A youth answered, standing just outside the ring of Ergothian spears, but hesitated when ordered to sound “ground arms.”
“Do it, boy,” Tylocost told him. “We’ve lost today. There’ll be another time, another day to fight.”
Blushing with shame, the cornetist put the brass horn to his lips and blew a four-note signal. He kept repeating it until the Tarsan foot soldiers threw down their weapons. The Tarsans’ nomad cavalry, not inclined to submit to Ergothian mercy, galloped away. Weary imperial horsemen let them go. The Battle of Three Rose Creek was over.
Moments before, twenty-five thousand men had been fighting to the death. Now a hush fell over the battlefield. The survivors of Tol’s small band pushed through the Tarsan army, most of whom were sitting dejectedly on the ground. Tol saw Tarthan and Frez, Fellen and Sanksa, leading their men toward him. He strained his eyes and stretched his neck until, with great relief, he saw Kiya among the survivors. She had an ugly cut on her sword arm, but walked her with head held high.
Tarthan, the eldest of Tol’s retainers, saluted with his dagger. “My lord,” he said. “I present the demi-horde of Daltigoth and Juramona, one hundred forty-eight blades fit for duty.”
Before Tol could reply, Kiya walked past the gathering Ergothians and threw an arm around his shoulders.
“You are well?” he asked, smiling up at her.
“Sore.” She eyed him up and down. “And you haven’t got the slightest scratch, have you?”
“No holes. No missing parts.”
With a rumble of hoofbeats, the imperial hordes arrived. Tol was surprised but pleased to see Egrin leading the riders.
“Greetings, my lord,” the elder warrior said. “The day is yours!”
“Well, we won, at any rate. Where is Lord Urakan?”
Egrin shook his head once, and Tol understood. “Are you in command of the army then?” he asked.
A smile ghosted through Egrin’s gray-flecked beard. “No.” In answer to Tol’s puzzlement he added, “You are the victor, my lord. The army is yours.”
Tol was about to protest when Kiya raised a cheer: “Tolan-druth! Tolandruth! Tolandruth!”
Tol’s retainers added their hoarse voices, then the multitude of Ergothians took up the cry. Tol felt his face burn.
Turning away, he found himself face to face with the homely but clever General Tylocost.
“To the victor goes all praise,” the elf said calmly. “Savor it-for now. Soon enough it will be only a memory, given the fortunes of war.” When Tol grimaced and kept his flushed face averted, Tylocost frowned and asked, “Forgive me asking, but just how old are you, my lord?”
“Twenty and one years.”
The elf looked pained. “Merciful Astarin! I’ve been beaten by a child. What will they say in Silvanost?”
