A pale and cold dawn had risen to meet them in the east and, with it, a light mist had blown in over the snowy fields. It was in that mist where Vighon discovered his enemy.
Reavers on horseback were steadily approaching like demons come to herald the end of the world.
Riding across the plain, Vighon spared a glance to the north and caught sight of Reyna and Nathaniel taking up positions amongst the elven ranks. Faylen could be seen shouting orders in her native tongue and her kin responding by nocking arrows.
The king set his steed to a gallop and joined his men as fast as he could. His gaze never strayed from the advancing Reavers as he dismounted and unclipped his cloak. He barely registered the soldier who took it from him or the one who handed him his shield. Feeling its familiar weight on his arm was enough to drag his eyes from the enemy. He squeezed the leather handle in his glove, bracing the shield close to his body.
Hadavad’s enchantments still lingered, the ancient runes a part of the shield for evermore. It was a pity, the northman thought, that those enchantments would only protect him against magic. He faced steel this day. Steel and madness.
Pacing along the front line, he cast a critical eye over every man, checking for loose or ill-fitted plates. They were fine soldiers all and better prepared for battle since the supplies from Vangarth had arrived. There was, of course, a handful among them who couldn’t hide their fear and he wasn’t about to command them to do so. Fear was to be overcome with action, never quashed with words.
Trailing behind him, Captain Dardaris was barking orders across the ranks, ensuring the archers were the first to make themselves known. When the enemy was too close, they would fall back and be replaced by spearmen, who would be immediately backed up by row upon row of swordsmen.
Reaching the end of the line, Vighon had a clear view of the empty plain that lay between them and the elves guarding the pit’s eastern perimeter. Commander Rolgoth of the Battleborns was in the process of marching his dwarves, accompanied by the Centaurs, across that empty plain, ready to fill out the smaller elven force. Still battle-weary, Vighon hoped that none of them, elf, dwarf or Centaur, would need to see violence.
“Your Grace.” Ruban’s tone quickly turned the king further north.
Vighon took what felt like his first breath in a week. Drakes, hundreds of them, were crossing The Moonlit Plains and making for the pit. The northman moved away from his soldiers and narrowed his eyes. They were too distant to make out individuals, though he was confident he could see Inara’s red cloak as she led from the front. Sure that it was her, he looked to the sky in search of Athis. A single dragon would decimate the incoming Reavers.
There was no sign of him.
Clouds continued to roll ever westward, undisturbed by a flying dragon. His absence weighed on Vighon. He couldn’t fathom anything between here and Vangarth capable of slaying the ironheart. It had to be the tree. Was he dead already? That and so many more questions demanded answers in the king’s mind but, more than anything, he wanted to reach Inara.
The northman’s attention shifted back to Reyna and the elves. A portion of their force was moving around the pit to meet the approaching Drakes, hopefully to escort them down to the doorway.
“Your Grace.” Sir Ruban drew his focus back to the advancing enemy, all of whom were riding undead horses.
Vighon was already calling on his warrior’s discipline to rid himself of the distraction of Inara’s return, but seeing the Reavers’ numbers up close did it for him. There were, indeed, hundreds of them, as he had feared when hearing that the city of Galosha was being emptied.
“They’re still the smaller force,” Captain Dardaris said so that only the king could hear him.
Vighon sighed. “I’m not sure numbers entirely count when one side fights without all the mortality of the living.” Looking at his men, he could see that most of them were thinking something similar as their own thoughts and fears preyed on them. “PREPARE FOR BATTLE!” he bellowed.
Every soldier loyal to the banner of the flaming sword took steel in hand or nocked an arrow. Striding back down the front line, Vighon glimpsed a shadow in the pale sky, turning him to Avandriell in flight. Returning his sight to the ranks, he quickly found Asher staking his ground between a pair of Namdhorians. The ranger removed his two-handed broadsword from its scabbard and plunged it into the ground. Without pause, he snapped his bow to life and nocked an arrow like the others before offering the king a nod.
“From all four corners of the realm you have gathered!” Vighon shouted. “Our fate, scribed long before we were born, brought each and every one of us to this place! It brought us here for one reason and one reason only! We are here to protect that which is most precious: the future! Today, you don’t just fight for family and you certainly don’t just fight for king and country! Today, you fight for all the unborn sons and daughters of Illian! The blood you give will fill these sweet lands with generations for the next millennia! What say you?”
There wasn’t a man present who didn’t beat their shield, stamp their spear, or roar into the dawn. Vighon freed his sword and held it high, rallying their cry all the more. Flames or not, it was still the sword of the north and it was in the hand of the one true king.
Placing himself dead centre of the front line, Ruban beside him, the northman gripped his sword and shield and slowed his breathing down. To his left, Sir Borin the Dread stood with all the movement
