“Archers!” he yelled. Two hundred bows were aimed high, awaiting the command to unleash hell on the enemy. Vighon watched the undead riders begin to gallop towards them, armoured in black, unwavering in the face of true death. A little closer, he thought. A little closer. “Loose!” he shouted. A cloud of arrows feigned their reach for the heavens before raining down amongst the Reavers. “Fire at will!”
Three more salvos bit into the enemy’s numbers before the spearmen slipped between the archers and stood their ground. Vighon tried not to be disheartened by the lack of Reavers brought down under the hail of arrows, for most had taken them to the chest or limbs, their charge unhindered. Even the undead mounts rode through it all with only a handful dropping to the ground.
The king quickly turned his head to Ruban. “Get behind the spears!”
The captain scowled. “What about you?”
“I have the strongest spear of them all,” Vighon quipped, nodding his head in Sir Borin’s direction.
Reluctantly - a display of bravery in itself - Sir Ruban Dardaris backed up and took his position beside Asher, who now had his broadsword in hand.
With a few seconds left, Vighon braced himself, crouched in a battle stance with his silvyr blade resting tip-first over the rim of his shield. There wasn’t time for anything else after that. Sir Borin leapt forward and met the charging horse with his plated shoulder and supernatural strength. Both horse and rider were upended and shoved back into those behind. It created chaos on the front line and dented the enemy’s attack, sparing Vighon a gruesome death.
A passing Reaver swung out wide with its sword and clipped the side of Sir Borin’s helmet, turning the Golem back towards the Namdhorians. In that same movement, the hulking creature snatched one of the horse’s back legs and brought it to a spine-shattering halt. The rider was flung forwards, into the human ranks, while the undead horse succumbed to Sir Borin’s thundering boot, a blow so powerful it caved in the animal’s skull.
There was no stopping the Golem now.
Vighon was satisfied to leave Sir Borin to his horrifying work and get stuck in himself. The spearmen had done their job admirably and prevented most of the horses from breaking through the ranks. Absent their mounts, the Reavers were now on foot among the warriors of Illian and following their cruel master’s wishes.
Considering the space available to them on The Moonlit Plains, the battle appeared to be confined to a small area. Vighon was made aware of this with every shoulder and back that barged into him, both friend and foe. More than once he turned on an ally with the point of his sword ready to end them, only to push them away and swing his blade into the enemy.
Hacking his way through the mess of it all, the only space he came across surrounded the ranger. The intensity and sheer mayhem of the battle around him appeared to have no effect on Asher’s style of fighting, which was brutal and efficient, yet displayed all the grace of a dancer. He dropped Reavers on all sides, his green cloak flowing out beside him. The mounting bodies never tripped him up or got in his way. If anything, he often used them to his advantage, gaining some height over his opponents.
Vighon decided to lend his sword and fell in beside Asher. He utilised the extra space the ranger had forged and swung the sword of the north with all his might. He parried high and low before slamming his boot into a Reaver’s chest, launching it into Asher’s timely strike. Another came for the king’s head but met his shield, raised just in time. A swift thrust drove his blade through the fiend’s head and dropped it to the ground.
More closed in on the northman, perhaps sensing the threat he posed, and attempted to overwhelm him. Shedding their number, Asher spun around and flashed his steel from left to right, decapitating one of the Reavers with a single blow. Vighon shielded himself against another while parrying a second with his sword. No further action was required after that. Sir Borin barrelled his way through and ripped the head off one with his bare hands. Captain Dardaris, never far from his king, lunged in and cut down the other.
The king nodded his thanks and turned to face the next Reaver. There was always a next Reaver.
He pushed one of the fiends away with his shield, giving his swinging arm the perfect distance to come down and chop through its helmet and head. Nothing stopped the fine edge of a silvyr blade.
“Your Grace!” Ruban yelled, turning the king around. The captain was elevated above most, having mounted atop the pile of bodies Asher had created. “There’s a second wave!” he warned.
Vighon parried and slashed his way to Ruban’s side and cast his gaze over the furious melee. The captain was right; a second wave of mounted Reavers had held back from the initial attack, waiting, it seemed, for the northmen to be distracted in battle. Now, with no front-line defence to stop them, the Reavers were navigating around the chaos and heading towards the pit.
The king pointed his sword in their direction. “We can’t let them reach the Drakes!”
Of course, there was no disengaging from the pitched battle that had already consumed him and his men. Once he descended the pile of bodies, it became increasingly hard to discern north from south amidst the blood and incessant attacks.
He did, however, glimpse Asher’s green cloak disappearing with haste.
The ranger burst out of the northern edge of the battle, his broadsword cleaving through a Reaver as he did. He staggered across the plain for a few steps, pausing briefly to place his sword in the ground and lean on it in a bid to catch his breath. His blue eyes scanned the landscape, tracking the
