charge. Wooden whistles and conch-shell horns added to the din. The ranks hurled themselves into the open, ten great regiments sweeping toward the line on the savannah, rushing through the night toward their rendezvous with death.
Hoxitl remained in the jungle, staring from his treelike height with eyes that took no notice of the darkness. He saw the line of his enemies and the sweeping mass of his own charging troops.
The defenders stared in awe, trembling at the din and trying to steel themselves for the coming clash. It was good, for the sake of their confidence, in any event, that they didn’t know the first awe-inspiring rush came from but a third of Hoxitl’s entire force.
Moments after the attack commenced, light spells suddenly dispelled the night as the smattering of young mages among Don Vaez’s expedition cast their weak magic, serving a vital function.
Instantly the archers of Tulom-Itzi launched the first volley of their missiles. The sharks-tooth heads penetrated bodies of ores and ogres and trolls. Several of the lumbering creatures fell, and again and again volleys of deadly arrows flew.
Next came the heavy dunk of crossbow fire, and a volley of heavy quarrels darted like steel scythes into the face of the foremost regiment. Even huge ogres grunted or doubled over in pain, while the smaller ores often fell dead. slain by a single bolt.
Then a sharp crash, like explosive thunder never heard in Maztican battle before, erupted from the harquebusiers. A cloud of gray smoke instantly blossomed among them, but not before lethal balls of lead shot thudded into the enemy.
The crude muskets dropped many an ore, but the wielders had to lower their weapons after the first volley. The charge came on too fast for them to reload.
Finally the Little People launched their darts. The tiny arrows were little more than pinpricks to the hulking beasts, but they could not so easily ignore the kurari venom smeared on the tips of the little arrows.
A spearhead of trolls led the attack, forty of the gangly beasts, claws outstretched, their ghastly faces split by grimaces of battle hatred. On each, the pulsing crimson brand of the Viperhand stood out from the scaly green skin on the creature’s chest,
The bolts and arrows and lead balls that struck the trolls occasionally knocked the creatures down, but invariably the monsters crawled back to their feet, plucked the missiles from their bodies, and charged forward in the wake of their companions’ attack.
The first trolls hit a company of mercenary swordsmen. Heavy green fists bashed shields out of the way, while cruel talons and fangs sought human flesh. The men stood for a brief moment, chopping and hacking, only to see the wounds they inflicted in the trolls’ skin heal almost as soon as the dripping blades came free.
The fight raged with chaotic savagery as small bands of men fought for their lives against the much larger trolls. Shouts of warning and cries of rage split the night, as well as the shrieks and groans of the wounded. Weapons clashed against shields with ringing force, while the howls and bellows of the trolls rose above all, adding a monstrous and inhuman cast to an already nightmarish scene.
Swordsmen fell dead, ripped to pieces by the fangs and talons of the trolls, while some of the monsters limped and crawled back from the fight to allow deep wounds to regenerate. But the latter returned, while the former were lost forever, and this began to turn the tide of the melee.
Finally the company of swordsmen collapsed, just as the ten thousand ores, heavy with the momentum of their charge, crashed into the rest of the line.
Howling and shrieking madly, each tusk-faced creature
inflamed by the burning of his own crimson brand, the ores struck with brute force. Their macas and clubs hammered into the shields of the defenders as rear ranks instantly stepped forward to fill the multitude of gaps formed by their fallen comrades.
“There!” bellowed Daggrande. He saw the trolls burst through the line. The mass of green split into two groups, wheeling to the right and left, respectively.
The first group faced the flank of Tabub’s diminutive archers. The Little Men turned and showered the trolls with arrows as Luskag and the desert dwarves extended their line to protect the front of the halflings against the charging ores. The monsters cursed and howled in pain as the tiny arrows pricked them. Several of them, those that had been hit many times, suddenly stiffened with reflexive gasps and then collapsed to the ground, motionless and rigid.
The reserve company rushed forward, surging into contact with the second group of trolls. Daggrande chopped his axe into the back of one of the creatures, driving it to its knees. Savagely the dwarf attacked the troll, his blade delivering a hailstorm of blows. He left the troll a mangled mass on the grass, while the last rank of the reserve company stopped to shower the corpse with oil and touch a flame to it. In moments, a pyre of stinking black smoke marked the demise of the troll.
Around Daggrande, other veteran soldiers attacked with halberds or long, two-handed swords. The trolls fought back savagely, and many a brave warrior fell before their talons or drooling, wicked fangs. But the persistence of the dwarf’s company, coupled with their skillful use of fire, finally began to drive the trolls back.
Daggrande knew the breach had been stemmed-for now.
Behind the dwarf, Grimes saw one of the monstrous regiments swing wide of the defenders’ line, starting a great wheel around the entire flank.
“Charge!” Grimes cried, gesturing with his sword. The horsemen, in five companies of twenty, surged into a broad line. Lances lowered, they plunged into the regiment of ores, scattering the creatures beneath their hooves, breaking them into panicked remnants.
The ogres stood firm, clubs upraised, before the rush. But the deadly lances found these, and many a hulking monster shrieked in mountainous pain before falling to the earth before a charging rider. Desperately the dying monsters struggled to hold their torn bodies together as the last remnant of their life fluid seeped over the ground.
The horses wheeled and rode back, wracking the regiment again, trampling the survivors beneath the crushing hooves. The surviving ores broke and fled toward the shelter of the jungle. Grimes, minus a few of his riders, pulled the horsemen back behind the line.
Another regiment pressed forward, pushing around to the roar of the village of Nayap. Payit spearmen resisted. them courageously, even felling several ogres with their long, obsidian-tipped weapons. But then a dozen trolls ripped into the center of the warriors’ line, and in moments, the whole company fled in disorder.
Howling in triumph, the monstrous formation rushed to fill the gap and encircle the village. But then a small form darted across the sky, soaring over the onrushing beasts.
Pryat Devane rode his flying carpet at high speed, bringing the little platform to a sudden stop when he reached a position a hundred yards in front of the charging regiment.
“By the power of Helm, I call a plague upon you!” he shouted, raising his metal gauntlet and pointing to the first monstrous rank.
In the next moment, the buzzing, hissing, and clicking of millions of insects rose across the plain, competing with the din of battle in its intensity. Immediately the leading ogres howled in pain and surprise, slapping at their skin and twisting grotesquely in an effort to escape.
Wasps, bees, hornets, flies-all manner of stinging insects flew among the monsters, and instantly the momentum of the attack vanished. All the beasts could think about was escape, and the entire regiment dissipated as the creatures raced in every direction to escape the insect plague. Some of
them tumbled through the ranks of a neighboring regiment, one that pressed against Nayap itself, and for a little while the weight of that savage attack eased.
For long, bloody minutes, the battle stood in terrible balance. Humans, ores, dwarves, ogres, halflings, horses, and trolls, all bled into the dark earth, beneath the encloaking clouds that blacked out even the slightest glimpse of stars or moon.
Hundreds of lives expired. Companies of ores or humans, decimated by battle, turned to flee. Others on each side expanded their fronts to cover gaps thus exposed. An exhausting, costly equilibrium held along the front.
Then another horrifying sequence of whistles and bellows erupted from the forest. The din of the battle faded to insignificance against the cacophony of fresh strength symbolized by that throaty, hungry roar.
More hulking shapes emerged from the forest, their shadows spreading across the savannah. Another powerful wave of destruction, they pressed toward the cringing shore as Hoxitl throw another ten regiments into
