4'Arise, Harlingar, to Arms! Fortune's three faces now turn our way: One smiling, one grim, one secret; May the never-seen face remain always hidden.
Hal, Warriors of the Spear and Saber! Hal, Warriors of the Knife and Arrow! Hal, Warriors of the Horn and Horse! Ride forth, Harlingar, ride forth!'
And in the gathering darkness, the fierce Valanreach warriors, their hearts pounding and spirits surging, mounted and rode to take up their battle positions to await the coming of die Spawn.
Brytta, far up the defile, sat his horse and stared down the dark road rising up to meet him. Riders four abreast formed a long column behind their Marshal. And as they held, the horses were calm, occasionally shifting their weight; and saddle leather creaked and the thicket of upright spears stirred to and fro.
The night deepened and the stars shone forth. To the east beyond the range, the bright Moon climbed up the star-studded sky, and at last the silver rays spiiled through the gap between Grimspire and mighty Stormhelm, bathing the defile with pale, glancing light. And sharp-edged blackness clung to boulders and crags and streamed darkly away. To the west, Redguard's peak jutted up out of the shadows of the range and into the moonlight, and past Redguard lay the western wold stretching beyond sight to the River Caire. The air was cold and crystalline, and the night was still, and the breath of horses and warriors alike rose in white plumes.
And the spears of Valon waited.
Ppfaa! Nightwind suddenly snorted and tossed his head, and Brytta listened sharply. At first he heard nothing; then dimly came a sound, faint: a scrabbling, like a chitinous scuttling. Stronger it grew, resolving at last into the distant slap of iron-shod Rutch boot.
'Stel! [Steel!]' hissed Brytta, reining to the side, and the lances in the first row dropped level, held steady by firm grips, and clear eyes watched the far turn. Louder came the sound of running, and now all could hear the clack of harsh voices, cursing and snarling, whining, panting, grating, the speech foul. Louder it came, and louder still, nearly upon them. Suddenly, a ragged loping column of torch-bearing Rutcha burst into view, scrambling around the turn below, and they jostled and jolted and elbowed and railed at one another as they swarmed up the road.
'Tovit! (Ready.'!' Brytta hissed a second command in the Valonian Battle-tongue, and the horse-column seemed to bunch itself, as a tautly drawn bow ere the arrow is loosed. Yet tense and quivering, still they held their places; and onward came the Spawn, as yet unaware of the danger ahead.
And when it seemed mat the Wrg must at last see the Harlingar, a flat homcry sounded from below, from behind the Foul Folk, as the Vanadurin posted there took station upon the road when the last of the Rutchen column passed by.
And the trap sprang shut!
'Vttacku! [Attack!'] barked Brytta, and swift as an arrow loosed at last, the first four riders charged forth, spears leveled, thundering death.
'Stel!' called Brytta, and the lances of the second row dropped level. 'Tovit!' His voice was sharp and clear, and he paused but a moment; then: 'V'ttacku!' And another line charged forth, havoc upon four horses, ten running strides behind the first.
'Stelf' the command came again, and again, and again, and rows paced forward, and lances lowered, and file after file of swift-running doom was launched down the road, down from the high ground.
At first the Spawn did not realize their plight, and when the Valonian horncall sounded from behind them they quickened their pace, fleeing unknown pursuit. And it was not until the last moment that those in the fore saw by moonlight and torch flare the first strike swooping down upon them, and then it was too late as wave after wave of lethal spears, hard driven by full-running horses, shocked into and through and over the Rutchen column. And screams rent the air as victims fell underfoot to be trampled, and lances impaled others, some spears to shatter in the impact. Sabers were drawn and slashed to and fro, felling foes, and Valanreach battle cries burst forth:
Hal Vanareich! [Hait Valon'.J
B'reit Harlingar! (Ready, Sons of Had!J
Kop'yo V'ttacku Rutcha! [Now whelm the goblins!]
A few Rutcha tried to flee, but the walls of the defile were too steep to clamber, and the dreaded horsefolk were both before and behind them. Yet most of the foul breed, though taken by surprise, fought with feral savagery, for they were cornered: Torches were thrown in the faces of horses, and steeds shied and reared. Iron bars were swung with cunning force to crack across the forelegs of several charging coursers, and they fell screaming among the enemy, and the riders were set upon by the Wrg. Yet other horses, riderless, trained for War by the Vanadurin, lashed out with sharp hooves, felling Rutcha with their crushing blows. And warriors rose up out of piles of Spawn and cast the foe aside, and many Harlingar sang as they slew, a terrible burning light in their eyes.
Into the fray came Brytta, hewing left-handed with his saber, slashing Death borne upon Nightwind's back. And it
was a mighty slaughter, and Bryttars arm grew weary with the reaping of Rutcha. Yet the battle raged on, for the Foul Folk were savage. And lance pierced, and saber slashed, cudgel smashed, and hammer crushed. Scimitar clashed with long-knife, and flashing hooves struck o'er iron bar. Grunts and screams and oaths and cries filled the air, and so, too, did the harsh clang of steel upon steel. And the struggle swept to and fro. Yet slowly the Vanadurin prevailed, and the Wrg numbers dwindled.
All Rutchen torches had been flung aside, or at riders, or at their steeds, and now only the bright Moon illumed the battleground, though here and there a brand sputtered on the road. Surviving Spawn flicked in and out of dark shadows, striking quickly then leaping back into blackness.
And slowly the fight became a grim stalking, as the Vanadurin dismounted and took up torches and spread across the road and searched each cleft and shadow. And the Foul Folk were found, sometimes singly, sometimes clotted together in pockets. And no quarter was given.
Brytta sat upon Nightwind, looking down the defile; he watched as the Harlingar sought living Spawn in the blackness, and made certain that those lying upon the ground were dead and not feigning. It was long-knife work, and saber, too; and struggles were short and fierce. And as he looked, a stone rattled down from above.
On the wall! A Drokh! No, two! Flitting through the shadows above Brytta were two Drokha who had managed to scale up a cranny to a high path along the south wall of the defile, a path running to the top. And now they were fleeing along it, escaping the defile, fleeing for the High Gate.
With effort, Brytta strung his bow, cursing the pain and clumsiness of his broken right hand. Another rider was nearby; 'Didion! To me!' cried Brytta. 'Wrg! On the wall! Your bow!' And as Didion rode to him, Brytta set an arrow to string and tried to draw the weapon with his broken hand. A low agonized groan hissed between his clenched teeth, and with the bow but half drawn the arrow fell from the weapon and clattered to the ground. 'Rack!' Brytta cursed, and changed hands, shifting the bow to his clumsy right, reaching for arrow with his left. The Drokha now scrambled the last few steps toward the top of the wall, an open plateau-and if
they reached it, they were free!
Again Brytta set arrow to string, this time drawing the bow against the heel of his shattered right hand and gritting against the grinding pain while beads of sweat burst forth upon his brow. 'Take the right, Didion, I'll take the left,' he gasped, and as the Drokha momentarily reappeared from the shadows, two arrows hissed through the air, one well aimed, the other less so. Now at the top and just entering the shadow again, one of the enemy flung up his hands and a piercing scream rent the air as he plunged backward down the defile wall to land with a sodden thud in the roadbed. The, other Drokh pitched forward into the blackness, and if he was arrow-struck, they did not see.
'Didion, after him! He must not escape!' Brytta barked. 'Ged!' he called to another rider coming nigh. 'Go with Didion! Drokh on the height!' And Ged leapt from his horse and scrambled up a cleft behind Didion, finding the steep climbing no easy task.
And the search for Rutchen survivors went on.
Night passed and the Moon set, and dawn crept upon the land to find stricken Harlingar: exhausted, for they had spent two nights without sleep; wearied by struggle, first with the Krakenward, then with Wrg; drained, for some, weeping, had had to slay their own steeds, legs broken in battle; afflicted, for nearly half the warriors bore wounds, some serious, some minor, now bandaged; filled with heartgrief, for five of the Vanadurin would never again answer home all. Thusly did the dayrise find the riders of the Valanreach.
