stepped to his prince’s side to point out the spreading, tactical maneuvering of the climbing humans.
“These are not here by accident,” he said. “Those horsemen, in the lead, are men of the Cobar plains. The Cobar do not just wander about, as do some tribes. The Cobar are raiders and looters.”
“Mounted intruders,” Olim Goldbuckle mused. “Has there ever been a mounted attack before?”
“Not that I’ve heard of,” Gem admitted. “Many humans have horses, but these mountains are not horse country. Not even the knights of Ergoth would try to enter here on horseback.”
“And yet the Cobar do,” Olim noted. “What do you make of that?”
“They know we’re here.” Gem shrugged. “Those other people with them may intend to invade Kal-Thax and carve out human kingdoms. But the Cobar do not intend to settle here. They come only to raid, to pillage, and then to return to their plains.”
“It will be difficult, fighting horsemen on this level ground,” Olim said.
“Then let’s not meet them here,” Gem suggested. “Let’s go out and meet them on the slopes. If I’m to face horsemen, I’d prefer to have the uphill advantage.”
Olim gazed around, studying the terrain. “The pass is wider over there,” he pointed out. “We will be spread thin. But then, we are not alone.” He gazed northward, at the craggy cliffs which were the Theiwar border camps. “Flash signals to Twist Cutshank of the Theiwar,” he said, “and to Vog Ironface of the Daergar. Signal my greetings and say that we will hold the middle pass. Ask that they position themselves on our forward flanks, the Theiwar to the north and the Daergar to the south. Among us, we should be able to persuade the humans that they are not wanted in Kal-Thax.”
The signals were flashed. Daewar “callers” were positioned on pinnacles of stone using mirrors of polished brass to catch and relay the sunlight in common code. A response and agreement came from the south, from the Daergar placements under the steeps there, but there was no answer from the Theiwar. When his callers reported this to Gem Bluesleeve, he passed it on to Olim Goldbuckle. “There is no question the signal was seen, Sire,” he assured the prince. “With a high sun, and the air clear, the flashes are unmistakable.”
“Twist Cutshank is sulking,” Goldbuckle decided. “He is probably miffed that we came onto his territory without his invitation.”
“But can we count on them to do their part?” Gem asked, worried.
“We’ll have to,” the prince said. “He has seen what is coming, and, savage or not, he knows what it will take to hold this pass. To fail would be to break the Pact of Kal-Thax, and even Twist Cutshank wouldn’t do that.”
With the sun high overhead, the Daewar army broke camp and moved out, cresting the promontory in plain view of the oncoming, quickly spreading human force. In their glistening armor and bright cloaks, the Daewar were an impressive display of presence atop the long rise, and there was visible hesitation among the bands of footmen climbing among the mounted Cobar horsemen. But not for long. The Cobar rode among them, swinging whips and the flats of blades, and the advance resumed.
By the time the sun was above Sky’s End to the north, the human force was less than half a mile away and could be seen clearly. Most of the humans were on foot — a motley assortment of men from many tribes and homelands, clothed in whatever garb they had brought or had found in their wanderings. The weapons they carried ranged from staffs and cudgels to every kind of blade, and their shields and armor were as varied as their clothing. Some had metal shields and bits of metal armor. Far more wore heavy, studded leathers and even whole furs of various animals. There were shields of braced hardwood, shields woven of reeds, and shields of tanned hide stretched over wooden frames. To the finely equipped Daewar, they wouldn’t have seemed especially dangerous — except that there were thousands of them.
The riders were a different story. As Gem had said, the Cobar were a fierce people, and their raiders knew how to fight. They handled their horses expertly, and the weapons they carried — slim lances, curved swords, and dagger-studded fighting shields — looked deadly.
At Gem’s orders, the Daewar spread into a long, double line along the crest of the promontory. It was a well-tested Daewar strategy for defense. Spreading from center, the dwarves took positions every ten yards, two defenders at each station, one kneeling behind his shield with sling and hammer at hand, the second a step forward and to one side, shield high and sword in hand. At ten-yard intervals, with sling-stones to cover the gaps, the defense was virtually a wall. And, faced with horses, Gem had added an extra touch. Each station was equipped with cable and a throw-net.
When the lead humans were less than a hundred yards away, slowing for assembly, Olim Goldbuckle stepped forward and raised an imperious hand. “You have crossed into the land of Kal-Thax!” he called. “Entry here is forbidden! Turn around and go away!”
For a moment there was no answer, then a Cobar horseman with owl feathers adorning his helmet stepped his mount forward. “I claim that one’s armor!” he shouted, pointing at Olim. “See how pretty he looks, like a shiny little toy person! And that cloak, with the flower designs, I’ll take it, too!”
Laughter arose from the ranks of his followers, and others took up the cry, looking along the line of dwarves, picking out and claiming various weapons, bits of armor, and personal gear, shouting taunts and derision. Stolidly, the prince of the Daewar stood his ground until the noise died away. Then he called, “You have had your warning! Kal-Thax is closed to you! There is nothing here for you except defeat and death!”
Something in the dwarf’s tone made Owl Feathers hesitate. He had never fought dwarves before. They didn’t look very dangerous to him, but he had heard they could be full of surprises. Turning, he gave quick orders to the nearest riders and waited while they were passed along. Then he raised his sword, glanced each way along the line of his men, and slashed it forward.
Even on the steep grade, the Cobar horses were quick. From a standstill, they surged into a pounding charge in a spearpoint formation that flashed toward the center of the Daewar line. Fifty yards now separated them, then forty and thirty, and abruptly all of the Cobar riders sheathed their swords and unslung their riding lances as they bore down on the waiting dwarves. Behind them, the charging human footmen were a howling mob, brandishing their weapons as they ran.
The Cobar charge closed to twenty yards, then fifteen, and the riders raised their lances. Short, sturdy spears with iron heads, the lances came up, held level, then shot forward as the riders flung them in unison directly at each pair of dwarven guards ahead of them. And as the spears flew, the riders hauled on their reins, wheeled their horses, and raced off at right angles to right and left, veering back to circle around the mobs of charging footmen.
Thrown spears clanged and thudded against dwarven shields, a ringing tattoo of metal on metal that echoed from the cliffs and the distant peaks. Most were deflected, but here and there a spear got through and a Daewar guardsman reeled backward, impaled.
“Slings!” Gem Bluesleeve shouted. From the long Daewar line, deadly stones shot out, driven by humming slings, but the targets they found were not the mounted raiders. Instead, they crashed into the leading wave of footmen, mowing them down as a scythe mows standing grain. The riders were away by then, circling around behind the footmen to drive them forward into the dwarven lines.
One wave of sling-stones did its work, then another, and then the Daewar found themselves hand to hand with thousands of howling, slashing humans, some attacking fiercely, some just trying to get through, away from the mounted demons behind them.
The Daewar line wavered from the sheer force of the attack. But minute by minute it held, and then the tide of battle began to turn. The Daewar line surged outward, each pair defending and countering, moving carefully over the fallen bodies of human attackers — and of dwarves. As the line bowed forward it opened, and Gem Bluesleeve’s elite “Golden Hammer” company charged through, a solid, moving wall of shields, thudding hammers, and flashing blades.
Swift and deadly, moving as a single being, the Golden Hammer drove through the mass of human attackers, scattering them in panic. Then the dwarven battle force turned, circled, and drove through again, and yet again as the Daewar on the holding line pressed relentlessly forward in their wake.
It was too much for even the fiercest of the marauders. They couldn’t get past the ranked shields to attack, they couldn’t block them because of the weapons snaking out to draw blood or crush bone at each thrust, and they couldn’t throw weight of numbers at them in screaming charges. Each time some tried, the dwarves went in under the weapons of the taller humans and bore them down, screaming.
Olim Goldbuckle and his personal guard were everywhere in the conflict — attacking, repelling, and organizing new tactics. In a swirl of fighting, milling confusion, the dwarven units seemed almost aloof to the panic around
