From: John Patrick Hughes (nysalor@yahoo.com)
Date: Mon 07 Dec 1998 - 09:39:23 EET
FIRES OF MIST AND WIND-BLOWN SNOW
RUNO XIV - INFINITY
[CONTINUED FROM PART II]
Skirmishers clashed upon the muddy plain. Archers and slingers surged
forward to vex and prick the foe. To our right, a troop of sable
riders shook their dark-dyed reins, charging forward with bow and
shaft at the ready. Finding range of the foremost phalanx, they bent
the springing crescent, clove the air with all the force that fury
gave. The piercing shafts flashed from the string. While only few
found flesh amidst the shieldwall, the thick death-rain forced high
the heavy shields. The skirmishers did not relent: our enemy would
face us tired and worn by the exertions of their advance.
"...the truth that cuts, the discipline that frees..."
Behind me, a bearded raven screamed omen of dark death. Across the
plain, the foremost phalanx advanced now at a run.
"Destroy me once, destroy me twice..."
>From altars within the palisade, the storm-godar unleashed the fury of
the Great Thane. Boiling blue-black clouds congealed across the plain,
the wind a screaming fury from the east. With searing crack the
vengeance-cloud spat forth its arsenal - stinging spears of hail,
sharp pain pellets to confuse and blind the foe. It clattered against
the armour at my back, violent and loud.
The Lunars answered with fury of their own. The baleful pale red globe
above their camp held the clouds at bay, defending its perimeter. Now
it spat forth foul magic upon our defences. Screaming red-gold
fireballs shot forth to burst upon the palisade, moon-summoned meteors
tinged with madness and death. We sheltered 'neath our shields, lest
one burst down upon us. Within the wooden wall, the tribesmen howled,
diving for shelter. Some panicked and ran, caught in the spreading
lune-fire. On the edges of our own position, warding standards glowed
white hot.
The deadly bombardment soon ceased, whether by countermagics or
exhaustion I did not know. The foremost enemy phalanxes had reached
the base of the ridge, victors of the boggy plain. They now faced a
long slope before they could engage, blinded and stung by the oncoming
hail. I could make out individual shields and standards, identify the
nearer units ranged against us.
Silver serpents twined upon a moonstone pole. Howling bat shield
devices. So we faced the spears of the Devastation Legion. Veteran
campaigners, with scarlet cloaks and long hair. The god's bounty would
be great.
Yet their formation was deeper than it was wide, and many in the
further ranks carried neither spear nor pike. Of those that did, some
hoisted training poles quick-capped with tips of bronze. Another
outcome of our wyter ritual. Praise the Earth, and all the fertile
blessings of Her touch!
Kiomar was patient and unhurried, using long experience to judge the
correct moment. Finally, the signs stood correct. "Cohort, prepare for
battle! Orderlies depart from the ranks. Silence, pay attention to
command! Take up your spears!"
A veteran of several of these terrible clashes, I did not envy my
brothers and sisters in the ranks. Just breathing and hearing were
difficult enough in the close-packed mass of the phalanx, let alone
with roar of thunder and the insistent clatter of hail on armour. Our
front formed with much rubbing and jostling of breastplate, shield and
spear. Battle-wise veterans rested shield-rims on the lip of their
shoulder-armour, saving strength for the crucial minutes ahead.
Then came the fear of which the skalds do not speak. The terrible
fear, the chattering fear, the fear that runs down the legs. That
gut-twisting anticipation of battle, awaiting the terrible moment of
blind slaughter when phalanxes collide, the dread crush of friend and
foe. A fear that settles on Sword and initiate alike - I have seen
veterans of a hundred battles crack and run under that terrible
pressure.
A few enemy skirmishers shot shafts into the phalanx from downslope.
Salamanders flamed into existence before the advancing foe. A summoned
lune locked itself in desperate battle with Hail Children between the
two shield walls. Shields came up, locked into place: a seamless wall
of hide and burnished bronze.
Kiomar spat, shouted above the gust-driven hail. Her voice echoed
within my head, heard also with Karis' spirit sense. "Take a wide
stance; stand strongly against them! Dig your heels in the ground;
beware you do not bite your lips. Brandish your war spear and shake
the crest above your helm! You are terrible, you are humakti! Remember
- - your armour and breastplate are your own, but your shield protects
us all. Hold firm! The shield wall must not break! To the standard now
our strength and offering... 'We who walk...'"
"'We who walk the path of truth. We who hear the silence.'" The battle
chant began, slow and sonorous, our strength and magic centring on the
cohort's standard, our temple and our only treasure.
The next few minutes held the measure of victory or defeat. I glanced
across the battlefield a final time before giving myself completely to
the chant and the advancing wall of spears.
The Praxians to our right had gone; I could not sight them on the
hail-swept plain. Behind the approaching phalanx, I saw Lunar troops
in open order struggling through the mud: they carried no spears.
Capricious winds assailed them, knocking men about and wrenching
shields from arms. A great mass of riders advancing at a trot from
further up the valley. Their bulk immistakable: Tusk Riders. A grim
day indeed.
The palisade to our immediate left was burning. From within I heard
sharp screams; the occasional flash of magic. Enemy troops had struck;
probably War Dancers using motion magic, seeking to kill our
commander. While the sword clash would be terrible, I knew the
Orlanthi preferred it to a battle such as we faced. They despised the
collective march of formations, the discipline of columns and spears.
Good fighting, friends.
The Sun Domers had marched their spear forest to the base of the hill:
they too were moments away from the terrible clash. The Elmali cavalry
still stood steady behind them, even though several lines of Lunar
cavalry were advancing at a charge to flank the mercenary ranks. How
could they ignore such peril!
I'd forgotten the altars on that further hill. The ground trembled
beneath my feet, grim rumble of the Dark Earth. I watched in
open-mouthed astonishment as a great portion of the hillside detached
itself, surging downward like a wave over the terrified Lunar cavalry
beneath. I involuntarily touched the charm at my neck, fearful least
the ground open in gaping seams before us, and the fury of the battle
stream down to bitter hell itself.
Yes! The chant around me faltered, recovered. The earth sisters had
once more done duty fit and well. I saw now the purpose of those days
before the altar, undermining the hillside with spirits of earth and
water. The Earth Shakers had done the rest.
Below us, the enemy surged forward. I knew that this day would bring
me release; I now felt a chance it might bring victory as well.
Our own elementals fell upon those of the enemy. Gnomes rose through
the ground to bite at the feet of the phalanx, causing the spears to
falter and sway. The battle chant grew to a towering crescendo.
Any... moment... now...
Copyright 1994 John Hughes
CONTINUED IN PART IV
==
john.hughes2@dva.gov.au nysalor@yahoo.com
"Bound I to Humakt
Serve in awe
yet practise double labour.
With skaldic verse, and tales of war
I also serve Donandar."
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