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reluctantly. Varthlokkur nodded, shook his head, nodded, shrugged.
"You men," Ragnarson growled at the soldiers who had come with Haaken and the
wizard. "If you value your lives, you'll never forget that he was dead when
you got here. Understood?"
He knelt, grunting. The cuts were getting sensitive. "Doctor, give me
something."
Wachtel reluctantly took another bottle from his bag. He continued digging.
"Hurry, man. I've got a battle to get to. And I'm about to lose my nerve."
"Battle? You're not going anywhere for a couple weeks." Wachtel produced
tweezers. "Lay one crystal on his tongue. It'll take about two minutes."
"I'll be at the fight. If somebody has to carry me. I've got to hit back or go
mad."
He fumbled the little blue crystal three times.
Ragnarson stared across the Spehe at Norbury. Tears still burned his cheeks.
He had scourged himself by walking all the way. His wounds ached miserably.
Wachtel had warned him. He should have listened.
He glanced up. It might rain. He surveyed Norbury again. It was a ghost town.
The inhabitants had fled.
He fretted, waiting for his scouting reports. The Marena Dimura were prowling
the banks of the Lynn.
Again he considered the nearer bridge. It was a stout stone construction
barely wide enough for an ox cart. A good bottleneck.
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Behind him archers and infantry talked quietly. Haaken and Reskird roamed
among them, keeping their voices down. Up the Spehe, Jarl and the Queen's Own
waited to ford the river and hit the enemy's rear.
If he came.
N ot today, Ragnarson thought as the sun settled into the hills of Moerschel.
"Ragnar, tell the commanders to let the men pitch camp."
He was still standing there, ignoring his pain, when the moon rose, peeping
through gaps in scurrying clouds. It was nearly full. Leaning on a spear, he
looked like a weary old warrior guarding a forest path.
Trebilcock, Dantice, and Colonel Liakopulos joined him. No one said anything.
This was no time to impose.
Mostly he relived his companionship with Mocker and Haroun. They, with the
exception of Haaken and Reskird, had been his oldest friends. And the
relationship with his fellow Trolledyngjans hadn't been the same. Haaken and
Reskird were quieter souls, part-time companions always there when he called.
There had been more life, more passion, and a lot less trust with the other
two.
He reviewed old adventures, when they were young and couldn't believe they
weren't immortal.
They had been happier then, he decided. Beholden to none, they had been free
to go where and do what they pleased. Even Haroun had shown little interest in
his role of exiled king.
"Somebody's coming," Trebilcock whispered.
A runner zipped across the gap between village and stream. He splashed into
the river.
"Get him, Michael."
Trebilcock returned with a Marena Dimura. "Colonel Marisal, he comes, The
Desert Rider, yes. Thousands. Many thousands, quiet, pads on feets of his
horses, yes."
"Michael, Aral, Colonel, pass the word. Kill the fires. Everyone up to battle
position. But quietly, damn it. Quietly." Of the scout, "How far?"
"Three miles. Maybe two now. Slow. No scouts out to give away."
"Uhm." Badalamen was cunning. He looked up. The gaps in the clouds were
larger. There would be light for the bowmen.
"Ragnar. Run and tell Jarl I want him to start moving right away." Ahring's
task would be difficult. His mounts wouldn't like going into action at night.
The men had barely gotten into position. Shadows were moving in the town. El
Murid's horsemen came, leading their mounts. Soon they were piling up at the
bridge.
Ragnarson was impressed with Badalamen. His maneuver seemed timed to reach
Vorgreberg at sunrise.
A hundred men had crossed. Ragnarson guessed three times that would have
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crossed upriver. Five hundred or so had piled up on the south bank here.
"Now!"
Arrows hit the air with a sound like a thousand quail flushing. Two thousand
bowmen pulled to their cheeks and released as fast as they could set nock to
string.
The mob at the bridge boiled. Horses screamed. Men cursed, moaned, cried
questions. In moments half were down. Fifteen seconds later the survivors
scattered, trying to escape through brethren still coming from the town.
"Haaken!" Bragi shouted. "Go!"
Blackfang's Vorgrebergers hit the chill Spehe. Miserably soaked, they seized
the far bank, formed up to prevent those already over the bridge from
returning. Once bowmen joined them they forced it, compelling the horsemen to
withdraw upstream or swim back.
Badalamen reacted quickly.
Horsemen swept from the village in a suicidal, headlong charge, startling the
infantrymen screening Haaken's bridge-head. Arrows flew on both sides. More
horses went down by stumbling than by enemy action.
Another force swept up the north bank of the Lynn, against the Kaveliners
there.
The south bank riders hit the thin lines protecting the Spehe crossing, broke
through. The arrows couldn't get them all.
The struggle became a melee. Ragnarson's troops, unaccus-tomed to reverses,
wavered.
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