Shadowstorm (20 page)

“They are many! We are few! They are many! We are few!”

Abelar inhaled deeply as the fire rooted in his gut, as his hands transformed from those of a healer to those of a warrior, as a surge of righteous wrath filled his breast so strongly it felt as if it would lift him from his saddle and propel him to the heavens. He turned to face Ordulin’s forces, raised his blade, and shouted defiance.

His wrath spread like contagion to his men and they echoed his shout.

Ordulin’s cavalry moved from a trot to a full gallop. They bore down on Abelar’s company, blades and shields ready, blood on their minds.

Abelar intoned a prayer to Lathander and channeled the strength of his soul into his blade, which glowed still brighter. He was bathed in light. His company moved restlessly behind him, eager to receive the order. He held his blade up.

“The path is lit, brothers and sisters! Ride!”

The clarions blared, the soldiers roared, and the entire line lurched as one down the rise.

Abelar led them, bent over Swiftdawn, blade held before him. The standard bearers flanked him, pennons whipping in the breeze. The wind whistled over his helm. His shield and blade hummed in his hands. The thunder of hooves could not drown out the chant of his men.

“They are many! We are few! They are many! We are few!”

The chant propelled him forward. Their faith strengthened him. He was spirit, as light as the wind.

Ordulin’s men let out a shout as the distance between the two onrushing forces shrank. Abelar eyed the men at the forefronr of Ordulin’s charge. One of them bore an axe rather than a sword. The man wore no helm and his long hair flew behind him. A

symbol decorated his shield: a lightning bolt, the symbol of Talos the Thunderer, the dark god of destrucrion and storms.

“Ride!” Abelar shouted to his men, and gave Swiftdawn her head. She snorted and ran like the wind, pulling ahead of even the standard bearers.

“Xoren and Trewe, stay on me!” he shouted to the standard bearers. They nodded and he held his blade aloft, letting its light signify the wrath of his god and bolster the courage of his men. He would be the spear point. He lowered his blade and pointed its tip at the Talassan, leaving no doubt of his intent.

The Talassan saw the gesture and snarled. The wild-eyed priest stuck out his palm and a bolt of blue lightning shot from it at Abelar. Abelar intercepted it with his enspelled shield and deflected the bolt into the ground, where it scorched the grass and threw up a divot of earth.

Seventy paces separated the forces.

“They are many!”

In the rear of Ordulin’s forces, Abelar saw not two but three wizards incanting spells from horseback. As he watched, one of the wizards suddenly went rigid, as still as a statue, and his mount slowed, bucked, and threw him. Beside another, a rosy-hued long sword appeared in mid-air, slashed downward, and severed a hand.

Abelar shouted Lathander’s praises. Roen and his priests were doing exactly as he’d asked. Fifty paces.

The third wizard completed his spell and a clap of thunder boomed near Abelar. Men screamed. A few horses whinnied in terror, bucked, and threw their riders. One of Abelar’s standard bearers, Xoren, covered his ears and lost his saddle. Abelar did not slow. He hoped that Roen and his priests could see to the fallen.

Thirty paces.

“We are few!”

Ordulin’s men shouted in answer. Their line stretched out

well beyond Abelar’s flanks. They would collapse around Abelar’s force and try to encircle his company.

Abelar would not have it. He would drive his company right through them and out the other side. He angled Swiftdawn for the Talassan and the Talassan answered in kind.

Ten paces.

Hooves thundered. Men roared. Abelar held the Talassan’s wild eyes. The Talassan raised his axe high. Abelar’s blade vibrated with power.

The two forces collided in a cacophony of shouts, screams, whinnies, and the ring of metal on metal.

The priest of Talos chopped down with his axe. Abelar blocked with his shield and the enspelled slab of metal shattered the Talassan’s axe. Abelar drove his magical blade through the Talassan’s breastplate and ribs with such force that it drove the priest from his horse. Abelar carried him along for a stride, impaled on the blade, before shedding the corpse and pushing forward.

“On me!” he shouted, his light still blazing. “On me!”

He drove Swiftdawn through the tide of flesh and steel. She bit and stomped as he tore through Ordulin’s ranks. His blade rose and fell, rose and fell. Blood sprayed; men and horses screamed; blows rained off his shield and armor. He gritted his teeth and killed everything within reach. His shield arm went numb. A blow to his chest nearly unhorsed him but did not penetrate his breastplate. He burst through the rear of Ordulin’s ranks, a handful of his men at his side, and found himself not ten paces from one of Ordulin’s wizards. The mage’s sunken eyes widened with fear.

Abelar and his men put heels to their mounts and charged him. The wizard tried to turn his horse while he jerked a slim shaft of metal from his belt and pointed it at them. The wand discharged a wide beam of white-hot flame that caught both Abelar and Mekkin in the chest. Their tabards caught fire and sections of their breastplates flared red hot. Mekkin fell from

his saddle, screaming. Abelar grunted through gritted teeth as his skin blistered and charred beneath his armor, but he kept his saddle and drove Swiftdawn into the wizard’s horse. The smaller mount staggered under the warhorse’s impact and the wizard scrambled to hold his reins. Abelar crosscut his throat and nearly decapitated him.

Ignoring the pain in his chest, he leaped off Swiftdawn and fell to Mekkin’s side. He channeled healing energy into his blade hand, but Mekkin spasmed and died before Abelar could save him.

Abelar cursed and bounded back atop Swiftdawn as the battle caught up to him. The bulk of his force, following his lead, burst through Ordulin’s ranks before the flanks of the larger force could collapse on their rear. “Sound a reformation,” he said to Trewe, one of his standard bearers. “And stay on me.”

Trewe blew the three-note muster and Abelar sped away from Ordulin’s forces, drawing his men after. Ordulin’s own trumpets sounded a call, and they, too, disengaged to regroup.

Abelar turned to survey the scene. A bowshot separated the forces. Dead men and horses littered the plain. Two riderless mounts, both Saerbian, pranced uncertainly through the carnage, eyes wild. Swiftdawn whinnied to call them; the two mounts snorted and galloped toward Abelar’s company.

Regg rode up beside Abelar, his tabard and blade bloodied but no serious wounds on him. “They are not as many now, by Lathander!” Regg said, grinning. Regg could grin through a funeral.

“Truth,” Abelar agreed.

“You are afire,” Regg said, pointing at Abelar’s tabard. Abelar ignored the flames and they burned themselves out. “That, I am.”

He did a rough head count and figured he’d lost perhaps forty men. He allowed himself only a moment to grieve for them and wish them well in Lathander’s realm. He counted all his priests among the living. Already Roen and his fellow priests tended to

the wounded with healing magic. He spotted Beld among his force. Blood spattered the young warrior’s face—not his own. Beld saluted him with his blade.

“I was right to leave the abbey,” Beld shouted, and the men near the young man smiled.

Abelar nodded at the young warrior. He turned Swiftdawn and looked out at the dead and wounded on the field. He put Ordulin’s losses at close to a hundred, with at least one wizard dead and another without a hand. The Morninglord had shined on their effort. His company had accounted well for itself.

“Get the men in another line,” he said to Regg. “Close gaps from the fallen. We give them another charge.”

“Now?”

Abelar nodded. He had the upper hand and had no intention of relinquishing it. “Same formation as before. Be quick. You have a thirty count.”

Regg spun Firstlight and barked orders while Trewe blew two notes to signal the formation. The men and women of the company, their blood up, reformed rapidly.

Ordulin’s forces responded as Abelar had hoped. They moved to realign, but acted with less certainty than before. They could see to a man how they had fared against Abelar’s company, and their wizards had been of little effect.

“They fight without conviction,” he said to Swiftdawn, and she tossed her head in agreement. “They will break if we hit them hard enough.”

He raised his blade and spun Swiftdawn in a circle. His force was ready. The sun shone down on him. His blade blazed.

“They fight with fear in their hearts,” he shouted. “We fight with faith in ours.”

“Huzzah!” responded his company, and raised blades. A few horses reared.

Abelar turned to face Ordulin’s line. “On me, men and women of Lathander! Ride!”

Trewe sounded another clarion call and Abelar led the charge

across the plains. The collective shout of his men sounded like the roar of an ocean wave.

Ordulin’s forces scrambled to complete their realignment. Horns sounded and commanders moved frenetically among the men, shouting orders, pointing, but they were too slow. Crossbows sang. One or two of Abelar’s men fell but the charge continued.

Disorganized and disheartened, Ordulin’s men milled about and large gaps showed in their lines. Their commanders shouted, galloped along the line. Abelar shouted and veered Swiftdawn toward the left side of their ranks. He would hit them on the flank and roll them up.

His force thundered after.

Ordulin’s forces readied shields and weapons, and braced for impact. Abelar picked the man he would kill first, a bearded commander on a black mare. He turned Swiftdawn toward him and bore down.

A curtain of flame sprang into existence ten paces before him. The blaze stood twice as tall as a man and stretched the length of the battlefield, blocking the charge of his company. Black smoke poured into the sky as grass and shrubs burned.

“On me!” Abelar shouted, and did not slow.

Trewe’s trumpet blew and his company, mounted on battle-trained Saerbian horses, followed his command, riding hard directly at the inferno.

Abelar raised his blazing shield and shoured the words to a counterspell, one of the handful of spells known to him. The heat from the inferno warmed his armor, chapped his face.

He did not slow.

His spell engaged the magic of the wall and tore at its power. He did not slow.

He felt his eyebrows and beard singe. He bent low and held his shield before his face and against the side of Swiftdawn’s head. She snorted, encouraging the other mounts of the company, and jumped at the wall.

His countermagic prevailed and dissolved the magical barrier into harmless smoke. Abelar, his armor and shield trailing smoke, raised his blade in triumph. His men cheered, shouted, and the uncertainty in Ordulin’s forces turned to shock.

Abelar’s company hit them like a battering ram. Horses shrieked; men shouted; blades rose and fell; blood sprayed and men died.

In the chaos Abelar lost sight of the commander he had targeted, so he slashed with his blade and bashed with his shield at any man within reach who wore a green tabard. “We …” he shouted, and smashed his shield into the face of a young fighter.

“. .. stand…”

A sword slash tore open his shield arm. He answered with a stab to the chest that split breastplate and breastbone. “… in the light!”

He parried a flurry of blows with his shield. Swiftdawn reared, kicked, and drove his attacker’s mount backward. Abelar drove Swiftdawn after, chopped downward, and cleaved helm and head.

His men around him took up his chant. “In the light! In the light!”

The words took on the rhythm of a heartbeat and blades and shields rose and fell in time with it. The morale of Abelar’s force was swelling; that of Ordulin’s forces was collapsing. Abelar took advantage. He swatted Swiftdawn on the flank and shouted, “Clear!”

Swiftdawn reared, kicked, bit, and turned a circle, clearing a space around Abelar. The commander hurriedly recited the words to a spell that would encourage his forces and discourage those of Ordulin. A rosy glow spread out from Abelar’s shield in all directions to a distance of a spear toss. It lasted for only a moment but its magic caused all of Abelar’s men caught within it to roar with fervor and fight with redoubled effort, while Ordulin’s soldiers groaned and temporarily lost their nerve. At almost the same moment, a blazing sphere of luminescence

formed above Regg and shed its light on the battlefield. Abelar knew Regg’s spell to be a harmless light spell, but it was symbolic and it was enough.

Ordulin’s forces broke under the onslaught, first a few, then several, then all of them. Their commanders shouted unheeded orders as men wheeled their mounts and fled in two large groups. A few dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy.

“Do we pursue, Commander?” shouted Regg, with Firstlight whinnying eagerly.

Abelar watched his enemy flee, considered, and shook his head. “No. Stand the men down.”

Regg nodded and gave the orders. Abelar scanned his men for Roen, spotted him, and summoned him to his side. The priest had a dent in his breastplate and bled from a gash in his thigh.

“Lathander watched over his faithful,” Roen said.

“Aye,” Abelar agreed. “See to the wounded, Roen. Heal ours first, then theirs.”

Roen cocked his head. “Theirs? What are we to do with them, commander?”

“Disarm them, get a pledge to give up the fight, and take the thumb from their sword hand to ensure it. Then give them a horse, if we can spare it, and let them go.”

Roen’s eyes widened, but he nodded.

Abelar had little choice. He had no way to hold prisoners and he would not execute enemies unless he saw no other course. Taking a thumb would make them useless as combatants. It was enough.

“Be quick, Roen,” he said. “We ride as soon as it is done.” Half an army was still bearing down on Saerb, on his son.

ŚŠŚŚŠ• ŚŠŚŚŠ•

Cale held his holy symbol in hand and inventoried the spells he had prepared. He had a thirty count to invent a plan. Either that, or he had to shadowwalk out of the Calyx with Riven and Magadon.