Age of War (The Legends of the First Empire #3)



The line broke. In panic, men and elves gave up their positions in favor of survival. The fight disintegrated into a melee, careful jabs replaced with wild swings. The giant continued to waver, tilting first toward the human line, then the Fhrey. Each combatant was forced to swing and block with one eye on their enemy and one eye on the teetering mountain. Raithe alone charged the giant. He tried to read the pattern of weight-shift. Anticipating where the next foot might fall, he ran for that spot. The odds were even that the foot would land either beside him or on him—no telling which. This sort of gamble, the overextension that left him vulnerable but could possibly win the fight, was one he’d learned to make in combat. Most men refused to take such risks. That was the strength of the Dureya, and the weakness of the Fhrey. Risk was the secret ingredient in combat—timidity invited death. Quite often risk invited death, too. Death welcomed everyone.

The foot came down close enough that Raithe felt the wind. Lunging and using both hands, Raithe slashed across the big tendon running up the back of the leg from the giant’s heel. The cord was the thickness of a heavy rope, but in his hand he held much more than a stone spear. The same iron blade that broke the bronze sword in Tirre made the difference once more. The giant sounded like a howling wind on a frigid winter’s night—a chilling cry that carried. With no support, the great tree fell. While it could have been better, it could have been worse. The giant crashed across both sides. Twelve people died instantly. Dozens scattered.

“Re-form the line!” Raithe shouted.

Wedon miraculously reappeared as he and Malcolm found Raithe and slammed shoulders with his. Both men were panting and slick with blood. He had no idea whose.

“Stay close, Moya!” he yelled. “Shield brace!” he cried and drove the line forward at a run.

We’re going to succeed or die in the attempt!

The Fhrey hastily shuffled to defend as shields collided. Men were stronger and had momentum, but elves had elevation. Seeing the rush, fearing the penetration dividing their force, horns blew. Raithe saw the heads of giants turn and take their first lumbering strides toward them.



Finally, he thought with an odd relief, this is where we die. The Grenmorian herd ambled their way—his prize for being successful.

Then from behind him Raithe heard Moya. “Close enough.”



* * *





The shot would be uphill, not at all ideal. There was also a wind, but not a whirlwind. If the Fhrey had had any idea what was coming, they might have raised a hurricane. Of course, if the Fhrey knew what was coming, Moya and her archers would have been charred in some magical fire. Instead, it was just the normal spring blow coming across the plateau, and Moya knew how to compensate.

“Aim just to the right of the hill!” she shouted over the cry of metal and men. “Don’t watch the fly. As soon as you loose, fit the next shaft and draw!”

She clapped an arrow against the carved wood of Audrey’s face, fitting the notch into the string. “Draw deep, aim high!” she shouted.

In five rows, fifty archers raised their bows and pulled. She heard the combined creak of wood, the angry growl of vengeful trees.

“Loose!” she yelled, and in one chorus, half a century of iron-tipped shafts flew.

“Load!” Moya shouted instantly. She already had her next arrow fitted. “Draw! Loose!”

The second volley was in the air before the first landed. From a distance and under the cloud-covered sky, the flights of arrows appeared like dark sheets of rain falling on Wolf’s Head where a ring of Fhrey writhed and chanted. Too far to hear them over the closer chaos, Moya watched robes crumple. Those not hit looked up, confused, only to spot another shower of arrows.

Wolf’s Head became a barren rock.

Freed up from her required assignment, Moya looked around. Two giants charged Raithe’s line. They came on like bull moose, but many times larger. One on the left held two stone hammers. One on the right wore what looked to be a great metal pot on his head.



“Giants!” Moya cried, and pivoted her aim. Fifty archers mimicked her. “Draw! Loose!”

The burst of shafts didn’t have far to travel this time. Nearly every arrow found its target, and the left giant dropped, as if he’d slammed into a wall.

The remaining giant reached the line and smashed through, wading into the formation and bashing men aside with a massive hammer. Moya watched as Wedon and Raithe were both struck and swept aside. They flew into Malcolm, and all of them went down.

Next up were the Killian boys, Wedon, and Tope’s younger sons, who tried to stab at his legs but failed. The giant charged the archers, breaking through the lines of men as if they were waves on a beach.

“Draw!” Moya shouted, and heard the reassuring yawn of wood. She had no need to give the target; everyone saw the charging hulk looming overhead. “Loose!”

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