He cast his mind over what he had done to bring them here. He knew events could not have turned out better if they had surrendered. The Black Army’s past actions proved that.
Two more rafts safely landed their precious cargos on the shore of the opposite bank. Miro sighed. At least some had made it. Even if they landed all of the refugees now, he still had the army to pull back. There was no hope.
"Hold that line!" Marshal Beorn called, as a group of legionnaires burst through the defences, opening the floodgate holding back the tide of bloodthirsty warriors. The gap opened to become a surging tide of men.
Miro watched, sickened, as they went straight for the refugees. He saw children trampled beneath heavy boots, women vainly trying to run, cut down from behind. The panic began. The refugees began to surge. There was nowhere for them to go. The rampaging attackers surged through the gap, the slaughter began in earnest.
"You cowards!" Lord Rorelan screamed. There were tears streaming from his face.
Suddenly there was a commotion on the opposite bank. The trees began to move, and a group of men emerged from the forest. They were small men, with light-coloured hair and ruddy complexions. More men came out. They were followed by a multitude of others. They continued to advance all the way to the riverbank. More men kept coming all the time. They held strange weapons in their hands, curved pieces of wood with feathered spears fitted to a string.
"It’s the Dunfolk," Marshal Beorn whispered. "As I live and breathe, I cannot believe it."
There was a woman at their head. She wore an enchantress’s green silk dress, auburn hair flowing down her shoulders. At her side were a tiny man and a white-robed priest.
"Amber," Miro said. He knew it was her.
The Dunfolk formed a line along the bank. As one, they leaned back, pulling on the strings of their bows until their arms must have been bursting with the pain of it. They released.
The sky darkened with the flight of the arrows speeding over the Sarsen. Miro held his breath as he watched the arc of their flight. It was as if time stopped. Their sharpened heads of the shafts weighed down their flight as they reached their apex. Then they fell.
The wave of arrows decimated the rampaging legionnaires. A second flight was already on its way. The attack faltered.
"Plug that gap! Every third man to the top of the line!" Miro cried. "Hold them back!"
The leading wave of attackers was cut down to a man. The Dunfolk released another flight of arrows, this time into the rear of the enemies’ lines.
Miro prayed. They had gained some time. But for how long?
"Sir, look!" Marshal Beorn pointed.
Miro gasped as he saw the lone warrior. He had crested the peak of the enemy command point, his sword blazing like the sun.
He was still unopposed.
65
Love starts with a smile, grows with a kiss and ends with a tear.
— Torak proverb
AMBER immediately grasped the situation as the Dunfolk released yet another flight of arrows. She had never realised the devastating potential of the weapons. Used in a group they were deadly.
Father Morten was helping some of the refugees. He looked exhausted. They had marched for two days without stopping. She only prayed that they were in time.
"I’m going to get to a higher vantage to see what’s happening on the other side," she called. The priest nodded without looking up.
She ran to the crest of a hill, breathing heavily by the time she arrived. The sight that greeted her was like nothing she could have imagined.
There were hordes of refugees on the opposite bank, their numbers uncountable. Protecting them from the mass of attacking forces was an incredibly long line of Alturan and Halrana soldiers.
They were only barely holding. In moments they would be overrun.
The refugees were coming across in rafts. Where the great span of the Sutanesta Bridge had once stood was an empty space. The massive blocks were scattered across the river, their tops poking above the water. There was no way the refugees would make it across before the defenders were overrun.
Like a surging ocean the enemy threw themselves against the defenders again and again. The Alturan commander was skilled indeed to have made it this long, surviving by the barest margin. Amber could see him outlined against the sky, gesturing as he handed out orders.
The enemy had chosen a similar vantage for their command of the battlefield. Amber could just make out an imposing man in imperial purple, another man in white at his side. She frowned.
A lone warrior, an Alturan by his colours, was flying up the side of the hill, throwing enemy warriors to the left and right with sheer determination. He carried an immense two-handed sword, shimmering with a rainbow of colours. Amber knew that sword. She knew that figure.
Her eyes opened wide. Her breath caught in her throat. It was Igor.
As she looked on, he cut into a legionnaire, tearing the man open in a burst of blood. He caught a blow in return on his neck but ignored it. He threw another warrior from the summit of the hill.