A second legionnaire emerged from the undergrowth and conferred with the first. The first legionnaire then plunged a long stick into the water and, seeing it wasn't too deep, said something to his fellow.
Miro wondered if this was going to be a repeat of the battle he had fought just the night before — hand-to-hand combat made clumsy and sluggish by the dragging water.
The first legionnaire jumped into the water, and was soon followed by the second. A third soldier in black came out of the undergrowth, and then more were appearing from all directions, taking quick stock before jumping down into the shallow river.
Miro heard a creaking sound, and caught movement to his right. Turning, he saw Layla standing with her bow held in front of her, the string pulled to her ear, her arm trembling with effort. Wondering how many of the Dunfolk were here, Miro rested his right hand on his zenblade and waited for Layla to release.
More of the enemy plunged into the water, and those in front were now well past half-way across the river. They walked forward in a broad line, with more and more of their number joining them with every moment that passed.
When was Layla going to let go?
A muscled Tingaran with an arm made of metal — a melding — stepped forward, his eyes scanning ahead as he reached the bank where Miro sat waiting. The Tingaran's eyes met Miro's and suddenly widened with surprise, and Miro's heart skipped a beat when he realised he'd been seen. The Tingaran opened his mouth to shout, but before any sound could escape his mouth Layla released.
The arrow sped through the air with no more sound than the flight of a bird. In an instant it jutted from the Tingaran's throat, red feathers bristling. As blood gushed from the warrior's mouth he placed his hands at his neck and then toppled over, into the water.
Barely a breath later the air was filled with arrows. Miro had never seen them used like this; it was like a flashing horizontal rain. One after another, the soldiers of the enemy were peppered with the razor sharp steel of the arrowheads, the shafts jutting out at all angles. In just a few moments, hundreds, perhaps thousands of the enemy were killed. Miro had only seen greater destruction from runebombs and prismatic orbs.
There was no lore involved at all.
As they became aware of the danger, those of the enemy wearing enchanted armour hurriedly activated, and the glow of the runes separated them from their fellows so that Miro could pick them out like sunflowers in a bed of nightblooms. The arrows bounced off their armour, but even so the Dunfolk persisted, and their marksmen found the small unprotected places: the lower arms, neck, and eyes.
Before Miro could enter the fray, they were all gone.
Then the next wave came, a thousand more men plunged into the river, and the slaughter commenced again.
Just as Miro began to wonder whether he was needed at all, the enemy's numbers started to tell. As the soldiers reached the bank where the Dunfolk lay in hiding and the bowmen became embroiled in close combat, Miro saw that hand-to-hand fighting was the archers' weakness. The rate of fire dropped significantly and more of the Black Army's soldiers gained the bank.
Miro's moment had come. The arcane symbols that covered Miro's armoursilk blazed with sudden power as he called on one sequence after another. His zenblade came alive in his hands and lit up with red fire.
Layla stood at his side, arrow after arrow flying from her bow. A legionnaire crested the bank, coming at the Dunfolk healer with his sword raised, but Miro ran the warrior through, spinning on his heel and then blocking the cut of a second warrior attacking Layla from behind. As the enemy turned their attention to this new danger Miro scanned the bank, and seeing it was clear, leapt into the river.
He slashed in a sweeping arc at another melding, a black-clad Tingaran with a rune-covered arm of metal. Miro's stroke was blocked by the warrior's enchanted sword. As the melding countered, Miro raised his zenblade and blocked his opponent's sword. He realised too late that the melding held his sword one-handed, before his vision went black as the melding's metal fist smashed into his chin.
As Miro fell back the melding spoke some words and the runes on his arm blazed with colours of red and purple. Miro knew the next blow would kill him. He now had to watch both the man's arm and his sword.
Miro recoiled from the pain and his song fell short. His enemy chose that instant to launch a series of blows at Miro's head and body, alternating sword strokes with punches. A thrust caught Miro's chest, turned by his armoursilk, and was swiftly followed by a straight punch at Miro's head with all the melding's formidable strength behind it. Miro ducked and weaved, the water dragging at his movements, giving himself time to let his breathing return to normal.