He snapped the reins and rode forward up the trail, reaching the next turn on top of the rocky outcropping.
‘Damn it. You could have been killed riding a horse like that!’ Dennis cried, and then there was yet another surprise for Tinuva as Hartraft reached up and, as if to reassure himself, grabbed the elf by the forearm, squeezed tightly, then let his hand drop.
Dennis started to turn. ‘I’m personally going to flay the idiot who shot that arrow.’
‘No time,’ Tinuva announced, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole affair. ‘An honest mistake. I left on foot, you expected me to return that way. We’d better move. Gregory and I will ride ahead to make sure they don’t have an advance unit up on the trail. I doubt it though. Bovai was out front with the mounted riders looking for you. The rest of his forces he ordered to follow. My little game worked: it gave us the warning we needed.’
Dennis nodded in agreement.
‘You men dry, your stomachs full and your backsides warm?’ Gregory asked.
There was a ripple of laughter.
He looked to the east. The large moon was two hand-spans above the horizon, a crescent, still blood red. Beneath it there was the first faint glow of approaching dawn.
‘We’ve got a long run and a tough fight,’ Dennis interjected, again assuming his usual role. ‘They’ll be on us soon enough. Now move!’
Tinuva urged his mount forward, up the long, sloping, ice-covered trail. ‘And I think a storm is coming, so we need to be over the crest before it is full on, else we will die in the pass.’
Dennis and Asayaga gave commands and the men hurried ahead, following the trailbreakers’ marks. The two scouts should already be into the pass itself, heading up into the high mountains. By late afternoon, they should be at the crest, then once over, let the storm fill the pass with snow. Then all thoughts of Bovai could be put aside for another time.
As the men moved out, Tinuva considered: within the space of half a dozen minutes death had whispered close three times, twice at the hands of friends, once from a foe that was closer to him than any who were mortal could ever guess.
He knew it was a portent and he breathed deeply, savouring the taste of this world.
‘Come on, move your lazy asses, move it!’
Dennis Hartraft, gasping for breath, staggered to the top of the trail. Leaning over, he struggled against the urge to vomit, gulping down deep breaths of freezing air.
He stood up, and pushed back his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. Looking down the trail, he saw his men staggering forward, feet churning through the powdery snow.
‘Archers to the flanks! Mark your targets carefully: don’t waste your arrows on the goblins and men! Kill the trolls first, then the dark elves!’
More than one man had an empty quiver; they were running short.
He looked up at the sky. The noonday sun was riding low on the southern horizon. If it wasn’t for the terror of the moment, he could have almost paused to take in the spectacular view. They had climbed several thousand feet throughout the cold morning and now the vast plain of the Broad River was spread out below them and he could easily trace out the distant road crossing up over the Yabonese Hills which they had traversed the day before. The air up here was pure and crystalline but unfortunately far too thin and it was affecting his men. Fortunately it was affecting their pursuers as well.
It had been a bitter running fight. Within a half hour of their fleeing the camp the first attack had swept up behind them and repeated assaults had hit throughout the day. There would be a break in the fighting, his men pulling back a few hundred more yards, weaving their way up the switchbacking trail, then another attack would come, there would be a pause, followed by a another pull back. Bovai’s forces had paid a terrible price to press the fleeing humans. All of their human mercenaries were either dead or wounded, and the moredhel were now without any cavalry support.
Now that the switchbacks were behind them, all that was saving them was the fact that the path they were on was little more than a goat-track climbing straight up, reaching up past the tree-line. It was impossible for the enemy to flank or get ahead in such terrain as long as he slowly kept retreating: the trick was to disengage from the battle at the right moment and he could see that it was almost time to do it again.
He looked around. The mountain continued to soar upwards behind him for another half a thousand feet or more; the problem now was what he had feared for the last hour. The trail was giving out. It was all bare rock above – the thick tangle of stunted trees and bushes which had helped to secure their flanks had all but disappeared. With their backs to the top of the mountain the only tactic left was to deploy up into the boulders and make a final stand.
Looking around, he saw no sight of Tinuva or Gregory: it was as if they had simply vanished. He knew that Gregory had deliberately been keeping the elf away from the fight, pushing him forward to scout. It was strange, though, for them to have simply vanished at a time like this and it made him uneasy. He looked back down the trail and could see that the battle was again getting desperate: a column of goblins was forming up, shields forward and overhead, advancing from behind to charge past the beleaguered trolls and moredhel.
He slipped back down the trail, losing the hundred yards he had just so painfully climbed, dodging behind a boulder when several arrows came winging up from below, arcing up high and then plunging down.
The Tsurani were skilfully holding the path, deployed into squads of five-man units. Each unit would battle for several minutes, then they’d fall back, retiring to the rear and the next squad would engage. To either side of the trail, wherever it was possible to gain a foothold and a little concealment, Kingdom archers covered the approaches and acted as skirmishers to secure the flanks. Though he would never say it out loud, the two sides were working together seamlessly in this fight, both playing to their strengths, supporting each other, and several times he had seen a Kingdom or Tsurani soldier help pull someone from the other side out of a close scrape. The one-eyed Tsurani had even carried in a Kingdom soldier knocked senseless by a troll’s club.
Within the first hour the moredhel had learned their bitter lesson and were now holding back after losing at least a dozen to the human archers who had every advantage of higher ground and a wind at their backs. Throughout most of the morning they had taken to driving their human and goblin allies forward for the bloody frontal assaults on the Tsurani infantry.
Not that the fight had been all one-sided: seven Kingdom and twelve Tsurani were dead, and a dozen more were wounded. As Dennis continued his slide down the path he passed Corwin who was marshalling the effort to keep the wounded moving, and given the nature of the fight on such a narrow front Dennis had finally agreed to detail off fifteen men to lend him assistance.
Slipping up behind Asayaga, who was in the second rank, Dennis grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘You can’t see it from here but around the corner of the trail a goblin column’s getting set to charge,’ he gasped. ‘Get ready to pull everyone back.’
Asayaga grunted an acknowledgment.
His forward line was waiting with shields lowered. No one had approached through the switchback below them for several minutes. Asayaga barked a command.
No one moved.
Dennis, turned and started back up the
