All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [47]
"Come, oh, come play with me! Bring, oh, bring your sword, and We'll be threer
The Riders had succeeded in keeping the foe east of the creek. Secure in their numbers, none of the Zhen-tilar had moved to outflank the paltry line of waiting warriors… yet. Nor were they bothering with any sort of tight formation, merely gathering in mobs around a dozen steadily advancing standards.
Shar's lip curled in derision, and then she shrugged. Outnumbering us hundreds to one, what do they need of discipline or battlecraft?
The Sword of the South came on without pause or parley. Shar looked again at the Riders, wondering if they'd mount another charge to disrupt the steady Zhent advance. Kuthe's helm turned; the white-horse blazon caught the sun as he looked back at her. And then his helm jerked sharply back east again.
There was a murmur from the defenders of Mistledale as they all saw what Kuthe had espied the casting of, from his high saddle: eight tiny balls of fire spun up into view and roared across Swords Creek, howling through the air and growing in size and fury as they came.
The line of defenders raised their shields and shifted uneasily as the roaring conflagration spun nearer-but then the spinning flames and sparks rippled, pulsed… and were gone. Swarms of birds and smoke spread harmlessly across the sky. The unseen wild magic shields in front of the defenders had worked.
A shout of satisfaction arose from the defenders-but it was answered by a ragged cry of excitement, rising from the Zhent ranks. A trumpet blared, and the Sword of the South charged forward. They lowered their spears and trotted into the creek, a sea of soldiers flanked by two bands of mounted armsmen. The horsemen to the north splashed slowly down through the creek, avoiding the road-no doubt fearing traps. Their comrades to the south spurred across the creek in a spray of waters, and gathered speed as they hurtled up the west bank toward the Riders.
Shar looked from one forest of black helms to the other… and back again. Was it going to be all over in the first few breaths? There aren't enough of us to stand for more than one charge… and that only with luck.
The screams began. The Zhent horsemen to the right were raising frantic shields or toppling from their saddles as a storm of blades twinkled and flashed around them at faces and throats.
"First blow to Chauntea," Itharr murmured, watching them plunge on into oblivion. None of the Zhentilar horsemen reached the leveled lances of the waiting Riders, and few managed to pull out of that storm of steel to flee.
Lighting cracked and flashed low over the Zhent ranks, stabbing at the defenders of Mistledale… but became a stream of red rose petals, and drifted away on the quickening breeze. There were chuckles up and down the line of defenders. The sweat of quickening fear was making Shar's blade sticky; she shifted her grip on it and snatched a last glance to the north before the first Zhents reached her.
The northern Zhent cavalry had crossed the creek and were lowering their lances to meet a single line of Riders that had come out of nowhere to bar their path. With an exultant roar they swept down through the phantom forms of the waiting Riders… and plunged into the spike-lined disemboweling pits. At about the same time, the arrows of the best archers of Mistledale found them.
A spear cast out of the Zhent lines clipped the edge of Sharantyr's shield, and she found herself in the midst of what all battles become: a crowded, confused whirlwind of hard-plied steel crashing down on shields and armor, skirling off opposing blades-and sinking into screaming men.
A Zhentilar armsman swung a huge morningstar at her. Shar threw herself to her knees. As the weapon rattled past overhead, she struck upward with her shield, hurling her foe off-balance. She swept her sword up into the throat of the next charging armsman, who staggered on, dead already, and ran his blade into the armpit of the man with the morningstar.