All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [58]
The Rider charge had cleared space enough to fight, and the easy killing was done. Fresh Zhents were pressing forward for their first chance to fight, and there seemed no end to them.
They'd struck at Shadowdale from the west, and from the north. Some fell magic had wrought a great explosion and fire westward, hard by the Twisted Tower. There was fighting all over the dale, and the day might still be lost-but this welcome, unexpected aid had come from Mistledale, from whence she'd expected only more blackhelms.
"Azuth be with us," she breathed, feeling fresh sorrow at the thought that Mystra was no more.
Storm swept her notched long sword up to strike aside a reaching halberd. Catching hold of it as the man rushed helplessly forward, she pulled, sprawling him to the turf in front of her. A dalesman stabbed the Zhentin the face before he could rise, and from somewhere near at hand Storm heard the deep laughter of Bronn Selgard, the smith. Dove must be rallying the last folk from the inn to join this push, to drive the Zhents back into the trees.
There was a ringing sound as the great iron-headed hammer Bronn wielded crashed down on some unfortunate Zhent's helm. The winded Rangers Three began to fall back. A spell hurled bodies in all directions, tearing a breach in the wall of corpses behind her.
Storm turned, frowning-creating a breach for the Zhents to pour through? What simpleton had birthed such a plan?-and then laughed aloud in delight.
"For Shadowdale!" came the roar from beyond the wall. Warriors in full plate armor rode through the breach, lances gleaming. At their head, three figures rode abreast: Florin; Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale; and Shaerl, his lady.
"Ware!" Storm yelled to the Rangers Three, waving them aside.
Dove sprang acrobatically across the path of the charging horses, somersaulted in a clanking of protesting armor, and fetched up beside Storm. Just then, the lances of the charging dalefolk came down, crashing into the massed Zhentilar in a great screaming of men and horses and tortured metal.
As first, the horses were slowed by the sheer weight of blackhelms standing against them. The mounted armsmen of the tower spurred out and around them, striking at the foe on either side. When the last horseman had charged, the Zhent lines had fallen back a good twenty paces-a distance marked by a carpet of black-armored fallen.
The dale riders pulled back to spare their horses from Zhent blades, and a cheer went up from the weary farmers and merchants who'd held the wall of dead so long against the forefront of the Zhent army.
A little space opened up between the defenders and the army of Zhentil Keep; Dove stared across it and hissed, "Oh, for some arrows…"
"All gone, hours ago," Storm told her, and they embraced wearily, eyes on the foe. Both sides had paused to catch breath, it seemed, staring at each other across the fallen, but making no move to attack.
"Gods, look how many there are," Shaerl murmured. "Can we hold them until sunset?"
"We must," Mourngrym replied shortly, looking around at the dead. "And dark'll bring the wolves and wild dogs out to feed, too."
"Well fought, you three," Storm called to Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr, who'd sat down together on some dead Zhentilar, rubbing at aching shoulders and bruised forearms.
"Of course," Itharr replied. "After all, you taught us."
Storm chuckled. "To dance with your blade, aye, a little-but fighting as one is your own doing."
"They're coming again," Dove said, striding forward. " "Ware, all!"
She swung her sword in wide, wild arcs to loosen stiffening muscles, and set herself to meet the Zhentilar attack; a cautious affair this time, with two or three blackhelms moving against each defender.
"This could be bad," Belkram murmured.
Sharantyr sighed. "Just try to stay alive… I need you both."
"You do?" Itharr asked, adopting Term's manner of mock astonishment.