Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [1]
Moments later a second volley landed with similar ineffective results. The bandits attacked, a ragtag collection of twenty or so humans on foot, with the odd ore and goblin thrown in for good measure. They appeared all at once, pouring out from behind the hillocks and mounds that lined the road, screaming with battle lust as they formed a disorganized horde in the middle of the Trader Road.
Corin knew the arrows had been merely a decoy, a chance for the robbers to close the distance between themselves and the caravan, negating the chance of a wizard wiping out the whole band with a single spell of mass destruction. However, there were no wizards in Igland's company. His men preferred the honest strength of forged steel and a well-trained sword arm.
As a single unit Igland's men charged forward through the downpour, lowering their heavy lances in unison. Their mounts splashed through the puddles in the road, churning up great clods of mud in their wake. Foolishly the bandits kept rushing head on, gathered in a tight little group in the center of the road as if they wanted to be ground under the heavy hooves of the war-horses.
Corin braced his lance in the stirrup and with his free hand wiped the rain from his forehead. He relished the coming slaughter-for slaughter it would be. Most of their foes would be trampled beneath the initial charge, the survivors would be run down by the riders even as they fled back into the hills. It was almost too simple.
Through the darkness of the storm and the torrential rains none of them ever saw the trip wires stretched across the road. The front runners went down, the horses flipping and twisting as the ropes entangled their legs, the riders tossed from their mounts to land with stunning force on the road before them, their heavy lances torn from their grasp and sent hurtling through the air. The second rank was too close behind them to pull up, and another set of snares sent them tumbling to the soaked earth in a chaotic mass of beasts and men sliding through the mud. The weight of their armor dragged the soldiers down, momentarily pinning them to the ground, unable to evade the final rank of riders, unhorsing them as well and spreading the carnage through all of Igland's company. The rhythmic thunder of charging hooves disintegrated into the cacophony of crashing armor, neighing horses, and screaming men.
Corin was thrown from his horse, miraculously landing uninjured in the soft mud. But even as he tried to roll to the side he was swept up in the chaos, carried along by the force of the charge, swallowed up by the rolling, crashing herd of dying men and animals. Limbs were crushed and skulls were trampled or kicked in by the iron shoes of the fallen horses; the mounts shrieked neighs of terror and pain as leg bones splintered and were ground to dust by the onslaught of their own mass and momentum.
The soldiers lay strewn about the road. Several bodies were mangled, limbs jutting out at unnatural angles, compound fractures protruding through skin or bulging obscenely beneath their mailed suits of armor. The horses lay beside their masters, kicking and thrashing in blind agony, as lethal to their owners now as they had been to their enemies in glorious battles of the past.
Corin crawled clear of the fallen men and writhing mounts and rose hastily to his feet. He had suffered no worse than bumps and bruises, though he had lost both his shield and lance in the fall. Somehow his sword was still in its scabbard, strapped to his side. Through the rain he noticed several other forms struggle to their feet, maybe half a dozen in all, to face the coming assault.
Corin didn't even have time to draw his weapon before the bandits fell on them. A goblin charged at him, waving a cruel looking short sword above his head. Corin lunged forward, colliding with his onrushing assailant and catching his attacker by surprise. On the wet ground footing was unsure, and the goblin