It was night, and memories plagued Ronglath Knightsbridge. The soldier had not learned of the death of Tempus Blackthorne until after his arrival at Voonlar. The wizard Sememmon had laughed as he informed Knightsbridge of the emissary's fate.
"Have no worries," Sememmon said. "You will be joining him soon enough. You will lead the first battalion against the dalesmen."
Knightsbridge had said nothing.
The journey from the Citadel of the Raven to Teshwave had been trying. The soldiers he had commanded were openly hostile and rebellious. The mercenaries who had joined them in the ruins of Teshwave knew nothing of the failure of Knightsbridge in Arabel, and cared only about the gold they had been given to report on time and prepared for the march. Knightsbridge had not been in Voonlar for more than a few days before the order came from Lord Bane to gather the men and ride out.
There had been no attacks on their supply wagons on either the first or second day of their journey, and this made Knightsbridge particularly suspicious. Either the defenders of Shadowdale had not perceived the greatest weakness of Bane's five-thousand-man army, or they did not have the manpower to spare to even make the attempt on the food supply. For every ten miles of road they conquered, almost fifty men had been left behind to protect the road against attackers. Though Bane might not approve, Knightsbridge would not leave their rear unguarded, even if it used up a quarter of his troops to do so.
Knightsbridge was surprised again when the army reached the forest northeast of the dale. He expected the woods to have been set ablaze. It seemed the people of Shadowdale would not die quietly after all. They wanted to fight.
As night fell, Knightsbridge expected to camp at the outskirts of the forest, but Lord Bane sent up orders to the contrary. They would march into the forest under the cover of night, where presumably they would have the advantage of surprise if they were to meet any resistance.
They would not be allowed torches.
Bane's magic-users had been given strict orders not to use magic under any circumstances, as the art had become unstable and could easily backfire upon them. That meant there would be no spells cast to enhance the night vision of the soldiers as they stomped noisily through the woods.
As Knightsbridge led his frightened men into the forest, it became clear that at least a few shared his opinion of Bane's strategy. The oldest and most experienced, Mordant DeCruew, rode beside Knightsbridge. Leetym and Rusch rode beside him.
"This is suicide," Leetym said.
Much to the shock of the other officers, Knightsbridge nodded.
Rusch raised his sword. "Our lord and god has given us a commandment."
"Which he has made impossible for us to keep!" Leetym protested. "He has driven us like livestock before the slaughter house. I am among those who has seen our 'god' eat and drink like a human. As a temple guardian, I have seen him cry like a simpering child. He has lied to us from the beginning!"
"We shall win this day," Rusch said, gesturing with his weapon.
"Stay your sword," Mordant said. "Our enemies will not expect us to move against the forest until the morning. They will not expect us in Shadowdale until late the following day. We will take them by surprise."
"Mordant is correct," Knightsbridge said. "Our fight is not with each other. The true battle lies ahead. If death is our destiny we will meet it like men, not like cowering animals. If the pair of you cannot accept that, I'll gut you right now."
The troops were silent as they rode deeper into the woods.
Connel Greylore, the first of Shadowdale's archers to hear the approach of the soldiers, took a moment to question his senses. He had climbed into position in the trees to take the watch for his fellows. Five hundred yards behind him, another archer had done the same. The pattern continued all the way back to Krag Pool. Each of the sentry archers had chosen a position where a clear beam from their signal lanterns could be seen by the next sentry, closer to the town. This way, they could signal the sentry behind them without revealing their position to the approaching enemy.
The noises came again. This time it was accompanied by an unmistakable cry of pain.
Connel raised his lantern so quickly that it slipped from his sweaty hands. He nearly fell from the heavy branch that supported him as he grabbed at the lantern. His heart was thundering as he felt the surface of the cold metal and forced his hand to relax.
The archer looked ahead. He could see the Zhentilar now as they struggled in the net of twisted branches that covered the width of the road. The trees had been made to fall in three directions, allowing the aggressors to walk or ride into the trap. Yet even if they tried to go through the forest, around the tangle of branches, the Zhentilar would find the flanking woods similarly set.
Connel gave the signal. A single flash from the other direction told him that it had been received. He climbed down from the tree and quickly woke three other archers who stealthily assumed their positions in the trees somewhat closer to the road. The sound of men hacking away and attempting to crawl under or push through the branches filled the night, covering any sounds the archers might have made as they readied themselves, moving to their blinds and readying the quivers of arrows that had been left at each position.
Someone sent these men like cattle to the slaughter, Connel thought. Then the leader of the four archers gave the order to fire on the Zhentilar.
Suddenly the shouts of annoyance and fury became the screams of the dying as a hail of arrows erupted from the trees, skewering Bane's troops. More archers arrived from the contingents behind the first group, taking up temporary positions in the trees beside the road.
A few of the Zhentilar pressed through the barriers, some using the corpses of their fellow soldiers as shields from the rain of arrows from above. They yelled curses as they rushed forward and did not see the huge wooden stakes that had been planted in the road, aimed chest high, until they impaled themselves.
Connel and the first group of Shadowdale archers began to fall back, climbing from their positions to the safe route through the woods that would put them behind the next line of defense, a series of pits in the road that had been carefully camouflaged. The pits were three feet deep, with a single stake rising up from their center.
The second group of archers was climbing down behind the first, preparing to follow them back toward town, when Connel Greylore thanked the gods that none of the Shadowdale archers had yet been killed by the Zhentilar. He didn't hear the notching of arrows from behind on the road as the Zhentish archers loosed a volley of arrows over the wall of branches. Suddenly there were hundreds of arrows sailing through the air. Almost all of them struck trees or became imbedded in branches or fell harmlessly to the road.
Connel Greylore didn't even feel the arrow that pierced his back and split his heart, killing him instantly.
Bane's men fought for hours in the darkness as they hacked through the myriad defenses of the road. Each time they found a stretch that seemed to have been left defenseless, Bane insisted on his troops reforming their line. The foot soldiers would march out in front, and inevitably be the first to fall back and break the line as they discovered new traps hidden in the road. The soldiers died as they fell into the pits or were pressed into caltrops by the press of the troops behind them.
Bane was ecstatic. With each death his power grew, just as Myrkul had promised. The body of the Black Lord glowed with a red aura, a visible result of the soul energies he absorbed. The intensity of the aura increased as more men — both Zhentilar and dalesmen — died, and the Black Lord had difficulty suppressing his delight.
Nevertheless, Bane feigned anger at the incompetence of his troops for not being able to overcome such simple defenses as he drove them on to their deaths.