Jonar smiled as the roar continued from his lines.
"Goblins, or most of them, don't speak orc!" he said with a broad smile.
Elkan didn't seem to understand.
The knights, seeing the goblins bottled by their own allies, broke into a charge. Horns rang out perfect notes, announcing the charge.
Snow flew up over the charging riders, kicked up by the thundering mounts.
The goblins panicked. They turned, saw the cavalry, turned again, saw the spears, and turned once more. Their only hope lay through the cavalry-or so they thought.
The goblins ran forward toward the cavalry in small groups, keeping as low as they could. The knights' charge hit the forward edge of the goblins and tore them apart. The goblins tried to fight, but they were too short to effectively engage the knights without the element of surprise. Many turned to run back to the orcs once more but were skewered in the back as they tried to run.
Elkan began to yell. "What have you done?" he screamed. "Why have you sacrificed them? You heartless bastard…"
"It was you who were going to sacrifice us, wasn't it, mage?" the general yelled back at Elkan. Jonar shoved him off to the side. The general ran out in front of his line. In his best parade voice, he yelled. "Are we going to take this slaughter? Are we going to allow this to go unanswered?"
The hearty yell was nearly drowned out by the fighting not a hundred yards to their front.
"Then charge!"
The drummers had been waiting for the command. In unison, they began to beat the quick staccato of the attack order. The orc line leaped forward.
The cavalry had broken down into small fighting groups, each chasing goblins in one direction or another. Their commander yelled to them to pull together but he could not be heard. A handful of knights readied themselves to receive the orcs.
Two thousand orcs came on.
They had to cover only a hundred yards to close with their enemy. The knights who had not rallied were caught off-guard. Orcs sprang on their backs, pulling them from their mounts. They speared others, both beast and rider falling in unison in death.
The battle flowed around the two hundred remaining knights in the center. They formed a tight circle, lances pointing out, defensively, just as the orcs had done previously. Their commander, now holding the Kjeldoran standard, stood in the middle.
Jonar waited. The battle lasted only a few minutes. A hundred knights fell. No more than twenty orcs met the same fate.
The remaining knights broke off contact with the orcs and retreated five hundred yards before they turned and faced their enemy. The blue-and-white checkerboard livery was spattered with blood and grime. Even the army standard was ripped in two. The survivors, numbering fewer than one hundred, formed a battle line again.
Jonar and his standard bearer walked across the intervening five hundred yards, right up to the lance point of the first knight, and stopped. The knight had murder in his eyes, but discipline kept him in check. The commander rode forward.
"I am Sir Michand, knight commander of the Orders of the Griffin and Phoenix. " He saluted solemnly.
Jonar removed his battle helmet and bowed low. "I am Jonar, general of Balduvia and commander of the Orc Clans. I am willing to offer terms of surrender. "
Elkan was only a step behind. "What? You can't be serious? I am in command here! I…"
The mage never finished his sentence. Jonar turned and slammed his sword into the mage's gut, thrusting upward. The blood did not show on the mage's ruby robes as he fell forward.
Jonar pulled the weapon free. He wiped his weapon in the snow, then on the mage's robes, before returning it to the scabbard.
"Why?" Elkan gasped.
Jonar shook his head in disgust. "You were going to sacrifice us to win this battle. Instead we sacrificed the goblins to save ourselves. Now I am sacrificing you to this knight as a gesture, and as a warning. No one sacrifices the pride of the orcs-not at Balesh Pass and certainly not here."
The light that flickered in the mage's eyes went out. He slumped over, face first into the snow.
Jonar turned back to the astonished knights. "As I was saying, I am ready to offer terms."
The knight commander was visibly shaken. "I will not surrender my command to be slaughtered by you brutes. We would rather die with honor."
The knights immediately around their commander tightened their grips on shields, weapons and reins. Their mounts shifted under them.
Jonar nodded thoughtfully. "Fair enough. I then offer you this-you may take your command, or what is left of it, and return home. All I ask is that you surrender your battle standard."
Sir Michand sat with his mouth slightly open in surprise. He quickly caught himself and straightened his posture.
"Very well, General. You have beaten us in fair combat. My honor demands that I do no less. I accept your terms." Black
Black, the symbol of death and despair, can be characterized as morbid, impatient, incorporeal, and stagnant. It is the color of pollution and pestilent, festering swamps. Those who show fondness for this color are not the type to show off. They will impress those worthy of their time by their real substance and weight. Black leans on the side of mystery and darkness but can be mighty and dignified. Black is a stark color, the beacon of nothingness, but those who favor this color abhor inevitability. They would hold to the present forever if they could and they will probably try. Black is for those who hide their darker sides behind an air of sophistication, for those who lurk in alleyways and dark corners, and for those willing to pay the price of greatness. Dark Water Vance Moore
Tayva walked from the stone hut, the morning crisp and cool with a light dusting of dew. She stretched her back and heard the creak of aging bones and poor bedding. She called over her shoulder in a raspy voice that had begun to shrill with age. "Loria, I'm going to check the birds. "
Usually Tayva checked the pigeons later in the morning, but some of the caged birds had looked unwell the day before. She coughed in the cool air as she tried to clear the dust and smoke of the night's fire from her throat. Nerving herself to face the day, and unwrapping the greasy shawl from her shoulders, Tayva threw it into the dark doorway behind her. She just missed tangling the feet of her cousin.
Loria exited and tilted her face to the sun burning through the morning haze. Her features were finer and more delicate than those of Tayva. She wore dull rags, but they hung neatly, and while patches and crude stitching formed most of the smock, there were no actual holes. She held a wooden comb in her left hand and rubbed her eyes. Turning back to the hut, she picked up a crude bucket with her free hand.
The hut the two women exited was small and poorly thatched. The walls were of irregular rocks and turf the pair had cut years before, while the smoke from the stoked fire oozed through the roof. The dry weather had allowed repairs to the roof and walls to be delayed, and it appeared more ruin than residence. The hovel lay on the shore of a new lake, the water clear and cold in the morning light. The doorway looked out at bare and eroded hills in the distance rather than the water close at hand. The cousins cared little for what they saw.
Tayva walked to the back of the hut, as Loria continued to the lake edge and filled the bucket with water. She began wetting and combing her hair to look her best for the coming day. Tayva sighed as she considered how pathetic Loria's morning routine appeared, the careful and complete beauty preparations of their youth reduced to a soapless wash in cold water.
Tayva moved to the dovecot set behind the hut. The building was backed with carefully cut and fitted stone, and the roof and three of the walls were a woven lattice of wicker and pieces of wood. The wood was in the form of barrel staves, bought at great cost for two poverty-stricken women. The cot, though weathered and aged, was far better than the near ruin the women inhabited.