When the beasts were halfway up the slope Stavut bellowed: ‘Now!’
Shakul and several of the others hurled themselves at the first boulder, tipping it over the edge. Others of the pack pushed another great rock after it. Then a third. The first stopped about ten paces ahead, but the second rolled on, picking up pace. Shakul ran to the first, Grava alongside him. Together they got it moving, then loped back to where Stavut stood with Harad.
Five boulders were now rumbling down the slope. They picked up speed, bouncing off the rock face to the right. One of them rolled over the edge long before it reached the Jiamads. Another hit the cliff face and stopped. The rest thundered on, picking up speed. The charging Jiamads stopped, as they realized the danger. They turned and tried to run. The officer’s horse reared as he dragged on the reins. Then a boulder struck the piebald, hurtling it over the edge. The officer had managed to kick his feet clear of the stirrups just before the boulder struck, and threw himself from the doomed horse.
Harad stared down through the dust cloud the avalanche had caused. At least ten of the Jiamads had been swept to their deaths, or crushed. The others regrouped. The officer, his plumed helmet gone, waved his sword in the air, pointing up the mountainside. And the enemy came on again.
Shakul and the pack waited. Stavut moved up to stand at the centre, Harad alongside him.
‘I hate fighting,’ said Stavut.
‘Picked the wrong place to be,’ muttered Harad.
As the enemy neared Stavut shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Kill them all!’ With a great roar the pack hurled themselves at the enemy. Harad ran with them. A massive beast swung an iron club at his head.
Harad ducked and sent Snaga crunching through its ribs. Then he shoulder-charged the dying beast, thrusting it aside as he hurled himself at another. Shakul grabbed a Jiamad by the throat and groin, hoisting it into the air and flinging the hapless beast back into his comrades. Stavut whacked his sabre at a charging monster. The blade bounced away, causing no more than a shallow cut. The beast grabbed Stavut by the shirt, dragging him towards its fangs. A mighty blow from Shakul struck the side of its head.
Dropping Stavut it turned towards Shakul. The two huge beasts roared and hurled themselves at one another.
Stavut pushed himself to his feet, and gathered up his fallen sabre. The plateau echoed with the sound of snarls and cries. Shakul tore the throat from his opponent and rushed back into the fray. Harad was attacking with relentless power, blocking and cutting, the great axe cleaving through fur, flesh and bone.
Stavut ran to help him, leaping over fallen beasts, and ducking round others who were still fighting. The officer of the Eternal Guard saw him, and rushed in. Stavut blocked a fierce thrust, then threw himself back as a second slashed towards his belly. The blade flicked up, tearing his shirt and nicking the skin of his chest. Holding the sabre two-handed Stavut slashed and cut, but his attack was easily parried. ‘You are dead meat!’ sneered the officer.
Harad, who was close by, smashed Snaga into the face of an attacking beast, then leapt towards the guardsman. The soldier saw him coming and swung to meet the new threat. With no concern for fairness Stavut rushed in, plunging his sabre through the man’s throat. As he did so, he saw that Harad’s attempt to save him had put the axeman in peril. He had turned his back on the Jiamads coming at him. Stavut tried to call out a warning. A club thundered against Harad’s head. The big man staggered. Stavut leapt to his aid. Harad, blood streaming from his temple, drove Snaga through his attacker’s chest.
The enemy broke — the survivors running back down the trail.
Stavut, feeling light-headed with relief, sought out Shakul. The big beast was bleeding from several shallow cuts and gashes. ‘Are you all right?’ Stavut asked.
‘Strong,’ answered Shakul. Stavut moved around the killing ground. He found eight of his pack dead, and four others wounded. Then he saw Grava lying close to the precipice. Running to him he squatted down. ‘No, no, no!’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t you dare be dead!’ Cradling the elongated head he felt for a pulse, but couldn’t find one. Shakul leaned over, his snout close to Grava’s mouth.
‘Breathes,’ said Shakul. ‘Not dead.’
Stavut stared up at the sky. ‘Thank you!’ he shouted. Grava groaned, his golden eyes opening. He stared at Stavut, then said something unintelligible, his long tongue lolling more than ever.
‘Good to see you too,’ said Stavut happily. Rising, he turned and stared down the slope. ‘Will they come back?’ he asked Shakul.
‘Officer dead. They run now. Others come back. Maybe.’
‘We won, Shak! We beat them!’
Then he saw Harad lying face down on the ground close by. Stavut ran to him, rolling him to his back.
Harad’s face was grey. Shakul loomed above him. ‘No breath,’ he said. ‘Friend dead.’
Suddenly Harad’s body spasmed, and ice blue eyes flared open. ‘Dead?’ he said. ‘In your dreams, laddie!’
Skilgannon, dressed now in Alahir’s old armour and mail hauberk, knelt at the centre of the Drenai defensive line. All around him stood the grim warriors of the Legend Riders, arrows notched to their bows. Beside him knelt Decado, wearing the armour of one of the riders killed in the battle with the lancers. Skilgannon felt uncomfortable in the heavy chain mail, which, while not initially restricting movement, would leach energy from the wearer by its weight alone. Normally Skilgannon preferred speed and freedom of movement, but today the battle would be fought in close confinement, and there was no way he could avoid swords or spears being thrust at him during the initial melee.
Further down the ancient road the Eternal Guard had drawn up. They could see the Legend Riders waiting for them, and Skilgannon watched as their officers gathered together, discussing strategy. He hoped they would take some time, not because he feared the coming battle, but because lengthy discussion among them would show indecision. There was no such delay. Within moments orders were called out and the Eternal Guard dismounted and put aside their lances. Round infantry shields were unloaded from several wagons at the rear of the column, and passed to the warriors. Skilgannon shivered suddenly. The emblem on the shields was the Spotted Snake — the emblem he had devised for the Queen of Naashan’s troops so many centuries ago. Back then the men who fought under that emblem had been his: highly trained, superbly disciplined, and wondrously brave.
A quarter-mile below, the Eternal Guard formed up smoothly. There was no sense of excitement, no indication of alarm or concern. These were fighting men.
Skilgannon glanced to left and right. He had instructed Alahir to place the burliest and most powerful of his riders at the front of the line, ready to stand their ground against the onslaught. Once the two forces clashed there would be a period of heaving and pushing for ground. It was vital that the line was not forced back in these early moments.
‘Fine-looking bunch, aren’t they?’ observed Decado.
Skilgannon did not reply. The Eternal Guard had begun to march. Beyond them more than a hundred huge Jiamads waited. Alahir had been right. The Guard wanted the honour and the glory of defeating the Drenai.
Shields held high the Guard came on. There were no battle cries, merely the rhythmic sounds of booted feet, marching in step. Alahir eased his way through to the front of the Drenai line. Then he too knelt, to give the archers behind him a clear view of the enemy. The Armour of Bronze gleamed in the afternoon sun, which glittered on the winged helm, and the bright sword in his hand.