“This is how I want to be remembered-turned out in my finest armor at the head of loyal men and brave. This is how I would enter the rest of my fathers.”
Ronsard raised a hand to protest, but Eskevar waved him silent. “Enough of dying,” he said. “Now to arms! For the enemy once more draws near.”
Across the broken battlefield, now slippery with the blood of the dead and dying, the Ningaal advanced, slowly this time, behind a vanguard of horsemen with flaming pikes. The four warlords had positioned themselves so as to command a phalanx of troops ahead and behind them. This time there would be no force held in reserve, and there would be no tricks, for they moved over the plain step by step, wary of the slightest shift among the soldiers of the Dragon King.
The baleful Wolf Star burned down upon the scene with its hateful light, bright as noonday sun, casting shadows all around. It seemed to grow larger and to fill the sky, making the forlorn moon rising in the east a pale and insignificant thing.
Eskevar turned his face to the Wolf Star. “Surely that is an evil thing. I feel its fire in my bones. How it burns. Ronsard, Theido”- he turned to them both-”do you feel it?”
“It is the heat of battle I feel, Sire,” offered Ronsard. “Aye, that, too,” agreed Eskevar. The King seemed to come once more to himself and looked out across the battlefield, now rolling in the smoke of the fiery pikes of the Ningaal.
“If they think us slow-witted enough to wait here like cattle for the slaughter, they are mistaken,” said Eskevar as he glared out over the field. “Assemble the commanders!” he called. A trumpeter sent the message ringing in the air.
“We will charge them there-in the center,” said the King, pointing toward the advancing body of the enemy with his long sword. “We will show them how the knights of Mensandor value their lives.”
“Aye,” agreed the gathered lords, their armor battered and bloody, but their faces still eager in the light of the hateful star.
“And we will show them how the knights of Mensandor value their freedom,” shouted Rudd. “For glory!” The nobleman raised his voice and led them in a rousing battle chant.
“Go back to your men,” instructed Eskevar. “Be ready, and wait for my signal.” Eskevar took his place at the head of his knights. Theido and Ronsard stayed at either side.
Theido, guessing the end was near, looked across to his friend Ronsard and offered a wordless salute. This was the long dark road he had seen so long ago. Now that it stretched before him he did not fear it, though it saddened him. He wanted to speak some final word to his friend, but none would come. The salute said all.
“Farewell, brave friend,” said Ronsard as he returned the salute. He closed the visor of his helm and raised the point of his sword toward Theido.
“For Mensandor!” cried Eskevar suddenly. His voice sounded clear and strong as thunder as it carried across the plain. He raised his sword and spurred his courser forward, and with a roar the army of the Dragon King leaped as one into furious motion.
The shock of the clash as the charging knights met the stubborn Ningaal shook the earth. Horses screamed and wheeled, plunging and plunging again. Knights cut the air with mace and flail; swords flashed and spears thrust and bowstrings sang.
Eskevar’s white stallion could be seen dashing straightway into the thick of the fighting. Ronsard, bold and bright, defended his King’s left with a tireless arm. Time and again the champion’s sword whirled through the air, dealing death with every blow. Theido guarded the King’s right and strove to keep himself between his Lord and the bloodthirsty axes of the barbarian horde.
Here and there amidst the furious melee the standards of the Mensandorean lords could be seen as islands of defenders, surrounded by a sea of enemy fighting men, labored to remain abreast of one another. But one by one the standards fell, some never to rise again, as the long night of battle wore on.
The daring attack of the Dragon King produced at length an unexpected result. So fiercely did the King’s army fight, and so well, that they succeeded in punching through the center of the Ningaal formation. Despite the enemy’s superior force, the defenders cut a wide swath through the heart of the warlords’ offensive and in time came together behind the Ningaal lines.
“This is unexpected!” cried Eskevar, breathing heavily and leaning forward in his saddle. “Our cause is not yet lost. Look there! See Rudd drives through to join us, and yonder Fincher and Benniot.”
Theido looked at the swirling maelstrom before him and separated the shapes of the Dragon King’s knights from the darker forms of the Ningaal. The din of the fight rang loud in his ears, but he did see the faintest glimmer of hope that the battle could be won, as Eskevar had said. Their charge had scattered the larger part of the Ningaal and had divided them like a wedge. The warlords of Nin circled round the outside of the battle storm and sought to rejoin their troops, but in vain. The enemy was falling away in droves.
“Is it true?” shouted Ronsard, throwing his visor up to view the contest.
“Yes!” agreed Theido. “See how they crowd toward the center-their own numbers crush them. If we direct a sally there, we can further divide them.”
“By the gods! You are right. Trumpeter! Rally the men. Onward we go!” Eskevar urged his steed once more ahead, and the Ningaal felt the heat of his blade like a flame kindled against them. The King’s knights formed a spearhead which drove through the milling mass and cut it down. Ningaal warriors forgot their discipline and ran screaming from the battlefield in great numbers; their commanders slew many deserters with their own hands in order to stop the rout.
This second charge was successful, and the defenders took heart that they might indeed carry the victory. With jubilant whoops and courageous battle cries they stood shoulder to shoulder and fought, urging one another to greater deeds of valor.
By the time the sickly moon had advanced two hours’ time, the army of the Dragon King had for the first time taken the upper hand in the battle. The warlords were fighting a defensive action, seeking a retreat whereby they could regroup their lagging regiments. But Eskevar and his commanders, though suffering from fatigue and the terrible attrition of their numbers, doggedly struggled on to put the invaders to flight.
At midnight an entire Ningaal regiment broke and ran from the field. The sight of the beaten enemy dragging itself away from the combat greatly heartened the defenders, who sent a cheer aloft which reached Askelon and was echoed by the fearful refugees who peered anxiously from the battlements of the fortress.
“We can seize the day!” shouted Eskevar. “The barbarians have lost the heart to win.”
“Sire, let us pursue them and drive them from the field,” said Ronsard. “But you remain here where your soldiers can see you. Gather your strength.”
“Yes, my Lord,” agreed Theido. “Let your commanders earn some glory. Do not endanger yourself further. Rest a little, and regain your strength.”
Eskevar glared dully at his knights as he sat hunched in his saddle, unable to sit erect any longer. His visor was open, and his face showed white with exhaustion. He shook his head wearily and replied, “I will rest when the day has been saved-and not before. If my knights wish to see me they must look toward the heart of battle, for that is where I will be.”
Theido and Ronsard exchanged worried glances. They would have preferred to have their King stand off from battle at least for a time. Theido was about to protest further when Eskevar closed his visor and jerked the reins, plunging once more into the clash. The two trusted knights had no choice but to surge after him and protect him however they could.