Sitting primly on her golden throne, Lady Fortune allowed herself a coy smile. Well, to be honest, no one really knew what her throne looked like, but considering she was a goddess, it must have been nice. The smile was more certain. She was often depicted wearing just such a smile as she twisted someone’s fate in an entirely unexpected direction. Which was exactly what she was about to do.
The citizens of Gorgonholm, wallowing in their riches, gorging on exotic viands, lolling with plump courtesans, had seemingly forgotten the source of all their grand prosperity. They had grown arrogant and neglectful and therefore required a gentle reminder, which they were getting this very day. Their city was being destroyed by fire and flood, wind and quake. The citizens were facing certain death from painted savages atop their walls and subterranean pigmies beneath their streets. Their soldiers on the quivering edge of annihilation. Many of their leaders lay slain, while the left flank of their army was being driven back by the relentless Keltin assault.
Lady Fortune was by no means a cruel goddess, but she liked to maintain a sense of balance. When she saw mortals growing a bit too cocky, she brought them down a peg. When they were sufficiently crushed beneath the weight of her fateful wheel, it was her delight to raise them back up. She always preferred the astonishing and unforeseeable over the accustomed and predictable.
Satisfied that the citizens of Gorgonholm would be more mindful in the future, she smiled and spun her wheel.
Overhead, a single, immensely huge water elemental finally arrived over the city. It oozed slowly across the sky, so sodden and bloated that it had lagged far behind its fellows. With a sigh of great relief, it released its ponderous burden, launching a rainstorm of mythic ferocity.
The downpour, at first, seemed like a blessing from a kind and attentive god, for it extinguished the fires that had been consuming the city. But as it went on and on, the astonished citizens came to see that they must now be drowned.
The streets became raging torrents that flooded houses and sent the inhabitants scurrying for the safety of roofs and attics. The churning water carried all before it—the mangled carcasses of cats and rats, smashed carts, random bits of clothing, sundered baskets, a child’s cradle.
Still the rain pelted down, washing the broken bodies of defenders and attackers from the fallen masonry of the South Gate. Courtyards became swirling eddies filled with drowned chickens, pigs, dogs, and humans.
Bound in by the city’s stout walls and barred gates, the flood had no way to escape—it could only rise and rise. Desperate for egress, the water poured down every drain, filled every basement, poured into every crack and crevice, but these avenues were insufficient, and the water continued to mount.
Then, in the crypt of the Cathedral and the dungeons beneath City Keep, in the cellars of the Drowned Rat tavern and sundry other hidden locations, it found what it was seeking—the secret entrances to the city’s Catacombs. Here, at last, was a way out.
In the Catacombs, the fighting was awkward, erratic, and bloody. In such confines, the Small Folk enjoyed significant advantages over their larger foes. They could negotiate the narrowest of crannies and wiggle through passages choked with dead bodies. And after so many generations in the dark, their eyes needed only the barest trace of light.
The Shamblers fought hard but were consistently forced to yield ground to the furious onslaught of their diminutive foes. Whenever they sought to make a firm stand, perhaps defending a sharp angle or blockading a steep incline, the Small Folk inevitably found some tiny fissure leading to their rear. Time and again, groups of Shamblers were cut off and killed.
On they pushed, those wee, merciless men, cutting down the giant-devil-freaks with their poisoned arrows and sharp flint knives. As they grew closer and closer to the surface, they could feel the subtle change in air pressure that signaled open sky. With their objective almost in sight, they slashed all the harder until the Shamblers were driven back in a forlorn and broken rout.
The Small Folk surged forward, guided by instinct toward fresh air and blue sky. They stormed into the chamber where Zeb, the crazed prophet, still huddled with his ragged followers. The old man raised his arms and began a chant of exorcism to banish this host of hell spawn. He never finished it. The little men slew him and his followers, scarcely pausing as they did so.
The Small Folk were about to climb the final set of stone steps leading to the upper world when the great flood, cascading from the streets above, swept them topsy-turvy back through the labyrinth of tunnels through which they had fought.
Their valor and skill at arms availed them not. Gaining momentum as it sought the lowest possible level, the ferocious torrent smashed them against stone walls, dragged them across rough stone floors. The narrow passages were clogged with their tangled corpses.
The surviving Shamblers were also caught, knocked from their feet, and washed away, so that invader and defender, living and dead, were carried inexorably downward.
Thus ended the assault of the Small Folk upon the city of Gorgonholm.
Fergis’s heart sang as he strode through the field of slain that had been the laigi’s left flank. He loved war! He rejoiced in the smell of fresh blood and the wide, astonished eyes of the dead.
Up ahead, the warriors of Coinneach mac Coinneach were now defeating the city-men’s last reserves. He must hurry if he wanted to slay their earl with his own hand. Every Keltin warrior would be vying for the head of the enemy commander.
Then, to Fergis’s dismay, a sinister black mist suddenly began to spread through the dense ranks of his soldiers. He had heard of the black mist. Every Keltin child knew the old stories of the filthy magical smoke that stole the breath from the lungs. The most valiant warrior, taking it in, must drop his weapons and stagger about—gagging, eyes bulging, tongue protruding—until taken by death.
Fergis’s men began to choke and drop, one after another. Others turned and fled. Keltin warriors have no fear of sword or spear or axe, but this obscene death filled them with terror. Within moments, their triumphant flanking attack was reduced to chaotic ruin.
Fergis was aghast—this was no proper way for a man to fight! There could be no glory in strangling one’s foe with black poison!
Lord Drakar de la Pole, commanding the center, watched in grim satisfaction as the attack on the left was broken. Caught by his black mist, the Keltins died in droves, and the survivors were driven back in confusion.
Drakar had, on this day, brought to the field several lightweight mangonels mounted on carts. These had originally been positioned behind the army’s center, where he was in command. Seeing the decimation of the left flank and the imminent destruction of Earl Ralf’s reserves, he had ordered his engines moved in their support. They had arrived just in time to prevent the utter annihilation of Ralf’s army.
The typical mangonel was a siege weapon, too slow and cumbersome for open field battles. But Drakar’s special engines were much lighter and more mobile than the typical heavy stone-casters. They were designed to hurl glass globes that shattered on impact to release a swirling cloud of black horror. The mist was his favorite weapon, one that he had employed time and again against his Keltin adversaries.
Drakar hated the Keltins with a deep, visceral loathing that bordered on madness. His sole passion was leading his men on devastating raids into Keltin territory—burning villages, slaughtering livestock, crushing men, women, and children beneath his horse’s hooves. That such raids gleaned little profit mattered not at all. He loved their severed heads much more than gold.
When Fergis’s army had first emerged from the morning mist, many of the earl’s most esteemed soldiers had quailed at its immensity. Not Drakar. He had silently thanked his god for sending him so many Keltins to slay.
With the left stabilized, Drakar could now turn his attention to the battle that raged to his front where his men were heavily engaged.
The Trained Bands of Gorgonholm, the shopkeepers and craftsmen, had this day fought with skill and courage. They had sustained terrible losses, but they had held their ground tenaciously. The clerical units were no less valiant. Though the various sects had in the past spilled each other’s blood, today they stood and died as one. But now, worn down by the long, ceaseless struggle with a relentless foe, the center was beginning to weaken.
Drakar had kept Hawkwood’s mercenaries just behind the main battle-line. Whenever a section of line seemed about to give way, he would reinforce it with carefully rationed handfuls of these elite troops. But by now, this reserve force was fully committed in the main battle-line. If a break occurred, there was no one left to plug the hole.
The Keltin force seemed limitless. No sooner would one unit of Keltins be driven back, then another would advance to take its place. His supply of glass globes was expended. He had nothing left to stem the unremitting attacks that were wearing down his ranks. Soon now, his line would be broken, and his men massacred.
Drakar was not afraid to die. Indeed, he actually looked forward to death in battle as the only proper end for a warrior. But not today, damn it. Not today. Not when there were still so many Keltins to kill.
Fergis watched in disgust as the men of his right flank, the vaunted warriors of the legendary Coinneach mac Coinneach, were routed from the field by the black mist. He was well familiar with the character of his people—once defeated, they would not be quickly rallied. These warriors would fight no more that day. Luckily, the laigi’s left and reserve was too depleted to mount a counter-attack.
He returned to his original position behind his center, but what he found there was far from reassuring. His men had battled long and well, with the largest and most illustrious clans—Hardshods, Fast-Shanks, Chewbones, and Hornfingers—bearing the brunt of the fighting. Their courage would be celebrated in song and legend for a thousand years. But the martial spirit of many other clans had now begun to flag.
The Keltin warrior was quite willing to face almost certain death in a headlong attack, but he was traditionally lacking in staying power. If the enemy was not overrun and slain in his initial assault, it became harder and harder for him to muster the energy to continue the fight.
Fergis saw his center starting to disintegrate as his men lost heart. They no longer pressed so eagerly forward, no longer shrieked their battle-cries with such maniacal fury. He watched a group of Long-Tooth clansmen draw apart from their brethren and squat discontentedly on the ground, no longer interested in the battle.
Others, consumed by petty jealousies and old-time rivalries, began to defy the commands of the warchiefs. When the Quickthrottles were ordered up in support of the exhausted Chewbones, their chief curtly refused because his grandfather’s horse had once been slighted by a bumptious Chewbone warrior.
Worse yet, small groups of Red Legs and Cut Chin, notoriously unruly and factious clans, were beginning to desert the field. The countryside abounded in farmsteads and villages that promised far easier pickings. It was much smarter, they reasoned, to gather in the laigi’s gold, cattle, and daughters than to spill their blood fighting the armored host of Gorgonholm.
All this was troubling, but there was worse to come. The sky grew dark as great, forbidding thunderheads suddenly appeared in the sky—a terrible omen of death. Given the mood of his army, Fergis was certain this must signal his defeat.
Actually, the boiling clouds were nothing more than the attack of his own shamans’ elementals upon the city, whose streets were just then being deluged with rain. But in his arrogance, the Ard Righ naturally assumed that everything that happened had to be about himself.
Fergis knew nothing of the Black Stone, had always believed that the extraordinary unity of his clansmen stemmed from his own exceptional abilities as a leader. For their devotion to now fall away was nothing short of betrayal.
For the very first time, he began to doubt the certainty of his victory. Could he have been wrong about his destiny? Would he be laid low by the fickleness of his gods? Was such a thing possible? Was this to be the end of Fergis mac Brude?
His best chance was to reinforce his center with men from his left. He had heard nothing from that flank, but considering its strength, he anticipated no difficulty there. Regrettably, unwelcome news was about to arrive from that direction.
Oengus was puzzled. When the laigi facing him began to shift toward the rear, he assumed they were about to flee in fear. Instead, they had merely pulled back and away from the adjoining unit, creating a hole in their battleline.
In many Keltin legends, the battle-wise hero would prevail by thrusting a wedge of howling warriors through a careless gap in the opposing line. Then they would race down the rear of the line and kill their foes from behind. Such tales were specifically intended to instill an appreciation for tactics in young warriors.
Oengus, who fancied himself cut from the same glorious cloth as the heroes of yore, immediately determined to employ this stratagem. The laigi, he was certain, would be so dumbfounded by his unexpected maneuver that they would stand in helpless wonder as his men cut them down.
Convinced that his military acumen rivaled that of Cromlos, the Keltin god of war, he ordered his men to advance straight at the last unit in the enemy line where a red and black banner displayed a white rabbit. A rabbit, he thought, was a fitting symbol for the cowardly laigi. He would flay those weaklings as easily as one skins a rabbit.
When the two forces were no more than ten paces apart, Oengus gave a command and his trumpeter blew a special call. At once, his warriors turned, formed a wedge, and sprinted toward the opening so carefully crafted by Sir Lorenzo.
Lorenzo saw them coming, and the sight filled him with dread. He was sure his scheme had failed, that the Keltin leader was not as stupid as he appeared to be, that he was about to plow straight ahead and crush his modest contingent.
But then—miracle of miracles!—the Keltins swerved toward the opening he had left them, obviously intending to fall on the Groyne contingent from the rear. In doing so, however, they opened themselves to a flank attack from Lorenzo’s men. He wasted not a moment but immediately ordered his men forward.
They hit the Keltins on the run, slashing into them from the side, cutting them down from the rear. Lorenzo was in the forefront, hewing left and right, striking down two men with his first two blows. His followers were on his heels—Frederico’s mace smashing skulls and shoulders, Arturius’s glaive stabbing furiously into faces and throats. Young Riley shouting at the top of his voice with Lorenzo’s rabbit banner in one hand, a bloody sword in the other.
The Keltin unit seemed to dissolve. Where over a hundred determined warriors had stood only moments before, now there was but a scattered handful. Most were dead on the ground. A few were flying in unbridled panic. The remainder was trying frantically to form up around Oengus.
Sir Lorenzo knew nothing of the larger battle. Had no inkling that Drakar’s black mist had saved his left flank from destruction, nor that the center was locked in a grueling melee with an overwhelming force. But he did recognize the wonderful opportunity that was his.
He called for the horses to be brought forward, for his men to mount. His steed jumped forward at the touch of his spurs, and with banner streaming, he led his small force around the shattered flank and straight into the enemy rear.
They rode over the pitiful remnant of Keltins attempting to rally around Oengus. These went down beneath the horses’ hooves as if made of straw. The Keltin prince rose suddenly before Lorenzo—arms spread, mouth open, weaponless, confounded. Then he was gone, knocked backward by a passing blow from the horse’s shoulder. The young knight caught a final glimpse of the hapless man landing upside down in a clump of brambles.
The men of Groyne had, up to this point, been exchanging spear thrusts in a stationary and rather uninspired fight with men of the Four Nose clan. Both sides had to this point been content to hold their positions while the main attack raged at the far end of the line. Now, however, all that suddenly changed.
Having dispensed with Oengus and his people, Sir Lorenzo’s horsemen hit the Four Noses at a gallop, tearing right through them. The riders screamed like vengeful demons, cleaving skulls with long sweeping strokes of their swords. The Four Nose clan simply disintegrated.
Lorenzo spurred forward, smashing into the Mud Wallow and Split Tongues, driving them back in disarray. Misjudging the size of the tiny troop, the Keltins assumed a huge mounted force that had suddenly materialized behind them. Rather than be ridden down, they threw down their arms and fled.
With the Four Noses destroyed, the men of Groyne immediately plunged forward and followed Lorenzo into the enemy rear. As more and more enemy formations were broken, unit after unit of the earl’s right wing swung behind Fergis’s battle-line. Within minutes, the Keltin left flank was running in a blind panic.
Lorenzo now sped toward the rear of the huge Keltin center. Here the fighting was much more brutal, with both sides determined to tear the life out of the other. The enemy warriors were so fiercely absorbed in their work that few noticed the coming attack until swords and spears were driven into their exposed backs.
Taken by surprise, the center collapsed, with the Wolfjaw, Fire-Leaper, and Dancing-Snake clans in full retreat. These were joined by even the staunchest warriors of the Fast-Shank and Hornfinger.
Only minutes before, Drakar’s men had been staring at their own deaths. Then without warning, the enemy turned their backs and ran. With a great roar of triumph, the defenders of Gorgonholm—the men of the Trained Bands, the clerics, Hawkwood’s mercenaries—charged. This was the moment to avenge slain comrades, to strike terror into an ancestral foe, to show the Keltins the inevitable price for crossing the river.
More importantly, this was the chance to gain booty, to loot the dead for gold and silver torques and scoop up their elaborately embellished weapons. Keltin craftsmanship was superb, and their artifacts commanded high prices in the cities of the south.
This also was a dangerous moment, for in the past, the Keltins had sometimes fallen back in feigned retreat only to turn and slay their disorganized pursuers. This time, however, their defeat was both genuine and total.
Most of the Keltin host sprinted directly for the river, where they attempted to escape in the dozens of currachs that lined its banks. Others dove in and began to thrash their way back across, hands and feet flailing wildly. Many of these drowned, for few Keltins ever learned the art of swimming. When Drakar’s men arrived on the riverbank, many hundreds more were trapped and slain.
By a little past noon, Fergis’s grand army had been wiped out.