Shadowdale (42 page)

“At least two hundred are on the bridge. Mostly cavalry,” Forester whispered.

There were more sounds. Men grunted as they pushed away the stones concealing their hiding niches in the pillar supports. Cyric hoped the splashes as the heavy stones hit the water wouldn’t alert the Zhentilar on the bride to the trap.

“They’re more than halfway across!” someone screamed.

“Do it, Cyric!” Forester hissed.

“Retreat!” Cyric screamed at the top of his lungs. Then Cyric and Forester ran as if Bane himself were chasing them, and they split up as they ran to the Twisted Tower so as not to present an easy target.

“Any time now,” Cyric whispered.

Nothing happened.

Forester stopped before he reached the tower. Cyric stopped as well. “They didn’t hear you,” Forester cried.

“They must have heard me!” Cyric snapped.

They both turned toward the bridge. The main body of the army was approaching the eastern bank, and a few horsemen had already made it across. Cyric and Forester ran for the bridge.

“Retreat!” they screamed.

Still nothing happened.

Cyric cursed himself. If he had not listened to the men from Suzail Key, this situation would not exist. He wanted to set more reliable traps, but they wouldn’t listen.

“Retreat!” Cyric cried again.

Either the men under the bridge heard him this time or they got tired of waiting for the command and took matters into their own hands. Whatever the reason, though, they started to remove the flat-hewed logs that had been placed inside the holes where the keystone supports had once been. Then the men at the center of the bridge swung out from under the bridge on ropes, and their weight exerted the force necessary to break the weakened center support. Finally, the other supports for the bridge shattered and collapsed, too. The Zhentish soldiers shouted in surprise as the bridge fell away and the wildly churning Ashaba loomed up toward them.

Even Fzoul was stunned by the sight of the massive bridge falling. The red-haired man, who had already reached the eastern bank, turned in his saddle and stared. In seconds, there was nothing left of the bridge. Less than twenty of Fzoul’s men had made it to the eastern bank. On the western bank, many were attempting to slow their mounts before they were pushed into the gaping hole left by the collapse of the bridge. Over three-quarters of the force had been tossed into the Ashaba and drowned in their heavy armor.

There were less than twenty archers in the Twisted Tower, but the soldiers who rode or stood beside Fzoul didn’t know this. Even when the arrows began to fly and the soldiers at the front were slain, there was no realization that so few could have brought down so many. There were only the cries of the wounded and the frightened as Fzoul slid from his horse and fell to the ground, taking cover from the archers as his men died around him. Some of the soldiers were backing away, falling into the river. Fzoul realized that the corpses of his men and their mounts would block the edge of the bridge, and their movement would be slowed until they were killed one by one from the tower. The Zhentilar had lost the battle before they’d even met sword to sword with one dalesman.

On his hands and knees, Fzoul crawled back through the ranks of his dead and dying troops and started to strip off his armor.

The men who had sapped the bridge climbed up onto the western bank and attacked the remaining Zhentilar. The archers from the tower also moved out toward the road and began to move forward.

Cyric took his bow from his back and grabbed an arrow from the quiver of a nearby archer. The thief had not taken his gaze from the red-haired commander who was attempting to make his escape from the shattered bridge. The man was crawling away and taking off his armor. Obviously the coward was going to try to leap into the river.

Cyric notched a single arrow and braced himself. As the commander stood up and prepared to dive off the edge of the bridge, the thief screamed “Red hair!”

Fzoul locked eyes with Cyric for a moment, then tried to jump. At the same instant, Cyric loosed the single shaft with unerring accuracy. The arrow pierced Fzoul’s side as he fell into the river.

The slaughter of Bane’s men continued, but the battle at the western front was over. Cyric gathered most of the men together and headed for the eastern front. As they approached the center of town, though, they heard the sounds of a battle in progress — steel clashed against steel, and commanders screamed out orders. Cyric and his men charged into the nearest group of Zhentish soldiers. When they had driven them off, Cyric quickly asked a commander what had happened.

“The Zhents came from the north, too. Just as we’d expected. We slowed them down a bit with the traps and ramparts we’d set up in the farms they had to pass, but they got here anyway.”

Then another group of Zhentilar charged Cyric and he was once more lost in the battle.

In the furious fighting that covered the crossroads of Shadowdale, few noticed the squad of Zhentilar cavalry break off and head down the road to the east.

Kelemvor knew they would face impossible odds. Still, he gave the order to advance without hesitation. As commander of the entire movement, Kelemvor’s place was in the third line of defense. Those who charged out in the first line would account for the heaviest percentage of casualties in the attack on Bane’s armies, but there wasn’t a soldier that had not volunteered for their position. Kelemvor had been spared the duty of selecting those who would rush off to die.

Bane’s soldiers emerged, six at a time, from the path Sememmon had blazed. Most of the horses had been killed in the trap, so most of the troops were infantry.

“Why not use our cavalry?” Drizhal said to Kelemvor. “We might be able to force them back that way.”

“We’ll need the mounts later,” Kelemvor said. “Their speed will allow our survivors to fall back and regroup long before Bane’s army can reach them.” The fighter turned away from the younger man and deployed the foot soldiers to cut down Bane’s forces as they left the narrow opening through the fallen trees in the road.

The dalesmen had some success in slowing down the Zhentish charge. Soon, however, they were forced back by the sheer number of Zhentilar still advancing. Kelemvor used the archers to provide covering fire as the survivors of the first group fell back and joined with Kelemvor and his men. At the same time, another band of dalesmen moved forward.

“Whoever their commander is, he’s good,” Kelemvor said. “My own tactics don’t seem to be fazing him at all.”

“It’s almost as if he knows you,” Drizhal said.

Kelemvor shook his head. “Or he knows what to expect.”

Bishop, the commander of the first group of dalesmen to attack, approached Kelemvor. He was slightly older than Kelemvor, with dirty blond hair and a fair complexion.

“They’re fighting like desperate men. If this was a holy crusade, like you said, they wouldn’t be. It’s more like fighting for survival, now,” Bishop said. “They’re not so anxious to die anymore.”

“But they keep coming,” Kelemvor said. “Do you think we can force a retreat?”

Bishop shook his head. “The Zhentilar in front have some madman driving them on, but they’re scared and they want to turn back. Those in the rear are hungry for revenge, and they’re pushing forward. That’s what it seems like from all the shouting. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them are deserting into the forest.”

Suddenly there were shouts from the rear of Kelemvor’s troops. The fighter turned and saw a squadron of men approaching from the west. They wore the colors of Bane’s army.

“Where did they come from?” Bishop said.

“The north road,” Kelemvor said with growing alarm. “A battalion must have come through the north road. That means Hawksguard and Mourngrym have already been attacked, and these men were forced to retreat from them.”

“Or the dalelord is already dead,” Bishop said quietly.

“Don’t even think it,” Kelemvor shouted as he sent a group to stop the Zhentish cavalry in the rear before they caused too much havoc in the ranks. It was already too late for that, though, as the horsemen charged into the dalesmen’s lines.

“Kelemvor!” Drizhal shouted. “More of Bane’s soldiers are breaking through from the east!”

“We’ll have to fight them, hold them here, and cut down their numbers as best we can until help arrives.” Kelemvor said.

“What about the bog? Can’t we still draw them into the bog and fight them there?” Drizhal said.

“You might as well forget that idea,” Kelemvor said, smiling weakly at the boy. “I’ve spent enough time with dalesmen to know they would never retreat from anyone… especially the Zhentish.”

Drizhal watched as Bane’s soldiers poured through the opening.

“Prepare cavalry!” Kelemvor shouted as he drew his sword. “We fight to the last man!”

Soon all of Kelemvor’s finely drawn battle plans turned to dust as the dalesmen faced the enemy in a chaotic melee. Kelemvor knew that they would be hopelessly overwhelmed when the full weight of Bane’s army was brought against them. He knew that the only real hope was an organized retreat through the remaining, small stone barricades on the way to Shadowdale. But as the situation rapidly deteriorated strategically, Kelemvor saw that the defenders of Shadowdale were more than happy to go to their deaths fighting the Zhentish man-to-man.

The fighter watched half-a-dozen men whom he had stood beside rush into battle, then fall before the dark army of the evil god. When he faced an enemy soldier himself, however, Kelemvor drew little satisfaction in the man’s death. He wasn’t fighting for the same thing the dalesmen were fighting for; all Kelemvor was doing was delaying what he saw now as the inevitable fall of Shadowdale. Then Drizhal fell before an enemy soldier, and Kelemvor turned to face the boy’s attacker.

The Zhentish soldier lashed out with his mace and Kelemvor drew back and away from the weapon. The fighter then swung blindly with his sword, and he realized with disgust that he had only impaled the mount of the mace-wielding Zhentilar. The wounded horse pitched forward and its rider flew to the ground without losing his grip on his bloodied weapon.

Kelemvor advanced on the downed soldier, then froze as the man turned over and Kelemvor saw his face:

It was Ronglath Knightsbridge, the traitor to Arabel.

Seizing upon his enemy’s momentary surprise, Knightsbridge swung his mace once more. The heavy club grazed Kelemvor’s leg and knocked him from his feet. Drawing his sword with his free hand as he scrambled to his feet, Knightsbridge waited until Kelemvor had half-risen before slashing at the fighter’s ribs with the sword, then swinging his mace again. Even as he fell to dodge the sword, Kelemvor brought his sword up in a block, stopping the mace before it met his neck.

Kelemvor got to his feet at once, and the two fighters slowly circled one another, looking for an opening. Suddenly, Knightsbridge shouted “No!”

Kelemvor ducked and the horseman’s sword swished just over his head. The fighter leaped to his left, then brought the pommel of his sword down hard on the rider’s hand. There was a crack as something in the Zhentilar’s hand broke, and the horseman dropped his weapon.

Before Kelemvor could react, Knightsbridge charged at him again and slashed viciously at his head. “You die by my hand alone!” Knightsbridge hissed and raised his mace again.

Kelemvor rushed at the Zhentilar, and the fighter’s sword ripped through the traitor’s side as the mace swung toward him. Avoiding the blow, Kelemvor brought his armored fist into Knightsbridge’s jaw, sending him stumbling back.

Knightsbridge was exposed for an instant, and Kelemvor rushed at him again and tackled him, giving the Zhentilar no chance to use his weapons. They struck the ground and Knightsbridge kicked Kelemvor in the chest, forcing him to tumble to his side.

“You cost me my life!” Knightsbridge screamed. “Everything I cared about is gone because of you!”

Knightsbridge raised his sword high over his head, but the swing exposed his chest and Kelemvor drove his sword through Knightsbridge’s breastplate before he could deliver his final blow. The traitor’s eyes gave no quarter, even as life fled from them. His face fixed in an eternal grimace of hatred and pain, Knightsbridge fell into the dirt and died.

As Kelemvor pulled his sword from Knightsbridge’s chest, he saw a glint of bright, shining metal as a Zhentish dagger flew toward him. A sword flashed before the fighter and the dagger was deflected. Another flash and the Zhentilar fell.

“That’s the problem with these jackals,” a familiar voice said flatly, “there’s always more than one of them.”

Kelemvor’s savior turned to face the fighter. It was Bishop, commander of the first group.

“Behind you!” Bishop shouted, and Kelemvor spun and dispatched another Zhentish soldier.

Two more riders approached, swords drawn. Bishop dragged the first of the riders from his mount and ran him through, as Kelemvor faced the soldier’s fellow and killed him. Then another wave of Bane’s soldiers approached on foot, and the warriors fought back to back until they were knee-deep in the bodies of the dead and dying. Their swords flashed as the endless parade of dark soldiers closed in on the dalesmen.

As Kelemvor looked to the road to the west, his heart sank; Bane’s army was getting through the men and the barricades, and moving toward Shadowdale.

With each death, Bane’s power grew until his vision was glazed over by an amber haze of power He felt his frail mortal shell blistering from his stolen energy, but he endured the discomfort gladly.

Teleporting from the barricade had been a simple matter. He found himself at the outskirts of the dale and quickly cast a spell of invisibility upon himself, then used the power of the soul energies to take to the air.

A small band of Zhentilar had been deployed to travel the north road into Shadowdale and engage the soldiers at the crossroads of the town, where Bane had assumed the defenders would make their last stand. There were no more than five hundred men in this detail, and many would be stopped by the defenses Mourngrym’s men had certainly placed in their way along the road and in the farms to the north.