King Warwick had swept southwards over the Black Crags and down past the Eldroth Fields to meet the invasion, the Slievmordhuan and Ashqalêthan vanguard had reached the crossroads known as Blacksmith’s Corner, where the byway to the Mountain Ring branched off to the west. Had they turned onto that path, they would at length have arrived at the very gates of High Darioneth. They made no effort, however, to steer for the stronghold of the weatherlords. Their goal lay in another direction.
At the forefront of the invading columns small groups of Slievmordhuan and Ashqalêthan foot soldiers continually conducted patrols, scouring terrain which might hide infantry waiting in ambush, and keeping a lookout for enemy scouts. Near the crossroads they finally confronted the first of the defenders: an advance patrol of Narngalish bowmen, who immediately loosed a hail of arrows on the southerners.
Messengers raced back to inform Commander Mac Brádaigh that hostile archers were concealed in the hedges and deep lanes, and that, further along the road, ranks of infantry were lined up and waiting, armed with bow, pike, war-hammer and axe. Without delay Mac Brádaigh ordered his leading troops to halt and deploy in combat formation, while the first companies of the main-battle caught up.
Before the southerners had time to arrange themselves in fighting order King Warwick’s vanguard surged forward in the attack. The Narngalish archers continued to shoot over the shields of their infantry into the invading troops, who were still frantically preparing to return the volleys and suffered numerous casualties. Mac Brádaigh, however, soon had them manoeuvred into a position to withstand the onslaught, whereupon his infantry retaliated with their own barrage.
Thus began the first encounter of the war—the Battle of Blacksmith’s Corner.
A WICKEDNESS
Why goest thou hence, my lovely lord ,
Upon thy snow-white stallion?
Why leave thy home to fare abroad ,
Without me riding pillion?
Say, is it to the tourney field
For prizes and medallions?
Tiest thou my favour on thy shield
Amongst the gay pavilions?
I dreamed the brazen trumpets sang ,
Bells chimed in loud carillon ,
And tents like stripèd flowers sprang ,
Green, saffron and vermilion.
Alas! Not for the tourney bound
Art thou, with brave battalions.
Thine object is some battleground
Drenched with the blood of millions.
Farewell. Now I am left to sigh
Amidst bereft civilians.
I wonder—wilt thou live or die
Before the bright pavilions?
H ill and valley rang with the sound of eldritch weepers lamenting. Anyone who managed to catch a glimpse of one of these wights would have beheld a ragged little washerwoman on her knees at the banks of a stream, sobbing as she scrubbed at a bloodstained shirt. It was rarely, however, that humankind laid eyes on these elusive incarnations, though their voices were loud enough to be heard at great distances. The weepers’ cries prophesied the deaths of men, and at Blacksmith’s Corner there was much to foretell. Their keening continued incessantly, behind the music of war, the screams and yells, the clash of weapons, the trumpets and drums.
For three days the conflict raged back and forth, waxing and waning. Slievmordhu’s Knights of the Brand fought well, but they were short of their best company; furthermore, without their leader, Conall Gearnach, they lacked their usual zeal. Nonetheless their ranks were as well disciplined as Narngalis’s elite knights, the Companions of the Cup—in contrast to their compeers, the heavy cavalry of Ashqalêth. The Desert Paladins believed they deserved the honourable stations in the front lines. They jockeyed for position, not only vying against the Knights of the Brand but also against each other, often ignoring orders in their quest for individual glory. This lack of compliance caused disorder amongst the allied ranks of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth.
Perceiving the increasing
At the forefront of the invading columns small groups of Slievmordhuan and Ashqalêthan foot soldiers continually conducted patrols, scouring terrain which might hide infantry waiting in ambush, and keeping a lookout for enemy scouts. Near the crossroads they finally confronted the first of the defenders: an advance patrol of Narngalish bowmen, who immediately loosed a hail of arrows on the southerners.
Messengers raced back to inform Commander Mac Brádaigh that hostile archers were concealed in the hedges and deep lanes, and that, further along the road, ranks of infantry were lined up and waiting, armed with bow, pike, war-hammer and axe. Without delay Mac Brádaigh ordered his leading troops to halt and deploy in combat formation, while the first companies of the main-battle caught up.
Before the southerners had time to arrange themselves in fighting order King Warwick’s vanguard surged forward in the attack. The Narngalish archers continued to shoot over the shields of their infantry into the invading troops, who were still frantically preparing to return the volleys and suffered numerous casualties. Mac Brádaigh, however, soon had them manoeuvred into a position to withstand the onslaught, whereupon his infantry retaliated with their own barrage.
Thus began the first encounter of the war—the Battle of Blacksmith’s Corner.
A WICKEDNESS
Why goest thou hence, my lovely lord ,
Upon thy snow-white stallion?
Why leave thy home to fare abroad ,
Without me riding pillion?
Say, is it to the tourney field
For prizes and medallions?
Tiest thou my favour on thy shield
Amongst the gay pavilions?
I dreamed the brazen trumpets sang ,
Bells chimed in loud carillon ,
And tents like stripèd flowers sprang ,
Green, saffron and vermilion.
Alas! Not for the tourney bound
Art thou, with brave battalions.
Thine object is some battleground
Drenched with the blood of millions.
Farewell. Now I am left to sigh
Amidst bereft civilians.
I wonder—wilt thou live or die
Before the bright pavilions?
H ill and valley rang with the sound of eldritch weepers lamenting. Anyone who managed to catch a glimpse of one of these wights would have beheld a ragged little washerwoman on her knees at the banks of a stream, sobbing as she scrubbed at a bloodstained shirt. It was rarely, however, that humankind laid eyes on these elusive incarnations, though their voices were loud enough to be heard at great distances. The weepers’ cries prophesied the deaths of men, and at Blacksmith’s Corner there was much to foretell. Their keening continued incessantly, behind the music of war, the screams and yells, the clash of weapons, the trumpets and drums.
For three days the conflict raged back and forth, waxing and waning. Slievmordhu’s Knights of the Brand fought well, but they were short of their best company; furthermore, without their leader, Conall Gearnach, they lacked their usual zeal. Nonetheless their ranks were as well disciplined as Narngalis’s elite knights, the Companions of the Cup—in contrast to their compeers, the heavy cavalry of Ashqalêth. The Desert Paladins believed they deserved the honourable stations in the front lines. They jockeyed for position, not only vying against the Knights of the Brand but also against each other, often ignoring orders in their quest for individual glory. This lack of compliance caused disorder amongst the allied ranks of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth.
Perceiving the increasing
Similar Books
