The Men-at-Arms resumed their sweep of the forest, and they all continued forward as before.

The second attack was not long in coming. The Leopards had waited just long-enough for the pre-dawn light to suffuse the forest with a soft illumination. Men and horses were becoming detailed and apparent, not mere vague and shadowy forms. Whoever had suggested that the darkest hour was that before the dawn had been a total idiot, Elle decided. By dawn they should be cresting the pass to Dimlicdale, but they had to cut their way out of this trap before they could worry about the delay. Their Enemy had chosen the perfect spot, as the road entered a shallow defile in its climb through the forest. The Enemy attacked on both sides of the column with volleys of arrows, interspersed with brief and violent charges. The latter were not pressed home, however, and it seemed to Elle that the aim here was to pin down the flanks of her force and occupy her men. Elyssa agreed and advised her to ensure that he main force of arms was concentrated at the front of the column. Sure enough, when determined attacks came, they came from the front, downhill, smashing into the Huntress’s shield wall on the road. Elyssa had divided her archers into three, to cover each flank and support the front of the column. She was still on the left flank, Stralbore, on the right. They kept the Enemy’s bowmen disrupted and, after each charge, did great execution upon the retiring Enemy; slower returning up the slope into the trees than when they had rushed down to attack, and without the protection of their shields. The problem was, the Enemy did not seem to care about its losses, and there was no shortage of men in each attack, however many were felled. To succeed, they did not need to kill her men, they simply needed to keep them away from where they would be needed most. Now she heard Trum’s horn calls from the front of the column. It was time to go.

The fighting was at close quarters now. Some of their Enemy were as rangers, garbed lightly in cloth of dark and mid-grey, some with leather armour only. Others wore long skirted and quilted jacks and steel helms. They bore swords or spears and some had bows. Yet all bore the detestable yellow leopards, on cloth patches and round shields. Though they were many and determined, Dragongate’s Men at Arms were sturdy and full harnessed and their shieldwall could not be broken. The Men of the Leopard made easy targets for Elyssa’s bowmen. The defence could hold for a time, yet Elle realised that it was death to stay where they were; the Enemy could not be seen until it was upon them. They needed more open ground, where the tree cover by the road thinned towards the summit. Though few here knew her, she knew this land and she knew they would stand a better chance in the more open ground a little way ahead. She ordered the shieldwall to advance and for the column to edge forward behind it.

Steadily they climbed, though with painful slowness, every step costing a blow taken. Slowly the canopy above them thinned. The lowlight of dawn was creeping above the rim of the eastern hills far across the Vale. It pierced the tree-gloom and lit the cresting road ahead of them. They crawled out of the shallow defile to more level ground. They saw the trees begin to thin and stand further from the road, though either side of them, beyond the lighter patches of grass and scrub, the last stands of dense forest stood from which their Enemy still came forth.

There, blinking in the dawn light, they were brought to a halt once more. Leopards surrounded them. Dour grey figures, their red faces snarled with hate through open helms that tipped them with silver in the cold dawn light. Silvered too were their swords and spear tips. Dull grey their coats and painted shields, yet on them glowed a multitude of defiant yellow leopards. Here and there a leopard sported on a fluttering grey banner. Stolidly the Leopards moved forward, out of the denser wood, through the outlying trees, and into the clearing where the column stood at bay. On all sides the refugees were crowded and threatened. They were beset. With near six-score of townsfolk now in a dense knot, pressed by the Enemy on all sides, there were not enough of the escort to make a defence of the whole perimeter. If the column were pressed in several places at once, and the Leopards had the numbers for that, inevitable gaps in the defences would expose the townsfolk to slaughter. Stout town lads, and some lasses with them, equipped themselves with staves and scavenged weapons from Leopards lately felled before the Dragongate shieldwall. They found their own leaders, among them Hyldere the butcher of the Stowham Shambles, who had left town with the precious tools of his trade, secured on his belt, save now for the large and wicked cleaver in his hand. Berend, the carter, who plied the Marches as far as the Vale with trade goods, licked his lips, narrowed his right eye, and sited the crossbow that he took to comfort him as he traversed lonely moors. Slaga, an unkempt newcomer to the town, though gruff seeming and unpromising, brandished a wicked falchion in one hand and gripped a long dagger in the other, while eager violence lit his eyes. Coquin, the rascally pot boy of the Stowham alehouse, was a practised street fighter, and now passed a plundered sword nervily from hand to hand, quivering with anticipated violence. Despite all such help, there were too many helpless folk, who, along with baggage and soldiers’ horses, occupied more ground than could be defended. Elle realised this and gave orders for parties to be formed to sally forth and drive the attackers off wherever they pressed the closest. That done, she realised that no more orders were necessary, and that her help now must be in fighting alongside the others. She strung her bow and, in silent competition with Elyssa, began to take her toll. Those yellow leopards on their enemies’ breasts, she noted with satisfaction, made excellent aiming marks.

So it was that the companions sallied forth whenever the attacks threatened to turn the line of defenders. Amora led Trystan and Conan into the attack. Lead Man Fram of the Dragongate guard was surprised to see the practised way Amora plied her steel. The four of them, in a diamond-shaped wedge, drove straight into the middle of the attacking foes, Amora at the tip, Trystan on her right hand, Conan on her left, Fram centre rear. Now, though, there was no front or rear; the wedge had driven to the heart of the attack and was assailed on all sides. Each aware of the other, they fought to their fronts. The other three, Fram thought, had done this before. There were no better trained soldiers than the Men-at-Arms of Dragongate, and intelligence was as prized as stolidness in their ranks. Fram could understand how they fought and slotted into the pattern. Amora looked grim, and rather cross, Fram reckoned. Her brows furrowed with concentration as she parried and struck. She knew she could not afford to put a foot wrong, so she did not. The gawky boy Trystan was no less adept. He was less conventional in his moves than Amora, concluded Fram. You might suppose he didn’t really know what he was doing, but if you thought that, Fram noticed, you died; Trystan could produce a blow or a thrust from the most unexpected place at a time when you thought he must be fending off your blow. It seemed almost like cheating, thought Fram, but it was not deliberate, Fram decided, it was just the way Trystan’s ungainly body and rather subtle mind worked together. It was actually quite fun to watch, like someone whose dancing is so outrageously bad that it’s actually quite good. Then there was the big fella, Conan, who for all the world was a picture of contented industry, felling foes right and centre with no trace of malice, merely satisfaction in a job well done. His open countenance seemed to convey the idea that these people really should not be in arms against his friends, but that they were fortunate that he was there to teach them the error of their ways. Whether any of them would ever be in a position to profit from that lesson, Fram rather doubted. He glanced towards their lines; his comrades were easily keeping a handful of Leopards at bay. So, they had been successful in saving the line, but only because they were now the focus of the attack. Well, so be it, that had been the idea. But how long could the four of them survive in this sea of enemies, and if one fell, what of the others?

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Elsewhere on the perimeter, and Sacrissa was, by now, a little confused as to where, another attack was forming. There was a relatively clear patch of land on the flank of the road, and across it, under the eaves of the wood, the Enemy was taking its own sweet time, bringing up its full strength of warriors and forming them into ranks or waves. Sacrissa rather wished they’d get on with it. It angered her to think that they knew they could take all day about it if they chose; the result would be the same. The tension seemed unbearable to her. At that moment, Sigird loosed her scabbard, adjusted the strap of her shield and drew her sword. Then she simply walked slowly towards the Enemy. About halfway towards them she stopped, quite alone, and waited for them to get their act together and try to kill her. Sacrissa was horror-struck. She saw Sigird now not as the lithe and deadly warrior-maid, but as what she was; a very young and inexperienced woman, a girl, really, shy and diffident and not at all knowing. The refreshing opposite of herself, noted Sacrissa, but, therefore, entirely vulnerable. She looked quite pitiful, in fact, standing there in a man’s armour that now seemed too great and heavy for her slight frame and spare limbs. What could she know of how to fight off the dozen thick-set, heavily armed men, each looking twice her mass, snarling and leering, swearing and jeering as they came on at a jog that would surely bowl her over and trample her to dust even without a blow?

Sigird had found waiting for the Enemy to order its ranks wearisome. It irked her that they wasted time. They evidently considered that their intended victims posed no threat to them while they milled about in the growing light. This was making her cranky, Sigird had realised. It was time to get things started, she’d felt. So, she had adjusted her gear and walked forward. She ignored the calls from behind her, Sacrissa, probably, and took up her position and waited. As predicted, the brute soldiery took her boldness amiss and, without waiting to finish forming up, came on as they were. That meant her first order of business would be the dozen men now running in a staggered and straggling group towards her, gaps widening between them as they ran. Distance between them meant time, time meant opportunity. She hunched down and waited.

Someone was shouting, and it was a moment before Sacrissa realised it was her. She had no time to think what she was doing. She called forward the two Men-at-Arms in her party and then turned back to Sigird, but it was too late, the first enemy soldiers were now upon her.

Three men sprang at Sigird, swords raised. She smiled. Then, so far as Sacrissa could tell, there was blur as Sigird span towards them. The men just collapsed before a whirling death that had cut them down before they understood what was happening. There was a lot of blood-spray and spatter, and pools of it bubbled from the crumpled forms of Sigird’s assailants, who now seemed disturbingly contorted and distressingly incomplete. The next three or four had come on. Sigird cried out; the joy and song of battle was in her heart. She was Sigird of the House Duna, daughter of Victory and Thunderclap of Doom! Her people were sea raiders before they were lords and were sea raiders still. They fell upon their enemies with merciless speed. She would do so now. Her face was radiant. She turned it upon her attackers and they saw Death.

The final five were now arrayed before her. They seemed inclined to be more circumspect and hesitated just out of sword reach, no doubt recalculating their chances in the light of recent events and wondering which of them should strike first. Sigird had no patience with this sort of thing, so she stepped forward once more and started to work through them. By the time Sacrissa and the two Dragongate soldiers had started running towards her, the last of the screams had died at the point of Sigird’s blade. ‘So far, so good’, thought Sigird, with a certain grim pride in her workmanship. Killing was a prized craft in her world, and all present should take satisfaction in witnessing the skill involved. ‘Mind you,’ she thought, ‘this lot probably didn’t have time to appreciate the craftsmanship of their demise. Still,’ she consoled herself, ‘at least they got the point.’

Meanwhile the main body of attackers was having a rethink. They had now ordered themselves in a shieldwall hedged with spears, a perfectly natural and sensible thing to do, conceded Sigird. Yet, behind the shields there seemed to be some confusion as to whether to take their crouching walk forward – they were supposed to be attacking, after all – or backwards, which appeared to offer certain advantages. Again, Sigird reflected, patience was not her strong point and she censored herself for her childish petulance at the delay. Nevertheless, she could not stand around here all morning, so, while the shieldwall shuffled to and fro, she strolled in easy strides towards it, swinging her sword in her hand loosely and humming.

Seeing this, the Leopards evidently felt their pride stung and mustered the resolution to strive forward. ‘So,’ thought Sigird, ‘it’s probably time to take things a little more seriously.’ She sheathed her sword, loosed Mail-piercer from the straps on her back and slung her shield away in its place. Mail-piecer, her spear gave her reach, but it also had a long blade with the tip of a sword and the edge of an axe. She stopped humming and frowned in concentration, appraising. Then, she ran at them. Dodging their spear tips, she jumped up, and with both hands tight round the grip of Mail-piercer, she brought it down upon the top of the shieldwall like the hammer of some ancient God. Then suddenly Sacrissa and the two Men-at-Arms were beside her and they drove the mass of enemy back, Sacrissa’s blows, borne of fear and relief, rained as heavy as any. The shieldwall parted and the companions stood briefly among their tumbled enemies and slaughtered them. Then it was time to withdraw. Leopards were shouting and running at them out of the dense forest from all directions, arrows skittered past them, and there were horn calls of distress from the direction of the column.

“Back!” shouted Sacrissa, “They are attacking the column again!”

At the front of the column they were hard pressed, and starting to take casualties. There was no sign that the attacks were relenting. The simple fact, Elle realised, was that this was a fight that they could prolong, but not win. Prolonging it brought defeat in any case, as even if they somehow won through, further delay would risk them facing Dimlicdale in darkness. The attacks, if anything, were getting more organised, Enemy numbers greater. And it was getting light. They were barely holding their own and were no longer making any forward progress toward the pass. As the dawn light climbed the rise of the road before them, they saw a mass of the Enemy forming across their path. The noise and rumour of strife from the flanks and rear of the column had ceased. It seemed that the Enemy had concentrated its remaining strength here, ahead of them. Elle realised with a sick tug of her guts that an all-out attack down-hill by such numbers would sweep them away. Elyssa shot her a knowing glance. The Enemy began to shout and clash spears upon their shields, a row of dancing, clamouring leopards in mockery of them. Then began a low and menacing chant, of a kind not heard on the lips of men of the kingdoms. The words were indistinct, but the message was clear. The chant spoke of a dark power that would violently overwhelm them. For the first time the peril of their situation came home to them, and every member of the column felt fear and despair according to their measure. Brazen horn calls blared and the chanting and stamping of feet and clashing of arms rose to a crescendo then stopped. In an instant spears and shields were levelled against them, and, as a single grey mass of great span and depth, the Leopards ran down towards them.

At that same moment, seemingly from further ahead, and away to the right, the Huntress and her party heard a new noise, rising above the sound of the Enemy’s thudding feet; the clear, pure mountain notes of a Dragongate horn, sounding the attack.