At midmorning, the Beast-Gnome alliance issued forth from the wind-swept dunes of Point Harrow buffeted by the strangest breeze Roland had ever encountered. This was no inanimate air mass that advanced along a broad front from a particular direction. Rather, it seemed alive with the souls a thousand spirits, each possessed of a frenetic, nervous energy, and it carved a path through Point Harrow like a skier winding down a mountain slope. One moment, Roland felt a gust dive straight down from the sky above; the next it came looping out of the south before spinning around some invisible pole and streaming in from the north. From the looks of the trees, grasses, cloaks, and fur, countless other wind tunnels were racing through their own random courses. Yet none of them disturbed the thin blanket of ankle-high fog that lay across the battlefield as far as the eye could see.
The rams anchored the army's easternmost flank, near the peninsula coast from which the Gnomes had started their disastrous charge. Prowling among their ranks with a ferocity that caused many rams to protect their hindquarters, were the grizzlies. Led by Bannaclaw, these beasts were given no designated role in the battle. No one presumed to issue them orders; they had taken up the position on their own, for reasons they declined to give and were never asked.
Directly above this company, the eagles rode the wind currents in a spiral that rose almost to the limits of sight. To the rams’ left paced the cougars, solitary creatures uncomfortable in such proximity with others of their species, but who suppressed their natural disdain of companionship in the interest of survival. Droves of bees buzzed about near their heads, and upon their flank, the wolves stood motionless in orderly, razor-sharp rows.
Moving along to the west, the main force of Color Gnomes pressed forward behind their chieftains on a low stretch of mossy ground scarred by the divots of the previous day’s battle. On the flat land to their left massed the head-tossing, bellowing members of the alliance’s largest contingent--the bison. Alongside them, taking care to avoid the hooves of their anxious hooves, was a moving, crawling carpet of smaller mammals, arranged in four ragged rows: first the wolverines, then the foxes, coyotes and badgers.
The tiny expedition from Tishaara stood among these creatures like a bobbing raft in a sea of fur. Gripping the ponderous sword he had pulled from the fallen Pharitan, Roland stood shoulder to shoulder with Berch on his left, Sloat on his right, and Belfray beside Sloat. His meditation the previous night had produced no magical results, not even in the volatile atmosphere of the Fourth Realm. But now that he looked over the stark hills of Point Harrow far away, toward the purple flames and the standards of the armies of Ishyrus billowing crazily in the wind, he felt a bit of the inner calm that he had so desperately sought the night before. Despite the scent of doom that hung over the field, he drew comfort from the fact that four of them would finish their adventure side-by-side, not scattered among the elements of the army as before. There was a sense that all that remained in his life was before him. Nothing behind.
Hatanwa was right: it was going to be a clean finish.
The only regret Roland would acknowledge was that Digtry had been forced to remain well behind the battle lines. Although his wounds were healing remarkably, he could not wield a weapon well enough to take part in the battle.
To their left, the nervous herds of deer and elk skittered about in the shadow of the moose who calmly took up their positions. Alongside the antlered creatures, the high-strung mustangs reared and stamped their hooves in anticipation of the battle. Holding the western flank were the black bears, the boars, and a herd of bulls that had just arrived from Mageroy’s valley to aid the cause, proudly thrusting out their barrel chests. At first, several of the animals rejected the aid of “domestic beasts.” Others pointed out, however, that since the bulls could speak, they could not be domestic beasts, in the strict sense of the word. In the end, the bulls were accepted, if not altogether welcomed by the quarrelsome assembly.
The sun, slung low in the sky, cast light but little warmth over the battlefield. The very blasts of wind that seemed unable to move thin fog layer drove sand in the eyes of the allies for a time. The Tishaarans suspected some enemy Fourth Realm power was behind that. If so, Digtry may well have been at work at the rear of the battle lines, countering the spells with what strength he had, for the winds quickly gathered and shifted in the other direction.
At a piercing scream from the eagles on high, the mass of warriors moved forward, in a heavy, swaying rhythm. So far the mighty hosts of Ishyrus were only a distant collection of tents and jets of spiraling purple smoke. No one appeared upon the bare, rolling hills to challenge the approach. The center of the Fourth Realm alliance advanced to the bottom of a trough between two slopes. Roland braced himself as he looked up at the high ground, expecting the enemy to swoop down from above at any moment. Like many around him, he kept a fearful eye out for the shadows of the deadly tree wraiths stealing across the fields like Satan’s elite assassins. No one dared plant their feet too firmly for fear of what new web of despair Ishyrus might have spun for them.
The army halted at the summit of a ridge. There, the four formations of smaller mammals parted for Sloat, Belfray, and Roland, who raced forward. Berch, having sworn never to run another step in the realmlands, waited among the animals for their return. Belfray carried a handful of small metal objects while Sloat slung a heavy gnome shovel over his shoulder.
Hatanwa snorted his impatience with this one concession to Digtry’s bizarre plan. Scowling, he averted his eyes from the sight of this undignified folly.
Roland took several deep breaths to settle his nerves as he took on the task of running point for the entire army. He searched the heathery ground, found what he was looking for, and pointed to the spot. Sloat strode forward and plunged his spade into the earth while his companions stood guard directly in front of him. He dug quickly, rasping a small hole out of thin topsoil and the gravel beneath it. Belfray then crouched low beside him and dropped the metal pieces into the hole.
Roland imagined the great Ishyrus presiding over the scene. Evaluating. Scheming. Calculating. What would it make of this strange ritual that had preceded the attack?
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Just as Sloat threw dirt over the hole, the hillside exploded in an unearthly roar. Thick as a plague of locusts, the enemy swarmed over the crest of hills and up from trenches and ravines, on land and in the sky.
Some of their foes hesitated before the Tishaarans and their companions, unsure of what to make of these unfamiliar creatures. But a ragged battalion of Raxxars spotted Sloat and Belfray. With hideous caws of delight, they descended upon their Third Realm enemy. So sudden and furious was the enemy’s charge that Roland’s part in the battle would have ended then and there had not a cloud of bees swarmed upon the enemy.
“The bees are the noblest fighters of all,” cried Sloat, as the Raxxars spun and slapped and screeched in misery. “The sting they deliver costs them their lives, yet they do not shrink from delivering such help as they are able.”
By the time the Raxxars regained their momentum, the surging tide of beasts passed Roland, and flooded the sparse grasses in front of him. Wolverines raced to the forefront as if berserk. A phalanx of rams smashed into a wall of Pharitans while cougars tore into the mob of Raxxars like foxes in a henhouse. The bison thundered forward with lowered heads and steaming nostrils; the wolves closed ranks and charged in their disciplined lines.
A dark cloud of black flies droned inland from Point Harrow, so thick they cast a cold shadow over the battlefield. Immediately, legions of birds shot forward from the rear of the animal lines to engulf the hated pests. Eagles haughtily refused to engage the enemy fliers in airborne combat, except for the occasional hawk or vulture that let down its guard. Instead, they focused on snatching up rats and weasels from the enemy ranks and dropping them on the heads of the Raxxars. Grizzlies struck with murderous force along the right flank of the battle front, selecting the fiercest warriors they could find among the enemy ranks and pitching in with a savage fury that cowed even their own allies. The Gnomes battered a battalion of Brookings mercilessly, and pushed deep into Ishyrus’s lines.
As the battle raged ahead of them, Roland and Belfray, joined now by the late-arriving Berch, formed a ring of defense around Sloat as he buried more metal objects in the ground.
Roland thought he detected Ishyrus’s countermoves to the attack. Led by the thundering Terrible Ones, mounted Barbarians galloped forward to deal with the bison. Pharitan archers picked out targets from among the larger, slower-moving creatures. Weasels mobbed after their larger but less numerous cousins, the wolverines. Crews of Brookings and Urchins, armed with shovels of their own, which they carried awkwardly and uncertainly, headed for the spots where the Tishaarans had buried their objects. The sight raised Roland’s hopes ever so slightly. Perhaps Digtry’s irrational strategy was jamming the mental circuits of the great Ishyrus after all.
When the advance of their army slowed, stalemated by the sheer weight of the forces opposing them, Roland and his mates were able to work past the smaller mammals toward the front lines of combat. As the enemy drew within striking range of his sword, Roland was thankful that Raxxars and wildcats, rather than the soldiers of the middle realms, had attacked his position. He had no experience at sword fighting, nor was he sure he had the grit to thrust his steel into guts of another human. Far better, for the moment, to wield his weapon against animals and other monstrous creatures.
The Roland Stewart who wielded his weapon on the battlefield of Point Harrow was a far different person from the one who had stumbled onto Reef’s Island in the Second Realm many months ago. Constant work and outdoor exercise had molded his frame. Experience, particularly the harrowing test of nerves in the Fifth Realm, had steeled his heart. Steadied by quiet resignation to his fate, he fought valiantly, if not particularly deftly. Those of the enemy who saw him might have been excused for wondering what prince of the Second Realm had traveled so far to join the Beast-Gnome cause.
Gradually, the overwhelming advantage in numbers, and even more telling, the sinister presence of the tree wraiths turned back the valiant final offensive of the lower realm alliance. These poisonous spirits stole over the ground like a mist, and indeed it was difficult to distinguish them from the ground cover that refused to burn off. They dissolved and then materialized among their enemy, gripping spines and snapping them with invisible fingers. Not even Digtry could devise an antidote for these lethal stalkers, although he had spent most of the previous night racking his brain for a solution.
As the battle raged throughout the afternoon, the indifferent sun, which had bestowed none of the warmth that its brightness promised, began to drop in the sky. The shadows of the tree spirits lengthened, freeing them to strike more deeply into the ranks of the allies.
The battle disintegrated from a clash of magnificent armies into thousands of individual struggles for survival. To Roland’s right, cougars slashed furiously at wildcats. To his left, Hatanwa whirled and snarled as he dealt death with his claws and teeth. But the walls of the enemy closed in on these shrinking pillars of strength.
Roland dodged an Urchin’s spiny mace only to be clubbed from the blind side. Dizzy and bleeding, he staggered backward. When his head cleared, the din of battle seemed to have receded and he found himself lying on the prickly tufts of grass behind the battle lines, tended by the skillful fingers of a raccoon. Standing next to him, snarling her impatience with the injury that had pulled her from the field, was Bannaclaw.
“What are you doing here?” growled the grizzly. “Get your spindly little carcass back out there and do something!”
But as his head began to clear, Roland saw a glimmer of respect in those savage eyes as they viewed the knot above his left temple. At the same time, he noticed the grizzly favoring a bloody paw, then saw the three arrows stuck deep in it.
“Sir, are you well enough to hold the bear’s paw while I pull the dart out?” a raccoon asked Roland.
A quick glance at the battlefield showed that the situation had badly eroded during his moments of unconsciousness. Enemy forces from every realm poured over the hills into the valley where the allied front had broken into clusters of desperate fighters. With defeat fast closing in, Roland was determined to go down bravely. Their cause was righteous after all, he decided, despite Sloat’s doubts. Knowing that made the outcome of the battle somehow less important. “I’ll give it a shot.”
As he grabbed the enormous limb with both hands, he tried not to shrink from the fangs gleaming inches from his face. “You’re lucky,” Roland said, feeling the bear’s hot breath. “I rarely hold paws on the first date.”
“This may hurt a bit,” the raccoon said to Bannaclaw. “Would you like something to bite on?”
“I see a scrawny arm that will do just fine,” growled Bannaclaw, sizing up Roland.
The bear jerked his head and snarled as a sharp tug dislodged the first arrow. When the raccoon tried to examine the wound, Bannaclaw turned on it, furiously. “Get the rest out. Now!”
In short order, the deed was done. No sooner was the third arrow out then the grizzly galloped back to the battlefield with astonishing speed.
“If a stupid bear shot full of arrows can do that, so can I,” said Roland. Although still woozy, he staggered to his feet and lurched back to the fray.
By the time he arrived, the ranks of the Fourth Realm allies were completely shattered. Unable to locate his friends, he attached himself to a cluster of Gnomes breaking up under the onslaught of a woolly rhino, Barbarians, dogs, and polar bears.
Brandishing a new, lighter sword that he found on the battlefield, Roland charged. Swinging his sword wildly, he pierced the ring of attackers and joined the beleaguered circle of allies. While parrying the swipes of a huge white paw, that drove him sideways, he nearly bumped into Redmerit. Grinding his crooked teeth, his small eyes darting from side to side, the battle-scarred Gnome kept up a barrage of blows to all sides of the shrinking circle. Roland contributed where he could, careful to stay out of the Gnome’s way, aware that he was little more than a sideshow to Redmerit’s fury,
At last several of the attackers abandoned the effort and went off in search of easier prey. But before Roland could praise the stout gnome for his valiant work, a huge ogre, summoned from the depths of some foul Fourth Realm crevice, rushed forward to challenge Redmerit. The ogre was dressed in heavy fur held up by a strap at one shoulder. With slitty eyes and a narrow, sunken face frozen in a scowl, he seemed a larger, crueler, fleshier version of the gnome. His weapon was a long, heavy chain, which he swung in a wide whistling arc.