only one picture in front of your eyes the whole time—a road cut off by a thick white wall of fog.
The day was approaching its end, and there had been neither sight nor sound of the enemy. True, about an hour earlier something that sounded very much like the booming of the orcs’ battle drums had been heard from behind the curtain of fog, but everything had gone quiet, the alarm had come to nothing, and the oppressive silence of anticipation had descended once again.
On the slope of the ravine itself, just below the line of fortifications, the builders had set long, pointed stakes into the ground. The attackers would find it very tricky to get past this obstacle with any speed. They would probably get stuck trying to squeeze between the stakes, and the bowmen would have time to reap a bloody harvest.
“They haven’t decided to wait for darkness, surely?” the commander of the Dog Swallows asked apprehensively. “But since when has the race of the Firstborn ever been so cautious with men? They regard us as talking monkeys.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of,” croaked Fox, who was sitting beside Hargan. “What if they’ve found another route to Avendoom? Maybe through the forest or the swamps . . .”
“Through the swamps?” The commander shook his head. “No, there’s only one road here. If the orcs decide to try the swamps, they won’t reach Avendoom before next spring. This whole area’s such a wild tangle you could never find your way out, even sober.”
“So we’ll wait, then,” Fox concluded philosophically.
And they waited.
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” The cry went up, and then a lone bugle sounded the alert.
Hargan lifted up his head and rubbed his eyes.
“Everyone to their posts!” the commander ordered, putting a light helmet on his head.
Like all the other soldiers, Hargan was never parted from his chain mail even for a moment. If the enemy attacked, they weren’t going to wait while the soldiers put their armor on. So he wore his mail all the time and even slept in it.
This was no time for the standard three royal lines, and certainly not for the four lines of the elves. Those formations were good out in the open, but here, hiding behind a wall of wood and earth, it was best to fire a salvo up and over first and shoot directly at the enemy afterward. When you could be certain. With a clear aim. So that every arrow hit its target.
The powerful battle bows had already been strung; the trusty mittens, tattered by thousands of blows, had been donned; the quivers were bursting with arrows.
One arrow in the hand, another two stuck into the ground. Each was as thick as a man’s thumb, with solid, armor-piercing heads—not just the standard cutting edges that would bring down only light infantry, but battering rams that could pierce good steel.
A dour line of soldiers with swords and huge rectangular shields formed up seven paces behind the bowmen. Unlike the archers, they were well spaced out, with a gap of two paces between each man. If the enemy managed to get through the hail of arrows, the sword-swingers would give the bowmen time to get behind them and exchange their weapons for something more effective at close quarters, while they themselves closed ranks and set their shields together.
“Is my help required?” asked Siena, who had approached the consulting officers.
The enchantress was wearing steel armor and her head was covered with a chain-mail hood. Overnight the armorers had managed to hammer together some reasonably good protection for the short girl out of whatever was available. Like yesterday, Siena had no weapon, just the amulet gleaming on the chain round her neck.
“Your help, Lady Siena, will be required in the very near future,” Hargan said, and shifted his gaze to the sergeant of her guards.
Several figures slid forward out of the wall of fog.
“Orcs!”
“Make rea-dy!” The sergeants’ calls ran along the ranks of bowmen.
“Raise the banner,” Hargan said curtly.
His order was immediately carried out and the yellow panel of cloth began fluttering above the fortifications. The material for it had been donated by Siena, who had allowed them to tear off part of her own tent. Although the brigade had just been formed the previous day, it had to have a banner, no matter what, even if it was only an ordinary rag nailed to the trunk of a young aspen instead of a flagstaff. Some unskilled hand had drawn something on