them. . . . And the Dog Swallows also had the slight advantage of the ravine and the wall above it.
The first wave of the enemy came rolling on, getting closer and closer. The soldiers ran, hoping to get through the danger zone exposed to arrows as quickly as possible and leave their comrades—the men running twenty yards behind in the next wave—as the targets.
“What kind of idiot is commanding them?” Hargan muttered.
Running in a crowd, simply inviting the arrows to strike, without even holding up your shields in front of you, was stupid. Very stupid. But now the traitors already had no choice.
“Arc five fingers upward! Together, fire!” Blidkhard commanded, shouting above the howls of the attackers.
The bowmen raised their bows, there was a sharp crack, and the arrows went whistling up into the leaden sky.
“Arc seven fingers upward. Correct for wind half a finger left! Together, fire!”
The new swarm of deadly bees took to the air at the very moment when the first wave of arrows came crashing down on the attackers’ heads. Some managed to hold their shields up to ward off this deadly rain; some were simply fortunate enough to escape being hit. But the greater part of the first wave knew the bitter taste of death. His scythe sliced through the ranks of traitors as arrows fell on heads and shoulders. Their impetus drove them straight through cuirasses and chain mail, deep into men’s chests, finishing off the wounded who had already fallen.
More than eighty bodies were left lying on the ground, and the survivors ran on doggedly in an attempt to dive into the fog of the ravine as quickly as possible and conceal themselves from the eyes of the bowmen.
The second swarm of arrows had been launched along a steeper arc and it fell on the men almost vertically. Screams . . . Now there were only thirty men left in the first wave—all the rest had met their death on the other side of the ravine. And they still had about fifty yards to run to safety.
“Number twos! Three paces back! Arc six fingers upward! Number ones! At the survivors! Choose your target! Fire!”
The line of bowmen trembled and split into two halves. The second line fired along an arc, sending death to the new wave that was already advancing. The first line fired directly, picking off the remaining soldiers of the first wave.
The bowmen shot down the men who were left—not a single soldier from the first wave managed to reach the safety of the ravine. Black bodies bristling with white-feathered arrows littered the brown ground.
Meanwhile the arrows of the second line were already falling on the heads of the new wave of attackers.
“Number twos! Three paces forward! Close ranks! All together! Arc eight fingers upward! Fire!”
The reconstituted line of bowmen all fired their arrows at once.
“At the enemy! Choose your target! Correction for wind half a finger left! Shoot at will!”
The arrows stuck in the ground had been used up long ago, and now right hands were lowered to the quivers hanging on men’s hips. The arrows rustled out and were set on the strings. . . .
“Fox! Get ready! The ones who have broken through will be here soon!” Hargan shouted.
“No they won’t!” Fox laughed. “They’re not stupid enough to try breaking through with just twenty men! They’ll wait for the others!”
Blidkhard issued a constant stream of commands, altering the direction of fire every second, setting the arrows flying, first upward in an arc that seemed impossibly steep, then straight across, sowing death in the ranks of the attackers. There were even fewer fortunate fellows in the third wave than in the second: No more than fifteen men reached the shelter of the ravine.
“Look out!” one of the soldiers cried.
The commander of the attackers had kept his bowmen back until the fourth wave. While Blidkhard’s lads were dealing with the third wave, the fourth, which was armed with short bows that could not fire as far as the Dog Swallows’ weapons, came within firing range. . . .
Before he ducked behind the huge wooden shield that had been cobbled together out of planks from the wagons for just this occasion, Hargan caught a glimpse of the flock of hornets heading toward them through the air.
The swordsmen fell to their knees, raising their shields above their heads, protecting themselves and covering their comrades. Blidkhard’s men came off worse—not all of them were quick enough to put down their bows and