The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Eleven, Scene Thirty

        Eowain hoisted himself up into the saddle and looked down the slope of the trail to the line of his men. He'd chosen the best field he could for their camp overnight, but a handful of forested hills limited his sight distance. Bandit archers sniped at his skirmishers across the brook on the left flank. Heavy forest on the far side frustrated his men's efforts to return volleys.

      The men along the front were restless. No assault was yet forthcoming, but there, too, snipers picked with arrows at the line, and rattled the men's confidence despite Medyr's blessings. They huddled behind their shields, or cursed and cried out when a shaft found a rare opening. His archers at the center returned volleys over the line with judicious discrimination. Arrows had become a valuable commodity through the last two days, and no man was willing to take a shot without a certain target.

      Eowain breathed easier when he considered the right flank. The hills and trees would make a cavalry charge difficult at best, and a full day of rain had left the ground sodden. Valuable mounts would be lost to accidents in the mud before they ever reached the handful of spear-armed skirmishers he'd ordered to hold that corner.

      Over the anxious murmur of the men, there came to his ear a new sound: chanting. But not the familiar chanting of the drymyn. This was a rough tongue, agglutinated, and in all ways strange.

Líl na Izzi, Sagèntar!

Gibil, Líl na Izzi, Sagèntar!

Girra, Líl na Izzi, Sagèntar!

      On and on the chanting went, and the men on the front line grew silent. The sniping from the wood ceased. Men peered fearfully past their shields.

      What new villainy is this?

      Beside him, Lorcán licked at his lips and rubbed at his throat, clenched his half-handed fist. "Should we pull the men back?"

      "I don't know. Pull back from what? It's just nonsense so far."

      Lorcán scowled. "We've seen what their nonsense can do."

      From the wood, fire light suddenly erupted in the shadows, as if several torches had been kindled at once. Eowain felt fear seize his belly. "FIRE!"

      From the trees, flaming arrows shot forth into the company's center. Most struck at the round wooden shields his men carried. With a pop, those shields burst into flames. Men screamed in fright and threw them away.

      Elsewhere in the center, the arm of a man's leather jack ignited. His neighbors broke formation and shoved to get clear of him as he flailed the flaming arm. Shouts of "Hold the line!" arose from the sergeants.

      Another swarm of arrows broke from the trees. These carried no fire, but found three men in the front line who'd thrown away their protection, and killed just the same.

      Smoke from the wet, burning shields billowed up from the ground. The man on fire was tackled to the ground by his companions and rolled through the wet mud. Men echoed, "Hold the line! Hold the line!" and the center rippled.

      A deep-throated shout arose from the trees, and the bandits boiled forth, swords swinging.

      The men of Droma at the center, Eowain's own bodyguard, experienced men of war, brought shields and spears to bear with a grunt. Bandits battered against the hedge of spears with their shields. Men cried out, blood flew through the air, smoke obscured the mêlée.

      To the left, an ominous shadow settled along the near bank of the brook. The rain-clouds already obscured the sun, yet all down the course, darkness like a patch of midnight obscured the far bank. His skirmishers, caught in the unnatural darkening, were barely visible, dim shadows. They cried out with fright and surprise. A dozen of them fell back in disarray into more healthful light. Bolts sang through the darkness into the welter of their confusion.