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The Bow of Haladan Part II
The sound of horses drummed across the field, the noise reached
the ogres ears before a single horseman came in sight. It turned its
head and all along the line of goblins, orcs and gnolls, a hundred smaller
heads turned to the east as well.
The field rolled up, a gentle slope, and formed a crest where
on a higher plain the border of old Geoff lay, forgotten and unmanned
though monsters claimed the boundary line as theirs. Below and to the west
the fields ran down till they met the Great River and held poor Hochoch
in a sad embrace.
These monsters, a patrol lately come to test the strength of their
human foes, the guardsman and the watch. They'd had a lonely hunt along
the eastern fields, the only sight they'd seen was a distant cloud of dust
that never came close and shortly disappeared. But now the horsemen
revealed themselves, at least in sound, hooves, a thousand strong or
more.
"Form a line!" the ogre growled. "Archers string your bows!"
Three score bowmen, a dozen gnolls, all obeyed though not as one. A
chatter ran through the goblins ranks, gnolls whined and barked, they
gathered in a pack. The ogre swore, but saved its breath, the scent of
fear was in the air, if these dogs and rats obeyed at all and did not run,
that would be much more then it had any reason to expect.
A pennant fluttered in the wind, half black, half white, a griffon
flew with wings of silk and snapped back for all to see, caught in a
south-eastern breeze. A great helm appeared and then a horses head, a
lone knight halted on the ridge, his tabard black and white, his horses
barding covered in the same. A hush went through the ogres troops, then
a small cloud of black fletched arrows rose into the air. The knight
and horse made not a move, the arrows spiked the ground well short,
a bad omen to the goblin-kind.
The ogre growled again, the goblin archers wavered and drew back.
"You stupid rats!" it screamed. "A single human in a metal pot, and you
run away!"
A gnoll let out a high pitched whine. Behind the knight a hundred
lance points gleamed. The knight began to pace his mount and then turned
it to a gallop. The hundred lances followed him, behind came a hundred
more, the rolling thunder of their hooves washed down the slope and
drove an icy blade of fear through every monsters heart. They ran, the
ogre stood alone.
Ahead, not far, the knight picked out his foe and dipped his
lance, a small salute to bravery, respected though it wore a brutish
face. The ogre turned its shoulder to the lance and swung back a huge
wedge shaped club of fire hardened wood, its head run through with iron
spikes rusted a dusky red. It tried to dive beneath the point and swung
low to break a foreleg of the horse. The knight had expected such and
reigned his horse just to the left, his lance cut across the ogres ribs,
his mount crashed armored chest to thick skulled head, the ogre fell
beneath the horses hooves.
The gallop took the knight far on, but he turned his horse and
saw the ogre rise and shake itself, hurt but ready for another charge.
The knight galloped up the slope a bit, he needed ground between them to
build up his speed. The ogre waved a hand and called out through broken
teeth, but its words were lost, the knight heard only his own beating
heart and the breathing of his horse. Each charge wore down his mount,
the heavy barding, the knights own weight, but this warhorse was bred
for such a life as this. The knight clicked his tongue and prodded with
his knees, the horse took off, the downhill slope added to its speed.
With two hands back behind its head, the ogre prepared to smash
this knightling down with a single blow, but the lance point struck it
first. Dead center the point went in and out the back, the ogre dropped
its club, for just a moment it was lifted up and then the lance bent
up and snapped in two. The knight rode past, the ogre skidded across the
ground, slick grass and fresh turned oerth. The lance point dug deep and
stopped the slide, the ogre moaned and a wash of blood poured from its
mouth and chest.
The knight threw away the broken haft and walked his horse to the
ogres side. The beast reached out and grabbed the lance stuck through
its chest, it pulled and as it did it shook and coughed out a bloody
spray. The knight shook his head, then dismounted from his horse. He drew
a gleaming sword that hung from a saddle sheath. The ogre let its hand
fall away, too weak to try again or resigned to its approaching fate. It
closed its eyes, the blade was sharp and quick.
Across the field the last of the ogres troops fell beneath the
hooves and lances of the watch. No knight bore any wound, the ogre
alone had stood and fought, but died like all the rest.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."
Horace, Odes, III, ii, 13.