If the Asha'man could manage the strength. He'd pushed them hard. Maybe too hard. He didn't know their limits the way he did for ordinary troops. If they were able to break the Trolloc advance, his army would fall
back southward. That retreat would take them past the safety of Maradon, but they would not be allowed in. Those inside had rebuffed all Ituralde's attempts at communication. "We do not abet invaders" had been the reply each time. Bloody fools.
Well, the Trollocs would likely form up around Maradon for a sustained siege, giving Ituralde and his men time to fall back to a more defensible position.
"Hold!" Ituralde called again, riding past an area where the Trolloc press was beginning to show results. Atop one of the hilltop fortifications, a pack of wolf-headed Trollocs lurked, wary, while their companions charged down before them. "Archers!" Ituralde said, pointing.
A volley of arrows followed, spraying the wolf-headed Trollocs, or "Minds" as the Dragonsworn in Ituralde's army had started calling them. Trollocs had their own bands and organization, but his men often referred to individuals by the features they displayed. "Horns" for goats, "Beaks" for hawks, "Arms" for bears. Those with the heads of wolves were often among the more intelligent; some Saldaeans claimed to have heard them speaking the human language to bargain with or trick their opponents.
Ituralde knew much about Trollocs now. You needed to know your enemy. Unfortunately, there was huge variety in Trolloc intelligence and personality. And there were many Trollocs who shared physical attributes from various groups. Ituralde swore he'd seen one twisted abomination with the feathers of a hawk but the horns of a goat.
The Trollocs atop the fortification tried to get out of the way of the arrows. A large pack of hulking beasts behind shoved them down the hill with a roar. Trollocs were cowardly things, normally, unless hungry, but if they were whipped into a frenzy, they fought well.
The Fades would follow this initial wave. Once the archers were out of arrows, and Trollocs had softened the men below. Ituralde didn't look forward to that.
Light, Ituralde thought. I hope we can outrun them. The Asha'man waited in the distance for his order. He wished he had them closer. But he couldn't risk it. They were too important an asset to lose to a stray arrow.
Hopefully, the front ranks of Trollocs would be severely battered by the pikemen, their carcasses twisted and banked against the pikes and the Trollocs behind stumbling and falling against their own bloody remnants. Ituralde's remaining Saldaeans would ride as a harrying force at any who got through the Asha'man blasts. Then the pikemen should be able to draw back and follow the rest of the army in retreat. Once past Maradon,
they could use gateways to fall back to his next chosen position, a forested pass some ten leagues south.
His men should be able to escape. Should. Light, but he hated being forced to command a too-fast retreat like this.
Stay firm, he told himself, continuing to ride and call out the order to hold. It was important that they hear his voice. That boy is the Dragon Reborn. He'll keep his promises.
"My Lord!" a voice called. Ituralde's guard split to let a young boy ride up, panting. "My Lord, it's Lieutenant Lidrin!"
"He's fallen?" Ituralde demanded.
"No, my Lord. He's . . ." The boy looked over his shoulder. In the pike line nearby, the soldiers were bulging forward toward the Trolloc wave, rather than falling back.
"What in the Light?" Ituralde said, heeling Dawnweave into motion. The white gelding galloped forward, Ituralde's guard and the young messenger joining him in a thunder of hooves.
He could hear Lidrin's yells despite the roar of the battlefield. The young Domani officer was out in front of the pike lines, attacking the Trollocs with sword and shield, bellowing. Lidrin's men had pushed through to defend him, leaving the pikemen confused and disoriented.
"Lidrin, you fool." Ituralde reined his horse to a halt.
"Come!" Lidrin bellowed, raising his sword up before the Trollocs. He laughed loudly, voice half-mad, face splattered with blood. "Come! I will face you all! My sword thirsts!"
"Lidrin!" Ituralde screamed. "Lidrin!"
The man glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were wide with a crazed kind of glee. Ituralde had seen it before, in the eyes of soldiers who fought too long, too hard. "We're going to die, Rodel," Lidrin called. "This way, I get to take them with me! One or two at least! Join me!"
"Lidrin, get back here and "
The man ignored him, turning back and pressing forward.
"Get his men back here," Ituralde yelled, gesturing. "Close the pike ranks! Quickly. We can't . . ."
The Trollocs surged forward. Lidrin fell in a spray of blood, laughing. His men were too strongly pressed, and they split down the middle. The pikemen reset themselves, but a fist of Trollocs crashed into them. Some Trollocs fell.
Most didn't.
The nearby creatures screeched and howled at seeing the hole in the
defenses. They came, scrambling over bodies at the base of the hill, throwing themselves at the pikemen.
Ituralde cursed, then pushed Dawnweave forward. In war, as in farming, you sometimes had to step in and get knee-deep in the muck. He bellowed as he crashed into the Trollocs. His guard rode in around him, closing the gap. The air became a crashing tempest of metal on metal and grunts of pain.