Mortalis

Hie icy rain drummed heavily against the bare trees, blowing in sheets through the forest, soaking Prince Midalis and his army. They had hoped for snow, a great blizzard as so often blasted Vanguard, a storm gathering strength over the Gulf of Corona, drawing up the water and then dumping snow thigh deep throughout the region. But it was just rain this time: icy rain, and miserable to be sure, but nothing that would drive the goblin horde from their entrenched positions around the large, solitary stone structure, St. Belfour, on the small, bare hill amid the trees. The cowls of their cloaks pulled as low as they could go, the young Prince and his closest adviser and confidant, Liam O'Blythe, the Earl of Tir-Mattias, made their cautious way to the rocky ridgeline that afforded them a view of the abbey and of the monstrous army firmly encamped about it.

"There's two thousand o' the skizzes if there's a dozen," Liam remarked, surveying the scene before them. He was a thin fellow, all gangly arms and legs, freckle faced with red hair and gray eyes, as was common among the Vanguardsmen. "They got us five to one, even countin' that them monks'll come out and give a hand."

"A bolt of lightning would be better welcome," Midalis replied with just a hint of the Vanguard brogue creeping into his Ursal court-trained diction. His crystal blue eyes peeked out from under the edge of the hood, sparkling brightly despite the dullness of the day. When he stood in a room with native Vanguardsmen, it was obvious that Midalis was not from the region. He was of medium height and build, but with a darker complexion and dark brown hair. Anyone who saw Midalis standing beside the older Danube would guess that they were brothers.

"If they got any o' the magic left to 'em," said Liam, and he pulled off his soaked hood and shook his unruly mop of red hair, running his hand through it to get it out of his eyes. "They ain't tossed a bolt or a burst o' fire out at the goblins in a fortnight."

"They've got it left," Midalis answered with confidence. "But they know that if they use their magic, they'll just bring the goblins on in full against them. The goblins understand how much the monks have got to throw, and if those in the abbey grow weary from using their magic, they will find a difficult task in holding back the horde."

Liam nodded, but his expression remained doubting and grim. "Well, they better have a bolt or two for throwin' when we go against the horde, or we'll be chased off or cut down."

Prince Midalis did not doubt the man's observations. Vanguard was having a much harder time in the aftermath of the war than the rest of Honce-the-Bear, because in Vanguard, the war wasn't over. The minions of the demon dactyl had hit the region hard, both along the rocky coast and with a force marching across the land. South and west of the Gulf of Corona, the lands were cultivated, and much more heavily populated; and there, the King's army had been able to push the hordes away. But here, where the land was much wilder, where forests predominated over farmland and the population of humans was measured in hundreds instead of tens of thousands, the powries and goblins had not so readily retreated. Always, Vanguard had been the roughest region of Honce-the-Bear, its forests full of huge brown bears and hunting cats, its northern border continually crossed by the warlike barbarian tribesmen of Alpinador. The folk of Vanguard had known goblins and powries as more than fireside tales to scare children long before the demon dactyl had awakened to remind the more civilized regions that such monsters did exist.

And though they were certainly outnumbered by their monstrous enemies in the region, the people of Vanguard knew how to fight such foes.

Still, this was a battle that Midalis did not want; this particular army of goblins was too large and too skilled, and the ground around St. Belfour of Tir-Mattias was too rugged for the Prince's troops to fully utilize their greatest advantage: horses. Thus, Midalis had hoped the dark clouds they had seen gathering over the gulf would bring a killer blizzard, a storm that would weaken the goblins' resolve to continue their siege. "The weather won't be holdin' so warm much longer," Liam remarked. Midalis shook his head, his expression grim. "The monks haven't got much longer," he explained. "The goblins have held them in there for near to two months now, and with all the folk who came running before the horde, they've not the food to hold on." He paused there and stood staring long and hard at the windswept rain slashing against the abbey's stone walls and at the dozens and dozens of sputtering, smoking campfires of the goblin army encircling the place. "Ye're to go to him, ain't ye? " Liam asked. Midalis turned to regard him. "I see no choice," he answered. "Abbot | Agronguerre came to me last night, in my dreams, begging for our help. I They've a day more of food, and then they'll be going hungry. We cannot j wait any longer." J

Liam's expression showed that he was less than enthusiastic about the j prospects. |

"I'm no more happy about the possibilities than you," Midalis said to J him. "In another time, we'd be fighting the barbarian savages, and now I am asking them for help."

"Help for the Abellican Church," Liam reminded him, which only made the prospects darker still.

"Aye, there's no friendship between the barbarians of Alpinador and the Church," Midalis agreed; for indeed, the Church had made many forays into the wild northern kingdom, usually with disastrous results, particularly one not so distant memory of slaughter in a small town called Fuldebarrow. "But I've got to try, for the abbot and his brethren."

"And I'll try with ye, me Prince," Liam said with a nod. "And all yer men'11 fight beside the demon hisself, if Prince Midalis' naming him an ally!"

Midalis put his hand on Liam's elbow, grateful, as always, for the unyielding loyalty of his hardy men and women. The folk of Vanguard had survived all the trials, the killer storms, and now the invasion, by standing united behind their beloved Prince Midalis, younger brother of King Danube Brock Ursal. And Midalis' loyalty was no less heartfelt and intense. As Danube's brother, he could have ruled whatever duchy he chose. He could have taken the Mantis Arm and its prosperous trade, or the Yorkey region between Ursal and Entel, with its gentle climate and rolling farmlands. He could have even been named Duke of Ursal, as was usual for a lone sibling prince, ruling the mighty city beside his brother in the luxury of Ursal's bountiful court.

But Vanguard had held Midalis' heart ever since his childhood, when his father had sailed with him into the Coastpoint Guard fortress of Pireth Vanguard on a trip to hunt the huge northern elk. Something about the nature of the place-untamed, seemingly unconquerable-had touched a spiritual chord within young Midalis, had shown him an alternative to the bustle and the dirt of the cities. His brother had been leery about letting Midalis come up to this wild land-would the nearly autonomous people accept him? Or might he meet with an "accident" on a hunting trip?

Those fears had been dispelled the moment Midalis had stepped off the boat onto the low dock of Pireth Vanguard, when a host of folk from all the neighboring communities had arrived to set out a huge feast of venison and fowl, with pipers playing tunes both melancholy and joyous all through the day, and all the young ladies of Vanguard taking turns dancing with their new Prince. Truly, Midalis had found his home, and so when the minions of the demon dactyl had arrived in force, Midalis had not only called out the militia and sent a message to his brother for aid but he had personally led the Vanguard forces. Never could it be said of Prince Midalis that he sat on a horse in safety at the back of the battlefield, commanding his troops into action.

Thus, when the barbarian Andacanavar had come to Midalis' camp that night a week before and Midalis had agreed to meet with him, other Vanguard men and women, traditional enemies of the barbarians, had deferred to the judgment of their heroic Prince without complaint.

Still, it was with great trepidation that Midalis and Liam made their quiet way over the forested hills to the field where Andacanavar and his fellows had set up camp. Might the huge barbarian have baited him, feigning friendship so that he could decapitate the Vanguard forces?

Midalis swallowed that distrust and forced himself to focus instead on poor Abbot Agronguerre and the other forty monks of St. Belfour and the three hundred commoners holed up within the abbey's walls.

At the edge of the field, the pair were met by a trio of huge muscled men, the shortest of whom stood nearly half a foot taller than the nearly six-foot Midalis. Huge spears in hand, the barbarians walked right up before the horses of the visitors, one going to each horse and grabbing the reins just below the beasts' mouths, pulling down forcefully.

"Which is Midalis?" the third of the group, standing back a couple of steps, asked.

The Prince reached up and pulled back his hood, shaking the wetness from his straight brown hair. "I am the Prince of Honce-the-Bear," he said, noting that all three of the barbarians narrowed their eyes at the proclamation.

"Your leader bade me to come to him," Midalis went on, "under a banner of alliance."

The barbarian in the back nodded his head quickly to the side, indicating that the pair should dismount; then, while his two companions walked the horses away, he motioned Midalis and Liam to follow him.

"They should be unsaddled and brushed down," Prince Midalis remarked.

The barbarian turned back on him skeptically.

"They're not knowin' much about horses," Liam whispered to his companion. "The folk of Alpinador ain't much for ridin'."

"But we have eaten more than a few," their huge escort promptly added. He looked at Liam and snickered, for Liam's voice, like his frame, was quite delicate.

Midalis and Liam exchanged skeptical glances; this wasn't going to be easy.

They were led to a large tent in the middle of the encampment. Both noticed that few eyes were upon them throughout the march, and when their escort pulled aside the flap, they understood why.

More than three hundred barbarian warriors-all tall and most with long flaxen hair, some with braids, others with ornamental jewelry tied in-filled the tent, hoisting great foaming mugs and making such a general ruckus that Midalis was amazed that he and Liam hadn't heard them a mile away or that the goblins outside St. Belfour hadn't taken note and sent scouts to investigate.

Or maybe they had, Midalis realized, when he looked to the side and saw a row of goblin heads staked out like macabre party decorations.

"Tunno bren-de prin!" their escort cried above the tumult in his native tongue, a rolling, bouncing language that the Vanguardsmen jokingly referred to as "bedongadongadonga."

Almost immediately, the hall quieted, all eyes turning toward the two smaller men at the entrance. The Prince heard Liam swallow hard, and he shared that nervous sentiment completely. Though it was late fall, and cold, most of the barbarians were wearing sleeveless tunics, revealing their huge, muscled arms, as thick around as Midalis' thigh.

The barbarian ranks slowly parted then as an older man, his face weathered by more than fifty winters, scooped up an extra pair of goblets and started to walk slowly across the tent. He was huge, his muscles taut despite his age; and though there were others his size or even larger, and though most of the men in the hall weren't half his age, from his balanced gait and stern visage, from the obvious respect he commanded from everyone in the hall, Midalis understood that this man Andacanavar could best any two of the others, perhaps any three, in batde.

Without a word, without a blink, he strode toward the pair of visitors, but stopped some dozen paces away. He lifted his own flagon and drained it in one huge swallow, then took the other two, one in each hand, and came forward slowly, the rustling of his deerskin breeches the only sound in the hall-other than the heavy breathing of both Midalis and Liam.

Right before the pair, Andacanavar stopped again and slowly brought his arms out wide and high above his head.

And then he closed his eyes and howled, turning it to a roar, primal and feral and as frightening a sound as either of the Vanguardsmen had ever heard.

And all the others took it up with vigor, a deafening communal roar that shook the tent walls and sent shivers coursing down the spines of the two visitors.

Continuing to roar, Andacanavar now opened his eyes and winked to the two, a signal that Midalis did not miss. Up went the Prince's arms, and he, too, loosed a tremendous bellow; and Liam, after an incredulous glance, did likewise, though his sounded more like a squeak. That only seemed to spur the barbarians on to greater heights, their shouts reaching a thunderous crescendo. Andacanavar dropped his arms suddenly, foam flying everywhere, and all cut short their howls-except for Midalis and Liam, who didn't understand the game and kept howling a few embarrassing moments longer. Both met the powerful gaze of Andacanavar, and the three stared at one another a few moments longer, before the imposing barbarian came forward and thrust the mugs into their hands, then reached back and called for another drink.

Liam started to bring the mead-filled mug to his lips, but Midalis, catching on, held him.

Then Andacanavar had a mug of his own, presenting it to the pair. "Ah, but we have a bunch of goblins to kill, now don't we?" the barbarian ranger asked.

Midalis took a chance. He raised his mug above his head-even splashing some mead on Andacanavar, though the man hardly seemed to noticeand shouted, "To the death of the goblins!"

Andacanavar slapped his mug against Midalis' and held it there, both men eyeing Liam, who quickly smacked his mug up there, too, while all the gathering took up the toast, "To the death of the goblins!"

Andacanavar drained his mug, as did Liam, for none in Honce-the-Bear could outdrink a born-and-bred Vanguardsman, and Midalis got his close enough to empty to call for more.

"Drink hearty, my friends," said Andacanavar.

"But not too much so," Midalis replied. "We've important business."

Andacanavar nodded. "But my men are wishing to see the truth of you both," he explained. "When you have taken enough of the mead, you will wag your tongues honestly, and let us see if we have a bond that can be forged."

Midalis considered the words and glanced to his friend, and then both held their flagons out as younger barbarians, barely more than boys, rushed about with bulging waterskins, refilling each mug in turn.

"This is Bruinhelde, who leads Tol Hengor," Andacanavar explained, holding his arm back and sweeping forward another imposing, stern-faced man, his blond hair tied with feathers and ornaments, his jaw square and strong. It occurred to Midalis that if he ever punched that jaw, he'd do more damage to his hand than to Bruinhelde's face. His eyes were the typical Alpinadoran blue, burning with inner fires.

"Your closest neighbors, they are," Andacanavar continued. "Far past the time for you two to meet as friends, I say."

From the expression on Bruinhelde's face, Midalis wasn't sure that the man agreed with the ranger's assessment. But the powerful barbarian leader did nod slightly and did present his flagon to Midalis for a clap of mugs. Liam started to add his, but Bruinhelde wilted him with a glare.

"Have we?" Midalis asked bluntly.

Bruinhelde looked at him curiously, then turned to Andacanavar. "Met as friends," Midalis clarified. "For so many years, our two peoples have had little contact, and rarely has that contact been on friendly terms."

"And you place the blame for this on my people? " Bruinhelde, obviously an easily agitated fellow, roared in reply; and all the Alpinadoran warriors bristled, and poor Liam seemed as if he would simply melt away.

But Midalis kept his eyes firmly on the imposing Bruinhelde. "Blame?" he asked with a chuckle. "I would not presume to blame anyone-likely, there is enough of that to go around, and each of the disastrous meetings would have to be judged on its own circumstance. But, no," he continued as Bruinhelde's look softened somewhat, "I seek not to place blame, nor to take blame upon my own shoulders, but rather to accept that which has happened and hope to learn from it, that it never happens again. Good Bruinhelde, if the invasion by the minions of the demon dactyl brings a new understanding and alliance to our peoples, then there is a bright edge to the dark cloud. Far too long have we skirmished, to the detriment of both our peoples. Let this night of Hengorot"-Bruinhelde and the others were obviously caught off guard that Midalis knew their name for the mead hall celebration-"forge a new bond between us, one for benefit and common good." As he finished, he held his mug aloft.

A long and uncomfortable moment slipped past, with Bruinhelde glancing once at Andacanavar, then fixing his stare on Midalis. Another moment slipped by, the mead hall perfectly silent, every man holding his breath waiting for Bruinhelde's answer.

He clapped his flagon hard against Midalis'. "We could not have picked a better common foe than the smelly goblins!" He roared, and so, too, did every man in the hall, a thunderous battle cry, full of excitement, full of rage. The sheer enthusiasm and volume of that barbarian war cry weakened Liam's knees, and when Prince Midalis looked at his companion he knew that Liam was thinking the same thing as he: they were glad that the Alpinadorans were on their side!

Though he had to go to rally his troops for the morning's battle, Prince Midalis did not leave the mead hall early that night. Nor was he able to escape until after Bruinhelde had poured a dozen flagons of drink down his throat.

"I'm not sure we're better with 'em as friends or enemies," Liam remarked as the two made their way through the forest, each man as groggy and drunk as his companion. "Oh, but me head's to hurt tomorrow, before any goblin even clunks me with its club."

"They'll all awaken with sore heads and tongues of cloth," Midalis agreed. "Likely, it will only make them more fierce."

The mere thought sent a shudder along Liam's spine.

Midalis stopped then and stood with a curious expression upon his face.

"What's it about, then? " Liam asked. Midalis held his hand up, motioning for the man to wait. A sensation had washed over him, much like the night before, a silent, spiritual cry for help. Abbot Agronguerre, he knew, using the hematite gemstone to reach out to him. It was a subtle call, nothing distinct, an imparting of emotion, of need, and nothing more. Midalis concentrated with all his willpower, trying to reciprocate the call, hoping that Agronguerre, who was floating spiritually about him, would sense his reply. "In the morning," he said aloud, for he was unsure of how the gemstone magic worked, unsure of whether the abbot could physically hear him in his spiritual form. "We will come on against the goblins in the morning."

"As we already said," a confused Liam answered, and again, Midalis held up his hand for the man to wait. But the sensation passed, the connection broke, and the Prince could only hope that his friend in the abbey had heard.

"It was Agronguerre," he explained to Liam. "He came to me again." Liam held up his hands, seeming unnerved. "The magic again? " he asked, and Midalis nodded. "What're ye thinkin' our new barbarian friends'11 think o' them monks and their magic?" he asked, for it was common knowledge among the Vanguardsmen that, while the monks considered the magical gemstones the gifts of God, the Alpinadorans mistrusted the powers completely, even spoke of the monkish magic as the work of Fennerloki, the god of their pantheon representing the powers of evil.

"We start the fightin' and the monks loose a fireball from their stone walls, and then Bruinhelde and his boys turn against us and pull St. Belfour down around Agronguerre," Liam reasoned.

Midalis blew a sigh as he considered the words, but then shook his head. "The ranger, Andacanavar, knows of the magic," he explained. "And so Andacanavar will warn Bruinhelde and the others. They know that we march against goblins besieging the abbey, and yet they join with us anyway."

"Andacanavar," Liam echoed with obvious respect. The Prince did not sleep at all the rest of that night. He had seen battle many times in the last months, but always against smaller groups of monsters and always upon a field of his own choosing. This time, he had a large portion of his total army with him, more than three hundred men, and all of the monks in Vanguard were bottled up in St. Belfour. If the goblins won this day, the results for the region would be devastating-it was possible that those remaining men and women here would have to retreat to Pireth Vanguard, perhaps even board the few ships there and sail south across the gulf, surrendering the region altogether.

With the dawn, all weariness left the Prince, and the surge of excitement he found in organizing his soldiers erased his sore head from the night before. "None to be seen," Liam O'Blythe reported a short while later. "Not a barbarian in the area, by what our scouts're sayin'. Not even their campground."

Midalis stared out into the forest. "Are they sure? "

"Can't find them," Liam confirmed sourly. "Might be that they changed their minds and went away."

"Or that they're preparing an attack from a concealed position," Midalis said hopefully.

"And are we to wait? "

Midalis spent a long while considering that. Should he wait for Andacanavar and Bruinhelde? Or should he trust them, and begin the attack now, before the sun had climbed into the sky, as he and Andacanavar had discussed? He recalled Abbot Agronguerre's spiritual plea and knew that those within the abbey were going hungry this day. He and his men had to go against the goblins soon or lose the abbey, but with so much at stake...

"We go," he said firmly.

"We'll be outmatched if Andacanavar-"

"We go," Midalis said again. He flattened the parchment map of the region, which lay on the small table in his tent. Midalis had trained in tactics with the Allheart Brigade during his days in Ursal, had learned to recognize his strengths and his enemies' weaknesses. He knew that his men could outfight goblins two to one-more than that if they could bring their horses into play. But the numbers today were far less favorable than that.

Midalis studied the map, focusing on the clear area around the abbey and on the rocky, forested hills to its west. At the least, he and his men had to get some supplies into the abbey.

The Prince nodded his head, settling on a plan. He called together all of his commanders, and within the hour, the Vanguard army was on the move.

"He heard yer call, did he?" the nervous young Brother Haney asked Agronguerre, joining the old abbot in St. Belfour's bell tower, which afforded them a view of the area. The rain had stopped, the stars fading away as the eastern horizon began to lighten with the coming dawn, but the air had turned much colder, leaving an icy glaze on the grass and trees.

Abbot Agronguerre stared out past the goblin campfires. He understood the depth of the disaster here; they were out of food, already with growling bellies, and they needed Midalis to come on in force. But Agronguerre knew well the limits of the Prince's army and knew that, even if Midalis attacked with every available soldier, the odds were against them. Even worse, Agronguerre couldn't honestly answer Brother Haney, for he simply did not know.

"We must pray," he replied, and he turned to regard the young man, barely into his twenties. Brother Haney shook his head. "They must," he insisted. "If they do not-"

"If they do not, then we shall find our way out of St. Belfour with the fall of night," Agronguerre replied.

Brother Haney nodded, obviously taking some strength from the determination in Agronguerre's voice.

But they both knew the truth of their desperate situation, both knew that this time, it seemed, the goblins had won.

"They're keeping it quiet, then," Liam O'Blythe remarked to Prince Midalis shortly before the dawn. They sat on their horses on the wooded trail behind St. Belfour, all the forest about them deathly silent. The scouts had just returned, though, with news that the goblins were beneath the shady boughs, in great numbers.

Midalis looked back over his line of riders, each horse sporting bulging saddlebags. They had to get to the abbey wall, at least, and heave the supplies in to the monks and common folk trapped within. And so they would, Midalis understood, but he knew, too, that getting back away from the abbey would prove no easy task.

"How long are ye planning to stay and fight? " Liam asked him, apparently reading his thoughts.

"We rush the northeastern corner," Midalis explained, pointing in that direction. St. Belfour was situated with its northern wall near a wooded hillock. That hillock, unfortunately, was thick with goblins, but Midalis believed that he and his riders could get past them to reach the abbey. The other three sides of the rectangular stone structure faced open fields, thirty yards of cleared ground in every direction. Beyond those fields loomed more thick woodlands-thick with brush and trees and goblins. While the Eelds offered Midalis and his men the best advantage, using their horses to trample enemies and within easy magical support from the monks, he understood that they'd have a difficult time if a retreat became necessary, scrambling their ranks back into the thick brush helter-skelter, with goblins coming at them from every angle, separating them and pulling them down. The Vanguardsmen had survived the war by picking their battlefields carefully; this was one the Prince did not see as promising.

But they had to go, had to get the supplies to their starving kinsmen.

"The fight will come to us quickly, I believe," Midalis remarked, "pursuit following our line and goblins rushing from the brush on all sides."

"How many might them monks be killin'? "

Midalis shrugged; he knew not the extent of Abbot Agronguerre's magical resources, though he understood that they would not be significant for long. "If we can get to the wall and away without a fight, then that is our best course," the Prince said. Several men around him, grim-faced warriors thirsty for goblin blood, groaned. "Let winter break the siege-if the monks are supplied they might hold out until the first deep snows," Midalis explained.

"Too many goblins," Liam agreed, speaking to the others.

"Ah, but they'll be on us afore we get near to the wall," one man in the ranks behind remarked, and Midalis noted that there was indeed a hopeful tone to his voice. In truth, the Prince could not argue the assessment.

"Then we fight them as hard as we can, and for as long as we can," he replied. "Our valor and the magic thrown from the abbey walls may scatter them quickly to the forest, where we can hunt the smaller bands down one by one and eliminate them."

He spoke with conviction, but the seasoned men of his fighting force understood the truth of the situation, and so did Midalis. The goblins would indeed come at them, and hard, and the ugly little creatures wouldn't be quick to retreat. Midalis and his men had one other gambit: The Prince had sent his archers around to the south with orders to hold their shots until the situation turned grim, then to concentrate their fire on the weakest section of the goblin line, hoping to give the riders a breakout route.

It was a plan of retreat and of loss, of salvage and surely not of victory.

"Comes the dawn," Liam remarked, looking to the east, where the red curve of the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.

Midalis shared a grim look and a strong handshake with his dear friend, and he led on, slowly down the trail at first, but gaining speed with each loping stride.

In the bell tower of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre breathed a profound sigh of relief when he heard the cries, "Riders to the south," and turned to see the dark shapes moving along the path toward the back corner of the abbey.

"Catchers to the rear corner!" the old abbot cried to Brother Haney, and then he hustled, huffing and puffing, toward the front wall, for he knew that Midalis and his brave men would soon need his assistance.

He heard the cries and shrieks echoing through the forested hillock, heard his own men crying out, predictably, "Goblins!"

Abbot Agronguerre resisted the urge to rush toward the back wall and offer magical support there. Prince Midalis and his riders would simply have to outrun the pursuit!

Agronguerre was inside then, scrambling down the spiral stairs. He met Brother Haney on the lower landing, then they ran through the tunnel that brought them to the parapet along the front wall. Several monks were already there, as they had been ordered, holding gemstones-the few graphite stones within St. Belfour-and peering out, pointing to the thick forest beyond. Agronguerre joined their ranks and produced his own stones, serpentine and ruby, while Brother Haney did likewise, taking the most potent graphite stone of all the abbey's inventory from his pouch.

Cheers arose inside the abbey courtyard behind them as Midalis and his men swooped past the rear corner, slowing only enough to toss saddlebags up to eager hands.

"Eyes ahead!" Brother Haney scolded another of the front wall contingent, as the errant monk turned to view the scene. "Keep watch on the forest, to the true enemy we know will come forth."

"Goblin!" another monk at the wall yelled, pointing to the thicket across the field and to the right. The young brother lifted his hand and gemstone, as if preparing to loose a stroke of lightning, but Abbot Agronguerre quickly brought his hand to the younger man's arm, bringing it down.

"Let them swoop out in full," the abbot explained, understanding the limitations of their magic and knowing that they had to make use of the stones for emotional as much as physical effect. "When the goblins charge out in force, and before the battle is joined, we hit them quickly and hard. Let us see if they have the stomach for the fight."

The lead riders came around the southeastern corner then, across the front of the abbey, with Prince Midalis and Liam O'Blythe leading the charge.

The Prince slowed enough to share a salute with Abbot Agronguerre and a smile.

And then the goblins came on-a hundred goblins, a thousand goblinsswarming from every shadow.

In a matter of a few seconds, Midalis understood the dire trouble. Goblins rushed from the south and west, ringing the field in deep ranks; and more goblins came behind them, charging down the hillock, blocking the trail and throwing spears at the trailing riders of the Prince's line.

Then came the barrage, boom, boom, boom!, of lightning strokes flashing out from the abbey's walls, dropping lines of goblins, and then another flash from Abbot Agronguerre, a line of fire spurting forth from his serpentine-shielded hand, to immolate the largest goblin as it barked orders to its ugly kin. Shrouded in fire, the creature's commands became highpitched squeals and it ran wildly, flapping its arms. The abbot wasted no time, shifting the flow of flames to engulf the next creature in line.

But for all the sudden shock-the fast-flashing, brutal, and thundering retort-very few goblins went down and stayed down. After the initial moment of terror, in which half the goblin force turned as if to flee, the creatures came to understand the truth-that a dozen well-placed archers could have done as much damage-and quickly tightened their ring.

Another report thundered out from the abbey walls as Midalis pulled his ranks into a tighter defensive formation, boom, boom, boom! as Agronguerre sent forth another line of flame, but again to minimal real damage. And even Midalis noticed that those lightning bolts didn't thunder quite as loudly.

The call came up that the last of his line, with goblins on their tails, had delivered their saddlebags, and the Prince and his men formed a tight wedge and charged into the closing goblin ranks. And from the abbey walls came another volley, this one of arrows and quarrels, and the goblins scattered before the charging horses.

And those goblins behind, trying to catch up, got hit from behind, as Midalis' archers slipped over the back of the hillock, replacing the charging monsters.

"Break to the back!" came the cry, and the Prince swung the wedge around-swords slashing, spears stabbing, hooves trampling-thinking to flee back along the trail.

Or did they even have to flee? Prince Midalis wondered, for if they could destroy the goblin pursuit, opening the way back around the hillock, they could make a stand on the field, slaughtering many; and as long as they didn't allow the goblins to flank them they could retreat if necessary.

Midalis brought his men back around the southeastern corner. Many of the goblins in pursuit, having a wall of horses suddenly turned back against them, skidded to a stop and whirled to retreat.

Right into a wall of arrows.

Cheers rent the air from Midalis' men, the monks with their magic and bows joining in from the abbey walls. The goblin ranks along the eastern wall of St. Belfour quickly thinned.

And for a moment, just a moment, the Prince and his men thought the day was theirs.

A scream from atop the hill showed them the truth: another goblin force had swung around the back of the hill, pressing the archers. Now those men came running down, stumbling and sliding, some crashing headlong into trees or tearing through brush. Before Midalis could react, the crucial high ground was lost. Now he and his horsemen worked furiously to scatter those goblins who remained by the side of the abbey, so that the archers could join them.

More thunderous reports issued from in front, and those were followed by a host of screams and fierce goblin war cries. When Midalis glanced back over his shoulder at the abbey's wall, he was dismayed, for many, many spears and arrows arced over the front wall or flew away into the air, a tremendous barrage.

The Prince turned his force yet again, spearheading the wedge, putting the infantry archers in the second line with a wall of horsemen behind, to fend off the goblins regrouping atop the northern hillock. They could not slip into the forest from this area, for too many enemies had come to the hillock, so around to the front of the abbey they went, hoping for some break in the goblin line. And when they came around that corner, when they saw all the field before them thick with goblin masses, when they saw a hundred spears and arrows flying against the abbey walls for every one the monks could throw down, the Prince knew the grim truth. He thought of charging the abbey door, of calling for it to open that he and his men could seek refuge within.

But who, then, would break the siege? And would they even hold out through the morning from inside those stone walls?

"Fight on, for all our lives!" he cried. "For the lives of those in St. Bdfour and for the memory of those who this morn will fall!"

The magic coming from the abbey showed weaker now, one lightning bolt hitting a goblin squarely in the chest and not even dropping the creature. That fact did not go unnoticed among the enemies, and the goblins, no ragtag band, howled and pressed even farther.

Midalis and his front riders plunged into the goblin line, swords slashing, spears piercing goblin chests. But the goblins swarmed around them in a rush as strong as the tide, filling every channel, every opening. One man was pulled down from his mount, a host of ugly creatures falling over him, dashing and stabbing; another had his horse slashed out from under him and died before he even hit the ground.

The archers in the second rank kept firing their bows, most behind at the pursuit from the hillock; but within moments, they, too, found themselves hard-pressed, with many using their bows as clubs, smashing goblin heads.

On the field, Prince Midalis knew it; on the wall, Abbot Agronguerre, his magical energy expended, knew it. St. Belfour was doomed. The Prince of Honce-the-Bear was doomed. The Vanguard army would soon be shattered and the region would know only blackness.

Another mountain of shadow flowed through the forest, another legion of goblins, the Prince assumed, and he could only wonder in blank amazement at how many had come to destroy his homeland.

Out of the trees came the forms, screaming and howling, a primal, feral cry that sent shivers through the spines of all who heard it, that froze the battle for a long, horrifying moment.

Wearing browns and greens that rendered them practically invisible, the barbarian horde swarmed onto the field. The front line came on fast but stopped almost as one, pivoting, then launching heavy stones from the ends of swinging chains into the closest goblin ranks, opening holes, knocking monsters back into their wicked kin.

Again came that unified war cry, drowning all other sounds, bringing shivers to the goblins and hope to Midalis and his valiant men. And through the ranks of the hammer throwers stormed Andacanavar, his

mighty claymore cleaving down goblins three at a swing. Like a gigantic

wedge, the hardy Alpinadoran barbarians of Tol Hengor drove on. "Fight on!" Midalis cried, but this time, hope replaced resignation. Now

for the first time, the goblins seemed unnerved. The Prince seized the moment to pull his cavalry back together, to begin the determined march that would get his vulnerable archers to the abbey's front gate.

He signaled to Agronguerre on the wall, and took hope that the wise old man would understand his intent and begin calling to his monks to secure the portal.

With sheer determination, Midalis got there, the horsemen shielding the running archers from monstrous goblin spears, the monks pulling wide the doors and battling those few goblins nearby until the archers could get inside.

The battle threatened to disintegrate into chaos again, except that the barbarians, the great warriors of the north, followed Andacanavar with fanatical bravery, keeping fast their lines of defense as the mighty ranger plowed on. Midalis and his horsemen would have been overwhelmed right there at the wall, goblins coming at them from every angle, but then the ranger broke through, his elven-forged claymore cutting a goblin in half at the waist right as the Prince raised his own sword to strike at the creature.

Before Midalis could begin to thank Andacanavar, he stabbed his sword into the ground before him and gave a howl, lifting his arms above his head and putting his fingertips together, his arms mirroring the barbarians' wedge formation. Then Andacanavar slid the fingers of his right hand down to his left elbow, and the right line of the formation followed the command, turning with practiced efficiency, so that Andacanavar was now the trailing man on the new right flank, and Bruinhelde, the man who had taken the rear position on the initial left flank, was now the spearhead.

Prince Midalis understood the beautiful maneuver, the brilliant pivot, and knew the role that his men must now play. He swung away from the mighty ranger, charging his horse along his ranks, then, when he reached the midpoint, breaking out onto the field, his men flowing behind him, left flank and right.

And by then, the rescued archers had gained the abbey's parapets and their bows began to sing anew, leading the Prince's charge.

From the wall of St. Belfour, Abbot Agronguerre watched with tears welling in his gentle eyes. He had been in Vanguard for three decades and knew well its history-knew of the massacre at Fuldebarrow, where his Church had tried to establish a monastery. He knew of the many skirmishes between the men of Honce-the-Bear and the hardy Alpinadorans, knew the prejudice that lingered on both sides of the border.

But now, apparently, both the men and women of Honce-the-Bear and of Alpinador had found a common enemy too great to be ignored; and if this enemy, these minions of the demon dactyl, could bring these peoples together-could get the Alpinadoran barbarians to fight for the sake of St. Belfour of the Abellican Church!-then perhaps the light had begun to shine through the darkness.

The old abbot could hardly believe it, and the emotions of the moment lent him new strength. He took the graphite from Brother Haney, lifted his hand, and let fly the most powerful lightning stroke of the morning, a searing blast that blew aside a score of goblin spearthrowers, the monsters dying with their weapons still in hand.

"Ring the bells!" the invigorated old abbot cried, and he let fly another thunderous bolt. "To arms! To arms!"

The tide had turned, the appearance of the powerful Alpinadorans lending strength and courage to the besieged men of Honce-the-Bear and shattering the previous discipline of the goblin attackers. As many monsters turned and fled as remained to do battle, and those that did remain caught arrows from above or lightning from the abbot, or they were trampled down by horses and barbarians alike.

Within a matter of minutes, the only goblins that remained alive on the field were on the ground and squirming in agony. Some begged for mercy, but they would find none, neither from Midalis and his men nor from the fierce barbarians.

The day was won, the siege broken, the goblin army scattered and running, and Prince Midalis trotted his mount across the field to meet with Andacanavar and Bruinhelde, each with their respective forces lining up behind them.

"A great debt we owe you this day," the Prince graciously offered.

Andacanavar looked to Bruinhelde, but the stoic chieftain did not reply to the Prince in kind, nor did he offer any hint of where his heart might be. He did glance up at the abbey wall, though, his face stern and set, and Midalis followed that gaze to the reciprocal look of Abbot Agronguerre.

The abbey doors had opened again, and monks were fast exiting, many carrying bandages, some with soul stones in hand. Their line bent to the right, Midalis noted with distress, toward the wounded warriors of Vanguard, and not at all to the left, where lay the wounded Alpinadorans.

The day was not yet won.