A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 22

Magic was involved here, Rowan recognized, and weaving a defensive shield about him with his sword, he fought for time that the enormously powerful and strong creature would tire first or give him enough of a breather even to consider launching a fast lunge of attack of his own. The lad backpedaled; to buy himself time and space, for with the creatures huge glowing sword Rowan could not fight his way at all close enough to even scratch the boarman leader. Dodging deadly blow after blow, Rowan retreated, trading space for time, waiting for just one distraction so that he could put his final desperate plan into action.

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It was about this time that Loren's light cavalry arrived to the rear of the Boar-Man army, to fire its harassing arrows, and to begin to slowly peel the flanks and rear of the horde. Distracted by the newcomers, and a flight of arrows that just bounced harmlessly off of its scales, the dragon tried to lift itself into the air again, but just crashed once more after flying in a circle. It howled some ancient insult towards the riders, and attempted to limp off towards them on foot, where it's flame and claws would be still more than a match for their spears.

Judging this to be the right moment, Boyle ordered off a squadron of his central reserve of heavy cavalry to make a mounted lance charge against the distracted and wounded dragon, with himself at the lead. This was quite bravely done, but none of the heavy steel pointed lances so much as scratched the draca's heavy armored scales, save for Boyle's old Ylfen spearhead, forged ages ago for the Dragon Wars. Once again, after a hundred generations of benign forgetfulness, it was once again serving the very purpose for which it had been so long ago forged. Boyle, seeing the dragons blood flowing from the wound his glancing blow had carved on the dragon's right flank, ordered the survivors of the charge to wheel about and strike again. Claw and flame and taken over a score of their number on the first attack, and now charging into the very teeth of the evil ancient creature, the odds were certain to be worse, but to a man they courageously wheeled about and charged, shouting their battle cries.

From the hilltop behind them, the Duchess Ayleth watched her lover disappear into a cloud of flame, smoke and steam as he led the final cavalry charge against the dragon, and when the smoldering ruins were revealed she saw that few of the squadron of horseman who had followed her lover were still in their saddles, and Boyle large black horse could be seen with its rider, both motionless on the ground, surrounded by death and flame.

It was then also, that the Duchess had to make the single hardest decision of her life. The rain was falling harder, making it difficult to clearly see the flanks of the army, but it seemed that two different elements of the battle-line were breaking due to the sheer numbers of the horde that faced them. Their left flank, mostly soldiers from Broadmore, was falling into disorder and was already retreated to some reserve trenches to the rear, but this less than orderly withdrawal had left a dangerous flank open to the hillside, threatening the rear of the entire army.

Also now in peril in the center was her old beloved brigade, filled with men and women who had already shed blood for her in the past, to whom she owed personal loyalty. They had taken heavy casualties from the dragon flame and fresh bands of Boar-Men were rushing into their weakened lines. They too were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers and they were trying to retreat in order to the base of the hill. The numbers of Boar-Men seemed endless, certainly in the tens of thousands and they still filled the fields to the west as far as her eyes could see in the driving rain and near freezing mist.

With her reserve forces she could only plug up one of these two breakthroughs, and with a horrible sadness in her heart she ordered her reserve into action, to move around the left side of the hill to shore up the left flank and steady its retreat. The center would have to hold upon its own, and her warriors and friends, both old and new, would have to make their final bloody stand upon that hill, for there was no help left to send them, and alone they would have to fight to hold to the end, or else die.

Her heart now twice broken, by watching the falling of her lover and the slow certain destruction of her brigade in front of her, she sharply dug her spurs to her horse to charge straight down the hill, leaping over trenches and defensive emplacements, to ride straight into the very center of her shattering lines, to rally her brigade to hold and to stand... to fight to the end in place, without another step taken backwards in retreat.

"Hold the line!" She cried, again and again, waving her sword in a great circle above her head as she rallied her weary decimated troops to make their stand, as human, boarman and tiny púca bodies filled the defensive trenches at the base of the hill. Her warriors stopped their retreat, and stood firm. They fought and mostly fell... but somehow they held.

Once she was certain that the center could hold, she risked a glance to see that her reserves now held the left flank securely and that the retreating survivors from Broadmore were now rallying and about to counter-attack. With a final glance towards the unmistakable long red ponytail of Gwenda, as she fought to reach and aid her lover Rowan, not far now in front of her to the right-center of the battle-line, and with a pray for the safety of her other lover, Ayleth pointed her mount towards the dragon and kicked in her spurs hard once again.

Crying her death-song from the top of her lungs, she burst through the ranks of the startled Boar-Men, ignoring the sword swings and spear thrusts that cut into her as she charged past them. She had felt worse pain before, and nothing was going to stop her, not hordes of Boar-Men, nor any other creature until she had reached the side of her beloved. There by his still body, impaled point first into the ground where he had fallen, was his old cavalry spear, and without slowing her charge toward the dragon, she somehow found herself bending over in the saddle, with his spear handle now firmly clinched in her white knuckled fingers, she charged into the side of the creature, spear point, horse and rider all colliding nearly as one.

It was with great satisfaction, she noted as she arose unsteadily to her feet, that Boyle's spear had been driven deeply into the chest of the dragon, and it was hearts-blood that flowed like a river from that mortal wound.

Turning with satisfaction to look upon her fallen lover, Ayleth never even saw the final last terrible blow of the dragon's claw that with the last of its strength, slashed flesh and shattered bone as it bit deeply into her. Falling now to lie beside her lover, Ayleth still never felt the pain that ought to have consumed her, and as her eyes shut into darkness, the smile of satisfaction never left her face.