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of the outpost, the entire region was now a foot-sloshing bog.
Each day the dragonlord flew through the grayish fog atop his mount
and spent the day reconnoitering the area. However, with the exception of
more fog, broken by the occasional shattered, rocky hilltop, there was
nothing to be seen, and each day the dragonlord returned in a fouler mood,
resulting in more orders for the subordinates and ultimately more irritation
for Brack.
Finally the dragonlord drew up a plan. Since the weather was against
them (undoubtedly influenced by foul rebel wizards), they would press
outward, putting any settlements discovered to the torch until the
combined forces of the enemy were forced to either flee or engage them
on the field of honorable battle.
Only Brack, unused to blind obedience, asked the question,  What if
the enemy has already fled?
The dragonlord chortled and said,  These rebels are fanatics, and this
Rumtuggle is the worst of all. No, they want to fight, and we will
triumph!
The other subordinates glared harshly at Brack for lengthening the
briefing by asking stupid questions. The dragonlord laid out his plans for
which units would be where, how to form a huge, sweeping formation that
would course over the land like a wave, sweeping everything in its path.
They would ride forth on the morrow morn, rain or shine. He looked at
Brack with piercing eyes and asked if there were any questions.
Brack kept his thoughts to himself, and the sub-commanders were left
to their units. Brack noted at the time that at least the dragonlord had
showed the good sense to keep the most quarrelsome units on opposite
flanks of the force, where they would not be able to taunt each other.
The next day was rain, not shine, but that did not slow the juggernaut of
the dragonarmy. The dragonlord was at its head, astride his mount, and
Brack s forces were slightly to the left, just outside the vanguard. Most of
the hobgoblins scouted, and his few cavalry forces were to act as
skirmishers. The rain grew heavier, and struck with such force that the soft
earth spattered on the assembled soldiers.
Brack considered telling the dragonlord the truth but felt that after a
few days march and finding no official resistance, the dragonlord would
fly away and things would get back to normal.
In truth, they barely got out of camp. As the dragonlord raised his hand
to give the order to move out, a hobgoblin scout came staggering up,
covered with mud.
 Gnomes! shouted the hobgoblin.  Rumtuggle is waiting with his
army!
Upon reflection, Brack was to decide that the muddy scout, survivor of
some other mishap while on patrol, had decided that Rumtuggle would be
a suitable target to blame. Upon reflection, Brack was to decide this, but
there was no time for reflection.
The entire army was electrified by the news and sloshed forward over
the muddy parade fields and into the even muddier hills of the surrounding
areas. The hillocks broke up the lines of units into packets of swordsmen
and archers, of hobgoblins and cavalry. The rain grew worse, which Brack
had thought was not possible, and the fog closed in so that an entire unit
could walk into a river without seeing it not that the drag-onlord would
notice if a unit completely vanished.
Actually Brack did notice something as the ground dropped away at his
feet. He found himself half-falling, half-sliding down an embankment.
Other swordsmen and archers nearby cursed as they were similarly caught
unawares. Mud caked on his armor and greaves as Brack and his unit
fought to clear the far side of this particular gully.
That was when he and the others saw them tall shadows among the
fog, along the upper ridge of the embankment. Some had swords, some
had bows and arrows. They were waiting for the dragonarmy.
Someone to Brack s right gave a shout and let loose an arrow. Five
arrows returned out of the rain and caught the original archer in the chest
and belly. He went down, but five of his companions unleashed their
arrows, and several of the shadows fell away. There were shouts now, as
the sword-wielders above half-ran, half-slid down the embankment to
meet Brack s unit.
Behind Brack a horn sounded charge. Ahead of him, beyond the enemy
line, a similar horn responded. Brack was heartened for the moment. They
had the enemy surrounded!
A shape loomed up in the fog, no more than silhouette. It was large and
man-sized, and Brack lashed out with his blade. As he struck, he
wondered if this was some human ally of the gnomes, some adventurer
who was helping the small rebels.
Brack s thoughts were interrupted as his blade pierced the man s armor
and the soldier he fought collapsed. The blade had skittered over armor of
a type similar to that found in the dragonarmies. No, not similar. Exactly
like it.
Brack wiped the rain from his eyes and stared down at the wounded
soldier clutching his side. He had not recognized his foe in the mud and
fog. The man was a soldier in dragonarmy armor.
They were fighting themselves. Some group had gotten turned around
and they were attacking each other.
Brack shouted for his men to stop fighting, but there was no stopping
the juggernaut once it had begun collapsing on itself. Other horns were
sounding now as various flanks swept forward to enclose an enemy that
was not there. They collided with each other and locked themselves in
battle. Most did not recognize their own forces. Some fought only because
they were themselves being attacked. A few recognized their foes but
blamed sorcery. A few, particularly the last to arrive from the outer flanks,
saw it as a chance to settle old scores.
Brack saw only carnage, as his troops ceased to be anything more than
a bloodied and bloodthirsty mob. He tried to retreat and ended up almost
skewered on a brace of pikemen charging at full tilt into the muddle. He
ran forward and danced as arrows stuck in the soft earth at his feet. At last
he found a tributary of the muddy river and followed it upward, away from
the battle.
The fog was clearing only slightly as he poked his head up out of the
dell. He saw a huge, immobile form laving in the grass. Carefully he
approached it and saw that it was the green dragon, its emerald scales now
striped with blood, its wings and torso peppered with dragonarmy arrows.
Beside the great beast s head was the dragonlord, his helmet off, his
long face buried in grief in his hands. Brack walked up, put a hand on the
dragonlord s shoulder. The warrior looked up, and Brack was unsure if the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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