gradually downwards. On either side of Military Way the countryside was clear and covered with grass, broken only by the occasional rock and stray tree. In the growing light of dawn, Lockhart could see the grass waving gently in the morning breeze.
And there were figures below, about two hundred yards away. It was a line of horsemen, stretched out across the road and on either side of it.
Lockhart squinted, trying to see by the first light of the rising sun.
A banner snapped and crackled above the heads of the rider in the wind. The riders themselves wore steel cuirasses and open-face helmets, as well as the tough leather buff coats that Lockhart’s dragoons wore. The rising sun glinted and shone off their armor. There looked to be at least a hundred of them. A full troop.
The rider at the head of the formation raised a sword in the air. The bugle sounded again.
The horsemen began to move forward at a trot.
Reinforcements. At last. Lockhart felt the first glimmer of hope again.
Then he remembered the werewolf.
The dragoons had halted, staring through sleep-starved eyes at the advancing line of cavalry.
Lockhart looked back behind him.
The barbarians had halted, too. They were staring at the oncoming troopers.
The werewolf-chieftain gave a bone-rattling roar.
The barbarian warriors began to organize themselves, forming into a ragged line. Wicker shields were raised, and spears were readied.
The cavalry continued to trot forward. The pace of the horses quickened slightly. The slanting rays of the rising sun gleamed off drawn sabers and rapiers.
“Hold up!” Captain Lockhart shouted. His head was clearing, and the terror he had felt just moments before was evaporating. He raised his sword. “Dragoons, reform!”
His dragoons turned and looked around at him. They had stopped running, even though most of them had no weapons.
The cavalry merged into a gallop. The thunder of their hooves pounding on the grassy turf of the hill reverberated through Lockhart’s body.
The bugle sounded again.
The werewolf-chieftain bellowed in anger. He raised both axes over his head, as if daring the riders to attack.
Lockhart’s dragoons cowered in the grass. They were caught between the pounding approach of the cavalry troopers and the Jombards.
Captain Lockhart lifted his sword. He raised his voice to be heard over the tumult. “When the riders pass, assault the enemy with whatever weapon you have at hand. Sergeant Dyke, take the right. I’ll take the left.”
“Yes, sir,” Dyke said as he reloaded his pistol. His face was still pale with fear.
Lockhart looked up again.
The approaching riders were nearly on top of them. The horses were going at full gallop. Their approach was fearsome, and even though Lockhart knew he was not their intended target, he felt his heart drop as the line of cavalry drew closer by the second.
The werewolf roared. It beat the blades of the axes together above its head.
The other Jombards did not look so confident. The line of barbarians seemed to waver. Some of the woad-covered warriors cast anxious glances back and forth amongst themselves. Some began to shift ever so slightly back in the direction of the milefort.
With a sound like a roaring river, the line of cavalry swept past Lockhart and his men. Dirt and grass were kicked up into the air by the horses’ hooves. The riders passed so close that Lockhart could see their faces and the wheelock pistols that were tucked into the holsters at their belts. The banner snapped and furled in the wind. It bore the device of a black raven on a white field.
The lead rider galloped right past Lockhart. His armor shone bright like a mirror, and several flintlock pistols were tucked within easy reach around his belt. But it was his rapier that caught Lockhart’s eye. The weapon’s hilt flashed golden in the morning sun, and blue and green jewels sparkled and blazed where they were set around the hilt. The blade itself was tapered and long,
And there were figures below, about two hundred yards away. It was a line of horsemen, stretched out across the road and on either side of it.
Lockhart squinted, trying to see by the first light of the rising sun.
A banner snapped and crackled above the heads of the rider in the wind. The riders themselves wore steel cuirasses and open-face helmets, as well as the tough leather buff coats that Lockhart’s dragoons wore. The rising sun glinted and shone off their armor. There looked to be at least a hundred of them. A full troop.
The rider at the head of the formation raised a sword in the air. The bugle sounded again.
The horsemen began to move forward at a trot.
Reinforcements. At last. Lockhart felt the first glimmer of hope again.
Then he remembered the werewolf.
The dragoons had halted, staring through sleep-starved eyes at the advancing line of cavalry.
Lockhart looked back behind him.
The barbarians had halted, too. They were staring at the oncoming troopers.
The werewolf-chieftain gave a bone-rattling roar.
The barbarian warriors began to organize themselves, forming into a ragged line. Wicker shields were raised, and spears were readied.
The cavalry continued to trot forward. The pace of the horses quickened slightly. The slanting rays of the rising sun gleamed off drawn sabers and rapiers.
“Hold up!” Captain Lockhart shouted. His head was clearing, and the terror he had felt just moments before was evaporating. He raised his sword. “Dragoons, reform!”
His dragoons turned and looked around at him. They had stopped running, even though most of them had no weapons.
The cavalry merged into a gallop. The thunder of their hooves pounding on the grassy turf of the hill reverberated through Lockhart’s body.
The bugle sounded again.
The werewolf-chieftain bellowed in anger. He raised both axes over his head, as if daring the riders to attack.
Lockhart’s dragoons cowered in the grass. They were caught between the pounding approach of the cavalry troopers and the Jombards.
Captain Lockhart lifted his sword. He raised his voice to be heard over the tumult. “When the riders pass, assault the enemy with whatever weapon you have at hand. Sergeant Dyke, take the right. I’ll take the left.”
“Yes, sir,” Dyke said as he reloaded his pistol. His face was still pale with fear.
Lockhart looked up again.
The approaching riders were nearly on top of them. The horses were going at full gallop. Their approach was fearsome, and even though Lockhart knew he was not their intended target, he felt his heart drop as the line of cavalry drew closer by the second.
The werewolf roared. It beat the blades of the axes together above its head.
The other Jombards did not look so confident. The line of barbarians seemed to waver. Some of the woad-covered warriors cast anxious glances back and forth amongst themselves. Some began to shift ever so slightly back in the direction of the milefort.
With a sound like a roaring river, the line of cavalry swept past Lockhart and his men. Dirt and grass were kicked up into the air by the horses’ hooves. The riders passed so close that Lockhart could see their faces and the wheelock pistols that were tucked into the holsters at their belts. The banner snapped and furled in the wind. It bore the device of a black raven on a white field.
The lead rider galloped right past Lockhart. His armor shone bright like a mirror, and several flintlock pistols were tucked within easy reach around his belt. But it was his rapier that caught Lockhart’s eye. The weapon’s hilt flashed golden in the morning sun, and blue and green jewels sparkled and blazed where they were set around the hilt. The blade itself was tapered and long,
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