07. Thunderstone

                                    

                                          
"Attack! We're under attack!"
                          
Gregor's warning shout could hardly be heard over the thundering feet of his enemies. But a warning wasn't really necessary anyway. The cries of his enemies—"Luntberg! Luntberg!" and "For Lady Ayla!"—told everyone within ten miles what was happening.
                          
"Spread out!" Gregor yelled at the captainless soldiers of the foremost lance. "Form lines! Up with your shields! Now!"
                          
Some did as commanded, some stood stock-still, staring at the body of their fallen Captain. Enemies armed with spears, axes and guisarmes rushed into the breaches, hacking and stabbing right and left.
                          
"Hüa!"
                          
Lowering his lance, Gregor spurred his horse forward and rode directly at the men attacking his soldiers. They jumped out of the way, uttering the vilest curses Gregor had ever heard. Some tried to land a blow at him in passing, but he managed to shove them back into the bushes with his shield.
                          
"Form lines, I said!" He called to his men. "Stand back to back, now, or we'll all be slaughtered! We just have to hold out until reinforcements come. Hurry!"
                          
This time, everyone did as he had commanded. Gregor whirled his horse around and urged it back up the path, trying to return to the comparative safety of his men while the enemy was still taken aback by his sudden charge. Only a few of the Luntberg soldiers tried to take a stab at him, and those he sent back with a swipe of his sword.
                          
He made it just in time. Hardly had he retreated behind the protective wall of his men, before the next shower of arrows rained down upon them. Dark shafts buried themselves in the earth to his left and right, and he heard a drum roll of dull thuds, as arrows imbedded themselves in the soldier's shields. Had he been alone and out in the open, without the row of protective shields between him and the enemy archers, he would have ended up a dead porcupine.
                          
Turning, he saw the line of enemy soldiers advance. The blue and white banner of the lily above their heads seemed to glow in the sunlight, and the same glow of determined ferocity shone in the Luntberg soldiers' eyes. There seemed to be at least forty, maybe fifty men! But how could that be? As far as Gregor knew, the entire garrison of Luntberg just numbered fifty men. Had this foolish young girl emptied her entire garrison to attack an army twenty times as big as her own?
                          
The eyes of the Luntberg soldiers said something else. They didn't look like men being led into battle by a fool. Slowly but surely they encircled Gregor and his three lances of men, who together numbered no more than twenty-four. Men fell to his right and left, and Gregor had to watch helplessly. There wasn't enough room on the narrow forest path for a charge, not with all the men blocking his way. All he could do was hack at the occasional man-at-arms when he got into reach, but even that was as likely to disrupt the defense of his footsoldiers as to help them.
                          
Desperately, he looked back for help, but Hartung was at the very back of the vanguard, far down the narrow forest path, completely out of sight. The Luntberg soldiers had timed their attack perfectly.
                          
Then, suddenly, he heard a horn blow not far behind. Finally! Help had arrived! He turned around—and saw Sir Blasius.
                          
"Onward!" he cried, swinging his sword in a matter that was as likely to behead himself as his enemies. "Onward, my men! I shall vanquish these villains with my widely vaunted bravery!"
                          
His men seemed perfectly content to stay behind and watch his vanquishing. They advanced behind him at a sluggish pace, but Blasius hadn't taken the trouble to look back, so he didn't notice.
                          
"Die! Die, you maggot-eating curs! Feel the wrath of Sir Blasius!"
                          
And then, something happened which Gregor would have never thought possible: the soldiers of Luntberg cried out in fear, turned, and ran.