Polgara groaned then, an almost strangled sound, and the fog began to swirl. The wet grass at Ce'Nedra's feet, drenched with droplets of mist, bent slightly, and the dusty smell of the Thullish uplands grew stronger.
It seemed that the blanket of concentration that had held the fog motionless became more desperate as the Grolims fought to stop the quickening breeze pouring down the valley from the acrid stretches to the west. The blanket began to tatter and to fall apart as the weaker of the Grolims, pushed beyond their capacity, collapsed in exhaustion.
The breeze grew stronger, became a hot wind that rippled the surface of the river. The grass bent before it, and the fog began to seethe like some vast living thing, writhing at the touch of the arid wind.
Ce'Nedra could see the still-burning city of Thull Mardu now, and the infantry lines drawn up on the plain beside the river.
The hot, dusty wind blew stronger, and the fog, as insubstantial as the thought that had raised it from the earth, dissolved, and the morning sun broke through to bathe the field in golden light.
"Polgara!" Durnik cried in sudden alarm.
Ce'Nedra whirled in time to see Polgara, her face drained deathly white, slowly toppling to the earth.
Chapter Seventeen
LELLDORIN OF WILDANTOR had been nervously pacing back and forth along the ranks of his bowmen, stopping often to listen for any sound coming out of the fog from the field lying in front of the massed infantry. "Can you hear anything?" he asked urgently of a Tolnedran legionnaire standing nearby.The Tolnedran shook his head.
That same whisper came out of the fog from a dozen different places.
"Can you hear anything?"
"Can you hear anything?"
"What are they doing?"
Somewhere to the front, there was a faint clink.
"There!" everyone cried almost in unison.
"Not yet!" Lelldorin snapped to one of his countrymen who was raising his bow. "It could be just a wounded Thull out there. Save your arrows."
"Is that a breeze?" a Drasnian pikeman asked. "Please, Belar, let it be a breeze."
Lelldorin stared into the fog, nervously fingering his bowstring. Then he felt a faint touch of air on his cheek.
"A breeze," someone exulted.
"A breeze." The phrase raced through the massed army.
Then the faint breath of air died, and the fog settled again, seeming thicker than ever.
Someone groaned bitterly.
The fog stirred then and began to eddy sluggishly. It was a breeze! Lelldorin held his breath.
The fog began to move, flowing gray over the ground like water.
"There's something moving out there!" a Tolnedran barked. "Get ready!"
The flowing fog moved faster, thinning, melting in the hot, dusty breeze blowing down the valley. Lelldorin strained his eyes to the front. There were moving shapes out there, no more than seventy paces from the infantry.
Then, as if all its stubborn resistance had broken at once, the fog shimmered and dissolved, and the sun broke through. The entire field before them was filled with Malloreans. Their stealthy forward pace froze momentarily as they flinched in the sudden light of the sun.
"Now!" Lelldorin shouted, raising his bow. Behind him, his archers with one universal motion followed his action, and the sudden release of a thousand bowstrings all at once was like some vast, thrumming note. A whistling sheet of arrows soared over the heads of the solidly standing infantry, seemed to hang motionless in the air for a moment, then hurtled into the close-packed Mallorean ranks.
The creeping attack of the Malloreans did not waver or falter; it simply dissolved. With a vast, sighing groan, entire regiments fell in their tracks under the Asturian arrow storm.
Lelldorin's hand flickered to the forest of arrows thrust point - first into the turf at his feet. He smoothly nocked another shaft, drew and released. And then again - and again. The sheet of arrows overhead was like some great slithering bridge arching over the infantry and riddling the Malloreans as it fell among them.
The storm of Asturian arrows crept inexorably across the field, and the Mallorean dead piled up in windrows as if some enormous scythe had passed through their ranks.
And then Sir Mandorallen's brazen horn sounded its mighty challenge, the ranks of archers and infantry opened, and the earth shook beneath the thunder of the charge of the Mimbrate knights.
Demoralized by the arrow storm and the sight of that inexorable charge descending upon them, the Malloreans broke and fled. Laughing delightedly, Lelldorin's cousin Torasin lowered his bow to jeer at the backs of the routed Angaraks.
"We did it, Lelldorin!" he shouted, still laughing. "We broke their backs!" He was half turned now, not facing the littered field. His bow was in his hands; his dark hair was thrown back; and his face reflected his exultant delight. Lelldorin would always remember him so.
"Tor! Look out!" Lelldorin shouted, but it was too late. The Mallorean answer to the Asturian arrow storm was a storm of their own. From a hundred catapults concealed behind the low hills to the north, a great cloud of rocks hurtled into the air and crashed down into the close-packed ranks along the riverbank. A stone perhaps somewhat larger than a man's head struck Torasin full in the chest, smashing him to the ground.
"Tor!" Lelldorin's cry was anguished as he ran to his stricken cousin. Torasin's eyes were closed, and blood was flowing from his nose. His chest was crushed.
"Help me!" Lelldorin cried to a group of serfs standing nearby. The serfs obediently moved to assist him, but their eyes, speaking louder than any words, said that Torasin was already dead.
Barak's face was bleak as he stood at the tiller of his big ship. His oarsmen stroked to the beat of a muffled drum, and the ship raced downriver.
King Anheg of Cherek lounged against the rail. He had pulled off his helmet so that the cool river air could blow the stink of smoke out of his hair. His coarse-featured face was as grim as his cousin's. "What do you think their chances are?" he asked.
"Not very good," Barak replied bluntly. "We never counted on the Murgos and Malloreans hitting us at Thull Mardu. The army's split in two by the river, and both halves of it are outnumbered. They're going to have a bad time of it, I'm afraid." He glanced over his shoulder at the half dozen small, narrow-beamed boats trailing in the wake of his big ship. "Close it up!" he bellowed at the men in the smaller boats.
"Malloreans ahead! On the north bank!" the lookout at the mast shouted. "About a half a mile!"
"Wet down the decks," Barak ordered.