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hammering at their foes with axes and maces. The
dwarves had superior armor and better discipline, but the Mhorites
fought with a bloodthirsty madness, screaming cries to their bloody
god of murder. They were pushing the dwarves back, and the dwarven
warriors were running out of space. Once they reached the base of
the hill, their formation would collapse, and the Mhorites would
carry the day.
    Unless the dwarves had help.
    “Men of Durandis!” shouted Primus, raising
his spear. “Charge! Charge now!”
    The men-at-arms, veterans and recruits
both, shouted and kicked their horses to a gallop, racing for the
Mhorites in a wall of swords and spears and stamping hooves. The
veterans moved smoothly, keeping to a solid line, but to my
surprise the recruits kept up, staying more or less in formation.
Romilius kept in formation next to some of the veterans, lowering
his spear with easy grace.
    We smashed into the Mhorites. Infantry can
withstand a charge of horsemen, but only if they are properly
arrayed and prepared, with spears braced to receive the enemy. The
Mhorites had no spears, and encircled the dwarven formation in a
ragged half-circle. It was one of the worst formations possible for
meeting a charge of heavy horse, and we proved it as we trampled
the Mhorites like wheat. A dozen of the orcish warriors went down
beneath stamping, steel-shod hooves, and a dozen more perished upon
the tips of our spears. I drove my spear through a Mhorite, the
steel head punching through his leather armor and burying itself in
his heart. The impact ripped the spear from my hand, and I drew my
sword with a steely rasp. I whipped the blade around and it sank
halfway into a Mhorite’s neck. Another warrior came at me,
brandishing an axe, and I managed to get my shield up in time to
block. Splinters flew from the impact, and I staggered back in the
saddle, but I raised my sword and brought it down with a shout.
    The blade struck the crown of the Mhorite’s
head, sending the warrior sprawling to die beneath the hooves of my
horse.
    I turned my mount, seeking new foes, but
the battle was already over.
    It hadn’t been that long, but a battle
always felt like an eternity. Most of the Mhorites had been slain
or crippled in the fury of our charge, and the dwarves had burst
from their formation, killing with every step. The surviving
Mhorites fled to the west as fast as their legs could carry them,
and a few bands of our veterans were hunting them down at leisure.
I sought for any wounded. The Mhorite wounded were too dangerous to
leave alive, and we would dispatch them with a quick slash to the
throat. I didn’t see any our men wounded, which surprised me. There
were always causalities in battle, no matter how well things
went…
    My frown deepened.
    Romilius lay sprawled upon the ground,
twitching a little as he stared at the sky. His horse wandered a
few yards away. An axe blow had penetrated his armor, carving a
hideous gash down his chest and into his side. His innards hadn’t
quite fallen out, but if he moved, he would likely die.
    “Mallister!” I shouted. “Wounded!”
    Mallister galloped over, took one look at
Romilius, and grimaced.
    My headache pulsed and throbbed behind my
eyes.
    “Can you heal him?” I said.
    “No,” said Mallister, his voice grim. “The
wound is too severe. It is beyond my skill. One of the masters of
the Magistri could perhaps manage it…but I fear I cannot. I am
sorry.”
    The headache thundered through my
skull.
    I dropped from my saddle, looking down at
the dying young man. He was awake, but I don’t think he was
completely conscious. That, at least, was a small mercy. He was an
orphan, so I wouldn’t have to write a letter to his mother and
father. I suppose the monks of St. Matthew would need to know…
    His hideous wounds seemed to burn before my
eyes.
    The pain in my head was indescribable. Like
fire welling up inside of my skull.
    “Camorak?” said Mallister. “Camorak, are
you