Snow Mountain

- 13 -

For Fyar waiting had always been the worst part of war.

He had assumed the horsemen's army would reach the mountain in a day, two at most. So he was surprised when a third day passed with no sign of them.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, they arrived.

He had been anticipating at least some kind of sneak attack, but apparently the encroaching army and its commanders saw no need, for they marched right up the mountain side and set up a quick bivouak in the saddle, just out of bow range.

Are they mocking me?

Fyar counted them from the shadow of the cave entrance. Twenty groups of fifty men. A thousand total.

I suppose they have the numbers to feel confident.

As Jalintu had predicted they were infantry, though some hundred horses accompanied the army to carry armor and supplies.

At noon two contingents, a hundred men in total broke off and started to march up the mountain. At their head a man with a feathered plume dancing from the top of his spike pointed helmet strode, a white cloth held in one hand.

Fyar's goats, which up until then had continued grazing, indifferent to the gathering army, scattered at last. Stubborn Thymonos was the last to go, trotting after the others only when the army was near upon him.

The hundred men stopped halfway between his cave and the saddle, and their leader waved the white cloth above his head, visible in the bright sun.

"They want to talk, eh?" Fyar pondered, standing and checking the straps of his armor. "Well, I might as well show myself."

Taking his spear he stepped out into the bright sunshine.

From the thin slit in his helmet he watched as the front line of men drew back slightly at his approach. He knew he looked an imposing figure, his armor shining, huge spear across one shoulder, at least a head and a half bigger than even the largest of them. His arms were covered in thick greaves, as were his legs. Only his feet were bare, his toes curling around rocks and into the dirt as he walked.

"Peace be to the lord of this mountain," the man holding the white cloth began as Fyar stopped before him. "We have come to-"

"You do not look like you have come for peace," Fyar interrupted. "I am not giving you the girl, so give up and leave before sundown or prepare for battle."

The man lowered the white cloth, smiling nastily. "I am glad you said that. My men would hate to return home without a fight."

Fyar grinned. "Then why wait? Let us start now."

And lowering his spear, he charged.

The men scattered like leaves. Armed with only swords, they were not prepared for his surprise charge, their weapons still sheathed. The herdsman's charge knocked several to the ground, skewering one unfortunate man in the upper thigh. His scream shocked the others to action.

Not bothering to withdraw his weapon, Fyar whirled.

His spear knocked several more men down as he turned. The men wore armor, but it was minimal, a simple vest of chainmail, and Fyar heard the crunch of breaking bones as his spear slammed into many of them.

Some soldiers managed to draw their swords. They charged at him as he brought his huge shield up, near as big as the men are tall. Metal clashed and the shield vibrated on his arm as their swords skid across it, dancing over the bronze binding.

And so it begins.

It takes but a minute for the two contingents to break apart and reform into a ring around him. A whirlwind of swords, all pointed at its heart, where he stood.