The next day, we gathered with the other defenders of Sleetmouth about two hours’ ride from the city’s walls. When I asked why they did not simply stay behind the walls, Emeline chuckled, and said that they had not had time to prepare for a siege. While the barbarians might not have siege weapons, and their supplies may not be any better than the city’s, they would still be in a superior position in a sudden siege like this, in the middle of winter. After all, they would have access to the lake, and the fish and fresh water it held.

Fire, fortunately, was not a grave concern. The buildings were, for the most part, made of stone and mud bricks, rather than wood, for the simple fact that there was very little wood in the tundra. This meant that fires were harder to get started in the city, harder to spread, and harder to make get out of control.

Still, that didn’t mean that determined priests and shamans couldn’t do some major damage to a bunch of civilians trapped inside a city’s walls, with supplies running low. Battle magic was not the way of the tribes, but that did not mean that their priests were incapable of calling upon their patrons to cause divine ruin in an area. And that said nothing of what the warriors might do to anything and anyone caught outside the city gates.

No, it was far better for the people of Sleetmouth if the fighting happened as far from the city as possible. And still, they might have elected to stay close to the city walls, and use them as a buttress to base their defense off of, if the scouts had not brought back a favorable report. The defenders only had a portion of the barbarian tribes to worry about.

If Yorlunn Bloodaxe had managed to convince all the tribes of the Dale to send warriors on this campaign, they would have been able to field nearly a thousand men. I knew that wasn’t a lot for an army on Earth, but in this world, that was an impressive number indeed. When one considered that Lord Emberlash was able to gather only three hundred soldiers, with another five hundred militia to his side from the nearest towns when he called, that was impressive. Everyone in Frostwind Dale knew that if the tribes united, they could conquer the Nine Towns, but getting them to unite was no small feat.

It was clear that the way I’d shamed Yorlunn, and cursed him and his allies publicly at Indsamling, had caused him to lose a lot of face with the other tribes. Looking out upon the forces of the tribes, I could see they were roughly half their full strength, perhaps a bit more. No more than six hundred warriors of the tribes faced the defenders of the Nine Towns.

Even better, I could not hear their singing the battle songs. If they were in high spirits, eager for the coming battle and ready to spill blood and fight and conquer in glorious battle, they would be singing to Tempus, the battle god, to earn his favor for the coming battle, and to demoralize their opponents. The silence was telling. They did not expect to win glory this day.

And yet, there was a risk to coming out on the field as Lord Emberlash had done. While the numbers favored the defenders upon the face of things, and the tribesmen were clearly demoralized, that did not change the fact that the fact that the warriors of the tribes were, man for man, stronger and deadlier than the defenders. If put against any of the defenders of the Nine Towns in a melee, then each warrior of the tribe was worth three, maybe four, of the defenders.

But the battle fire that drove the barbarian warriors made for poor strategy upon the battlefield, becoming little more than just unleashing the warriors and allowing them to fight until the rage left them. The men of the Towns compensated for their lack of hard-won levels and experience in combat by forming ranks, with a stout shield wall at the front, each man protecting himself, and the man to his side. They had varying degrees of training, with the militia being given only the basics, but this shield wall, protecting archers behind them, allowed them to bridge the gap between the warriors’ skill and theirs.

It was almost noon when the two armies met upon the field. Lord Emberlash had chosen his battleground well, occupying a narrow gulley that held the safest path to Sleetmouth, as the ground was cracked by some ancient conflict between the gods, and if it had snowed recently one might never see the chasm before it opened up beneath their feet. The barbarians would have to pass through the gulley, or go days out of their way to bypass Emberlash’s men. There were trails upon the heights on either side of the gulley, but they were too narrow to pass more than a handful of men through at a time. There were points there where a single man could hold up an entire army, if they felt foolish enough to just keep walking into the reach of his spear. However, it was not so narrow that archers couldn’t be posted there, which Emberlash did.

The gully was wide enough that the bulk of the defending army could form up one hundred men across and six ranks deep, with the soldiers at the front of the line. Behind them, a hundred archers stood ready to add their fire to the mix. At the front of the army was a hastily dug trench, as a further obstacle to keep the barbarians from simply rushing to melee range. If they had had time, they would have improved upon it, to ensure that the trench became a moat, or some other, more permanent, defense, but even this was more than could be expected in so short a time. Upon either ridge, forty more archers hid in waiting, with what few mages were in the army, and a squad of militia to hold the choke points and keep the tribesmen from reaching them.

The scouts reported that the tribesmen were all clad and armed as warriors, as was to be expected. Still, there were a fair number of hunters amongst them, with their bows, that would count as archers, some fifty of them. No doubt, they intended to charge valiantly into battle and force their way through the lines with the battle fire in their hearts. I had never really been big on history as a child on Earth, but even I could see that this was not going to end well for Yorlunn and the tribes. As long as the shield wall held, and the defenders could avoid getting drawn into the melee, then it would be a crushing defeat for the tribesmen.

I was situated on the ridge to the left hand of the battlefield, as the defenders reckoned it. Lord Emberlash recognized that my blast only had a limited range, far more limited than those of a true spellcaster, but harassing and harrying those who tried to skirt the battle line, was certainly something I could do. More importantly, however, I was stationed with the squad guarding the approach to where the archers stood, so if they sent any warriors our way, there would be a force ready to blockade them.

I could see a figure in the center of the horde, clearly Yorlunn in full battle gear. He pulled out a great horn from his belt, and blew a pair of long, low notes from it. Despite myself, I felt my blood run cold, cold as though the icy breath of the Lady had touched it. That was the Dirge Horn, only sounded in the grimmest times, when one knew that death was coming, and you chose to face it head on. They had come here to die, and to kill as many as possible before they fell, rather than suffer under the curse I had laid upon them.

I could not bring myself to care about what happened to Yorlunn and his lackeys. If anything, I was slightly put out that they were avoiding the fate I’d taken exile to ensure they received by rushing headlong into death. It was the coward’s way out, when death, even dying a dog’s death in hopeless, pointless battle, is easier than living with the weight of fate upon you. More than that, though, was the fact that there was still a good space of time between now and when the first caravans came from the south. I would be living amongst the survivors of the battle for that time. There was every chance that things could go badly for me, if too many people lost loved ones in the fighting.

Why, if they were running into such a hopeless battle, would I be worried? It was simple, really. A foe may be utterly committed to a battle, but still, if they have some hope of survival, you may find a moment where their morale breaks, and they will turn and flee, if they can. An enemy that goes into battle knowing that they will die, and accepting that, embracing that? There is no telling what they will do. There is no foe so dangerous as one who has been backed into a corner, with nothing left to lose.

But now the horn was sounded, and the warriors of the tribes began charging forward. Several split off from the main group, and moved to the trails leading to either side of the gully. Seeing this, I moved along with the militiamen I was with to block the pass, and keep them from attacking the archers, who would have no hope of defending themselves from a raging barbarian at close range. Soon, I had no time to pay attention to what was happening down in the gully, because all my thoughts were turned to staying alive.

Only six barbarians came our way, but they all looked to be larger and stronger than our ten fighters. Worse, while the militiamen had shields, there was no room to form a proper shield wall, meaning that the situation was destined to devolve into a melee that favored the barbarians. The chances of any of us living through the fight on those terms were slim indeed.

Which is why I did what I did. If fighting under those conditions would be met with certain death, then why not change the conditions? Instead of taking a place in the line, like the militia did, I took wing, and flew up, gliding in slow circles like a vulture above the battle. I cannot say that my actions were critical to the outcome of the battle as a whole, but, in that little area of the ridge, giving those six warriors another threat to deal with, one that could strike them from above or behind, one that was out of the reach of their axes, gave them something to think about. Especially when one recognized me.

The barbarian roared in rage. “YOU! YOU BROUGHT THIS UPON US! WITCH! THE CHIEFS SHOULD HAVE SACRIFICED YOU THE MOMENT YOU CAME INTO THE CAMP!”

This outburst caused the others to turn their heads, and roar insults at me, as well. That distraction cost them dearly, for one soon found a spear piercing his throat as the militia were all too pleased to take advantage of their sudden state. But what really sealed their fate was when one of the barbarians said, “If we kill her, maybe the curse will be lifted!”

The barbarians looked like drowning men suddenly offered a line to save themselves. Personally, I would have preferred the fool kept his assumptions to himself. Not only was that not how curses usually worked, but the way they were looking at me like I was a steak did not make me happy. Fortunately, the next few minutes essentially devolved into the barbarians getting picked off one by one by the militia while I flitted about, blasting a little where I could, but mostly just keeping out of the reach of the warriors, and the javelins they threw my way. They only had a few of them, though, so I had little to worry about.