On came the shimmering lines of Ad across the meadows now dewed with blood; on with a rattle of drums, a brazen peal of trumpets, the clank and clash of armor mingling with the pounding hoofs on the hard turf, the thumping of chariot-wheels, and the shouted commands of the file leaders—the ancient, many-tongued clamor that stirs the soul of Mars.
Silent and watchful, the men of mountainous Ruthar crouched low behind their shields and waited.
Over the bodies of their dead comrades, over the fallen horses, the phalanxes marched. Then, closing into a living wall, they took the last tangled barrier of corpses with a rush and a shout, and the battle was joined. All across the field echoed the hollow thunder of the meeting shields as the lines closed. Followed a clanging as of a thousand trip-hammers. For now the spears were down and the swords were at work.
Following their custom, the Rutharians cast their shields behind them after the first shock of the onset, and plied their long blades with both hands, making them serve both as swords and bucklers.
On pushed the Maeronican wall under its tossing banners. So fierce was the rush and pressure of those charging thousands that Ruthar's line, strive as her warriors might, was bent backward like a bow. A wild cheering went up from the ranks of Ad when they saw the red standard give back. Gathering themselves again, they swept the mountain legions to the crest of the rise.
Sitting his charger on the slope behind the line of his men-at-arms, Polaris looked down into that hell of combat. Like the unfolding vista of a hideous dream, it seemed to him, which he was powerless to break or to hinder. Yet above the din of the blood-maddened legions the sky was blue and calm, the sun shone bright, and back there in the forests the birds of spring were calling to their mates.
Under his fascinated eyes the line of his warriors bent and came nearer. The red banner of Ruthar—a moment ago it had been planted at the foot of the slope, and now it was almost touching his horse's muzzle! Down there in the field another flag was coming, and with it a company of riders whose armor flashed back the sunlight from plates and shields of burnished gold.
The spell was broken.
Rising in his stirrups, the son of the snows drew his two-handed sword from over his shoulder. Among the Maeronican generals his keen eyes had seen a face that he remembered well.
"Zinds of Ruthar!" he cried, his voice ringing above the clamor. "Yonder rides Bel-Ar of Adlaz. Let us go and greet him."