Like living sword-blades did the Rutharian zinds answer that fierce appeal. The circle grew smaller and drew in upon itself, but it did not break. Under their resistless blades the zinds piled a rampart of dead Maeronicans to defend their goddess. A riderless horse backed into the circle, and Polaris, quitting Glorian's side, mounted the steed with his two-handed steel and joined the zinds.
Standing up on the body of Polaris's fallen war-horse, supporting herself with one hand on the staff of the banner, Glorian watched that deadly fray. With her long hair flowing on her shoulders, she looked in her warlike gear like one of the valkyries of Adin come down to earth from Valhalla to watch the passing of the souls of heroes. Ever her gaze followed Polaris. And if she seemed like one of the Norse god's daughters, the man who fought under her eyes was a fitting part of the simile.
His sword wrenched from his grasp in the body of a man he had slain, he snatched the heavy ax that swung at his saddle-bow, and with it laid on like Thor with his hammer.
Aid was coming.
Down the field as he rode Albar spread the tidings. From mouth to mouth flew the word that the Goddess Glorian was on the plains of Nor, and that she and the king were in sore peril yonder where the red standard flew. The effect was instantaneous. Each warrior became a host in himself. Wounded men who had turned to the rear heard and forgot their hurts and staggered into the fight again.
When Albar reached Oleric the Red on the right, the zind found that his news had preceded him.
"Get you to Maxtan," shouted Oleric. "Charge with every horse that can bear a rider. A messenger has gone into the forests, and another charge is coming. Clear the way for the amalocs."
Maxtan and Albar gathered their wild horsemen and charged and charged again. So well did they do their work that they hacked a way to the first rank of the Maeronican chariots, deep between the two horns of which was waging the struggle around the red banner.
Vainly Oleric urged his own charioteers forward. Bel-Ar's blood was up, and he was smiling no longer. Battalion on battalion of his infantry he sent in to meet the steeds and feed the blades of Ruthar. Almost within his grasp the Maeronican king saw victory. Already he counted as taken the slave whom his foeman had crowned. Sooner than give back a foot, or allow that little band of riders to go free, he was prepared to spend his army to the last man, and himself with it.