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. The two chieftains
looked each way along their ragged battle line, then
glanced at each other. There was nothing more to say,
and nothing now to do except wait for the attack and
hold the line for as long as possible while the helpless
ones -- those in the refugee camps -- made their escape.
It was all they could do. The refugees were outnum-
bered four to one, poorly armed and poorly equipped, a
handful of herders and planters against a force of gob-
lins. They all knew that the best they might achieve
would be a little time.
The refugees had been exploring the ice field when
they saw the goblins coming from the south, no more
than a mile away. There had been time to do no more
than send a runner to warn the camps, and break out as
many weapons and shields as they could find under the
shallow ice. Wisps of ancient dark smoke, trapped from
trees and grasses caught blazing by the ice, had drifted
from the breaks with each new crack.
Now they waited as grinning goblins, a hobgoblin
leading them, surged across the ice, eager for slaughter.
Crossbows were aimed, and a deadly rain of bronze
darts lashed out at the defenders. Shields took most of
the missiles, but two dwarves and a gray-haired man fell.
The goblins shouted as they slung their bows, raised
swords and pikes, and charged.
All along the line, blades struck from behind shields as
the foes closed, and goblin blood steamed and stank on
the ice, mingling here and there with the crimson blood
of humans and dwarves
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