The riders began firing arrows into the bewildered trolls, who formed a circle inadequately protected by a ring of crude, small round wood-and-leather shields. In desperation, many of them tried to break through the tightening circle, only to be cut down.
Abruptly, the riders stopped their mounts, facing inwards. There was a foretaste of dawn, and Akaru studied the remains of the troll division. About six-hundred remained standing, able to fight. He had the riders move forward at a slow walk, bows ready. As he expected, a group of trolls bolted towards the valley entrance.
He shouted FIRE! and three-thousand arrows rained down upon the beleaguered enemy.
What followed was perhaps the most horrific aspect of warfare known, and only to those who had lived to witness such an event. The riders dismounted and began approaching at a slow walk, pausing every ten paces to unloose another volley at the remaining trolls who milled about, trying desperately to shield themselves behind their own fellows. Most of the wounds were not fatal, and those that remained were a writhing mass of agony and terror that screamed pitiously and begged
the bowmen to stop.
When the soldiers drew within twenty paces, they halted, placed bow and quiver upon the ground, drew their swords, and began advancing upon the fallen. After this there was no fight; only heartless, pitiless slaughter.