Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  “Second enemy force!” a man roared from a far flank.

  Baras stood in his stirrups and stared at the dark smear advancing towards their rear. He sat back in his saddle, clenched a tighter grip on the bugle and lifted it to his mouth. Charge!

  The King's Own unit accelerated into a gallop, thundering hooves once more singing their chorus across the open plain. The beleaguered Huronian cavalrymen urged their mounts into a gallop and attempted to swing away from the fast approaching charge, but without success. The horses were exhausted, one of them collapsing to the ground, casting its rider from the saddle.

  Fire! The bugle blast cut through the staccato of hooves, musket shots ringing out before the instrument fell silent. The shot ripped through the few remaining Huronian cavalrymen with devastating effect. Battle at will!

  “Obragarda!”

  The King's Own spearhead formation skewered the tiny centre of the enemy force, leaving only death behind them. At the walk. Baras leaned forward and patted the warhorse's neck. Although the animal's breathing had increased with the exertion, he was far from winded. He led the unit in a wide circle, until they were facing the way they'd travelled. He clipped the bugle to his belt. Huronian bodies littered the plain, some horses lying beside their riders. The majority of horses, however, had survived the battle. Riderless and without direction, they had fled in several herds in varying directions. The clusters of animals stood together, watching the progress of the King's Own formation, or grazing upon the grass.

  Baras focused his attention beyond the scene of death scattered before him at the second enemy force approaching them. The Huronian cavalry were advancing at a steady trot. The enemy commander was more experienced than the first, and the horses of his soldiers would be far more refreshed in comparison to those Baras and his troops recently faced. With the noise of battle finished, there was little need for the bugle.

  “Reload your weapons,” shouted Baras. “Continue on, I'll catch up.”

  He pushed his mount into a trot, steering towards the throng of dead bodies lying beside and on top of each other. When he located his spear, he dismounted and levered the weapon free of the dead body. He cleaned the spear tip upon the man's clothes, remounted, and sheathed it. Trotting to re-join his soldiers, he noticed the enemy had split into three small groups. One headed to the left, the other right, and the third maintaining a course straight towards the King's Own formation. When he was once more riding at the head of the spearhead formation, he slowed the warhorse to a walk. This battle won't be as easy.

  “Finally,” a man spoke from Baras's right, “someone who can actually fight.”

  The trio of enemy groups accelerated into a gallop, a light cloud of dust teasing the air behind each. Ferocious roars of Huronian warriors competed against the thunder of hooves slamming onto the ground.

  Baras detached the bugle from his belt. And waited.

  IV

  At dusk, as the last vestiges of light began to die in the west, Vyder reined in his mount at the insistence of the guards on Lisfort's Eastern Gate.

  “Dismount!” one of them commanded.

  Vyder obeyed, clutching the reins in his hand, he strode towards the guard, a tall, athletic man. “What business have you here, blue eye?”

  “We return with Prince Henry.”

  The guard grinned. He cast a glance over his shoulder at a small group of his peers standing near the gate, watching proceedings. “Hear that, lads?” he shouted. “It's Prince Henry!” His words were met with laughter and mutterings.

  “Listen, highlander, bring your friends back on the morrow when there's more light, we're closing the gates for the night.”

  Something brushed Vyder's shoulder. He stepped aside. Ahitika had nudged her horse closer, Henry's boot touching Vyder's arm.

  “Guard,” Henry spoke.

  The man looked from Vyder up at Henry. His hooded eyes grew larger, and a sharp inhalation of breath whispered between his lips. The guard dropped to one knee and held a fist to his chest, head bowed.

  “My lord,” the guard spoke loud enough for his comrades to hear. In a matter of moments, they'd mirrored his movement.

  “I have returned and seek an audience with my father. I would prefer to do so this evening.”

  “Aye, lord.”

  “Stand, man, stand.”

  The guard obliged.

  “We have ridden hard, our horses are tired, we are exhausted, and the Huronian Army is on our heels.”

  “Sir?”

  “At least twenty thousand of them, perhaps more. Hence my immediate audience with my father. The king should be the first to know.”

  “Of course, my liege.”

  “Wait one hour, and then inform the army of what I have told you this evening. Relay a message to the King's Own and let them know one of their sub-units is fighting a rear guard action against the Huronians. It is the only reason we survived at all. I don't know if the King's Own unit is still alive, however.”

  “Gods,” the guard whispered.

  “If you don't mind,” Henry gestured at the open gate yawning before them.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Vyder, stepped back and swung up into the saddle, following Ahitika as she thundered through the gate.

  * * *

  Henry strode down the palace's long, narrow corridors, navigating through the maze of vacant hallways, and empty courts. He greeted several guards with a cursory nod. A servant with a tight smile. He didn't turn to see if Ahitika or Vyder followed. He didn't need to. The stomps their boots made upon the plush carpet told him they were right behind him.

  “Will he be in the throne room?” Vyder asked.

  “No, he'll be finished for the day. He's probably eating supper or just finished. So, it is to the main royal kitchen we're heading.”

  Ascending a short flight of stairs, he turned down another corridor, this one much wider. The guards increased in number. Hands darted to sword hilts as the tiny group strode into view, but the guard commander, eyes growing wide as he watched Henry approaching called his troop to attention, their boots thudding in unison.

  Henry held the guard commander's look of surprise. “Is he here?” He pointed at the closed door they protected.

  “Aye, sire.”

  He turned the door handle and pushed, hinges groaned, and he walked through. His father sat at the head of a crowded long table, drinking from a polished, silver goblet. The king's eyes were drawn to the sudden movement as the group entered, and he almost dropped the goblet. He slammed the cup onto the table, wine spilling over the edge to stain the rich, satin tablecloth beneath. The chatter that had been pervading the room stopped, the diners watching their monarch. He wiped his mouth with a cloth and stood. His mouth dropped open, and he made to speak, but his lips clamped shut instead.

  Henry stopped in front of the king. “Father, I have returned.”

  Those sitting at the table turned in their seats, looking at Henry. Recognition glinted in many of their eyes, some smiling, others speaking to those seated close by, gesturing at Henry. A few began clapping and cheering.

  King George nodded and cleared his throat. He stepped away from the table strode to Henry and pulled him into a tight embrace. “My son. Gods, I didn't think I'd see the day.”

  The king held him at arm's length. His father's eyes narrowed, fury glinting there as he looked Henry up and down. “What have they done to you, son? You look near starving.”

  He shrugged. “I am alive. That is all that matters. I looked worse before these two arrived.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the highlander and Kalote woman.

  “You have my thanks, highlander, I'll see you paid after the evening meal,” King George said. “Although I am sorry to see you have been blinded in one eye. My thanks to you too, young lady.”

  “I have bad news, Father.”

  “Speak.”

  “The Huronian army marches.”

  He released Henry's shoulders, his a
rms dropping by his side. The chatter at the nearby long table increased in volume, some excusing themselves and rushing from the room. “How long do we have?”

  “My best guess, perhaps a week.”

  Henry's father draped an arm around his shoulder. “Best we retire to the throne room, son.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at those still seated at the table. “That lot knows too much already,” he whispered.

  The small group walked out, the king leading the way, a small group of guards falling in behind them. After a short, brisk walk, the door to the throne room thumped closed behind them, and they were greeted by deafening silence.

  Henry glanced at his companions. “I trust you do not mind their presence?”

  The king nodded. “Of course.” He held a hand to his face. “What numbers are we talking?”

  “Twenty or thirty thousand enemy soldiers, Father. Footmen, cavalry, artillery, mortars, their army in its entirety. But we have that and more.” Henry smiled. “We'll see them off within a month.”

  “Would that it were, Son. While you've been gone...” the king fell silent, took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow, his eyes searching the ceiling. “We've lost between eight and nine thousand soldiers, more than a quarter of the Watch, and at least one hundred King's Own troops.”

  Dread passed through Henry's body. “How?” he breathed.

  He leaned against a chair as his father explained. When the king finished speaking, Henry lowered himself into a chair and rested his head in his hands. “We don't have the numbers to fight them, let alone defeat them.”

  King George cleared his throat. “I will put a call out to the surrounding towns at sunup, hailing all men of fighting age to attend the capital.”

  “Farmers with pitchforks?” Henry chuckled, but there was no humour to the noise. “They might bolster our numbers, but they are untrained, nor will many of them be willing to leave their families behind.”

  “It's better than nothing, my son.”

  He nodded, staring at the dark, polished hardwood of the table. “They'd probably only hinder our soldiers anyway.” He paused, considering his next words with care. “Would it be better to leave the farmers to farm their crops?”

  His father sniffed and clamped his hands behind his back. “Very well, you may be right. At the least, I will send supply wagons out to collect what food they can from the farmsteads for storage should this become a siege.”

  “I may have a solution, sires,” the highland accent cut through the musty air.

  “Mmm?” The king turned to Vyder. “And what would that be?”

  “I could journey into Shadolia and request the help of my people.”

  Henry turned to the tall assassin, hope sweeping him. “Bring a Highland army south to our aid?”

  “Aye, lord. It's worth a try, at least.”

  “I agree, with a Highland army behind us, we'd see the Huronians off in short order.” A smile creased the corners of the king's mouth.

  “We have a sordid history with Shadolia, though, father. I can't see a group of Highland clans marching south. But as Vyder said, at the very least, it's worth a try.”

  “You shall leave in the morning, Vyder,” King George said. “I shall triple your pay.”

  Henry stood, pushed the chair under the table, and turned to his father. “I shall go with him.”

  “I'll not lose you again, Son.”

  “If we're asking the Shadolian Highlanders to come to our aid, then it's only pertinent that a member of the royal family from the country they're being asked to support is present.”

  “I go with them,” Ahitika stepped forward.

  King George ignored her. “Why not a royal diplomat then?”

  “It would make us look weak if a royal diplomat turned up asking for military aid. The Highlanders are a proud, warrior race.”

  “As I am well aware, my son. It is part of the reason I asked for Vyder to fetch you home.”

  “Then you can see how it would look, Father, if anyone other than a member of the Wendurlund royal family arrived in Shadolia, asking for military aid?”

  The king sighed, glaring at the thick carpet. “Of course,” he whispered.

  Henry strode towards the door. “We shall leave at dawn. Vyder, Ahitika, I shall show you to your rooms.”

  “I'm going to check on Miriam,” Vyder said. “I'll stay the night in my home and will return before dawn.”

  Henry opened the throne room door and stepped through. “Very well then. Ahitika, follow me.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and hesitated for a heartbeat. She glared at him, a slight smile teasing her lips, her eyes hungry. Henry cleared his throat. “I shall see you on the morrow for breakfast, Father.”

  “Aye, Son, sleep well.”

  * * *

  Vyder led Storm to the back of his home. The wooden gate creaked open, and he walked the horse through. He placed her in the stable, unsaddled, and brushed her down. Then he ensured she had enough to eat and drink.

  He sighed, sadness beating through his veins. He'd hoped to be with Verone, but he knew offering to help fight off the menace on Wendurlund's doorstep was the right thing to do. Wendurlund, afterall, had been his home for the better part of his life. He had to at least try to help them in their hour of need. And if he died in the highlands, then at least he'd be with Verone. He turned away from the content animal and walked towards his house.

  “Best to knock on the front door,” he muttered.

  She still has that hand cannon does she not?

  “Blunderbuss, and yes.”

  He wandered around the front and followed the garden path. Too dark to see, the aroma of flowers and fresh turned earth told the garden had been well-tended. He knocked on the thick hardwood.

  “Miriam, it is I!”

  Several minutes passed before the handle turned, and the door opened a crack. Miriam, half of her face hidden by the door, stared out at him. “Vyder?”

  “Aye, lass, It's me.”

  She licked her lips, her eyes still wide with worry.

  “May I come in?”

  “It's good to see you, yes of course.” She held the door open wide, revealing the blunderbuss she'd been holding in one hand.

  She stared at him, her focus shifting from one eye to the other. “Is that thing still part of you?”

  “Aye, Gorgoroth is here. We have an understanding, though. He'll not harm you, Miriam.”

  She called me a thing! I must protest, little brother.

  Her face softened, and she stepped into his embrace. “I wasn't sure if I'd see you again,” she said.

  She pulled away from him. “Have you eaten?”

  He smiled. “Always looking after me. I haven't yet, no, but it's no great deal.”

  “I'll not hear it. Come through to the kitchen, I shall cook you a meal.”

  Miriam prepared pots, a knife and cutting board, stoked the fire and finally departed to the cold room to select some meat. When she returned, she placed the beef upon the board and sliced it into sections. “So, tell me all about your journey. Did you find the prince? Is Endessa safe?”

  As she cooked, Vyder explained what had happened, from the understanding Gorgoroth and he had reached, meeting the fire spirit, Agoth, the departure of Endessa back to her home in the Waning Wood, to creeping into the enemy camp in search of the prince. He described the actions of Ahitika, Henry, and the King's Own sub-unit, which had ultimately saved their lives.

  Miriam was still asking questions when she placed the steaming plate in front of him. He ate with relish, stomach groaning. It'd been so long since he'd eaten a substantial meal. He replied through mouthfuls of hot, tasty potatoes, moistened with thick gravy. When he explained about his mission into Shadolia, her face dropped, and her shoulders slumped.

  “You're leaving again, tomorrow morning?”

  “I must, Miriam. The Huronians will destroy everything and kill everyone. They'll burn Gorgoroth's home to the ground.” />
  “Can Gorgoroth hear me?” Miriam sat opposite him.

  “Aye.”

  “Gorgoroth, you are a fool! You have brought this down upon us all with your…” she stammered, searching for the words, “your stupid mission to rid the earth of humans. You might have destroyed our empire, including your own home!”

  She's a furious little thing. I agree with her, it is my fault. But stay positive, Vyder, we will get to kill more little monkeys.

  The highlander refrained from answering the nature spirit, even when Gorgoroth's laughter boomed around his mind.

  * * *

  Henry lay in the darkness. It had taken the better part of an hour to wash the dirt and stink from his skin and hair. The soft bedding beneath him was the most comfortable thing upon which he'd rested in gods knew how long. Without any real knowledge of the duration he'd been kept prisoner by the Huronians, it might have been years for all he knew. His eyelids touched, and leaden weights seemed to rest upon every aspect of his body. Exhaustion enshrouded him with a tight embrace, and his breathing deepened.

  “Get your arse up, prisoner!” the words were spoken with a thick Huronian accent.

  Henry's eyes snapped open and fear bored its way into his stomach, dark, slimy fingers of terror metastasising through his body. He sat up, slumber's weakness long departed. Keys jangled on the other side of the thick, wooden door. Metal scraped on metal, then a click, and the door was kicked open. Light flooded into the tiny cell, and he threw an arm up to provide shade to his straining eyes, which began to water.

  The guard strode in a step and stopped, feet shoulder width apart. “I said on your feet!” The man took another step forward and paused. Then he laughed. “Look at this!” he pointed at Henry.

  A second guard appeared behind the first, he stood on tiptoes in order to better see over the shoulder of his comrade.

  “He's fuckin' crying!”

  Anger fought a valiant battle in Henry's guts and with its help, he pushed himself to his feet, his arm dropping to his side. He squinted against the light to focus on his captors.