Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  “Oh, there's nothing to worry about, my lord!” The initial guard advanced, reached up and squeezed Henry's cheek. “There, there, don't be sad.”

  Henry snapped his head away from the guard's grip, a frown bringing his eyebrows close together, mouth tightening into a thin line.

  “How dare you?” The guard punched him in the midriff and all air burst from Henry's mouth.

  He dropped to his knees, holding a hand to his belly.

  “I said get your arse up!” The guard's mouth was inches from his ear, the shouted words booming through his brain. “Remember?”

  Placing a foot flat on the ground, he pushed himself to his feet, suppressing the grunt of pain that so desperately wanted to claim freedom from his lips.

  “We have some questions for you, sir.”

  He clenched his teeth, looked over the head of the closest guard, and stared at a chipped stone block in the wall opposite.

  “That's right, the same questions we asked you yesterday and the day before!” The guard shrugged and giggled with feigned pleasure. “Exciting, isn't it?”

  They grabbed him from either side and forced him to walk out of his cell and down the familiar, spartan corridor. When Henry wasn't able to keep their pace, they dragged him, scabs on the bare skin of his toes ripped clear and old wounds reopened, leaving a trail of claret upon the dirty floor.

  He inhaled a breath of cool, fresh air, eyelids parting to reveal his bedchamber cast in hues of grey. Did I hear the door close? Or did I dream it? Henry rubbed his eyes and sighed. He focused on where the door was positioned, but that corner of the room was pitch black. Must have been part of the dream. It'd been some time since he'd dreamt of his capture. At one time, it was a nightly occurrence, but with time, the nightmares faded. However, the memory of his incarceration was still buried deep within his mind. Tonight, the floodgates had opened with fervour.

  The whisper of bare feet padded across the room, and the far side of Henry's bed sank, the bed frame creaking under a new weight. A hint of peach perfume washed over him. He sat up, heart thundering. The dark form of someone was sitting on the far side of his bed. A hand curled around the blanket covering him and cast it away. Cold air assaulted his skin. The figure moved towards him. He felt smooth thighs descend either side of his hips and hair brush his face. Hard nipples and soft breasts pushed against his chest.

  “You have bad dream,” Ahitika's whispered voice filled his ears. “I help.”

  Their lips met. His arms encircled the naked woman and drew her closer. All memory of his captors and his experience at their hands were gone.

  * * *

  Rone staved off exhaustion with dogged determination. He lost the battle sometime after sundown and lurched awake in the saddle as dawn's promise painted the eastern sky. The Likane Forest was far behind him. Open plains greeted him in every direction, he was closing upon Lisfort. The officer checked his horse had maintained course while he slept, relief washing over him as he confirmed they were still heading west. He straightened and winced. A dull ache gripped his lower back and neck. He drew the warhorse to a halt.

  “Time for you to rest, lad.”

  He dismounted, untied the corpse and pulled the deceased soldier from the animal. Unsaddling the destrier, he brushed the sweat-sodden fur, offered him a drink, and allowed the horse to graze. He sat, pulled the saddle closer and delved into a pouch, bringing clear the small pot. Opening it, he dipped a finger into the pleasant-smelling mixture and rubbed more on his upper lip. The aroma immediately began to diffuse the growing stink of his decomposing soldier.

  The Huronian army was still far to the south of his position but would have covered more ground. He stared at the corpse lying on his back. Apart from his purple-tinged skin and motionless chest, he looked for all the world like he was asleep.

  “The Huronians will begin their assault on Lisfort before we arrive home.” He tugged clear a blade of grass and chewed it. The King's Own officer was not surprised when his dead soldier did not reply. He spat out a section of grass. “We'll have to negotiate past the capital and enter from either the Northern or Western Gate to avoid the enemy.”

  He flicked the grass away and chuckled. “Sounds easy doesn't it, brother?”

  Only the soft whisper of a gentle breeze massaging the grass around him was his answer.

  * * *

  Garx pointed at a nearby tree. “Drag him over there. Hurry now!”

  They pulled the wounded soldier along the ground and sat him against the trunk. The man's skin was pale, his face screwed up in pain, hand clamped over his shoulder where blood oozed between his fingers.

  “Bandage the wound,” Garx said, clamping a hand over his comrade's wound and applying pressure. The warrior cried out. “Steady, lad, it'll stem the bleeding. I know it hurts.”

  “Mind your hand, sir.” A pad was placed over Garx's fingers. He lifted his hand clear so the pad nestled against the wound, then put pressure back on the thick fabric covering the terrible hole in the man sitting at his feet. Blood soaked through the bandage, and another pad was pushed onto the first. The bandaging recommenced, this time much tighter. The bleeding persisted.

  Garx held out his hand to a cavalryman stooped over a first aid bag. “Another trauma pad. Quickly!”

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. “Too late, sir.”

  The wounded warrior's chin rested on his chest. His skin was ashen grey, and there was no hint of breath.

  Garx's dropped his outstretched arm, open palm slapping his leg. “Gods above,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Tie him to his saddle like the others.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  How many of my soldiers have I lost now? He straightened and cast his gaze over the nearby formation of Huronian cavalry under his command. Half of the men were dead, their bodies draped over their horses and tied in place.

  They'd dealt an equal level of damage to the King's Own sub-unit, but had it all been worth it? Had that inept young upstart not charged the King's Own in the first place, we wouldn't be in this position.

  “Sir?”

  The voice broke his reverie. He turned back to the cavalryman stood before him. He raised his eyebrows, urging the man to continue.

  “Will King Fillip have us beheaded for failing him?”

  “I know not, lad,” he sighed, “but we must at least return to give a report.”

  More than likely, though.

  “We need a contingency plan. I want the others sitting before me in a half-circle in five minutes. I have an idea.”

  The soldier touched a fist to his chest and moved away. “Aye, sir.”

  * * *

  Baras led the men of the King's Own sub-unit at a steady trot, occasionally standing in the stirrups and looking over his shoulder for an enemy force giving chase.

  “Any sign?” he shouted over the thump of hooves against dry dirt.

  “None, sir,” a voice roared from the rear of the formation.

  Gone were the confident chuckles. Morale was low. He'd underestimated the second force of Huronian cavalry and paid for it. The deceased bodies of half the soldiers under his command lay slung over the saddles of their destriers. The enemy commander, not to mention the fighting skill of the cavalrymen, had been exceptional. Baras's soldiers wanted to face an adversary up to their standard, and it'd happened, the results not as pleasing as they'd assumed.

  Rone had temporarily relinquished his command to backtrack for the sake of reaching one of his dead soldiers. What in the hells will he think when he finds out half his unit were slaughtered in battle?

  Dreas galloped alongside and slowed. “Sir! We must rest soon. The horses are growing weary.”

  “Soon.”

  The officer maintained pace beside Baras, forcing the bugler to look at him. The skin of Dreas's face was pale, sunken eyes staring at him from behind a straggly mess of blood-stained hair. One of his arms was bandaged. “Sir, we can't go on at this pace for much longer. W
e need a break.”

  “Soon! I want to ensure there is sufficient distance between us and the Huronian cavalry.” He gestured over his shoulder. “If they descend upon us while we rest, they'll kill us all.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, if we don't slow this pace before long, our enemy will play no part in our demise. We'll defeat ourselves.”

  “Another five minutes and I'll call a halt.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  * * *

  Garx led his troop towards the advancing Huronian Army. Nervous tension found rest in his gut, ebbing, and then charging in with renewed force that left his legs weak. Fear encompassed his being. He was astute enough to battle the fear from showing on his face, however. We shall see what King Fillip thinks of our little disagreement with the enemy. They re-entered the outer edges of the Likane Forest.

  He hoped years of dedication to his king and loyalty to Huron would claim the day. But he'd served Fillip long enough to know the monarch would probably order he and what remained of his cavalry put to death for their failure. But he needed to know for sure before he put into action their backup plan.

  Failure? We hurt them as much as they hurt us. We sent them running like frightened dogs, tails tucked between their legs. Anger welled up, competing against and defeating the waves of weakening anxiety that had plagued him. He steered his formation to one side of the path, thundering past The Mortals marching in the opposite direction. The commander of The Mortals stared at the depleted cavalry unit, his eyes drawn to the centre, where the dead soldiers lay over the saddles of their horses, arms and legs swinging in time with the movement of the animals carrying them. Garx noticed the commander's eyes widen a little.

  They galloped beyond the endless lines of infantry, artillery, and supply wagons. He slowed only when he heard the distant shouts and laughter permeating the forest. Here we go.

  The first few members of the king's entourage came into view. More of them advanced beyond a bend in the road, their ranks thickening. They laughed and joked amongst themselves. Their horses were well rested, the fur of their mounts glistening in the sun. A far cry from those trotting behind Garx.

  He became aware of the frivolity fading away the closer he led his unit. The thick blob of cavalrymen surrounding King Fillip were the next to come into view. They were listening with intent to the loud drone of their king. Recounting some embellished story, no doubt.

  He looked over his shoulder at the warriors trotting behind him. “Ready yourselves!”

  The closest nodded, a tight smile widening his lips. “Aye, sir. We're ready.”

  Silence now greeted them. The king's dulcet tones faded away, those closest to the monarch watching Garx's encroaching unit with growing interest, which turned to horror.

  “What the bloody hell?” King Fillip roared. “What is the meaning of this, Garx?”

  Garx reined in, the soldiers behind him halted, a portion of them guiding their warhorses forward into extended line to stand either side of Garx.

  “The meaning of what, my liege?”

  Fillip's face reddened, his brows furrowing and clenched teeth visible behind parted lips. “That!” He pointed at the centre of the formation where half of Garx's force lay dead, slung across their destriers. “And where are the others?”

  “That stupid little upstart charged more than three miles at full gallop to close with the King's Own. It was a slaughter. Not a single man from that unit survived.” Garx gestured towards his deceased warriors. “We rode in support of our comrades. Yes, we have losses, much to my regret, but we did the same amount of damage to the enemy force as you see here. Send forward another unit and we can destroy them completely.”

  “I don't want excuses, I want results!” King Fillip roared, veins bulging under the skin of his throat. He took a deep breath and shouted, “I want them executed.” He pointed at Garx. “Every damn man of them! Destroy their horses as well.”

  The entourage surrounding the king kicked their mounts into action, charging towards Garx, drawing swords or brandishing spears.

  The time for talk is at an end, it is as I thought. Time now to survive.

  “Withdraw!”

  The depleted unit turned and galloped away from the Huronian Army. They were now outcasts, hunted, forsaken. Garx urged his mount into a gallop at the rear of the small formation, allowing those at the head, as agreed, to lead the beleaguered force through the forest towards the open plains. The yells and hammering of hooves upon soft earth behind suggested those eager to carry out the bidding of the madman he'd once called king were persisting in their chase.

  One wayward horse carrying a dead soldier swerved away from the group. One of his soldiers must have lost his grip on the reins. Garx chased down the horse, leaned over his saddle, and clamped a firm grip of the reins. Guiding the horse back towards his withdrawing force, he re-joined his soldiers. Who knows what they'd do to the horse. He cast a glance at the corpse slung across the beast's back. Or my soldier, for that matter.

  Sadness swept him as trees whipped by. He'd given all his life to the kingdom of Huron, and now it was over. All for nothing. He was a vagabond. He shot a look over his shoulder. Those attempting to follow the commands of their king still chased them. Anger replaced the sadness. Not for long.

  Garx's unit broke clear of the trees onto the open plains and formed into a tight wedge, their deceased comrades at the centre.

  Garx withdrew his spear. “Right wheel!”

  His cavalrymen repeated the command, their shouted voices carrying across the plain. The group swung right and continued to turn in a wide arc until they were galloping back towards the Likane Forest.

  “Forward!”

  The formation stopped turning, heading straight for the centre of the group that had intentions of catching them and carrying out King Fillip's command.

  “Charge!”

  Spears appeared in the hands of his warriors, and their war cries, shouts, and screams filled the air. The chasing force hesitated, the flanks scattering for the safety of the forest. The centre, too slow to react attempted to swing away from the oncoming threat. Garx's formation slammed into them like a war hammer and split them asunder. Wounding, dying, and dead Huronian cavalrymen were flung from their saddles. Then they were behind Garx's unit.

  “Right wheel!”

  The tight wedge of cavalry began turning, ceasing the turn only when they were facing the depleted force before them. A few of the hunter force had managed to escape, galloping away into the depths of the forest in ones or twos. The vast majority were still trying to organise themselves, several leaning down and trying to help wounded comrades up.

  Garx's eyes narrowed, brows furrowing, his lips peeling apart to reveal clenched teeth. “No prisoners!” he roared.

  “NO PRISONERS!” the shout was taken up, spreading across the galloping ranks like wildfire.

  They hit them like a battering ram. Garx stabbed his spear through the throat of a man, ripped his blood-stained weapon free, and drove it into another soldier's back. He levered the spear clear before his horse barged past the mortally wounded Huronian soldier. A wide-eyed cavalryman who'd been unhorsed made a grab for Garx, with a mind to pull him from his saddle. Garx withdrew a boot from his stirrup and kicked hard, sending him airborne, clutching his destroyed nose. Garx's unit persisted through the far side of the enemy they had once thought of as comrades and turned again. The few remaining Huronian cavalry lost their will to chase and thundered away into the forest, their appetite to fight long gone.

  Garx called a halt. “And what now?” he shouted at the dark forest. “Do you think your king will forgive your failure?” Apart from the faint beat of departing cavalry, only silence greeted him. “You'll be hunted down yourself!”

  A hand clenched his shoulder. “Sir! Let us be gone.”

  “Aye.” He stood in the stirrups and cast his gaze over the formation arrayed behind him. “Follow me!”

  * * *

  Sergean
t Graff walked upon the rampart of Lisfort's eastern wall, squinting against the dawn sun. He stopped near a group of soldiers leaning against the wall, talking in hushed tones. He approached them.

  “You lads spot anything?”

  They turned to him. “No, Sergeant,” the closest spoke.

  “Don't lie, Dej,” another said, a smirk stretching one corner of his mouth. “We've seen five rabbits, a fox, and a flock o' birds.”

  Dej grinned and rolled his eyes. “No, Sarge, nothing to report.”

  Graff nodded. “Keep your eyes peeled, lads.”

  “Aye, Sergeant.”

  He strode on, leaving the group to talk and laugh amongst themselves.

  “Morning, Sergeant!” a soldier called.

  Graff didn't stop. He called a greeting over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the eastern horizon. Dawn's golden light shimmered upon the open plains and glinted from dew-covered grass. Somewhere out there, bearing down upon them was the Huronian army. Or so orders suggested. The eastern wall had been bolstered with twice as many soldiers as normal.

  “On your feet!” he bellowed at a group sat in a huddle playing dice.

  One of them snatched up the dice, shoved them in a pouch, and they jumped to their feet in a blur of motion.

  “Sarge! Didn't see you there,” one of them said.

  “Eyes out!” He pointed beyond the group towards the east.

  “Aye, Sergeant.” The soldiers turned their backs on him and leaned against the battlements.

  Graff strolled on.

  He'd lost half his company fighting the giant spiders, which had accosted the western wall. A tingling sensation descended his spine, and he shivered. Ugly bloody bastards of things. The army had not fared much better with nearly nine thousand soldiers killed overall. Had it not been for the King's Own that night, the city would have fallen.

  Wish we had muskets and blunderbusses. Would have been a different story. He clamped his hands behind his back and sighed. But they are too expensive to issue to the general infantry, as misfortune would have it.