by Katy Winter
Bethel's stomach contracted as he sensed Bensar turn and face his warriors. He saw Luth give him a gentle, affectionately resigned smile, his arms going wide. Bethel smiled back, his heart in his mouth.
The two armies were drawn up in the meadows between the Kyaran forest and further north through a series of dales. Since the countryside was undulating the meadowland was uneven and this meant neither side could be sure whether or not there were bodies of troops waiting in concealment. The attack, however, wasn't delayed. It came in a wave that carried brute force and determination.
The front line of assault from the north included their polished and proficient archers. Their precision and accuracy was devastating when allied with the light spearmen of Elba. Lodestok was with Sarssen when the haskar led out his ranks of bowmen in response, the warlord nearly having his stallion shot from under him and retreating with something of a snarl.
The southern bowmen were good and very well trained but there were fewer of them compared with the massed northern ranks, their archers lifting bows and sinking to their knees in one fluid movement so the next rank could shoot. As they had twice before the southerners found themselves under a deadly and never-ending hail of accurate arrows. Eventually they were forced to wheel so they presented a less attractive target while they fired back.
Into the gap they left came the massed pikemen. The warlord watched appreciatively as the northern archers, continuing to shoot, split into two, one group peeling left and the other right, slowly drawing back. Those men, he reflected, were extremely well disciplined. The troops now formed up in close order masses, the pikes presenting a united front of massed points and the archers held in sideways ranks to give them the best chance of hitting the enemy. The cavalry, under Bensar, stayed ready to achieve the shock of massed impact as they'd sweep round in a circular motion from the sides.
Among the southern archers were mounted fighters who rode to battle but fought on foot. They operated in loose formations or in tighter groups if they were with a beduar and this was demanded of them. Weapons dictated their actions, most of them armed with bows, axes and spears.
The pikemen were now clustered together for mutual support and presented a bristling hedge of pikes. The bowmen stood in similar formation to gain maximum advantage by concentrating their fire, and the cavalry, including the wing under Bensar, drawn up in three ranks, would operate in close order. Bethel was white-cheeked but he had himself firmly under control. He could no longer see Sarssen. He was alone.
With the armies concentrated, the challenge was given and answered. Battle was joined. Bethel was in Bensar's second rank on the left wing. When the order came, he was erect and tense as the troop moved slowly forward to engage the northmen who walked their horses easily towards them. There was a steady increase in impetus until Bethel heard the command for the charge into the advancing wing.
From the moment of jarring impact, Bethel had no time to think of other than obeying orders and his survival. The fighting was bloody and merciless. It was butchery of the worst kind. He was forced to concentrate as he and those about him were repeatedly and ferociously attacked. As time passed Bethel knew the southerners were pushed back and then, urged on by Bensar, they gained a little ground and made a minor breakthrough that they briefly held before another push from the northmen spun them back again.
Bethel rode and fought automatically as he'd been trained with the aid of whips. He was barely aware of the din. He fought as though he was outside himself, battered over and again until he felt nothing, not even tiredness. He was numb. It was a living hell that he was conscious of but not a part of. The dreadful sounds and sights of war echoed and were imprinted on his brain. He couldn't think clearly.
No order was given for the retreat even though Bethel's troop was thrust back once more and Bethel knew there would be no retreat. The warriors would fight until they fell as they always did once battle began. Once more, Bethel twisted the reins and turned his horse to the fray, his sword arm raised, his shield held firmly.
The hours passed without much respite though Bethel was yelled at to withdraw, rest, re-group, then come again. He found himself facing menacing spears that came into their own for thrusting, parrying and slashing and he was conscious what a spear could do to his horse. Warriors didn't carry the long spear though they had shields, swords and knives. Some carried an axe. Lodestok did.
Bethel had to dodge arrows and javelins as well because they weren't just used as distance weapons. Men in the back ranks who hadn't used their javelins early in the battle clash used them now, throwing them at close quarter at anyone who exposed a vulnerable side while fighting. Bowmen had the same effect.
Bethel recognised the north had followed a southern army tactic, and, under different circumstances would've grinned at his brother's adaptability. Some javeliners and pikemen were held back by Lodestok to cover axe-men once these men had swung their axes. Axe-men were invaluable for breaking through a hedge of enemy spears and that was their main function. These men would fall back, re-group and attack again. Bethel now realised the north were using the Kyaran axe-men in exactly the same way and he had to be extremely wary. Axe-men meeting head on in combat was a bloody business.
Ordered ranks fell back, reorganised and went forward repeatedly. Bethel lost count of the number of times he charged and repeated manoeuvres. All he was aware of, as the sun reached midsun, was that the line was becoming ragged, thinning out where Lodestok had placed reinforcements. It was, in parts, fragmenting. Constantly he saw Bensar signal and automatically responded. A courier with orders was also instantly obeyed.
Past midsun, battle formations were fluid and no longer solidly organised, the single line of wedges splintering as those in command who led them fell or were wounded. Several times Bethel found himself with or under a new command. The cavalry units were constantly being reorganised and obeyed the commands of the senior warrior who now controlled them. More than once Bensar re-directed Bethel to go to the organisation of his men half the line away where he fought until he received a message from Bensar that he was to return to the cavalry. He was quite disoriented as time ticked slowly and inexorably by. He fought, mostly mounted but sometimes found himself on foot, physical contact brutal as any method of assault was acceptable. He got a number of vicious kicks as he closed at near quarters, his knife drawn.
The men in the front ranks, better equipped at the beginning of battle, were in some disarray and some attempted to retreat. Warriors dispensed with those very promptly. Others, trying to pull back to re-group, were constantly pushed forward by the impulsion from the back ranks forming up in a defensive manner. Their survival depended on it. Even so, close order formations were becoming impossible to maintain with the high casualty rate. The ground was becoming littered with mounds of bodies.
Bethel saw the warlord ride from point to point, haranguing, exhorting and encouraging the warriors as he frequently led a charge, his ferocious battle cry a rallying one for the Churchik. Bethel knew Lodestok was foremost in battle, fearless, courageous, terrifying and an encouraging example to his warriors. He'd watched the man, a colossus astride a huge warhorse, mete out death to whoever came at him. With a sigh of tiredness Bethel closed with another cavalry unit as it wheeled ready to confront the northmen.
He saw Luth attacked. He knew an urge to go to his friend but found himself surrounded and unable to help. From the corner of his eye he caught Luth's glance, saw the sudden and intense pain in the pale eyes before it was replaced by the faint smile of affectionate recognition that faded. Luth was gone. Bethel knew Churchik warriors were fearless with death holding no anxiety for them. Indeed, he'd had it drilled into him over cycles that to die in battle was an honour. Had Bethel had a chance to think he'd have known that Luth accepted his fate with typical Churchik philosophy.
Loyalty to the warlord to the death was something Luth was raised to believe transcended all but his dearest friendships. That he offered such friendship to Be
thel made their relationship uniquely precious. Bethel understood this and that was why, still fighting, he wept inside when he saw Luth slip from his warhorse and sink to the ground. The pointless of the whole war made Bethel feel overwhelming despair as he fought even harder. Bonds of fellowship among the Churchik were stronger than life and Bethel acknowledged that, for the warriors, revenge was a debt of obligation. He had to keep fighting on Luth's behalf - he owed that to his friend as much as he had to survive to ensure others knew of Luth's courage. Tears dripped down the dusty, ashen face as Bethel lunged yet again. He was, at that instant, all Churchik warrior.
As he fell back again Bethel knew the victors of this battle, whoever they were, would scour the battlefield for fallen warriors so if found by the Churchik they could be honoured, or stripped of weaponry and valuables if found by others. Swords, helmets, mail shirts and shields were all considered trophies. Other than that, Bethel accepted with a sick feeling these heaped bodies about him would be left where they fell.
Denying burial was, among the Churchik, an expression of the power of the victor over the vanquished. Bethel found it unthinkable that so many should be left unburied and he resolved, should he still be alive at the end of the day, to find Luth and bring his friend home for cremation. Bethel wondered if he'd last the day and found he simply no longer cared.
He tired noticeably. Despite all the training, hour after hour of almost continual mortal combat sapped him. He wondered if that was why Luth was dead. Perhaps, like Bethel, weary and disoriented his concentration slipped. Or perhaps, thought Bethel in a state of suspended exhaustion, he'd just been confronted by too many opponents. He'd seen Gariok go down, the enormous bard taking a very large Cartokian with him.
Bethel's fighting lacked the precision of the early hours on the field and though he was pulled back often enough and briefly rested Bensar didn't spare his warriors, exercises in stamina and endurance an integral part of warrior training. Bethel only saw Sarssen once, the large figure on his richly caparisoned horse fighting calmly and methodically as he rallied men, only a few times on foot in hand to hand combat.
During a short lull while the ranks fell back, more often now Bethel noticed in a vaguely detached way, he looked about him somewhat dazed and certainly confused. He could see pockets of little battles going on all around him but couldn't make out which army was doing better. There was only deafening noise, drum rolls, yelling and screaming mixed in with horns and metal on metal - a bewildering cacophony. Only a smallish group of cavalry was near him. As far as he could see, the ground was thick with the fallen.
Bethel received a signal from another senior warrior. He wearily twisted the reins and spurred his warhorse from the oncoming attack to join up with the cavalry unit that formed and waited to his right. Then he suddenly wrenched the stallion back on its haunches, spinning round with a second sense to avoid a sword blade that flashed down at him with wicked speed and power. It crashed onto his hastily raised shield.
Breathless, he parried desperately as he was re-engaged. He couldn't ride away from this confrontation. There was no alternative other than to fight, his mount plunging and slipping on the mounds of the dead and the uneven ground. Whoever fought him was very skilled and deft. He was also fresh. He seemed oblivious of all that went on around him. He was there to kill his opponent. When Bethel tried to take the initiative and attack a wave of unutterable exhaustion hit him.
His fighting arm wasn't strong enough this late in the day. When he faltered, only for a second and his shield momentarily slipped, he received a very deep, crippling gash on his upper right arm just below the shoulder, his arm dropped to his side and his sword clattered to the ground. Gripping the reins of his horse through a haze of agony, Bethel tried to back off. He knew, like Luth before him, he slipped from the saddle. The stallion bolted.
As suddenly as he felt the pain, it went. His fingers were numb. Crashing to the ground and feebly clawing for his knife, even as he weakly tried to lift his shield for protection, he felt a hand wrench his head back with painful force and his helm was ripped off. All Bethel saw was a glistening blade raised to finish him. Because Bethel's eyes clouded he didn't see the hand instantly stayed or the close look his opponent took at him and at the unique patterning on the helm and shield, Lodestok's personal device. All he knew, when he opened his eyes, was that his assailant wasn't immediately visible.
With the instinct to survive at any cost driving him Bethel dropped the shield, groped for his sword with his left hand and began to slowly and painfully crawl backwards, unaware what he crept over. He refused to admit either defeat or death. He knew he repeatedly vomited until all he could do was retch, and, though his arm was numb, he was aware of dull, deep agonising pain just at his shoulder. His right arm hung useless.
Refusing to let unconsciousness claim him and desperately afraid he might be stripped and left for carrion Bethel constantly gnawed on his lower lip, the pain making him stay aware, just as Sarehl did once long ago. He seemed to crawl through a long, endless nightmare before he knew he was no longer immediately surrounded by the clash of metal on metal and the awful din. There was sound enough to make the welkin ring. All he faintly heard was the flourish of horns, the roll of drums and the roar of repeated head on attacks and ringing battle cries.
Bethel lay sobbing for breath, aware that wherever he was he was in no immediate danger of attack. He forced himself to try and calm. The panting eased. He began to breathe more easily. Gingerly, he made himself get to his knees though he was very giddy and then, trembling, he staggered to his feet, his left hand clutching at his right shoulder. He knew he weakened from severe loss of blood.
Swaying, he tried to orient himself. He ducked as a rider-less warhorse nearly ran over him, foam flecking its mouth. Reeling, Bethel managed to get to his feet again and tried to see where he was. His hair, come loose, blinded him. He tried to push it back. He could recognise nothing. After standing for a few moments he sank whimpering to his knees, then again instinct took over. Clambering unsteadily to his feet he made his way to what, to his blurred vision, looked like a fire. He stumbled his way towards the glow and the smoke.
As he neared what he thought was a cooking fire he stopped, his eyes running with the smoke that seemed to billow randomly everywhere. He heard cries and screams. He also had to lurch out of the way of a warrior on horseback who thundered past him as if he wasn't there. He wandered, disoriented, though already he'd weakly sent to Sarssen. He had no recollection of having done so.
Sarssen, extremely hard pressed, managed to pull back, his eyes scanning the battlefield with considerable anxiety. He sent to Bethel, but the response was very faint. It was barely enough for Sarssen to be able to judge where Bethel was and it was at that moment Sarssen saw the warlord ride towards him, sword raised as he rallied men to follow. Instinctively, Sarssen yelled to him just as he had to suddenly respond to an attack. Lodestok was startled. Bringing his stallion to an abrupt halt, he swerved and rode directly to Sarssen, scattering anyone in his way.
Still wandering and barely conscious Bethel was firmly grasped and pushed roughly into a group of foot soldiers being readied to sweep over a small mound in another charge. Bethel was swept with them, trying frantically to keep his footing. As the wave swept back the second time he was flung from the group and landed winded at the feet of a northman who advanced, paused, looked down at him and raised his axe.
Bethel's eyes opened wide. An anguished howl was torn from him. He made a sustained effort to move, just managing to roll onto his left hip before the axe came down and buried itself in his long hair. The northman yanked up his axe and casually strode away. Bethel gasped. He tried weakly to move but it was beyond him. His ears rang with the racket and he couldn't see. His hair, torn from the queue by the axe blow, covered his face. He tried, again, to crawl and managed to half creep under a fallen body where he lay helpless and bleeding.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bethel moaned when he
felt strong hands pull him upright then knew he was flung across a horse before he remembered nothing more. When he became vaguely aware Bethel whimpered because he was alone, afraid and deeply in pain. Instantly, a hand touched his head. He struggled to focus on who it was who touched him. He failed though he recognised the voice as the warlord's. He tried to speak but a second hand touched his mouth very gently.
"You are very badly hurt, son. Try to rest, boy."
"I fought for you..." Bethel's voice trailed away.
Lodestok said softly, "The father has great pride in his younger son, Sorien." Bethel's eyes closed on a gasp of pain. "A healer has been sent for, boy. I will not leave you. Easy, son, easy."
Bethel couldn't see the face above him or the look of anxious solicitude that warred with tenderness and love in the pale blue eyes that never left his face. Nor did he feel the strong arms that cradled him against a broad chest. He didn't feel the hand that stroked his hair as low groans were wrenched from him.
He came to awareness with lancing pain that tore through him, looked up hazily at movement and opened his mouth to water dripped onto his lips. He felt cloth placed in his mouth just as another spasm made him want to scream and he clenched his teeth hard on the cloth as yet another wave of pain swept over him. He knew strong hands held him quite motionless while someone worked on him, tears snaking through the dust caked on his face leaving smutty trails. When another spasm surged through him he howled, then bit down hard. Cool hands touched his forehead and he drifted quietly into unconsciousness.
When he next woke his mouth felt dry and he tried to lick his lips. The agony he'd felt was reduced to a dull throbbing ache that he found bearable, the sudden spurts that so crippled him eased. Thankfully, he let his lazy gaze wander and settle on a small, spare man with wispy hair and even wispier beard who looked down at him, compassion in eyes that were as colourless as Morjah's.
"Morjah," he mumbled incoherently. "Morjah." Gentle hands lifted him and a goblet was held to his mouth.
