Looking up from his seat, King Harold said, “Fine. Show the scouts in as soon as they arrive.”
Very shortly, the scouts were brought in and after bowing, the older scout reported, “We have Malig’s position, Sire.”
“Out with it,” Arundel said to the woman.
“He proceeds with a sizable force east down the Tanners Road toward Taller,” she replied placing a finger on the tabletop map. “Another force travels the Grants Market Road from the northwest. Those still out are gathering numbers. Scouts to the southwest have yet to report.”
Arundel nodded and scanned the map. “I’d bet my beard another comes from there along the Elsberry Way.”
“I’d wager you’ll keep it, milord,” the scout said.
Harold laughed and nodded. “We hold until we know for certain, but we should be ready to move on short notice. His scouts will return, no doubt. Leave the tents up. Let Malig believe we are unready. Let him trudge while we rest and prepare. If he continues, a night battle we shall have. The skies stay clear, so moonlight we’ll have.”
“I’ll send some old campaigners to find ground where we’ll form, Sire. With little drill, maneuvering at night is a risk,” Arundel cautioned.
“When is battle not a risk, Gilbert? We stay the course.”
“We’ll be ready f—”
The clerk burst through the tent flaps, his face pale. “Sire, to the north. A rift opens! Red bolts spring from it.”
The scouts led the way out followed closely by the king and Arundel. As the clerk stated, to the north they could see the opening near Dech and his band.
“It’s over Nevar, Sire,” Arundel said.
Harold grimaced and shook his head slowly. “I do hope Warder Dech is there and manages some way to stop it.”
. . .
Malig hooted and clapped his hands as he led his column from the dense woods of the Helsh into the farmland east of the tree line.
“These plowed fields will be irrigated with blood,” he said gesturing to the left and right. “That is the price paid for defying the rightful King of Arataine. Peasants to princes shall fall to the blade. Only those who have helped me shall escape my wrath. Those that survive, I will squeeze for all they are worth.”
“We will fight in these conditions, Sire?” one of Malig’s household knights said eyeing the moist soil on at side of the road.
“We will. If Harold won’t meet us in battle, then we bring the fight to him,” Malig said as he grew more animated. “If they cower because of a spring rain, we’ll slaughter them in their tents. This soil was paste hours ago. Look at it now. By the time we form at Taller, it will serve our purpose.
“Duke Philip’s lands are where we ride now and will be the first to fall. Fitting. He was the first to suggest my brother take my place, thinking Harold would be malleable. Usurper or no, my half-sibling is a Tancar and not so easily moved. Still, I’d as soon see Arataine laid waste as let another rule it, brother or not.”
Unwrapping the amulet provided by Mirkness and holding it before him, he continued.
“We are clear of the forest with drying fields and clearing skies.” He paused to smile and then laugh. “Battle comes this day I think.”
“So the usurper dies and you reclaim your birthright,” Mirkness replied.
“My birthright? That I do,” Malig replied with flashing eyes. “They say I was stillborn, as dead as my mother was when she gave birth to me. They say some infernal spirit took on the babe’s form, but that is just slander spread by those who fear me and sought my demise. Stillborn? I cannot say, but I do know this: I am not easily killed, much like you.”
“The resilience we share may see us to our goals,” Olk replied. “This night shall be a momentous one.”
“That it will!” Laughing loudly, Malig coiled the amulet’s chain around his hand. “All will face a reckoning. I am the rightful ruler of this land and those that oppose this fact face annihilation. This I swear upon the land of Arataine!” he raged looking wildly at those nearest him. “Those that call themselves rulers of neighboring lands might have intervened and aided me, but they did not. They fear and envy me. I seek justice and vengeance, not just in reclaiming Arataine, but more, so much more. Had those petty and jealous rulers sought to right this wrong, I would allow them to accept vassalage in place of destruction, but now? No. No, no, no, not now. Mercy does not walk with me.”
“Malig is most… excited,” one of the mercenary captains said to another as the exiled king rode on and shouted his intentions.
“Aye. He’s a mercurial one, but battle nears and he is anxious to join.”
“Mad he is, but a madman’s gold is still gold.”
“That it is, but we’ll earn it. He’ll attack as soon as he finds Harold. That means we’ll do so this night.”
A knight near Malig rose up in his stirrups and pointed north. “A rift! It must be,” he yelled as red-orange bolts shot downward from a dark smudge high in the sky.
As everyone at the front of the column speculated about the rift’s impact on the coming battle, Malig laughed knowing it was Mirkness who was responsible. “See it as a sign,” he declared. “It spells good tidings.”
A scout rode in from the east and as he neared, Malig waved him to approach.
“We have him, Your Majesty! The usurper’s position,” the scout called. A lad in his early teens, his face showed pride.
Malig laughed. “What did I say? Good tidings. Map, bring me the map!”
One of Malig’s retinue brought his horse alongside Malig’s and unfolded a large parchment.
“Where, lad?” Malig asked excitedly. “Show me where.”
Examining the map for a few seconds, the scout pointed. “There, Your Majesty. A large encampment astride the Elsberry Way, the main road east from Taller. They ran light cavalry at us, but showed no sign of battle preparations. I was ordered to inform you, Sire, while others sought more and held off pursuit. It was a unit of female lancers. Fast as blazes they were.”
“My father’s doing, those lancers. Light riders make for good speed and endurance. You did well slipping them, lad. You bring good tidings indeed. Harold thinks the ground too soft to fight this day. We form at Taller and march east into Harold’s camp. No matter the time, we form and attack.”
. . .
As darkness took hold, Dech’s group crested a long rise and stopped, the Castle of the Dark Forest in full view ahead atop a steep tree-covered bluff. Three towers were visible along the old curtain walls, damaged by battles past and the elements since. From their vantage, they could see the leftmost tower was a crumbled wreck while the other two were seemingly those restored to habitable condition by the work crews, the yellow glow of firelight showing from the upper windows of each.
Based on the map and what they could see, the road descended directly towards the castle, turning right and leading to a U-turn that took a course running at the bottom of the bluff below the fortification. Eventually turning right and ascending, the road led to the main gatehouse on the southern wall.
As they made their way down the old cobbled road that led to the fortification, they passed the remnants of stone watch stations with their quoined walls and small barbicans. Stopping near one of them, they decided to eat, rest, and prepare for their entry into the old fortification.
Once finished eating, Dech removed his sword belt and surcoat, replacing it with one of white, the same as he wore when meeting with the king’s council. Replacing his sword belt around his waist, he knelt on the cobblestones and lowered his head.
“He prays?” Diz asked quietly.
“Perhaps,” Mayhaps said. “He is an order knight after all, though he doesn’t seem that devout.”
“He is,” Erie said tapping his chest. “It’s in here. He lives it without all the ceremony. The spiritual over the ritual, if you will. He’s always been that way.”
Dealan laughed softly. “You never fail to surprise, Josip. Quite the grasp o
n things. It has been a pleasant experience discovering that about you.”
“You share the same practicality as Dech,” Erie replied. “It’s been a pleasure learning that as well.”
Dech stood and joined the others as they made preparations of their own.
Mayhaps pinched the edge of Dech’s surcoat, rubbing the gold piping. “This isn’t an audience with a king we head for, so you wearing that means battle then. I really hoped you were jesting about that.”
Dech smiled. “You remember how to use that war sword?”
“I do. I lack your experience and skill, but I can manage if need be. I have your crossbow as well and let us not forget my lute. It—and I—have a few tricks.”
. . .
“What’s with the large crenellation?” Mayhaps said with a point at the castle as they set out. A large square cutout was still visible along the partially collapsed wall between two of the towers. “There’s a reason for it, yes?”
“A siege engine or ballista to cover an approach from this direction I suppose,” Dech replied. “Something to bring misery to a force approaching by this path. I would think the tree growth on the steep slope up to the walls was not there when that was a functioning fortification. Trying to attack up that slope would be pointless unless one wished to die. Taking the road around to the southern side would have been covered by archers all the way around. It’s probably why those that took this place in battle attacked from the other side.”
“We’ll not be scaling those walls,” Dissy said.
“No,” Erie agreed. “Best we move in where the walls are down. The rubble will provide concealment.”
“The victors likely reduced portions of the place before they left,” Dech said. “The gatehouse or towers would be prime selections for such. The road is the swiftest way, but obvious.”
Erie nodded. “Obvious, yes. If Diz will cover me with the bow, I’d wager I’ll see any sentries before they see me. If the entry through the southern wall is rubble, that’s as good a place as any to go.”
Dech nodded. “Lead on then.”
. . .
With the sun well past the horizon, the half-moon illumination of Sahr and the rekindling of lightning strike fires kept full dark at bay. Knowing Malig’s three columns had met and formed west of Taller, Harold’s army was ready.
Scouts and light cavalry from both sides played cat and mouse in their efforts to stay apprised of their opposition. Every so often, the sounds of fierce fighting crossed the battleground to be as light cavalry units met in the dim blue hues cast by the moon Sahr.
The armies were arrayed in similar fashion to one another, three divisions stretched along the front with archers and arbalesters ready to put flights of bolts and arrows on their opponents before withdrawing down the gaps between divisions once the hacking and thrusting of close combat commenced.
While the tents of the encampment still stood where they had been erected the previous day, the baggage train supporting Harold’s army moved forward and were laagered well to the rear of the fighting divisions.
Harold commanded the right division rather than the center as was common in most armies, though he observed from the center of the line during the initial stages. His father William often employed this unconventional method to great effect, using flanking attacks or bold charges at weak points to break opponents. Malig, sired and raised by the same man, also operated in this fashion.
Sir Norman, a veteran and most able commander of Duke Roger’s household saw to the center, while Duke Philip held the left. Electing to utilize local reserves to exploit opportunities or blunt reversals, Harold had units assigned to each division for this purpose. In addition, Knight-Commander Oliver and the King’s Household knights acted as an army reserve.
Malig’s army lacked the numbers of his half-brother’s and relied on his own personal retinue to serve as the sole reserve force, at least as far as Harold’s scouts could see.
Scouts from both sides soon returned to their own as Malig’s army marched into view. Standing atop a fold in the land, Harold’s troops watched their opponents rise and fall, appear and descend from sight as they closed over the rolling landscape.
King Harold stood in his stirrups and all those near looked to him, his elevated position and great height meant many on the battlefield could see him.
Raising his arms, he spoke in a loud and clear voice. “Our fight this night rids us of one threat. The morrows to come shall rid us of another. You are Arataine’s finest and are up to all challenges, be they mad kings or Underealm foes. Your king shall lead you, but it is not I that will bring victory. Look to your left and right. Strong women and men of all races of beings stand at your shoulders. The strongest in all the world. A host of unstoppable Aratainian strength and Aratainian steel gather here. We will win this night and in victory, you will carry glory until the end of your days and beyond.”
. . .
One of Malig’s retinue rode in hard and stopped next to his king. “The usurper’s army is formed and awaits, Sire,” he said. “They hold the high ground along a low ridge.”
Malig smiled at the news. “My lanky half-sibling chooses to be a bit bold. He seeks battle, but does not advance. No matter. He can die under the rays of moon and mage-lights. So be it. The sooner we fight, the sooner I return to the throne. Where is Harold?”
“The center, Sire.”
“He will not stay there. When he moves, I must know where.”
“As you command, Sire. The smoke from the fires thickens, but there are breezes that might clear them.”
“Your divisions are ready, Your Majesty,” said another of his followers.
“Archers out then,” Malig said, his eyes burning with eagerness in the moonlight. “Keep our divisions out of sight in the dead ground until the arrows fly. Once they do, we close with them. Order the mages to use their foul skills and summon forth wisps to bring light once the move begins. Seeing our force advancing will give their archers pause.”
“The numbers, Sire?” the reporting knight said. “We attack with lesser numbers?”
“Yes, yes we do,” Malig said looking ahead. “Less, more, it matters little. We attack.”
. . .
Assigned to a unit near the baggage train, Robert Moore rested in the saddle with his helm cradled against his left hip. Positioned with other young men-at-arms and King’s Legionnaires, they were there primarily to guard the baggage train and perform other duties as they may come. Sir Baldwin, an old campaigner well on in years was chosen to head the ad hoc forces that Rob was a part of. Though a long ago battle took his left hand, Baldwin found it hindered him little as his left served to hold his shield while his sword hand was as strong as ever.
Sir Baldwin made it clear he took the assigned duty seriously, despite its lack of glamour or prestige. “Do not think your task frivolous,” he said. “No victuals, no victory, or so goes the adage. Threatening Malig’s train brought victory at Creator’s Rock in the Throne War. Losing ours could bring defeat upon us here. Stay vigilant and stand ready.”
Muriel Durham approached at a rapid pace wearing the blue cassock of healers. A friend of Gerald and Allan he’d known since he was very young, she slowed and smiled at him saying, “Sitting idle? We may have work for you,” as she passed.
Speaking with Sir Baldwin for a minute, she departed.
Robert stood in the stirrups and looked to the west as sounds of yelled commands made it clear the battle had commenced, but from his place there was nothing in sight to go with the noise.
“You eight,” Sir Baldwin said pointing at Rob and those near him. “The healers take wagons forward to bring back wounded. Yes, it has begun. Stay with them and see no harm comes to them. If any of you fail to return, it best be because you’re dead. Understand?”
All eight nodded.
“You are on a battlefield, lads. Do not forget that for a moment. No looting or glory seeking. You have a duty to perform and on your honor you
’ll do it. Understood?”
“Understood, Sir Baldwin,” Rob said while the others merely nodded once again.
“Well, one of you understands,” the old knight said. Pointing south, he continued. “There are your charges. See them back here.”
Three mule drawn wagons approached with Muriel aboard the first. “Follow us,” the driver on her wagon called as they rolled by.
. . .
The exchange of bolts and arrows brought few casualties among those in-arms that stood in the ranks. The smoky darkness made finding the range a difficult task and more projectiles fell among the archers and arbalesters than it did among the intended targets. Inaccurate fire or not, there were casualties and as many as could be placed upon wagons or pulled clear of Malig’s oncoming army by withdrawing bowmen were taken to the rear as the deafening sound of mortal combat rang from the line.
Weapons striking armor and shield, the yells of those fighting for their lives amid the cries and groans of the wounded and dying announced the commencement of battle. As the three wagons Rob and his group guarded pulled away from the conflict, he spared a look and shuddered at the carnage and what little time had passed to create such a scene.
. . .
“He attacks the entire breadth of the line, Sire,” Lord Arundel said as those not engaged looked on. “Malig will press at the first weak point he detects.”
“Yes, but he has something else in store,” Harold replied. “A ruse, a tactic, or a hidden force we did not foresee. We must be ready to act when the time comes, be it to blunt his move or turn it to our favor.”
“He fights outnumbered,” Oliver said. “He seeks to end this quickly.”
“No doubt you are right,” Arundel said. “Stand ready. Your command carries our most potent attack.”
The first unit to give way was a squad of bill-men in the ranks of Duke Philip’s division. Attrited first by arrows and then by the poll-axes wielded by their armored sergeant opponents, their vulnerable position on the right of the division meant open ground between them and the center division. Attacked on two sides, they cracked, falling back at first, but as more died their resolve wavered. When their leader fell, they broke and ran.
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