“Despite his disgrace, I do, Sire.”
“By those words you show that you do not. Attempting to best him or belittle him will lead you to an early death. I’ll tell you a truth. Sir Dech did not disgrace himself. He took blame that was not his to hold the kingdom together. He did so at my bidding. How many men do you know that would do such a thing? I took advantage of his nature and it benefitted you. As irritating as it might be, as vexing as you find it, his skill and dedication are things worthy of respect.”
Sir Oliver looked away, across the field as the two sides reformed their lines and the Underealm creatures paced and circled far to the right, seemingly eager to attack. For more than a minute he said nothing and Harold did not press him.
“I have always known he was a better knight than me, Sire,” he finally said. “I would never have said so until now. That has always been a point of envy, that and the fact he stayed the path I abandoned. It is as you stated. I too once sought nothing more than to be the best knight I could be and veering from that path has made me bitter. He’ll have my respect—no, he has my respect. This I vow before my sovereign. Arataine will have two knight-commanders that will place kingdom above knight. Perhaps we both live through this battle, wherever it is fought. But first we must win this night… upon this field and in the dark woods of Nevar.”
Harold nodded, hiding his surprise at Oliver’s reaction. “I’ll keep my bodyguard. You take the rest of the household knights and those from the northern duchies. Duke Roger’s knights along with the foot and horse sergeants can hold the line in the center while Duke Philip’s men hold the left. Backed by mages, archers, and arbalesters, they’ll hold. When you press the Underealm forces toward us, we charge.”
“You’ll keep so few, Sire?”
“Lord Arundel and his knights will be with us. He wouldn’t let me set out on such a foolish venture without him.”
Oliver smiled. “Then I will see you shortly, Sire, upon a field of trampled enemies.”
As Oliver departed, Lord Arundel rode up. Harold looked at the receding form of Sir Oliver and shook his head with a quiet laugh. “His true ambitions lie in a different place than I thought,” he said quietly.
“Oliver, Sire?” Lord Arundel asked.
Harold smiled in surprise that Arundel had heard him. “Yes.”
“You think he seeks more than lands and title.”
“More? Perhaps. I fear I have sent him down a path far more precarious. He seeks to be a knight. Again.”
“Truly? That we all could stay that path. I envy him if it holds.”
Harold looked at his old confidant. “This is a night of surprises. Is that why you favor Sir Dech? His pursuit of chivalry, of gallantry?”
Arundel rumbled a laugh. “Sire, if offered the opportunity to trade places with the warder, I would do so without the slightest hesitation. To die in knightly pursuits? Yes, that’s the way I would choose, but rare is the man that has that opportunity.”
Harold nodded. “Kindly see to it you do not die on this night. We still have far to go.”
“I have no designs to do so, Sire. I am a knight at heart and politician by fate. Philip’s forces hold, but there are no longer any lines on the left and restoring order will take some time. Sir Norman of Duke Roger’s knights has the center reforming. In both places there is little movement fore or back. This night will come down to what happens here on the right.”
Harold nodded. “So we wait.”
. . .
Oliver alerted the king’s household knights and rode to the gathering of leaders among those he would command. Detailing the plan, there were little more than a few grumblings of protest from the knights. Most seemed eager as they had seen little action standing ready as a reserve force.
“Greve Moore, I would ask that you and your seneschal ride in the center with me,” Sir Oliver said. “The banner of King Harold’s household knights accompanied by your own will provide a beacon for our attack to follow, milord.”
Gerald inclined his head at the honor. “Many a banner or pennon of many a battle-hardened knight rides with us, Sir Oliver. You point the way, we ride that way.”
“And if Malig is inclined to follow along with his Underealm allies,” Allan said, “one of these battle-hardened knights might just take his lunacy-ridden head from his shoulders.”
A mean laugh spread through the gathering.
A flash came from the tear in the sky to the north and a strange clap of thunder rolled not long after. The knights looked on as the shape of the tear changed and belched brownish clouds.
“A problem we deal with farther down the road,” Sir Owen said.
Oliver stood in his stirrups. “See to your knights, brothers. We move as soon as we’re formed.”
. . .
Malig’s left division moved forward and met Harold’s right once again.
“Sire, it looks like they seek to turn our left,” one of Malig’s retinue said as they watched a force of Aratainian mounted knights ride north and soon disappear into the smoke behind a fold of land.
“That they do,” Malig replied. “They’ve given us quite an opportunity by lessening their numbers. It is too late to change our attack even if we wished it, but there is no need. I lead those here to trail the monsters Olk Mirkness sent. Let them dent Harold’s line. While they do, we locate Harold’s standard and charge. I’ll take his head from him personally.”
“And what of the flanking force?” a voice said.
“We will find Harold before they know what transpires. When Harold falls, they’ll flee or swear service to me. Prepare to move. I will order the demons to attack.”
. . .
As planned, Malig’s force followed the Underealm creatures forward. Despite the training and fierceness bred into their destriers, many of the knights’ equines displayed unease at being close to the infernal force.
The demonic horde veered north, some calling out, “The emblem, we reap!”
Dismayed at first, it dawned on Malig that Harold might be leading the flanking cavalry force, so they continued trailing the horde.
As they neared the Aratainian line, a knight to Malig’s right pointed north and called, “I see it! The banner of the usurper Harold! Straight to the fore.”
Gazing intently through the dim light and dust, the vague image of horsemen could just be seen, but blowing smoke soon obscured them.
“There lies victory!” Malig called. “Follow them.
. . .
Robert Moore removed his helm as the healers’ wagons neared the tents reserved for the wounded. Riding alongside the lead wagon, he was happy to have something to occupy him. This trip, his second escort for the healers, was more exciting than the first. While not engaging anyone in combat, he and some of his comrades did draw swords and drive off a band of lightly armored spearmen that sought to loot the wounded.
“A bit of work for you this time, Robert,” Muriel said from her place in the wagon.
“It was,” he replied with a smile. “It is preferable to sitting and waiting. My mind begins dwelling on what my father and Allan might be facing. I also have friends from the shire here as well. And there is Warder Dech. I know his fight is not far away, but it is a hazardous mission. Having something to do keeps me from dwelling on these mental weights.”
“Until recently I thought Dech was long dead, though I feel I should have known better. Do not think him gone too soon, he is not easy to kill. As for Gerald and Allan? They go with Sir Oliver Brundell and the king’s household knights. I know not where, but they keep company with some of the best men-at-arms in Arataine. Fretting only hurts, it never helps.”
“I thank you for the kind words and information,” Rob said as the wagons stopped at the tents. “I will likely see you on your next foray. It seems to be our lot.”
“You serve. Do not be surprised if you suddenly find yourself called to do something far different.”
“Sir Dech advised me with similar wis
dom. Until next time,” he said with a smile and a dip of his head.
Muriel smiled and waved as Rob and his companions returned to Sir Baldwin.
. . .
The force led by Oliver rode almost to the edge of the forest north of the main fight before turning west and then southwest in a long sweeping move back toward the battle. Smoke limited the view ahead until someone bellowed, “Infernals! Dead to the fore.”
Seeing movement through the murky air, The knights leaned forward in their saddles and tightened grips on the shafts of lances as they began a charge with Oliver and the knight bearing the household banner at the center.
Military adages stated that nothing was more feared than a large body of armed, armored, and mounted knights on the charge and the only elements on a battlefield that did not fear such an attack was an equal number of armed, armored, and mounted knights on the charge. The demonic horde that ran at the group led by Sir Oliver felt no fear either though, but perhaps they should have.
The two forces collided with a sound unlike any other, the weight and velocity of the knights’ attack carrying them deep into the horde, some horses and their knights tumbling through the demonic ranks like boulders down a hillside. The momentum of both side soon ceased and close combat ensued. Savage creatures with massive strength clawed and bit, other infernals swung huge swords and axes at the mounted men who countered with shield, skill, teamwork, grim determination, and sharpened steel.
Knots of knights whirled and turned, blood soaked the churned ground. The smell of this blood filled the noses of all who fought. The sounds of ferocity, the screams of men, demons, and horses clogged the ears.
“Reform!” came the command after several minutes of bitter fighting as calls and barks for the same came from their opponents. Soon every knight that could disengage did so. Many who had been unhorsed somehow survived, but there were horses aplenty that made it from the fight without their riders to provide replacement mounts. Across a carnage-filled space, the infernal force regrouped as well. Between the two forces rested the dead and the dying. A few wounded knights aided others, but those able to fight reformed knowing time was precious.
Beyond the infernal creatures, the Aratainian knights could see others of their kind, but they suspected they were Malig’s. Their suspicions were correct.
The creatures sent by Mirkness had outpaced Malig’s knights. Once ordered to attack, they did so with great enthusiasm and vigor. The choking smoke was not an issue for them, to neither sight nor smell. Spotting the emblem Malig had shown Buryel, the demons streaked across the rolling land in their eagerness to reap, a pace that would have left Malig’s horses winded by the time they arrived. Even with a sensible pace, there was confusion. With little wind to clear the air, it became all too easy for groups of knights to lose sight of one another. In one case dozens rode east when they saw a fight between units at the northern end of the battle line. Others rode on to the north, never hearing Malig’s command to slow and tighten the formation.
Even among the infernals there were those that broke from the ranks. Ordered to withdraw and regroup, they went south in search of another fight, seeing them, many of Malig’s cavalry followed.
The chaos that had taken hold on the other parts of the battlefield now gained purchase on the northern end.
A scout finally found the main body of infernal creatures as they were preparing to attack once more, but being unable to stop them, he rode south to inform Malig of the location.
. . .
As Oliver’s force reformed, it was soon learned the Knight-Commander was wounded, but still in the saddle. A gash on his left side opened his mail to the skin. Wounded while recovering the household banner after its carrier was felled, stories were already spreading of his ferocity and prowess against the infernal foe. Applying a poultice was all the medical aid he might receive without seeking healers and there was a battle to be fought.
Calling for Greve Gerald Moore, Allan and those who had fought alongside the two went along. Seeing the demons reforming, the young Baron Ruridge said, “Still so many!” desperation tingeing his voice.
“Aye!” Allan said in a calm but loud reply. “As long as we have opponents, we fight. Look around, lad. There’s still many a knight left as well, milord.”
“Then we might still win?” the baron asked taking heart at the older man’s words.
“That we might,” Gerald said.
“We’re here, so we ought to give it a go,” Allan added in a jovial tone.
“That we should,” Gerald said with a laugh.
“I would ask that you stay with the household banner,” Oliver said to Allan. Turning his gaze to Gerald he said, “I can still swing steel, but for how long? You lead us out, milord.”
Gerald nodded. “Stay near, Sir Oliver. We’ll see this through. If we are to die, let it be on the attack.”
Allan laughed and shouted, “Attack indeed. Who knows, we might just win if a few knights with spine and steel come along.”
“With you!” Sir Owen bellowed.
“With you!” yelled dozens more.
As Allan raised the lance carrying the banner of the king’s household knights, Gerald held his sword aloft and shouted, “We win or die, brothers. For Arataine!”
. . .
King Harold watched the north with concern as his right division fought Malig’s left. Leaders on both sides sought to keep formations in order, but despite the moon Sahr’s blue glow and the yellow-white wisps summoned by mages illuminating the field, darkness and smoke made organization a fiercely difficult task.
As units split apart, charged, fell back, and then moved into the fray again, it was apparent to Harold that something decisive needed doing before it was too late.
Leading those with him north to the right flank of the division, they sought Oliver’s force but saw no sign of them. Suddenly, from the smoke, a routed unit of Aratainian spearmen fled toward them. Within seconds, infernal creatures loped into sight as well.
Harold had hoped the first sighting of the demonic forces would be one of defeated monsters in flight from Oliver’s force. Knowing this was not the case, the king made a decision.
“We attack,” Harold said. “Form a line, now.”
As knights and other mounted men-at-arms raced to form up, Lord Arundel joined his sovereign.
“Scouts have yet to report from the north, Sire. We must face the possibility Oliver has failed.”
Harold nodded. “We must, but even if it is so, those with him must have extracted payment from the infernal horde. We keep them from our flank.”
“What of the other reserves?” asked one of Arundel’s knights.
“Send word,” Arundel replied, “but there is no time to wait. We will be victorious or dead by the time they arrive. We fight now.”
“Aye, milord!” the knight replied.
. . .
The Lord of the Vile cast flames at Granum from an outstretched hand, the heat darkening the stone wall where the old man stood.
Ducking and shielding himself, Adelbert smiled as Dealan cast a spell in response. Coming to his feet, he was heartened to see Mayhaps and Dissy on the attack as well.
“Josip, join the others,” Dech said. “You lack armor and as nimble as you may be, fire spells could be your death.”
“I’ll find another way to help then,” the thief said.
As Erie sped for the raised area, Dech stood and closed with the monster, choosing to attack with sword and shield and aid Mirkness in wounding their opponent. Casts of cold struck the Lord of the Vile drawing a terrible growl from it.
Ignoring the knight, Laerdavile raised its left hand to respond, and presented Dech with an opportune target. Bringing a straight-armed chop down, his sword bit deep into the wrist of the monster, eliciting a deafening scream. Pulling the sword free, Dech went to one knee as he deflected a backhanded blow from his opponent.
Olk Mirkness threw both hands at Laerdavile, and a plume of ice
storm cold slammed into the creature and Dech as well.
Knocked off his feet, Dech rolled clear as Mirkness took up his spear.
“Wait!” Dech shouted as he shook off the cold that chilled his left side. Rising to his knees he yelled, “You will never—”
Mirkness pulled the spear back in preparation to thrust it into Laerdavile’s midsection, a bar shield shimmering around him. Bar or not, Dech knew a creature of Laerdavile’s size could still send Mirkness flying and as the warder stood, it did exactly that. Flying into the heavy altar, Mirkness was deflected into one of the stone blocks that littered the floor. Stunned, Olk’s bar field winked out.
Dech stood and thought of attacking, but those on the other side of the tower hurled spells and projectiles, giving him pause.
Staggering back a step, the Lord of the Vile melted off the ice that caked its torso, the shafts of arrows and bolts protruding from its body bursting into flames. As Mirkness raised his head from the floor, Laerdavile lifted a contorted hand and directed its palm at the downed mage.
Mirkness shrieked as his body arched horribly and his limbs stiffened and spasmed. Shaking violently, his cries ceased and the monster lowered its hand allowing the body to rest, its limbs twitching. Staring sightlessly at the sky, Dech could see the red-orange glow was absent leaving just black orbs under half-closed eyelids.
The Warder Page 49
