The Warder

by D K Williamson

  The field deformed enough to allow the stone to strike the monster within before deflecting onto the floor. The impact elicited an angry cry from the creature. Raising its head to look at the warder, it growled savagely.

  “We’ve not concluded our business,” Dech yelled in return.

  . . .

  Chapter 34

  Dealan’s arrival on the Flint Plane placed her very near the Font of Glaes, a place she had visited many times. Feeling a vague connection to her body on the Mortal Plane, she knew her injuries were severe.

  Hundreds of mages were present, many she knew were from King Harold’s army and Malig’s also. Others had come from lands far from Arataine. Despite their numbers, Dealan knew the amount of demonic spirits assaulting the Font was far greater.

  Sight without sight was needed to function on this plane, sensing the physical was utterly different here, disorienting to most on their first visit and Dealan could sense it among many of the defenders. Disoriented or not, those that projected themselves here cast barring spells and signs, shields and repulsions as well. Those with greater skill and experience on the Plane of Flint did their best to take the fight to the enemy. Dealan moved to the center of the line.

  Dealan’s presence caused a palpable stir among those fighting desperately at the Font, a powerful presence that slowed and then stopped the advance of the Underealm forces.

  “We can hold,” Dealan declared. “Take heart, more come to our aid, so fight!”

  This was a battle of spirits and souls, no swords or cavalry charges, but a battle nonetheless. Quickly realizing a powerful foe opposed them, the demonic spirits launched an attack aimed directly at her, knowing she held a key point and her defeat would be demoralizing to the rest.

  Dealan sensed Muriel Durham, a potent mage, but one who only practiced healing. Despite this, Muriel fought in her own way, lending strength to those weakening, shielding those that faced annihilation. Recognizing Dealan’s presence where no one else could, she relayed words of encouragement as well.

  While not communing directly, Dealan could sense Muriel’s concern for Dech. He fights fiercely against the Lord of the Vile, Dealan relayed. We may see the end of the Cataclysm this night. Thankful to hear this, Muriel sought those she could aid.

  The Font’s makeup had long been a debatable subject. Was it simply a source of magical power or more? Was it an entity possessing sentience or consciousness? Dealan had never formed any strong opinions on the matter, but she gained great insights as she battled those sent to destroy the Font. The manner in which she once wielded power using derkunblod, she found she could do the same here, with no corporeal body to limit her. The Font seemed to sense Dealan’s ability and funneled power through her in a way she found baffling and humbling.

  During a lull while the two sides licked their wounds and readied for the next clash, Dealan felt a sense of loss. Sure it linked to the fight in the tower, she worried it was the loss of a comrade, but had no time to delve into it further.

  Dealan and a few others discovered something. The Flint Plane was a physical place, but not one mortals could visit bodily. For infernals, it was a place they could not access until now. Mirkness had somehow opened a way, one that was now closed with his death. Defeat the demonic spirits present now and the fight is won, was a message that passed through the mage defenders. They have no aid coming, but we do.

  . . .

  Mayhaps and Dissy exited through the same door the group had entered and stepped out into the bailey. They found it empty but for rubble from the tower and nearby curtain wall. The way east was now open and they took their wounded comrades to the base of the wall.

  The large stone blocks littered the steep grade that ran to the road they had traveled not so long ago. The weight of the stones caused them to partially embed themselves and made the move down the incline an easier one than it might have been without the blocks. Stopping halfway down on a relatively flat area, Mayhaps’ suggested the blocks might provide cover should they be attacked and the position allowed easy access to the trees below should they need to flee. With no objection from Dissy, the two sought to make the injured men as comfortable and protected as they could.

  . . .

  Since Rob was a child he’d heard of the chaos and confusion that made a battlefield a conundrum, but only in being part of it did he understand. It was like moving through fog within a dense forest where one could only see myopically and what was seen only revealed a tiny portion of the situation.

  Not fully confident he understood what he had seen on his last foray forward, he was concerned what he was about to do might be a mistake. Relating what he had seen to those at the baggage train, he offered his intent to ride into battle.

  “I know you are close with Sir Allan, so I mean no offense,” said one of those he’d been with escorting the healers. “The man has a gifted mouth and could likely convince a young man-at-arms to ride off a cliff. You also have that talent, but I be thinking Sir Baldwin was soothing the bitter fact that we’re not up to the fight. That battle before us is fought by knights and veteran campaigners.”

  “That may be true,” Rob said, “but Allan’s ability to sway with the tongue comes from his sincerity. Remember, those old campaigners are who trained us. What did they teach us? They taught us the skills needed to survive and possibly even excel on a battlefield.”

  “Fair enough. Such a fight as takes place before us is likely a poor one for our baptism.”

  Rob nodded and smiled. “Hazardous, yes, but I have hoped since we arrived here that we might meet our foe.”

  “As I have.”

  “Best you be careful of what you wish for,” a legionnaire dispatch rider listening in said. “If it is as you say, we must ride no matter the hazard. Bring this to the entire body here. Let us see where we stand.”

  Within minutes, nearly all of those left with the baggage train gathered around Rob. Relating what he saw and what he believed it meant, he paused in thought before continuing.

  Father and Allan drive their foes from the field, but I fear for King Harold, he thought. Is it wisdom or brashness that leads me to think I am right? This I do not know. Perhaps it is both. Shall I think or act? His decision was not long in coming. Rob pointed at those with him. “The king is in peril. Will you ride with me?”

  “And what of our task? The supplies must be protected,” someone yelled.

  “That they must,” Rob replied. “Some of you stay. The rest of us must ride with haste.”

  “And who placed you in charge?”

  “I lead not. I simply intend to aid my king. I value my sovereign over supplies just now. Stay or charge, you decide which you’ll do. As for me,” he paused as he wheeled his mount, “I charge.”

  Spurring his horse, he rode toward the fight at the trot. A quick turn in the saddle showed most of those at the train following and unbinding their lances. Rob smiled and did the same.

  Other mounted men and women joined the forming line without asking of the destination. With not a single knight among them, they rode. Many were like Rob, men-at-arms who would one day become knights via valor, service, or simply family connection. Others were mounted sergeants, non-noble but highly skilled and professional soldiers. The rest were a polyglot collection of King’s Legion members, squires, message runners, scouts, quartermaster personnel, and even a few clergy and their acolytes.

  He soon found himself the centerpiece in the ad hoc force. Still not sure of himself, he looked to a middle-aged armored sergeant riding near him, “The banner of the exile, should we ride there?”

  “You started this,” the man said, “you lead it.”

  “We go where you go,” said the King’s Legion dispatch rider he’d spoken to before. “Lead on.”

  Lead on he did. Heading for the area where he had last seen Harold and his guard force, he found much had changed in the short while since. The battle was larger and more confusing than before, but seeing a line of knights from
Malig’s side closing from the southwest, he rode to intercept.

  Riding directly at the newly arrived line of knights, they soon saw the banner of Malig Tancar disappear into the fight, a clenched fist, but of black instead of crimson.

  “That is where we go,” he yelled to himself.

  The fight was a wheeling mess of swinging steel and sounds of bitter combat: weapons striking shield, mail, helm, and flesh; grunts of effort and desperation; cries of agony and defeat; shouts of triumph. The smell of churned earth and blood permeated the smoky air.

  Some of Malig’s fighters saw the line closing and turned to meet it, but the mass of the attack was too much for them to blunt it. Rob’s lance struck true, skimming off a knight’s shield to pierce surcoat, mail, gambeson, and torso before shattering. Bashing another Malig stalwart from the saddle with the broken shaft and tossing it away before drawing his sword and somehow locating King Harold’s standard, he growled fiercely and drove through the swirling fight. As he neared, he found the king was not with his standard, but Lord Arundel was, alone and hard pressed by a trio of knights at that. Holding his own, Robert could see the man’s reputation as a skilled combatant was based on fact.

  An unarmored rider crossed into Rob’s view, one of those who followed him on this venture, more boy than man and clad in acolyte’s robes. Thrusting a spear at one of Arundel’s assailants, the rider drew the knight away, but only long enough to die from a thrust blade through his chest.

  Sorrow and rage welled within Rob and with an angry shout, he cleaved the victor’s arm off at the shoulder as the man crowed in triumph, shield and mail-clad arm falling left, the rest of the knight to the other side of the horse’s barrel.

  Realizing Arundel now had help, one of the remaining knights turned his bleeding mount to deal with the newcomer. Exchanging a series of blows and blocks, Rob found his opponent was equipped with a curved shield, a new style taking hold among armored cavalry. Rob recalled Dech’s assessment of it discussed at the inn at Fridley, advantages and disadvantages, but most importantly how to exploit the latter.

  Rob blocked a powerful overhead blow, knowing his opponent expected the same in return given the position each fighter held. Instead, he altered his strike to descend in a diagonal, his blade glancing off the curved surface of the shield and down into the mail-clad thigh above the knee. Nearly severed, the limb dangled gruesomely by bloody tendrils and ripped mail.

  Growling fiercely in pain and rage, the dying knight fought on, swinging wild and ineffectual blows at Robert before he fell from his horse, the wounded equine riding clear.

  Rob wheeled his mount and found Lord Arundel was down, but still fighting. His opponent was still mounted and bled from a wound on his left side. Leaning from his saddle to the right, he struck at Arundel who fended off the blows with a splintered and ragged shield as he tried to regain his feet.

  Rob closed, but pulled his horse up short as Arundel’s foe toppled dead to the ground. Arundel stood, leaving his scarred and stained sword in his opponent’s body to pull the remnants of his shield from his left arm with a grunt of pain. Rob could see the limb was broken.

  Acknowledging Rob with a quick nod, he recovered his sword and pointed to his right. “Ride, Sir Knight. Our king faces peril.”

  Through the darkness and smoke, he saw a quartet of figures locked in close combat—three men-at-arms fighting one. Seeing the circlets upon two of the horsemen’s helms, Rob knew the pair could only be Harold and Malig. He turned and spurred his tired mount into one last charge at two men on horseback and one man on foot—men who threatened his king.

  The three horsemen clashed and whirled, the lone man afoot running toward them with a glaive in hand, closing on Harold from behind. Rob’s mount made quick work of this threat, trampling him under pounding hooves.

  Using the momentum of a charging horse and a swinging arm, Rob’s attack caught Malig’s remaining comrade unaware, the blade biting low on the knight’s neck and sending head-in-helm tumbling free.

  Rob circled and found Malig closing. The two crossed left to left and Rob was driven back into his saddle’s cantle and then hard to his right, his feet slipping from the stirrups before he fell hard to the ground. Despite the shock of Malig’s skilful attack and the impact of the fall, the young man saw Malig wheel his horse as Harold closed, drawing his brother’s attention. Grappling, the two men struggled for a brief time and as one, fell from their saddles, one dragging the other down to land on top of the other.

  Rob came to his feet and found he was not injured. Of the kings, one stood and Rob knew it was Malig. Wide and powerfully built, it was easy to see it was the exile.

  “The throne belongs to me, little brother,” Malig said. “Your reign is over.”

  Without conscious thought, Rob strode toward the pair. “We’re not done just yet,” he said with enough boldness he surprised himself.

  Malig stepped back, raising shield and sword. Laughing, he said, “You will be the last man to fall while in Harold’s service.”

  The exiled king’s tone was tinged with madness and joy, something that chilled Rob and he knew if he let it take hold, Malig’s proclamation would become fact.

  “You are barely into manhood,” Malig said, his voice rising in pitch. “Brave, but oh so dense. Young fools tend to die in youth.” He laughed loudly.

  Malig’s abilities as a warrior were well known and Rob knew he stood little chance of defeating the man in single combat. Shifting his gaze briefly, he looked past Malig and knew what he needed to do.

  Words from days past silenced the fear that echoed in his head and threatened to overwhelm him. Three of the finest knights to have served Arataine trained me, he thought. A wealth of knowledge and experience given freely.

  The scene of Robert as a young boy flashed through his mind. Boy sized sword in hand, Gerald encouraging and chiding his son as he learned the skill of the blade. “The blade is an extension of your arm now, a tool in your hand. It needs to become a part of you as the hammer is to a blacksmith. The blade must become as familiar as your hands,” his father drilled into him. “Trust me, my son, it will.”

  “Mobility is life,” Allan said as the boy Robert donned the weight of his first hauberk. “You will learn to run, jump, roll, duck, and live in mail. It will become nearly weightless, like a second skin to you. Follow me, lad. You’ll see,” he said with a smile.

  “You have the skills,” Dech had said. “No knight on the field will find you to be an easy opponent. Do not doubt that. Use your mind and think before you act. Manage that and you’ll do well for yourself.”

  Perceiving Rob’s hesitation as trepidation, Malig pressed a hard and taunting attack. Yelling madly, he hacked and slashed as Rob used footwork and shield to fend off each strike and managed a few counterattacks of his own. Landing a sharp blow on Malig’s hip with the edge of his shield, the exile cursed and disengaged.

  The two circled, crouched and wary.

  Malig suddenly came on again, feinting high before seeking an opening below Rob’s shield, but once again, the young man fended off the attack and thrust at the exiled king’s helm before they separated once again.

  “You cannot defeat me, young knight,” Malig said.

  “I need not defeat you. I need only delay you,” Rob replied with a calmness that once again surprised him.

  Malig looked past the young man and saw horsemen closing—Harold’s household force that had driven the Underealm demons from the field—something Rob counted on occurring. The glance was an opportunity and Rob struck, a forward bound and high horizontal blow at the exile’s neck.

  Malig’s battle sense remained keen and he reacted with a swiftness that Rob found incredible. Even so, the blow still cleared Malig’s shield and landed. A ringing sound came when sword struck helm, the circlet loosening and pirouetting in the air as it fell to the battleground.

  Malig laughed. “An omen! No gods of war Mirkness said. Hah! This day is not for me, but the ci
rclet tells me this ground shall be mine again,” he shouted triumphantly. “I thank you, young knight, for you have shown me the path forward.”

  He launched a vicious and insane attack on Rob, the young man forced back by the maddened exile. Rob turned and whirled as he tried to stop the attack’s momentum, but the madman raged and laughed and kept coming. Needing both sword and shield to fend off the attack, he soon found even these were not enough. Malig’s sword slipped past Rob’s shield and knocked him to the ground, a wound to the chest near the right shoulder making the young man grimace.

  Rob rolled and brought his shield up, but no blow came and he soon saw his opponent running for a nearby horse. Bounding into the saddle and bellowing a call into the smoke, he was soon answered by some of his men. Malig rode west toward Nevar, horsemen forming around him as they went. Rob was surprised so many still lived seeing the litter of bodies that decorated the field. The sound of Harold’s knights approaching prompted him to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Rob sat up and struggled to stand, but made it to his feet with a grimace at the pain near his shoulder. He looked west and watched much of Malig’s force following the exile toward Nevar before they faded from sight in the clouded atmosphere of battle. Several mercenary units appeared to be regrouping, but it was obvious even to Rob’s inexperienced eye that they were not looking to restart the battle as their employer quit the field.

  A mailed hand grasped his left shoulder. A glance revealed it was King Harold.

  “What’s your name young knight?”

  “Robert Moore, Sire, but I’m no knight.”

  “Not a knight? One cannot save a king’s arse without at least being a knight. Kneel, Robert Moore.”

  Rob turned toward the king and knelt gingerly on one knee. He saw many of the king’s forces closing on their spot of ground.

  “Moore is it? Greve Gerald Moore’s eldest?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “He was at Creator’s Rock when I was knighted.” He looked at those gathering near and saw Gerald and Allan amongst the line of battle-stained warriors still hoisting the banner of his household knights. “Can you see who I have here?” he called.