The balding captain seemed hesitant before he said, "I'm afraid I won't have enough men to hold the city in this case."
"The enemy is miles away, Captain. I am sure you can handle the elders and the women and their babes with a handful of men."
"Sure thing, Your Grace."
Masolon gave him a dismissive gesture to see to his orders. Walking through the camp, Masolon watched the scouts hurry outside the city, Edmond giving commands to his captains, Tarling summoning his soldiers. Knights started to gather, their horses neighing as if they were complaining of the lack of rest. Skandivians and Bermanian infantry were lined up by their commanders behind the cavalry. Not quite the formation for this battle, Masolon thought. With four cannons bombarding their camp, the southerners would fall back. Half, or maybe less, of his knights should be waiting for the wavering southern soldiers behind their camp to send them to their doom. The other half of his cavalry would be positioned near the cannons, just in case Daval's horsemen managed to rally.
From a distance, Ben gazed at him, his quiver and bow strapped to his back. The light smile that had always decorated the Herlogan lad's face was gone and now was replaced by a grim look. Without saying a word, Masolon beckoned the lad over.
"How is your first night in a real battle?" Masolon asked Ben as he stood opposite to him.
Ben jerked his head backward. "It is not my first, and you know that."
"That is what I wanted to hear." Masolon nodded his approval. "Why do you look restless?"
"Do I?"
"That is what I am just saying." Masolon let slip a light chuckle. "I am asking why."
Ben rolled his eyes, unable to phrase an answer or probably a bit too embarrassed to offer one.
"Afraid of death?" Masolon gave him a studying look.
"You know I am not a coward." Ben straightened his back.
Masolon folded his arms, glancing at the troops flocking into the place. "Fear of death is not cowardice. It is a natural instinct."
"You. . . say that?" Ben looked at him doubtfully. "Are you testing me or something?"
"Testing you?" Masolon scoffed. "Sadly, I am not in the mood to test anybody these days."
"And why are you not? I thought you never feared death," Ben teased him.
"I fear for those I love."
"Does love make us weak?"
"Vulnerable, I would rather say."
"And what about your love to your brothers? Does it make you vulnerable, too?"
The lad was hinting at the faltering brotherhood between him and Antram. Most probably, no one else had been able to listen to the conversation between the two of them, but it was easy for Ben to tell they had quarreled; Masolon's voice had been too loud when he had howled.
"The only brother who deserves your love is this." Masolon pulled his greatsword, raising its huge blade above the lad's head. "Steel remains steel, Ben. It will never betray you one day."
34. ANTRAM
His meeting with Masolon had gone worse than he had expected.
To Antram, Masolon the warrior had died the moment he had become a lord. After talking and listening to King Masolon, Antram even doubted that the commander of the Warriors' Gang had ever existed as a real person. Maybe the whole notion was nothing but a sweet dream.
Did he lie about Foubert's reinforcements? Antram wondered. Because if it was true, why would his enemy reveal his plan to him? Or was that part of his plan from the beginning, knowing that Antram would never believe him until the arrival of Foubert with his cavalry from their rear to tear them apart?
Antram dismounted and let his squire take his horse as he arrived at the camp. The way to Daval's pavilion was thronged by hundreds of wounded soldiers. He knew there had been others in much more grievous conditions, but most of them had not been able to flee with their retreating army. Hopefully, they were dead by now in order not to suffer like these groaning men.
Daval's marshal was coming out when Antram reached the pavilion. "How is Elesandre?" Antram asked the marshal. It was told that a cannonball barely missed Daval's youngest son, but the flaming wooden pieces of the shattered trebuchet did not.
"The healer said he would live," the marshal said impassively. "But his face would never be the same again."
Antram winced as he tried to imagine Elesandre's blistered face. Blast! Masolon's devilish weapons must have carved marks in the wavering hearts of Daval's men much deeper than it had done to their burnt skins. Those who had survived the battle without a scratch still needed time to be able to stand on their feet and hold the grip of a hilt. He bet those thunderbolts would haunt them in their nightmares tonight.
"His Grace was looking for you," continued the marshal, his thumb pointed backward. Antram nodded and went past him into the pavilion, where Daval stood with arms folded, watching the healer attend to his son.
"Where were you?" Daval was grim when he asked.
"Trying to spare the lives of thousands of men."
"Did you go to your old friend begging him for mercy?" Daval curled his lip in disdain.
"Why would I? Maybe he won a battle tonight, yet he is still far from winning this war."
"If so, what was your point of going there?"
It was not the right time for such a discussion with Daval, Antram believed. "Because we are far from winning this war as well, Your Grace. I strongly recommend we return to our regions, and defend what we've won so far. Without siege weapons, our army will be vanquished before we go past the walls of Ramos."
"Masolon will think we are defeated if we do so."
"It doesn't matter what he thinks. Keeping your kingdom is what you must think of, more than anything else."
Daval was silent for a few moments, as if he was weighing Antram's words. "Keeping my kingdom for peace? No." The southerner shook his head, his glowing eyes betraying his fury. "The bastard who hurt my son shall be given no peace. Not before I watch him burn alive."
Burning people alive was the last thing Antram wanted to remember. And if there was one person he wished that fate for, it would not be his old brother. But what about his wife?
"Burning the entire kingdom will not change what happened to your son, Your Grace." Antram had a glimpse of hope Daval would come to his senses. "We shouldn't let our rage drive us in such a dark hour."
Daval grabbed Antram by the arm, pulling him toward Elesandre. "Look at him, Antram."
Except for his right limbs, the silent young prince was wrapped in white bandages. It was not only his face that would never be the same as the marshal had mentioned. The heir was undone, for good.
"Do you have any idea how he would look like, Antram?" Daval continued, pushing the nape of Antram's neck, forcing him to contemplate nothing but the ruined young lord. "With the big scar that will cover his face, my son will become uglier than a demon. His wife and children will not be able to look at him. Can you imagine that feeling, Antram? Your family loathing the horrendous sight of yours? Your men rolling their eyes away when talking to you, whispering the name of Antram the Ugly or Antram the Ruined behind your back."
"I am sure he will be a great king one day, Your Grace." Antram tried to imagine Elesandre's scorched skin beneath these bandages. If his skin was still there. . .
"The healer is still not sure about the leg that took the worst of the blaze." Daval laid his hand on the covered left leg. "The flesh is charred, and the bone is barely spared."
"Your Grace." Antram let himself go of Daval's grip and held his arm in return, trying to take him outside the pavilion. "I recommend we should let the healer see to his work without us distracting him."
Daval pushed Antram's arm away. "Masolon must pay for what he has done to my son, Antram. We will build new siege towers and ladders and rams to storm Ramos from all directions. His garrison will not be able to defend the city at all fronts."
Siege towers and ladders and rams; that meant enough time until the arrival of Foubert's forces. We are doomed if Masolon is telling me the
truth.
35. BEN
Yes, it was his first real battle, Ben had to admit. His previous encounters had always been with worthless brigands armed with rusty blades. Even in the great battle of Herlog, he had been either behind the palisade wall of his village or behind the enemy lines scorching the ground beneath their feet. But he had never been involved in a battle in the open. Today he was sent among archers, so probably, he would be far by some distance from the clash of steel against flesh, yet butterflies fluttered in his stomach. I am not a coward, Ben encouraged himself. Fear of death is a natural instinct. Masolon's words should make him feel better, but it was easy for the fearless Demon to say so. Most probably, Masolon had done that only to lift his spirits.
"Why didn't Tarling send Edd with us?" Ted asked him in a low voice. The entire army was marching with the least possible noise. Silence and darkness would be their cover to stun their enemy.
"Tarling barely has a bunch of men to defend the city." And most of those men were wounded, Ben wanted to add, hoping Masolon knew what he was doing. The city would be easy prey if a single battalion attacked it. But according to the scouts, Daval's army was a few miles away.
"I don't feel good about this attack, Ben. We should have stayed at our advantaged position behind our walls," said Ted.
"Sallying forth could be a reckless move, yet it might end the war tonight. Soon we will return home with our silver."
"You should try your luck one more time with that Ramosi girl. And who knows? You may return home with hands fuller than ours."
"Colb my father-in-law? Please," Ben groused. "May Edd have a better luck than mine."
"The fool deserves him." Ted snickered.
"Quiet, you whores!" snapped the archers' captain. "You are not in a damned brothel!"
The insults did not aggravate Ben this time. After spending a full day with the likes of Colb, he became accustomed to this harsh tone. And truly, Ben could not blame the captain for scolding them. Among all archers at the rearguard, Ted's voice and his were the loudest.
Ben did not believe it was wise to split their cavalry in such an attack. Despite Daval's defeat in the first fight, he could still field much more horsemen than Masolon could do. Anyway, whatever Ben thought, his opinion would never matter. He was nothing but a soldier, and a soldier must comply with his commander's orders without questioning them. That was what Tarling had taught him.
The horde halted. The archers' captain ordered his squad to advance through the lines before he stopped them behind the cannons by some distance. "We are getting closer to the clash of swords," Ted muttered, surely not excited at all by his position in the new formation. With the columns of knights spreading at the vanguard into fewer rows, Ben could spot the faint lights coming from the southerners' camp. As the captain lined his archers up, six men followed him with barrels, pouring tar in front of the entire squad. After the line of tar was drawn, the cannoneers—as Ben had heard his captain refer to them once—started readying their monstrous weapons.
The knights at the front made way for the cannons to advance. Recalling how horrendous these thundermakers roared from a distance, Ben wondered if his ears would stay sound after the end of this battle. If he was still breathing to worry about them.
"Ready. Fire." Two words opened the gates of hell upon Daval's camp. Was there a worse way to wake someone up? What about those who were struck dead by cannonballs? Were they luckier to die in their sleep? Or did they wake up for a moment to feel the agony before their death? Ben filled his lungs with air as he brushed the last thought aside. He should be grateful he was standing at the right end of the battle. Among their opponents on the other side, there must be unfortunate peasants, whose only sin was being born in some southern village. Maybe he felt pity for them, but after all, there was nothing he could do for them. It was someone else's problem and not his. He was a soldier who had to comply with orders without questioning them.
The raised muzzles of the cannons enabled them to bombard Daval's camp from a long range. It was hard to have a clear view of what was going on there, yet he could hear the far cries of anguish and terror. Horses must have been struck as well, their neighs echoing in the plains of Ramos.
So far the southerners' answer was later than Ben had expected, and it seemed it might not come at all. Half an hour of being battered by cannonballs, and still they were dashing everywhere toward nowhere. Struck by thunderbolts for the second time in just a few hours, they must have lost what had remained of morale in their hearts.
"Archers! Nock your tarred arrows!" the archers' captain howled as a band of Daval's cavalry was rallying at the right flank of their camp. They were still out of the archers' range by some decent distance, but not out of the reach of the cannons missiles. The cannoneers turned their weapons toward the gathering horsemen, striking them before they started marching. The southern knights lost their formation in their desperate attempts to evade the deadly cannonballs. Some of them died trying, yet most of them kept pushing forward.
"Cavalry!" Ben recognized General Edmond's holler. His knights gathered in front of the cannons, which were halted at once in order not to hit their own troops. "Charge!" the general barked, his knights galloping in a compact formation toward their loose opponents. As the collision of the two counter forces occurred, the enemy knights became in the archers' range.
"No one shoots!" the archers' captain warned, and he was right. Their knights were already laying waste to Daval's disarrayed horsemen. Saving their precious arrows for upcoming encounters would be better.
Most of Daval's foot soldiers were fleeing from the demonic missiles, leaving a much smaller battalion of swordsmen and spearmen. And a smaller battalion was much easier for the cannoneers to vanquish. As Edmond's knights were busy crushing their opponents, the way was clear for the cannons to send Daval's infantry to their doom.
The archers' captain called his tar men to ignite the line of nocked arrows with their torches. "Aim!" the archers' captain demanded at last. "Loose." Ben and the rest of his squad let their fire arrows soar in the sky before it fell upon Daval's approaching foot soldiers. Those who had survived the barrage of fire arrows and cannonballs started to sprint as they were getting closer. "Infantry!" Ben knew it was time to step back and make way for their foot soldiers to advance and engage the southern intruders. "Charge!" Roaring, the Skandivian warriors led the infantry counterattack.
"Hold your fire!" came the order from the archers' captain to save their infantry from their own arrows. Ben and Ted exchanged looks, both of them realizing the battle was almost over. After most of Daval's army had retreated, the remaining shattered troops were not enough to cause any trouble to Masolon's forces. It was another crushing victory before dawn.
"It is over at last." Ted sighed.
"Almost." Ben scanned the battlefield with his eyes. The fight was in their favor, yet it was still ongoing.
"It's only one night, yet I feel I've been away from Herlog for weeks," said Ted.
"We will be back soon, brother." Ben's eyes were fixed on the infantry encounter. "Personally, I miss your sister's sour pies and—"
"Archers! Behind you! Fire at will!"
Before Ben realized what was happening, he could hear thundering horse hooves coming from their left side. A squad of southern knights had outflanked them. Recalling all he had learned from Masolon about fast archery, Ben nocked an arrow without dipping it in tar, pulled the bowstring, aimed at the leader of this charge, and loosed, but he hit nobody. Shooting at a galloping horse was much harder than aiming at a foot soldier.
"Run!" archers bellowed as the enemy horsemen became too close to be shot. Even running was too late. No doubt the knight at the lead would chop Ben's head with his longsword. Blast! It's him! Ben recognized Antram's howl as Masolon's former friend swung his long blade. All Ben needed was one second to yell at him to stop, praying his slayer might remember him. Unfortunately, his slayer needed less than this very second to end a life
.
36. MASOLON
"The sheep have come at last," Masolon muttered, watching the retreating southerners, who had no idea they were hurrying to their doom. Those fools had fled from the hell of his cannons to the merciless blades of his knights.
"What about their shepherd?" Mounting next to Masolon's warhorse, Jonson asked.
"The shepherd, the sheep; kill all who do not surrender." Masolon meant every word of it. He knew that order implied killing an old friend. He chose his path of his own will.
Most of the men falling back were foot soldiers. Was it possible that Daval was among them? Probably, he would run away on horseback escorted by his mounted guards. If he was still fighting on the battlefield, he would be dead soon, or he had died already.
"Chaaarge!" Masolon kicked the flanks of his warhorse when he hollered, Jonson and the rest of the knights galloping behind him. Not knowing where to go, the wavering southern soldiers scampered in all directions. Some southerners dared to fight back, but their fate was not different from those who tried to flee; all were slain.
Masolon's destrier did not stop while the greatsword was chopping heads and slashing chests. Looking right and left, he did not find the King of Augarin or his monk. The only mounted soldiers he spotted were some scattered horsemen galloping past the fleeing foot soldiers. Chasing them would be a waste of time, he thought. Where are the rest of his knights? The possible answers alarmed him. "Follow me!" Masolon hollered, waving to his men. If the majority of the southern cavalry were still on the battlefield, then he should hurry with his horsemen to stun them from their rears before the odds of the battle might turn against him.
Spurring his horse to a gallop, Masolon ignored chasing a few fleeing swordsmen in his way. The cannons have stopped bombarding for a while. The doubts became worries. Losing his monstrous weapons would be a heavy blow.
"To the east!" Jonson yelled, pointing at a horde of knights at the end of their line of sight. What could be the odds they were not escorting their king? Cutting the serpent's head meant the end of the Augarinian reckless adventure. But before even pulling the reins of his destrier to the right, Masolon spotted the southern horsemen slaughtering the rearguard of his army. As Edmond and Gramus were busy fighting another battalion of Daval's knights, Masolon and his band of horsemen were the only hope to save his archers and cannons. No! Not the cannons!
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