Warhorn
Page 12
A pair of his scouts had spied the column just before noon and had nearly killed their horses to get back to Berenger’s makeshift camp with the word. Three wagons, heavily loaded, were threading their way down to the coast, pulled by teams of oxen. Forty riders flanked and guarded the wagons and their loads as well as a handful of women and children. The presence of so many guards told Berenger all he needed; the wagons carried ore from mines located in the lands of the Turboli. Allied as they were with the Barcas, their valuable cargo made a fine prize. If fortune was with him today, there would be silver or even gold as well as the iron. To Berenger, it mattered nothing if the wagons were carrying Turboli shit, his orders were to carry war far and wide. Any friend of the Barcas was a target. He had told the shifty Olcades scouts to swap out their mounts for fresher horses and go back and shadow the wagons.
He led over two hundred horsemen, the core of whom were Edetani warriors, men Berenger had made war with since he could wield a sword. Olcades, Carpetani and some others from the far west made up the numbers. He was not particular. All they needed to do was follow orders and killed Bastetani, Turdetani and Carthaginians. If they did that, they could come from the slums of Rome for all he cared. His scouts kept him informed of the column’s progress through the afternoon while taking care to remain out of sight.
His men were now ranged through a copse of trees and bush in an elbow of the road. He wanted this one last trophy before he turned back to Sagunt. His men were happy to fight and raid for as long as it took, but they were starting to attract the Barcas’ attention and soon the countryside would be teeming with enemy warriors sniffing after their trail.
A horse snorted and stamped amongst the thick foliage and Berenger immediately snarled for silence. He expected total obedience from his men and that meant their mounts as well. Few disobeyed him more than once and if they did, they learned a hard lesson. He was a broad-shouldered man with a narrow waist and powerful thighs. His black hair gleamed with grease where it hung from under his helm. Thick black eyebrows above dark eyes underlined his broad forehead. If a man dared to look into Berenger’s eyes for longer than a heartbeat, he would notice the blue darken as Berenger’s anger deepened. Most glanced away before they registered the change. His nose was prominent and hooked over thin lips encircled by a coarse moustache and thick beard, now flecked with grey. He wore his beard in two plaits weighted with silver ringlets.
A ribbon of yellow linen fluttered briefly on the hill across from his position and a thin smile formed on Berenger’s lips. The van of the escort was now in the elbow of the road. Soon enough the wagons themselves would roll into view, accompanied by the deep groan of the heavy wheels and squeal of ungreased axels. Berenger could now hear the horses of the front riders on the road below. He had close to eighty horsemen hidden above the crook of the road. Two riders had swept the track of telltale signs of their presence and then secreted themselves in the foliage on the hillside opposite to signal once the column appeared.
Berenger was meticulous and had ordered that none of the men with him were to even crane their necks to look for the column. Movement would be the first thing any horseman would see, even the less alert ones. Once the column was in the killing field proper, the lookouts on the hill opposite would signal with a scrap of red linen fragment. He remembered the screams and curses of the Turboli woman who had been wearing it two days earlier.
Berenger tightened his grip on his mount’s reins. As he moved, the horned-bull motif, painted blood red, seemed to stir and come alive on the black shield fastened to his left arm. With his right hand, he gripped the pommel of his broad sword. He had demanded it be forged two fingers broader than most and a hand longer. It was all the heavier for the extra width and length, but to Berenger it weighed little once it was singing in circles and scything his foes down. When his enemies saw the blade, their eyes grew wide, and they grew wider still once their flesh embraced the iron.
Berenger cocked his head, catching the first muted rumble of the approaching column. Soon, the constant squeal of the axels and the low of oxen drowned out even the sound of his own breathing. He suspected his entire force could explode howling from their positions and the bastards riding beside the wagons would not hear a thing.
A flutter of red appeared on the hill opposite as the lookout signalled. Berenger drew his sword and lifted it above his helmed head. His men had seen the lookout as well and their anticipation was a living thing boring into his back.
He thrust the point of the sword high into the air. “Now!”
His horse exploded from the foliage the moment he dug his heels into its sweat-stained flanks. Eyes bulging, the mount carried Berenger in a wild charge down the rocky slope. Trees and shrubbery rippled and twisted as a frenzy of horsemen took up the charge behind him. They broke from cover, a wave of iron and horse, and in mere heartbeats struck the first of the horsemen escorting the wagons.
Berenger was at the forefront of the wave, screaming his war cry, he drove into a hapless warrior, knocking the man and his mount sprawling into the dust. The escort was thinly scattered and Berenger led his men up the line of wagons slashing drovers and followers as he passed. There would be time enough to deal with them properly, but right now he wanted to engage the main force of warriors escorting the column.
Scattered riders reacted in alarm at the sudden onslaught and fled from the wagons knowing they were too few to withstand the charge. These reached the lead horsemen who had halted and were milling in confusion, trying to get themselves into some sort of order. Berenger galloping hard at their still forming lines, watched their leading man who it seemed, stared straight back at him. The man was inordinately calm considering the surprise attack and the overwhelming numbers of enemy riders. Berenger respected courage and professionalism and this warrior displayed both.
As the distance between them rapidly narrowed, the leading man calmly lifted his falcata and thrust it forward, signalling the charge. Berenger’s upper lip lifted, and he leaned low over his steed’s shoulder, his huge sword pointing at the leading man like a spear. Many of the escorting warriors carried javelins and as the distance between the two forces closed, they launched these missiles. He snarled as one whipped past his face and screams erupted from men and horses behind him. The enemy knew this was a fight to the death and were targeting the horses to try to even the odds. He would have done the same. Sometimes the only rule in battle was ruthlessness wins all.
The world narrowed until the enemy leading man was the only thing before him. He braced himself and then their horses were upon one another. The Turboli leading man slashed at Berenger’s sword arm, but he easily avoided the blow and in the next breath drove his sword through the man’s thigh. He felt his sword eat through the muscle and briefly touch bone. Then Berenger was past, knowing he had scored a victory. In such a charge, many would have tried to kill their enemy outright, but that was for fools and the heroes spoken of in tales. His first cut had just deprived the Turboli of his ability to ride and in moments the man’s blood would drain away his fighting strength.
Berenger blocked a spear thrust from a passing warrior, parried a swinging sword and then pulled his steed into a spin. The animal knew its role and rose on its hind legs, forelegs lashing out at anything that moved, man or horse. Like a thunder cloud, the horse and rider unleashed their own storm. He swung and stabbed, swung and stabbed, every move precise and effective. The size of the sword gave him every advantage. He could block even occasional blows by a war axe, he could outreach other swordsmen and he could cleave the heads off offending spears. In moments, he had killed three horsemen while his horse had maimed the mounts of two other riders, smashing their forelegs or kicking flesh from their heads. Around Berenger, his men overran the horsemen of the escort in a cloud of grey dust and red spray. A wild melee played to the tune of battle. Swords rung high on iron, men screamed and cursed, and the beat of hooves drummed the pace. In the midst of it, Berenger danced and killed.
Berenger shouted for his leading man. “Josa!”
From nearby in the eerie grey murk, a gravelly voice answered. “I hear you!”
“Take thirty men south. Kill anybody that tried to escape that way.”
“They are dead already, count on it.” The man answered from the murk. With a hoarse command, Josa gathered men from the dust and rode south, hooves thundering and men hooting.
Berenger ordered the rest to take the wagons.
“Captives?” A warrior called, blood lust choking his voice.
Captives could be sold and make a man’s coin sack heavy enough to swing as a weapon. Berenger estimated there were a score of women and children amongst the wagons. He dared not be burdened with captives. They were a long four days ride from any lands safe from the Barcas and their allies.
“Spare none!” He answered.
“As you say.” The man’s voice was thick with lust yet there were those who preferred silver to what would happen now and these men cursed.
Berenger hawked and spat a wad of dust-thickened phlegm into the muck at his steed’s hooves. He threaded his way between the carcasses of horses and over dead men, friend and foe alike. Under their mantles of grey dirt and blood they were all the same to him. The first screams began ahead through the fog. Fools. Had they thought their men would drive him off? They should have run as fast as their legs could carry them into the hills. His men would have found most of them, but one or two might have escaped the horror that would now be their end.
He emerged from the dust cloud at the head of the column of three wagons. There he had to pull up sharply to avoid a group of his warriors. They were clustered around one or more of the women who appeared to still be kicking and clawing, all while begging for mercy. Berenger rode around the rapine, wanting to inspect the cargo on the wagons. He pulled up again. The same scene he had just passed was being played out all around the column. He stared in disbelief. Did none of them run? He shook his head in disgust at the stupidity of people.
Three of his men sat apart from the butchery. Berenger rode over to them and they sat straighter on their mounts. He noted that they were bloodstained with gore drying on the rims of their sword sheaths.
They greeted him in unison by dipping their chins to their chests. He did not know their names, only that they came from the west. Lusitanians.
“You do not care for the spoils?” He asked, thumbing in the direction of the screams and wails.
The men did not so much as glance in that direction. “Not that kind.” The oldest spoke, a grimace passing over his face.
As gaunt a warrior as Berenger had ever seen, the man looked him in the eyes for longer than most would before turning his stare to the north. Berenger followed the warrior’s gaze. The column had come from that direction. He glanced back at the wagons where his men were tearing apart bodies and looting the wagons. If even a small troop of horsemen came upon them now, they would be slaughtered. The message from the Lusitanian was clear.
Berenger narrowed his eyes and looked back at the warrior. “Your name?”
“I am named Rudax, of Tarapa.”
“Take your riders north then, Rudax. Ensure that we are not surprised by anyone from that direction.”
“Very well.” The man hauled his mount’s head around and led his two companions north.
Berenger shook his head, the screams were dying down now, replaced by the coarse banter of sated warriors. Still, it was beginning to rankle him. Josa had not yet returned, so Berenger rode over to the wagons to bring order to the chaos. Most of the women and children were dead. Their pale, bloodied bodies sprawled in obscene postures. A small commotion was occurring on the other side of the rear wagon. Putting it aside, Berenger ordered the nearest men to remove the dead from the wagons. A handful of the oxen had been killed and their carcasses would need to be dragged clear of the traces as well. If necessary, he would leave a wagon behind, on fire of course. The men could burn their dead on it if they wished or they could let them rot beside the victims. It was all the same to Berenger.
He barked out his orders and those men nearest jumped to see them done. He watched a man cut the body of a woman free from one of the great wheels to which she had been strapped, spread-eagled. She had not died easily and as her head flopped her staring eyes seemed to fix on Berenger’s. He spat and grunted.
The commotion he had heard earlier, caught his attention again. Directing his mount around the wagons, he heard a snarl and an exclamation, followed by a roar of laughter. He rounded the wagon and saw a group of seven of his men circled around a young woman. She had her back to a wagon wheel and held a wicked looking dagger before her. Behind her skirts, an infant of just a few years in age, hid in terror. The men were baiting the woman. She must have been well hidden to escape the calamity that had befallen her fellows. Until now.
“We have a distance to travel so finish your sport. Now!” Berenger commanded.
The men looked at him in disappointment. “You mean kill her?”
“No marry her. Make her queen of Sagunt.” Berenger snarled, “Yes of course kill her, we have wagons to move!”
“A favour?” One of the men pushed forward, holding a blood-drenched rag to his right hand. “May I keep her? I would give up my share of today’s reward for her.”
The other men laughed hard when they heard the request. The woman understood as well. Berenger saw her face fall. Well surrounded by seven men, had she expected to fight her way free with a skirt lice attached? He looked at her again and realised why the man wanted her. He had rarely seen a woman as attractive as the girl, despite the dust and tears. Her hair was an extraordinary yellow, not a colour often seen in these hills.
“No. We are warriors not slavers. If you wanted her so bad you should have sliced her already.” He looked at the man’s bloodied hand. “Seems she got the better of you. Take a lesson there, even a dormouse fights when cornered.”
The men laughed and most began to move away to prepare the wagons and treat injuries. Still, the bleeding man stood his ground. He was young, just the first flush of hair covering his upper lip.
Berenger prodded his horse back towards the girl. She glared at him and shuffled back, keeping the infant behind her skirts with one hand. Her other hand shook from fear and fatigue. Berenger loosened his sword with his right hand.
“She is a fine-looking filly. Did you find out her name?”
Hope flared on the young man’s face. “Not yet, but I can and anything else she knows.”
Berenger rolled his eyes, unseen by the young warrior. A few of those who had lingered to watch, saw both the sword being loosened and Berenger’s expression. Their faces grew sombre. One of them stepped forward quickly. “He is my nephew, a boy yet.”
The young warrior looked in confusion at Berenger and then his warrior uncle. His jaw dropped as realisation struck. Berenger drew his sword swiftly and drove the wide blade through the girl’s pale throat. With a powerful flick of his wrist, he sent her head tumbling to the road. Her body crumpled to the ground, taking the infant down with her.
“You owe your uncle your life, boy. Now get to work.”
With hurried thanks, the men scattered to prepare the wagons. Berenger was pleased at the haul of goods. Ingots of iron ore were loaded on all three along with a chest containing gold and silver bars. There were also bales of raw flax, linen and other produce that he was not concerned with. The ore was the primary treasure here and he would be rewarded well for it in the city of Sagunt.
The warriors had redistributed the surviving oxen so that they did not need to sacrifice a wagon. With fewer oxen though, it would be slow going over the steeper hills. Whips cracked above their shoulders and the beasts lowed and strained forward. The big wh
eels shuddered and turned as the oxen bent into their yokes and hauled.
Josa returned just as the wagons began to roll forward. “We caught up with three of their men. They were the only ones who tried to flee.”
“Good. I sent the Lusitanians north to watch for more horsemen from that way.”
Josa grunted. “Maybe, but the scout said there were just two score riders with the wagons. They are all dead.”
Berenger remembered the scout’s estimates. Still, with Barca’s allies everywhere, it was best to be cautious. “See that we have outriders flanking the column as well as ahead and behind. It is a long haul from here to Sagunt and if it comes to it, I would prefer to burn the wagons and lose the ore than die for it.”
Josa nodded. He had fought with Berenger long enough to respect and admire his pragmatism. In his seven years with him, Josa had become wealthier than many warriors his age. He was wise enough to accord the wealth to Berenger’s uncanny knack of taking the richest of prizes with the least risk. “What of the other bands we sent out? Should we summon them?”
“Yes, they must have pillaged every Bastetani and Turboli village throughout these hills by now. Have them burn their way back to us. That will improve our numbers guarding these wagons.”
CHAPTER 9
MORNING CAME SWIFTLY as it always did here on the coast of the Inland Sea. Stars dimmed and faded along with the deepest dark of night. Light flooded into the world from the east and cockerels began to sound the arrival of dawn. Competing with them were the raucous cries of gulls as they rose into the sky to begin their wheeling and feeding. A breeze blew gently in fits and starts from the highlands of the interior, carrying with it the smell of sun-dried earth. Bringing also the warmth of yesterday’s sun and a promise of the heat of a new day.
Caros stirred when a cockerel had the effrontery to crow from the roof of the adjoining building. He grimaced at the sour taste of old ale on his fur-coated tongue.