They belted around a gentle curve in the western wall and came upon the scene of battle.
“Halt!”
The bugle blasted and the group came to a stop, horses nickering to one another. The powerful animals threw their heads, snorted blasts of air, or pawed at the cobbled street, eager to join the battle.
Tork sat silent, calmly watching Captain Beel as the younger officer took the scene in, working out where the enemy were, in what numbers they had deployed, and how best to combat them. Tork looked beyond Beel and took the scene in for himself, his heart skipping a beat, although he was careful to keep the surprise from his face.
Spiders, some of them larger than Might, cluttered the lower wall, scrambling to close with the beleaguered force of King’s Own fighting for survival. The sub-unit were surrounded by dead arachnids, but one soldier, as well as his horse, lay lifeless nearby. Anger warmed Tork’s chest.
“Make your decision fast, Captain Beel,” Tork said through clenched teeth.
Beel nodded his understanding. “Bugler.”
“Sir?”
“Swine array, full charge. Forewarn those already in combat.”
“My pleasure.”
The notes peeled out, cutting through the night. Tork remained in place, watching in silence as the soldiers of the King’s Own swept around him, accelerating to the gallop, then at full flight, forming up in one of the hardest hitting formations used in close quarters. He’d have wished them luck, but luck was for fools. Battles were won by sharp swords, good training, outstanding leadership and, above all, courage. Tork stood up in his stirrups to gain a better view and watched as the original sub-unit, aware of what was taking place, withdraw in quick order away from the wall and towards a side street, drawing the spiders in after them in a large, thick group. Then the main force impacted the flank of the arachnids, smashing clean through their ranks.
If the spiders weren’t slaughtered by sword or spear, they were trampled into the street by the destriers. No sooner had the charge passed through, Beel had brought them to the halt, turned them about so that those at the rear became the front rank, and they charged back towards Tork in what looked like the arrowhead formation, slamming into the remaining arachnids, leaving them smashed and dying upon the cobbles.
Tork glanced at the top of the wall, towering high above them. It was difficult to tell, as there was no light that high, but he thought he saw the dark shadows of the spiders turn and depart, disappearing from view. He smiled.
You aren’t fighting the Watch now, you bastards!
But he wasn’t naïve enough to think it was over. If any of the reports were to be believed, the previous attacks suggested the creatures conducting the attacks possessed a modicum of intelligence. The arachnids might simply be regrouping to assault a different section of the wall.
Captain Beel’s force reinforced the area, checking all enemy were deceased, before moving to their dead comrade and carrying him away. They placed him away from the area of battle. Both his body and that of his destrier would be removed once dawn made itself known. Tomorrow, he would be farewelled and sent on his way across the Frost River.
Distant screams rent the air behind him, and Tork turned Might about. He pushed the warhorse into a trot. The piercing wail of the bugle behind him indicated Captain Beel was aware of the new onslaught and called upon those members of the King’s Own he’d ordered to stand fast earlier to advance to battle. Tork pushed the destrier into the canter. When a new host of screams and shouts peeled across the night, he allowed Might to accelerate into a gallop. The horse instinctively swerved away from a family running out of their house, towards the centre of the city and away from the wall.
Speeding around the curve in the wall and back towards the gate, he watched sub-units flowing out of streets and forming up at the gallop into a large group. He pushed Might harder until he was on the heels of the rear-most sub-unit.
“You!” Tork shouted.
The sub-unit commander threw a glance over his shoulder, and even in the dull light, Tork saw the man’s eyes bulge. “Sir?” the man bellowed over the deafening thunder of hooves around them.
“You are my bugler!”
“Sir!” The sub-unit commander dropped back beside him and unclipped the bugle from his belt.
“Let Captain Beel know I now have control of this formation.”
The ear-piercing blast cut the night sky like a knife, the acknowledging bugle like a whisper in comparison.
“Open file, at the trot.”
As the last bugle blast faded, the formation of King’s Own peeled apart and slowed, allowing Tork and his newly-acquired bugler to gallop straight up the centre to the front. The group closed up behind the pair and accelerated to maintain pace.
From the gloom appeared a battle scene that made the last look like a wedding party. A full group of Watchmen, and most of their horses, lay dead upon the road. At the outer most extremity of the group lay an entire King’s Own sub-unit, lifeless. He snarled as fury took him. A massive cluster of deceased arachnids lay piled closest to the overrun sub-unit.
Tork called his group to the halt and moved away from the formation, closely followed by his bugler, to stand to one side so as to better view the battle. A second group of Watchmen fought valiantly, but they were surrounded by spiders and dying in number as the moments drew by.
“Six abreast, musket shot, fighting withdrawal.”
The formation moved like lightning to carry out the bugle command. Within moments, the group had morphed six wide and seven deep. The warriors of the front rank had withdrawn muskets, brought them to their shoulders, and fired a single shot before breaking formation. Three galloped left, three right. They re-joined into their original line at the rear of the group. The new front line fired another musket barrage before galloping to the rear in a similar fashion. By the time the original front rank was back in their initial position, they had reloaded and were ready to fire once again. The rolling fighting withdrawal continued and, as Tork had hoped, the distraction drew the arachnids clear of the all but destroyed group of Watchmen. They scuttled towards the small unit of King’s Own, virtually clambering over each other to be the first to engage the newcomers. The soldiers of the Watch galloped clear to avoid being hit by musket-shot, should any round not find its mark and injure them instead. But not a single shot went beyond the arachnids. Each bullet found its home, hammering through the tough carapace and lodging in the soft flesh behind.
The King’s Own moved with rapid precision, their fighting withdrawal tearing the life from countless arachnids, but still more came to replace the fallen. It was a tactic to combat an infantry charge and worked with sickening efficiency. Tork and his bugler edged their horses backward to maintain their position near the retreating formation. The acrid aroma of gunpowder drifted around both man and horse but did nothing to deter the spiders closing the distance. Another barrage of muskets crackled, and another, and another, ceaseless, uncompromising, murderous. On the spiders scurried until they were almost upon the formation of King’s Own.
Change of plan.
“Halt, front rank blunderbuss.”
The bugler complied with the order.
Muskets disappeared into leather sheaths, and the soldiers in the front rank each pulled clear a blunderbuss, aimed in the rough direction of the fast approaching opponents and pulled the triggers. The sound that followed sounded more like an explosion than a series of gunshots. The small ball bearings, ten per weapon, hissed through the air, cutting through the ranks of the spiders.
“Swine array, charge!”
Tork pulled free his sword and urged Might into a gallop.
That one word, screamed from fifty throats boomed around the city walls, “Obragarda!”
For the second time that night, Tork witnessed the spiders hesitate as they realised hunter had become prey. When the formation covered the small area of bare cobbled stones separating man from
arachnid, the King’s Own had reached full gallop. They hammered through the spiders’ ranks like a battering ram, the soldiers on the outer edge of the swine array cutting down with swords sharp as razors. Those in the centre stabbed down with spears, each weapon taller than a man. The warriors swept clear of the arachnids, leaving them in disarray, half of them carcasses.
“Halt, about turn!”
The haunting bugle blasts rent the air and, within moments, rear rank had become front rank. The King’s Own once again faced their enemy.
“Musket shot, fighting withdrawal.”
And so it began again, the muskets once more singing their ceaseless, pervasive saga of death. If spiders could feel fear, then Tork was sure he tasted it oozing along the cobbles and wafting amongst the buildings. What was left of the dwindling enemy scampered towards the wall, desperate to escape the relentless musket fire. They scuttled up the wall, some of them falling clear to smash onto the street below, riddled with lead. But a few, a scarce few, reached the top and disappeared from sight.
“Halt!”
The muskets fell silent at the same time as the bugle.
“Stand ready!”
Apart from the occasional warhorse pawing the stone, and some soldiers turning in their saddles, craning their necks to keep a watchful eye on the wall, the formation did not move. But silent and still as they were, they could react to a threat in any direction at a moment’s notice. Not a word was spoken, but Tork noticed the warriors were just as keen-eyed and eager as they had been before closing with the enemy.
“By the gods, that was impressive!”
Tork turned Might to address the man who’d spoken from behind him and came face-to-face with Commander Mace. A small huddle of Watchmen was mounted behind him, in the near distance, the few survivors of the spider attack prior to the King’s Own lending a hand. They looked frightened.
No, terrified would be a more apt description.
He returned his attention to Mace and noticed the fresh laceration adorning the man’s forehead. Blood had streamed from the wound, painting half his face with now dried blood.
“I fear it is not yet over, my friend. How did you fair?”
“Not well, Tork,” he replied, voice quivering. “Tonight, I lost more than half the force designated to guard the western wall.” He cleared his throat. “That means I’ve now lost a full tenth of the entire Watch capability for the city.”
Tork was aware of the way his comrade had spoken the last sentence. “You’ve lost nothing, Mace. These men died defending the city they love. They were overrun by giant spiders. You speak as if you slew these soldiers with your own hand.” He cast a glance at the numerous bodies lying nearby.
“I may as well have.” The commander of the Watch nodded and looked away. “It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours.”
“Aye.” Tork was astute to know when the conversation was at an end. “Time to retrieve the dead, I think.” He turned the warhorse away, walking his steed towards the still silent formation of King’s Own.
He gently pulled Might to a halt near the neat ranks and dismounted. “Hold.” The destrier stamped a hoof but remained in place.
“I want ten volunteers with me!”
Men closest to him reacted instantly and, soon, twenty men stood before him in a half-circle. “I only needed ten, but many hands make light work. Help me move the bodies of our fallen from the road. There’re also two horses that weren’t killed in the fight and have fled. I want five of you to mount back up and find them. Understood?” Heads bobbed in reply. “Let’s get to it!”
Likewise, soldiers from the Watch had commenced carrying their dead away, placing them in neat rows in the near distance. Tork strode towards the six deceased soldiers of the King’s Own. He knelt beside the sub-unit commander and placed a hand upon the man’s face, pushing closed the eyelids.
“Ma’am, the only way we’re leaving tonight is dead.”
The words, spoken so recently, echoed through Tork’s memory.
Well fought, young man. Stand down, warrior.
He lifted away his hand, the eyelids remained closed, lending the lifeless face a look of peace.
King’s Own soldiers moved around Tork.
“Stand down, brother,” some of them muttered as they carried their comrades away.
Some simply said, “Duty done,” as they lifted the deceased between them.
Six of my soldiers died tonight. Tork straightened and clenched a fist. That’s enough for one night.
Sighing, he walked to the men of the Watch. They’d need help to carry their fallen from the scene of the battle.
* * *
Tork felt bone weary as he sat before Jad. Mace was beside him, and further down the table, crinkling his nose against the offensive body odour of the pair of soldiers, perched Blake.
“You both look exhausted.”
Tork nodded. “I feel it, sire.”
“Commander Mace, what losses have you to report?” Jad held the quill’s tip a fraction from the page, ready to commence writing.
“Forty-eight, sire.”
“No, no. My apologies for not explaining. What are your losses for last evening only? Not the total count.”
Tork watched in his peripheral vision as Mace slumped in his seat and let out a long, pained sigh. “Forty-eight, sire.”
“By the gods,” whispered Jad. He wrote the figure down with hesitance. “This is becoming worse by the day, is it not?”
He watched Mace look at the king’s chief adviser. “Aye, lord, it is. Another week with nights like that and the Watch will no longer exist.”
Jad’s eyes flicked across to bore into Tork. “And your losses, commander?”
“Six.”
“Six, now that’s a more reasonable number,” Jad said, scrawling on the page.
“Begging your pardon, sire. But no it bloody isn’t!”
“Do not presume to raise your–”
“Six soldiers is six too many! Now, with all due respect, I’d like you to approach the king and request another several hundred King’s Own soldiers.”
Jad’s mouth dropped open as he glared at Tork, but before he could say anything, Tork continued. “The Watch are exceptional at maintaining the law of the city but…” he turned to Mace, “and with all due respect, they aren’t trained to fight like this.”
“You’ll receive no argument from me,” Mace muttered.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Commander Tork!”
“My apologies, sire, but my soldiers are more than…” he gestured towards the thick tome upon the table before the adviser, “they’re more than numbers on a bloody page! They deserve more than that!” Realising he’d bawled his hands into fists, he relaxed his fingers and took a deep breath. “They deserve more than that.”
Jad placed the quill away in the small inkpot nearby and leaned back in his chair. He appraised Tork with a piercing stare. Eventually, he spoke. “Alright.” He nodded. “I shall speak to his majesty as soon as he will see me. What argument do you want to me to present for using even more of his household troops?”
“Captain Beel did a good job last night, but his forces were spread thin in order to cover several miles worth of the wall. Had we twice, or three times as many warriors on the ground, I’m confident our losses would have been more than halved.”
“I shall put it to his majesty.”
“Thank you, sire. We have a difficult fight on our hands here.” The familiar numbness teased the skin stretched over his knuckles. “Something tells me it’s only just the start.”
“You think things will become even worse than they already are?”
Tork leaned back into the chair, ignoring the dull ache in his lower back. “Aye, I do, sire. I certainly think it’ll become much worse before it gets better.”
“I shall pass on your concerns, Commander Tork.” Jad scribbled several short sentences in rapid succession before re
turning the quill to the inkpot. “There is every possibility his majesty may authorise the use of the army.”
Tork nodded.
I respect King George, he’s a great man, but what does he know about the army?
Tork stretched his back, but the dull ache remained in the same area of his spine. Wendurlund’s last warrior king had been Henry the Great, King George’s great-great-great-great grandfather. A tactical genius who’d led from the front, literally. King Henry had fallen during a cavalry charge against a much large formation of Huronian foot soldiers, during the Third Great War between the two kingdoms.
Tork remembered the stories his father had woven around the fire during the long winters.
King George’s father, Harold, was barely out of swaddling clothes when he was crowned king of Wendurlund. He smiled as his father’s voice echoed in his mind. There ended the reign of the great warrior kings of old. He was a good king, even a great king. But like his son after him, was never a warrior. Tork allowed his eyes to roam to the ceiling, where he noticed a tiny strand of spider’s web, hanging freely. I wonder what it would have been like to serve under a warrior king? To have the most powerful man in the empire beside you in battle?
“Commander Tork!”
Tork flinched out of his reverie and focused on Jad, who leaned forward in his chair and fixed him with a piercing glare.
“Sorry, sire.”
“Gods, man, I thought you’d taken a brain injury.”
“No, sire, not quite yet.” He smiled. “Still plenty of time for that, though.”
Jad let out a breath in a rush. “Very well. Is there anything else I need to pass onto his majesty?”
“Aye, sire.”
I knew there was some reason I began reflecting on recent monarchical history. Our liege is no warrior.
“If he does decide to declare total martial law and employ the services of the Royal Army, it may be beneficial to remind his majesty that they will need up to two days in order to be deployed and ready to fight. We need immediate reinforcements, and to make that possible, we need more King’s Own on the ground tonight.”
“I understand, Tork. I’ll be sure to pass on your thoughts.”
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