Ahitika knelt beside one of the bodies. “I said,” she wiped the knife clean upon one of their robes. “None of these worthy of scalping. Weak men.”
He returned his attention to Prince Henry. The royal moved slow and it was obvious the man was struggling to walk. With more than two miles to travel out of the area and through forewarned throngs of enemy soldiers, a slow stumble would not do. He grasped hold of a forearm, drew Henry to him, ducked down and lifted the man over one shoulder. He straightened and turned in the direction from which they’d originally advanced. Although the prince was almost as tall as Vyder, he was skin and bones and lighter than a child.
“Time to leave.”
Ahitika sheathed her knife. “Lead way, I watch our backs. We may not live, but it is good day to die.”
Vyder looked at the soft light flooding the eastern horizon and inhaled a refreshing breath of cool air. “Yes it is. I haven’t seen Verone in so long.”
“Verone? What you talking about?”
He let the air out in a rush and strode forward. “Never mind.”
* * *
A blanket of mist covered the ground, hiding the hooves of walking horses from view. Dawn was fast approaching and already the sky was beginning to lighten. Captain Rone cast a look to his right, then his left. He was flanked by fifty soldiers on each side. The warhorse beneath him stumbled and Rone leaned back in his saddle to assist the animal in regaining its footing. The steep descent was perilous, made even more so by the thick forest through which they negotiated. It was near impossible to maintain any kind of formal formation given the terrain, so Rone was happy for his soldiers to array themselves in a ragged extended line, until the descent was at an end.
Horn blasts rent the air in the distance from the valley floor below, exactly where they intended to ride. More horns, then a hoarse shout. Rone was not completely fluent in the Huronian language, but he knew enough for the words to cause cold dread to sink into the depths of his guts.
Baras, seated on a destrier beside him, cleared his throat. “Enemy have breached their perimetre.”
Rone grunted and tightened his grip on the reins. “So it seems. It may work in our favour, however.”
The horses of the King’s Own skidded, slipped and carefully picked their way down the slope towards the valley depths awaiting them. The mist thickened as they progressed, hiding many of the horses from view so that it looked as if the soldiers were seated upon the mist itself in some magic feat. Gradually the angle of the incline became less treacherous and they were once again walking upon near flat ground. Rone cantered forward of the formation, swung his horse around, held his hand high above his head and signalled, ‘halt’. Swivelling in his saddle, he repeated the command to those soldiers on the opposite flank. When he was sure all his soldiers had brought their destriers to a stop, he turned back towards the open plain waiting behind what little remained of the forest and urged his mount forward.
He walked his warhorse around several large trees and the plain opened up before him. He stopped beside a large bush and looked out upon the mighty army before him. A stick snapped beside him and Baras came to a halt nearby.
“Some sight, sir.”
Rone nodded. “Our one hundred against their thirty thousand.” He looked at his bugler and grinned. “What could go wrong?”
“Seems fair odds to me, sir. We’ll have them surrounded by sunup.”
The plain narrowed as Rone’s eyelids drew closer together, cold focus returning to him. His smile faded. “They won’t stand a chance,” he muttered.
Shouts erupted from all over the camp. Now on lower ground, it was more difficult to see into the centre of the encampment. There was still a small descent to negotiate before the King’s Own were on the plain proper and the slightly elevated position offered moderate view into the enemy formation. Rone swept the mighty army with slow, methodical progress, eyes stopping to analyse individual pockets of troops. Most were milling around, awoken suddenly from slumber, they were packing away blankets, or standing in confused blobs, probably trying to work out what was going on. Now, while confusion reigned amongst the Huronians, was the time to strike. But, Rone needed to know where to hit them in order to affect the retrieval of their prince.
“There, sir!” Baras’s arm came up and he pointed towards the slight right of centre of the massive army before them.
Rone looked across at his bugler and followed the direction to which he pointed. There, stood almost hidden from view behind masses of troops awakening from sleep stood the prison wagon. His field of vision narrowed further as his eyelids drew even closer together. “It’s empty Baras! The wagon’s fucking empty. Where’s Prince Henry?”
“Look three knuckles to the right of the wagon, sir.”
Rone held his right arm out horizontal to the ground, clenched closed his hand and aimed his fist so the knuckle of his index finger sat just below the wagon. Counting three knuckles to the right, he saw a giant of a man and a small figure beside him. They were moving fast.
He dropped his hand back to rest on his thigh with a slap. “What of them?”
“They have Prince Henry, sir. Look closer, they’re carrying him.”
Rone released the reins and stood in the stirrups and refocused upon the pair. “By the Gods.” He sat back down in the saddle. “So they do.” He noticed on the furthest side of the Huronian encampment stood a mighty Ghost Oak, dwarfing all the forest. The tiny figures carrying the prince were in line with the tall tree. That would be his point of aim when the charge began. Once the last descent onto the plain below was made, the pair would disappear from view, hidden behind thousands of soldiers, on their feet trying to work out for themselves exactly what was taking place.
Rone turned the warhorse away and cantered back to his waiting soldiers. Halting before the extended line, he stood in the stirrups and held both hands above his head. Looking down the line of soldiers, he ensured all eyes were turned towards him. Then he began to use slow hand signals.
Arrow head formation. Form on me. I am the centre. No sound. No war cry. Follow my lead. Understood?
He shifted focus from one soldier to the next, ensuring each was nodding. When he’d made sure every single man understood what was required, he unclipped the full-faced war helm from his saddle and pushed it onto his head. The sounds of the forest immediately became a dull muffle as the cold steel covered his ears, the bottom edge of the helmet coming to rest against his chest armour. The visor was pivoted up out of his field of vision. He watched as his soldiers replicated him. It was not often the King’s Own wore the full-faced battle helmets. By default, their work was usually conducted in the shadows, without their enemy ever knowing about their presence. But, the fight about to happen was overt. The exception was Baras, who wore an open-faced helm so that he could use the bugle when required. When the last man had unclipped and settled his helmet into place, Rone lifted a hand, grasped a hold of the visor and slammed it down over his face, his view immediately reducing to a horizontal slit the width of two fingers. A metal staccato echoed down the line of King’s Own as his soldiers followed suit. He swung his warhorse away and pushed the animal into a fast walk. War spirit flooded his being, his heart thundering within his chest.
Leaning back in his saddle, Rone allowed the warhorse to work its way down the small descent, past trees, bushes and saplings. The branches of one thick shrub brushed his thigh and then the plain opened out before them. Looking over the heads of the distant enemy, he spotted the Ghost Oak on the opposing side of the open ground. Steering the destrier towards the tree, he pushed the animal into a trot. Twisting in his saddle, he watched the right flank fan out at an angle behind him. Baras, the closest soldier on his right side, lined his horse up so the animal’s head was adjacent to the rump of Rone’s warhorse. Turning to the opposite side, the man on the left flank did the same and within moments the arrowhead formation was in place and progressing at the trot. He return
ed his attention to the front and pushed the warhorse into a canter.
Thousands of soldiers in the near distance were on their feet, milling around in groups. Their attention, however, remained fixated towards the centre of the encampment. They were still trying to work out where exactly the threat lay. As far as Rone could see, none of the enemy had noticed the charge fast approaching their position. Turning in his saddle, he rechecked the left and right flanks. Both were exactly where they should be, progressing at the canter. Patting the horse’s neck, he readjusted his position in the saddle. He pushed the beast into a gallop, raised his arm above his head and then brought it forward in a blur of movement, so his outstretched arm was horizontal to the ground pointing directly at the Huronian mass before them. The destrier’s hooves drummed against the earth, knee length grass blurring by beneath Rone. A loud snort just to his right rear indicated Baras was with him. He cast a glance over his left shoulder and saw the left flank was arrayed out at an angle behind him, matching his gallop. Specks of earth flung up into the air behind some of the animals as their hooves thundered against the ground. He returned his attention to the enemy soldiers before him.
Rone ignored the weapons in the large holster attached to the saddle just forward of his right knee. The initial section of the charge would rely on the speed and weight of the destriers to carry them through the enemy ranks. Weapons wouldn’t play a part. Becoming bogged down and losing momentum, especially when so badly outnumbered, would spell the doom of his tiny force.
If we can force our way through to the prince before the Huronians know what’s going on, we might have a chance at fighting our way back out.
He looked at the huge Ghost Oak in the distance and made a slight adjustment to his direction. Rone saw a boulder half hidden amongst the grass directly in front of his warhorse’s path of advance.
Oh shit!
The warhorse’s mighty muscles bunch beneath him and the animal sailed over the boulder, hooves slamming onto the ground on the other side of the obstacle. As the Huronian soldiers filled his field of vision, one of them turned towards him, his eyes widened, mouth dropping open. Before he could shout a warning, the horse slammed into the soldier, the Huronian disappearing beneath a blur of hooves.
Rone tilted forward in the saddle as the warhorse brought both hind legs off the ground to launch a powerful double-barrelled kick. The dull crack that followed was muffled by the helmet as was the pain-filled screech of the injured enemy solider. Onwards the formation pushed, barging soldiers out of their way as they hammered towards the centre of the enemy camp. The lucky soldiers were forced aside, the ones unfortunate enough to come in contact with the galloping warhorses were left bloody and broken upon the earth, those that survived shouting or screaming their agony to the sky.
Rone’s warhorse, ears flat back to its skull, clenched the face of one Huronian soldier between his teeth and with a jerk of his powerful neck, sent the enemy warrior sailing through the air. Then the destrier battered through the ranks standing behind the man.
Apart from the thunderous cacophony of the warhorses, the soldiers of the King’s Own remained silent. Gradually, the drum of the destriers’ hooves were drowned out by the shouting of the Huronian army. Eventually the noise from thirty thousand throats rolled out across the plain hiding all other sound. The roar filled Rone’s helmet, ringing in his ears.
Clenching his teeth and keeping a firm grip on the reins, he looked over his left shoulder. The left flank was still with him, belting their way through rank after rank of enemy soldiers.
Excellent!
Shooting a look to his right side, the right flank was still intact. He flinched as he saw something brown advancing between Baras and he. He tried to focus between the thin, horizontal gap the slit in the helmet provided, but the thing had moved beyond him with lightning speed. He felt sharp pain shoot from his knee and up his thigh as something barged past him, crushing his right leg against the saddle. Turning to face front again, he saw the riderless horse accelerate past him.
One of my soldiers is down.
His face creased into a snarl, fury spreading through him. Focusing at the horizon, Rone raked the distant forest until he found that for which he searched. They were still heading towards the Ghost Oak. When they’d slammed through the next rank of Huronian soldiers, a section of open ground welcomed them before another mass of enemy ranks began. Urging his destrier onward, the animal slammed clean through the lines of enemy soldiers. Some of the Huronians were scrabbling for their muskets. They were still panicked, unsure, confused.
Won’t be long before they’re organised and start putting musket volleys down upon us.
The horses of the tiny unit of the King’s Own barged, kicked and bit their way through the Huronian army like a hot knife through butter. With one final effort, Rone’s warhorse broke through the ranks of the Huronian soldiers. Another small section of open ground greeted him at the centre of which was the trio for who they’d come. The tall man assisted the prince onto the destrier, which had so recently barged past Rone, the small man, skin the colour of smoke, leaping up behind the monarch’s son with lithe agility. He turned to look at the approaching King’s Own and Rone realised it was a woman.
Rone clasped a hand onto his visor and rotated it up and out of his field of view. He looked back at his bugler as they galloped.
“Baras! Reverse arrowhead, all round defence, outward face, blunderbuss.”
“Yes, sir!”
The piercing scream of the bugle cut through the roar of the mighty Huronian army, declaring each order with sharp precision.
Rone slowed to a canter, the left and right flanks streaming past him, Baras now sitting at his front right, the rest of the right flank arrayed in front of the bugler at a perfect angle. The left emanated the move and although Rone was still the centre of the arrowhead, from a bird’s eye view, the arrowhead formation was reversed. The distant soldiers riding at the front of each flank changed direction towards each other once they’d ridden beyond the prince and his miniscule entourage, encircling the group.
The circle ensnared the mounted prince in rapid efficiency, warriors bringing their destriers to a skidding halt, turning them outward to face the Huronian army besieging them on all sides. Rone pushed beyond the circle and cantered towards the trio in the centre. The blunderbusses spoke with a unison boom from all around him, temporarily drowning out the roars of the enemy. The tall warrior held a hand to the warhorse’s forehead as if soothing it.
How the bloody hell did he capture a King’s Own destrier? It should have shredded his face to pieces by now.
Rone leaned forward, grasped a hold of the spear haft and ripped the weapon clear of the sheath. Holding the reins in one hand he gave them one gentle tug and his mount halted beside the horse which had once belonged to his fallen soldier. He held the spear down at the man, the polished spear tip hovering just beneath his chin. One firm thrust and it would skewer him. Rone didn’t need to look around to know that Baras was covering the woman seated behind the prince.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The tall warrior turned from the horse and held up both hands, palms open. “I am Vyder Ironstone, sent by King George to rescue the prince.”
One of his eyes seemed to shine a bright blue, giving him a strange look.
A highlander.
“And what does a highlander want with our prince?”
The man dropped his hands by his side. Rone thrust the spear forward but refrained from following through, the spear tip touching the skin of the highlander’s throat. “Hands where I can see them.”
Boom, another volley of blunderbuss echoed out, cutting Huronian soldiers down.
He raised his hands again. “The king offered a handsome price.”
“Running out of time,” the woman spoke with a thick Kalote accent.
She’s right. No time for more questions. He looked at the prince. Sunken eyes stared
back at him from a gaunt face. Gods he looks half-dead. At least they’re helping him.
Rone sheathed the spear and gestured at Vyder. If that’s even his name. “Climb up behind me, but if you try anything, Baras here will put a spear through you. Am I clear?”
Boom.
The highlander nodded and leapt up onto the warhorse behind the King’s Own officer. He leaned over and clasped the reins of the horse upon which sat Prince Henry. He pulled the horse closer and glared at the prince.
“My lord, we are taking you out of here. It’s going to be messy and we may not all survive. I need you to hang onto this horse with all your strength and no matter what happens, or how many of my men fall, keep riding for Lisfort.”
The long, dirty locks hanging limp around the prince’s head swayed back and forth as he nodded. “Let us go home,” the king’s son muttered.
Rone released the reins. “Baras, call cease fire, swine array, full charge, direction of advance.”
“Sir.”
They should have reloaded their blunderbusses by now.
The King’s Own warriors moved with practised speed, melding into the swine array facing the direction from which they’d arrived. Making sure the prince was by his side in the protected centre of the formation, he caught the royal’s eye, gave a nod then looked away to focus on the front ranks. The soldiers at the head urged their warhorses from the walk straight into the gallop.
Rone stood in his stirrups, but was unable to see the enemy formations in front of his small unit.
We will be upon them in moments.
Taking his seat, the warhorse lurched into a gallop beneath him, along with those warriors surrounding him. The noise of the Huronian army diminished to a dull roar as the thunder of hooves took over.
“Baras!” he shouted. The bugler looked at him. “Front rank blunderbuss, then spears.”
The bugle blasts peeled out followed almost immediately by the boom of several blunderbuss carried by those warriors at the spear point of the charge. The screaming of dying enemy became louder as the swine array punched through the Huronian ranks.
Fallen Empire Page 25
