by Richard Nell
Johann tried to imagine the richest, most civilized land in the world instead a scattered maelstrom of tribesmen, battling each other, the elements, and demonic beasts—no knowledge even of the Great Continent across the sea. He tried to imagine no king, no gunpowder, no knights, laws or castles. And he could, he supposed, but only as a vague, philosophical thing, with little bearing on reality.
If he had journeyed far West to the fringes of Keevland, perhaps, he would understand. Men still lived there in chiefdoms and tribes, illiterate and savage, making war only with sword, spear and bow.
How quickly things change, he thought. And though three hundred years to him felt vast, he knew at least one man had seen it all, and some few of the knights, like Lamorak, were a century, or older.
Before dawn he’d returned to his bedroll with a cluttered, exhausted mind, no closer to any answers or comfort. In his heart he knew only that killing children was wrong. He knew that as good or civilized or benevolent was the king and his knights, this simple fact couldn’t be changed. He knew too, with an impending sense of fear, that the world was changing, and even a God-king would have to change to reflect it. And what if he can’t? What does that mean?
“Eat and get your shit, lads, standard march.”
Johann rose for the second time with the others, yawning and stretching his aching shoulders. He glanced at his heavy pack with something approaching hate, then chewed hard biscuit dipped in oil, and gratefully took coffee offered by the men.
“Think we’ll fight today, sir?”
Johann blinked away sleep and glanced around the breakfast fire, realizing the men were staring at him. Right, ‘sir’, that’s me.
“If you call slaughtering bandits ‘fighting’, private. Yes, I expect we will.”
Most of the boys grinned and tore greedily into their biscuit, or dry, salted pork. Others sat silent, faces locked in expressionless masks. When they’d all finished they doused the fire with dirt, threw their packs and guns or spears over shoulders, and moved into place.
Johann did the same. He took his spot on the road at the head of one of two columns, near fifty men now in each, with the horses and wagons splitting their middle. The men eventually shaped into rough lines with their gear stowed, the horses latched to carts and restless. Laughter and the murmur of a hundred young men overtook them, and still Johann glanced around the head of the regulars and failed to spot Lamorak.
After several snide remarks and building impatience in the soldiers, he stepped out of line, breath catching as he looked down the slope. When the others saw him staring, they slowly turned to see.
Lamorak sat atop his warhorse at the bottom of the road. In his right hand he carried a lance longer than a man, the banner of the king attached and flapping gently in the morning breeze; in his left he carried a huge, curved shield with the same crest. He’d covered his head in a full helm of iron plate painted white, the visor shaped to look like some monstrous beast. His chest sloped from the center in iron plate covered by his tabard, arms and legs encased in chain. Three swords, an arquebus, and a brace of pistols ringed his horse’s saddle, and the top of a great longbow jutted from his back.
When all had silenced and stared at him, he raised the visor.
“Today, gentlemen, you march beneath the king’s banner, the house of Northwen. You serve the bearer of Kal, Demon-lord, Master of Vendia, Unifier of the East, and Protector of Her lands and seas. Any man who opposes you beneath this banner is by law a traitor, and an oathbreaker, who shames the memory of his forebears, who pisses on the memory of his fathers and grandfathers. For three hundred and fifty years no man has ever faced this banner and found victory. Will they find it today?”
“No!” cried the men, boots crunching dirt and gravel as they stomped in applause.
“We march to the lands of Lord Malory, to the edge of an ancient woods. There you will form a line in the trees and honor your king. And together, we will answer their raids, their rapes, and their murders with powder and blood. This is your land, gentlemen, not theirs, and today you will bury your enemies in its soil.”
The men cheered and stomped again, and beneath a niggling disillusionment, Johann felt the same unstoppable excitement growing in his breast.
Lamorak waved his banner and joined the column at his place at the front. He lead them silently for several miles before he turned and waited until Johann met his eyes.
“Steady, Johnny.” He smiled, and Johann saw a distinct, wild tinge in the knight’s eyes. “Nevermind the men, or this nonsense, or the battle. You’ll meet your demon soon enough.”
After six hours of marching over road and barren field, the regulars of Fort Tyne reached the edge of Lord Malory’s land—a natural barrier of woods between more fields, and the king’s road.
Here Lamorak dismounted and let the men rest, ordering quiet and to light no fires. Then, leaving Johann in charge, he took the scouts and entered the trees.
In his absence the men cleaned and sharpened their weapons, inspecting powder horns and scabbards, spear-shafts and barrels. They glanced uneasily at Johann, no doubt inspecting for any sign of concern. He did his best to shown none.
In truth he didn’t actually feel much concern, so hiding it wasn’t hard. He felt instead a sort of unstable numbness, an obvious calm before a storm, as the knowledge of a test near the very limits of his being loomed. It taunted him with failure, madness, and death, but he knew he had no choice. He would face Sazeal, or perhaps Amondras, or he would be dead. Such certainty, he supposed, was a kind of courage.
To pass the time he cleaned his gun like the others, gnawing on a piece of grass, disturbed only when he noticed the merchant caravan under the regular’s ‘protection’ was still waiting beside them.
He’d noticed the strangeness of this much earlier as the soldiers abandoned the road. In the next moment he’d fully expected to see the haggard driver waving his goodbyes as he continued on his way. But instead this ‘Mr. Whitworth’ turned his horses, descending the weed-filled slope to lumber through the season’s seedlings, wheels bouncing sometimes harshly on larger stones.
Perhaps due to the change in Lamorak since they’d begun their march, Johann hadn’t the courage to ask any questions. But now he stared at the man and wondered. His three ‘sons’ seemed entirely useless on the journey, lounging on any spare section of the wagons they could use as a seat. And the boys must have been from different mothers, for they looked almost nothing alike, though their ages seemed similar, and their builds were that of laborers.
“Gentlemen, the enemy is spotted, and unaware. We advance.”
Lamorak’s warhorse poked its nose from the edge of the dense trees, and the knight grinned from its back.
“About time,” called one of the men, and some of the others laughed. Johann stood, his heart racing suddenly, his arms and legs feeling weak.
“Right. Two lines, you know your orders. First unit on the left.”
His voice at least seemed steady enough, and at his word the men rose smartly and assembled, and as usual Johann felt bizarre giving orders, or having them obeyed.
“We march through the trees, lads,” called Lamorak. “I’ll call it out, but stop before the edge. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Johann answered, along with the leader of each weapon group.
“Oh, and gentlemen.” The knight’s eyes flared as he lit tobacco, his mailed fist absurd in contrast to the paper held to his dry lips. “Say hello to Mr. Whitworth, Master Gunner of the King’s Royal Artillery. You’ll need to help them unload their ‘goods’ shortly.”
The men glanced at each other with wide eyes.
“He and his boys are going to blow Lord Malory’s traitors to hell for us.” Lamorak smiled as he puffed. “Keep them safe, hold the line, and don’t be surprised if it gets a little loud.”
* * *
The woods around Lord Malory’s keep were dense, but thin. They had no doubt been planted by his ancestors as a windbreak.
Lamorak rode slightly ahead as the regulars marched in silence, and they broke their solid line only to avoid trees.
Behind them, the royal gunners dragged their carts through the soft dirt and moss, once or twice requiring aid to lift or push a wheel. Each time the Master Gunner winked at the helpers and said, “T’anks, bruvvers, won’ be sorry,” in the deep accent of the South.
In what felt like only moments to Johann, he soon saw the edge of the trees. His heart pounded now as the leaves and branches sparsened, and as he imagined death and chaos waiting just beyond.
Lamorak raised his hand. The unit stopped in groups, some edging backwards or forwards to try and assemble at least vaguely straight. The gunners turned their horses until the ‘caravans’ faced backwards, unhooking metal clasps and lowering the wooden ends like drawbridges.
Each team unloaded two, carefully, but with impressive speed, until four iron barrels braced on wooden frames and wheels pointed towards Malory’s courtyard. The gunners uncovered powder and round shot in smaller carts, wheeling one behind each gun. Johann saw raised symbols branded into the side of one. It spelled ‘Murderer’.
“Whatever lies beyond these woods, gentlemen, you will hold this treeline.”
Johann flinched, hoping the enemy couldn’t hear Lamorak’s raised voice.
“Protect these guns, hold fast, and tomorrow you will be heroes. Understood?”
Only a few men muttered a reply, and the knight laughed.
“No need for quiet now, boys. Will this ground do, Master Seargent?”
The gunner sniffed.
“Aye, lord. ‘Tis a fine wind. Should clear the powder.”
“Very good.” He raised his voice. “Musketeers, be ready, and do your work. Spears and swords—protect them. And if you hear the king’s horn—it means you bloody charge.” He clicked his tongue, and drew a pistol. “King’s Thirdsmen, step forward!”
The men’s boots snapped twigs and crunched loose stone as one, and Johann checked his powder horn for the hundredth time. He fingered the groove of his gun-stand to clear grit, or perhaps out of habit, and stepped past the last bits of vision-blocking foliage.
For some mad reason he expected rows of black militia armed and waiting for a fight. But the first thing he saw were women.
Some worked at sewing or washing next to grouped but haphazard brown canvas tents. Children played at their feet, or tousled near-by with dogs or siblings. Men half-dressed in civilian clothes lay on the grass, or stoked small campfires, or sat in circles drinking and eating or cleaning weapons.
With only a quick glance, Johann estimated there were hundreds in the make-shift camp. About half seemed like men.
“Gunners, aim for the stables, then the carts, then at will. Begin.”
Lamorak pointed, and Johann followed until he saw long, squat rows of stalls filled with horses. Several were lined up directly across from the cannon, so that a single shot might penetrate and rip down the line.
Johann blinked and glanced again at the women and children working and playing, oblivious. He saw one little boy alone in the grass glance up from his fiddling and stare at the line of blue and silver clad regulars—the first, and perhaps the only member of the camp so far to have spotted them. He pointed, wide-eyed, grinning, as if they’d appeared only to amuse him.
“Fire!”
Johann shuddered and covered one ear with his free hand as the first boom cracked like thunder, mocking the sound of the men and the dull drone of the camp.
Wood splintered and flew moments before the scream of horses. Whitworth’s crew had hit the side of the first stable directly. The outer wall shattered, the support collapsed, and the ball bounced and sprayed carnage until it burst through the rear of the stocks.
“Fire!” Fire!” “Fire!”
The other teams shot nearly as one, two more crashing through flimsy palisade, blasting wood and horse-blood. The other missed, and the ground sprayed dirt and grass as if it erupted, and the ball bounced and flew through at least two tents.
“Re-load!”
Gouts of acrid white and grey smoke filled the air, but as it raised out of the woods the wind caught it and dragged it away.
Johann’s ears rung with a high pitch whine and all sound seemed suddenly dull. Still, he heard the screams. Women and children scattered inside the camp, panicked and weeping with fear. The men stood idle or ran towards the tents, or yelled at one another, or stared at the treeline.
“Fire!”
The gunners had swiveled their weapons, and now let loose on another row of trapped horses. Again wood, dirt and blood exploded as the terrifying shot struck home. As the walls and gates came apart or shifted, many of the animals panicked and leapt or charged away. Soon they joined the camp’s chaos, racing past and crashing into fleeing militia, or their families.
Some few clusters of militia gathered their weapons and charged the line. Many held swords or axes, others clubs and maces. Some few held muskets. Johann ducked as he heard a buzzing, then the crack of a bullet as it struck the trees. For a moment he only stared at the militiaman standing in plain sight now reloading his weapon.
“Return fire! Kill the gunners!”
All around him men began propping their muskets on fork-stands and taking aim.
Johann raised his arquebus with both hands and placed it. He had loaded it already, and with a wheel-lock like his he had no need for burning rope to ignite the powder. He put the butt-end of the weapon snugly against his shoulder, guiding it towards the man now barely visible in the gunsmoke.
God forgive me, he thought, and pulled the trigger.
The recoil rocked him and shook his arms, but no worse than his many practice shots. As he did every time he successfully fired, he thanked God it hadn’t exploded. He blinked and squinted, trying to ignore the many calls of ‘Fire’, ‘Reload’, ‘Fire’, echoing as if from a dream to his dulled ears, easily imagined as the reports of some other, foreign battle, removed entirely from Johann’s private war.
Through the smoke he saw the man he’d fired at lying in the grass clutching his leg.
“Got him!” cried a young regular from the line, and Johann looked and realized he and at least three our four others had shot at the same target. He had no idea who hit.
Without another thought he stooped to reload, dropping another ball down the barrel and tamping it in. He scooped more powder for the pan and re-cocked the lock, then propped the gun and hunted for another target. He waited and struggled to see in the smoke.
Dark fabric emerged barely and shrouded, but Johann fired. He dropped at once to re-load, not bothering to wait and see if he’d hit, or even what he hit. Five shots, and I scrape the powder, he promised himself. There’s time, and I can’t risk hurting my hands before the demon’s trapped.
Aim. Reload. Fire. Aim. Reload. Fire.
In the smoke and chaos, noise and terror, Johann soon lost all track of the enemy or the battlefield. He focused only on his weapon, on his stand, his powder and his shot. He lifted the heavy weapon and sought a target, pulled the trigger, and stooped again. Once he’d made his five shots and scraped the barrel and checked his pouches, finally he glanced up and down the line, trying to make out the scene before him.
The Eastern edge of the camp where they’d attacked had all but cleared away. Tents lay sprawled and ruined by cannon fire or just fleeing militia and horses; carts of supplies had been ransacked, abandoned or smashed; stables and horses lay in ruined clumps; bodies loosely scattered the well-kept but dirty grass.
Have we won already, he thought? Did the surprise scatter them? Need we only find their leader, or has he fled?
Then beyond it all, Johann saw mounted men forming a line, for a moment unobscured by the smoke. Amongst them he saw the glint of a pale, hairless scalp shine in the morning sun.
The cannons reloaded and fired while the musketmen panted and glanced about like Johann. The militia’s cavalry circled their camp on both sides and advanced in good
order.
“Hold fast, and make ready!”
Lamorak drew a pistol and pointed at the forming horsemen.
Johann saw the spearman beside him swallow and brace his weapon, eyes blinking over and over.
Why the hell are you worried, he thought, trying to hide his own terror, at least you have a bloody spear.
The riders soon broke their mounts into a trot, swinging around and picking their way through the debris, gaining speed as they formed a haggard line. Johann knew little of horses, but even he could see these beasts were healthy and trained—too small and sleek to be a workman’s animal.
These, he thought, trying not to consider the implications, are mounts bred and kept by a rich lord for war.
“Fire!”
The cannons, as if to answer the threat, boomed in tight succession. Two shots sailed harmlessly past the enemy. One bounced and arced straight through a rider, tearing him near in half, and the other struck a horse directly. Its head vanished as it collapsed like a puppet on strings.
The forty-odd remaining cavalry yelled their challenge, and charged. The very ground beneath Johann’s feet trembled, and his gun shook on its stand, though whether this was from the force of the animals, or from fear, he did not know.
“Hold, men, hold and I promise you their charge will fail!”
Johann blinked and meant to find and aim for the bald-headed bearer of Sazeal, but his eyes seemed unfocused, and useless, so he only aimed in the direction of his terror, held his breath, and squeezed.
Men all around him were shouting, perhaps trying to bolster their courage with a warrior’s cry, but this too soon drowned to nothing as it mixed with the crash of hooves, and the explosion of powder.
Hold, and their charge will fail!
Johann repeated Lamorak’s voice in his mind. He saw the mad fearlessness of the knight’s gaze.
Well, at least he’s on my side.
He tried to reload, tried to ignore the unstoppable tide of iron and flesh barreling down upon him. But his hand shook and he dropped the ball to the grass at his feet, then simply stared in fear at the charge.
