by Emmet Moss
“Hie! ‘Ware!” hissed the scout under his breath. “Here they come.”
Caolte followed the man’s gaze, spying their targets about fifty paces away. The three soldiers wore the same purple and black tabards that had appeared in alarming numbers at the Ca’lenbam. For men trained by the best field commander of their generation, they were paying little attention to their surroundings. With hand gestures, Garett had been able to guide the Fey’Derin lieutenant to within an unobstructed bow range. Pulling a grey, fletched arrow from his quiver, Caolte carefully raised his bow.
“Garett, I’ll take the one on the left, the one not wearing his helm. Take the officer, and I should have enough time to finish the third one off before he can escape.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” responded the archer, bow already nocked and ready to fire.
Holding steady, Caolte sighted his target along the shaft. Although he may have mirrored the same move more than a thousand times throughout his lifetime, the Drayenmark officer could only marvel at the calmness that swept through his mind and body as he held his bow up high. Pausing only for a moment longer, Caolte let fly the first arrow.
The first adversary was struck through the neck, the soldier stunned as he tried in vain to take a breath. Blood poured down over his chest, and he sagged to the earth while desperately struggling to withdraw the arrow.
Before the second soldier could turn towards his fallen comrade, a shaft penetrated the area above his heart. Crying out in pain, he too, fell to ground. The third sentry took but four running steps before Caolte released his second shot, striking the man in the back near his lower spine.
“Move, now!” Caolte ordered, reacting before the third soldier even fell to the forest floor.
Garett whistled and ran silently ahead as the woods behind the two men erupted in a commotion of sound and movement. Suddenly, a full score of Fey’Derin soldiers appeared, confidently leading their mounts.
“How far do we travel, Lieutenant?” a mercenary asked, walking up to Caolte and gripping his forearm.
“Well met, Cail,” Caolte answered, greeting a second squad leader as he approached. “Aren, take your men on a small sweep to the west. Make sure we haven’t missed any sentries. Cail, your men will continue pushing northwest, but be wary, Garett believes there may be a larger encampment towards the High Road. I’ll be following behind you with my own command, but I need to speak with Sergeant McConnal before I head out. Understood?”
“Aye, sir,” the men replied.
It wasn’t long before Ossric McConnal came striding confidently into the small clearing where Caolte and his men were waiting. Ossric beamed with a huge grin and made his way over. “I see you have matters in hand here, Lieutenant.”
“It went as planned,” Caolte agreed. “And you, Sergeant, how did you fare?”
“Well, aside from a nasty cut to Dorne’s arm, we came out relatively unscathed. I know Brock met with more resistance than we anticipated. He sent word that they attacked only seconds before a shift change. We slew a score.”
“Casualties?”
“Two dead, both in their first season, and maybe a half-dozen wounded. Hitting the first watch by surprise made a difference. Brock said they are well trained, far better than most we face in the field,” Ossric replied.
“Any word from the Eagle Runners?”
“Not yet. They’ll still be within sight of the Gathering,” Ossric shook his head, “Ethan wanted to stay as far back as possible, just in case we missed a forward sentry and they sent runners. Of course he’s also hoping Gavin heads into the trees somewhere near our position.”
“He may try in Herod’s direction or even towards the Sisters. It might be safer,” Caolte replied.
“Have you heard from Captain Blackwain since this afternoon? Last Brock heard, Herod was prepared to strike out northeasterly with the setting of the sun. By then, Armsmater will no doubt be focused on our escape to the west.”
“Makes sense, but I’m still worried about the general. If memory serves me well, Armsmater was rarely on the losing side of an engagement. We are treading in deep waters right now, friend.”
Ossric managed a weak smile. “I know Gerald, and trust me, this won’t sit well with him. We’ve made a dangerous enemy today.”
“He made a dangerous enemy of us when he murdered Orn. What that man did to an unarmed prisoner is sickening. A warrior deserves to die with honour, a weapon in hand, and with battle lust flowing through his veins. If it’s sympathy you’re looking for because you once followed such a man, you’ll find none here, Sergeant,” Caolte spat.
The Drayenmark were notorious in matters of honour and decorum. Ossric knew that any clansmen would proudly sacrifice themselves to avenge a fallen comrade. Years fighting abroad had changed Caolte, although he would refuse to admit it. Beneath his well-spoken, calm exterior, lurked the Caolte Burnaise raised as a true clansman; volatile, passionate, and proud. The lieutenant’s sudden outbursts, often blunt and passionate, were well known by the company. Although it pained the Fey’Derin sergeant dearly, Caolte had spoken the truth. Ossric had once called Gerald Armsmater friend — and now the bloody corpse of Orn Surefoot clouded the memories he had once cherished.
“Give your men a quick rest, no more than a few minutes, and follow my trail. With luck, we’ll both meet up with Brock near the riverbank,”
Caolte dictated the newest set of orders to a distracted Ossric.
“Stay safe, Sergeant,” Caolte called out.
“And you, Lieutenant.”
Dodging a weak thrust, Ethan Shade spun by his opponent, burying his rapier in the man’s back. Slumping to the ground, the man cried out. Without emotion, Ethan drew his knife and silenced the enemy soldier. Assessing the empty clearing, he whistled. If any of his men were still alive, they would surely head in his direction. Catching sight of one of his squad leaders, Ethan waved him over.
“Warren, gather who you can find from your command, any stragglers as well. We’ve worn out our welcome here, and must move on,” he said, wiping his blade down with the edge of the dead man’s tabard.
“Yes, sir. We head to the riverbank, correct? And has there been any news from the others?” Warren replied.
“I know Pieran’s squad was hit hard, at least three down, and even more wounded. As for the rest of the company, the last runner I spoke to reported success on all fronts, although resistance was heavy on Sergeant Fearan’s side. Casualties have been minimal.” Ethan shook his head, “I have to admit, Armsmater isn’t overrated in the least. He had men pouring through this area as soon as that first runner got past us.”
“We lost Devan and Syre before we knew what was upon us,” the Fey soldier replied.
Ethan still could not believe the speed at which the Protectorate guards had responded to their departure. Granted, the advance elements of the company, that is everyone but his twenty men, were well ahead of the pursuers, but Ethan had never thought it possible that he would be retreating so quickly. He had hoped to create confusion on the perimeter as his friends escaped deeper into the forest. Instead, he had found himself on the defensive, struggling to contain the three rushes that Armsmater had sent to overwhelm the rearguard. Thankfully, Gavin had ordered two squads to remain behind, a decision that may very well have saved their lives.
As the rest of the soldiers gathered, he quickly took stock of his men; fifteen alive, four wounded. Ethan estimated nearly two score of the enemy dead, a decent showing for two consecutive gambits, and a surprising ambush.
His men had moved quickly once the first engagement had commenced, warned by a runner that more of the enemy had been scouted than first believed. With practiced ease, the first few opponents had been slain, few of them aware of what was transpiring until far too late. But from that moment on, it had become a running, perilous battle under the budding leaves of the Caeronwood.
“We still hold a slim advantage. They can only be guessing at our numbers. We must use that edge in order to further confuse their efforts in tracking down the rest of the company,” Ethan said.
“A skirmish line to the west might work,” Pieran offered.
Ethan nodded in agreement. “Yes, if we lend the impression that we’re moving westward it may gain Lieutenant Burnaise more time.”
“My squad is still relatively unscathed, sir, I’ll take front line,” Warren added as he bandaged one of his men’s bleeding arms. “With luck, Pier can get the wounded out ahead, and we can follow.”
“Agreed, but we take no more chances. The enemy has too much of a presence in these trees now for us to match him attack for attack. No heroics from any of you, understood?” He stared assuredly at the fifteen veterans who had formed a semicircle around him. “We want to be warming ourselves by the fire near the Rillsong tonight men, so keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”
Melting back into the trees, the Fey’Derin began their slow trek towards the river. The Caeronwood was divided into two parts by the large waterway that was home to the region’s best fishing grounds. Fishermen and their families had long ago established trade routes along the length of the river, building numerous waystations where they could sell their stocks. The Fey’Derin were to regroup a league south from one of these trading posts.
The Rillsong was little more than a collection of wooden warehouses and a small building that doubled as the area’s tavern and inn. Although solidly built, the buildings were old, and their proximity to the wet shoreline resulted in much damp moss growing on the exteriors. At the busiest of times the tavern was only half full. With the arrival of the spring months and the onset of warmer temperatures, the captain had directed his men to camp downstream in the hopes that their presence would remain undetected.
Pausing behind a tall oak tree, Ethan drank deeply from his water skin. At their current pace, his command should reach the perimeter sentries by early morning. The onset of darkness had played havoc with their sense of direction. Although adding an hour or two to their travel time, they may have inadvertently avoided another confrontation with Protectorate forces.
A sharp whistle pulled Ethan’s attention to one of the soldiers crouched nearby.
Patrol sighted; east; two score; infantry and support archers.
Reacting quickly he replied with his orders. Five with me, rear attack, soft line for defense and retreat.
The orders were passed quickly along the line. Ethan planned to strike hard after flanking the front line of oncoming soldiers. Two score of these highly trained men were far too many for his battered and exhausted company to handle. With luck, enough confusion would be caused by his maneuver, effectively forcing the guardsmen to slow their progress. With full darkness almost upon them, Ethan predicted his opponents would be bedding down for the night before long, and this attack may force their hand. One lightning strike was the only chance they would have before a stealthy retreat.
Warren and four of his men gathered near Ethan’s position, all signaling that they were ready to proceed. Moving well, albeit slowly in the darkness, the small complement of Fey’Derin travelled south and found good cover in which to conceal themselves. Before long, the unmistakable sounds of troop movement carried through the air. Trying desperately to silence the pounding of his hammering heart, the Fey’Derin officer put a steadying hand on the shoulder of one of his younger recruits. The waiting was unbearable.
Finally, after allowing the enemy soldiers to trudge carefully past their position,Ethan made his move. As one, the Fey’Derin raised themselves from their covering and slid forward, still wary of the need to remain silent. With their eyes now adjusted to the descending darkness, Ethan struck first, burying one of his daggers deep into the nearest man’s back, while covering the subsequent gasp of pain with a gloved hand.
To his flanks, more Protectorate soldiers fell to the ambush, silently borne to the earth by the stealthy Fey’Derin. Ethan had estimated that his squad could wound or kill at least ten men before there would be an organized counterattack. Unfortunately, he had been wrong; it took only seconds before a cry of alarm sounded to their left.
Disarming his closest opponent, Ethan’s second dagger took the man above his stomach. Cursing, he realized that his weapon had struck bone and was lodged between two of the man’s ribs. Releasing the hilt, Ethan pushed the dying man to the ground, immediately dismissing him from the encounter.
Chaos had erupted all around him. To the best of his knowledge, only one of his men looked to have fallen. Spinning aside from an axe smash, he fended off the attacker with swift stabs of his thin blade. He had whisked his rapier out, slicing a thin gash along the soldier’s exposed forearm. Ignoring the man’s grunt of pain, Ethan followed up with a crushing blow to the soldier’s face with the hilt of his weapon. Blood poured from the warrior’s shattered nose as Ethan desperately avoided another swing. He knew with certainty that they would soon be overwhelmed.
“Fall back! Disengage!” he shouted, trusting in fate that all of his men would hear and obey the order. Cut twice on his left arm, Ethan finished off a third attacker and dove to his left, plunging into some deep brush that sloped down into a small gulley they had scouted earlier that evening. The small stream at the base ran westward, easily the best point of reference to follow in the deepening gloom. Ethan could still hear the faint sounds of steel clashing, the sound reverberating in the otherwise silent forest.
Sheathing his remaining dagger after quickly slicing a long strip of his cloak to use as a bandage for his bleeding arm, Ethan prepared to set out towards the rendezvous point. As he took his first steps, a solid mass of shadows and noise came crashing through the foliage. Diving instinctively out of the way, he strained to make out how many men had fallen down into the gulley. As one man lay in the water, stunned by the fall, the attackers regained their balance and pulled daggers from their belts. Illuminated for a brief moment by moonlight filtering through the treetops, Ethan’s gaze registered the grey cloak of the man floundering in the stream. He was a Fey’Derin.
Throwing his dagger even as he dove to intercept the second guardsman’s downward slash, Ethan thought that he may have been better off escaping during the confusion. The dagger struck true, embedding itself deep in the closer adversary’s back. Ethan’s leap had been hampered by the slick rocks lying under the water at the base of the shallow stream. Misjudging the unstable ground proved costly. The soldier’s dagger bit deeply into his side, a hot burst of pain stunning his senses. Swallowing a mouthful of water as he strained to regain his balance, Ethan was relieved to see his companion strike hard with his own blade.
“No heroics eh, Sergeant Shade?” Warren grinned darkly as he pulled Ethan out of the water, throwing an arm around him for support. Smiling exhaustedly, Ethan could only shake his head at the man’s remarks.
He dressed his wound quickly, still chuckling from the barb. Then, Ethan and Warren set out, striking westward along the muddy banks of the small stream. Soon, all sounds of the struggle were lost.
“They are a well-trained command, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Fearan commented. “They responded well after our initial strike, falling into a defensive shell, pulling their wounded into the middle. Kept a few of them alive, that’s for sure.”
“Gerald Armsmater didn’t earn his weighty reputation for being an inadequate commander,” Caolte replied.
The company, minus the sentries and the two officers, had bedded down for the night. The small campsite could barely contain the entire complement of soldiers. With only light shelters packed for the trip, what with the larger tents still pitched at the Gathering, most of the men huddled together for warmth. No fires would be lit for the next few days, and the men grumbled while grudgingly accepting the cold supper that Era Colwyn had prepared for them — hard biscuits and water, hardly appetizing.<
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All of the Fey’Derin were accounted for, save the two squads Caolte had dispatched under Sergeant Shade’s command. They were expected to arrive later that night. With luck, the rearguard would gain a few precious hours of sleep before moving out in the morning. Ossric would replace them with a squad of his own, followed by Brock’s men the next day. Duke Berry was in the lead group. The flamboyant nobleman defiantly insisted that he be allowed to fight alongside the men who were risking their lives in his defense. Caolte, of course, refused the request.
Casualties had been expected and yet, far from any usual fields of battle, it seemed as though the loss of those men slain throughout the day’s skirmishes hurt Caolte far more than usual. Brock’s men had encountered a strong counterattack, and the recruit-heavy squads under his command had taken losses. All told, eight men had died. It pained Caolte that their bodies had been left behind; yet another sign of the changes that had come to the fractured kingdom. Under the Code, a company’s slain soldiers were treated with respect, and burials were an important aspect of each summer of warfare.
“How are your youngest men faring?” Caolte asked.
“They’re holding their heads high. Not a small feat considering they lost friends, eight of them, this afternoon. They accounted themselves well in battle. This was their first, and the experience will serve them well in the end,” Brock replied.
“And Auran’s squad, have you decided what you’ll do with them?”
“Dividing them up into other squads will hurt their confidence. They will bond together strongly in their grief, and I think they’ll be the better for it.” Brock answered solemnly.
“And as squad leader?”
Brock took a thoughtful pause before answering. “With Auran dead, they have no veteran presence. I believe I’ll move Avery over from Tam’s command. He’s been with us for three years and has a sensible head on his shoulders. He’ll keep them focused and well prepared.”
