Act of Will wh-1

by Andrew James Hartley

  We sent some of the infantry to recover the corpses of the raiders so we could inspect them, but they couldn’t find them, or they lost them, or something.

  “How is that possible?” I yelled at the young officer in charge of the detail. “They were at the lighthouse. Did you find the lighthouse?”

  “They weren’t there,” he said. “Not when we got there. Somebody must have taken them.”

  Great. I doubt we would have discovered anything from them, but it was disheartening to have missed the opportunity of learning something from our brush with death.

  “I hear you did your part at the lighthouse,” said Orgos.

  “I guess,” I said, uncertain whether I was proud of the fact or not. The whole thing had unnerved me rather.

  “You guess what?” said Renthrette, appearing at my elbow.

  “Nothing,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t pursue it.

  “Sounds like Will was quite the warrior,” said Orgos.

  Her slim mouth frowned.

  “I didn’t see,” she said flatly. “I think he helped.”

  Orgos shrugged uncertainly and carried on what he was doing. That was it: Will the conquering hero risking his life for his comrades, for her miserable brother, no less, wading courageously into the fray, saving the day with his finely honed skills, and all she could come up with was an “I think he helped.” Great.

  Lisha and Garnet supervised the loading of the wagons and I wandered the streets, ready to relay messages from our stationed guards. That was the official story, anyway. In fact, I was sick of hanging around the harbor and being asked for advice by adolescent infantrymen who couldn’t figure out a way to get a barrowload of coal into the back of a wagon without tipping it all over the dockside. So I excused myself, grabbed a few bottles of beer, and tried to impress some local women with tales of my heroic exploits. Another failure.

  I slept for the first ten miles or so, slouched over the tailgate of the third wagon with my crossbow beside me. When I woke there was a thin sea mist rolling about us, so that the horses and wagons a few yards away were pale and indistinct. Lisha ordered that we close up, and soon the horses behind us had their noses to our wheels. I patted them awkwardly and offered them apples on the end of my short-sword.

  Duke Raymon had gone on ahead, casting politic smiles of confidence and, more significantly, pouches of silver in his wake: ten silver pieces for each of the party “for expenses.” All things considered, I supposed, I wasn’t doing too badly: unless, of course, the raiders tried smashing our convoy and its poxy escort of schoolboy soldiers. Then I would be doing very badly indeed.

  Garnet was riding alongside a handsome young cavalry officer with blond hair trailing from beneath his helmet. I couldn’t catch what they were saying, but they seemed to have connected somehow. Once, the officer threw back his head and laughed loudly, flourishing his lance in a strong right hand. Garnet nodded enthusiastically and showed off his ax. They wanted something to happen: could hardly wait. Even their horses seemed to be tapping out dance steps on the road, as if eager to gallop away from the wagons and into the fray.

  Close by, a pair of the officer’s men (they couldn’t have been more than my age) swapped nervous smiles and lies about past experience, glancing around the countryside with studied carelessness. I was still watching them when the cry went up from the back of the column, “Raiders! Raiders to the rear!”

  Instant confusion. All around me the faces of the escort soldiers were torn with panic. Their horses snorted and kicked their front hooves. At least one soldier was unseated and thrown to the road, his mount bolting off into the mist. Mithos passed me, spurring his horse to the rear of the column and shouting, “How many of them are there? Where’s the infantry commander?”

  The wagons collided as some increased their speed and some stopped outright. The horses caught between them neighed and stamped furiously. I scrambled out and up to the roof where two young infantrymen were shouting at each other.

  “Douse the coal,” I said, starting to tip one of the huge water barrels. “Soak it.”

  They did so in stunned silence and then stood there, waiting for me to tell them all was well, or what to do to make it so. I primed my crossbow and looked out over the backwards snake of the misty wagons. They were all still now, and clogging the roadway so that the cavalry were spilling out at random and gathering in aimless huddles around the tail of the convoy. The fog was still too thick to see properly, but I could hear the officers shouting for word of the attackers. God willing, it was a false alarm.

  Mithos and Lisha had dismounted and were urging the infantry into a protective line against the wagons, the heads of their long spears extended to keep the invisible horsemen at bay. But the cavalry had no idea what they were doing, and as their commanders yelled, the force split, some inside the defensive spear wall and some out. I saw Garnet charging amongst them, trying to draw them together, his ax and shield raised. At his elbow rode the blond officer, cloak flying out behind him as he spurred his horse towards the rear. He had drawn his saber and held it aloft in a clean, white-gauntleted hand, so that it flashed in the soft morning light. He looked at me, or rather at something in my direction, and I saw his earnest, commanding features. Garnet joined him, his face lost in the shadow of his horned helm, and they cantered out of sight.

  There was a moment of stillness. Then it started.

  SCENE XXVIII Chaos

  We heard the raiders before we saw them: They came charging in through the mist, loosing arrows that flashed out of nowhere and streaked like sparks into the open wagons. They appeared only for a moment, their crimson cloaks whipping about them, their faceless, bronze helms crested with scarlet horsehair. Their bows were drawn again almost as soon as the first arrows left their hands. They aimed and shot in a single motion as their horses pounded the earth beneath them. Our soldiers fell back with terror as the crimson specters materialized, loosed their arrows, and wheeled away. Then there was a moment of stillness, a shocked hole in the morning.

  The silence was filled by the groans of the injured or dying. Officers cried out to regroup or extinguish the flames, and the panic-stricken infantry shot bows and crossbows blindly into the mist, hitting nothing. Then came the drumming of hooves and the cry of realization as they came again, the scarlet soldiers shooting their flaming arrows.

  They never came within more than thirty or forty feet of the spear line, but by the end of their second assault I could see seven or eight of our men dead or close to it and one wagon already well ablaze. Mithos was screaming for crossbowmen and lining them up behind the kneeling rank of spears. Renthrette joined him and they stood at either end of the line, their bows drawn back and ready.

  There could be no more than a couple of dozen raiders attacking, but their skill and training made each of their men worth several of ours. Mithos ordered our cavalry back and out of danger. The blond officer protested angrily, then wheeled his horse with contempt and rode it back to the blue-cloaked horsemen. I heard him calling to them, saw the light on his raised saber again, and thought vaguely about how noble and courageous he seemed. Mithos was crouching with the archers. I think I called something encouraging out to the cavalry officer, but I’m not sure.

  They came as before and their arrows rattled into the wagons like burning hail. Two more infantrymen fell before Mithos gave the order to shoot.

  The heavy crossbows jolted in the inexpert hands of the infantry and several bolts flew wide, but there was also a staggered smack as some found their targets, and two of the crimson-cloaked horsemen fell. A great chestnut stallion, a jet of blood shooting from where a bolt had pierced its neck, stumbled and crashed down, casting its rider over its head and pinning him to the earth. The others reined their mounts and turned them about, their order momentarily broken. A shout of triumph rose up from the spear line.

  The young cavalry officer roared something at Mithos and spurred his horse through the spears, his sword lifted high above his
head. Without waiting to see who followed him, he galloped after the raiders. About thirty horsemen went after him, through the ruptured spear line, vengeful elation in their raised voices and lowered lance heads. Mithos, his arms spread wide, shouting incoherently, tried to bar their path, but they brushed him aside and he fell into the ditch. I was running towards the infantry, who now stood cheering their comrades on, when I saw the fear in Mithos’s eyes as he stumbled to his feet. Dimly, I realized that he was listening.

  I stopped running as all about me fell simultaneously still. There were horses coming from the north. A lot of them.

  Through the mist we could just make out the blue and silver of the cavalry as the raiders they chased slowed and turned to face them. Then we saw the others, fifty or more of them, their scarlet and bronze blurring through the fog as they bore down on the Greycoast cavalry. The raiders hit them side-on at unbearable speed. I doubt that the young officer knew they were there till he felt the tip of a lance tear through his side.

  I was close to Mithos now and I saw him wince as the two forces clashed, the blue swept aside by the crimson. He watched, unflinchingly, trying to piece together the carnage that the mist veiled. Then came a sound from our ranks: slow, horrified disbelief, like the gasp that ripples round a theatre audience, stupidly amazed.

  Lisha appeared among us.

  “Where’s Garnet?” she demanded. Mithos didn’t respond, so she seized his arm and shook him.

  “Where’s Garnet? Mithos! Did he go with them?”

  In a dazed tone, his eyes still staring towards the sounds of clashing steel and shouts of pain, he said softly, “Yes. Yes, I think so. I didn’t see him go, but I think he did.”

  Lisha turned away and shouted, “Renthrette! Get the rest of the cavalry together and take them to the rear of the column. The raiders will come back and I want what’s left of the cavalry to hit their flank. Orgos, get that spear line together. Now! Will, get down here and make sure every crossbow is loaded and ready. Then help me get these archers into a line behind them. Shoot over the top and bring the horses down. If we hold out against the first wave, I want the spear line to advance and deal with the fallen enemy. Orgos, are you listening?”

  She turned back to Mithos and he nodded once and began calling orders to the spear company. Orgos threaded himself through the line, hurriedly repositioning hand grips and adjusting shield straps. Lisha watched Mithos for a split second and then leapt onto her horse.

  “Will,” she said, “take care of the archers and crossbowmen.”

  “Me?”

  She kicked at the stallion’s flanks so that it shuddered away. I turned to the frightened archers and waved them into a line behind the spears. The crossbowmen bent double over their weapons, drawing back the slides and fitting bolts with their free fingers. They were about ready when the sound of hooves set us staring into the soft, dreadful greyness ahead.

  Before the riders emerged it was clear that there weren’t many of them. There were in fact four, in ragged blue cloaks, with their weapons shattered and their eyes mad. Garnet was with them. He tore the helm from his head and gasped the air as he rode. His shield was splintered and the left side of his face was covered with blood. He raised his ax for us to see but there was no pride or joy in his eyes. He looked numb with shock, almost lifeless. Afraid.

  The infantry watched them as if they were ghosts. Close by, somebody began to weep. The four cavalrymen stopped and stared about them, unsure of what to do next.

  “Join the cavalry at the back,” shouted Mithos. They passed outside the spear line to where Renthrette and Lisha were silently walking the remaining horsemen away from the caravan, into the misty field. Mithos turned, and for a moment, his eyes met mine. No expression showed in his face. I smiled despite myself and longed to be elsewhere.

  “Stand firm, Will,” said Orgos darkly as he passed, reading my thoughts.

  For a minute or two there was silence. The soldiers around me shifted uncomfortably, their nervousness increasing. Then Mithos called, “They are coming! Crossbows to the front.”

  I pushed forward through the double ranks of spears and the others followed me. We found ourselves on the front line at the edge of the road, nothing between us and the lines of shadowy crimson horsemen. I turned to Mithos in alarm. “We’re all going to die,” I whispered.

  The words just came out: Honest. Scared.

  “Quiet, Will,” he answered, quickly, without looking at me. “They will charge any moment now: try to break the line by hitting us directly. When they are in range, shoot. Then drop into the ditch and let the spearmen advance over you.”

  I think he was going to say more, but the mist suddenly thinned and a gasp of dismay slid out of our troops. The enemy were trotting towards us, no more than 150 yards away now, in a long, tight line. Their horses were calm and massive, their lances raised like a thicket of steel. Even at this range you could see their uniform bronze-faced helms: a true army.

  I looked for the remains of our cavalry but they were nowhere to be seen. The line of crimson-cloaked soldiers kept coming. God, there were a lot of them. Seventy or more. Half of our sixty cavalry were dead and the rest were gone with Lisha and Renthrette. I stood with seven other crossbowmen in front of about sixteen spearmen and nine or ten archers. We didn’t have a chance, but the raiders weren’t going to give us an option.

  And I think it was then that I noticed that one of the raiders was different from the rest. His bloodred helm was topped with a pair of horns, and his cloak looked heavy, like it was made of fur lined with crimson silk. He carried something that might have been a spear or a staff of some kind, and he never moved at all.

  With a breath of quiet resolve they surged towards us. Mithos yelled the order and there was a thin swish of bows from behind me. Still they came on, their steeds churning the grass as they galloped on. None fell to the arrows. I held up my hand. A second pattering of arrows flew overhead and fell harmlessly behind them. In four or five seconds they had halved the distance between us.

  Wait. Wait.

  “Shoot!” I shouted. I shot for the neck of a white charger with a cloak of crimson over its leather barding. It shuddered as the bolt struck home and dropped to its knees, but the rider slid easily from the saddle and drew out his scyax. Mithos grabbed my shoulder and thrust me to the earth. I didn’t even see how many we’d brought down. Not many, I think. We fell on our faces in the drainage ditch and the spearmen stepped over us.

  My hands fumbled for the crossbow slide and began tugging it back. The sound of the horses grew deafening. Through the legs of the spearmen I saw their speed break as they hit the embankment and a couple of them stumbled. The horses lurched up the grassy slope and, refusing to go further, boiled around the spear line. I saw one horse, unable to halt its advance, lunge and spit itself upon a spear, falling only a couple of feet away from where I crouched. The spearman in front of me suddenly cried out and fell heavily, blood gurgling from his lips. He wasn’t the only one.

  The raiders pulled back. I suppose the order to advance was given before they realized how large a hole gaped in our poor defenses. I think six or seven of our spearmen had fallen and the line no longer really existed. As the raiders drew away I could see the vast hulks of their dead horses. We had killed only two of the raiders themselves.

  “Draw your swords,” shouted Mithos. The enemy were dismounting, unwilling to force their reluctant mounts on our meager spear line. They were coming on foot, grimly, deliberately, with their huge, cruel-headed scyaxes sparkling coldly in their hands. There were so many of them, it seemed madness to resist but, knowing what would surely happen if we attempted to surrender, I finished cocking my crossbow and struggled to my feet.

  Vaguely I smelled the sour smoke of two wagons blazing at the front of the convoy and, with a defiant cry, aimed and shot at the advancing line. The bolt struck one of them in the head, rang out sharply, and glanced away. He paused for a second and came on. Terrified, I reache
d for my sword.

  Orgos was beside me, his twin swords with their fine long blades held out before him. On my left a soldier dropped his spear and fled, crying bitterly. With murderous calm the enemy clambered up the embankment to where we waited. When the first man reached the top, Orgos cried out and fell on him. Mithos followed suit and a handful of others lunged and slashed inexpertly with their swords. More raiders pressed around us. I stabbed at one and he parried it easily. A young infantryman fell to a scyax beside me and his hot blood splashed across my arms.

  That was enough for me.

  I moved back from the fray as Orgos’s inspired blades swept a bronze head from its shoulders and then turned to fend off the strokes which fell upon him from all sides. I ran, turning to watch only when I was safe behind the heavy wheel of one of the wagons. My hands shaking worse, I fumbled with my crossbow and wondered if I could catch one of the stray horses and make a run for it.

  Then out of the mist came the remnants of our cavalry with Garnet at the head, Lisha and Renthrette on the flanks. The Greycoast lancers hit the dismounted raiders in the flank, stunning them with the impetus of the wild charge. For a moment the tide changed and several of the enemy fell. But the advantage was lost as soon as the enemy got over the surprise. Then they turned to face the cavalry, some of them hacking at the horses to stop the advance while the rest retreated to their mounts.

  What was left of our spear line broke rank and plunged down the embankment after them. There was a familiar flash of amber light, and the raiders seemed to slow, unsure of where they were or what they were doing. And out among them, leading the charge, was the source of the fiery flash, Orgos. He was a demon. Of the dozen or so men the raiders lost that day, I think Orgos killed half of them. Mithos ran with him and Garnet harried them from the saddle, his ax tracing wide and brutal arcs. I crept out from behind the wagon and stood up to watch.