“Your command?” Everitt asked.
Symon narrowed his eyes. He scanned the forest across the ford once more.
What am I to do?
Six scouts had been sent out since they had taken positions at the beachhead. Before the shallowest section of the river, they waited. Symon, considering the possibility that Hunold would traverse at another point, had half a dozen of his best men go forth to surveil the banks up and down the river along with the surrounding woods.
None had returned.
The forest beyond the water and behind them had quieted beyond what could be expected. Yes, there were the scattered words exchanged amongst his men, though they were directed to stay quiet. Their mutterings aside, the countryside offered not a familiar sound. No bird songs, nor creature calls. Even the wind had ceased to dance with the branches and leaves above. Such lack of natural discord unnerved Symon, so much so that he experienced trouble fermenting a single thought.
“James.”
At that, Symon glanced at his Right Captain.
“We should do something. The men, they grow nervous. I can tell.”
Symon looked over his shoulder to the soldiers. Pavisers behind their large shields. Archers, at the ready, with many having unloaded their quivers and set their arrows standing in the soft mud of the bank. Then there were the pole-men, along with some esquires and knights intermixed, all anxious and uncertain. Those troops right behind Symon stared up at Their Highness. Eager they were. Too eager. Just like children waking from a nightmare, wanting the comfort of a parent to tell them that the demons of their dreams would do them no harm.
Symon sighed, knowing that he could no such assurances. For their demons were real.
Nonetheless, he knew Everitt was right. He had to say something.
He set his sights on an archer to his far right. “You, there.”
The archer, a soldier a year or two his senior yet seemingly green in his battle experience, gaped at him. “Your Highness?” he said, voice cracking.
“Can you yell?”
“Uh, why, yes. Yes, My Lord.”
“Then, let us hear it.”
Symon shifted his attention back to the woods ahead. If the enemy, warriors from an inhospitable wilderness, choose to stay silent, then we will fill the void. Let us then see if they remain hidden, if they refuse to confront us.
The archer he had directed hesitated. “What, privy... What would you have me yell?”
“A battle cry, of course. No words, if you prefer. I want to hear a loud, clear shriek.”
“As you wish, My Lord.” The archer cleared his throat. He emitted a single yelp. “Ah!”
“That’s it?”
The archer, flushed, yelled louder. “Ahhhhh!”
Symon, unsatisfied, left his position to approach the bowman. The man recoiled.
“No need for that,” Symon assured him as he came to his side and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What is your name?”
“Name’s Wallace, My Lord. But me mates call me Hare.”
“Hare?”
“On account of my skills with the bow. I can bag any hare, rabbit or critter with one shot.”
Symon grinned. “Good. I’m counting on it.” Symon nodded to the woods across the Chesa. “You see those woods ahead, Hare?”
“I do, My Lord.”
“You have family?”
“My father and mother back at the hamlet. My sister is married to a cobbler the next town over.”
“Have you thought about what would happen to them if we fail here?”
At that suggestion, the archer’s eyes widened. “Why, no, My Lord.”
“Consider it now.” Symon peeked around him. Though he spoke low, he saw that all those within earshot leaned in, hanging on his every word. Exactly as he had hoped. “What do you think would befall your family?”
Symon waited. Hare looked down at his feet, then raised his head. “I suppose they would be killed.”
Symon paused. This may go too far, he told himself. This is something Ely, that Prince Fool, would say. Or Dawkin, with his wits. This is not me.
Yet I must.
“They would be butchered,” Symon insisted. “Cut to pieces. Like sheep.”
“Dear Mar.”
“But your family are not sheep. You are not sheep. Are you?”
“No, My Lord.”
“Hare, Wallace... Whatever your name may be. You are not a farmland animal to be taken lightly. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are a lion. A wolf. A leviathan of the deep waters. You are a beast, one who will do anything it takes to protect his own.”
“Aye, Sire.”
“What did you say?” Symon asked, his voice rising.
“Aye, Sire!” Hare responded, his tone matching Symon’s.
“Louder!”
“Aye!”
“Good. Now let them know it!” Symon grabbed Hare by the shoulders and directed him towards the woods across the Chesa. He pointed ahead. “Raise a battle cry that will break every branch and split every tree. Level the forest, Hare, and there you will find the enemy, quaking in their boots.” Symon looked over his shoulder. He saw the men continuing to look after them. This time, their eagerness was not borne of fear. It was fueled by determination, absent of hesitation.
“What say you, Marlishmen?” Symon asked. “Will you join Hare, here, in his battle cry?!”
“Aye!” they yelled in unison.
“I don’t think they heard you!” Symon signaled to the forest.
“Aye!” Their shriek rose from all, including Hare.
“For Marland!” Symon screamed, thrusting his sword into the air.
“Marland!” his men chanted. “Marland! Marland! Marland!”
Oooooolooooooo!
The horn blast cleaved their chant short. The soldiers fell silent. The blast was accompanied by a second, and a third.
Oooooolooooooo! Oooooolooooooo!
Symon looked to Everitt. His Right Captain stared back, as shocked as His Highness. Symon scanned the forest ahead, then directed his attention back to his men.
Hare, alarmed, looked to him. Symon met his gaze...
A javelin drilled through the base of his throat. The archer recoiled. Blood squirted in a wide arc, splattering all around him, including Symon. The other soldiers cowered as Symon stood over Hare, aghast.
“Incoming!”
Symon barely had a moment to look up when Everitt came crashing down on him. He hit the pebble-strewn bank with a thud as Everitt rolled on top, shielding him from the projectiles. Arrows landed from all sides, as did more javelins and crossbow bolts. Marlish soldiers fell by the dozens, some dead on impact, more crying in anguish. Those not paralyzed by shock crowded behind the paviser shields on the beach, though there were too few to protect all of them.
“Your Highness...”
“Retreat!” Symon commanded, ignoring Everitt’s concern. “To the tree line! Retreat!”
Everitt waved in a line of soldiers, who fell in around him and Symon to create a shield wall. Under their cover, he and Symon hurried to the tree line, away from the beachhead.
The two fell in behind a wide alder tree. Symon, leaning against it, banged the back of his head against its trunk.
“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” he admonished himself. “How could I have let my men position themselves without proper cover?”
“Tis my fault, Your Highness,” Everitt offered. “I should have surveyed the positions, counseled on the threat.”
“They are barbarians! Archery is far from their expertise. How did they learn that mode of combat so quickly? With stealth? And where did they get the weapons?”
Everitt, somber, gazed at Symon. “We underestimated the Lewmarians, My Lord. I fear they may not be acting alone.”
Dear Mar and all his Kin, Symon cursed to himself.
The swell of projectiles stopped. Symon, hearing the thuds cease, peeked from around the alder. On the banks of the Chesa, those of h
is men who had been hit and unable to retreat laid where they had been struck, wailing in agony. Or at least those still alive. The rest, who had fared less fortunate, dotted the stones and sand, forever still.
A Marlish soldier up the bank let out a shrill cry. Symon turned to discover a few precise arrows raining down on him. The last one pierced his cheek, whipping his head back. Another Marlishman, having suffered a bolt to his right thigh, was crawling to the cover of the woods behind him when he soon met the same fate.
“Bloody bastards!” Symon ground his teeth. “They’re slaughtering my men. Pavisers! Where are the others?”
“We stationed the rest of the shield bearers to the sides and rear when the scouts didn’t return, in case we were flanked,” Everitt said, at once realizing their folly.
“Well, that was another error in judgment. Shields to the beach!”
The remaining pavisers, drawn to the commotion, were already prepared for their orders. Their commanding officer came before Symon and knelt. “Your Highness.”
“Shields around every living man on the beach. Quickly! Get them to safety!”
“At once.” The officer placed his right hand over his heart and withdrew, all the while directing his men. Within seconds, pavisers spilled onto the bank to surround the wounded. In haste, they pulled them toward the tree line as more shafts careened in, striking sand and shields.
Ooo ooo ooo loooooooooo!
Three short burst followed by one long blast from a war horn.
“What now?” Symon asked.
As if to answer, shouts rose from the forest beyond the Chesa. Near and wide, the uproar was unanimous. Unnerving. Frightening. And focused.
Lewmarians rose from their concealed positions. From behind bushes and shrubs, stepping out from trunks and logs, they emerged. By the hundreds.
“Mar...” Symon muttered.
“Why, they must outnumber us two-to-one,” Everitt estimated.
“Try doubling that number.”
“Archers! Fire at will!”
“No!” Symon yelled. Planting both feet firmly on the ground, he straightened.
“Sire, crouch!”
No, Symon told himself. The men need to see me like this. Bold. With no regard for death.
His eyes scanned the beachhead. His sights settled on Hare’s body.
I need to regain this beach. Control this chaos.
Symon stepped out from behind the alder.
“James–”
Ignoring Everitt’s pleas, Symon bolted from cover. Arrows rose in arcs before him, from archers not wanting to pass the opportunity for an easy mark. Symon had anticipated their approach though. His steps had never been swifter. The projectiles shot overhead as he raced under to the cover of the nearest shield wall.
“Pavisers!” The crack of arrows biting into wood muffled Symon’s words but the pavisers still managed to single out his tone, turning their sights to their sovereign.
“To me!” he commanded, waving.
The shield bearers crowded around their Prince, who clamped a hand on their commander. Step by step, he guided the commander along with his unit to the shallowest part of the ford, where the water lapped against their ankles. The other shield units followed.
“Hold this line.”
“Yes, My Lord.” The shield commander made a series of gestures, dispersing his pavisers to form a barrier. As wide as the ford was, they had only enough men to establish a single line of shields.
It’ll have to do, Symon prayed.
The shrieks from the Lewmarians grew louder and denser. Symon watched through a gap in the shields as the enemy horde coalesced to the opposing bank.
Turning back to his men, who remained concealed behind trees and brush, he shouted. “Archers, nock your arrows and aim. Do not fire until my command.” Finding Everitt directly behind him at the nearest tree, he pointed the tip of his sword at him. “Gather the pole-men! But do not disperse. Not yet.”
Everitt nodded. He pivoted to give the command.
Symon shifted his attention back to the Lewmarians, who had bunched at the ford directly across from him and the pavisers. As wide as his line, but with far more men, Symon gathered that their line was at least four, maybe five men, deep. More than enough to overwhelm his pettily-erected shield wall.
“We could use those pole-men by our side, for support,” the commander suggested.
“Not yet,” Symon urged. “I have a plan.”
“I pray to Mar it works.”
As do I.
The chants from the Lewmarians changed tone, becoming shorter yet no less enthused. Symon watched as down the middle of the horde, the Lewmarians parted.
Warlord Hunold.
From a sea of fierce warriors their god in the flesh emerged. He had shed the animal skins and furs Symon had seen him in earlier, so that his chest was bear. Etched on his torso were scars testifying to every battle fought and endured. His eyes, more menacing now that he stared straight ahead, spoke of a fearlessness that knew no bounds, one that welcomed more cuts and scars. Eyes devoid of any concept of mercy.
In response to the demon before him, Symon rose.
“Your Highness!” Everitt admonished in a harsh whisper, along with a dozen other Marlishmen close by.
Symon ignored them all. He straightened, allowing the Warlord across the river to see him.
Hunold, whether impressed or amused, smirked. He raised his multi-headed halberd toward Symon and uttered a quick, guttural phrase.
“Darsha, darsha! Ol fre ui appresil xi rutta, xi rutta!”
Hunold spat into the Chesa, a gesture no doubt directed at Symon. He then thrust his halberd into the air, turned around and shouted. The Lewmarians, upon seeing their leaders face, returned his war cry with their own, each section of the line rising in volume as Hunold rotated all the way around. When he finally circled to a stop, he lowered the head of his halberd until it was flush with his chest. Then, in an arc, he used it to gesture to the line of pavisers stretched across the ford.
It begins.
Hunold shrieked, his blend of pitch and tone one Symon had never heard before. His men followed his lead, though their efforts fell short of matching the Warlord’s intensity. Symon dropped to one knee behind the shields as arrows and javelins whizzed overhead.
“Archers!” Symon yelled. “Draw! Aim for the center of the ford!”
His bowmen complied. A few loosed their arrows.
“Not yet!” Symon commanded. “Hold your draw!”
Symon shifted his attention to the pole-men and the rest of the infantry. Pointing to them with his sword, he commanded Everitt. “Every pole-man to the front of the line. Lower your weapons. Prepare to charge on my signal. Every other infantry soldier, whether with sword or spear, behind them.”
Though the raucous on the river was deafening, Symon saw Everitt reading his lips, understanding every word. He and his Right Captain had practiced the reading of each other’s’ lips since adolescence, at the suggestion of Everitt’s father, Baron Ralf, whose long career on the battlefield had required him to develop just such a skill. Though his brothers had done the same exercises with Everitt, none had mastered the connection like Symon.
Everitt, having received Symon’s directive, hurried down the length of the line to ensure every soldier knew his orders. The men, upon hearing the command repeated, nodded.
Ooo ooo ooo loooooooooo! Ooo ooo ooo loooooooooo! Ooo ooo ooo loooooooooo!
Symon, jolted, looked ahead. The lines of Lewmarians broke from the opposing bank, spilling forth into the Chesa. Hunold, his halberd raised, led the charge.
The river became a fury under their footfalls. A deluge of waves and droplets shot up, obscuring the enemy in a veil of water. The splashing overlapped their roars, as though the Chesa had taken their side, to favor their assault.
Symon, defiant, would have none of it.
He lifted the tip of his sword into the air. He waited. “Hold the line, men, hold the line!�
��
The men, some quivering, did as they were told.
Symon, noting the progress of the enemy, continued to wait. When the first Lewmarian stepped into what Symon considered the middle of the river, he lowered his sword.
“Now! Loose!”
A surge of arrows flew overhead, barely high enough to avoid the line of Marlish pavisers. The arc, line and low, struck the mass of Lewmarians. Ever foolhardy, the horde had charged with scant protection – save for a small shield here or a breastplate there – having been inspired by their leader’s own disregard of death. That cost them dearly, with much of the first line falling, to be trampled by their fellow warriors behind them.
Hunold, unscathed by the volley, accelerated.
Symon turned to Everitt and the line of pole-men. “Charge! Brace the shield wall! Charge! Charge!”
The Right Captain beat his sword into the air as he jumped into the Chesa. The line of pole-men followed his lead.
Projectiles from the depths of the opposing woods fell on the Marlish ranks. Soldiers dropped their halberds and collapsed into the shallows of the ford. But thank Mar, the volley was not as ruinous as before. The pole-men continued their charge.
Then, the Marlish line of pole-men met the Lewmarian onslaught. At the shield wall. At the same time.
As Symon had predicted, the blitz of Lewmarians overwhelmed the shield bearers. A few of the pavisers tipped backwards before their countrymen, with the heads of their halberds extended, yet still bravely counteracted the enemy force with a power all their own. Halberd after halberd, pole after pole, impaled the assailants. In a uniform act of precision, the fruit of years of drills and conditioning paid off in that one moment. Almost every sharpened blade found an exposed spot in the Lewmarian line. A throat. A shoulder. An eye. No part nor appendage was safe.
The pavisers, kneeling and bracing their shields against the weight of the enemy line, grimaced as blood sprayed from above. Dead and wounded Lewmarian bodies piled up against and even over their shields. But that had been enough to stop the first charge.
The pole-men, reaching over the heads and shields of the pavisers, withdrew their halberds from their marks and stabbed at the enemy again and again. The line of Lewmarians not wounded from the charge stepped back, out of range of the halberds, their eyes on the blood-soaked blades.
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 36
