Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  That’s just enough, Symon knew. “Archers! Loose!”

  Another volley erupted from the Marlish bowmen. Arrows dropped more Lewmarians on the front line. Those behind recoiled.

  All except for Hunold.

  Enraged, the Warlord extended his halberd to his right then his left. He barked commands, which sent a handful of warriors from the head of the horde to the rear, where they disappeared into the bordering forest.

  They take to the rest of the river. They will cross at another point. And flank us!

  Symon could not consider that now. Not when the bulk of the force still lay before him.

  Hunold, shouting indistinctly, beat the head of his halberd against his chest. The edges and points pierced his skin and ripped his flesh. Blood seeped from his wounds, the drops merging to create streams of red that ran down the length of his exposed torso.

  He stepped forward, casually. He let the head of his halberd fall to his side as he took another step. And another. With each move forward, his men went along with him. Some stood straight like their leader. Others crouched. All advanced, their gazes on the shields and halberds.

  The mass of them reached the heads of the halberds first. They clanked their swords and axe heads against the bladed edges. The halberds wavered yet always returned to their intended positions.

  Their strikes are loose and without fury. They test us.

  Hunold and the front line of Lewmarians grew dense before the Marlish shield wall. They were too close to the Marlish lines for archers to hit and just out of range of the halberd blades.

  A stalemate.

  Hunold looked up and down the Marlish ranks. He studied the iron studs on the shields, the banded wood of their lengths. He peeked in between the few sparse gaps from shield to shield, searching for a lone weak spot.

  Symon, not wanting to take his eyes off of the Warlord for too long, surveyed his own ranks. The pavisers were strong men, trained well for this moment. Still, most were green in the art of engagement. Only a handful could say they saw heavy battle, the last time being the final skirmishes of the Century War. Such men had been mere child soldiers then, recruited when Marland faced a shortage of able-bodied souls to fill their ranks. While experienced, much time had passed since they saw such a threat. The others, lent from various manors throughout the island, had served well in their drills and marches. However, Symon knew their mettle would be sized up and tested in a few short moments. As would his.

  Somewhere down the line, a Marlish soldier – perhaps on loose footing due to the gravel and stones of the Chesa – slipped. He sopped into the river, the plop of his leg disturbing an otherwise subdued front.

  Hunold snapped his head, instantly noting the source of the racket. He pointed to his right, issuing no verbal command, for his soldiers knew what to do.

  They huddled en masse before the section of shield wall Hunold had indicated. Everitt, in response, directed a grouping of his own men to the spot.

  “Hold tight, men!” he urged. The Marlish infantry collected behind the pavisers and pole-men, at the ready to support them as needed.

  And need it they did.

  The Lewmarians disregarded the dangers of shield and blade before them and slammed up against the Marlish barrier. One enemy was instantly impaled by a halberd. Another lost an eye. A third suffered mortal wounds to his neck and left shoulder, the clefts squirting blood onto the row of shields.

  The barrier, against the force of the assailants, held. The pole-men and the rest of the infantry leaned the whole of their weight against the pavisers and their shields.

  Then the Lewmarians inched closer. One managed to clasp his fingers around the top of a shield. His neighbor lifted an axe head high, just above a paviser’s head.

  “No!” Symon yelled.

  The curved blade came crashing down, splitting the hard leather of the man’s helmet in two. He limped into the arms of the soldiers behind him as the other Lewmarian pulled the shield apart from the barrier to force a gap in the wall.

  The horde overflowed through the narrow space, their sudden presence and war cries inundating the Marlish defenses. Swords and axes clamored together as Marlishmen and Lewmarians fought amongst the tight quarters. No man could raise a weapon or thrust a blade without brushing against or knocking into a brother-in-arms. The absence of space lead to more shoving and pushing than actual swordplay, a dance of brute force that slowly thinned the Marlish ranks until at last the Lewmarians stumbled forth into the running water behind the defensive lines.

  And that is when the real battle began.

  With the defenses broken and flanked, the Lewmarians saw their advantage. They responded to the opportunity by unleashing their inner wild. They became feral creatures. More beasts than men, each Lewmarian lashed out at their Marlish counterparts. The Marlish retained their soldierly composure, yet in the face of so many rivals could not beat them back for long.

  Two Lewmarian axe heads fell upon one Marlish sword again and again. One Marlish shield sustained multiple blows from both mace and spear. Then the staff of a Marlish halberd broke. A shield shattered diagonally from top to bottom. The scene repeated itself over twice, then thrice, as more blitzes opened gaps in the shield wall.

  They broke our lines.

  Skulls were crushed. Limbs hacked. Screams grew in pitch as wounded men turned desperate before being silenced by blunt force and blades.

  Our lines.

  Symon felt the pull of his soldiers as they urged him back. The paviser he had stationed himself behind held his shield steady but had shied back from the rest, so as to continue to defend his Prince. Symon, ever the soldier, glanced thrust and swing from every enemy sword with his own. Though with the cluster of his men around him the carnage still felt removed, distant.

  A fourth gap, this one the largest by far, cleared a center portion of the shield wall. Hunold, having made his way there, pounded the face of two shields – one then the other – repeatedly, as did his men until finally the pavisers behind them faltered under the pressure. Hunold ripped the shield away from one, exposing the paviser. With two hands, he raised his multi-headed halberd and brought it down on the man. Once. A second time. A third.

  My brothers...

  Hunold turned his sights to another Marlishman, leaving the soldier he had killed. His fellow Lewmarians trampled over the body, which was now no more than broken bones and mangled flesh held within the mail and torn clothing of a soldier.

  “Retreat!” Symon barked. “Fall back! To the shore! To the shore!”

  Symon searched the width of the ford. In the roar of war, his cries went unheard.

  “Fall back!” he tried again. He screamed. His throat felt stretched and strained, as though the impact of his own emitted cries would rip apart the very flesh of his neck. “Retreat! Retreat!”

  Finally, some of his men took notice. They stepped away from the main battle line, careful not to turn their back to an enemy right on top of them.

  That’s it. Move back. Cluster again. We can draw away from the ford, toward the beach head. Reform the line.

  “Fall back! To me! To me!”

  Symon, for the first time since the shield wall was breached, glanced to the shore behind them. The archers had their arrows nocked. A few fired at random. But with the Marlish forces so well entwined with the enemy, firing was useless. Even the most expert among them had as much chance striking their countrymen as they did hitting an enemy.

  “To the shore! To the tree!” he commanded.

  Symon looked over his shoulder again. This time, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a few Lewmarians making their way to the rear of the Marlish line.

  They mean to cut us off, to flank us.

  He spotted two at first. Then four.

  Damnation...

  Symon broke from the circle of soldiers around him. He slipped through their defensive ring to rush to the back of the battle lines, to engage the four Lewmarians.

  Th
e first Lewmarian was caught by surprise. No sooner had he taken notice of Symon emerging from his protective circlet when he dropped his sword and gripped his neck. Symon, having closed the gap too quickly for the warrior to react, had slashed the Lewmarian’s throat.

  The other three were far less surprised but not much more prepared. The sudden flash of Symon’s blade, a ballet of swordplay displaying both precision and strength, caught them unawares. Symon, using the watery field of battle and his skills to full advantage, sliced through the first warrior. Then, picking up the fallen man’s sword, engaged the other two simultaneously. Their steel sang for a few seconds before Symon’s blades found their home within their guts.

  Symon withdrew his own sword, allowing the borrowed blade to remain inside one Lewmarian. As both assailants sank into the shallows, Symon waved his men back.

  “Now! Come on!”

  With the path clear, several fell back. For some the invitation to retreat from the chaos proved too tempting. They turned...

  Exposing their unprotected sides, those men fell.

  They crashed into the river. The Chesa threw up blood-stained water in their wake. The sight of collapsing fellows prompted more Marlish infantry to turn and escape. A fortunate few managed to emerge from the tributary unscathed. Many were not so fortunate.

  Too many.

  Symon noted one in particular – the scout he had chanced upon in the forest. Having fought back a Lewmarian into a deeper part of the ford, he had turned and ran. He had made it three-quarters of the way across the Chesa when the head of an axe cleaved through the mail of his back.

  He tripped forward, arching his back and grimacing as he fell. His head dunked into the river. Lifting his face, he gasped for air. Seeing an opportunity for an easy kill, a Lewmarian trudged up behind him, his axe head poised above.

  Symon’s sword blocked the assailant’s mid-swing.

  He knew not when he rushed into the river, nor did he remember stepping over the bodies of his fallen brothers to reach the scout. He recalled not the war cry he emitted to distract the warrior’s attention nor the same warrior’s grin as he glanced from Symon to the scout and made to cleave through the fallen man anyway.

  Symon only retained the vibration in his hand, extending the length of his forearm, as he held out his sword, which bore the weight of the axe head and the arms of the man who held it.

  Enraged, the Lewmarian swung his axe head horizontally toward Symon. Symon ducked. He slashed at the shaft of the axe, hoping to hack it in two. Yet the wood proved sturdy and hard, easily rejecting Symon’s steel.

  The axe came for Symon once, then twice more. Symon blocked each slash before gripping his blade and taking a defensive, half-swording stance. He looked down to the scout. To his surprise, the man was conscious. Pained and in anguish, however, still awake.

  “Go! Get to shore!”

  In response, the scout crawled out from under Symon’s protection as Symon blocked more blows. The scout stumbled through the remainder of the ford. One of the remaining pavisers who still had his shield came to his aid to provide him cover.

  Symon sustained another attack. This time, he allowed the Lewmarian to come close. Foolishly arrogant, the man overextended himself. Symon, seeing his opportunity, stopped his blade and pushed it off before planting the tip of his sword in the pit of the arm.

  The Lewmarian shrieked and fell to one knee. With his uninjured arm he gripped the opposing shoulder.

  Now.

  Symon pierced the base of his throat. Though covered in a neck guard of hard leather, the sword found its place. The Lewmarian slinked back. As he did, Symon surveyed the ford.

  Where his defensive line had once been now lay a line of splintered shields, discarded weapons and corpses; a narrow hillock traversing the ford, composed of overlapping Marlish and Lewmarian bodies. To the east of the Chesa, Lewmarians proceeded to emerge from the woods, reserves of fresh warriors having not yet spent their focus or strength in battle. To the west of the corpse line, his men stood scattered, apart from one another as more Lewmarians encroached upon them.

  An enemy band stepped over a scattering of corpses to converge on Symon. Symon backed away slowly, careful not to turn away from them. He spotted Everitt to his side with two other Marlish infantry, slicing his way toward the Prince.

  “Your Highness, run!” Everitt begged. Everitt cut down a Lewmarian, pushing the fallen aside, only to face a dozen between he and his sovereign.

  That moment had passed, Symon knew. Any deviation other than to face the enemies before him would result in a bloody death. Or worse: capture.

  Symon wrapped his hands around the hilt of his arming sword, preparing for what would come.

  The first advance came from his right. A hulking beast of a warrior lashed out at him with a mace of solid iron. Symon blocked it, the force sending a shudder through him. The Lewmarian swung again as a warrior to his left moved in. Symon deflected the mace and then pivoted to cut at the second man. The second leaned back, well out of Symon’s range. A third Lewmarian closed in, his spear poised. He jabbed at Symon as the first swung again. Symon blocked them both once more.

  Then the spearman and the mace-bearer lunged forward, extending their weapons at the same time. Symon had a fraction of a breath to react. As the spear point was closest, he whacked at it first, sending it away. The mace, however...

  Symon keeled over. He gasped, his lungs clawing at the air that escaped through his mouth. His arms fell around the mace head, which had thumped against his belly. Its owner towed at it, trying to break it free of Symon’s grip. Though expended, Symon held on a bit longer until his grip wrapped around his sword hilt again.

  He released the mace head just as the Lewmarian pulled it back. Finding his enemy exposed, he shot his sword upward. The tip was just near enough to pierce the underside of the man’s chin. The point entered the soft flesh, disappearing until it came up and through the ridge of his nose.

  Symon pulled his blade free and hurried away. The other four watched as their slain comrade splashed to his death. Their notice was short-lived. Shifting their attention to Symon, they charged.

  The Prince had nary a moment to straighten from his shock when a sword struck his ribs. Though it did not pierce his mail, it still hurt. Symon forced the blade away and parried a thrust from a separate warrior. He did so again from the other two. The butt of a staff struck the back of his leg. Symon fell to one knee. Exposed.

  Today I die.

  The spearman charged, his tip poised.

  A knight from nowhere collided head first into the spearman, sending him careening back. The knight, bearing the breastplate and helm of Voiceless, drew his sword and engaged the remaining three on their feet. He rebuffed every one of their advances while flashing his edge to their sides and over their heads. The whirling of his sword forced them to keep their distance.

  He fights... So precise. Such discipline.

  The mace bearer screamed and swung wildly. The knight turned, pitting the warrior between him and the other two. With the threat of the others momentarily quelled, he met his strikes in kind. The mace bearer, in frustration, charged.

  As though seeing the future, the knight simply extended his sword. The edge found the Lewmarian at the exact spot it needed, at the exact time.

  The Lewmarian collapsed as his two counterparts retreated and called their men forward to renew their assault. Symon, still clutching his gut, made to rise to his feet.

  The knight grabbed him by the collar to drag him from the river.

  “Where did you–”

  “Shut up and on your feet!” Dawkin yelled through the visor of his helm. “They are on the move. We need to find you cover.”

  Chapter 30

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Ely leaned in between the crenellations, watching the horror below unfold. Indeed, blood spilled forth. First from the neck of a Marlish guard. In slow succession, droplets of deep red burst from the gap just above th
e top edge of his gorget. His head craned back, throwing the surge of bodily fluid up in an arch. By the time the fatally-wounded man crashed to the ground, a curvature of blood had painted the cobblestones, alluding to more of what was to come.

  Other knights fell, all in quick succession, as the horde of barbarians descended upon them.

  Ely looked past the carnage below to the quay. There, loosely docked to the granite pathway of the wharf, had landed a Marlish galley. From its deck, Lewmarians continued to infiltrate the seaside streets of Arcporte. In sight of such a threat, Marlish citizens and foreign visitors alike dispersed in all directions, frantically trying to distance themselves from certain death. Those closest to the galley did so in vain, to fall and never rise again.

  “What is happening?” Ely whispered. Why is the harbor so poorly manned? Where are the magistrates? The soldiers who should be patrolling the wharf? Where?!

  As the last of the knights to respond to the enemy landing fell, the Lewmarians nearest the castle coalesced into a pack as they marched toward the barbican.

  Ely scanned the battlements, both those of the curtain wall where he stood and the ones at the gatehouse to his right.

  Where are the men?

  He considered shouting then considered his garb. He still bore the armor, including the helm, of a Voiceless.

  Damn it all. “Guards! Guards!” he shouted through the visor. “To your posts! To arms! To arms!”

  Not a soldier answered as he raced down the parapet walkway to the stairs, practically falling down the steps in his haste. He blew past servants and attendants who appeared oblivious to the dangers beyond the walls.

  No guard responds! And why hasn’t the war horn been sounded?

  Coming to the gate, Ely found the main portcullis raised and the draw bridge lowered.

  I’m too late, he realized as he spotted the first of the Lewmarian warriors traversing the drawbridge of the barbican, which was unmanned.

  He peddled backward, the shadows of the gatehouse overtaking him. The sconces that were usually lit to illuminate the recesses lacked flames, providing pitch in all recesses and corner were there should have been none.