The Channeling (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 3)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Prince William asked, irritably waving at the Center. “As you can see, they’ve stabilized things. And I have retained forty armsmen for our close-in protection.”

  “For now, they certainly have,” Advisor Declan agreed smoothly, “however—” he paused as a storm of magic was loosed by the wizards of the army at the Frog Armsmen besieging the Left Wing.

  Under the onslaught, the Baron’s Right reeled back from the Prince’s Left, and the royal lines slowly started to stabilize and rebuild.

  “As you can see,” the Prince said smugly, “Quinn will not be the only one to take honor from this field.”

  “Yes, of course,” Declan agreed looking uneasy and with a bit more urgency in his voice than the last time he spoke, “however, if I might urge a temporary relocation of the command group to a point further back in the lines, my lord Prince?”

  “Why, whatever for?”

  “Something doesn’t smell right…I think the wisest course is—” the Prince cut him off.

  “Doesn’t smell right?” he asked with disbelief. “I don’t care what it smells like; your nose will not determine the location of this command tent, do I make myself clear?”

  “It was not my nose that I was referring to,” Declan said urgently, “I urgently advise you to reconsider. We can fall back among the reserves and ensure our safety.”

  “Whatever for?” the Prince demanded angrily, “the Left is relieved, the Center holds and the Right holds—or even,” he added grudgingly, “advances. For what reason would you have me cower like a skirtless church mouse scurrying away to a corner!”

  “I would not have you cower, my Prince!” Declan said with alarm. “I would but have you act with all prudence in order to protect your person.”

  “It smacks of cowardice to my ears,” William said dismissively as he turned back to stare with gloating eyes as his much larger army took heavier casualties, but slowly began to turn the battle in his favor. “Yes, securing the services of additional Wizard Adepts was a wise decision,” he nodded, verbally patting himself on the back. “Armsmen, I think it best Lord Declan removed himself for a cup of wine to settle his nerves. He can return after consuming it,” he waved his hand.

  “But my Lord Prince! You have hit precisely upon my concern: where are the Baron’s Wizards?” Declan said, struggling slightly as the Prince’s personal guard started to drag him away.

  William started and then blinked. Once again he looked at the battlefield with a discerning eye before shrugging, “The man claimed he was quite short of coin for the tax man. Perhaps he simply couldn’t afford it,” he mused before finally turning away dismissively.

  “My Lord Prince, please give me leave to stay. I—” started Declan.

  Suddenly there was the sound of thunder—or rather the pounding of hooves on the battlefield.

  “Cavalry!” William shouted angrily. “The man claims he’s a pauper; meanwhile he dresses his sister up like a tart, has over 800 armsmen, and now unveils heavy cavalry as well? Froggor,” he shouted, “you go too far!”

  The Prince took several deep breaths before realizing that, while he could hear them, he had yet to see the Baron’s Knights.

  “Can someone point out where they are? The cavalry, where are they?” he demanded, anxiously looking behind him before sighing with relief that his ears had not deceived him at they must be coming from behind the baron’s lines. “I cannot see them.”

  “Where are they?” cried out the various hangers-on around him.

  “The enemy weakens on the Left, but I do not see….” cried an armsman.

  The Prince’s head was still swiveling back and forth when, of a sudden, the weakened enemy Right Wing—weakened thanks to his strategic use of wizardry, he reminded himself—seemed to reel away from the Center, contracting in order to put more pressure on the enemy Left.

  “I think it might be time for some more fireballs from the Strategic Magic group,” William mused turning to another runner. “New order for the Wizards: tell them that they are to finish off the Baron’s right wing so that McGrath can counterattack their center.”

  The courier had just turned to go when there was the loud crash of metal hitting metal, and suddenly the left corner of the Center—a group under his direct command—disappeared in an orgy of blood and trampled bodies as the Baron’s Heavy Cavalry suddenly appeared in their midst.

  “No!” the Prince shouted. “How on earth did they get so close to hit our lines like that?!”

  “Magic, my lord Prince!” Lord Declan shouted, forcing his way back into the command tent. The wine literally dripped from his beard, suggesting he had taken the order to finish a cup of wine and complied as quickly as he could, “I fear the Baron’s wizards cast an invisibility chant!”

  “On over one hundred heavy cavalry? Preposterous!” William cried angrily.

  “And yet…” Declan trailed off as the Cavalry smashed their way through the Center line. Then, instead of turning to roll up the Center, they pointed their lances in the direction of the command tent and roared forward.

  William sucked in a breath. “Armsmen, prepare to hold them with a fighting retreat! My horse! My horse! We must withdraw,” cried the Prince Marshal.

  Unfortunately, his fine-looking horse proved skittish; it took him three tries before he could get his foot in the stirrup and swing himself onto the horse’s back.

  “Withdraw to the reserves!” he cried.

  Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the town bell ringing and the town’s gate swung open, unleashing a horde of armed militia and townsmen who ran wildly to join the battle.

  “Join the Prince,” shouted Declan.

  “We must pull back to defend his highness,” screamed courtiers, grabbing everything from horses to donkeys as they attempted to join the Prince in his retreat.

  The Prince put his heels to his horse’s ribs, digging in his spurs to encourage the animal to its fastest speed. But he must have put the spurs in too deep because the beast bucked wildly even as it took off, sending the Prince crashing to the ground.

  “My arm! My Arm!” he screamed, clutching his arm which now hung unnaturally beside his chest. “Someone help me to a horse!”

  “My Prince!” Declan cried anxiously, and then swung over on the pack donkey he’d managed to secure holding out an arm for his liege.

  “You would have royal blood ride a donkey?!” William shouted in outrage.

  “Quickly! We must egress before we are captured and put in mortal dire!” Declan said urgently and, seeing the now-cantering enemy knights bearing down on him, the Prince Marshal cast dignity to the wind and accepted the arm.

  “Let us ride!” he shouted, and as soon as he secured his seat he decided to put the spurs to the pack animal. He was riding a bit further back than was his usual, so he gouged the beast’s upper leg—but at least the creature was motivated.

  It started to run and then attempted to buck, but thankfully it was so overloaded with both of the men—plus its remaining packs—that it couldn’t throw them.

  “Yah! Yah!” shouted the Advisor. The enemy was approaching much faster than he cared for—it was going to be a near run thing if they could reach safety in time!

  Chapter 38: Hard Pressed

  “The Prince is in danger!” shouted a Warrick armsman. The lines had gotten so mixed up at this point that members of all three companies had been thrown together in no particular order.

  The Swan’s left company had been in a fighting retreat, while the center had been savaged. Her right had been penetrated in several places, but fortunately the wizards had worked their magic before they were overrun entirely.

  But now they were all mixed together.

  “Do you have a point? Ignore the Center; we have to hold the Left!” Falon shouted.

  “The Prince. Ride! Ride!” shouted the armsman, ignoring her orders in favor of watching the drama play out in the Center.

  �
��Of all the—! You’d better put your eyes forward before I have you horse-whipped!” Falon snapped.

  “He made it! The Prince is safe,” the armsman cried happily.

  “What…he did?” Falon couldn’t help but look back and watch as the Prince reached the reserves and found safety. Then she looked back at the crazed militia charging toward them.

  “Prepare to hold! Prepare to receive a foot charge!” she shrieked over the cheers. “Eyes forward, curse you—eyes forward before we’re overrun!”

  An enemy armsman lifted up a pole, and atop it was a head.

  “McGrath! It’s McGrath,” shouted a man further up the line—one who was definitely not a part of Falon’s company.

  There was an almost universal groan.

  “Stand your ground. Hold—hold!” Falon screamed at her distracted and now-demoralized people.

  “The Center is collapsing. They’re starting to fall back!” shrieked a man.

  “We’re doomed!” shouted one of the new men—a former criminal—throwing down his arms and running.

  “Save yourselves while you can!” cried another turning to run.

  Then a shout sounded from the far Right of the field, about as far as from her position on the Left as you could get.

  “Fight! Into your rows and stand your ground, curse you!” Falon screamed as the overwhelming number of the enemy reached her position.

  “There are too many of them!” shouted a warrior, turning around and then seeing her in his path. For a second he seemed to waver on the tipping point, and then a red madness entered his eyes. He screamed wildly and charged at her.

  Seeing murder in his eyes, Falon side-stepped his attack and instinctively followed up with a straight thrust. The moment her sword pierced through his stomach, they both stopped as if frozen.

  Falon gaped with surprise at what she’d just done; such a wound was mortal unless taken to the Wench for healing. In effect, she’d just taken another’s life without a thought.

  “You…” the man said, his word an accusation. He opened his mouth again and stream of blood started to pour out of his mouth. Reaching up with his hand, he touched the blood and looked at it with surprise before his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. Falling first to his knees, and then onto his side, the man twitched and kicked several times before falling still and his body went limp.

  Falon’s stomach roiled, but before she could grapple with what had just happened there was a thunderous crash from the line.

  Falon jumped as the sound of metal striking metal nearby caused her to snap back to the present with sudden urgency. Wild eyes were looking her direction for comfort, assurance, and the threat of something worse behind them than whatever the enemy threatened at the front.

  “Stand your ground!” she screamed, waving her sword in a wild arc around her. Seeing a man staggering around dumbly, as if shocked, she stomped over and turned him in the direction of the battle. “Back at them, warrior!” she shouted, kicking him in the arse hard enough to send up staggering three steps forward and almost but not quite fall down. “The Line!” Falon shouted, stomping up and down the line. When an enemy armsman forced his way through and stuck his sword in the back of a man in leathers, she charged and swung her sword.

  Power surged and one blow was enough to send the armsman to his knees. A second, and then a third, saw the enemy laying prostate on the ground unmoving.

  “Hold!” she shouted as a wedge of armsmen tried to force their way through the weakened area.

  Then, barely audible over the battle cries and screams of wounded, she heard a yell.

  “Hedgehog!” it was Darius. “Spears and polearms outside; swords and axes in the middle.”

  “You heard him,” Falon shouted even though she was almost certain no one but her was paying any attention, “Spears out. Spears out! Form the Hog!”

  “For the Glory of Saint Pritchard!” shouted an enemy warrior armed with a maul as he crashed through the line. His eyes were wild and his beard was soaked with blood. He took two deep breaths and began to swing his maul around madly, “A man who illuminated the darkness with his all-seeing holy eye! Death to paganism! Death to Traitor—”

  Falon cut him off with an attack that nearly took his head off, but which he managed to narrowly avoid as he swayed off-balance.

  “His eyes may have been holy, but I’ll wager the rest of his wasn’t,” Falon snapped, lashing out with a foot and kicking the other man in the leg. She followed this up with another attack that sent the maul-wielding man crashing into a soldier behind him.

  Using the other man to break his fall, he bounced back at her, swinging his maul over his head for a potentially devastating strike.

  “Do not mock the Holy Eye!” shouted the man.

  Falon dodged to the side and countered only to be blocked.

  “Saint Prichard! Saint Pritchard,” hollered the enemy, “of the Holy Eye!”

  “A-Boar Knife!” Falon yelled, trying to shout over him and drown out his ‘holy eyes’ nonsense, “a-Boar Knife for the win!”

  “Saint George for Warrick!” roared a man in plate, who was missing a helmet. He crashed into the maul-wielder, sending the both of them to the ground. There was a tussle and both men stiffened, then a man Falon recognized as Lord Casper lurched back up to his feet, pulling a bloody dagger out of the other man’s belly.

  “Good to see you, Sir!” Falon exclaimed, cautious of the bloody blade in his hand as she reached over to help Captain Casper to his feet.

  “Good to still be here,” Casper Warrick said shortly. Then, shaking her off, he paused to look around and shook his head.

  “The Captain’s with us, boys!” Falon shouted to encourage the men, her eyes taking in the battered group of Warrick Armsmen clustered behind the Captain. Something in the order of thirty tired battered and blood-spattered men remained—which meant well over half of his personal guard yet survived.

  There was a weak and ragged cheer in response, but it was a cheer nonetheless.

  “What is your command?” Falon asked, eyeing the Lordling’s blood-spattered armor critically. It looked like whether he’d been seeking glory or had it thrust upon him without a choice, Lord Casper had been in the thick of it.

  “Lord McGrath, of the Blood Bath, is dead,” he informed her grimly.

  “I’m aware. They showed us his head on a pike earlier,” Falon said. “Fortunately, the Prince sent his wizards.”

  “The Left Wing is collapsing and with the Blood Bath dead, the Prince in retreat. The Center falls back in disorder; any hope we had of holding it together is gone,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his right hand.

  “We’re forming a hedgehog now, Captain. The rest of the Left may rout, but with you and your armsmen here alongside all the rest of our warriors we’ll hold. I have no doubt,” she said stoutly and stomped her foot to hide the quiver that had started in her leg and threatened to spread throughout the rest of her body.

  “I’ve no notion how the Right is doing, but as far as the Left and Center are concerned the day is lost,” Captain Casper Warrick said shortly. “You may think the Swan Company will hold indefinitely, but as its Captain I have to be more realistic. Without reinforcements this unit is as good as lost.”

  “What are you saying?!” Falon shouted.

  “Mind your tone with me, Sir Falon!” Casper snapped back, forcing Falon to swallow a half a dozen angry words. “As I was saying: the day is lost, not just for the Left but for this Company as well, until and unless we can get enough reinforcements to break it out. That’s why I am taking my armsmen with me to plead with the Prince for reinforcements. I’m passing the Company over to your capable hands until I can return,” he looked at her searchingly, “are you man enough for the job, Lieutenant? Or should I leave one of my armsmen in charge while I go?”

  Falon stared at him. This was beyond her calculations. He was going to leave until he could return with reinforcements. And what if the Prince, quite w
isely, decided to shore up the Center instead of throwing away good men to try and salvage the falling Left? Most likely, when Lord Casper said he was going to get reinforcements, what he really meant that he was leaving and wouldn’t return unless he received substantial reinforcements.

  He was cutting and running, all while proudly declaring that his bug-out boogie was all for the good of her and the men he was leaving behind to die.

  “No,” she bit out, “I can handle the job. As far as your armsmen, we can use as many as you can spare when you leave.”

  “I’ll need every man I have just so I can be sure I can make it to the Prince,” Casper said dismissively. “Well then, I’ll be leaving the Swan Company in your capable hands.”

  Falon glared at him as he gathered up the men from Warrick formed up a wedge and prepared to break out in a rapid attack to the rear.

  “It’s Battalion,” she said sourly, but of course by the time she thought to say it he was already out of earshot. After venting her spleen, the weight of what she now had to do started to weigh down on her like the crushing burden it was. Everything was all on her now. How did this seem to keep happening? She swallowed dryly lost in the moment.

  “A-breakthrough, a-breakthrough!” shouted the enemy warriors.

  “Follow me, boys!” shouted a knight in blue-steel armor, shoving his way forward and laying about him with a battle axe.

  “Reform!” shouted Darius, his voice much closer than before. “We have to close that gap and rebuild the wall.”

  “We’re all going to die!” screamed a man on Falon’s side of the line.

  “For the love of—” one man’s desperate scream was cut short with a sickening crunch, followed by the full-throated, bull-like laughter of the blue-steel knight.

  “Last chance to surrender, lads,” the Blue Steel Knight roared with laughter as he laid about him. “If you accept the Great Frog’s mercy then I can’t touch you, but if you keep fighting…” he threw back his head and chuckled with deep belly laughs even as his axe split another leather clad man’s helmet—and head—in twain with a meaty thud.