by Ben Cassidy
Stockade was where Lord Ravenbrook had his headquarters, along with the other irregulars from Redemption. Lockhart and his men, by contrast, were all regulars in the Arbelan Army, members of Sir Richard Northhampton’s Dragoon Regiment.
Colonel Northampton was not at the Wall, or anywhere else in Jothland for that matter. The last Lockhart had heard, the man was ‘leading’ his regiment from his estate near the Forest Grim, back in Arbela. That left Lieutenant Colonel Yearling in charge of Northampton’s regiment. And despite Lockhart’s disdain for militia commissioned ranks, a lieutenant colonel did not outrank a full general of the militia.
Lockhart reached the bottom of the watchtower, and climbed down the turf embankment that made up the wall itself. Atop it was the palisade, a wooden wall with fire-sharpened tips and a rampart that ran along its length. A line of steps led down into the milefort itself, a rectangular, turf and palisade-lined enclosure that adjoined the Wall.
In the small courtyard of the milefort a dozen dragoons stood by their nags. Carbines were on their shoulders. They were all dressed and ready to ride.
Lockhart smiled. Sergeant Madison was always one step ahead of him.
The good sergeant himself stepped forward and saluted sharply. His face was covered with a well-trimmed but thick black beard. “Sir! My squad is ready for your orders.”
Lockhart gave an approving nod. “Mount up, Sergeant. We’re heading for Hangman’s Hill.”
Madison saluted again. “Sir, yes sir!” He spun on his heels. “Alright, you heard the Captain. Check your carbines and mount up.”
There was a bustle as the squad mounted onto their nags. They were dressed in leather buff coats, and armed with carbines and swords. Many, including Sergeant Madison, had wheelock pistols holstered at their belts.
A stable boy brought over Lockhart’s own mount, a larger and finer beast than the small and shaggy nags ridden by the other dragoons.
Lockhart mounted his horse. He wound his own wheelock pistol out of habit.
The stable boy handed the Lockhart his open-face lobster helm. He held it with both hands, struggling to lift it over his head.
Lockhart took the helm and put it on, latching it into place. He nodded to the boy, who scurried off in the direction of the stables.
Sergeant Madison wheeled his nag around. “We’re ready to move, sir.”
Lockhart ran an eye over the dragoons. Unlike the troopers of a cavalry regiment, the men wore no cuirasses or even helmets, but only their buff coats and slouch hats. The dragoons were essentially mounted infantry, able to rapidly move from one location to another, then dismount and fight on foot.
Lockhart motioned to Madison. “Lead the way, Sergeant. At a trot, if you please.”
The dragoons turned and trotted towards the northern gate of the milefort.
The guards at the gate gave a call. The heavy wooden doors swung open.
Lockhart and the dragoon squad rode out into the night, following the broad path that led north.
In the distance came several more flashes and echoes of gunfire. Something was certainly going on up there.
The dragoons pattered through the darkness, following the course of the road.
Lockhart knew from experience that it would take less than ten minutes to get to Hangman’s Hill. There was no point in exhausting the nags by forcing them into a gallop, not unless the situation looked to be extremely dire. He glanced back behind him, feeling the cold metal of the helmet press against his neck.
The gates of the milefort had already been closed. There was no sign of any disturbance to the south yet, but Lockhart knew that Sharpton would be keeping an eye on it.
Ever since the first major pushes of the Jombards against the Wall had been beaten back three weeks before, the barbarians had become cleverer with their attacks. They would often test one section of the Wall, only to throw their full strength at another section when troops had been moved to defend the first.
The dragoons manning the Wall had been stretched thin. The men were exhausted. In the last four weeks they had already lost almost two hundred men dead and wounded, a fifth of their total number. Repeated requests had been made to the government in Archangel to send reinforcements, but the replies had all been negative. The Arbelans were facing a virtual civil war with the rising of the cultists around the city of Kelmar. The Lord Protector and Parliament claimed that no men could be spared to help. Redemption was on its own.
And as much as Lockhart hated to admit it, it was because of Lord Ravenbrook and the ragtag militia from Redemption that the Wall had held against the Jombards this long.
The night was cold, and the scent of rain was on the air. The road was easy enough to see by the moonlight and starlight, and the long high shape of the Wall to the right made getting lost difficult. To their left were the smudges of more dark woodland, broken here and there by the occasional farmstead and field. White mist clung to the trees and lay about on the open fields in-between the woods and the Wall.
Lockhart kept his horse at a steady trot down the road. He glanced left and right out of habit, one hand on the handle of his pistol. Small groups of Jombards had been known to pass over the Wall for quick raids or other sabotage missions. It was rare, and usually the bands were hunted down and destroyed soon afterwards, but it was still a possibility. Even this side of the Wall could not be considered entirely safe.
The road began to climb up Hangman’s Hill. The dragoons kept their nags going at a steady trot, determined not to wear the beasts out. Another flash and bang sounded from one of the watchtowers up on the hill.
The road Lockhart and the dragoons were on, known as Military Way, ran parallel to the Wall for its entire length. It linked all the mileforts and sections of the Wall together, so that reinforcements could quickly be moved from location to another, signaled by beacons in the watchtowers and messengers that could ride the length of the Wall. Even at its extreme end, no part of the Wall was more than an hour’s gallop away from any other.
A shouted challenge came from a sentry on the rampart of the milefort that loomed ahead on the crest of the hill.
Sergeant Madison raised his voice as he rode. “Captain Lockhart and a squad of dragoons! Open the gates!”
There was a sign of movement on top of the walls.
The dragoons and Lockhart kept marching forward. The ground on the top of the hill leveled out slightly.
There was a creak, and the southern gate of the milefort began to open.
By the time Lockhart and his dragoons arrived, the doors were wide open. They rode into the small courtyard of the milefort, and dismounted.
The milefort on Hangman’s Hill was busy with activity, but Lockhart noticed that no one seemed particularly frantic or alarmed. The beacon on the nearby watchtower remained unlit.
Lockhart got off his horse, and handed the reins to a boy that had run out to help him. He removed his heavy lobster helm, cursing under his breath at the weight of it. He preferred not to wear the cumbersome piece of armor at all, but in the few times when the dragoons were forced to fight on horseback it served as a helpful visual sign to his men. Lockhart had taken to wearing it whenever he rode.
“Captain Lockhart.” A dragoon sergeant came forward and saluted. “It is an honor, sir.”
Lockhart nodded. “Sergeant Dyke. Report.”
Dyke glanced back at the Wall. “Nothing much, sir. Just a few of the howlers probing the defenses, that’s all. None of them have got past the trench. We haven’t seen more than a dozen of the blighters.”
Lockhart nodded. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take a look all the same, Sergeant.”
Dyke came to attention. “Of course, sir.”
Lockhart moved to the steps that led up to the Wall.
Sergeant Dyke followed closely behind him.
In the courtyard below Sergeant Madison barked orders out. The newly-arrived dragoons readied their equipment and stabled their nags.
&nb
sp; Captain Lockhart crossed over to the left watchtower. He grabbed the lower rung, then climbed up to the first story.
Two dragoons armed with carbines both saluted sharply as they saw Lockhart.
“At ease,” Lockhart said. He crossed over to the wall of the watchtower and peered out into the darkness.
Dyke came up through the hole in the floor, just behind Lockhart.
Lockhart scanned the edge of the woods on the eastern side of the Wall. “Where are they coming from?”
The first dragoon pointed towards a northern curve in the line of the forest. “From there, sir. They’re steering clear of the watchtowers, so far. They’re only sneaking out a couple at a time. Might be trying to dig up the lilies.”
Lockhart grunted, straining to see through the dim half-light.
The “lilies” were the first line of defense for the Wall, a row of sharpened iron stakes that were set into the ground and then covered with a shallow cover of grass and dirty. Beyond that was an eight-foot deep trench, the bottom of which was filled with sharpened wooden stakes and branches. The turf wall rose twelve feet above that, and was topped by the palisade.
“It’s been quiet for the last few minutes,” Dyke explained from behind Lockhart. “I think whatever it is, it’s done.”
Lockhart glanced to the left and right, scanning the length of the wall to the north and south. “All the same, I’ll leave Madison and his men here. We don’t want—”
A sudden, strange howl sounded from the dark forest.
Both of the dragoons reached instantly for their carbines.
Lockhart swung his gaze towards the black mass of forest directly across from the watchtower. “What in Zanthora—?”
The dark woods in front of them suddenly seemed to undulate and move. More howls came, rising and falling in eerie cadence. Drums began to beat somewhere off beyond the tree line. The sound was hollow, filled with death and despair.
“Howlers,” Dyke whispered.
The two dragoon guards lifted their carbines and aimed them out over the Wall.
Torches flickered suddenly into existence along the edge of the woods, like the fiery eyes of demonic beings.
A musket cracked out with a sharp bang, fired by a dragoon somewhere along the Wall.
Lockhart drew his wheelock pistol. “Hold your fire!” he bellowed.
A chanting reached the ears of the dragoons, almost drowned out by the constant howls and drums.
Harnathu...Harnathu...Harnathu....
Lockhart felt his mouth go dry.
Harnathu. The wolf-headed pagan god of blood, slaughter, and war.
A skirling of pipes, weird and discordant, broke out amidst the pounding drums, howls, and chanting. The forest seemed to be moving. Individual shapes began to take shape in the darkness, lit by the torches they carried.
Wolves. Men with the head of wolves.
Lockhart blinked, trying to get his eyes to see clearly.
They were men, half-naked and covered with red and blue swirls and stripes of war paint. Most were wearing the skin of wolves over their heads, giving them a terrible appearance. They carried axes, spears, crude swords, and clubs. Many had wooden or wicker shields, painted with disgusting images and runes.
Lockhart took a deep breath.
Jombards. There had to be hundreds of them.
Another carbine blasted off, lighting up the southern rampart of the wall.
Lockhart turned his head. “I said hold your fire!” he roared. He practically grabbed one of the dragoons and shoved him towards the ladder. “Light the beacon. Now.”
The dragoon didn’t argue. He grabbed the ladder and scurried up it towards the top of the watchtower.
Lockhart spun around towards Dyke. “Get a man back to the Rest. Tell Sharpton—”
The deafening noise beyond the Wall went suddenly silent.
Captain Lockhart swung his head around, looking out towards the forest.
The Jombards were standing just out of range, still and silent. The torches many of them held flickered and cast small pools of orange light on the open, grassy ground between the forest and the Wall.
“What the devil—?” Dyke started to say.
A massive man, covered with tattoos and holding an axe in each hand, stepped out in front of the assembled barbarians. He raised one of the war axes high in the air. “Egreth baat Harnathu!” he screamed.
Lockhart drew the basket-hilt rapier he kept at his side. He could feel the familiar queasiness in his stomach, the same feeling that he got before every battle.
“Harnathu!” The barbarians shouted. Their combined voices were thunderously loud. Howls began to sound from their ranks. Weapons banged and clattered on shields. The pipes and drums started again. From somewhere behind the barbarians came the ghostly wail of women.
The huge war chief pointed his war axe at the Wall with a roaring cry.
With a flurry of screams and howls, the barbarians charged forward in a line.
Lockhart glanced down towards the turf wall below the watchtower. On the rampart behind the palisade, he could see about a dozen dragoons. In the second watchtower to the south there were maybe six more dragoons. There were probably five or six more in the watchtower he was in.
About two dozen dragoons, all told, the combined squads of Sergeants Dyke and Madison.
In front of them had to be at least two hundred barbarians.
Lockhart held up his sword. “Hold your fire!” he shouted.
His voice was drowned out in the war cries of the Jombards. They swept across the open space between the forest and the Wall, heading straight towards the trench.
Several sharp cries pierced the night. Barbarians began to tumble, clutching their legs and feet with shrieks of pain.
Lockhart gave a grim smile. The Jombards hadn’t dug up all the lilies, then. He turned his gaze toward the wall below. “Cannon, fire!”
There was a thundering blast that shook the watchtower and lit the night in a blinding flash.
Lockhart whirled around to look out over the trench.
The cannon was a 5 pounder, set into the rampart of the palisade on a separate reinforced platform that overlooked the trench. It was small compared with other field artillery, but its relatively small size and weight made it easy to move and to mount along the ramparts.
And when it was filled with grapeshot, it could pack the punch of a dozen blunderbusses.
Death swept the ground in front of the trench. Twenty or so Jombard warriors were knocked over like wheat, a bloody mass of dead and dying.
It wasn’t enough.
Lockhart turned back to the wall, and raised his sword again. He waited a precious few seconds, sword in the air, as the Jombards came charging towards the trench. Smooth-bore muskets were notoriously inaccurate, short-ranged weapons. The carbines the dragoons carried were a step worse, having a shortened barrel for carrying on horseback. When one added the darkness and natural panic of warfare, plus the long reloading time for each firearm, the dragoons needed to wait until the last possible second to fire to maximize their chances of hitting.
The Jombards surged towards the edge of the trench. Some carried wooden ladders and long planks. Others carried several light javelins. Still others stopped and began whirling slings around over their heads.
“Dragoons!” Lockhart shouted, trying to make his voice heard over the howls and screams of the enemies. “Fire!”
A blistering volley of carbine fire erupted from the Wall and watchtowers.
More Jombards went down amid the roar of gunfire and stench of gunpowder. Black smoke rolled out over the trench. Half-naked bodies smeared with war paint rolled down into the trench itself. Some caught on the sharpened stakes below.
“Reload!” Lockhart ordered, more out of habit than necessity.
The dragoons stepped back from the wall, reaching for cartridges and ramrods.
There was a great whistling of projectiles through the air. Spears, javelins, and
stones sailed up from the howling line of barbarians, deadly leaves blown by an evil wind. The sound of dozens of impacts sounded along the line of the palisade.
Captain Lockhart ducked, wishing he still had his helmet.
A javelin stuck fast into the wooden wall of the watchtower, quivering as it hit. The same instant a stone cracked into one of the support beams of the tower, propelled by a sling to the speed and velocity of a musket ball. The wood cracked and splintered.
A dragoon screamed from down on the ramparts. In the second watchtower another dragoon tumbled over the wooden wall and fell over thirty feet into the trench below, an arrow through his eye. Someone else was gasping and groaning in pain. The drums and howls almost masked the noise.
Lockhart readjusted his sweaty grip on his pistol and glanced out over the wall again.
The barbarians threw down long wooden planks and ladders over the trench. Some of them, impatient and filled with battle frenzy, slid down into the trench itself and attempted to scramble up the nearly twenty feet to the top of the rampart on the other side.
The barbarians began to crawl across the planks. Several lost their balance and fell down onto the wooden stakes below. The air was thick with screams, war cries, and the whistling of tossed projectiles.
“Ready!” Lockhart yelled. He raised his sword.
The dragoons moved back to the ramparts and edges of the watchtower. They lowered their carbines.
“Aim!” Lockhart glanced down at the cannon crew. The large weapon was still reloading.
A group of Jombards had reached the bottom of the turf wall. They began to clamber up, shields on their backs and swords in their teeth. Other barbarians tried to throw ladders against the sloping turf wall.
The air was still thick with thrown and tossed missiles. Another dragoon spun and dropped off the back of the rampart with a cry. He had a javelin stuck in his side.
The barbarian women wailed and screamed. They were visible now, right at the edge of the forest. Most were naked or nearly naked, their sweaty bodies covered with great looping swirls and patterns of blue woad and red blood. Many wore grotesque masks, the horns of deer on their heads or the feathers of ravens.
