by N. C. Reed
“His Majesty, the King, said that might be your response, milord,” the Royal Courier almost smirked. He reached into his bag, pulling another envelope, sealed with wax bearing the Royal Seal. He handed the envelope over without comment.
Therron practically snarled as he ripped open the envelope, tearing the letter within out. Written this time in his father’s own hand, this message informed him tersely that, yes, he was going to move his men toward the Gap at once, and without hesitation, or face the consequences. Therron’s hands trembled in rage as he read.
“Trouble, milord?” General Davies’ asked, walking into the tent which served as headquarters for the entire army. He also held a courier envelope, though it did not bear the royal seal.
“The King has ordered me to abandon you,” Therron bit out, “and move east to assist my brother,” he made the word sound like a curse, “at the Gap of Cumberland. Immediately.”
“I suspected as much,” Davies nodded, not surprised. “I just received a message from a detached militia unit. It’s Colonel informs me that a large force has broken off from the main army and is, or was, currently headed for the Gap. The message took several days to find us.”
“What?” Therron looked stunned.
“Colonel Chad estimates that the force numbers some fifty-plus thousand,” Davies continued grimly, “and there is nothing to stand in their way once through the Gap. They can reach Nasil before we can.”
“Are you certain of this, Davies?” Therron asked. “Is this Chad reliable? He is militia, after all, and not. . . .”
“He is a decorated soldier and a good one, milord,” Davies managed to hold his tongue for the most part. “Well trained, too. If he sent this, he was sure of it.”
Therron absorbed this without comment. It seemed that his idiot brother might well have stumbled upon a real battle, despite his being ordered to sit tight in his small fort. Well, he’d see about that once this war was over.
“Very well, then,” Therron released a long breath. “I have my orders, whether I agree with them or not. Have you seen the pressure ease on your front at all?”
“It has weakened some,” Davies agreed. “Especially in the last two to three days. It’s almost as if they’re tired. In all honesty it makes sense,” he shrugged, “and we haven’t gotten a good look at their numbers since the second day. As many of them as there are, it’s entirely feasible that a large group could have slipped away and we’d not have noted it.”
“I still think this move on the Gap is a feint,” Therron insisted stubbornly, “every instinct I have tells me this is the main push, while the other attacks are meant to drain off manpower from your front. I’m going to compromise. I’ll send two divisions toward the Gap, keeping the bulk of 1st Corps here.”
“Milord,” the Royal Courier tried to speak, but the Lord Marshall cut him off.
“I have made my decision,” Therron spoke abruptly.
“The King will be displeased,” the courier warned. As personal courier to the King, the man was more at liberty to speak than most. He carried the weight of the crown behind him. “His orders to you were quite specific.”
“I don’t need some delivery man to tell me my duty!” Therron screeched. “I’ll prepare a response to the King’s order, which I expect you to deliver.”
“I will lay it in his hands myself,” the courier nodded.
“Prepare the 6th Cavalry and the 5th Mounted Infantry for immediate movement to the Gap,” Therron ordered Davies. “I want them on the way in one hour, if at all possible.”
“Aye, milord,” Davies sighed, full of misgiving. But Therron McLeod was the Lord Marshall. His word on the battlefield was law.
The Courier waited as Therron wrote a hasty reply to his father, and then, without so much as a “by your leave”, mounted a fresh horse for his return to Nasil.
The King would not be happy.
*****
Tammon McLeod twisted in his saddle, looking back at the column trailing his regiment. The line wasn’t nearly as long as he wished…or needed.
Memmnon had stripped guards from every building in the city and turned out every company left in the area to raise the men following the King. Many of the troops were infantry and there had not been enough ready horses to mount them all. As a result several wagons were bumping along the trail behind the horses, pulling both men and equipment.
Tammon sighed as he turned back forward, shaking his head in distress. There was no way that this slow moving outfit would be able to reach the Gap in time to make a difference. Beside him, Enri Willard saw the King’s discomfort.
“We’ll make it, sire,” he said softly, so that only the King could hear.
“I don’t see how, Enri,” Tammon replied. “We’re moving too slow.”
“It won’t help them if we arrive too worn out to be of use, sire,” Willard said reasonably. “We need to be ready to fight as soon as we get to the field.”
“I know,” Tammon nodded, “but I worry there won’t be anyone left to help when we get there. If Parno’s numbers are even close to accurate then he and the men with him are outnumbered ten-to-one or more.”
“It is good terrain, sire,” Willard offered, “and don’t sell short your son. I know better than most,” he grinned at that, “that Parno McLeod is nothing if not a fighter…and an uncanny one at that.”
“Yes, he is,” Tammon smiled sadly at that. Whatever Parno was, it had nothing to do with him, the King knew. For the first time in his life, that hurt. Sighing again, he looked down the trail before them.
“Let’s try to pick up the speed a bit,” he ordered. “An extra mile or two a day may make the difference.”
*****
Parno McLeod was starting to feel like a small boy, trying to throw water from a sinking boat. No matter what he tried it never seemed like enough.
The Nor had thrown yet another division into the attack, seeing that the first Soulan line had broken. Even as one fresh division neared the line, another emerged from the tree line, forming on the move. That made five divisions against three regiments and two battalions, plus another of literal volunteers.
The remnants of five divisions, he reminded himself, cheering a bit at that thought. His men had cut the heart out of at least three Nor divisions during the day and another the day before. They were hurting the Nor.
Just not enough.
“Lad, we’re going to be sorely pressed, soon, I’m afraid,” Darvo told him.
“I know,” Parno agreed. “Have Captain Lars switch to regular shot for now,” he ordered the artillery runner. He turned back to Darvo.
“I need to go and see Roda Finn for a moment, Darvo. I have an idea and he’s been working on it. I need to see how far along he is with it. It might buy us a little time. If we can last out the day, I plan to withdraw to the third line after dark.”
“Good,” Darvo nodded. “I was going to suggest that. We need to shorten our lines and form a reserve. As it is now, we’re dangerously thin.”
“We’ll make do,” Parno patted the older man’s shoulder. “Don’t get killed while I’m gone,” he added, grinning.
“I’m trying not to get killed at all,” Darvo growled. “Off with you.”
Parno hurried along past the third line and into the Fort itself. Going through the rear gate he went directly to the bunker where Finn’s work was stored. He found the inventor outside, pacing back and forth, with a scrap of papyrus in his hands.
“Roda, have you figured out what we can do?” he called out before he even got close. Finn looked around him wildly for a second before spotting Parno. He sighed.
“I thought I was hearing things,” he admitted, wiping his brow, “and yes, I have, milord, but it’s not to your liking, I’m afraid. The best we can do, according to my estimates, is to hurl a half barrel of pitch some three hundred ninety yards. It’s possible we’ll get more, but that’s the most I’m prepared to promise.”
“I’ll take it,”
Parno said at once. “Our situation is precarious to say the least. Our first line has fallen and the second in hard pressed.”
“If the artillery has fallen back, then my estimate will be short of what. . . .” Finn began.
“The artillery is still in place for the time being,” Parno cut him off, “but that won’t last longer than today. We’ll have to withdraw by evening. If I’m going to use the pitch and get the use I want from it, we have to do it now.”
“It will require that the catapults be re-sprung, milord,” Finn admitted hesitantly. “That will take at least a half-hour.”
Parno cursed under his breath. He couldn’t afford for the catapults to be out of action that long. He couldn’t afford for them to be out of action half that long. He thought for bare seconds before making his decision.
“We’ll use two catapults for the fire,” he decided. “Go at once and inform Captain Lars what must be done. Are the barrels ready?”
“Yes, milord,” Finn nodded. “Fifteen of them. There should be another ready by now, actually,” he added.
“Have your men begin bringing whatever is ready forward. I want to be firing as soon as the catapults are prepared.” Finn nodded and screeched for his assistant. Parno ignored them, looking at the sky. There was at least five hours of light left. His men had been fighting all morning, all day in fact—some of them since dawn.
If this idea worked it should at least slacken the efforts the Nor were making to add to their attack.
He turned and hurried back to the line, hoping that there was enough time.
*****
Karls Willard walked the line behind his regiment, encouraging, exhorting, and checking on his men. He had never imagined being in command of the regiment like this. He had always assumed that when the time came for them to join in battle, Darvo Nidiad would lead them.
Circumstances had dictated otherwise, though, and now Willard found himself in true command for the first time in his life. He was also in a desperate battle against odds so great that the only possible outcome was defeat. He laughed silently at the irony.
His men had been on the line from the start and he marveled that they were still able to function, let alone do so effectively. He spared a glance at the other units down the line, seeing a real difference in the other troops. Cho Feng’s conditioning had done wonders for the Black Sheep.
Black Sheep. Willard played that name over in his mind, smiling. The men themselves had taken that name, after the speech Parno himself had given the day he has informed the regiment of the impending war. They seemed to take great pride in it, and in the fact that they, the cast-offs, were performing even better than the regular troops, let alone the militia.
The men of Parno’s Company had become hard and lean. They had taken well to their training once they had seen the seriousness of it, becoming a true fighting unit—one of the best Karls had ever seen. The young Colonel was convinced that without them the battle would have long been over. Numerous times during the day the Black Sheep had helped other units all along the line, their strength being great thanks the their rigid training regimen.
But they had paid a price of their own, Willard acknowledged to himself, sadly. The ranks of his regiment had thinned since this morning. Yet, the men showed a resilience he could only credit to their near fanatical devotion to Parno himself. Many of them were fighting on, even wounded. They had left the line long enough to be treated, then returned of their own free will, unwilling to abandon their brethren.
Sudden movement caught Willard’s eye, drawing him from the minute of thought. A young Soulan trooper was battling three Nor troopers who had managed to gain the top of the second line. Willard jumped to help him.
Before he could get there, though, two other Black Sheep had already pounced on the Nor, cutting them down without pause. They covered the younger man, who had been injured, and then remained on the wall, taking his place. The youngster, bleeding from a deep cut on his arm, sank to the ground and began trying to wrap the wound himself, rather than go to the medics. He looked up, startled, as Willard’s shadow fell over him.
“See the medic, trooper,” Karls ordered. “Have that wound tended to.”
“Ain’t but a scratch, sir,” the man grinned slightly. “I’ll be back on the wall in a minute.”
“We aren’t likely to run out of Nor before you can have that properly bandaged and return, soldier,” Willard smiled in spite of himself. “Have it seen to properly, then you can return, if you’re able.”
“Yes, sir,” the man agreed, finally, rising to his feet. He set off to the aid station behind the line, where the slightly wounded could be tended without going to the over worked field hospital in the Fort. Willard shook his head, watching the man go.
“You two need help?” he called to the men who had rescued the other. One looked over his shoulder.
“We can take it, sir,” he nodded. “Ain’t but a few Nor, after all.”
“Well said!” Willard replied, and the man grinned before turning back to the wall.
Willard resumed his inspection, wondering how long his men could keep this up and how long before they were all wounded, to some degree or another.
*****
“What is it you’re planning, lad?” Darvo asked, seeing Parno looking past the battle to the trees.
“I’m going to try and set the woods on fire,” Parno admitted, lowering his glass and looking at Darvo. “They’re using the trees as a marshaling point. I’m betting there’s another division in there, right now, waiting to attack. If we can start a good sized fire, maybe even threaten some of their supplies and equipment, it should take some of the pressure off of us, at least for a while.”
“And if they ignore it?” Darvo asked calmly.
“Then I’ve wasted a few shots of pitch,” Parno shrugged. “I think it will work. It hasn’t rained here in several days. The sun and the wind have dried the effects of the rains. Everything is dry. Dusty, even. If we can loft enough pitch far enough then the woods should burn nicely. With luck, it might even spread to their camps. I’ll take whatever I can get at the moment,” he added. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“It’s worth a try,” Darvo admitted. “We’re getting more pressure on the right,” he pointed. Parno looked to where Landers was rallying his men to throw back a troop of Nor who had managed to gain the top of the barricade and berm.
“Landers will take care of it,” Parno replied, confidently. “He’s a good man.”
“With tired troops,” Darvo pointed out. “He could use some help.”
“There’s none to send him, at the moment,” Parno shrugged, then paused. “Send Moore’s men down there. They can pick off the Nor as they get atop the berm. That will help.”
“Good thinking,” Darvo nodded, and sent a runner on his way with order to do just that. The artillery runner appeared.
“Captain Lars reports ready on catapults three and five for the pitch, milord,” he informed Parno breathlessly.
“Tell him to open fire at once,” Parno ordered eagerly, “and to spread the fire several degrees with each shot, left to his discretion. I want the maximum spread possible and tell him that the faster he can fire, the better.” The runner snapped a bow and left.
It was three anxious minutes before Parno saw the first smoking half-barrels sail over his head. He kept his eye on the two all the way to the tree line, flinching in disappointment when they fell just a few feet short of the woods.
“Not enough,” Parno murmured. “I need them inside the tree line.” It required the greatest exercise in patience to wait for the next salvo. Men frantically cranked at the catapults, readying them for another shot, while more men wrestled the next half-barrel into place. As soon as it was on the bowl, a man touched the torch to it, lighting it afire. Seconds later it was airborne and sailing toward the enemy.
Parno again followed them with his own eyes, not even daring to blink as they traveled the di
stance. One crashed just into the tree line, starting a small fire. But the other traveled past the trees and crashed into the woods themselves. Flames instantly sprang from the pitch and Parno could see several tree tops aflame in addition to the fire on the ground.
“Yes!” he shouted, elated. “Let’s have some more like that!”
Over the next few minutes, three more flights of half-barrels sailed over the battlefield. One fell short, causing no damage other than to set fire to trees already on the ground. Another fell inside the line, spreading fire all along the ground. Still another flamed out entirely, spreading raw pitch over a good part of the woods, but without the fire.
The other three carried well over the tree line and into the woods, shattering against old growth trees, and raining fire everywhere. Even as Lars prepared another salvo, Parno watched as the flames literally exploded, quickly growing on the dry fuel of the woods and the leaves beneath.
