Warrior Knight

by Paul J Bennett

  Spears stabbed out, playing havoc with their assault, and then men were everywhere. He stabbed out with his sword, taking one in the gut. His foe fell forward, threatening to land atop him, and Ludwig twisted, narrowly avoiding the fate. A spear scraped off his breastplate, and he struck out, slicing into a man’s arm.

  His sword scraped along that of an enemy, smashing into the crossguard. In defence, his foe tried to sidestep, following up with a quick jab, but Ludwig was quicker, his sword catching the man under the arm, digging deep. He pulled his blade free, letting the body drop, then struck to his left, feeling the steel sink into flesh.

  There was no time to think as another spear came at him, slicing through the fabric of his sleeve and pushing his arm backward, throwing him off balance. His foe followed his weapon, pressing forward until Ludwig went down beneath the onslaught.

  The man loomed overhead, grinning in triumph, determined to drive his weapon into Ludwig's skull as a mace smashed into the side of the invader's head, knocking him sideways. Cyn pushed forward, driving the man to his knees before finishing him off with a second strike to the skull.

  Ludwig got to his feet, trying to get his bearings. His men, pushed back from the wall, were in danger of being overwhelmed, and then he heard a roar. Captain Ecke led a group from the house, slicing into the enemy like a scythe cutting down wheat.

  The enemy broke, fleeing westward as if the denizens of the Underworld were nipping at their heels. Ludwig turned to his own men, counting heads. Captain Ecke came towards him, looking quite pleased with himself and then a whistling sound made them look westward, where a burst of arrows flew out of the dark. Ludwig instinctively dove behind the wall. There he lay, pressed up against the stone wall, desperate for cover as screams erupted from all around him. A body fell against him, and he turned on the man with a curse, only to see the face of Captain Ecke, an arrow protruding from his eye.

  “Saints save us,” Ludwig called out.

  Sigwulf crawled up beside him, cursing in a low voice. An arrow had taken him in the arm, and he clutched it as blood seeped forth.

  “Where’s Cyn?” shouted Ludwig.

  Sigwulf pointed. “Over there, crouched behind that stake.”

  More arrows flew, littering the ground as they fell.

  “Get yourself into the building,” ordered Ludwig, “and have someone look at that wound.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  He gripped the big man's hand. “Get inside,” he repeated. “That’s an order. I’m going to need you in fighting shape when those men come back.”

  Sigwulf got ready to rise, but Ludwig heard a noise. “Wait till after the volley, then run.”

  True to his word, another shower of arrows descended, peppering the ground. No one was hit this time, but it made moving difficult. Sigwulf ran, disappearing into the farmhouse.

  When the next volley came forth, Ludwig began counting. At twenty, another onslaught of arrows rained down.

  “Wait for the next volley,” called out Ludwig, “then gather what arrows you can. You will only have to the count of fifteen before more come.” He could feel the eyes of his men upon him, and he started to sweat. What if his count was off? Was he dooming them to death?

  Another volley. “Now,” he called out and then started counting as they leaped from cover, seeking out arrows where they lay. Handfuls of the things poked up from all over the place, leading Ludwig to conclude at least a hundred archers lay to the west, loosing arrows in the dark in a vain attempt to hit anyone who might stray out into the open.

  When his count reached fifteen, he shouted, “Cover.” They all sought a place of concealment, then more arrows came forth. The men cheered, for they had cheated the enemy of targets.

  Ludwig wondered how many arrows they had collected, but looking around, it was apparent they had plenty to spare. The real question was, how many more volleys must they endure?

  More arrows struck the ground, and again he counted. This time he reached twenty-five, and still no arrows flew.

  “Prepare,” he ordered. He poked his head over the wall, looking westward. Sure enough, the familiar clatter of armour drifted to his ears. “They’re coming.”

  He spotted Sigwulf at the door to the house. “Remain where you are,” he ordered, “and gather some men. Once they overrun us, I want you to counterattack.” A nod came back in reply.

  Cyn peered over the edge of the wall. “I see them,” she said.

  “Call out when they’re within twenty paces,” said Ludwig. He turned to Simmons. “Pass the word. On Cyn’s command, I want the archers to stand and loose off as many arrows as they can, crossbowmen as well.” He looked over at his footmen. “The rest of you stand by. The archers will back up when threatened. That’s your sign to move in.”

  “Now!” called out Cyn.

  The archers rose, drawing bows and sending a volley westward. The enemy was packed so closely together there was no chance of missing. Arrows dug into armour, and men went down by the dozens.

  “Keep going,” said Ludwig. “Loose in your own time!”

  He stood behind them, drawing his sword. The first rank of enemy footmen had gone down, their screams echoing across the wall. Browbeaten by their sergeants, the others pressed forward until he could make out the details of their armour in the moonlight.

  “Archers fall back,” he commanded. “Foot to the front!”

  Someone amongst the enemy threw a spear, and it sailed past Ludwig, burying its tip into the ground. Ludwig stabbed out, causing the warrior before him to hesitate. Something came over him, a type of frenzy, and he seized the opportunity, jumping up to the top of the wall and hurling himself at the enemy, striking out as he went, his sword blade taking out a man’s throat. His teeth bared, he struck again, driving his blade deep into another's thigh. A scream of agony followed, and then Ludwig moved past, now in amongst the soldiers of the king, his sword seeking a target as if possessing a will of its own.

  An enemy came up on his left, only to have his head explode. Ludwig had a brief glimpse of Sigwulf, his sword dripping gore, and then he had to parry, blocking a strike that would doubtlessly have ended him had he not moved quickly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cyn duck as a spear was thrust over her head. She responded by smashing her mace into her foe's groin. Ludwig heard the scream, and then the man went down, clutching what was left.

  A sword scraped along his cheek, and he cursed, for he had been so busy listening for the enemy he had not thought to don his helmet. He suddenly felt vulnerable as if the next blow might well do him in.

  A strange noise drifted to his ears, and then he realized it was Sigwulf. The man was singing, swinging his sword two-handed like a hero of yesteryear fighting the chaos of the Underworld.

  The opposition began to falter, and then they were all running westward towards the safety of the enemy's lines.

  “Back,” yelled Ludwig. “Back to the wall and prepare for another barrage!”

  He jumped the wall as more arrows came sailing from above. Two of his men went down, and he cursed. He had let the battle get him fired up, acted impulsively, endangering his men. He swore to not be fooled the next time.

  Again, they collected arrows, and then the enemy returned. Over and over came the attacks, each time a series of volleys followed by foot soldiers. Ludwig felt the adrenaline coursing through him as the pattern repeated until he thought it would never end. Was he stuck in the Underworld, doomed to repel attacks for the rest of eternity? It certainly felt like it.

  He soon lost track of how many waves they fought. They slaughtered the enemy's troops by the dozens, yet the king's men kept coming, each time whittling down the defenders. Arrows came aplenty, allowing his own archers an unlimited supply. But with each new assault, their numbers weakened, if not their resolve.

  Ludwig’s arms felt like lead, his legs even more so. He was barely able to stand, yet he and his men fought on valiantly. His voice grew hoarse and ras
py, yet still he would not give up. He called on more reinforcements from the house, only to find none were left.

  He considered withdrawal, but his stubborn streak kicked in, refusing to let him. On and on they fought until the wee hours of the morning.

  * * *

  Dawn broke over a bloody field of battle, revealing the dead and injured. Had he not been so tired, Ludwig would have gone out to see to the wounded, but he consoled himself by admitting he could not chance another attack. In that instant, he would have gladly given a fortune for the opportunity to sleep, but it appeared it was not to be.

  “By the Saints,” said Sigwulf. “We must have killed hundreds.”

  The stench of death drifted to their noses, and Ludwig retched. Even here, in this fortified position, the wounded outnumbered the living. Ludwig would have killed for something to drink, but there was none left.

  “Lord Hagan?” he asked.

  “Inside,” said Cyn.

  Ludwig stared at the farmhouse, no more than two dozen paces away, yet to him, it felt like an uncrossable gulf. He forced himself to his feet, feeling weary beyond belief. “What are our losses?”

  “Half the company at least,” she replied. “It might be easier to count who’s left standing.”

  He turned to Sigwulf. “Anything to add?”

  “Yes,” the big man replied. “Lord Hagan is wounded.”

  “Wounded? I didn’t even know he’d been fighting.”

  “He was indeed. While we were busy charging the enemy, another group tried to gain entry from the north.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “You’ll have to judge that for yourself.”

  Ludwig shut his eyes for a moment, trying to summon the energy to continue. “Mathew, give me strength,” he said, then began moving towards the house.

  He entered the structure to be assaulted by the smell of untreated wounds. The men had done their best to make the injured comfortable, but there was little anyone here could do to save them. Most would bleed out. Indeed, several had done so earlier this morning, but to do nothing was unconscionable.

  He was directed over to Lord Hagan, who sat, his back supported by the outside wall, his chest bloodied and his face pale, yet his eyes were clear. He noted the approach of his aide.

  “Ah, Sir Ludwig. I’m afraid you’ll have to take command of the company. It appears I am no longer able to stand.” He stared down at his legs.

  Ludwig saw more blood. It looked like arrows had done him in, and he wondered how, when the house would have protected him from such things.

  “He led a charge,” explained Sergeant Dornhuffer, the tears coming freely. “You would have been proud of him, sir. He showed true courage.”

  Ludwig turned to the sergeant to see a bandage around the man's head, also soaked in blood. His gaze moved elsewhere, determined not to show his sorrow. He saw nothing but death, for there lay Arturo, his most argumentative soldier and beside him Krebbs, who he himself had raised to the rank of sergeant. He could well imagine the tears when Agneth, the tavern keeper, heard the news. Was this all worth it? He doubted it.

  “Gather what wounded you can,” said Ludwig. “It’s time we vacated this building.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t, sir.”

  “Why? Is there no one left?”

  “It’s not that, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s the enemy, sir. They’ve begun the attack.”

  “They’re attacking us again?”

  “Not only us, the whole army.”

  Ludwig found the strength to walk over to one of the windows. The army of Andover was advancing from the west in a wide front, ready to overwhelm the duke’s army, which lay to the east of his position.

  “For Saint’s sake,” said Ludwig. “Can’t we at least get a moment to rest?”

  “You should go,” said Hagan, his breath laboured. “Go while you're still able. Leave the wounded here if you must, but if you stay, you’ll be overwhelmed.”

  Ludwig felt like an animal caught in a trap. On the one hand, he could flee, but that meant leaving the wounded behind, something he wasn’t willing to do. On the other, he could stand and fight, but that would likely result in the death of everyone. “What to do?” he muttered. “What to do?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” asked Dornhuffer.

  Ludwig looked at the sergeant. “Nothing, I was simply thinking. Call the men to me. We’ll make a last stand here, inside the building. How much time do you reckon we have?”

  Dornhuffer looked out the window. “Not long, sir.”

  “Get the wounded inside.” He looked around the room, his gaze falling on a couple of men. “You two, lift that timber. I want it by the door, over there. We’ll block up the entrance once everyone’s inside.” His voice grew more confident. “Archers, gather what arrows you can, then get to the windows. See if a couple of you can get onto what’s left of the roof. I imagine it’ll give you a good view of the area. Sig?”

  “Here,” came the reply.

  “You take the north door. Block it up to the best of your ability. Cyn, you’ll take the south. Move those wounded men to the eastern wall. I want them out of the way as much as possible.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  “You men, collect as much loose stone as you have time for and stack it against the south wall. I also want those two timbers laid against the wall.”

  “To what end?” asked Dornhuffer.

  “I want the top of that wall knocked down. We’ll put men up there to throw debris at those below attempting to gain entry.”

  Ludwig’s passion energized the men. Tired though they were, they found the strength to act.

  His gaze fell on a knight. The unknown man had been dragged in here earlier, his helmet a mess, but little had been done for him since. Ludwig crouched by his side. “Can you hear me?”

  "Yes," came the answer, faint though it was.

  “I’m going to try to remove your helmet, do you understand?”

  The knight nodded.

  Ludwig examined the damage. The visor had been crushed, pushing the bulk of the metal back in on the man. He wasn’t eager to see the damage but knew it must be painful. He reached under the helmet, seeking a chin strap, but none could be found, so he bent closer, examining the visor. Under normal circumstances, it would swing up from the chin, but the hinges had become damaged, making such an act all but impossible.

  Digging out his dagger, he paused a moment to consider how to proceed. The lower part of the visor was protruding out from the helmet, so he carefully set his dagger beneath it, using the edge of the helmet to pry it up. At first, it resisted, then the hinge popped, and the visor came loose. Beneath was the bloodied countenance of none other than Sir Galrath.

  43

  The Battle of Chermingen

  Summer 1095 SR

  * * *

  Ludwig stared down at the battered face. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You’re not wearing your colours?”

  Galrath coughed, spitting up blood. “The duke forbade me from fighting.”

  “But why? You’re a knight of renown. Surely he would have wanted you there?”

  “Ah, but’s that’s just it, don’t you see? So great was my fame that he feared me falling into enemy hands. He wanted me by his side, not risking all for honour and glory.”

  “Don’t speak to me of glory. I’ve had my fill. War is a thing to be avoided, not embraced.”

  “There's no hope for me, Ludwig,” said Galrath. “I'm wracked with pain, and I can’t feel my legs. I doubt even a Life Mage could help me now. Never, in all my life, did I imagine I would die here, in a ruin in the middle of a field even the Saints have forsaken.”

  Ludwig took the man's hand in a firm grip. “The Saints have not forsaken you, Sir Galrath.” He felt tears welling up in his eyes. “They wait to take you to the Afterlife. No doubt there you will find plenty of adoration for your accomplishments.”

  The
man smiled, but so torn up was his face that it began to bleed anew.

  Ludwig felt the knight's grip tighten. “Ludwig, you are a good man and well-deserving of the title of knight. I would have you take what was mine, for I have no further use of it.”

  He wanted to object, but Galrath was adamant. “Promise me!” He coughed. “I have no family, no one to inherit. I would see it put to good use.”

  “It’s not right,” said Ludwig. “I haven’t earned it.”

  “You’re wrong, my friend. You've had a rough start, it’s true, but in the short time you were amongst us, you touched us all, setting an example of what it means to be noble. Take what is mine, and use it to show the Continent what is needed.”

  Ludwig was overcome with emotion. Unable to speak, he merely nodded.

  “Good,” said the knight. “I can now die, knowing my life has not been wasted.” He lay back and closed his eyes, his breathing ragged. Even as Ludwig watched, the man who had set him on his path to knighthood let out his last breath. Sir Galrath of Paledon was dead.

  Ludwig released his grip, then laid the knight's hands on his chest. He hadn’t known the man for long, but his example had been an inspiration, and Ludwig swore to keep his memory alive for as long as he could.

  He stood, looking down at the body, his mind in turmoil. Panic was growing inside him, setting his nerves on edge, but then a sense of calm enveloped him. He turned to where Sigwulf and Cyn were organizing the defence. “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  Ludwig examined their work. Dead bodies lay strewn around the interior of the house, packing the floor from north to south. Beneath them, bits of dust and stone littered the area, along with fragments of fallen timbers and old thatch.

  Taking up his position behind a section of collapsed wall, he crouched, listening to the distant sounds of the approaching enemy. His mind struggled with his idea. It had come to him unexpectedly, and now that he waited, he wondered if he had done the right thing. It was dangerous, but then again, the same could be said of the battle that put them front and centre in this conflict.