The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  Lord Cal rejoined them and they walked away from the center. A group of young men were gathering spent arrows as a man might harvest grain. Even broken shafts were being saved. They passed a row of bloodstained forms, covered with their cloaks. The enemy dead, stripped of armor and weapons, had been thrown in several piles down the slope to their right, where they could be seen from across the valley. The wounded enemy had all been dispatched, a difficult but necessary decision. They stopped, well apart from any others.

  Don looked at Lord Cal. Gold glinted on his helm, and a lock of hair, equally gold, hung across his forehead. His young-old face was clean shaven, burnt brick red by the sun. Burnished bright was his mail and a bearded axe, chased with gold, hung at his belt. His visage was stern, but his voice was courteous. He fixed Don’s attention by looking him directly in his eyes as he spoke.

  “I promised the lore-master that I would help you if I could, and if you deserved help. I keep my promises.” His speech was refined, with much of the High Tongue in it.

  “I will tell you what you did, well and ill. But take heart, we shall win this day, and you will have earned a place in Stonegate.”

  He spoke quickly, emphasizing his points by tapping his forefinger into his palm and with wide arm gestures. He waved his shield bearer back a few paces as he continued. “I watched your work in every rank. You stood well and bravely for the most part, but poorly braced. Your spear thrusts were often ill aimed and awkward—many times timid with no force behind them. Yet I know that you drew blood more than once.”

  “So …” he continued, with a sudden smile, “Though I have seen stripling boys do better with the spear, you fought much better than I could have hoped when you took a place in the front rank. I marked your fight with the tall, dark bastard. He seems to be one of their leaders. I could not reach your area in time to help, and I had no one just then to send. He had slain two of our best swordsmen and nearly drove a wedge through our shield wall on the right side, and this just a short time earlier. On top of that, he also wounded three others, and got not a scratch himself. Then it was your turn to meet him.”

  “You stood up to him well. He could not daunt you or break your guard.” Cal paused as if thinking. Don followed his gaze to look at the edge of the shadowy forest below. Don stood silent, unsure of himself. Never before had Lord Cal spoken to him, except for a brief greeting. He felt his fatigue lift. He held his head a bit straighter and lifted his shoulders against the weight of his mail.

  Lord Cal looked at him intently, then meaningfully at Gray John. “Don’t let your head swell,” he snapped. “Your shield work was good, but you swung your sword like an old woman, without thought or strength. I can only guess that the dark one tried to kill and scorned to use guile. He had you dead already in his mind, maybe, and was taking the measure of the next man. But you stubbornly held on by luck and great effort. He could have cut your left leg many times, had he cared to do so.”

  Pausing, he added with a growl of a laugh: “It is a great jest that you marked him on the very spot where he could have wounded you and which he ignored.”

  “Now I must send you back to your post. Remember to guard your legs with care. Forget not your bruises on the practice green and remember that your sword is your best defense. Carry the fight to the enemy. You have strength in your arm, so use that same strength in your blows and change their pattern, their rhythm. Do not be afraid to take one or two steps forward or back to seize an advantage or avoid a wound. A shield wall is made of men, not stone. Make use of the spearman at your back.”

  He paused, then fixed Don with his level gaze. He reached out with his right hand and gripped Don’s left shoulder. “And Lore-man,” he added, “May the luck of our house be upon you.”

  Don was quite overcome. He bowed his head, and covered Lord Cal’s hand with his own. “Thank you, my Lord,” was all he could think to say. Why was he being singled out? A great honor, to be sure. “You do me too much honor!” he added, lamely.

  “Not at all,” returned Lord Cal. “Now return to your post.”

  “And sharpen your weapons,” ordered Gray John. “This day is not over, and I wish a word with Lord Cal.”

  Don nodded and strode away along the way they had come. He noticed that the shield wall had been shaped like a broad “U” with the flanks of the line drawn back to the crest of the ridge. The front of the line had been placed lower, along the forward crest of the hill, which certainly gave a better view of the slope below them. He estimated that the area that they were defending was about seventy yards wide, not a large expanse, to be sure.

  To the north, over the crown of the ridge, three men were unloading packhorses and organizing a meal line. There were already piles of biscuits, cheese and sausage, as well as water bags. A crowd was beginning to gather. Don stopped briefly to fill his water bottle and fill his hands with food. As he traveled the short distance to his former place in line, he observed a small knot of older men, all carrying the silver-mounted war horn that marked them as officers, head to head in earnest conversation. They did not glance at him as he passed. A brief gust of wind lifted the pennants of the troops, the red horse, red axe and red dragon. They were all overshadowed by Lord Cal’s banner, a scarlet wolf on a field of gold, flying proudly from a long war spear standing erect on the highest point of the crest.

  Reaching the line of packs, Don ate, then began to sharpen his sword. He saw his young friend, Daniel, looking at him with a grin. “A swordsman you are, that’s for sure,” he said, in a teasing way. “But the spearman’s lot is a bit safer.”

  “To be sure,” returned Don, concentrating on the nicks in his blade. “I will be content in either place. And I do not claim to be a swordsman.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Daniel, serious for a moment. “But I expect that you will be in front from now on.”

  †

  Lord Cal and Gray John watched the lore-man go, their eyes avoiding each other’s. Finally, Cal turned to the older man and said, “You must admit that he has the Stonegate luck, wherever he comes from.”

  “My Lord, we’ve discussed this before,” snapped Gray John. “He has more than luck. He has many of the signs. I am convinced that he was a man of peace, as he said. He certainly never held a sword in his hand before two months ago.”

  “He could have played a part … Pretended to be a man of peace. You and I know the signs, and perhaps he is clever enough to fulfill each of them.”

  “I doubt it, Lord! The story seems too unlikely to have been invented. A spy would not have made such a claim, since it would only draw attention to him. A man who lusted for power would not spend the years it would take to build such an elaborate lie. And the thing that convinces me is his horsemanship, or lack of it. He must have spent his life in study, just as he said, or else he is a consummate actor.”

  “Believe as you wish! I will not debate it further!” said Lord Cal, obviously irritated. “I am sick of listening to foolish babble of signs and old men’s dreams. Let the lore-man do as he wills. But wait and watch. He could still be a western spy, unlikely though it may be.”

  “As you will,” returned Gray John, shortly. “But, to business. What do the scouts say?”

  “Our Western friends have not given up. Look for a sharp thrust from the east. If I call a council, I will call you. You may now return to your post.”

  Gray John nodded curtly, spun on his heel and left.

  †

  One of the other swordsmen, Simson, was testing the edge of Don’s sword with a calloused thumb. “Not bad, Outlander,” he admitted. “Though I think your blade is better than your file-craft.”

  Don thanked him and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Simson had been the swordsman to his right who had elbowed him to his feet on at least one critical point. Above middle height, he was a landowner from south of
Stonegate serving his turn on patrol. He had the typical Stonegate tow hair and bright blue eyes, but his round, full face, short, stocky frame and heavily-muscled limbs set him apart from the average. He had a ready smile but said little most of the time.

  Don learned that the troop had suffered two killed and four seriously wounded, to include Jeb, the swordsman that Don had been supporting. Jeb had suffered a cut tendon in his sword arm that had put him out of the fight. The surgeons were trying to repair it, but it was a difficult operation, perhaps too difficult for the field.

  Just then, Gray John returned to the area and began inspecting weapons. He approved Don’s with a grunt and the barest hint of a smile. He had a few words for Daniel and Simson as he passed. Horns began to blow, and John ordered his troop back to the line. Don resumed his post in the front line next to Simson, without being told to do so. Daniel took up a spear and fell in behind them. Gray John came back along the line, and acknowledged Don’s presence in the front rank with a warning, “Mind what I told you!” Then they waited some more.

  Suddenly, a figure on a fast horse burst out of the trees to the east and galloped down the crest of the barren saddle that separated their hill from the wooded ridge. As he drew nearer, they could see that it was one of their scouts. They opened a way for him, and he trotted through the line and went to the banner of the red wolf. Don looked over his shoulder and saw the scout talking to Lord Cal, his free hand moving in sharp gestures, like an axe chopping wood. Then the hand pointed back the way he had come. Don’s gaze also turned back, and he saw three men running on foot, running slower, as if they were more used to traveling on horseback. As they drew close to the line, Don could see that they bore bows and had empty quivers.

  Daniel whispered from the rear rank. “There’s something up! You c’n bet on it.”

  Simson snorted, “You don’t miss a trick, youngster.”

  “Look alert!” came Gray John’s booming voice, over a sharp gust of wind. Then they waited, each alone with his thoughts. The air had a sudden coolness to it. Dark thunderheads were building up in the west. Another gust passed by, and Don wished he had his warm cloak. A cold shadow darkened the hill, but a break in the cloud briefly illuminated a patch of blue lupine. It glowed briefly, then faded.

  The ranks stood silent, shifting their weight from one leg to another, as they stared at the woods below. Thunder boomed and rolled in the distance. Don looked back and saw two runners break away from the red banner and sprint over the hilltop to the north, back to where they had left the horses this morning.

  Gray John rejoined them. “Listen well!” he began. “The scouts report that a large force of the enemy is moving through the eastern woods. They were slowed with arrows, and a warning has been sent to the horse guards. Lord Cal is going to reinforce our left flank. When you hear the command to shift, move to the left about twenty paces.”

  The command was soon given, and the shield-wall reformed with little confusion. Now weaker to the west, the new formation curved further around in a curved “U” toward the east. The cliff face helped anchor the end of the line. As they finished the shift, the wind became even stronger and the pennants snapped in the breeze.

  “The wind is in our favor,” spoke Daniel. “If they try to fire arrows from the east, they’ll get them back in their faces.”

  “Aye, youngster,” answered Gray John. “But their spears will cut the breeze well enough.” He raised his voice.

  “And you all look to yourselves! An incoming arrow will play strange tricks in a wind like this. Keep your shield ready, and be on guard.”

  Don turned his attention back to the dark pines to the east. They waited. Drops of rain began to patter around them, just as the wind suddenly changed directions and came out of the north, cold, moist and heavy. Don suddenly realized that there was nothing between him and the enemy but his battered shield and a thickness of mail. He felt naked and exposed. He looked over his shoulder at Daniel who flashed him a cheery grin. He noticed that Gray John had an armload of short javelins. With the help of two of the younger men, he began to distribute them.

  “Hear me! Make good use of these. We have carried them a long way, and you will only throw them once.”

  Don sheathed his sword and hefted the javelin in his hand. Shorter and lighter than a war-spear, the wooden shaft came only as far forward as the balance point. From the ferruled wood, the shaft turned to iron, rapidly tapering to a slender rod where it joined the small, barbed head. It balanced well, but Don wondered how it would carry.

  The sprinkle began to change to a cold drizzle, and groups were allowed to go back to their packs and retrieve their cloaks. Don was glad for the brief break as he ran back, pulled out his cloak and grabbed a biscuit, as well. When he returned, fastening the hood buckle under his chin, he was just in time to see movement at the edge of the tree-line to the south, exactly from the same point as launched the last attack.

  A half-dozen figures stepped out of the shadows and stood in a clump of waist-high willows. They fired a number of arrows, but the north wind caused them to fall short. The Stonegate archers kept their bowstrings dry and did not return the fire. A scattered burst of hail fell upon them, occasionally clanging off a helm. A few men raised their shields, using them as a shelter. The rain came down even heavier. Puddles were beginning to form on the few level places.

  Someone shouted and Don looked to the left. About 200–250 yards away, a group of figures emerged from the woods. Through the sheets of rain, he glimpsed a volley of incoming missiles. They seemed to have a flatter trajectory than normal, and were very difficult to see. Fortunately, the strong north wind blew them south of the shield wall.

  “Crossbow bolts!” shouted a man on Don’s left. “Use those shields to stop that kind of hail. Worry less about the rain.”

  As he spoke, a bolt slammed into the rocky soil, about ten feet in front of Don. He had not seen it coming. But then the archers from behind him began returning the fire. The wind was also giving them trouble, but it seemed as if one of the distant figures fell, and some retreated into the forest. But about twenty crossbowmen advanced even closer until they reached the base of the hill. While their fire was mostly a harassment, the bolts could be deadly. A man in the second rank suddenly collapsed without a sound.

  “Dead!” came the word. “Right in the forehead.”

  “Damn it!” shouted Gray John. “Watch yourselves. You will be safe if you will just stay alert. Catch them on your shield.”

  By this time, Don’s woolen cloak was sodden and heavy, and a stream of water began to seep down his back. The gusty wind now had a razor edge, and his armor chilled his bones. He glanced down at his hands and saw that they were blue. Why had he not sense enough to have grabbed his gloves when he got the cloak?

  When his gaze returned to the far ridge, he drew in a quick gasp. The far slope was already covered with running men. Many war horns began to sound.

  “Make ready,” said Simson. “There must—there must be four hundred! More! They’re coming!”

  As before, the enemy moved with uncanny speed, racing down the far slope like a dark avalanche. Few seemed to have armor, but they all wore black conical helms and their shields were ebony and red. The Stonegate archers fired angry swarms of arrows over the heads of those in the shield wall. Many found a mark and many shields were feathered, but nothing could slow the charge. The enemies were too many and the archers were too few. They came on in silence, which was somehow more unnerving than loud cries. Don felt that he was seeing one of the elements of nature, like a flood. How could they hope to stop them this time?

  Simson nudged him, saying, “Hold your javelin until the order is given.”

  Don nodded, his weapon poised. The horde had crossed the saddle, and the leaders were climbing the near slope.

  “Lore-man!” exclaimed Simson. “Liste
n. You and I will throw for the same one. Throw for his face, and I will throw low. He’ll not likely block both!”

  “Good!” answered Don. “Take the tall one with the red shield!”

  “Javelins!” came the order from behind them. “Ready . . . throw!”

  Their two missiles arched out and down, two drops in a deadly storm. Don’s throw was excellent, but the foeman caught it on the upper part of the shield, near the edge. A curse came from the right.

  “Blast! I missed. But yours was a good cast.”

  But the man came scrambling up the slope. The javelin was embedded in the shield, and he tried to cut it away with his sword, but only succeeded in bending the shaft. The barbed head remained firmly embedded in the wood. Pressed from behind, he leapt up the last few yards and slammed into Don’s shield like an angry bull. His long, curved blade hacked at Don’s shield edge, and his bearded face was split by a mirthless grin.

  Don parried, but the shock of the charge drove him and the rest of the shield wall back several yards. Don tried a backhand cut at the foeman’s face, but his sword caught in the enemy shield. After a twist and a tug, he finally freed his sword, just as the man made a cunning chop at Don’s left leg.

  Don parried the blow but exposed the whole top of his body. An arrow thudded into his chest, but he felt only a prick. He looked down and saw it hanging in his mail and thanked the man that riveted the links. A voice shouted in his ear as he parried another blow on his shield, “The javelin! The javelin!” Don could not understand. Daniel crowded close behind him and thrust at the enemy’s face, so Don cut at his leg. The hanging javelin deflected the blow. Don cursed in frustration.