Brendan nodded, then he ran down the plank way.
4
Going Naval
Down the Wall, all the way to where it extended into the sea, Brendan sprinted toward the signaler, a boy equipped with bright flags of red and green. And he was a boy, about the age of Brendan when his father had died—back when Brendan lived in Primary Park with the other street urchins.
It seemed a long time ago, although Brendan was just nineteen. He had been with the Watch a short time, promoted to sergeant by dint of what seemed like a great deal of luck for his actions during the dethroning.
He knew the Navy to be one of Dune All-En’s most valuable assets. The Navy rarely put in at port, preferring the sea and adventure, battling pirates and the like. Most might think them useless in a land battle, but most would be wrong. And Brendan knew they could help.
“I need two cannon barrages,” Brendan told the signaler. The boy smoothed down his crop of red hair and picked up a flag. He first waved the green flag, once, then twice. Then he waved the red flag in a sweeping circular motion.
Faster than seemed possible, the cannons roared, not in quite in unison, like an out of rhythm drum cadence. A few seconds later, they fired again.
It took no time at all. The first barrage took out dozens of pikemen advancing on the Wall. The blast sent men and sand spiraling into the air. Pikemen scurried out of the way as best they could, only realizing the cannons were aimed at them when they began taking fire. They scattered out of formation when the second wave of cannon fire struck.
Brendan checked if there was time for another salvo, but Todder had ordered the gate open, and the Army and Watch were spilling out to meet the invaders head-on.
“Hold fire, for now, Pete,” Brendan said. “We may need them again if things get dire.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Peter said.
The boy took up a bow and nocked an arrow.
The battle had begun.
5
A Squall of Swords
From the gate, the Watch and the Army spread out like a river pouring from a gorge, flowing from side to side and away to meet the invaders. Todder handed shields at the gate to the more heavily armed civilians but stopped several from entering the fray. Somehow the clerk with his sharp pen made it through.
“Stay back. I'll let ya know if yer needed,” Todder said through gritted teeth to the rest as he exited the gate.
The enemy soldiers’ tactics had changed, from advancing troops to out-and-out attack. A number of them made it close to the Wall where they were met with arrows and other unpleasant deterrents.
“Already with the fire,” Rotrick muttered, watching with interest.
Brendan’s men were spilling buckets of flaming liquid down on the soldiers attempting to scale the Wall on rickety ladders.
“T’was bound to happen,” Wellspoken said.
The men of Dune All-En’s elite forces collided with the first of the onslaught, using their shields to great effect, blocking the pikes and swinging swords at any who came within reach.
“It’ll be like this for a few minutes,” Coe said knowingly. The Army’s skirmish line widened, taking the fight to the enemy.
This was nothing like the battle against the orcs. These men had leaders, tactics, and armor. The smell was different, too. Men did not smell like animals, not like orcs did, rather, it was the sweet smell of sweat and the stench of excrement. It pierced Epik’s nose.
“Ain’t no fancy toilets on a battlefield,” Two-finger said. “Plus, ya usually, um, do that when ya—”
“Don’t say it. None of us are dying here today.” Coe gripped his sword.
What Epik was learning was that pikemen, while deadly to men on horseback, only had the one move; their long spears were brushed aside by men with shields and swords.
The mass of Dune All-En’s combatants coped with three fusillades of the enemy’s arrows. At the same time, the Wall’s defenders contended with their catapult missiles, all of which had been set ablaze. The rooftops of Dune All-En were burning.
Then everyone spread out just as Coe had said they would.
A melee ensued. One against one, two against one, two against many. Epik stayed as close to his companions as he could manage. He watched Two-finger’s axe swing steadily from man to man. Rotrick’s left-handed swordplay was a sight unlike any he’d ever seen. The ranger was solid and burly, and he used his superior weight and skill to his advantage, throwing himself at the overeager soldiers of King’s Way.
But it was Coe who was actually majestic. His swordplay both amazed and dispatched his opponents. His sheer survival skill was unmatched. He took on as many as six or seven men at once.
Wellspoken was ferocious. His sledgehammer cut down out three men with a strike.
Epik held his dagger at the ready, his small hands prepared to fight, but, as was against the orcs, he had little to do in this battle. No man could bring himself to stoop so low, both literally and figuratively, to take a swing at a halfling. So Epik sheathed the dagger and drew out his wand. He could help in this fight. He knew it.
The enemy was relentless. They called reserves from the formations still stacked along the roadway.
Epik caught a squad of ten men advancing on the Company. But the rangers and the dwarves were dealing with a whole crowd of opponents already, embroiled in a sort of slugfest the likes of which Epik had never seen or even read about, and Epik was an avid reader.
The best troops from King’s Way were drawn to the rangers, eager to prove themselves or to die trying. Mostly the latter, because Coe was the best, there was no doubting that, and Rotrick was a close second. The problem now was that thirty troops were willing to test them—all at once.
Two-finger and Wellspoken managed the stragglers. But it was up to Epik to sort out this new squad.
Their leader, a sullen looking man with dark hair and sallow skin, was the first to even acknowledge Epik on the battlefield, looking down at—and on—Epik standing bravely between his men and the rangers. The leader held his tongue and turned, grinning at the others to ensure they knew where his mind was.
They knew. The troops spread out, surrounding Epik. He gripped his wand tightly. He knew magic. This should be easy. Epik racked his brain for a spell. What could he do to vanquish ten men?
Fire, he thought and forced himself to remember Gabby—of the pain he still felt over his mentor’s absence.
Epik reached for the memory, for the pain, and he bound it with his knowledge of fire. That was the key to spells, he knew—knowledge and emotion combined with the magic of his soul. But what Epik knew of fire wasn’t much. He’d never started a campfire in his life. He had only tended the flames on the stove at the bars he’d worked in. It would have to do.
Epik flourished the wand. He thought about fire. And for a moment, nothing seemed to happen. The soldiers were inching in on him.
Not what he was hoping for at all.
But then, one man stopped mid-stride.
“Do you feel that?” he asked the others.
“Feel wha—oh, I think I do. It’s a bit toasty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it feels like I’m being warmed by a fire.”
The leader glared down at Epik. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he asked. “Sure, it’s a bit uncomfortable out here in the sun. But I’m willing to wager this spell ends when your life does. That's how it usually goes, right?”
“Most of the time it is,” said another. “That’s the way magic works.”
“See, we know a lot about magic where we’re from,” the surly leader crowed. He raised his sword. He was so close to Epik now.
Epik’s inner halfling bubbled to the surface. It was searching for an escape route and finding none. And even if the ranger and his men returned, they could probably not save Epik in time.
Epik searched his soul, digging deep to find the emotions for another spell. The hurt of losing his father. The anguish of watching Gabby die. But he faltered and lost
his grip on the wand which clattered to the ground. The only thing Epik could feel was panic. And all the magic books told him that was a lousy emotion to use for magic. It was all he had.
The soldier’s sword whistled as it sliced the air on its way to Epik’s skull. There would soon be two pieces of halfling—sort of like he felt inside. If Epik didn’t do something now.
He dropped to pick up the wand, and in that moment, the panic and the fear bound with his magic doing the only thing he knew how to do well. It was second nature to him.
Epik vanished.
The sword cut the air above his head. It grazed his ginger hair making the only visible part of him the lock of hair fluttering to the ground.
“Where’d he go?” the leader barked. He reached down and searched for the halfling, grabbing aimlessly at the air.
Epik backed away, then turned and crawled between the legs of the other soldiers, also on the hunt now. Inwardly, Epik cursed his cowardice, and just for a moment it diminished the spell and revealed his tush as he scurried between someone’s feet.
“There he is,” someone replied, knocking the owner of the feet over as Epik twisted away. Then the lot of them were in hot pursuit of the halfling.
“Dammit, he’s disappeared again,” the leader said.
This time, Epik didn’t curse his fear. He ran. Ran back to the Wall, back to where there was safety… Or so he hoped.
6
Divergence
You’re not going out there!” Myra pleaded. Her arms were spread wide, and she stretched a pointed toe to keep Gerdy at bay. Myra had backed all the way to the chamber door, and she wasn’t going to let Gerdy out without a fight.
“But they might need me,” Gerdy said. “You saw what happened to the knights. Now there’s a full-on battle.”
“They don’t need you! Everything is under control, I'm sure of it.” The way Myra said, “I'm sure of it,” Gerdy could tell she was anything but.
Myra’s leg can-canned through the air, stopping Gerdy’s advance one more time. It wasn’t that Gerdy couldn’t just shove Myra out of her way. It was that she wouldn’t, and Myra shamelessly used that knowledge to her advantage.
“I’m strong. And I’m good in a fight. Mye, you know I can help.”
“I know that you’re strong. But what is one half-dwarf girl going to do against a whole army? Gerdy, please stop this.”
“You know, if everyone thought that way there’d be no one to defend the city.”
Myra shook her head. “Well, there’s the Army and the Watch, iddin’ there? And there’s hundreds of folks down there at the Wall just now. It’s brimming with help. Stop trying to leave me!”
Gerdy knew she was close to wearing Myra down.
“Just let me out,” Gerdy said shakily. It was a tossup whether she liked this side of Myra or not. On the one hand, it was endearing. Myra cared if Gerdy lived or died. But on the other, bigger, lopsided hand, this wasn’t who Gerdy was at all. She wasn’t one to sit back and let an army protect her—even if it was their job.
“Not a chance,” Myra hissed.
Sanchez scampered across the room, arched his back, and twined himself between Gerdy’s feet.
Another traitor, she thought.
“Well," Gerdy sighed, “if I can’t go, can we at least go down and see your dad? I want to know what’s happening.”
“Fine.” Myra lowered her lovely leg as gracefully as a ballerina and they were out of the door swiftly as rabbit who’d caught sight of a fox.
7
A Series of Fortunate Events
The absurdity of it all wasn’t lost on Captain Todder. To him, war had always been something abstract, something far away from his post at the Wall.
Now it was as close as close can be, so close, in fact, Todder could reach out and touch it. And he was forced to use his sword and his strength—a strength he had never truly tested, or not until recently. But that was different, fighting orcs and trolls—beasts of the land. They would rather see humans dead than communicate with them.
In front of Todder now were men from King’s Way, not all that different from himself. Even in armor, it was hard to hide a beer gut—and these men had them, the same as Todder. They even cursed the same; he heard them as the soldiers under his own command buried swords in their opponents.
Todder just couldn’t help but think if they could hold conversations and drink pints, what was stopping them from putting down their weapons and doing just that?
He was close enough now to simply ask the question, Why are you attacking us?
Of course, the captain knew the answer. Everyone here knew the answer. Because some man on top of a throne hundreds of miles away had tasked them to do it. King Epiman’s father, the ruler of King’s Way, had ordered this attack on Dune All-En. And like good soldiers, his army did as they were told.
The same could be said for Todder’s men. Why were they fighting?
Well, first off because Todder had told them to, but more important than that was their homes, their lives, their everythings were at stake. All the troops knew and loved was in Dune All-En. And Dune All-En was in jeopardy2.
What would happen if these strangers marched into the city? Would they rape? Would they pillage? Would they merely take control of the kingdom? Well, who was to say? They weren’t talking, and Todder couldn’t ask. Could he?
No, this was not the time to be in his head like this. It was time for action.
He brought up the rear, behind the Army regiment. When they spread out to engage the enemy, Todder had followed, staying a bit behind, one eye on the recruits and the other on the troops advancing on them.
He was amazed to see that Brendan had taught them very well. Well, not Brendan really. The boy had a knack for management and ideas. Brendan had contracted Coe and Rotrick’s services to teach the men how to fight with swords. Then Brendan had asked K’nexes to teach them archery. And he’d worked something out with the Navy—all of this with Todder’s approval, of course.
But what could Todder do but agree when the boy came around with his lofty ideas? They were brilliant. Brendan was brilliant.
An enemy soldier staggered toward the captain, his sword raised. The green tunic he wore was ripped, and his helmet was askew. The man’s eyes were wild, and before Todder knew it, his gut instincts took over. Todder’s blade was deep in the man’s stomach.
“Well, I guess I can’t ask him,” Todder said under his breath. The man on the ground wasn’t having a pint anytime soon.
Yes, this was different from fighting orcs. Orcs didn’t look human. These men, well, they were men. As human as human gets. Todder could see the whites of their eyes, or rather, the yellow, mostly.
A pikeman ran at Todder like he was the base of the pole vault. There was no talking to this one either. Stepping aside, Todder swiped his sword across the shorter man’s neck.
War is not a civil thing, he thought. There is little use for words.
Another soldier advanced on the captain, moving swiftly, both hands on his sword. He had no helmet and his face was scrunched with determination.
Determined to kill me, Todder thought glumly.
And he would have, too, had Todder not spoken.
“Would ya mind explaining what yer, uh, all doin’ here?” Todder asked, motioning with his sword at the free-for-all.
The young soldier stopped, perplexed. And he might have answered Todder if it weren’t for that arrow. Pity.
Todder looked back at the Wall, crowded with invaders scrambling up ladders. Of course. From between the men of Dune All-En who were busily pouring combustibles or shooting arrows, Brendan smiled, his bow loose in his hands. He waved down at Todder.
Yep, Todder thought, it’s going to be hard to get any answers.
Brendan lowered his bow. He waved down at Captain Todder, wondering why the captain had an odd look on his face.
At first it looked as if something had come over Todder. The old man had waved his swor
d at an enemy fighter well within reach, but not threateningly. The soldier had been close to cutting Todder down. That was when Brendan had nocked the arrow and fired.
And now Todder was shaking his head disapprovingly. One day the two of them would see eye to eye, Brendan knew it. Well, he hoped it, anyway. With the wave, he had hoped to get his point across. I just saved your life, you big oaf. But Todder didn’t seem to care.
Brendan shouldered the bow, then searched the rampart to see where he was needed most. When that didn’t work, as he was needed everywhere, Brendan hurried across the rampart, helping as he went.
First, Brendan saved Corporal Smitt from a gruesome death by pike. The corporal waved his appreciation. Next, Brendan helped Private Brewer—a lanky pigeon-nosed boy about Brendan’s own age—push over an enemy ladder. The three men that were climbing crashed to the ground with it. Brendan put a stop to the two that got back up with his bow.
“Thanks, Sarge!”
“No problem, Brew,” Brendan said—without having to consult the name tag. The words were barely out of Brendan’s mouth before he was on to the next one.
Clay pots filled with flaming embers were hurled toward the city by enemy catapults, and the rooftop of the Dayz Inn had caught fire. The flames licked the edges of the Wall, making it difficult to defend. Despite the flames, the troops of King’s Way were using it as a staging area, climbing a ladder to the rampart, stopping, dropping, and rolling under the fire to a narrow alley where they had taken several of Brendan’s men by surprise.
Brendan drew his sword. An important point he had learned from Coe and Rotrick was that soldiers liked to practice sword fighting. At first, it hadn’t made a lot of sense. And then, well, it did.
“What I mean,” Coe told him, “is men like to practice without actually hurting one another. They can go on for days happy to just cross swords in the air. But that’s not the aim of swordplay now is it?”
Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp Page 3
