He felt another wave of fear rising up in him, and he desperately fought it back. Angrily swallowing the bitter taste of his fears, he swore to himself he would stand firm and not let his men down. He remembered something Tobin had once said to him. ‘Use the dice you are given, even if they are loaded against you. Find a way to make them work for you.’
Middleton had given him command of a square of long spears on the very end of the right wing of the Concord army. It was a cruel joke at best for a lord of his rank, for a knight of his family would be expected to command cavalry or Knights on foot, not common soldiers and levies. It was clear enough to Aran that Middleton wanted revenge for the harsh words he had spoken in the Lord’s tent. How the arrogant bastard’s pet knights had smirked when he had been given the news. Aran refused to show any emotion, and merely thanked the commander for the position. If truth be told he felt no shame in fighting alongside commoners. He doubted Middleton would understand his reason for preferring the company of such men over the company of vipers like him. Also he had a suspicion that Middleton had a darker motive in placing him in the front lines and on the flank of his forces. Such places tended to take the brunt of an enemy’s attack, and the chances of being wounded or killed would be much greater. It would be an elegant way for Middelton to get rid of a troublesome lord.
Aran grinned grimly to himself, he would be damned if he would oblige the shiny armoured bastard by dying. He had a duty now, even if Middleton saw it as a joke, to the two hundred men under his command and he owed it to them to try to keep them alive. The long spears were brave men who were trained to use the heavy, twelve foot spears against cavalry and infantry. They could fight as a group, or as individual soldiers with a short sword and buckler. Many were armoured in simple chainmail and helms, but a few, who could afford it, had breastplates and backplates. Aran wore his full plate armour with a visored helm and carried a halberd that he had some skill in using. The long spears were in their customary position in the front ranks of an army and flanks. This allowed the army to take the brunt of a first attack, whilst protecting the more expensive shield men, and knights who were on foot. Long spears also provided excellent protection against horse, for the brutal tips of the spears could easily impale a charging horse, or rider. It was ironic that the long spears were seen as one of the most tactically valuable units in an army, but often held in such disdain by the nobility.
Aran hoped his men were up to the job at hand. They were an inexperienced unit, and he was uncertain of their training. Middelton had the wit to see that at least. The commander had sprinkled a selection of sergeants through the ranks to help with the control and command of the units. Aran’s sergeant was a man by the name of Berick, a Cozi form Rousk. He was a large, bald headed man with a rough accent and a foul tongue, who terrified the men into obeying the orders and Aran had come to trust him. He prayed that would be enough, it would have to be as they waited for the Royalist army at Winterscross.
Middelton had marched into the valley and formed up at the crossroads. They now faced the green slopes of the Western Gate. The steep slope of the hill was empty of the enemy but messengers had carried word to all the officers of the squares that the enemy were forming up behind the hill and preparing to march. Battle would begin soon.
While they waited Middleton and his cronies were prowling the space before the front lines on their chargers, shouting encouragements at the men. ‘A pox on the King. No High Church!’ they shouted. The chant was taking up by some of the units, but many gave no reply and stood in muted fear.
Then Aran started as a mighty horn from atop the Western Gate echoed mournfully across the valley. In the midday sun he could clearly make out the lone rider who had crested the ridge of the hill. A shiver of fear gripped him then, but he cursed and spat. He caught Berick looking at him at him with a strange smile on his lips.
Middleton’s voice roared out as he rode before his men, looking like a hero from some bard’s tale in his armour. ‘Men,’ said the Lord. ‘We are here today to remind the King that we are free men. Free men who will not be cowed by the arrogance of a King, who raises himself above the right of the Concord! ‘
There was a cheer, but it was muted. The fool, thought Aran. What did the average soldier care for the Concord? Then the horn atop the hill blew again, as if in answer to the cheering of the soldiers. Men shifted uneasily in the ranks, and Berick shouted, ‘Stand firm.’ Silence rippled out across the army of the Concord. The only sounds that could be heard were the rippling of the flags in the breeze, the occasional clank of armour or the whiny of a war horse.
The silence grew heavy as Aran cursed Middelton for not countering with drums or horns. All who stood in the bottom of the valley heard the enemy before they saw them. The deep pounding heart of hundreds of war drums that beat to a slow marching rhythm. Occasional, a great went up from behind the hill. Slowly, as the Royalists neared the roar became a clear word. ‘Wolfhound, Wolfhound, Wolfhound’ was the cheer. The soldiers cried out that name for Tobin was the most successful living general of the Golden Isle’s. Wolfhound was a name that was a talisman to the Royalist and a threat to the Concord.
A dark line of men appeared on the summit of the Western Gate. It looked like the dark crest of some giant wave as thousands of men marched in perfect formation, to take up position on the top of the eastern facing slope. Aran sensed, rather than heard, the murmuring of fear in his own men. Damn it Middelton, he thought, sound the drums before fear takes the heart of your own men.
Aran could see that Tobin was planning on fighting a defensive battle. He had formed his army into three lines of squares. Long spears in the front and to the flanks, shield men to the rear and archers forming a wide line ahead of the main body of troops. A clever plan, the slope of the hill would give the bowmen an excellent firing range to hail death down on the Concord, if they tried to climb the hill. The long spears would have the advantage of the slope, as would the shield men if the charged. He saw no cavalry which was strange. No army of that size would risk going to war without cavalry. Aran wondered if they were hidden behind the slope of the hill, but had Middelton had the same thought?
Silence fell upon the valley again as the two great armies faced one another. After what seemed an age two horn blast echoed out from the centre of the Concord Lines. Seconds later two blasts answered from the right and left flanks. Aran felt the ground vibrating under his feet, and he heard the low rumble of the Concord horse charge from both flanks of the army. When they swept past he ranks of men, the Concord soldiers cheered at the sight of the heavy horse. It was, indeed, thought Aran an impressive sight, one to lift the heart, like something from a tale of the Acorin, thought Aran. But it was also stupid and foolhardy. The heavy horses hit the slope of the Western Gate, and slowed to almost a trot as the steepness of the hill, the tiredness of the horses and the weight of the armour took their toll. Soon arrows began to rain down among the horseman and the cheering of the Concord soldiers stopped as they saw knights and horses fall. Aran eyes scanned the top of the Western Gate, but still there was no sign of Tobin’s cavalry. What was he up to?
The Concord cavalry were now two hundred yards or so from the Royalist archers, when Aran heard a blast of horns from the hill. Suddenly, Royalist light horsemen poured over the lip of the hill and bore down on the struggling Concord heavy horse. Gasps and groans went up from the Concord lines as the fresh Royalist horse, smashed into the slower and heavier cavalry units. It was a slaughter. From the hill the sounds of clashing steel, screaming horses and dying men drifted across the valley to the Concord lines.
Middleton’s heavy horse broke and fled down the hill chased by the Royalist light cavalry. Tobin’s men were merciless. They hacked and slashed at the fleeing knights, and less than half of the heavy cavalry made it back to the valley floor. A horn blew atop the Western Gate signalling the recall, but the Royalist cavalry continued the chase. To Aran’s amazement the Royalists chased the Concord cavalry south and
away from the battle lines.
The cheering of the Royalist army could be clearly heard, but so could the frantic blowing of the recall horn. Interesting, thought Aran. It seemed Tobin’s cavalry commander had disobeyed orders to continue pursuing the broken heavy horse.
Silence fell once more across the valley. The two armies faced on another, each soldier wandering what would happen next. The wind began to pick up and the flags fluttered and snapped in the air. Something had to happen soon, Aran thought. In a couple of hours it would be dark, and the Royalist general was not going to move from his position, so it would be Middleton who had to make the next move. Almost on cue, the horns of the Concord blew out a striking note, and the marching drums finally began to beat out their rhythm.
Aran gave the orders to move and his long spears obeyed. Slowly, to the beat of the drums, the soldiers made their way across the valley floor to the foot of the hill. All the while his sergeant barked orders. ‘Watch your dressings, stay in line with the left hand man!’ The Concord drums beat a steady rhythm and, despite his fear Aran, felt a stir of excitement. Whatever came of today, he would fight for his long spears and would try to do right by them as their captain.
With each drum beat the army took a step towards battle. Its pace slowed at the foot of hill, but still they marched on. The slope was steep and Aran’s heart started to pound in his chest and his legs ached as he walked up the Western Gate. Under his armour, sweat covered his body, and he was sweltering in the heat of its steel confines. Still he marched, he refused to let his discomfort beat him. He looked to his men and felt pride, for they still kept formation. He hoped they would show as much determination when the engaged the enemy.
Aran heard a familiar sharp, whistling sound above him and shouted, ‘Arrows! Heads down.’ Thousands of shafts sliced into the ranks of the Concord army. Many struck nothing but earth, some bounced off helms, or armour, but many hit their mark and a man would go down screaming. Aran gripped his halberd tighter and cried out his orders. ‘Long spears, march on! Long spears march on!’ To his surprise his men took up the cry, and it spurned them up the hill as death fell around them.
They were nearly there now and Aran could make out individual faces of the men who stood in the front ranks of the Royalist army. The archers retreated behind the lines as the Concord got closer. The arrow storm had mercifully stopped for now. Aran and his men were exhausted and already bloody, but they could not, would not turn back. The weight of men pushed them all forward towards the enemy.
Finally they reached the front lines of the Royalist army. Aran, with a quick prayer gave the order ‘Press on!’ As one the long spears formed into a tight square and held their long spears ready to attack the enemy. The ranks created a wall of razor sharp spear points. The Royalists had also formed up in a square and braced themselves for the Concord charge. Their own wall of spears waiting for Aran’s men.
Aran’s long spears pressed on into the waiting Royalist’s, and the sound of spear point striking armour and flesh, the cries of the dying and the sound of snapping wood filled Aran’s ears. The Royalist cried out ‘For God and the King!’ As battle raged along the entire line of the two armies.
The sweep of the battle was lost to Aran, as his world narrowed to the few deadly feet before him. In that space his brothers fought, killed and died as they bravely faced the enemy. This battle was nothing like Cathan, this was not the mad chaos of that slaughter, but it was an ordered chaotic brawl. A sea of blood soaked spears and fallen men.
Aran slashed and chopped with his halberd, and he lost all sense of time and place in the storm of swords, and spear points. The battle became a strange dream of jagged memories, filled with images of violence. A man’s head bursting like a bloody fruit as Aran’s halberd crunched home. Another of ramming the halberd’s spike into the throat of a large man with a black bristly beard. He watched the man’s jaws clench and unclench as his blood poured from his mouth. Reality became a strange disjointed notion as Aran fought desperately for his life.
Then, suddenly, he was standing in a moment of calm, empty space in a raging storm. He held his bloodied short sword in his hand. He could not remember losing his halberd. Aran’s armour was covered in blood and exhaustion burned through him. Looking around he saw the dead or dying around him, their bodies ravaged by savage weapons. Shutting out the sudden swell of fear and madness, he looked around frantically for his men, but somehow he had gotten separated from them. Desperately he looked around, then felt relief as saw their banner in the far distance. Aran began moving towards his long spears, when some instinct made him look over his shoulder. Berick was carefully approaching him from behind with a bloody sword in his hand and an evil expression on his face.
‘Lord Middleton’s sends his love,’ snarled Berick, and he charged.
Aran easily side stepped the charge. As he did so he punched the man’s blade away with his own sword.
‘Come on then you fucking whore son!’ Aran shouted, in a sudden rage, ‘I’ll send your fucking head back to Middelton.’
With a mocking laugh the large sergeant charged at the young knight. Aran swung his blade up and out, knocking Berick’s sword aside. Aran dropped to one knee, thrusting the sword into the man’s groin. Berick cried out in pain and went tumbling into the mud and filth of the battlefield. Aran ignoring the assassin’s dying screams, stood and started to run back to his men. He could see they had withdrawn from the battle line and they were being reformed by Tomsin, a senior Long spear man. They were making ready for another attack on the lines. His men looked exhausted and battered, but they cheered as Aran approached. He felt his heart lift at the sound. Taking command from Tomsin he began to get the men ready to move when he heard the four quick horn blasts of the recall order.
Confused by the command, Aran gave the orders to retreat in good order facing the enemy. His men obeyed without question and when they were a safe distance he had them about faced and marched them down to the hill, he feared a counter attack by Tobin, but no attack came. It was clearly a retreat not a rout. Perhaps Middelton planned a second attack with the reserves? He did not know or care, it was chance for his men to rest.
Once Aran and his men reached the reform point back at the crossroads he shouted, ‘Water! Water for my men!’ Looking around, through eyes stinging with sweat, he saw the lines of the Concord army slowly reforming on the valley floor, and the reserve units being brought forward. Atop the hill he saw Tobin’s army waiting for the next attack. Many of the Royalists squares were much smaller now, and bodies covered the slope before their lines.
‘Well done lads!’ he called as he gratefully took a cup of water, given to him by a boy of no more than ten or so. The boy carried a yoke over his shoulders that carried a bucket of water on each side.
‘Drink’ the water monkey said, and Aran wordlessly obeyed. The boy moved on amongst his men. Suddenly, Aran felt his stomach lurch, and he vomited the water back up and over his bloody mail shirt. Cursing, he wiped his mouth and looked around. His men said nothing. They did not care. Like him they were exhausted and wanted nothing more than a good fire, food and a dreamless sleep. Aran’s whole body felt tired, a cold numbing tiredness that threatened to overwhelm. His emotions were numb, he knew he should have been sickened by the warfare, but felt nothing, he could not even feel angry for Middleton’s attempt on his life. He was too tired and simply did not care. He noted that none of his men asked after Berick, but then why should they? So many others had not returned from the Western gate. He would have words with Middleton at some point, but now Aran just wanted to sleep.
The day wore on, but neither side seemed to be in a hurry to engage again. Men began to grow restless, and many wondered aloud about why the generals had given no new orders. It was tense thing to be waiting in sight of an enemy, and it was taking its toll on the men. Water was running short and the men were getting thirsty and hungry. Aran wondered what Middelton was playing at.
Eventually, as earl
y evening approached, the drums of the Concord army rolled again giving the signal to get ready. With a groan he stood back up and shouted orders to his men to take up their positions. Along the line men slowly, reluctantly reformed.
As they were forming up the Concord horns blew the quick notes that sounded an ordered retreat. Shock rippled through the ranks of men. Why were they retreating? Like his men, Aran was too numb, and too tired to argue, and with groans and complaints they marched back towards the woods. Aran followed them, shaking his head. Only a fool would want to go up that hill again, but why did we retreat? Something had changed, something that forced Middelton to adapt his tactics, but what, he wondered? Behind him Aran heard a single horn blowing from the western gate, mocking their retreat.
Karac Lor.
The canal boat glided across the still water of the lagoon. Remus watched the silvery reflection of the moon shift and glisten as the oar sliced slowly through the water. Behind him the lights of the city of Karac Lor, were fading into the distance. It was cold, and the mercenary shivered, pulling his cloak close around him. Glancing at the cloudless sky, he saw the stars above. The constellation of the Hooded Lady looked down upon him. He remembered something old Lamara had once told him. Lamara had been a brother in the Honourable Company, killed long before Cathan, an honourable man, for a mercenary. He had hailed from Herlisk in far eastern Rousk, He had once told Remus that his people believed that the Hooded Lady was Marthis, the lady luck who kept watch over soldiers, gamblers and fools, for she could not tell the difference between them, and loved them all equally. Tonight he hoped she was watching over this poor soldier.
Boatmen moved around him and his companion, and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, if they could be trusted. They were tough men of Traskov stock. All had been brought up on the shores of the Warcik Lagoon and knew its treacherous waters well. They were smugglers and thieves, and he had thrown good coin at them for this journey. Their task was simple. They only had to take him to close to the island. Remus would then use a rowing boat to get to dry land. Even so the men were nervous and the captain, Tor Vock Nar, had firmly informed Remus that they would not linger at night, and would only return for him after dawn. The captain was a brave man, but he looked terrified, and no amount of gold could persuade him to land on the island in the centre of the lagoon. The language of the empire called it Ferik Kor, the Island of Black Tears. It was a place of ill name and legend. Dark tales were told of this place long before the Islinor Empire ruled this land. It was said to be the sight of an ancient temple that belonged to a non-human people that had worshipped dark forces. A people long ruined by corruption, witchcraft and sacrifice. Others claimed the island was the sight of a great battle between the Dark Kar-thilis, and an archangel. The corrupter’s blood was said to stain the very earth itself. A century ago it had been used as a plague island and as a dumping ground for the mad and the damned.
Wintersong Page 18
