by Ty Johnston
At least none of them appeared to be carrying spears and only a few hefted bows, Guthrie told himself. Most of the Dartague gripped swords, a few with clubs or maces. Also, none of the nearing enemy were mages or carried with them any type of magic; of this Guthrie was positive, the sergeant gifted with a special sight that allowed him to see such things.
As his enemy drew nearer and nearer, Guthrie glanced behind himself to make sure of the land. Everything was white for as far as he could see in all directions but the north where the mountains lay like skeletons of dead giants upon the horizon. The range was too far away to offer any shelter to the sergeant and the militiamen. There was nowhere to run, to hide. Whatever was to come in the following moments, the Ursians would have to make their stand there among the dry gray limbs of aged trees, the men up to their hips in the cold of the snow.
When Guthrie craned his head around to spot the enemy, he found they had closed the distance faster than he would have thought. The riders were slowing even further, nearly to the trees.
“Ready yourselves,” Captain Werner said down the line of his men as those who had launched their weapons already prepared more arrows.
Taking his own look at the men, Guthrie figured they were as ready as they would ever be. At least none of them had broken rank and tried to run, as fruitless an effort as it would be. Perhaps they realized as much. They were going to fight here, and most likely die here.
Then the Dartague were at the tree line, the burly warriors dropping from their saddles and tromping forward in crouches, quiet before but suddenly screaming their war cries.
“Loose your arrows!” Werner shouted.
Eleven arrows sprang forward, a wall of arrows. If not for the trees, all eleven arrows might have found a mark. As it was, half a dozen slammed into one trunk or another or was snagged by a low-hanging limb. Another arrow hit low, spewing up snow from the ground only inches in front of a barbarian. The other four arrows found homes. Two slammed into the same warrior, the tallest of the Dartague, a big blonde monster of a man with a sword out at his side; he dropped to his knees, the arrows protruding from his chest as he spit up blood before falling forward, landing face first in the snow. Another arrow cracked against a knee but slid off a hanging piece of metal plate, enough to knock the lucky warrior off his feet but not enough to take him out of the fight. The last arrow to strike true caught one of the smaller Dartague in the throat, the man dropping his club and both hands grasping at his neck as if he could somehow save himself; he could not, and soon a rush of scarlet poured down his chest.
“Again!” Werner shouted.
Guthrie joined the captain and the others in placing arrows against their crossbows. The Dartague were near but taking their time, not even yet beneath the trees, giving the Ursians an opportunity for at least one more volley, perhaps even another.
With his crossbow raised to his shoulder, Guthrie looked upon the enemy once more. All the barbarians were off their steeds now, a dozen or so of them working their way into the trees, the rest of the Dartague hanging back by the horses. Why those in the back were waiting, Guthrie could not guess, but he thanked Ashal for yet another minor improvement of his chances at survival.
There were distant thumping noises and a half dozen arrows came flying from the Dartague in the back to slam into the Ursian horses. At that point Guthrie’s horse bucked and screamed, as did several of the other animals along the Ursian’s front lines. The animals took off at a run, blood splattering from a handful of them.
It was then Guthrie noticed once more the few archers among the Dartague. He realized those men had hung back because they had been charged with removing the Ursian’s living shields, the horses, and the other men around them were meant to guard the archers. Some of the horses injured or frightened, all had fled in a panic, routed along the creek bed and out into the white lands. If any of the Ursians were to survive, Guthrie knew they would have a hell of a time finding rides back to Herkaig, facing a long trek.
“Give it to them!” Werner shouted.
Another eleven arrows snapped forward, this time to better effect. It seemed the less experienced Ursians were learning quick, finding their range. Three more Dartague went down screaming and spitting blood. Another pair were wounded, one in the stomach and the other the groin, both men dropping behind trees and out of the fight.
But more men joined the forward assault and the Dartague in the trees now numbered nearly two score. Only the three archers remained back with their horses, arrows ready to fly at any who would try to flee the relative safety of the ravine.
“So this is to be it,” Guthrie muttered to himself barely above his breath.
Pindle grinned at his side, the man busy putting another arrow to his crossbow. “Sure beats dying at home of old age and boredom.”
Guthrie guessed the man was right. Pindle had been a farmer, a serf to his local lord, before Werner had brought his militia north to fight the Dartague. Guthrie himself had hoped for a boring death far from the border, but then he had been soldiering for ten years. Pindle had not, thus was seemingly ready for a little excitement in his final minutes. Guthrie cursed his luck again. He had been close to his military discharge before all hell had broken out here in the north.
“Ready!” Werner cried out.
His crossbow loaded again, Guthrie looked up. The screaming Dartague were almost right on top of them, merely a handful of yards away. His comrades at both sides of him, all up and down the line, were lifting their bows. Guthrie did the same.
Facing their deaths, the forward Dartague howled like mad wolves and threw away all caution, charging at full speed, their swords leading the way.
“Launch!” the captain yelled.
Arrows shot forth again. Dartague screamed in pain and fell, but not nearly enough of them.
Guthrie tried to count the wounded and dead along the front line of the enemy, but suddenly there was too much happening for him to do so.
Chapter 2
A man who seemed the size of a mountain fell on top of the sergeant, the fellow’s bulk forcing Guthrie back. For a moment Guthrie thought he would remain on his feet, swaying with his arms out at his sides, but then his boots slipped in the snow beneath him and he fell backward. That fall saved his life as edged steel sliced through the air where his head had been but a moment earlier.
Guthrie looked up through his helmet’s slit at his attacker, the Dartague warrior taller than most and built like a bull with broad shoulders and no neck. A husky red beard hung from the fighter’s chin, surrounded by more shaggy hair. Bulky furs of various animals covered the man’s body from head to toe, leather straps holding the pelts in place.
Around the two men, combat waged upon all sides. Metal clashed and shrieked against metal, blood flashed and men died screaming. Grunts and groans sounded up and down the line, with a few twangs of a bow going off here and there.
Then Guthrie had no more time to watch the others. A long, heavy blade of forged steel slashed down at him from upon high.
The sergeant rolled to one side, the edge of the Dartague sword missing him but scraping uselessly against the back of his studded leather mail. His back now to the sword, Guthrie reached back and around with his left arm, wrapping the sword in his grip. In his armor and a heavy cloak, he was little concerned he would receive a cut along his arm while locking up the weapon. If so, rather a slice along an arm than a hack to the head or chest if the Dartague managed to pull back on his blade. Which was what the big warrior attempted, and with his strength likely would have succeeded if Guthrie had not realized he was still holding onto his crossbow with his right hand.
The crossbow swung around to smash against the Dartague attacker’s left knee, the wood of the bow cracking loudly along with that knee. The Dartague howled and bent over at the pain, grabbing at his leg. Guthrie wasted no time pulling back the crossbow and slamming it forward again, this time connecting directly with his enemy’s nose. The nose crunched and spl
attered blood. The Dartague howled again. Guthrie dropped his now broken and useless crossbow, his right hand scrabbling for the dagger on his belt. The Dartague leaned against his sword, his weight forcing the tip of the blade deeper into the snow and into hard ground, while trying to stand. Guthrie would have none of that. He let go of the sword, his left hand launching itself forward to grab at that red beard while the fingers of his right hand tugged his dagger free of its sheath. The beard was caught, causing the barbarian to wince, and Guthrie pulled down. As the face of his foe drew near, the sergeant stabbed up with his dagger, the short blade sinking into the throat of the barbarian. A wet swarm flowed across the sergeant’s arms and chest as he raised a foot to shove back on the dead man now draped across him.
Fighting all around, Guthrie slammed his dagger home in his belt and grabbed up the sword still standing at his side. With enemies everywhere, there was no thought to unveiling the heavy iron-headed mace hanging from his belt. The sword was there. The sword would do.
He brought up the heavy blade across his chest, ready to slash into a man in a wolf skin cloak on his right, the Dartague stabbing a short sword over and over again into the stomach of a young militiaman, the Ursian already dead on his feet but the continual stabs keeping him standing. Then three other barbarians sprang on Guthrie, coming from all sides. One on the left with a club studded with nails, another straight ahead with a curved sword, still another on the right shoving past his stabbing comrade to lunge at Guthrie with a long knife.
The back of the natural culvert pressing against the sergeant’s legs up past his thighs, there was no easy retreat for him, and there was little chance he could avoid a blow from all his attackers. He then saw the weakness of making a stand in the creek bed. The location had been excellent for sniping away with arrows, but was deadly for close combat.
With only thoughts of saving his own precious hide for the next few seconds, Guthrie allowed himself to fall backward. The knife and club slashed through where he had been standing a moment earlier. With the breath thrust from his lungs as he landed on his back, Guthrie brought around his legs now that he was on flat ground and rolled away from the creek bed. The curved sword jabbed at him and steel rubbed against his leather leggings but to little effect.
Now having room to maneuver, Guthrie spun around in the snow and jumped to his feet, swinging his sword out to keep away immediate attackers. The swing was a lucky one, catching a barbarian climbing out of the creek across the face, blinding the fellow and causing him to gurgle before pitching forward to spread a pool of red in the snow.
Backing away as his other two attackers pulled themselves from their lower position and onto the floor of the flatlands, Guthrie had a moment to take in the fight running up and down the gulley among the trees. Most of his countrymen were already down. The rest were dying by the moment, falling beneath multiple assaults by swords and axes and daggers and clubs.
At that point, Guthrie realized he had but moments to live. He could turn and try to run, hoping he could somehow find one of the fleeing horses, or he could stand his ground and fight to the death, taking as many Dartague with him before he fell. Flight seemed a silly option. He would never be able to get to a ride with nearly two score enemy remaining to fall upon him, and he had not the time to hunt the steeds down.
Fighting was his only option.
A boiling anger burst from inside him at that point, a pent up rage that had been swelling and growing for days, since he had lost his squad to the Dartague. If he was to die this day, then let it be remembered by friends and foes alike.
The man with the curved sword and the other with the club stalked forward, shaking their weapons out at their sides, their eyes hooded as they prepared to end the life of their target.
Guthrie did not give them an opportunity to exalt in any fear they hoped to bring their foe. He tossed back his head and cried to the heavens a bellow of pure hate and fury. Death to the Dartague! Death to those who would use magic to conquer others. He charged at them.
The pair had a moment to be shaken, glancing at one another. Ursians did not fight this way, with wrathful howlings. Only Dartague and other northern peoples used such a tactic. It confused them.
Which was all Guthrie needed to lash out with his stolen sword, cutting through the other swordsman’s stomach, intestines spilling out steaming into the snow. Before the fellow with the club could react, the Ursian spun completely around, his sword laying a deadly swath in a circle about him. The steel edge bit deep, chopping into the Dartague’s neck, nearly severing the head.
His motion halted by the strike, Guthrie stared into a pair of pale blue eyes belonging to a youth with hair the color of summer grain. The lad’s eyes were broad, staring into the dark gaze of his slayer. Then the youth’s orbs rolled back in his head and the corpse slid away from the sword to flop back into the creek bed.
But the fight was still not finished.
Another pair of Dartague grunted as they climbed from the creek bed, stepping over their downed kin to swing a mace and a sword at the Ursian gone mad.
Guthrie feinted right, drawing a stroke from the swordsman there, but he stepped away from his enemy’s blade and ducked low to kick out to his left where his boot connected with a Dartague knee. The man with the club screamed as his knee was crushed, his weapon falling from his hand. The sergeant slammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face, crashing in the front of the skull as Guthrie was hit from behind.
Guthrie allowed himself to roll with the punch that had hit him. He wheeled further to his left away from the dying man. He had but a moment to glance over a shoulder and see the other Dartague stepping back after having struck the sergeant on the back. Feeling nothing broken and no blood spilling down his mail, Guthrie offered a quick prayer of thanks to Ashal for the armor that had saved him from a worse blow. He might be bruised if he survived, but better that than a crushed spine.
As the faceless barbarian who had wielded a club dropped to his knees and plummeted into the snow, Guthrie paused for a moment to catch his breath. It was nearly a mistake.
The other swordsman was younger and still had plenty of reserves. He jumped over his dead comrade and slashed out with a wide stroke.
On the edge of the creek bed, Guthrie nearly fell back into the remaining fray, but he managed to twist an ankle around and dropped on his hands and knees a few feet away from the short drop off. His enemy’s sword sailed over his head and the sergeant rolled again, taking himself further away from the gulley.
When he came to his feet, Guthrie found his opponent nearly on top of him. The Dartague was bringing down his sword in a huge two-handed swing. The problem with such an attack is all one’s strength is behind it and little agility. All Guthrie had to do was step to one side, the heavy blade slapping into the ground next to his left boot.
The sergeant took the moment of surprise that was apparent on his enemy’s face and stabbed out with his own sword, the end of his weapon sinking several inches into the other man’s stomach. Still, the barbarian did not go down. He grunted and shrugged off the strike, hammering forward with the handle of his weapon as if to punch Guthrie in the face.
This time it was his helmet which saved the sergeant. The rounded brass end of the Dartague sword pounded against the face of his helm, bringing a dull ringing to Guthrie’s ears and shaking him but otherwise doing no immediate harm. In close with his opponent now, Guthrie dropped his longer weapon and tugged free his dagger once more with his left hand while his right clawed out and grabbed the barbarian by the front of his furry coat.
Sensing the change in the fight, the Dartague tried to shove forward, to push his opponent away, but Guthrie’s footing was better and his hold on the other fellow strong. The sergeant’s dagger struck forward, punching into the barbarian’s stomach where the Ursian’s sword had stabbed but a moment earlier.
Still the Dartague did not go down. He dropped his sword and his hands went to work trying to free his own
knife from its sheath on his belt. Unfortunately for him, the shagginess of his garb kept his fingers from finding purchase on the smaller weapon, and Guthrie used this delay to his advantage. The Ursian stabbed again with the dagger, this time slightly higher. The blade sank to the hilt.
Yet the Dartague struggled on.
Guthrie stabbed again. And again. And again. His enemy still on his feet and trying to grasp at his belt, the sergeant brought up a knee into the man’s groin.
There was a gasp and the Dartague finally dropped to his knees, his hands cupped around his stomach as blood flowed forth.
Not giving his opponent a moment, Guthrie sliced out with his dagger, the thin blade raking across the barbarian’s throat.
Then Guthrie stepped back.
For a moment the Dartague remained upright on his knees. His eyes blinked at his killer standing before him. He seemed surprised that he had been bested in combat. Then the fellow crumbled in upon himself, falling backward into the snow atop one of his dead companions.
Then there was silence, quiet.
Detecting a lack of action around him, Guthrie took a further step back and scooped up his sword from the ground.
What he found left him in utter amazement.
His friends were dead, all of them. Or at least none were standing. More than two dozen of the Dartague still stood, the big burly fellows spread out along the ravine with the few archers back by the horses. None of them moved. None came forward to attack. They stood watching, their eyes locked on their lone foe still standing, nary a serious wound upon the Ursian sergeant.
Guthrie breathed in heavily, his exhale shooting out wisps of smokey air into the environment. He lowered his sword arm, giving himself a momentary rest. At any moment he expected the barbarians to charge in a mass at him, to end his life where he stood. A sense of wrath had taken hold of him for a few minutes there, but now it was being replaced by a weakness of the body and soul. He was tired, so tired. He would fight in a moment when the time came, but for now he would allow himself to wallow in his weakness, to rest for the coming fray. Perhaps he could take one or two more with him before he fell.
