The Crown and the Sword

by Doug Niles

  As the first boats drew closer to the far shore, volleys of goblin arrows arced through the air, soaring high above the water then plunging down to hiss into the river, with more than a few of them slicing into the boats and their human cargo.

  Dayr heard the screams of the wounded, and each cry was like a cut in his own flesh. He knew the men were all but defenseless in those watercraft. The water churned as the troops redoubled their paddling efforts. They knew their only chance was to reach the opposite bank as quickly as possible. Even as the boats moved faster, however, ranks of goblins advanced toward the riverbank. And more arrows, volley after volley, filled the skies, showering down on the water and striking the Solamnics.

  “Launch the second wave!” General Dayr commanded. He and several of his officers, as well as a half dozen couriers and aides, climbed into a boat bobbing in the shallows. They started across with the next group of vessels, churning toward the far bank with agonizing slowness despite the frantic paddlers. Burly young men stroked at the water, but the liquid seemed to resist fiendishly, slowing their progress to a crawl.

  The first boat was nearly ashore, however. The general could see countless others boats drifting aimlessly, crews slain to the last man. Some careened and wobbled, propelled by only one or two unwounded oarsmen. Dayr saw two boats capsize within a dozen paces of the far bank. Men scrambled into the shallow water, stumbling across the muddy riverbed, flailing as they tried to scramble up the muddy slope into the very teeth of the goblin resistance.

  Still the arrows fell, and now the boats of the second wave had become the target. Dayr’s aide-de-camp fell silently into the hull, pierced by an instantly fatal arrow that had plunged almost straight downward into his skull. A boatman in the stern was bailing constantly—the frail craft tended to be leaky—and when he went down with an arrow in his back, the water began to accumulate.

  The battle on the bank raged, a bloody tangle of goblins and men. Swords clashed against shields, and spears stabbed right and left. Howls of triumph mingled with cries of pain—a ghastly cacophony. Men tumbled backward, bleeding and dying, to slump in the shallow water, too weak or injured to pull themselves to safety. Their companions, locked in the desperate battle for survival, dared not pause to offer aid.

  Finally the watercraft of Dayr’s command mingled with the surviving boats of the first wave, pressing against the shore. The general tumbled out, drawing his sword, bellowing commands and encouragement to the men battling for their lives on the muddy riverbank. He took note of the piercing cry of a horn and knew his enemy was issuing some new command but was unsure what it was.

  There came a gap in the surging line, and he saw: the goblin cavalry, on their fearsome warg wolves, was advancing at a trot, ready to commence a lethal charge.

  General Rankin ignored the water that filled his boots, the chill liquid that sloshed over his saddle as he whipped his charger through the center of the great river. His army was crossing one of the best fords on the upper Vingaard: nearly a quarter mile in length but relatively shallow across the entire span. Furthermore, the gravel bottom, packed down by centuries of wagon wheels, formed a solid bed underfoot. The liability of the ford, of course, was that the enemy knew about its virtues as well as the Solamnics; they had a company permanently posted there on guard, and had already summoned reinforcements when dawn had revealed the Sword Army on the far bank.

  The general rode just behind the vanguard, three companies of the Spireshadow Swords, with their shields and long blades, who were wading the river that, in places, came up to their chests. The solid footing in the ford made a path perhaps a hundred yards wide, and this was crowded with a column of brave soldiers from the Sword Army.

  As they approached the far bank, the men raised their shields over their heads. They were approaching a mixed group of enemy troops, goblins and humans mingled together. The humans formed a shield wall near the bank, while the goblins launched volley after volley of arrows from their stout, curved bows. The missiles showered the men, many thunking into the upraised shields, but others finding gaps, piercing shoulders and arms and torsos. Still, the Solamnics moved forward, keeping discipline.

  Rankin rode past the body of a footman who floated motionless, facedown with an arrow through his throat. The bloodletting was increasingly staining the water red. Another arrow scored a deep gash along the withers of the general’s horse, and the big gelding bucked in sudden fear, almost dumping the wing commander into the water.

  “Steady, steady!” Rankin urged, clinging to his seat as he stroked his animal’s neck. After a moment the charger put its big head down and plunged forward.

  More arrows swished past, and Rankin repressed the urge to duck or flinch. He wouldn’t display any sign of weakness. He carried no shield, and with his gleaming breastplate—emblazoned with the image of the Sword—and his silver helm, he made a conspicuous target. But it was important to him that the men see their commander’s courage and take heart from his example, so he remained erect and continued to press forward, even amid the hailstorm of deadly missiles. Perhaps Kiri-Jolith had protected him with an immortal shield, for even as his aides and escorting knights were struck down, the general himself remained unscratched as his horse finally plunged through the shallows, churning through water as it heaved toward the gentle, graveled bank.

  The edge of the river here was dry and firm, unlike so many other stretches where the banks were muddy and choked with reeds. Now, along with Rankin, the first rank of his troops struggled out of the river, swords drawn.

  Hoarse cheers erupted from the men as they made a ragged charge into the waiting defenders.

  “Solanthus!”

  “For the Swords!”

  “By the Oath and the Measure!”

  These men, many of whom called that besieged city their home, hurled themselves at the enemy with a vengeance.

  A whole row of human fighters, formerly pledged to Mina’s army, met them with their own steel unsheathed. Within moments a tremendous melee raged along the river’s edge. More and more of Rankin’s men surged forward, and the defenders’ line slowly yielded. Grotesque leers, growling determination, and frantic slashing and stabbing rippled along the ranks. In places the Dark Knights fell back, stabbed and bleeding, but in other parts of the line, the Solamnics faltered, with many of the dead and wounded rolling right back into the river.

  Even so, the fury of the attack was carrying Rankin’s men forward. He sensed the weakness in the defending line and steered his men to exploit the gaps.

  “Knights of the Sword—form ranks, multiple lines abreast! Charge!” cried the general.

  The armored knights of the Newforge Regiment, on heavy chargers, came hard behind the footmen. The infantry was well drilled, and the line separated in many places, the swordsmen forming tight squares with the waves of knights charging between them.

  Relieved to be on dry ground, Rankin yelled exultantly. His sword raised, he led a contingent of knights right through the enemy line. The general himself cleaved a man from forehead to sternum with one blow. Overwhelmed by the armored riders, the defenders stumbled back. Many were trampled under the heavy hooves, while others were cut down from behind as they tried, with utter futility, to outrun the horses.

  But now there were more humans joining the enemy line. Rankin saw the long shafts, tipped with gleaming steel heads and razor-sharp blades, and his heart fell. He grimaced in dismay, but there was nothing else to do, no choice but to continue.

  There was only one infantry formation that could stop a charge of knights, and that was a disciplined formation of pikemen. The enemy captain had prepared a three-rank line of pikemen some three hundred yards long. The men in front knelt, those in the second line crouched, and those in the rear stood. All of them held their long-shafted weapons securely braced against the ground, with the heads of the pikes forming a lethal hedgerow of deadly steel. The pikemen blocked the army’s path onto the plain.

  “Ride them down!” cr
ied Rankin, hoisting his sword and steering his horse with his knees. Hundreds of knights joined him in shouting as they thundered forward.

  There was really no alternative. Retreat, back into the river, through the hail of arrows, would be ignominy. To General Rankin, it was the pikemen or certain death.

  “Form on me!” he cried as his own signalman raised his horn and brayed a call that echoed up and down the line. “Men of Solanthus—those wretches stand between us and our city! Ride them down!”

  It seemed as though the wind itself ceased to blow, holding its breath for the results of the clash, as the line of knighthood plunged toward the immovable array of pikes.

  General Markus watched his Rose Wing column as they crossed at the south ford, meeting fierce resistance. Then the commander’s attention was drawn elsewhere.

  He called Sir Templar over.

  “The bridging company is in position. Do what you can to give them cover,” he ordered. “And do it quickly.”

  “Yes, General!” replied the young Clerist. “I believe I have something that will work. I have posted my apprentices along the shore, and if I can just summon—”

  “Don’t tell me about it; show me,” Markus barked.

  “Yes, of course, sir! Right away!”

  The cleric-knight hastened away. The general turned to watch his attacking troops as they battled at the far side of the ford, making little headway. This spearhead was only a small fraction of the Rose Wing force and did not include any of his armored knights; the bulk of his troops would be hurled across the bridge once it was in place. How long that would take was anybody’s guess, for a bridge had never been tried on a river this large.

  Only a few moments later, Markus noticed a hazy mist gathering along the reedy bank north of the ford. The massive pontoons of the bridge sections were hidden in those reeds, he knew, and he felt hopeful as he watched the haze thicken into a genuine, obscuring fog. Whatever the cleric and his men were doing, it seemed to be working. From his position a quarter mile away, he couldn’t see even the riverbank any longer, much less the activity going on there.

  Markus mounted and rode quickly to Captain Perrin, the chief of the bridging company. “Look sharp, lads,” he called, with avuncular firmness. “Go there. Now bring in the next one. Now, another, and then the next. Hurry up, fellows!”

  One by one, the sections were floated out from the shore. The tubes of the pontoons were aligned perpendicular to the river’s flow, allowing the current to slip past without exerting a lot of pressure on the bridge. After six of them had been put in place, Captain Perrin himself supervised the dropping of a heavy anchor into the silty mud. Another was placed after twelve pontoons were extended. As the sections extended farther out from the shore, these anchors would help to ensure that the span remained in position, as the bridge steadily progressed toward the opposite bank.

  Simultaneously, as each new pair of pontoons were arranged, additional troops maneuvered planks across the pieces of lumber and hastily lashed them together. The boards were long and thick, necessarily heavy because the bridge was designed to allow the crossing of mounted knights. Moment by moment the bridge grew across the wide but placid flowage.

  The fog remained thick and obscuring, spilling farther and farther across the river as the bridge building continued. As the span passed the halfway point, the general rode out on the bobbing but secure construction and approved the work. When he saw daylight penetrating the fog past the middle of the river, he ordered Templar to come forward, and as the construction proceeded, the cleric remained near the steadily advancing end of the bridge, maintaining the magical fog as more and more sections were laid.

  Meanwhile, the troops crossing at the ford continued to suffer heavy casualties. A messenger came back across, asking permission to retreat, but with a heavy heart the general ordered them to remain steadfast. Their sacrifice, he desperately hoped, would not be in vain. Each life lost distracted their foe from the unnatural fog, and the encroaching bridge, ensuring that the enemy remained fixed upon the fording troops.

  Markus rode back to the west bank, galloped down to the ford, and sent yet another company into that lethal stretch of water. As they departed, determined to sell their lives at a high cost, he saw his bridging officer approaching at a gallop.

  “The bridge is ready, sir!” Captain Perrin reported finally.

  “Knights of the Rose—here is your road to victory! Charge!” ordered General Markus, standing aside to watch his armored riders start across. The plank road bobbed and shifted under the hooves of the heavy horses, but the bridge held, and the knights thundered across the river, toward the east bank, the enemy lines, and the besieged city beyond.

  “Fall back!” General Dayr’s heart broke. He gagged on the bile raised by the bitterness of defeat. How many boats had been lost? How many men had drowned or been slain by the rain of arrows? The survivors of his wing were trapped on a small section of the riverbank, fighting for their lives against the continual attacks of the goblin cavalry on their savage, lupine mounts. The snarling jaws of the wolves snapped and drooled practically in his face, and he cut down yet another of the brutes with a chopping blow of his sword. Shaggy and fierce, the size of small ponies, the savage wolves were fleet and fearless and even more deadly than their goblin riders.

  Moment by moment more men fell, trying to hold their tenuous position on the bank. For most of the afternoon his brave troops had stood firm, but the small section of dry ground they held shrank with each vicious attack. Several hundred boats were clustered along the bank just in the rear of the battle line, and it seemed the only alternative to annihilation was to load them up with his surviving troops and begin to retreat, back across the river toward the safety of their starting positions.

  It galled the proud General of Crowns, but thousands of painted, beastly warriors, crowing and howling in exultation, pressed them from all sides, and Dayr knew it was better to bring some of his men back alive than to lose them all in a hopeless cause.

  “Into the boats!” he ordered. “We’re going to retreat.”

  The withdrawal was chaotic, swords clashing against goblin shields in the muddy—and bloody—waters at the edge of the river. Men scrambled into the boats so hastily that some of them foundered, and it was only by shouting themselves hoarse that the sergeants and captains were able to bring a semblance of order. Finally the last of the little craft pushed away from the bank, the men paddling through waters they had crossed at cost, while the whole east bank of the river was lined with jeering, hooting goblins.

  “They may have used up most of their arrows,” suggested Captain Johns, one of Dayr’s few surviving commanders. Indeed, the barrage that had blanketed them on their initial approach was a desultory shower now. But that was the only thing Dayr could be thankful for. He was leaving behind more than a thousand brave men, and as the last boat pushed away, he had not gained even a single foot of ground to show for those lives.

  “Stand firm, there! Raise those shields! Here they come again!”

  General Rankin issued his orders from his charger, the weary, bloodied horse still trotting smartly as it carried him back and forth behind the lines of his companies, the men who had fought their way across the great central ford. They had gained the far bank, but his units had progressed no more than a hundred yards from the river’s edge. With a line barely a quarter mile long, he knew that his army was in a desperate circumstance.

  The cause of their frustration, he knew, was that wall of pikemen. Hundreds of his knights and their horses had fallen there, pierced by the keen steel tips. The veteran human warriors who gripped those shafts were schooled in Mina’s armies. Rankin’s riders had assaulted them many times, desperate to break through the lines, to shatter the enemy army and race onto the plains.

  But the enemy’s determination was strong. Rankin himself had led several charges, had tried to fight his way toward the enemy commander—a former Knight of Neraka he recognized as a man
named Blackgaard. Each time, the pikes had drawn tight, an impermeable barrier that cut down any brave riders who dared to come close.

  In the end, the Army of the Sword had been forced back to the riverbank. Here they held, exacting a bloody toll on the enemy whenever Blackgaard sent forward a contingent in an effort to drive them into the water. But all they could do was hold their ground, try to stay alive, and pray for relief from one of the other wings of the Solamnic Army.

  Without a breakthrough somewhere, it seemed the whole Army of Solamnia was doomed.

  “Charge!” cried General Markus. “Caergoth Steelshields, carry the day!”

  The planks of the bridge thrummed and vibrated underfoot as the column of armored knights, charging only six abreast because of the narrow span, thundered toward the east bank of the great river. They burst out of the mist, galloping from the edge of the bridge onto dry land.

  A small company of goblins, apparently designated to investigate the mysterious fog, stood at the edge of the bridge, but they were smashed without even slowing the momentum of the charge. Warhorses pounded on, cutting down the terrified defenders in their path. The few panicked goblins who turned to flee fared miserably as they were chopped down by swords before they could take more than a couple of steps.

  Sir Templar, exhausted, collapsed at the side of the bridge but raised a hoarse cheer as the file of riders continued to thunder past. Others of his Clerist company filed onto the bridge to come and join him, all of them cheering as the knights galloped across.

  Ashore, Markus bade his mounted men to form companies. The first three of these he directed southward, to ride to the aid of the beleaguered troops trapped at the eastern end of the ford. The others, as they came across, he dispatched across the plains, or northward to link up with the forces of General Rankin, commanding the center of the great attack.