by David Wells
***
They rode out well before dawn. The Rangers were loaded down with torches, flasks of oil, and quivers full of arrows wrapped in oil-soaked burlap. Every one of them had been briefed the night before and understood the vital importance of the mission.
Before they left, Alexander and Isabel pulled Duane aside for a private conversation.
“After the raid, we’re going to part ways,” Alexander said. “There’s something I need to do that’s vitally important and time is running out.”
Duane nodded reluctantly. “I understand. We’ll do our part to keep the enemy from overrunning New Ruatha.”
“Before we leave, send a dozen riders with this letter to my father. This must get through,” Alexander said, handing Duane the letter he’d written the night before.
“It will, you have my word,” Duane said. “Take care of my sister.”
Alexander smiled. “Always.”
They rode hard for the better part of a day before they came to a rise overlooking the enormous supply depot. There were thousands of wagons and hundreds of tents and corrals. Boxes, crates, barrels, and bushels of supplies were stacked haphazardly all across the little valley. Slyder took to wing from Isabel’s shoulder and flew out over the enemy position to take a look at the defenses.
When Isabel’s eyes snapped open, she said, “They’re already fighting another enemy on the far side. The better part of the Headwater guard force is moving to engage a group of about two hundred men on foot who look like they’re trying to steal food. The north and west sides of the encampment are mostly undefended.”
“I wonder who the men attacking the depot are,” Alexander mused. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Is Duane’s force in place?”
Duane was leading the other contingent of three hundred and was approaching from the west while Alexander led his contingent to attack from the north.
Isabel nodded and Alexander looked over his shoulder to the captain of the first company. “Send up the signal,” he commanded.
The captain issued an order and a whistler arrow went up into the sky shrieking loud and long for all to hear. A moment later, they heard Duane respond in kind before both forces charged the supply depot.
They met light resistance on the perimeter. There were only a few sentries, and they fled the charge when they saw the Rangers thundering toward their positions. Alexander led his regiment into the supply depot and gave the command to spread out into squad-sized units and set the entire place on fire. He saw smoke start to rise from the west side of the depot; Duane had begun his attack as well.
They swept through the rows, setting fire to every wagon, tent, and stack of crates they came across. Soon the way behind them was a wall of flame rising high into the sky. Black smoke billowed up from the conflagration, blotting out the evening sun. They were almost two-thirds through the depot and had joined with Duane’s forces in the middle when they encountered resistance. The enemy soldiers had abandoned their fight with the thieves and organized a counterattack against Alexander and his forces.
The soldiers used the narrow roads between the supply wagons and piles of crates to choke off the Rangers’ mobility. They used heavy round shields to ward against arrows and long pikes to block certain pathways, corralling them toward a central assembly area that was open enough for the enemy to bring its superior numbers to bear.
Alexander was the first to arrive in the wide-open area. It was easily a thousand feet square, and the exits were all clogged with men armed with shields and pikes.
It was a trap—superior numbers in front and fire behind. Alexander chided himself for having led his forces into such a dangerous place, but when he looked over his shoulder and saw the bulk of the enemy supplies going up in flames, he knew that they had struck a deadly blow against the army now arrayed against New Ruatha.
Then he saw the bright orange hair of Rexius Truss behind a wall of infantry, and his worry over the odds they faced faded into the background. He looked left and right and saw that the Rangers had formed up on his position and were awaiting his command.
“Archers, send fire at them,” he called out.
The Rangers drew their fire-ready arrows and started sending volley after volley of flame into the assembled soldiers. The enemy began to advance under the cover of upturned shields. Once they were close enough, they unleashed a volley of crossbow bolts. Alexander’s horse took a hit to the throat and fell to the ground, gurgling blood as it died. He felt a twinge of guilt before his anger took hold and he drew his sword. The feel of the blade in his hand calmed his nerves and settled his resolve. Not a moment later, Anatoly was beside him with his war axe in hand.
Many of the Rangers had lost their horses in the crossbow attack; several had been killed. Alexander watched those remaining regroup and prepare for the advancing enemy with the professionalism and precision that only comes from long hours of training. He held his sword high and called out at the top of his lungs:
“Charge!”
The Rangers still on horseback split into two groups. The first switched to their spears and leapt forward toward the enemy’s shield-wall while the second unit continued to send arrows in a high arc over the leading edge of the enemy and into the less protected ranks beyond. A hundred Rangers on foot followed Alexander into the fray behind the light cavalry.
The enemy braced for the cavalry with pikes held high. The crash was deafening. The carnage was terrible. Hundreds of horses fell, but the Rangers who remained mounted broke the enemy line and crashed into their rear ranks.
The battle that ensued was chaotic and bloody. The Rangers stabbed at enemy soldiers with spears and swords, delivering punishing damage. The enemy infantry used pikes and swords to attack the mounted Rangers, bringing them down one at a time.
Alexander crashed into the crowd of enemy swarming around the mounted Rangers. Anatoly was at his side. The big man-at-arms didn’t try to engage the enemy, he didn’t advance to attack, but instead guarded the area to Alexander’s left and rear while Alexander swept into the enemy with abandon.
The first soldier brought his shield up and pointed his sword at Alexander. He slashed the sword in half with a flick of his wrist and then swept through his shield, arm, and six inches into his chest. The dying man fell backward in shock and disbelief.
The soldier just to the right and behind the first man fell next when Alexander thrust straight through his shield and into his heart. He swept his sword out the side of that soldier and cleaved the next onrushing man in half.
He heard an enemy fall to Anatoly on his left and brought his sword to bear on another charging soldier, bringing his blade across and cleaving the enemy’s shield in half, along with his arm. The man screamed and fell, and Alexander moved on to the next soldier. Lessons from the skillbook flowed freely, guiding his hand.
He swept through the enemy with single-minded purpose, leaving a swath of carnage in his wake. Men fell in pieces and crumpled in pools of bright red death. The stunning destructiveness of Alexander and his deadly sword drew the attention of the enemy, causing them to flee his approach. The ranks thinned in front of him, but closed in behind him, cutting him off from the bulk of the Rangers.
“Mind your surroundings,” Anatoly barked as he dispatched another soldier.
Alexander called out without looking back, “I am.” His all around sight was giving him the lay of the entire battlefield. He could see that he was cut off, but he didn’t care. He was one with his blade and he knew with calm clarity that these men could not stand before him.
He killed more than thirty men on his measured charge toward his real target. They fell easily. They had no defense against the immeasurable power of the Thinblade. Even without the teachings of the skillbook, Alexander would have been deadly with the Sword of Kings in hand, but the mastery imparted by the skillbook’s ancient magic coupled with the cutting power of the Thinblade made him unstoppable.
He saw the tide turn with the look of fear on
Truss’s face. There were few men left willing to face Alexander and his blade. Those clever enough to attempt to flank him met Anatoly and his very bloody war axe. The big man-at-arms waited patiently for the enemy to come and then dispatched them with practiced ease. He kept Alexander’s back safe while Alexander stalked toward the knot of soldiers protecting the enemy commanders.
Their trap had turned against them. The assembly area was blocked by fire on one side and the pathways leading out were choked with men on the other. Alexander pushed on. Arrows rained down around him from the Rangers in the rear providing archery support.
With broad strokes, he cut down the three men standing between him and Truss. When he saw Wizard Rangle hiding behind a cluster of soldiers, he realized his mistake.
Rangle raised his hand and white-hot fire bloomed from his palm, streaked out in a tightly focused jet of flame, and struck Alexander full in the chest. It blew him off his feet. The Thinblade slipped from his hand. His tunic burned into smoke, but the searing heat of the wizard’s spell was absorbed by Alexander’s dragon-steel shirt.
His eyes were dazzled by the brightness of the attack, but his all around sight told him he was in trouble. It took him a moment to regain his feet. When he did, he was surrounded by a cordon of enemy soldiers. The battle raged all around. He heard Isabel from somewhere in the distance cry his name. Everything was moving in slow motion. Anatoly stood his ground, but there were easily twenty soldiers armed with short spears surrounding the two of them, not to mention Wizard Rangle.
Alexander’s vision cleared to see Truss holding the Thinblade high in the air with a maniacally triumphant and murderous look of glee.
“I have the Thinblade. I am the King of Ruatha!” he shouted. He pointed it at Alexander and smiled. “After I kill you, I’ll have my way with Isabel. She will die badly.”
Rage welled up within Alexander like nothing he’d ever felt. He faced Truss as if his anger alone could destroy the petty little man. Truss charged with abandon, bringing the Thinblade up for a mighty downward stroke that would cleave Alexander from shoulder to hip.
Alexander surveyed the scene with his all around sight. Anatoly stood at his back with his axe at the ready facing off against a dozen men with spears all holding their positions. Rangle stood relaxed, content to allow Truss to finish Alexander.
The Rangers were rallying around Isabel and charging into the remaining enemy infantry. The soldiers on the ground had lost cohesion and couldn’t mount a defense against the column of Rangers driving through them toward Alexander.
Then he saw something he didn’t expect. The soldiers blocking two of the closest paths leading out of the assembly area were being attacked from behind by the thieves.
Truss closed the distance. Alexander waited. Truss raised the Thinblade and brought it down on Alexander. He raised his left arm to block the blade, knowing that it would not cut him. It bounced off his arm, slipped out of Truss’s hand and flipped back toward the petty little noble in a tight circle, slicing off his left hand just above the wrist before the blade plunged into the dirt just in front of Alexander. Truss screamed in disbelief and pain as his hand flopped to the ground.
Alexander snatched up his sword and casually kicked Truss’s hand into the circle of men just as a volley of arrows thinned their ranks. Truss screamed again in rage and agony a moment before the cordon of soldiers turned to face the column of charging Rangers. Alexander saw the real threat out of the corner of his mind’s eye. Rangle was moments away from launching a bubble of liquid fire into the cluster of soldiers surrounding Alexander.
He heard Anatoly level a great stroke of his axe at the few advancing soldiers behind him and the crash of horses through infantry, but he narrowed his focus down to the wizard.
A soldier lunged at him with a spear. Alexander flicked his blade at the haft of the weapon, slicing it neatly, then reached out and snapped the point of his blade at the top of the man’s head. It sliced through his helmet and several inches into his skull. On the return stroke Alexander tossed the Thinblade to his off hand, drew the throwing knife from the back of his belt and hurled it at Rangle. The blade flew straight into the bubble of liquid fire, splashing the searing contents onto the wizard. There was a scream and a whoosh from the sudden conflagration. A moment later, the column of Rangers broke through the infantry and surrounded Alexander and Anatoly.
They each mounted up behind a Ranger, and Alexander directed them toward the path out of the assembly area. He looked around for Truss but didn’t see the one-handed little rat anywhere. The remaining infantry scattered in an effort to escape the burning supply depot. Rangers who had lost their horses doubled up with others and they galloped out onto the open plain to find a raggedy-looking collection of men and women hauling whatever food they could carry away from the burning depot.
Alexander called a halt several hundred feet from the blazing supply depot and dismounted. A man dropped his bag of food and stepped up to face Alexander. He was average height but he was slender and his face was gaunt. He was dirty and unshaven. His colors radiated desperation and need.
“We only want what food we can carry,” he said. “We helped you when you were trapped back there. Please just let us keep the food.” He was clearly exhausted and looked like he needed a good meal or two.
“Thank you for helping us,” Alexander said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m called Corbin,” he said. “We just want the food we took, that’s all.”
“Corbin, my name is Alexander. You can keep the food you took. From the looks of you and your friends here, you could use it. Where are you from and why were you willing to face a thousand soldiers to steal food?”
“We’re from Headwater,” Corbin said. “None of us belongs to a trade guild, so we can’t work. We’re hungry and our families are hungry. When we heard that Rake was stockpiling food here, we came to get some. We didn’t know there’d be soldiers.”
“How many people are there in Headwater without guild chits?” Alexander asked.
“I don’t know, maybe one in three,” Corbin said. “Rake likes to make it difficult for people to work, so he can control things. People will do whatever he says for fear of losing the right to work.”
Alexander felt his anger building. “Corbin, you take all the food you can carry. When you get back to Headwater, you tell anyone who will listen that Alexander Ruatha is coming to take everything from Elred Rake. Once he’s dead and gone, anyone will be able to work without needing permission from a trade guild.”
Corbin frowned. “I wish I could believe that, but Rake has control of everything in Headwater. He’ll never let it go as long as he draws breath.”
Alexander nodded with a grim grin. “I intend to see to it that he stops drawing breath. You tell people what you saw here today.”
Alexander remounted, and he and the Rangers thundered off into the dusk. They rounded up a few stray horses that had fled the burning supply depot and wound up with a few more mounts than Rangers. When they stopped to make camp, Alexander ordered a head count.
Once he was off his horse, he was confronted by Anatoly, Abigail, and Isabel. All three looked angry. He stopped and waited for them to speak.
Abigail broke the silence. “Don’t you ever charge off into a bunch of enemy soldiers like that ever again! You could have been killed. You almost were. If Anatoly hadn’t been crazy enough to follow you and watch your back, you would have died a dozen times.”
Alexander could see the anger and worry and relief all tangled up within his sister.
Isabel went next. She held him with her eyes as she approached and hugged him fiercely. “Please don’t get killed. I love you and I need you. You don’t need to take risks like that. We’re here to help you and protect you. Let us!” She stepped back and brushed a tear from her cheek.
Alexander turned to Anatoly, expecting a long lecture from his old mentor. But he didn’t get one. Anatoly took a deep breath. Blood was crusted on his
breastplate and his bracers. “Watch the battle in your mind, Alexander. There are many lessons for you to learn from. The first of which is that you gave the enemy far too many opportunities to kill you today. Don’t be so careless. Your sword is a fearsome weapon, but it will not save you from a well-placed arrow.”
Alexander nodded. He remembered the battle. He was so sure of himself and his sword. The men he faced didn’t have a chance. They fell before him like wheat before the scythe, but that didn’t stop others from closing in behind him. His advance had been reckless, mostly because he was trying to cut his way to Truss. He allowed his desire to kill the petty little rat blind him to the bigger picture.
He nodded somberly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I got caught up in the battle and let myself become distracted.”
They washed up and changed into clean clothes before eating a cold meal and going to sleep. The head count came to Alexander just before bed: four hundred and eighty-nine. The battle had cost one hundred and eleven Rangers their lives. Alexander wrestled with the cost versus the value of destroying the enemy supplies. He fervently hoped their sacrifice would save a great many more lives by depriving Headwater’s army of vital food and equipment.
Chapter 13
The next morning the camp was abuzz with stories of the battle and of Alexander’s charge into the enemy. Many of the Rangers thought he’d been heroic, but he realized after a night’s sleep that he’d been reckless, needlessly risking his life—and with it, the future. This was just one battle. There was much more fighting to come and he understood in the clarity of the new dawn that he was the only one who could stop Phane from getting to the Sovereign Stone. That was the real fight.
