Bridge of Swords

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Forwards!’ he called and grunted with the effort of lifting the heavy wooden shield.

  Huw, Sendatsu and Glyn watched the Forlish begin their slow advance.

  ‘At least the catapults have stopped,’ Sendatsu observed.

  ‘Not in time to save the inner wall.’ Glyn looked at the wreckage mournfully. It was still a barrier — but nothing substantial enough to protect a man.

  The inner palisade was wrecked for a good fifty paces, a massive gap towards which the Forlish were aiming their advance. Rocks, broken logs and chunks of wood were scattered around. Logs hung at crazy angles off surrounding parts of the wall, while others stood, the top half snapped off, like broken teeth. It was still an obstacle. Men would not be able to keep tight ranks and get through and over this. But it was not enough.

  ‘We knew that would go.’ Huw waved it off. ‘And at least we know they are going to come right at us.’

  ‘They don’t need to play around. They have plenty of men,’ Glyn muttered.

  ‘So we’ll thin them out. Does everybody know their place?’

  Heads nodded and Huw smiled, trying to keep his fear from showing. They had prepared as best they could but the mass of Forlish, advancing behind their huge wooden shields, was a daunting sight. So many things could go wrong … he did not know how Ward could find war so thrilling. He would be far happier if he could put aside the crossbow forever and take up the lyre instead.

  ‘Sendatsu, give them something to think about,’ he managed to say without his voice shaking.

  Sendatsu waved to the waiting dragons and eased to the front of the fighting platform, one of just two they had not demolished to use elsewhere. Of the dragons he had brought to Patcham, half had some skills with the bow — nothing like elves, of course; it took years of training before a bowman could hit what he was aiming at. Luckily the mass of Forlish was a big enough target that even these boys should be able to strike it.

  He strung his bow, watching the young men around him.

  ‘Take your time. Don’t hurry,’ he called, seeing several of them struggle, more out of nerves than anything else. ‘We’re going to loose six arrows. No more until they get close!’

  He was nervous, more nervous than he had ever been in his life. This could end very badly — and not just for him. Mai and Cheijun were in his thoughts all the time and he was determined to get through this for them. But what of the others? He had grown close to many of these humans. The thought of losing them to the Forlish was frightening. Then there was the way everyone thought his elven skills were going to prove the difference. Victory or defeat would be on him. But he kept all that hidden. He had to. He looked at the Forlish. They were little more than a hundred yards away but advancing slowly, very slowly.

  ‘Draw and loose!’ he called, laying an arrow on the string and drawing back, feeling the strain as he did so.

  ‘Arrows!’ someone called and Broyle instinctively ducked, before cursing himself. Those crossbows could not reach this far! He straightened, only for something to strike his shield with a crash, making the shield shake and pushing him back as though he had run into a wall. A steel point appeared through the wood, sticking out a finger’s breadth through the oak. He stared at it in astonishment.

  Next moment the whole line shook as more struck home with explosive sounds, while a pair of men went down screaming in the second rank, where they had not been holding their shields over their heads. One had an arrow through his eye and fell quickly, while the second had one jutting from his neck and his screams and blood sprayed around the tight group of Forlish.

  ‘Keep those shields up!’ Broyle barked. He could almost understand men not wanting to march with heavy shields held high overhead — but now they were paying for their stupidity. Worse, their deaths were having an effect on the men, naturally slowing them down.

  ‘What are those things? I thought their crossbows didn’t have any power?’ Ricbert muttered.

  Broyle lifted his shield across, giving him a slight opening to peer through. Next moment he dropped it back with a curse, as an arrow thumped into it.

  ‘Those aren’t crossbows,’ he snarled. ‘The elf has trained some of the Velsh to use his bow.’

  Instantly he regretted speaking aloud, for he could feel the line slow down further.

  ‘The shields are too good for them!’ he shouted. ‘We are safe here!’

  And it did seem to be true. Shields shook with the impact of the arrows — and although some punched part of the way through, none of the men were hurt. Men holding shields high in the second and third ranks were also safe, although a couple took cuts to the wrist or forearm as points stuck through.

  ‘Stay together. Give them nothing,’ Broyle ordered.

  He was sweating now, not from the thought of what awaited him but from the effort of using the heavy shields. Each pace forwards meant they had to be part lifted, part pushed. They stuck on clumps of grass, or small rocks, forcing swearing men to lift them high to get them forwards. Arms and shoulders were soon burning with the effort, while the men in the rear ranks were changing shields from arm to arm as their shoulders cramped from the effort of holding the heavy wood high.

  Now the arrows made the advance even more miserable. Any gap seemed to invite an arrow, while each strike made the shields shake and the men curse.

  ‘Not far now!’ Broyle shouted, more in hope than anything.

  Then, blessedly, the arrows stopped. He risked a quick look, to see the village but fifty paces away.

  ‘They must be out of arrows,’ Broyle declared. ‘At the double now, lads!’

  Sweating men gasped as they pushed and manhandled the hefty shields forwards. Broyle had another quick look at the village and then ducked behind the shield again.

  ‘Those damned crossbows!’ he called.

  Instantly the Forlish progress stopped as men instinctively cowered behind the shields. But, unlike the loud thump that announced the strike of an arrow, this was more like the pattering of rain. Dozens of bolts bounced off shields, or stuck in the thick timber. Men knocked shields together, obsessing about not leaving any gap, while those behind clustered forwards, all seeking shelter.

  Broyle glanced left and right and grinned as he saw his shields were working. A handful of men were cursing as bolts sneaked through, finding gaps in the wall of wood — but only enough to annoy, not enough to kill.

  ‘Keep moving!’

  He was a little concerned they were using up too much energy just getting to the village but reassured himself that, once inside, they could discard the wooden protection and hunt the Velsh down.

  ‘We got a couple,’ Sendatsu reported. ‘But their shields are too big. The bolts aren’t able to get through either.’

  ‘We knew that would be the case. Glyn, call the villagers back. We’ll hurt them here.’ Huw clapped him on the shoulder, trying to smile.

  ‘Is everyone ready?’ Rhiannon asked.

  ‘Who knows?’ Huw muttered. ‘But we have to hope they are.’

  ‘The men will fight. They have to. They know their families are behind them,’ Rhiannon said softly. ‘The Forlish think they have us trapped but they have made a big mistake — it will just force everyone to fight harder.’

  The three of them looked at each other for a few moments longer, knowing this could well be the last time they were together.

  ‘Good luck,’ Sendatsu said awkwardly.

  ‘Be lucky yourself,’ Huw said heavily.

  ‘Elves don’t need luck.’ Sendatsu grinned. ‘We’re too good for it.’

  He glanced over at Cadel, one of his young dragon squad leaders. ‘Keep them both alive,’ he said shortly.

  Cadel nodded grimly and Sendatsu smiled at him. Cadel was easily his best pupil, and his squad had all fought at Merthyr. They had also declared themselves ready to die to keep Huw and Rhiannon alive. That had embarrassed Huw but Sendatsu expected no less. It was what an elf would have done. Cadel was the first dragon he wo
uld have liked to take into Dokuzen. He hesitated a moment longer, wanting to say more, but there was no time and he did not have the words. He raced off to join his group of dragons, while Huw and Rhiannon waited with the villagers. They were spread out by the remnants of the inner wall. The Patchamers were almost all armed, thanks to the weapons they had taken from the very first attack they had defeated. But nobody, least of all themselves, knew how they would stand against the Forlish.

  ‘Here they come,’ Rhiannon said.

  ‘They? You are Forlish too.’ Huw tried to smile at her.

  ‘Don’t count me as one of them,’ Rhiannon sniffed, hefting her elven crossbow. ‘They are not my people.’

  Huw laughed. ‘Then let’s hear you sing “Land of My Fathers”.’

  She smiled, then threw back her head and began to sing. A moment later Huw joined in and then the dragons a breath behind them, then the Patchamers, until the whole village was singing together.

  Huw felt the hair come up on the back of his neck. The song never ceased to amaze him, how they took strength from it. Even the men who had been ducking away to drop their trews and empty their bowels a moment earlier were standing tall and joining in. Let the Forlish come, he thought.

  Broyle was sweating and breathing hard as they came to the outer wall. The slope had made the last few yards seem like miles and he could see he was not the only man struggling. The heavy shields were hard to keep moving and keep together — the only good thing was that storm of crossbow bolts had been blessedly brief and had now dried up. He did not care why. As a sergeant he was used to worrying only about what was in front of him, rather than the entire battle. That habit was hard to break and he had to force himself to think about his next move.

  ‘The ram!’ he called.

  The Forlish lines paused, the men at the front leaning against the shields, everyone else holding shields high while the ram crew moved forwards. They were also sweating, having hauled the heavy ram across soft grass, and the ram did not quite race at the palisade with the pace Broyle had imagined. But it still struck home with a crash, sending logs flying in all directions. Sweating and swearing, the ram crew dragged it back and ran in again, widening the gap. This time the ram was caught on the wreckage of the palisade and they struggled to free it.

  Now arrows came in, snapping in flat, making the ram crew duck and cower and spinning several of them round as they struck. Men screamed and bled and died or cursed and clutched at shafts sticking out of their arms and legs. One man had a shaft through his chest which pinned him to the ram itself and he gasped, blood bubbling out of his mouth, writhing helplessly against the thick trunk.

  ‘More shields!’ Broyle called angrily.

  The heavy shields were dragged across, while other men tried to provide cover. The depleted ram crew was joined by fresh hands and the ram was dragged clear, then shoved forwards again, the dying man pinned to the wood jerking and moaning, other men trying to ignore his painful death.

  Again it crashed into the palisade, again more logs were knocked clear, giving them a view inside. The inner wall was also wrecked and all that waited for them was a crowd of Velsh peasants. They were singing something but Broyle had no interest in listening to that, any more than he would pleas for mercy.

  ‘Not long now,’ Broyle told those nearest to him. ‘Make ready!’

  He decided everything was working well. He was used to battles going exactly to plan and saw no reason to question things now.

  One more effort and the ram crashed home with force enough to dislodge the dying man pinned to the side, where his body was crushed by one of the heavy wheels.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Broyle judged. ‘Second and third lines — forwards!’

  The men in the front rank leaned against the shields gratefully, their ordeal over, their effort made. All they had to do was tilt the shields around and let the next two ranks, the ones with the smaller shields, race inside. Or so they thought.

  ‘Wait! Wait for it!’ Huw shouted.

  The temptation to start loosing bolts was almost too much. But he wanted the Forlish in the open, and away from their big shields. Loosing too early would have been a waste. He had let Cadel and his squad loose a few arrows each through the gaps now appearing in the outer wall but nothing more. He knew it was the right thing but it was still terrifying to watch the Forlish knock a hole in the wall and then swarm inside, shields held high. But by waiting the Velsh saw their chance. The Forlish could not hold their tight lines. At some places they had to climb over the broken stumps of the wall, at others they rushed straight in. In an instant there were gaps everywhere and the shields they carried, only big enough to cover the torso, were held low by arms tired of holding them high on the slow advance.

  ‘Loose!’ Huw shouted.

  A cloud of bolts followed his order and he worked his own crossbow feverishly, pumping them out at the mass of Forlish. All around him the villagers used their crossbows, while Cadel and his group of dragons bent their longbows.

  The Forlish covered up as best they could. While the sheer number of bolts meant some were striking home in legs and hands and arms, the Forlish clustered together, shields close, to protect anything vital. Only a handful were down, although far more were being wounded, especially in the legs. That did not slow the villagers, however, who worked their crossbows as if the Forlish could be turned back by the sheer number of bolts alone. Huw reloaded swiftly and guessed every Forlish shield had at least two bolts stuck in them, while many had far more — and not counting the ones that had hit and bounced off.

  The advance was still coming, more and more Forlish creeping forwards past the first wall and inching towards their tormentors. Huw loosed one more bolt and cursed as he watched it sink harmlessly into a shield. He hesitated nervously. He could see the Forlish edging closer, worried they would get too close and could take waiting no longer. He turned and waved to Kelyn, atop the watchtower. He, in turn, waved a sheet of red linen.

  Huw counted slowly to ten.

  ‘Stop! Hold!’ he bellowed, his voice cutting through the shouts and cries.

  A few more bolts whistled out before the message was passed on but Huw was relieved to see almost all were listening to him and they were not lost in the fear and adrenalin.

  The Forlish peered out from behind the shields, wary of a trap, but when they saw the villagers merely standing there quietly, weapons in hands, the Forlish straightened and began to run forwards, eager to take the fight to their tormentors.

  And then Sendatsu struck.

  Sendatsu and his dragons had waited, hidden by the curve of the inner wall, for the signal. He had more than eighty dragons, the best fighters bar the ones with Huw and Cadel. Almost all had fought the Forlish outside Merthyr and while he would have preferred the same number of elves, he was proud to lead them. All were eager to follow, to show him how good they were — which was a fear in itself. He had told them many a time what had to be done — whether they could hold to that was another matter.

  He could hear the noise of the Forlish attack, the shouts and screams, but he was fixed on Kelyn, in the watchtower above.

  ‘The red, we have the red!’ he shouted.

  Instantly they kicked their horses into the charge — or as much of a charge as pit ponies could manage. Sendatsu and the leading riders all had spears — if not real hunting spears then at least long shafts of sharpened wood, while the rest would draw swords. Sendatsu’s fear was being caught up in the mass of Forlish, dragged down and his dragons killed by their superior numbers but, if the dragons could time this right, there was a chance to scour the area between the two walls clean of Forlish. If that worked, then Sendatsu would signal to Huw and the villagers could join the attack, turn the Forlish back then and there. If not, then it was on to the reserve plan.

  ‘Stay close, hold together!’ he bellowed as he spurred his horse on. ‘Keep to my left!’

  The dragons tried to obey but few had ridden a horse before joini
ng the dragons and gaps were already opening up between them as they went wide around the corner. Sendatsu could not spare the time to stop and reform, he just hoped and rode on, tearing around the angle of the wall to where the Forlish were rushing towards the villagers. He saw instantly they had timed their charge well — the Forlish were up and running, strung out more than they would have been, had the bolts still been flying. He aimed for the midpoint between the two walls, hoping his dragons stayed to his left, closer to the villagers than the heart of the Forlish, then forgot about that as he picked out one at the front, a bearded warrior with a long sword and a shield that bristled with crossbow bolts.

  The Forlishman turned at the sound of the hooves but wasted precious moments staring in shock at the sudden appearance of this strange cavalry. Sendatsu guided his horse with a touch of his heels, then leaned forwards, putting his weight behind a lunge of the spear. It was a boar-hunting spear, eight feet of solid wood topped with a heavy iron head, and only Sendatsu’s huge strength enabled him to hold the point steady and pick out his spot. As the Forlishman raised his shield in a despairing effort, Sendatsu thrust home, feeling the shock as the iron head punched into the Forlishman’s belly, bursting through his back in a spray of blood. He let go of the handle as the man screamed in agony, folding over the blade that was now trapped inside him, the weight of man and spear too much for even Sendatsu to try to hold. Instead he reached back and drew his sword from where it was hanging between his shoulder blades and brought it down in a vicious cut that sliced a man’s head almost from his shoulders, throwing blood across the horse’s side.

  Now things got harder, for the ground was littered with rocks and broken timbers, each one with the potential to throw him out of the saddle — and once he was on the ground, the Forlish would pounce.

  He swerved around a log, aimed at a third Forlishman, who ducked down low but Sendatsu nudged his horse and it dropped its shoulder into the warrior, knocking him backwards. Sendatsu leaned across his horse and slashed upwards, ripping open another Forlishman’s back, hearing the bubbling scream of his target as he regained the centre of the saddle in time to urge his horse to leap over a log lying in the grass. Then he was through to the other side and turning his horse, trying to see what was happening.