by David Welch
They heard the enemy before they saw them. Metal clanked against metal as the armored soldiers walked, and thousands of footsteps built into a dull crescendo. A quarter-mile away, at the far end of the clearing, the first men appeared: cavalry scouts.
They were light horse; men in chain-mail and helmets with spears and swords, like the one Kamith had killed. A dozen of them waited at the far end of the clearing, well out of bowshot, looking on. Gunnar imagined they felt disbelief, seeing their enemy standing in the open, in a battle formation. For so long, the Duahr had been stealthy hunters, striking as faceless, silent killers.
The horses disappeared back down the road, into the patchy snow of the forest. Ten minutes passed before the main force arrived.
They did not charge, as Thoam had feared. Seeing their enemy in the open and ready to fight, they milled about and sent for orders. When the orders came, they began to assemble across the clearing, advancing until they were just out of bowshot. Clearly, their experiences at the hands of the Duahr had left a mark. Not one dared come within two hundred yards, the extreme range of the greatbow.
“Form up!” Gunnar shouted, then he turned to Aled. “You ready?”
“Ready,” Aled replied, his grip on the horn tightening. Once the fight began, the roars of anger and pain would drown out Gunnar’s voice. He had trained the men to recognize signals on the horn, whose bellowing call could be heard in a hurricane wind.
But there was no need just yet. Gunnar squinted, watching the enemy assemble. Thoam had not been lying, the Bailor were covered in metal.
The front ranks wore chain-mail and carried round, oaken shields with metal rims. Curiously, they did not have bosses. Each had a bowl-like helmet, and most carried spears, though some had curving, saber-like swords. They held ranks, but not very well, with much jostling and nervousness running amongst them. Flagons passed back and forth between them, men taking long drafts of what he assumed was mead or whiskey. Each wore their own unique tunics under their mail, which told him that these were commoners; people who were called up to fight when the king wanted to war. That meant less training, less discipline; men more interested in plunder and rape than grim sword-work.
But Gods Above, there were a lot of them. They formed square formations, ten wide and ten deep, spreading across the clearing. He did a quick count, estimating at least fifteen hundred.
And they weren’t alone. The professional soldiers came next. These carried the same shields as the commoners, but were absolutely covered in armor. Each wore chain-mail, over which rested the glittering scales of lamellar hauberks. Splint vambraces and greaves, similar to the ones Gunnar wore, covered their forearms and shins. Even the backs of the gauntlets they wore had chain-mail links running from wrist to finger. Each had a helmet, thicker than the commoner’s type, with a chain-mail aventail running from its base to wrap around their necks. Cheek flaps of steel hung from the helmets, covering all but their eyes.
Most had the curved, three-foot blades of the commoners. Two dozen didn’t carry shields. They had given them up, pulling leather surcoats over their armor for a bit of extra protection. Both of their hands were devoted to huge, curving blades that looked like the bigger brother of the swords the others carried. Each one of these huge blades stretched over four feet in length, the dull sides thick and heavy to give splintering force to their blows. They were clearly the elite.
The professionals took up formation in the center of the host. Clinging to the back were small groups of archers, maybe fifty or so. They wore chain-mail and helmets, but nothing else. Each carried a normal-sized bow and two quivers. More commoners.
Finally, there was the cavalry. The scouts were apparently their only mounted troops. Five dozen waited in the back with spears and swords, most likely to run down the Duahr after they broke and ran.
“Weniho help us,” he heard one of the untrained spearmen behind him say.
“Give the signal,” Gunnar said to Aled.
His second gave two long blasts. As one, the shields of his men locked together and lifted off the ground, forming a long wall of oak, muscle, and sinew. They lifted their spears high, extending them above their shields. The second row of men held their spears point-forwards, so that they extended past the shields of the first row. They were close-in protection in case anybody got past the spears of the first row.
“Ready, men!” Thoam shouted behind him. Hundreds of arrows were nocked.
Across the field, the Bailor lifted their shields. They did not opt for a shield wall, but they were edge to edge. The men not in the front or flanking rows lifted their shields above their heads.
The enemy commander, one of the men on horseback, waved a black flag. The Bailor let loose an angry roar and marched forwards. Bowstrings creaked behind him, drawn under great tension. They held, and the Bailor kept marching.
“Loose!” Thoam roared.
Nearly four hundred arrows leapt from their bows and arced through the air. The Bailor kept marching, the rain of death plummeting quickly towards them.
The volley struck home, slamming hard into shield and man alike. The front line disappeared, their exposed heads and necks punctured by long shafts. Dozens lay dead, trampled by their own men as the advance continued. Behind them, a handful fell, their shields failing to stop the long, heavy arrowheads of the Duahr. But many more kept marching, arrows sticking futilely out of their shields. The new front rank lowered their shields and pressed forwards.
The second volley already flew. At one hundred and fifty yards, it hit, and history repeated. The men in front fell, their shields too small to shield their heads and shins. Some fell dead while others, hit in the legs, fell screaming to the ground. They died soon after, as their comrades trampled them, pressing forward. In the back, more ranks fell, the closing distance meaning faster arrows and more shields splintering under the impact.
Gunnar whispered a prayer of thanks to the Gods Above for putting such men as the Duahr on this earth. He’d never seen a bow do anything like this.
But the Bailor kept coming, speeding up their march to get up close to the archers. The volleys fell, again and again. One hundred yards, seventy-five, fifty, twenty-five; arrows flew in waves and dozens fell to the ground, dead or dying. Gunnar reckoned nearly half of the commoners lay dead as he watched the survivors break ranks and charge the shield wall.
“No mercy!” he roared.
His men shouted in affirmation, knees bent and legs tensed to absorb the coming blow.
His wolves stabbed forward with their heavy spears, their blows punching through mail and into flesh and bone. Spear points hit hard on shields, the force flinging back the attackers if not killing them. Again and again, the spears plunged into the shoulders and faces of the enemy.
The commoners fell in droves. What had been impossible a year before now stabbed them through the neck: trained men, soldiers, unmoving and unflinching. The spearmen’s muscles, hardened by thousands of repetitions, thrust their spears without hesitation or remorse.
Some Bailor got through the hedge of spears, their shields slamming into the Duahr with sickening cracks. The shoving match began, each man fighting hard to push the other back, but the Bailor were at a disadvantage. The tall shields of the spearmen made it hard for the Bailor to get their spears and swords up and into their enemy’s flesh. Their own shields left much exposed, and the second rank of spearmen thrust forwards to protect their fellow Duahr, their heavy spears rending necks and punching through metal helmets.
Bodies piled up in heaps in front of the spears of his wolves, hundreds of them. Thoam and his men fired relentlessly, their heavy arrows slaying mercilessly. There was no escape.
The slaughter went on. A dozen of his men fell, their horn-scaled armored unable to withstand stabbing swords and spears. The second rank stepped forwards to fill the gaps, the third row pulling their fallen comrades back, away from the line. Townswomen ran to the wounded and dying men, pulling them back up the hill to waiting ho
rses.
As the commoners fell, the true soldiers of Bailor formed up behind them, their scales glittering in the bright sun. They pushed forwards, forcing the ragged remains of the common warriors hard against the Duahr spears. The last of the amateur soldiers died, most brought down by arrows as they pressed to attack the line.
“Rotate,” Gunnar said to Aled. The man blew three long blasts. The spearmen shifted, the second rank advancing to the front, the blood-smeared first row retreating to the back. Fresh men looked out on the oncoming wall of metal.
But the soldiers of Bailor stopped, just outside of arrow range. Their commanders barked orders in a guttural language, and their archers dashed forwards. Armed with shortbows, known anywhere else in the world as just plain ‘bows’, they didn’t have anywhere near the range of Thoam’s archers. They sprinted forward frantically, trying to get close enough to rain arrows down on the shield wall.
They failed. Four hundred arrows leapt from the ranks of archers on the hill, slamming home in a fury of screams and shattered metal. Their chain-mail did nothing, and the heavy arrows ripped into stomachs and heads. The Bailor archers fell to the earth, dying. A handful survived and fled, running straight past the king’s soldiers and into the forest.
Nevertheless, they had served their purpose. While they had died, the shimmering ranks of the king’s professionals had charged, crossing a hundred yards unmolested. A wave of arrows hit as they drew near, stabbing into shields and armor alike. The men without shields, those carrying the bigger swords, fell under the assault, only six or so surviving to reach the shield wall. The men with shields fared better and roared as they barreled into the shield wall. Dozens fell to the spears, but others batted the shafts aside with their swords and crashed their shields hard against the Duahr. Gunnar flinched at the sound. He pulled his own sword, watching the line flex in several spots. Arrows rained down where they could, but too many of the men were up close with the spearmen, and the Duahr feared shooting down their own.
The remaining two-handed swordsmen charged a section of shield wall to his left, where the line was only two men deep. One wheeled his huge sword over his head and brought it down in a devastating chopping blow that split leather and oak. The spearman’s shield shattered and fell away. The great sword flashed again, running the Duahr warrior through. Another swordsman charged in and hacked the next man down into the snow and mud before splitting his skull with the sword.
Gap!
“Aled, sound an advance, take command. Everybody else, on me!” Gunnar ordered.
His dozen-man reserve followed him. He didn’t know it, but so did the twenty-four untrained spearmen sent from the other villages. Behind him, the horn sounded two blasts. As one, his men slammed forwards on their shields, throwing their enemies back in a wave of crashing oak. They stepped forward two paces and began stabbing. Men in the back ranks thrust down with their butt-spikes, killing the wounded under their feet as they moved.
Gunnar knew none of this. He simply latched onto the men with the big swords and charged. One of the men saw his advance and raised his sword for a crushing blow. Gunnar raised his shield above his head, slid towards the man’s legs, then chopped upwards. His sword sank deep into the man’s unarmored groin. The swordsman howled in agony, but the scream died on his lips as the spearmen stabbed at him, a trio of spearheads ripping through the layers of armor and into the flesh below.
Gunnar leapt up and used his shield to fling the dying man into his comrades. They hurried to recover from the impact, but the spearmen were on them, thrusting furiously. Some Bailor tried to parry, but too many sharp points came at them from all sides. They fell.
The horn sounded two more blasts, and the spearmen pushed forwards again. Roars of support came from the archers behind at the sight of the Duahr attacking the hated Bailor.
Gunnar rushed into position, finding himself against a man with shield and sword. The man moved to attack, and Gunnar readied a thrust beneath his round shield, towards the man’s thighs. As the enemy moved to chop at him, an arrow, smaller than the others on the field, struck the chain-mail surrounding his neck. It stuck in the metal, the tip drawing blood. The force of the blow stopped the man’s momentum. He choked and gasped, fighting so hard for breath that he didn’t see Gunnar lunge forward with his sword. The hard thrust punched through scale and mail, but the armor slowed the blow. Only an inch of the blade buried itself in flesh. As the enemy came back to his senses, another of Kamith’s arrows struck, hitting his helmet and flinging him to the ground. Gunnar slammed his shield edge down on the man’s neck, crushing his throat. A pair of spears came in from his side, punching into the man’s chest.
Gunnar leapt forwards, striking the exposed side of another man with his shield. The Bailor warrior stumbled back, losing his shield as he struggled for balance. A thick arrow from one of the greatbows punched into his chest, the force hurling him back several feet. He crumpled, choking on his own blood.
Gunnar looked for another foe but found none. Metal scales, smeared with blood and mud, were scattered around him. Their owners lay still in the churned mess, smelling of shit and urine. Thirty-odd armored men fled back across the field. Arrows flew and took most of them down, a pair escaping and reaching the distant horsemen. The warriors kept running, down the road and into the wood.
The cavalry scouts paused at the far edge of the clearing, unable to understand what had just happened. Aled sounded four blasts, and the shield wall broke formation, advancing at a walk with shields edge to edge. The archers cheered and moved forwards behind them.
The scouts fled, following the small band of survivors south, down the road and into the forest. Another round of cries rose from the Duahr as the enemy vanished into the white wood.
***
They swarmed over the bodies, dispatching the wounded and stripping armor and swords from everyone. The town had sent almost all of its arrows with the men, which they furiously pulled from the bodies of their foes.
Gunnar stood in brooding silence, watching as his men and the scores of archers looted the fallen Bailor. Kamith walked up next to him.
“Guess all that worrying was for nothing,” she said.
“This time,” he replied.
“Come on, you just won,” Kamith said, looking out at the dead.
“I think the archers won,” Gunnar replied, looking out over the field of dead. Arrow fletchings fluttered over most of the bodies.
“True,” Thoam said, approaching. “But only because you bought us time. That first wave would’ve chased us off the hill if not for your ‘wolves’.”
“They will be back,” Gunnar said. “After a loss like this, to a mere ‘tribe’?”
“I know,” Thoam replied. “Soon as this is over, I’m sending Aled to every village we have to teach them what you taught our boys.”
Coincidently, Aled came jogging over.
“Thirty-one, Captain,” he said.
“Dead?” Gunnar asked.
Aled nodded and said, “Another ten with serious wounds.”
Forty-one casualties out of a force of just over one hundred twenty. That was high, but nothing compared to what the Bailor had suffered.
“Thanks,” Gunnar said. “Go help the men.”
Aled darted off into the field to help the looting. Gunnar took another long look at the clearing; it was probably the most lopsided victory he had ever seen.
“It is unreal,” he whispered.
A voice broke above the shouts of the men below. One infinitely familiar to him.
“You ever seen them go down so easy?” Noke cried as he picked through the dead. “Whoo-ee, look at all this metal! You ever seen so much? Think of all the arrows we can make.”
***
“You don’t seem to want to change your mind, but you should! And if you don’t, you gotta come back here eventually. We’ll build you a house!” Noke said excitedly.
Gunnar smiled, but he stayed on Thief. Kamith rode up with Dash,
leading Burden behind her on a long rein.
“You are always welcome,” the mayor said from behind the excitable old man.
“Thank you for that,” Gunnar replied. “But we’re gonna keep moving.”
A knot of people had formed just outside the southern gate. Eugen moved through the crowd and up to Kamith’s horse. The young woman bent over, into Eugen’s embrace. The gray-haired woman kissed her cheek, tears in her eyes, maternal worry on her face. Kamith fought back tears herself as she straightened in the saddle.
They said some more goodbyes and started along their journey.
“We’ll write songs about this!” Noke shouted as they went. “About the wolves and their spears! Best song anybody will ever hear, I swear!”
Gunnar smiled, realizing he was going to miss the outgoing fellow. His smile broadened as he spotted the surviving spearmen, who were standing in formation at the edge of the grassy strip. Aled stood in front of them, wearing the scaled armor of the Bailor.
In the two weeks since their victory, word had spread quickly. Almost immediately, smugglers from the Cataraug People had started arriving, coming at twice their usual frequency. The mighty Bailor had been defeated, the fear of them cut down like their soldiers on the battlefield. More iron and steel reached the Duahr than ever before. Not as much as they’d have liked, but enough that they didn’t have to melt down all the captured armor. Aled wore it proudly, the rest of the group in their horn scales.
Gunnar raised his hand and waved. The men rapped their spears against their shields, shouting and cheering. Gunnar and Kamith looked back and saw dozens of archers lining the walls, watching. He sighed, thinking how easy it would be to stay. They’d already given him a bow. He’d just have to take it off Burden’s back and head back.
“Come on,” Kamith said, reading his mind. “You’d get bored.”
