by Damien Black
Lurching painfully to his feet he reached out to stop himself falling back to the ground... and found his hand clutching his father’s sword where it lay in the mud beside him. Grasping it he staggered to his feet again and steadied himself. The blade was still bright despite the day’s use. As the smell of war brought him back to his senses he loped off in search of more foes to fight.
Braxus engaged his next opponent. He was a tough-looking sinewy serjeant who fought well for a commoner, but the agile Thraxian soon had him off guard, and before he could recover he took three fingers off his sword hand. As he knelt clutching his mangled hand in agony Braxus finished him off with a quick thrust.
His next attacker launched at him without warning – another dismounted knight. The two fought for some time, trading blows, before Braxus saw a gap in his defence and lunged at his midriff. His foot slipped in the mud just as he did, and he suddenly found himself lying prone on the ground.
Hadn’t he been in this position quite recently?
His opponent loomed above him, his shield sporting a silver falcon haloed with stars. At the last moment Braxus rolled aside, dodging the blow aimed at his head, and lurched to his feet. His armour slowed him down, and he barely had time to raise his own shield to ward off a follow-up attack. That put him on the back foot again, but this time he was able to circle around his assailant, and he soon recovered the initiative.
From then on it was no contest. He was swifter and smarter than his opponent. Wrongfooting him with a skilful feint he passed his sword through a chink in his armour. The knight sank to his knees, raking at his hauberk, frantically trying to close his gauntleted hands around the wound that now spilled his lifeblood into the already reddened earth.
Braxus had no time to rejoice in his victory, for just then a knight rode past him, catching him a passing blow with a mace that caught him in the back and knocked him face down into the mud.
He lay winded for a while, before recovering enough to roll on to his back... and then he saw two ugly yeomen standing over him, their hand axes raised to strike. Prone again – and no chance of recovery this time, with two foes menacing him.
He was just thinking what an ignominious death this would be when suddenly a bloodied squire dressed in a mail byrnie and wielding a sword and shield charged into view. With one cut he sliced through the first peasant’s brigandine: he fell to his knees screaming as his entrails poured onto the ground right next to the Thraxian’s head.
The second yeoman turned to face his new attacker – but sitting upright and pulling his dirk from his boot Braxus thrust it deep into his calf. It was always a handy place to keep a dagger. With a cry the yeoman buckled, and before he hit the ground the chestnut-haired squire struck his head from his shoulders.
‘Why if it isn’t Vaskrian, esquire of Hroghar!’ exclaimed Braxus as the squire helped him to his feet, wincing all the while. He looked to be in a lot of pain and blood was trickling down the side of his head, but the hardy youth seemed equal to it.
‘You are well met indeed!’ cried Braxus, going to slap him on the back before thinking better of it. ‘Where is your knightly master?’
‘I don’t know!’ replied Vaskrian, shouting to be heard above the clamour. ‘I lost him at the start of the battle!’
‘Well I’ve lost my squire, so that makes us a fine pair!’ replied the Thraxian, sheathing his dirk and picking up his sword. ‘Stay close by me, Vaskrian, and we’ll fight to live another day yet!’
It was fully an hour past noon when Thule’s forces sounded a general retreat. Adelko felt a profound sense of relief wash over him. That had been close – far too close for comfort. He hoped Vaskrian and all the other fighters he knew were still alive. The King and his knights were exchanging hearty congratulations. Horskram remained as stoical and impassive as ever.
The loyalist knights who were still mounted lost no time in mowing down those fleeing on foot, before sweeping through the enemy camp and ransacking it. Most of its occupants, witnessing the turning tide of war, had long fled; likewise the cogs bearing the siege engines and catapults were moving swiftly upriver, away from the castle they had come to take.
Though he knew little of boats, Adelko thought they moved with an unnatural speed. Glancing over at his mentor, he saw him frown; evidently he was thinking much the same thing.
Further evidence of the Sea Wizard’s meddling soon became apparent, for where there had been clear blue skies of a sudden there came lowering clouds from north and south, quickly followed by a torrential downpour that discouraged all thoughts of further pursuit.
Despite the blood and rain the King’s forces returned to the camp in high spirits: the cost of victory was yet to be counted, but the battle for Linden Castle had been won.
As he peered out from under a hastily erected awning at the victorious warriors returning across a field obscured by hundreds of rain-drenched corpses, Adelko found it hard to share their elation. Even now common soldiers were busily despatching the enemy dying and wounded – save for those of noble blood, who would be treated by chirurgeons and held prisoner pending ransom, as the chivalrous code dictated.
Of their own wounded, common and noble alike, many were beyond saving. One glance at the bloody field was enough to tell the young monk that the price of war had been heavy on both sides.
Clarion calls were being exchanged by the garrison at Linden and the King’s Army, the investing sortie having fled the outer ward. At the cost of many lives, the last bastion of the King’s Dominions had been saved, the rebel invaders repulsed.
Oblivious, the crows descended greedily to their feast.
CHAPTER X
A Brief Respite
King Freidheim looked at his son with sorrowful eyes. His face looked peaceful enough in his drugged sleep, and Sandor’s bandages concealed the worst of his wound, but even so it was a grievous sight for any loving father. And for all his faults, Freidheim was a loving father.
Without taking his eyes off his heir the King asked tersely: ‘Will he live?’
‘His Royal Highness is out of immediate danger,’ replied Sandor, the castle chirurgeon, in the nervous voice of a messenger afraid to give bad news. ‘Right now the gravest peril he faces is the risk of infection. If that does not happen, there is no reason why he should not recover. He is young and strong - ’
‘And if the wound becomes infected?’
The chirurgeon lowered his eyes to the rushes. ‘Then death will be a mercy.’
The King merely nodded. ‘Then do whatever you must. My son’s life is in your hands – let no fear of royal authority bind them. Just... do what you can.’
Without another word the King swept out of the chamber with Bernal in tow. He suppressed his feelings of grief. Grief was a luxury an embattled king could not afford.
The rain had abated shortly before sunset, and the skies above the castle courtyard were dark but clear. Soldiers were busy clearing up corpses in the torchlight.
‘I shall be taking all the knights who survived the siege of Linden with me for the next battle,’ said Freidheim brusquely. ‘The rest of the garrison is yours – I’ll leave you to clear up this mess as best you can.’
‘As you will, Your Majesty,’ replied Bernal deferentially. ‘Including those prisoners of war we rescued from the invaders, you should have well over a hundred able-bodied knights to add to your own.’
‘Good, we shall need them,’ said the King.
He knew only too well how right he was. The rest of the day had been spent counting the dead on both sides, treating wounded loyalists and despatching injured rebels or taking them prisoner.
He had not yet given orders what to do with Thule’s captured knights. Although custom dictated that their families be allowed to ransom them when the war was over, it was being noised about the camp that a treasonous war was another matter. In times gone by the King might have overlooked this and cleaved to the laws of chivalry regardless, but given the present state of affairs
he felt increasingly disinclined to be merciful.
Now, with his son and heir lying injured and disfigured, what he would do next was anybody’s guess. Anybody’s guess but his.
Returning to the camp the King marched into his tent and found his war council assembled.
‘My son’s life hangs in the balance, but Reus willing he shall be spared – albeit less one eye and those handsome looks of his,’ was all he said on the subject of Wolfram.
He waved aside the chorus of horrified gasps. ‘Enough. I do not wish to dwell on my own private tragedy, public a matter as that is. Let’s to business – what of our casualties, and the enemy’s?’
Lord Toros, Jarl of Vandheim, was first to speak up. Torgun’s older brother, not as handy in the field but a wiser man, as befitted a firstborn heir to lands. Two finer sons the House of Hamlyn could not have asked for. But then Hamlyn had ever been staunch and loyal to the Pine Throne.
‘We pursued the fleeing enemy as far as we could before the rains made it impossible to continue further,’ the Jarl began. ‘We cut down plenty before that happened however. According to our tallies, we slew more than two hundred of their bowmen and a like amount of trained foot. His peasant levies also suffered – we estimate we killed around five hundred before the rains saved them.’
Lord Fenrig, Jarl of Hroghar, a bald thick-set man with a bushy brown beard and moustache, was next to speak.
‘Added to the tally of those killed on the battlefield and during the siege of Linden, we estimate Thule’s losses to amount to no less than fifteen hundred men-at-arms and two thousand conscripts,’ he said gruffly.
‘I see,’ replied the King unsmiling. ‘And what of their knights?’
It was Lord Aesgir’s turn to speak. Twirling his flamboyant corn-yellow mustachios he slapped his girth with a gauntleted hand and cleared his throat dramatically. The scions of Sjórvard had ever been an irrepressible bunch. But then their ancestral home lay by the sea that all true-blooded Northlendings yearned for. A Northlending’s ancestry was in the sea.
‘The tally is unchanged since you went to see your son, Your Majesty,’ said Lord Aesgir brightly. ‘Thule has lost six hundred knights, of which a third are alive in our keeping for ransom. About half of those are seriously injured. Also, two hundred squires, of which fifty have been captured for ransom. The others are dead or dying. We have also captured Lord Johan, one of the key conspirators, and two other principal barons in the rebel faction have fallen – Lord Aelrod of Saltcaste was slain in the closing minutes of battle by Sir Torgun, and a lesser baron, Lord Crumly of High Crannock, lies dying of his wounds even as we speak.’
‘This is very good,’ said the King with satisfaction. ‘Lord Johan will be hanged as a traitor tomorrow. I do hereby attaint him and all his fellow conspirator barons, and strip them and their families of all lands and titles. Something I should have done years ago.’
A general murmur of approval went around the crowded tent. It appeared as though the King had at last learned when to be merciful and when not. The thought of his erstwhile clemency being perceived as weakness left a bitter taste in Freidheim’s mouth. No matter how one tried, ruling a realm always led to bloody deeds eventually. That was the ugly reality of kingship.
‘We should also not expect all of Thule’s levies to return to him,’ put in Lord Visigard. ‘Of the four thousand that we did not kill, it is likely that many will choose to desert and turn outlaw rather than rejoin a failing rebellion.’
‘And the Northland berserkers serving Hardrada?’ pressed Freidheim. ‘Did any survive the slaughter?’
‘Few,’ replied Visigard. ‘For their way is to fight to the bitter death. However we did manage to take some two hundred alive.’
‘They shall all be put to the sword come morning,’ declared the King. ‘Northlanders shall not be suffered to wreak ruin and devastation on our land. That should send a message to the Ice Thanes.’
The Thraxian knight Sir Braxus had proved most illuminating on that subject. So the Northland princes were stirring up trouble again – sending their sea-carls abroad to make slaughter on the mainland. There would be a reckoning for that – and a right bloody one too. Half of him hoped he would not be alive to have to do it. The other half that still housed his old warrior spirit hoped otherwise.
Most of the assembled nobles were nodding their approval. No doubt they thought it good that their King was not getting carried away with any of his foolish merciful notions today.
Swallowing his bitterness and taking a deep breath Freidheim asked: ‘And what of our own losses? Come, let’s have it.’
‘All told, not so bad as might have been expected, thanks to the success of our strategy,’ replied Visigard. ‘We lost three hundred brave knights, including a hundred of the Order. A hundred squires were killed or injured, and most if not all of the Wolding levies are gone – we have thirteen hundred peasant foot left. We lost five hundred men-at-arms.’
‘What of the Highlanders?’
A short rotund warrior, dressed in colourful robes with interlocking patterns over a mail byrnie, stepped forward. Lord Whaelin, who had been chosen among the dozen clan leaders to act as a spokesman for all. With his outlandish appearance and bushy red beard and hair, he was looked down on by most of the lowland nobles in the tent. But if he noticed or cared he gave little indication of it. The King privately had to admire him for that.
‘Six hundred clansmen rode down from the north t’elp ye, Yer Majesty,’ said Lord Whaelin. ‘And perhaps half that number remain able and ready t’fight s’more if need be.’
The King nodded evenly. ‘My thanks, Lord Whaelin. Now what is the overall tally? Do we now outnumber the enemy?’
Lord Toros spoke up again. ‘With the rebel levies being unquantifiable that is difficult to assess,’ he said cautiously. ‘But it seems likely that we do.’
‘Good. Tomorrow we’ll get news from our scouts as to where they are headed. Most likely they will have fallen back to one of the castles they took earlier.’
‘Salmor is the most likely of those,’ suggested Visigard. ‘Though that means forsaking much of the ground they have gained, it is the most defensible castle in their possession next to Thule itself.’
‘We cannot be sure they will choose a defensive option at all,’ warned Lord Vymar of Harrang, a tall pale man with close-cropped hair and a hawkish face. ‘They may choose to meet us in the open field again.’
‘They may, if they’ve still the stomach for it,’ replied the King. ‘But Thule knows full well that if he can hold Salmor he still gets much of what he wants – oh he won’t plant his dirty backside on my throne, but he could still shore up his treasonous secession for years if he consolidates his defences. Mark my words, kingdoms have been broken up over less!’
They were interrupted by the sudden entry of Sir Toric. His ugly face was pale and anguished.
‘Toric, you’re late,’ the King began, but his voice trailed off as he saw Toric blinking back tears.
‘What is it?’ he demanded sternly. Then the realisation suddenly dawned on him. He felt an invisible hand grip his guts. ‘My brother...’
‘... is dead,’ the bull-necked deputy commander finished for him. ‘We found his corpse in the field just now.’
Freidheim felt a sick heaving in the pit of his stomach as the tent erupted.
‘How?’ he asked through tightened lips after waving a hand for silence.
‘Torgun and Wolmar both say they saw the High Commander engage Krulheim,’ blurted Toric. ‘Things seemed to be going against the Pretender, but when Prince Freidhoff dealt him a blow that should have been mortal, he just laughed! The last they saw of him, he’d been grievously injured and toppled from his horse...’
‘Yes, yes, we know that already!’ cried the King in exasperation, fighting back tears of his own. How many more personal tragedies must he endure today? How much more must his people endure before this madness was quashed?
He motioned
for the raven to continue.
‘When we found him,’ Toric continued dolefully, ‘he’d been butchered... by what looked to be axes...’ His voice trailed off and he hung his head.
Freidheim felt the invisible hand tighten. Inhaling deeply he measured his words.
‘You are telling me that my royal brother, the head of the most prestigious Order in the realm, was despatched by a traitor fighting under some kind of sorcerous protection, and then left to be finished off by common soldiers?’
His voice was ice cold in his own ears. It sounded almost as though someone else were speaking.
‘It would appear so,’ said Sir Toric without looking up.
‘I see.’ The King stood still, saying nothing. The tent was pregnant with silence. Then he spoke.
‘Lord Toric, you are now High Commander of the Order of the White Valravyn – serve me well, as my brother did. He shall be buried with full honours tomorrow. Lord Aesgir, how many enemy knights did you say are in our keeping for ransom?’
‘Some two hundred, Your Majesty.’ The yellow-haired jarl didn’t look so cheerful now.
‘Then that’s two hundred ransoms we’ll be doing without,’ said the King. ‘They shall all be hanged as traitors on the morrow, along with Johan. I do hereby attaint every single noble family that holds lands from the erstwhile barons that have risen up against me. When this war is over their holdings shall be given to men of my choosing. The King’s Dominions shall henceforth stretch from the Rymold to the Argael.’
Several of the assembled lords appeared to think this an excellent policy, and nodded approvingly, but the Wolding barons looked deeply suspicious, and even the faces of the Efrilund lords were unsettled. One of the latter, Fenrig, had the courage to voice what they were thinking.
