The Battle for Skandia

by John Flanagan

  Haz’kam shoved the fragrant bowl of meat stew that he had been eating across to the other man and indicated for him to help himself. Nit’zak nodded his thanks, took a smaller bowl from the rug between them and scooped several handfuls into it, wincing slightly as his hand made contact with the hot food. He selected a large chunk and scooped it into his mouth, chewing heartily and nodding his appreciation.

  “Good,” he said finally. Haz’kam’s concubine—the general never brought any of his three wives on campaign with him—was an excellent cook. The general considered that ability of far greater importance during a campaign than any physical beauty. He nodded now, belched softly and pushed his own eating bowl away. The woman moved quickly forward to remove it, then returned to her position against the curved felt wall of the tent.

  “So,” the general asked. “What did you find?”

  Nit’zak screwed his face into an expression of distaste—not at the next morsel of food, but at the subject matter he was about to report.

  “They hit us again this evening,” he replied. “This time in two places. Once at the tail of the column. They stampeded a small herd of horses there. It’ll take half the day tomorrow to recover them. Then another group came in from the coastal side and burned half a dozen supply wagons.”

  Haz’kam looked up in surprise. “From the coast?” he asked, and his deputy nodded confirmation. Up until now, the nuisance raids mounted by the Skandians had been launched from the thickly wooded hills inland from the narrow coastal flatlands. The raiders would dash out, strike an undefended part of the column, then retreat into the cover of the forests and the hills where pursuit would be too risky. This new eventuality complicated things.

  “They seem to have several of their ships at sea,” the deputy told him. “They stay out of sight during the day, then steal in after dark and land troops to hit us. Then they retreat to sea once more.”

  Haz’kam probed with his tongue at a piece of meat wedged between two back teeth. “Where, of course, we can’t follow them,” he said.

  Nit’zak nodded. “It means now that we’ll have to cover both sides of the column,” he said.

  Haz’kam muttered a low curse. “It’s slowing us down,” he said.

  Each morning, hours were wasted as the massive column formed up in disciplined ranks for the day’s march. And, of course, once the march began, the pace was limited by the slowest sections of the column—which were the supply carts and the baggage train. It had been much faster simply moving as one vast mass.

  Nit’zak agreed. “So is the problem of having to screen the camp each night.”

  Haz’kam took a deep swig of the fermented barley drink that the Temujai favored, then handed the leather drinking skin to Nit’zak.

  “It’s not what I expected,” he said. “They’re far more organized than our intelligence had led us to believe.”

  Nit’zak drank deeply and gratefully. He shrugged. In his experience, intelligence was usually inaccurate at best and dead wrong at worst.

  “I know,” he said. “Everything we’d heard about these people led me to believe that they would simply attack us in a frontal assault, without any overall strategy. I’d half expected that we’d be finished with them by now.”

  Haz’kam pondered. “Perhaps they’re still gathering their main force. I suppose we have no option but to continue as we are. I imagine they’ll finally make a stand when we reach their capital. Although now we’ll take longer to do that.”

  Nit’zak hesitated for a moment with the next suggestion. Then he said: “Of course, General, we could simply continue as we were, and accept the losses their raids are causing. They’re quite sustainable, you know.”

  It was a typically callous Temujai suggestion. If the loss of lives or supplies could be balanced out by greater speed, it might well be worthwhile opting for that course. Haz’kam shook his head. But not through any sense of care for the people under his command.

  “If we don’t respond, we have no way of knowing that they won’t hit us with a major raid,” he pointed out. “They could have hundreds of men in those mountains and if they chose to change from pinprick attacks to a major assault, we’d be in big trouble. We’re a long way from home, you know.”

  Nit’zak nodded his acquiescence. That idea hadn’t occurred to him. Still, he demurred slightly.

  “That isn’t the sort of thing we’ve been led to believe they’re capable of,” he pointed out, and Haz’kam’s eyes met his and locked onto them.

  “Neither is this,” he said softly, and when the younger man’s eyes dropped from his, he added, “Have the men keep forming into their sixties for each day’s march. And I suppose now we’d better put sentries out on the seaward side at night too.”

  Nit’zak muttered his assent. He hesitated a few seconds, wondering if this were one of those times when his commander wanted to continue to talk and pass the drinking skin back and forth for a few hours. But Haz’kam waved him away with a small hand gesture. Nit’zak thought that the general looked tired. For a moment, he thought about the years they had spent on campaign together and realized that Haz’kam was no longer a young man. Neither was he, he thought, as the ache in his knees testified. He bowed his head in a perfunctory salute, rose to his feet with another barely suppressed groan and went, crouching, out through the felt hanging that covered the tent doorway.

  In the distance, he heard men shouting. Looking in the direction from which the noise came, he saw a bright flare of flame against the night sky. He cursed softly. The damned Skandians were raiding again, he thought.

  A troop of horsemen clattered by him, heading for the site of the attack. He watched them go, tempted for a moment to join them, but resisting the temptation as he realized that by the time they reached the point of the attack, the enemy would be long gone.

  22

  THE SKANDIAN WAR COUNCIL WAS MEETING IN THE GREAT Hall. Will sat to one side, listening as Halt addressed the Skandian leader and his principal advisers. Borsa, Erak and two other senior jarls, Lorak and Ulfak, flanked the Oberjarl as they clustered around the table where Halt had spread an immense map of Skandia. The Ranger tapped a spot on the map with the point of his saxe knife.

  “As of last night,” he said, “the Temujai were here. Maybe sixty kilometers away from Hallasholm. The delaying raids are having exactly the sort of effect we wanted. The advance has gone from thirty kilometers a day to less than twelve.”

  “Shouldn’t cavalry move faster than that?” asked Ulfak. Halt perched one leg on the bench beside the table and shook his head.

  “They’ll move fast enough when they’re fighting,” he told them. “But right now, they’re conserving their horses’ strength, letting them feed and move easily. Besides, now that we’ve reinforced Olgak’s men with another half dozen raiding groups, it’s taking them half the day to simply form up, then set up camp again in the evening.”

  He glanced up at Erak as he added: “Your idea of sending a few wolfships to raid their seaward flank was a good one.”

  The jarl nodded. “It seemed logical,” he replied. “It’s what we’re good at, after all.”

  Ragnak thumped one massive fist on the pine planks that formed the table.

  “Raids and skirmishes, nuisance attacks! They achieve nothing! It’s time we hit them with our main force and settle this once and for all,” he declared, and three of his council growled agreement.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Halt cautioned. “The most important thing is to engage them in a place that suits us—one that we choose ourselves.”

  Again, the Oberjarl snarled. He knew he’d agreed to listen to Halt’s advice. But these damned invaders had been flaunting themselves in his country now for several weeks. It was an affront to him and to every Skandian and he wanted to wipe the affront out, or die in the attempt. “What’s the difference where we fight them?” he said. “A fight is a fight. We win or we lose. But if we do lose, we’ll take plenty of them with
us!”

  Halt removed his foot from the bench and stood straight, ramming the saxe knife back into its scabbard.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said icily. “There’s every chance that we’ll lose. But let’s make sure we take as many of them with us as possible, shall we?” The Skandians, used to bluster and boasting, were taken aback by his cold assessment of their chances for survival—as he had intended them to be.

  “They’re cavalry,” he continued. “They outnumber us at least four to one. They can outmaneuver us, outrun us. And they’ll look for the widest possible front to engage us on. That way, all the advantages are with them. They’ll flank us, surround us and draw us out if they can.” He saw that he had their attention. They weren’t happy about the situation, but at least they were prepared to listen.

  “How will they do that?” Erak asked. He and Halt had discussed this briefing the day before. Halt wanted certain questions to be asked, and Erak was to ask them if none of the others seemed prepared to do so. The Ranger glanced quickly at Erak, but directed his answer to all of the group.

  “It’s a standard tactic of theirs,” he said. “They’ll attack on a wide front, probing, hitting and retiring. Then they’ll appear to become fully engaged at one or two given points. They’ll stop their hit-and-run tactics and fight a pitched battle—just the sort of thing that will suit your men,” he added, glancing at Ragnak. The Oberjarl nodded.

  “Then,” Halt continued, “they will begin to lose. Their attack will lose its cohesion and they will try to withdraw.”

  “Good!” said Borsa, and the two other jarls grunted agreement. Ragnak, however, sensed that there was more to come. He didn’t comment for the moment, but gestured for Halt to continue. The Ranger obliged.

  “They’ll give ground. Slowly at first, then faster and faster as panic seems to set in. Somehow they’ll never move so fast that your men lose contact with them. Gradually, more and more of your warriors will be drawn out of our line, away from the shield wall, away from our defenses. As they pursue the enemy, the Temujai will become more and more desperate. At least, they’ll seem to. Then, at the right moment, they’ll turn.”

  “Turn?” said the Oberjarl. “How do you mean?”

  “They’ll stop retreating when your men are strung out and in the open—the strongest and fastest well ahead of their comrades. Suddenly, they’ll find themselves cut off, surrounded by the Temujai cavalry. And remember, every one of their cavalrymen is an expert archer. They won’t bother coming to close quarters. They can pick your men off at their leisure. And the more they kill the leaders, the more enraged those behind will become. They’ll stream out to save their friends—or avenge them. They’ll be surrounded in turn. And wiped out.”

  He paused. The five Skandians all looked at him, struck silent. They could imagine the scenario he described. They knew the temper of their men and could see how easily such a stratagem could succeed against them.

  “This is how they fight?” Ragnak asked finally.

  “I’ve seen it, Oberjarl. Time and time again, I’ve seen it. They aren’t concerned with glory in battle. Only efficient killing. They’ll challenge our warriors to single combat, then ambush them with ten or twenty warriors at a time. If they can’t shoot to kill immediately, they’ll shoot to disable. Even your strongest warriors can’t continue with ten to fifteen arrow wounds in the legs. Then, when they’re helpless, the Temujai will kill them.”

  He swept his gaze around the table. Satisfied that they could all see the danger that faced them, he sat down, straddling the bench. Finally, it was Borsa, the hilfmann, who broke the long silence that had fallen in the room.

  “So…where do you want to engage them?” he asked. Halt spread his hands wide in a questioning gesture.

  “Why engage them at all?” he asked. “We have time to withdraw before they arrive. We could move into the hills and the forest and keep hitting them as they come farther and farther along the coastal plain here.”

  “Run away, you mean?” Ragnak asked, his tone angry.

  Halt nodded several times. “Yes. Run away. But continue to hit them at twenty or thirty or fifty points along their column. Kill them. Burn their supplies. Harass them. Make their life one long, insufferable misery until they realize that this invasion was a bad idea. Then harass them back to the border until they’re gone.”

  He paused. He knew there was little chance of winning this one. But he had to try. It was the best course open to them. His heart sank as Ragnak shook his head. Even Erak’s lips were compressed into a thin, disapproving line.

  “Abandon Hallasholm to them?” asked Ragnak.

  Halt shrugged. “If necessary. You can always rebuild.”

  But now all the Skandians were shaking their heads and he knew what was behind it.

  “Abandon everything in Hallasholm to them?” Ragnak persisted. This time Halt made no answer. He waited for the inevitable.

  “Our booty—the results of hundreds of years of raiding—leave that to them?” Ragnak asked.

  And that, Halt knew, was the crux of the matter. No Skandian would ever abandon the loot he had stored up over the years—the gold, the armor, the tapestries, the chandeliers, the thousand and one items that they hoarded and kept and gloated over in their storehouses. He caught Will’s eye and shrugged slightly. He’d tried. Halt moved to the map once more and indicated the flatlands outside Hallasholm with his knife point.

  “Alternatively,” he said, “we stop them here, where the coastal plain contracts to its narrowest point.”

  The Skandians craned to look again. They nodded cautious approval, now that Halt had withdrawn the suggestion that they should abandon Hallasholm and its contents to the invaders.

  “This way, they can’t attack on a wide front. They’ll be cramped. And we can conceal men in the trees here—and even in the outbuildings along the shore.”

  Lorak, older of the two jarls, frowned at the suggestion. “Won’t that weaken our shield wall?”

  Halt shook his head. “Not noticeably. We’ll have more than enough men to form a solid defensive position here where the land is narrowest. Then, when the Temujai try their trick of falling back and bringing our men along with them, we’ll appear to go along with it.”

  Erak moved forward to inspect the narrow neck of land that Halt was indicating.

  “You mean we’ll do as they want?” he asked. Halt pushed out his bottom lip and cocked his head to one side.

  “We’ll appear to,” he admitted. “But once they stop withdrawing to counterattack, we’ll bring our ambush forces out of hiding and hit them from behind. If we time it correctly, we could make life very unpleasant for them.”

  The Skandians stood, staring down at the map. Borsa, Lorak and Ulfak had blank looks as they tried to visualize the movement. Erak and Ragnak, Halt was glad to see, were slowly nodding as they understood the idea.

  “Our best chance,” he continued, “is to force them into the sort of engagement that suits your men best—close quarters, hand to hand, every man for himself. If we can catch them that way, your axmen will take a heavy toll on them. The Temujai rely on speed and movement for protection. They’re only lightly armed and armored. If we had even a small force of archers, it could make an enormous difference,” he added. “But I suppose we can’t have everything.” Halt knew that the bow wasn’t a Skandian weapon. It was no use wishing for things that couldn’t be. But in his mind’s eye, he could see the devastation that an organized party of bowmen could cause. He shrugged, pushing the thought aside.

  Erak looked up at the gray-cloaked Ranger. He’s small, he thought, but by the gods, he’s a warrior to reckon with.

  “We have to depend on our men keeping their heads,” he said. “Then we have to time it just right when we spring our trap—otherwise the men coming from the forest and the outbuildings will be exposed themselves. It’s a risk.”

  Halt shrugged. “It’s war,” he replied. “The trick is to know which risks to take
.”

  “And how do you know that?” Borsa asked him, sensing that the small, bearded foreigner had gained the trust and the acceptance of the Oberjarl and his War Council. Halt smiled wolfishly at him.

  “You wait till it’s over and see who’s won,” he said. “Then you know those were the right risks to take.”

  23

  “HALT,” WILL SAID THOUGHTFULLY AS HE WALKED AWAY FROM the council with Halt and Erak. “What did you mean when you said that about archers?”

  Halt looked sideways at his apprentice and sighed. “It could make a big difference to the outcome,” he said. “The Temujai are archers themselves. But they rarely have to face an enemy with any particular skill with the bow.”

  Will nodded. The longbow was traditionally an Araluen weapon. Perhaps because of the island kingdom’s isolation from the countries on the eastern landmass, it had remained peculiar to Araluen. Other nationalities might use bows for hunting or even sport. But only in the armies of the Araluens would you find the massed groups of archers that could provide a devastating rain of arrows on an attacking force.

  “They understand the value of the bow as a strategic weapon,” he said. “But they’ve never had to cope with facing it themselves. I got some inkling of that when Erak and I were running from them near the border. Once I’d put a few arrows close to them, they were decidedly reluctant to come dashing around any blind corners.”

  The jarl laughed quietly at the memory. “That’s true enough,” he agreed. “Once you’d emptied a few saddles, they slowed down remarkably.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking…,” said the boy, and hesitated. Halt grinned quietly to himself.

  “Always a dangerous pastime,” he said gently.

  But Will continued: “Maybe we should try to put together a force of archers. Even a hundred or so could make a difference, couldn’t they?”