by Bruce Leslie
Kinnad made his way through the gate pulling a wooden cart behind him.
The Lump shouted, “When’s that smith going to get you a goat?”
Kinnad laughed and shouted back, “He says he has too much respect for a goat to give one my job!”
Meena stopped near the cart. “I appreciate your timely arrival.”
Kinnad gave his head a slight bow. “Looks like you got your castle, you probably don’t need what I brought.”
“We do have the castle,” said Meena. “Yet, the Baron still evades us, so we will graciously accept any gifts you offer.”
Kinnad waved a hand toward the cart. “All I’ve got are a few drapes of mail and another thirty axes.”
“Thirty axes?” The Lump drew his brows together. “How does the smith work so chip-flipping fast?”
Kinnad arched an eyebrow. “Because he has a sharp-edged apprentice, that’s how.”
“Well, I count it as a blessing.” Meena put her hands on her hips. “Scavenging the castle grounds for supplies was fruitless.” She looked over her shoulder at the castle, then back to Kinnad. “Other than the meager arms of the small group of home guard, everything useful for fighting was taken south by the Baron’s forces.”
“And is that where you’re going?” asked Kinnad. “You going to hunt that Baron down like prey?”
“That is my plan,” answered Meena.
“The smith will be happy to hear that,” said Kinnad. “The old fellow spends every waking hour cursing ‘That traitorous Eugene.’” He used an unflattering impression of the smith to say the last three words.
“We’ve done some of our own weapon making here.” Meena turned to Flynn. “What progress have you had?”
Flynn clasped his hands together. “The Common Folk have been tirelessly crafting bows and arrows from the supplies on hand. We aren’t able to forge any steel heads for the arrows, but we are making due with stone, or sometimes simply sharpening the end of the shafts to a point.”
Kinnad drew in a noisy breath through his nose. “It won’t pose any real threat to mail, but it will let you harass them, I suppose.”
“Some of the Hill-Folk have helped the refugees as well,” said Flynn. “They’ve constructed a few long, wooden pikes.”
Kinnad nodded. “That’ll keep the enemy at a distance, if you’re fighting on open ground.”
Meena sighed. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.” She asked, “Will you be staying for a time?”
Kinnad shook his head. “No, I suspect the smith is already spitting mad that I’m not back yet.”
Meena stepped forward. “Then let us unload your cart at once so we don’t delay you.”
Kinnad waved her off. “You can keep the cart, we’ve got another. Besides, it sounds like you’ll need it more than I do if you’re going to chase down the traitor.”
“Thank you, again,” said Meena. “Give the smith my thanks as well, and I wish you safe travels.”
“Sure.” Kinnad grinned. “I guess I wish you a safe war, if there is such a thing.” with those words, he turned about and headed out the gate.
The Lump grabbed the cart and tugged it toward the castle. “I’ll get this to One-Eye so he can parse it out.”
“We’ll go with you.” Meena beckoned at Flynn and walked alongside the Lump. “I think I will divide our forces into three armies, each with its own responsibility, and with one of us leading each of them.”
The Lump frowned. “We don’t really have enough folks for one proper army, how are you going to divide them into three?”
Meena flashed a sly grin. “I have given it much consideration, hear me out.”
The Lump grunted. “You’re the chief, so I guess I’m all ears.”
Meena said, “Flynn will lead the refugees with their pikes and bows.”
Flynn tilted his head. “Meena, you should lead the Common Folk, they want to follow you.”
“I will have other duties,” said Meena. “I expect you should respect that. The Common Folk will be my archers, and you have more experience with that than I.”
“I see.” Flynn put a hand on the back of his neck. “I just expected the three of us to stick together.”
“We will need to navigate the Needles separately,” said Meena. “We can’t march along in a formation amongst the stones. I must rely on you and the Common Folk to move quietly and strike from hidden positions to help accomplish our goals with minimal pain to our own numbers.”
“In that case, you can count on me,” said Flynn.
“And you, Lump…” Meena looked over at the big man pulling the cart. “You will lead the Hill-Folk.”
The Lump wrinkled up his face. “But they’ve already got leaders.”
“That’s the problem,” said Meena. “They won’t all follow Grumpet or Wooly, and One-Eye must remain here.” She swept a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. “You must keep them working as one group instead of three.”
The Lump sighed. “I should have figured you’d give me the lunatics.”
Meena stopped walking and arched an eyebrow. “They are brave, fierce, and draw a lot of attention. I could say the same about you on a least two of those counts.”
“And what of you, Meena?” asked Flynn. “What will form your army?”
Meena’s face softened into nonchalance. “I will lead the irregulars.”
The Lump grunted. “It looks to me like all of our folks are irregular.”
“Perhaps,” said Meena. She raised one eyebrow. “My soldiers will be more irregular, fur and feathers irregular.”
“Oh, now I see,” said the Lump. “What’ll we do with our dozen and a half footmen? Will they march with the refugees or the Hill-Folk?”
Meena shook her head. “I dare not bring the footmen with us. Though they submitted easily enough, I cannot trust their allegiance.” She tilted her head and lowered her brows. “I shall make them swear an oath to assist One-Eye in his duties as castellan. I suspect he will know how best to handle them.”
The Lump’s face drooped into a concerned frown as he pulled against the cartload of weapons and mail. “I know we’re doing better, now that we have almost two hundred fighters, but the Baron’s probably got three times as many, and they’re better trained and better equipped.”
Meena nodded. “True, his numbers are greater, but in the Needles, numbers will not give the advantage you think it will. There are no open spaces for them to gather in a great mass, so we will be facing them no more than twenty at a time. We have the people who know the needles best, and Hill-Folk accustomed to rough terrain and sneak attacks. Also, we know that we are at war with the Baron, but he has no idea we are coming for him. If we are able to find the Baron, and my parents, we can over come that party and ignore the rest of the armies. I suspect they will pose no threat once the Baron is gone.”
The Lump raised his eyebrows in genuine concern. “He’s going to have the best of the batch around him. From what Tam said, he’s personally leading the vanguard.”
Meena sighed. “I am prepared to face the Baron’s best just the same as his worst.”
Flynn rubbed the side of his head. “Meena, do you have the heart to cut through countless footmen if you must?”
“I will offer the footmen a chance to lay down their arms,” answered Meena. “If they refuse, there is nothing I can do for them.”
The Lump stopped pulling the cart and stood up straight. “So, you think with our smaller numbers, sorry choice of weapons, and lack of any formally trained soldiers, we can best the Baron’s armies?”
“Yes, I do,” said Meena. “We will beat them a few at a time, dividing them up and chipping away at them in bits. We will also continue to recruit people to our cause, and try to strike off the head of the snake before it encircles us.”
“It seems like pretty long odds.” The Lump groaned and grinned. “Almost as unlikely as the three of us defeating a dragon.” He shrugged. “But, I guess I’m in it to the end.”
“I think your strategy is a sound one,” added Flynn.
“Thank you, Flynn.” Meena pulled the hood of her green cloak up, over her head. “We have a strategic plan, the element of surprise…” She stepped up, onto the first of the stone stairs leading into the castle. “And we’ll have bears, lots and lots of bears.”
25: Engagement
The march to the Needles was filled with good cheer and enthusiasm. Despite the Lump’s loudly expressed objections, the Hill-Folk and Refugees alternated singing in time to the march. Pleasant weather made for pleasant travels, and when they passed villages or other small communities, people came out to stare at the strange looking mob on the march. Rumor had already spread that this host was led by the new Queen of Gallis. If asked, Meena would have been quick to point out the rumors were false.
The journey progressed uneventfully. The army camped at night, marched during the day, and sent foraging parties into the woods as needed. The Lump estimated that when it came to foraging, no group was quite so accomplished as the Hill-Folk.
At the edge of the Needles, Meena reached out to the wildlife and assessed the situation regarding the Baron’s forces. Her investigation revealed the location of a cluster of soldiers, and she dispatched the Lump and his vanguard to engage them. Flynn and the refugees were given their own mission to support the attack from above.
As everyone else prepared for battle, Meena continued her clandestine search for her parents. Both the Lump and Flynn expressed concern about her conducting this search on her own, but Meena reminded them that she was never truly alone. As a compromise, she did agree to take a dozen refugees with her, after all, they knew the lay of the land and could help search.
Presently, the Lump trudged through the limestone slabs for which the Common Lands were so well known. He remembered the stories Solson Birch told him about how deadly fighting in the Needles was during the Great War, and now he suddenly understood why. There was nothing that could properly be called a line of sight, and every aspect of the terrain could serve perfectly as cover for a surprise attack. He hoped, in this situation at the very least, that his side of the battle would perpetrate the ambush.
The sound of laughter echoed through the still air.
The Lump stopped and held up a hand to halt the Hill-Folk behind him. He could now see the source of the laughter, it was the footmen for whom he searched.
Halberdiers in black mail gathered around three, small fires. A quick head count revealed there were twenty of them.
The Lump took satisfaction in this discovery. He had a score of Itchy-Legs with him, and this looked to be an evenly numbered fight. Even if he miscounted, he was not alone.
Farther back, contained within the labyrinthine trails that ran through the Needles, Wooly and Grumpet had command of the rest of the Hill-Folk. This body of eighty or so reserves remained near enough to be called upon, should the need for reinforcements arise. The Lump allowed himself a simple grin, it didn’t look like he would have need of the eighty fighters waiting for his call.
A shrill whistle echoed off the slabs of stone, a signal from Flynn that his archers were in position and prepared to strike.
The Lump tried to whistle back, but found he was not very good at it. He frowned and nudged the freckle-faced man next to him. “How about you whistle for me?”
The freckle-faced man nodded, then put two fingers in his mouth. He unleashed a long, loud whistle that made the Lump’s ears ring. This whistle was the signal that war had commenced.
Flynn’s archers opened the attack with a volley of crude arrows from unseen perches among the limestone slabs. A storm of wooden missiles rained down from a high arc, rising up from the northwest and settling down on the gathered footmen. Arrows bounced of the drapes of mail the Galiisian soldiers wore, inflicting no real damage, but the attack’s unexpected nature did give rise to confusion. Some soldiers shouted and scrambled in disarray to grab weapons of their own, while others tried to discern the location of the attackers.
The Lump narrowed his eyes and watched from his hidden position. He knew confusion, chaos, and surprise were currently his most reliable allies. The big man raised his tiny sword and shouted, “Let’s get ‘em!”
The Lump charged out from his hidden position followed by a score of Hill-Folk. His fighters brandished long-axes and wore hastily assembled drapes of mail. As for his own armor, the Lump felt safe enough in his leather vest and bracers to forgo the mail. He doubted any of the drapes were large enough to cover him, anyway.
The Hill-Folk unleashed their battle cries and added to the chaotic nature of the sneak attack with great effect. The combination of fear and concern expressed by the footmen’s faces only intensified.
The Lump swung his undersized blade at the nearest footmen as he approached.
The frightened Gallisian brought up the shaft of his halberd in time to deflect the blow.
The Lump buried his left fist into the man’s belly and the impact of the chainmail sent a shock of pain through his knuckles.
The footman crumpled to the ground with a groan. He leaned against his halberd and attempted to climb back to his feet.
With a swift kick, the Lump’s boot knocked the halberd from the man’s hands.
The Gallisian tumbled back down.
The Lump glanced around the confined space of the battle, making an early assessment of the situation. The Hill-Folk’s axes were crude compared the the halberds of the enemy forces. Also, it was obvious the Hill-Folk were untrained in proper technique with edged weapons, they swung their axes the same way they swung their cudgels. The troops he led into battle knew next to nothing of battle formations, though he surmised they worked well enough in two’s and three’s.
What the Hill-Folk did posses was unquestionable bravery coupled with the ferocity of wild beasts. The men and women of the clans shouted and rushed about, striking, withdrawing, and striking again with no discernible patterns. They looked very much like a nest of hornets fallen upon some hapless farmer.
The numbers were roughly equal, twenty footmen under attack by a score of Hill-Folk. The Lump couldn’t help but think the lack of traditional battle discipline made the Hill-Folk’s number seem, somehow, less. A twinge of concern grew in his chest when he considered the superior equipment the footmen used.
One of the Hill-Folk, a bald, freckle-faced man, leaped back at the swing of a halberd. Though the blow appeared to touch the man’s hairless pate, he did not cry out. His face twisted into a freckle-framed grin with blood leaking down from his brow, and he attacked. This hill-born man seemed to enjoy the fight.
“That’s a way to do it, brother!” shouted the Lump. “That’s the sort of fight that’ll win this ox-sniffing battle for us!” He was inexperienced in shouting battlefield encouragement, but he figured those words were good.
The Hill-Folk didn’t quite dominate the footmen in the early fighting, but the benefit of surprise gave them enough advantage that the battle was going their way. Unfortunately, the Gallisians overcame their initial shock and fell into formation. They formed a tight rectangle, and footmen at the flanks called out for reinforcements, which the Lump deduced must be within earshot.
Two more Gallisian units, equal in size to the one under attack, filed forth from the slabs of stone at the flanks of the battle. The twenty members of the Lump’s vanguard now faced sixty enemies.
The Lump did not delay in calling out for reserves of his own. “Wooly! Grumpet! We need you now!”
As his words flew, a halberd rushed toward his head. He raised his arms and caught a glancing blow on his left bracer. He spun away from the attack and checked to see if his left hand remained attached to his arm. Much to his satisfaction, it did.
Hill-Folk poured into the fray from all across the northern side of the battle. The eager reserves rushed into the center of the fight, and the small battlefield packed so densely with bodies there was scarcely any room for combat. What ensued was better described as
a press of bodies shoving against one another than a melee.
The Lump smiled with satisfaction that his people now had the numerical advantage. He also noted that the tight confines served to decrease the battle superiority of the footmen and their weapons.
Somehow, the battle raged on by shear force of will despite the pressure of human forms smashed so thoroughly against one another. The Lump noticed the Hill-Folk reserves bearing shorter cudgels had a distinct advantage in such close quarters. He decided It would be important to provide all the fighters with these simple weapons before any future battles.
The footmen seemed to give ground to the Hill-Folk, though there was scarcely any to spare.
The Lump commanded, “Keep pressing! Don’t let up! Let’s smash them against the rocks until they yield!” His booming voice carried above the turmoil and echoed off the slabs of stone.
In small clusters, the outnumbered footmen withdrew in a well organized retreat. The Lump hated allowing them an escape, but the forces were too compressed to give chase to the footmen who fled.
“Let’s pin down the ones we can!” shouted the Lump. “Don’t worry about the fellows who run away, just catch a few for Meena to question!”
More and more footmen shuffled away until the Hill-Folk had complete control of the convergence of paths that made the small pitch for their battle. Only a row of the original twenty footmen, spread across a short arc to the south, remained to face the hundred Hill-Folk.
The Lump’s fighters began to celebrate their victory, giving no mind to its hollow nature. Most of the Gallisians they faced escaped, and they failed to lay eyes on either Eugene or Meena’s parents.
The Lump gave a half-hearted grin and thought a win is a win, even an empty victory is a good start for us. He surveyed the stony landscape in preparation for a final push, and his face blanched. A void of despair filled his chest as he understood what the footmen had actually done. They hadn’t retreated, they had regrouped.
Halberds appeared from between slabs of limestone all around the closely packed Hill-Folk. The footmen had outmaneuvered the Lump’s troops, the big man’s feeble attempt at leadership was a dismal failure.
