by Duncan Lay
Kay could sense the fear in the ranks—even though they had not eaten much, men kept breaking ranks to void their bowels, or to throw up their meagre rations. Others were talking much too loudly, laughing too hard. They had trained for years but this was the first time they would face an actual enemy. His own anxiety was not for himself—it was for what he was about to do.
He wished he could have talked more to that Sergeant Hutter and the criminal, Kettering. The time was coming when he would have to draw his bow in the service of the King and, once he did that, there was no going back.
‘What’s the word again, Sarge?’ Turen asked nervously.
‘There are several words,’ Hutter said patiently. ‘When we decide to kill the officers, the call is “Sword”. If we decide to run, the call is “Hill”. Now, don’t worry about that. Just keep your ears open. We’re behind Kettering’s men, so he’ll be the one to make the call.’
‘Should we trust a mad bastard like that, Sarge?’
Hutter grinned and slapped the young man on the shoulder. ‘Finally, you are thinking! But you’re forgetting one thing—we’re about to go into battle. That’s the perfect place for mad bastards.’
He was trying to project a bluff confidence he did not really have. He had spoken to many of the other sergeants after talking to Kettering. Some were not sure if they should trust a pack of murderers. And he had to admit, they had a point. And there was the whole issue of running away from Gello. After this battle, he would be the undisputed ruler of Norstalos. Where would they go then?
Kettering had made sure he was in the middle of the regiment. Not because he was afraid, but because he wanted to be right behind this Captain Grissum, who was supposedly leading them. He could almost smell the terror of the other men; he was sure several had already pissed themselves in fright, Menner included. The small dressmaker was sobbing softly, partly in embarrassment because he had ruined a fine pair of trews.
‘I’m going to die!’ Menner had wailed.
‘We’re all going to die one day,’ Kettering replied. ‘But you can choose how you die. Gello did this to you. He is the one to blame. Think about every humiliation, every blow, every piece of abuse you have suffered. You have to take your anger, and let it swamp your fear.’
Menner had tried to nod, and smile, although Kettering did not know if the dressmaker could truly understand what he was trying to say.
Kettering had made sure the men he most trusted were clustered around Grissum and the rest of the officers. He just had to give the order, and they would die. That would happen. He just hoped afterwards he would have the chance to kill the Berellian who had started it all. He did not care about anything else.
The slope of Pilleth made the rangers and archers, who wore only thick leather tunics, sweat and mutter. For the bulk of Gello’s infantry, who all carried heavy shields and wore heavier hauberks, it turned the advance into a crawl, their legs and backs protesting. From the expressions on their faces, many of the men were happy to delay the advance for as long as possible.
‘Take the archers ahead, the infantry’ll catch you up,’ Feld ordered Beq.
Beq saluted and waved the archers on, so they kept going, while the heavy infantry took a break, then followed at a much slower pace. They would only speed up when they came into arrow range. Feld knew it was no good pushing them too hard up the slope so they were exhausted when it came to fighting. He also waved to Grissum, who took the lightly armoured conscript regiments off to the right, forming them on the outside of the main body, so they would, unbeknownst to them, take the brunt of the expected cavalry charge.
In the midst of the rangers, Kay stumbled as he walked across a shallow trench dug into the turf. Why anyone had bothered to dig a trench barely a hand deep, but a good yard across, seemed a mystery to him until he looked up—and it became clear.
‘They’ve reached the first marker! Loose the ballistae!’ Martil ordered.
He was relieved this was finally starting. He had become used to the tension before battle. But knowing he was going to die in it seemed to have taken the edge off. He felt relaxed, at peace. He could see his men were struggling. They were all veterans of a score of battles, some nearly as big as this. But they had never faced odds this bad before. He could see the sweat on faces, hear the over-loud laughter. Others refused to let it affect them, earnestly debating the best inns in Norstalos City, or the worth of a spear over an axe—anything to help them pretend there were not thousands of men advancing to kill them. He was grateful the Queen’s Norstaline companies could not see this. They would have found the sight of so many of Gello’s men terrifying. But the enemy would be just as frightened—and they would also be the first to suffer in this battle.
Making the ballistae had been a long, infuriating process, but they would prove their worth now. Because it took so long to shape a spear for them, there were only a few for each machine—and they took ages to reload. Nevertheless they could be a fearsome weapon. Normally they worked like a giant crossbow, spears flying high in the air before dropping down on their target. But Martil had ordered the back to be raised because of Pilleth’s slope. This meant they would fly straight down the hill.
Rallorans used heavy hammers to release the ballistae’s restraining levers, and the machines bucked and kicked, flinging their heavy missiles down the slope. One or two missiles dug into the ground, then cartwheeled uselessly down the hill before coming to a stop. A few more flew high, arcing up to land in the space between Gello’s archers and the rest of his infantry. But the rest punched holes in the tight ranks, impaling two or three men at a time and flinging them back down the slope in a spray of blood and a tangle of limbs.
‘Reload! Faster!’ Nerrin bellowed. ‘Show them what you can do!’
Kay watched in horror as the next volley of ballistae spears was loosed. They made a strange hissing sound and seemed to move slowly through the air at first, then leaped down the slope to crash into the ranks on either side of him. One struck with a hideous noise just four men to his right, picking up the man in the first rank, slamming him back into the man behind, and flinging them both ten feet through the air, impaled on the heavy wood.
Men cowered from the noise, the blood and the fear of the missiles; those in the path of the ballistae were trying to edge sideways, squeezing the line together.
‘Spread out! Speed up! As soon as we get close enough, they’ll fall back!’ Beq was screaming, hauling men to their feet, kicking them into line, shoving them up the hill.
Kay knew he should be saying something similar, but he was more concerned about the ballistae that was almost in front of him—and its crew, which was reloading it as fast as they could, using levers to wind back the thick arm.
‘Aroaril save us!’ someone cried, down the line.
Up the hill, to his right, a ballistae being reloaded suddenly broke under the strain, throwing chunks of wood high into their air. Kay saw at least one Ralloran flung away, as well.
Elsewhere, wounded men behind the nervously advancing line were screaming for help, for their mothers, for someone to take away the pain.
‘Keep going!’ Beq’s call went down the line. They were almost within bow range.
Kay saw the crew leader on a ballistae pick up a hammer, glance down the slope, then swing the hammer down. The missile seemed to be coming straight for him and he watched it, mesmerised, sure it was the last thing he was going to see. Then, at the last moment, it flew up and over him, the force of its passing making him stumble back. A hand pushed him forwards.
‘Don’t die yet, sir!’ Sergeant Ryder called.
Kay did not have time to reply, as he stepped into another shallow trench.
‘String your bows! Give them a taste of what Norstalines can do!’ Beq screamed.
Kay fumbled his string from his belt pouch and strung his bow, missing the first time in nervousness. All along the line, archers and rangers were doing the same. Then someone glanced up.
&nbs
p; ‘Watch out!’
Martil watched with approval as the ballistae crews, less the one that had been killed, ran back to their place in the main battleline, leaving the way clear for the Ralloran archers, reinforced with Tarik’s former hunters and every other bowman they had found in the three northern towns. It was a pitiful force compared to the near two thousand bowmen facing them. But they had the advantage of the high ground—and on Pilleth it was a massive advantage indeed.
‘Loose!’ Nerrin ordered. ‘As fast as you can!’
The white-tipped arrows hissed down and slammed into the front rank. Dozens of men went down instantly, either dead or screaming for help, which Kay thought was worse.
‘Loose!’ Beq bellowed.
Kay did not bend his bow, but just about every other archer did, and the resultant arrow cloud looked far more impressive than the shower of Ralloran arrows that had come in. But it did nothing. Kay saw the entire volley waste itself in the turf, a good forty yards short of the Ralloran archers.
‘We’re falling short! March forwards!’ Beq roared, trying to urge men on.
But it was not an easy thing, to get men to walk into the teeth of an arrow storm. The Rallorans were not loosing in one big volley, but as fast as they could, which meant that arrows were falling all the time. Every step forwards brought another arrow, as well as the fear that it would strike you.
The rangers and archers had been unnerved by the ballistae that had torn holes in their lines, and many were looking back over their shoulders, to where the rest of the infantry laboriously advanced. It was easy to feel isolated, abandoned—and their instinct was to stay where they were, not risk themselves further.
Kay felt he was still safely out of range, so he stopped and loosed a couple of arrows before walking any further.
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ Beq was now out front, trying to lead by example. ‘The King is watching! Every man who wants his favour, follow me now!’
The officers, sergeants and men that Kay thought of as Beq’s favourites followed his example, both from the rangers and from the archers. The rest, like Kay, hung at the back and loosed arrows uselessly, which wasted themselves on the turf. Kay had no more interest in winning favour from the King. Gello had sent his men up here to be slaughtered. His strategy cared nothing for the men who had to carry it out. Kay did not want to lead his men into death—especially when it was for no good reason. But they were being drawn slowly up the hill, led by Beq’s group, perhaps three hundred strong. Although this group was suffering badly—every step they made, another fell, as the Ralloran archers nocked and loosed like madmen on the hill above.
‘We’re almost in range!’ Beq screeched.
But Kay could see the Rallorans were starting to take a step back, after loosing a couple of arrows. They were keeping safely out of range, while their arrows were taking a wicked toll of Beq’s men. Eventually, however, they would be hard up against their own battleline. What would happen then?
Martil watched as Nerrin slowly retreated up the hill, all the time his archers taking a heavy toll of the men below. And it was working—more than three-quarters of Gello’s archers were hanging back, obviously unwilling to march into death. But Martil’s Rallorans only had about thirty paces to go before they would be forced to stop—and then they would start taking casualties. He glanced over his shoulder to where Barrett stood. It was almost time. He could not let his men die. He gripped Karia’s hand, and his other instinctively touched the hilt of the Sword.
‘For Aroaril’s sake, someone kill that bloody officer!’ Nerrin bellowed, pointing to where Beq was running up and down the enemy line, encouraging his men forwards.
Arrows had been falling all around him, as archers sought to kill him. Any man who came near him was pierced, but the officer seemed to be leading a charmed life.
Men were running down from the top of the hill, bringing replacement arrow sheaves for those who had run out. Only a handful of Rallorans had been wounded, mostly in the leg, and only three had had to leave the line for treatment.
‘And kill some more bloody archers!’ Nerrin shouted. He could sense they would soon be up against the shield wall, and then it was a case of stand and take it for as long as you could, before an arrow killed you.
Rocus and Conal exchanged glances, as they heard the roar of orders, the screams of the injured and the sound both of bowstrings and falling arrows. They had heard the ballistae loosed on the enemy and now they wondered what was happening on the hill. A glance behind, at the pale, sweaty faces of the men, told them they were not the only ones.
‘We hold. We wait until we hear from Martil or Barrett,’ Rocus said loudly.
Conal nodded. He had thought the fight in the gate tunnel had been terrifying but this waiting, not being able to watch, was somehow worse. Your imagination had too much time to work.
‘Kay! Get your men up here! We’ve almost got them pinned!’ Beq screamed.
His men had been whittled down—of his most trusted companies, two-thirds were dead or wounded, struck by the never-ending stream of arrows the Rallorans were sending down. But he could see success was just ahead. The Rallorans had nowhere to go now. Another few paces and his arrows would start to kill them. All he had to do was bring up Kay and the rest of these laggards, and the slaughter could begin.
‘Kay! Are you listening! Get up here now or I’ll have you arrested!’
But Kay’s doubts had suddenly cleared and his head felt calm. He could see that he could advance his men, and both sides would suffer terribly. The Ralloran shield wall would hardly be touched; the Ralloran archers would eventually all be slain, although they would be able to kill many of his men. And for what? So Gello’s favourites could advance in safety.
‘We will not do this. Sergeant Ryder, I want the men marshalled to the left, at the Ralloran marker trench,’ Kay ordered.
Beq stopped and stared in shock and horror as the men who would achieve his victory turned around and started walking away.
‘Kay! Where are you going! Kay!’ he bellowed down at the officer, forgetting for a moment where he was and why he had been trying to keep moving.
The air was thick with the hiss of arrows. His ears only registered a slightly different sound at the last moment. He had time to turn, but no more. Three arrows slammed into him, picked him up and threw him to the turf.
Less than one hundred of Beq’s men remained, and more were dying every moment. Without Beq’s influence, they just broke and ran, throwing away their arrow bags, their bows, everything that slowed them down. They ran past where Kay had drawn up his men, off to the side and away from the path of the advance, where they would not be seen as a threat. The running men went around the solid block of advancing infantry and kept going, heading for Gello’s camp.
Gello watched in mingled shock and fury as the bulk of his archers moved off to the flank, almost removing themselves from the battle, while the remnants ran past his phalanx of infantry towards the camp.
He signalled to Feld.
‘I want those cowards ridden down! Every one of them is to die, understand?’
Feld opened his mouth, then closed it and saluted instead.
‘At once, sire!’
Gello watched, feeling a little happier, as a company of light cavalry formed up and rode to intercept the archers who had fled all the way down the hill. These men, seeing the drawn swords, slowed to a walk, or even turned around—but it was too late. The order was given and the horses spurred to the gallop. This was no harder than the training field, and the cavalry troopers rode over the scattered archers, hacking them down with swords.
Some of the smarter archers fell to the ground, rolling into a ball to avoid the merciless swords. Others tried to run back up the hill. But the troopers split up and hemmed them in and the swords did their deadly work until all were either dead, pretending to be dead, or wishing they were dead.
‘That will show those dogs what happens if you run away!’ Gello applauded.<
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‘And the rest of the archers, the ones on the hill, sire?’ Ezok asked carefully.
‘They can stay there. We shall deal with the cowards after the battle. In truth, it is not a great setback. The few archers the Rallorans have will never be able to stop us. See?’
Gello gestured to where his infantry was advancing again, shields held high. ‘It will cost me another fifty dead, but they are easily replaced,’ he told Ezok confidently.
‘Your majesty is wise indeed,’ Ezok agreed.
Martil stared down the hill in amazement. The archers had broken! They had actually driven them off!
‘We won!’ Merren exclaimed, stepping forwards to be close to him. ‘We won that, didn’t we?’
‘We did!’ Martil declared, hardly able to believe it himself. He let go of Karia’s hand. ‘I’ll be right back, I just have to see Nerrin.’
Karia had been trying not to look at what was going on down the hill, but she was not about to let go of his hand that easily.
‘He’ll be right back. Here, hold my hand,’ Merren offered.
Reluctantly, Karia swapped hands, and Martil hurried down to where the exhausted archers were cheering each other.
‘We’re going to do the same again!’ Nerrin was roaring at them.
