by Duncan Lay
‘I know. I’ll be watching you and protecting you,’ she said seriously.
He grinned. He was suddenly filled with the conviction that he was safe that day. He knew it was foolish but, after being forced to say goodbye to Karia—and then have the Dragon Sword come alive—he could not stop the sudden happiness bubbling through him, wiping away everything that had happened that morning. He changed the Dragon Sword into the left hand, drawing his old sword in the right hand. ‘And see, I’m taking your advice.’
He saluted Merren.
‘Your majesty, when we have Gello’s infantry fully committed, I shall signal for the cavalry to attack—’ Martil began.
‘Then we shall send Rocus, Sendric and Conal in to finish them off,’ Merren declared. ‘Go now!’
Gello’s infantry were almost ready to advance, and Martil, distracted by this change in plans, did not explain that Barrett had to give the order. He hurried to where Nerrin and the confused Rallorans waited.
‘This is where things change from Mount Shadar!’ Martil cried. ‘This time we come to the rescue, and win it! Those men down there are risking their lives to fight for us. We will not let them die in vain! Follow me!’
They let out a huge roar as he led them downhill.
‘Nerrin, take command of the left flank—don’t let them get around us! We’ll march in line, then change to wedge formation just as we reach them, push through and link with the archers.’
‘Yes, sir! Are we really going to win?’
‘Better than that, we’re going to destroy Gello!’ Martil laughed. He felt as if he could do anything now.
Heading downhill, the tendency was to speed up, but Martil tried to make sure the men did not become ragged—they had to hit Gello’s men together, or they would break upon the bigger, deeper shield wall.
‘They love Berellians—so let’s show them what we do with Berellians!’ he bellowed.
Heath received the orders from Gello with some relief. He had been afraid the King would want him to still attack the Rallorans first, and expose his back to the conscripts and archers. But he was confident he had more than enough men to smash the fools to his left, then destroy the Rallorans. Finally, he would not have to worry about anyone but his own men. And he would show the King just why he should be the senior captain, not Feld.
‘Wheel left! Shields up! We’ll push them off the hill, onto our waiting cavalry below,’ Heath ordered.
It was not a particularly tricky manoeuvre, but was made more difficult by the steady rain of arrows, meaning they had to do everything with shields held high. Just when the ranks had aligned and dressed themselves, changing around so they could march left, Heath glanced up to where the Rallorans waited—only to see they were not waiting, but marching downhill!
Health reacted again, transforming what had been a square of men into a right angle, forming one shield wall with two regiments to hold off the Rallorans, while a second shield wall would crush the archers and conscripts.
‘We will outflank the Rallorans on our right, so wrap around their flank and start rolling it up,’ he declared.
This promised to be a hard fight, but he had most of the advantages—the biggest being sheer weight of numbers.
‘Attack!’ he bawled.
‘I think they’re going to attack us first,’ Kay declared, as the red-clad infantry began to shift positions.
Kay had introduced Hutter and Kettering to his officers, while the archers, criminals and militia furiously ripped off their red surcoats, partly because they didn’t want to be mistaken for Gello’s men, partly because they wanted to show that they no longer fought for him. They all wore the sleeveless boiled leather jerkin, giving them a uniform look, although many of the men had bare arms, or just a grimy undershirt, under the jerkin. Kay was surprised to see one plump little man wearing an orange shirt with puffed sleeves. If he had had the time, he would have asked about it.
‘What about the Rallorans? Will they come and help us?’ Cropper asked.
‘Doesn’t matter if they do—Gello’s got enough men to hold off the Rallorans until we’re dead, then he can turn on them,’ Kay shrugged.
‘Then we should attack!’ Kettering declared.
‘But they’ve got armour and shields—we’ve just got swords,’ Hutter pointed out. ‘We’ll break on their shield wall.’
‘We can open up their shield wall for you but unless those Rallorans have some other plan in mind, we’re going to lose,’ Cropper warned. ‘We don’t have many arrows left.’
‘You break that shield wall and we’ll do the rest,’ Kettering said confidently.
‘We will?’ Hutter muttered.
‘Did you really expect to come out of this alive?’
Hutter grimaced, then admitted, ‘I had hoped.’
‘If we can link with the Rallorans, anything is possible,’ Cropper pointed out.
Kay found himself grinning. ‘I think we’re all mad.’
‘Aye, well, seems it’s catching,’ Hutter murmured.
Kay clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Run at the shield wall. Just before you get there, we’ll punch holes in it—you have to get inside those holes before they can close, or you’re all dead.’
‘We will.’ Kettering nodded.
‘Tell me, what crime were you arrested for and what did you do before, to inspire a regiment of criminals?’ Cropper asked.
‘They’re not all criminals. Many are like me: accused of a murder I did not commit, and plucked from my quiet life.’ Kettering hesitated, then shrugged. ‘If you must know, I was the under-manager for a big inn at Wollin, in charge of looking after guests and hiring bards.’
‘Really?’ Kay could not help but ask.
‘Really,’ Kettering growled.
‘Aroaril knows what you would have achieved if you were the full manager then.’ Cropper smiled, offering his hand.
After a moment, Kettering took it.
‘If you had told me I would be trusting my life to a pack of chocolate soldiers and criminals before today, I would have said you were mad,’ Kay offered.
‘You still are,’ Hutter declared. He and Kay shook hands.
‘Do you think they will be able to hold the open flank?’ Merren asked, worried.
Kesbury looked around, then realised she must be talking to him.
‘It will be difficult, my Queen. They have a great advantage of numbers…’
‘That is what I thought.’ Merren nodded. ‘I am safe here. Take your squad and Barrett to help them.’
‘But, my Queen—’
‘Sergeant, you and ten men could mean the difference between victory and defeat down there. But if Gello’s men break through, do you think your squad can protect me from regiments of infantry and cavalry?’
Kesbury shook his head wordlessly.
‘Then go! Barrett, you too! Your magic could prove the difference!’
Barrett, who had been talking with Tiera, half turned to tell Merren how only he could get Rocus to charge, but Tiera leaned forwards and kissed him.
‘Be safe,’ she told him, barely able to meet his eyes.
Barrett flushed, and all thought beyond wanting to impress her fled from him. Hefting his wizard’s staff, which had seemingly grown of its own volition to a massive size, he raced downhill to catch up with Kesbury.
‘Stay close to me,’ Kettering told Leigh, Hawke and a visibly shaking Menner.
‘We’re not going anywhere—we know you’re the deadliest man on the battlefield.’ Leigh smiled, although his eyes were darting left and right.
‘We don’t stop until we reach the other side, or we’re dead! Everyone understand!’ Kettering ordered, and received grim nods from almost all the men in reply.
Interspersed with his men were Cropper’s archers, who would loose arrows at the last moment to disrupt the advancing shield wall. Kettering did not even bother looking at them. He just drew his sword. The part of him that had once struggled to deal with even mild cus
tomer complaints looked at the wall of steel and wood marching towards him and quailed—but that was a tiny part now.
‘Charge!’ he screamed, and broke into a run.
On edge already, the massed criminals roared and raced after him.
Kettering fixed his gaze on a tall infantryman directly in front of him. The man wore a shining steel helm with a thick nose guard, a long mail shirt that stretched to his knees, and polished leather boots with strips of metal riveted to every side. His heavy wooden shield, with a thick metal boss in the middle, was painted with Gello’s crossed-swords badge and had an arrow sticking out of the top. He had a short, wide stabbing sword in his hand and a longer one at his waist.
In contrast, Kettering wore simple leather boots, woollen trews, a thick leather jerkin with a dirty cotton vest beneath and he carried just the one sword. But he had spent an hour working on it with a whetstone and he was ready to let his anger free.
He seemed to fly across the grass separating him from the infantryman, who, along with his fellows, had stopped his advance and braced himself, adding his shield to an unbroken wall.
‘Bastards!’ Kettering screamed, drawing out the word until it was almost a battle cry.
He could hear men shouting, screaming, yelling to either side of him, trying to work up the guts to charge into that wall of metal and death.
Kettering saw the shield wall seem to dip down, as the men behind it braced for the impact, and he lengthened his strides, so he would be able to leap the last yard into the attack.
‘Hold! Hold hard!’
He could see the colour of their eyes now, peeking over the shields. Time seemed to slow, and he saw the sharp sword in the infantryman’s hand, saw it draw back, ready for the thrust that would try to impale him.
Then arrows whipped past him, one stirring his hair it passed so close.
Spaces suddenly appeared in the line, as skilled archers put arrows into eye sockets and tiny gaps between shields. Men on either side of Kettering’s target fell, the one on the right dragging down the infantryman’s shield as he went, and causing him to stagger slightly.
Howling with triumph, Kettering leaped high and slammed his sword down, driving it over the shield and into the man’s throat. Blood fountained and Kettering dragged his blade clear of the dying man.
Beside him, Hawke used the body of a fallen infantryman as a springboard, propelling himself into the air to slam down on the second rank, his weight and momentum sending men in all directions. A red-clad infantryman raised his sword to kill Hawke but Kettering was quicker, thrusting his sword into the back of the infantryman’s neck.
‘Killer!’ Leigh brought his sword down, deflecting a blow meant for Kettering’s back.
Snarling his hatred at the men who had ruined his life, Kettering slashed at the soldier’s face, feeling the shock as his blade ripped out the man’s eye before it rammed into his nose guard.
More of Kettering’s men arrived. Hawke surged to his feet, picked up a fallen infantryman and hurled the body into the other ranks, opening the hole wider.
Kettering wiped blood from his face with his free hand and slashed furiously at an infantryman, keeping him occupied while Leigh stepped around the shield and hacked him down.
All the momentum was with the criminals. The first line of Gello’s infantry had been pierced and the lightly armoured criminals poured in, making up in ferocity what they lacked in skill.
‘Kill them all!’ Kettering screamed.
But while they were savaging the first rank and attacking the second rank, the third rank was untouched, and holding firm. Although archers were dropping arrows on them, those behind had their shields up. Criminals who tried to attack found their blows blocked by one or more shields, then the short, stabbing swords licked out and claimed another life.
‘Come on!’ Kettering hurled himself into the attack, using his sword to try and haul down a shield and expose the man behind it.
Hutter and Turen fought back to back. Hutter had led the charge, ruthlessly crushing the fear he had felt and refusing to think of his family as he raced towards the imposing defensive line. Then the arrows had whipped in, gouging holes in the infantry. Hutter sidestepped a lone infantryman’s lunge and rammed his sword through the man’s mail and into the flesh beyond, feeling the steel grate on bone. The man shook like a fish on a line, mouth open in a silent scream until Hutter twisted his wrist to break the suction of flesh around the blade and hauled it out of the man’s body. He bent and picked up a fallen shield, using it to deflect an attack, then slammed the heavy metal boss into an infantryman’s head, hearing it ring on the metal nose guard over the sickening sound of breaking bones.
He spared a glance over his shoulder to see Turen had picked up a shield as well. ‘Stay with me!’
Together they isolated an infantryman; Turen’s sword bit into his leg, then Hutter finished him off with a cut to the neck.
‘Get their shields! Hold them off! Wait for the Rallorans!’ he yelled at the surrounding men.
He knew he could not win this battle by himself; all he had to do was keep the infantry back. But the infantry were not content to sit back and wait—more were pushing into the attack by the moment. Even with the help of borrowed shields, the militia was hard-pressed to stop the advance.
‘Hold them!’ Hutter said again, more in hope than anything else.
‘Wedge formation!’ Martil bellowed, waving to his right and his left, when the Rallorans were just twenty paces from the infantry line. He had deliberately shortened his line, risking being outflanked, so he could add weight to his charge. He was trying to push his way through a shield line twice as thick as his own, and Gello’s men were braced, shields locked tight—but Martil knew how to break them.
With his best men as the points all along the front of the Ralloran line, little wedges of men were formed. Rather than the two shield walls meeting directly, where each man would be fighting against two or three opponents, both sides working together to hold their line, the Rallorans could now put their best men against his opposite in Gello’s line. Martil knew, with the two men just behind him holding off the ones to either side of his target, he could isolate the man he faced. And, once through the first line, the wedge shape of each point would widen and hold the break. They had used this method countless times, and the men at the tip of each wedge were his best fighters, every one of them big and skilled, several even carrying long-handled axes for just this task.
Martil was not carrying a shield, which could have been a disadvantage in close-quarter fighting. But he trusted the men behind him to protect his sides—and he had the Dragon Sword, which was better than any shield. He focused on the man in front of him. He could not see much of him, except that he was a tall warrior.
‘Come and die!’
‘Barbarian bastards!’
‘Let’s see how you fight against real men, not women and children!’
‘Death to the Butchers of Bellic!’
Martil could hear the insults that Gello’s men were screaming, but he ignored them—they were nothing compared to what the Berellians had screamed. The Rallorans did not answer back; they had found a silent, implacable approach was more effective in throwing fear into the enemy. Unlike Gello’s men, they had fought in enough battles not to need to inspire themselves by shouting insults at the enemy.
Closer and closer they marched, and Martil could see, by the way the men in front of him kept touching and retouching shields, that they were scared. After being so sure he was going to die that day, he felt invincible. He knew he was going to be able to cut through this line and throw Gello’s infantry into confusion, force them to commit all their reserves to stopping him—and he knew that a cavalry attack then would finish them off.
‘Now!’ he roared, and ran the last few paces.
He just had time to see the frightened blue eyes of the man he faced, before he brought the Dragon Sword around in a massive blow that sheared not just through
the top of his target’s shield, but the shields to either side. The infantryman had time to register that he had no shield left before Martil’s other sword lanced into his throat.
Martil hurdled his body, shoulder-charging the man on his right, while the Dragon Sword cut through another shield, as well as the arm holding it, in front of him. An instant later, the Rallorans behind him slammed into the hole he had created; the men without shields died a moment later, then the Rallorans stepped close to Martil, protecting him as the second line of Gello’s infantry tried to close the gap.
But even though Gello’s men had the numbers, this was the type of fighting that could not be taught on the training field; you learned it the hard way, or you died. You were close enough to smell the breath of the man you killed, see the fear in his eyes, hear his desperate breathing as you beat him down with your sword.
More than that, Martil could smell that the man he faced had pissed himself in fright. But he did not let pity stop him. The Dragon Sword sliced his opponent’s shield in half from top to bottom, lopping off the man’s left hand at the wrist as it did so. Screaming, the man dropped his sword and clutched at the stump. Martil slammed the pommel of his other sword into his helmet, then stepped over the writhing body to face the next man.
All along the line it was a similar story, although Martil had cut further into the line than anyone else. The men with the axes had used them to haul down shields, then cut down the men behind. Others had used the opposite method: instead of pulling down the shield, they had used their superior strength and skills to knock the shield up, then cut underneath with a sword. Either way, the result was the same. The first line of the infantry had been cut in a dozen places; the gaps were being widened all the time as the wedges pushed deeper into the line. Gello’s men were facing attacks from two directions, from the front and side, and they did not stand a chance.
Martil knew the only point of danger was his line’s open flank. He stepped back, allowing other men to take the lead. He had done his job, now he needed to see what was going on.
