by Duncan Lay
He slashed furiously at the head of an infantryman, who blocked the blow on his shield, forcing Kay to bring his sword around frantically so the next infantryman along did not stab him.
‘Stay back!’
Kettering hauled Kay away, saving him from a disembowelling blow.
‘They won’t follow us here, not yet,’ Kettering explained.
‘Here’ was the charnel house of bodies where they stood. Infantry, criminals and archers lay thick on the ground, moaning, screaming, sobbing, begging and wailing. If the infantry tried to pursue them, their careful ranks would break apart on the uncertain footing and the criminals would be on them like wolves onto a pack of sheep. It had happened three times already but it seemed the infantry had learned their lesson and were keeping their ranks.
‘They’re just holding us here—why?’ Kay panted, massaging his right shoulder.
‘They just want to keep us back while they destroy the Rallorans—then they can clear us away,’ Kettering growled.
‘We have to help them!’
‘We’ve done all we can,’ Kettering told him.
Martil stood, Dragon Sword in hand, daring men to attack him. All those who tried were met with the Dragon Sword, which cut through their shields, sword, metal and flesh as if it were nothing. Those who could not face him were driven in, where Dunner and Kesbury stood shoulder to shoulder, spear and sword flashing.
Martil tore into the men in front of him. He had brought his Rallorans to this; worse, his orders to Rocus and Conal were now causing deaths, not saving lives. His anguish gave strength to his skills. Enemies seemed to move as if they were wading through thick mud, while his next move seemed laughably obvious. The bodies that were piling up before him were forming their own barrier now.
The noise was almost indescribable. Men screamed insults at each other, hacked and slashed at heads and groins, thumped shields and clawed at their opponents, most of whom were only inches away. They stumbled over corpses, slipped in entrails, brains, blood and shit and trod on screaming wounded as they sought to stay upright and alive. Without Barrett’s grass wall to their left, they would be dead by now. But even with it, their time was limited. For every infantryman who fell, there were two to take his place. For every Ralloran who fell, there was just a gap.
Romon vomited. He straightened, wiping his mouth, then took hold of the screaming Ralloran and began to drag him over to where Bishop Milly, bloodied to her elbows, was healing men as fast as they could be brought to her. The Ralloran had taken a sword blow under the shield that had torn through his mail and ripped into his groin. Blood spurted as he writhed and screamed, intestines poking through the gash in his armour.
Romon had tears in his eyes as he hauled the man across the bloodied grass. Bishop Milly could heal anything, but would this man even want such a wound healed? Would it not be a greater kindness to let him die? Romon had read—and performed—just about every saga written. None of them talked of this. He had never thought to see men soiling themselves in terror, weeping with fear, begging for mercy, for their mothers, for an end to their pain.
He had only performed verses about men wielding swords and singing as they died. Not slipping on entrails and having a blade rip into their vitals, leaving them screaming and bleeding, and begging for death. He had always wanted to find the truth but now he held it in his hands, he wished he had never seen it. Grunting with the effort, he gripped the man under the shoulders and pulled him to the pile of heaving, moaning men waiting to be helped by the priests.
Merren could barely speak when she saw Rocus, Conal and the other men just sitting on their horses, waiting patiently but doing nothing.
‘What are you doing?’ she bellowed, as she rode up to them.
Rocus and Conal exchanged guilty looks, while Sendric just opened and closed his mouth.
‘There are men dying out there, and if you do not charge, we shall lose the battle!’ she shouted, reining in Tomon in a spray of dirt, right by them.
‘Is Martil…back yet, your majesty?’ Conal asked carefully.
‘What has that to do with anything?’ Merren almost screamed at them. ‘You need to charge! Now!’
‘But has Barrett returned…?’ Conal began.
Merren controlled herself with only the greatest of difficulty.
‘What are you blathering about? I tell you men are dying out there and you want to ask about Martil and Barrett! Why in Aroaril’s name are you refusing to follow my order?’
Rocus groaned. ‘I’m sorry, your majesty, but Martil made me swear…’
‘I am sorry.’ Conal bowed his head, speaking at the same time. ‘But Martil…’
Merren stared at them for a moment in stunned silence. In a flash, she saw she could take them out to the lip of the valley, show them the battle below and explain what was going on. Obviously Martil had planned something noble and stupid, and the Dragon Sword working had thrown all that into confusion. But she also knew there was no time. Too many men were dying out there and she could not have that.
Rocus wore two swords, a short one for fighting on foot, and a longer one, for horseback. She leaned across and drew his shorter sword before he even reacted.
She stood up in the stirrups, waving the sword so that every man in the column was looking at her.
‘There are men out there dying for me. I am going to save them, even if I go alone!’ she roared, then turned Tomon and thumped her heels into his ribs.
Tomon burst into a gallop and she tore up the valley, sword held high, her fine mail coat shining silver in the sun, her standard-bearer desperately trying to keep up.
Conal and Rocus exchanged horrified glances.
‘What are we waiting for!’ Sendric bellowed.
‘The Queen!’ they yelled, and frantically rowelled spurs in their horses’ flanks.
In an instant the entire column was at gallop, men racing each other to reach the Queen, to get in front of her, protect her and prove they were worthy.
Gello stood and stretched luxuriously. The Rallorans were providing dogged resistance but he could see their lines starting to bend backwards. Any time now, one man would break and then they would all follow. Success was here at last. The victory would be his, and never again would the memory of the Dragon Sword rise to humiliate him.
‘I want the cavalry ready,’ he ordered. ‘Not one man of theirs is to leave this battlefield alive. And I want a few companies ready to take the town of Sendric. I want to sleep there tonight, ready to be entertained by my cousin’s death on the morrow.’
‘Sire!’ Feld shouted.
Gello turned swiftly, thinking the Rallorans had finally broken, only to see a pair of riders appear out of the valley to the right of the hill. He stared, then laughed. One was his cousin, waving a sword, the other her standard-bearer.
‘Who does she think she is?’ he sneered. ‘A battlefield is no place for a woman—although it’ll be useful to have one like her available after the battle, eh?’
Everyone laughed loudly as Gello threw back his head and roared out his triumph.
Then the laughter died away.
Boiling out from the valley, riding as if they were fleeing from Zorva himself, came cavalry. Hundreds of them, screaming and waving swords.
‘The Queen!’
Their battle cry seemed to shake the very hill and silence the desperate battle as they charged onwards.
Gello’s mouth sagged open in horror and he stared desperately at the men around him. None could meet his eyes.
Rocus and Conal realised at once that things had changed dramatically from what Martil had told them. The battle in front of them was right across the hill. The men in red were stretched out fighting men in blue and others just in brown leather.
They also saw Merren was galloping straight for the heart of the red army. Unspoken between them was the thought they had to get in front of her. But she was showing no signs of slowing down.
‘You take the right, I’ll
take the Queen!’ Rocus roared.
Conal knew there was no time to argue, so just waved his arm and swung out to the right, to where he could see Martil hacking and slashing furiously, and a thin line of Rallorans in blue holding against a mass of Gello’s red.
Rocus leaned low over his horse’s head, trying to urge the last bit of speed from the beast. But Merren was lighter and on Tomon, who seemed eager to get into battle. Rocus glanced left and right, to see a pair of men catching up to him; he recognised one of his guardsmen, Wilsen, as well as a man from the debacle at the ranger barracks, Jaret.
‘The Queen!’ Jaret was howling.
The three of them lashed their horses, urging them forward.
Ahead, a red-clad officer was trying to turn some of his men, trying to form a shield wall. But the speed of the attack was too much, he would not have time to block them.
Merren concentrated on screaming orders and shoving soldiers into a rudimentary line. She was not thinking about what she was doing, or whether she should be doing it. She just knew everything was at stake here—and she was not going to sit back, like some simpering saga heroine, and let men save the day.
Three men in blue managed to get past Tomon and form up in front of her. She recognised Rocus, Jaret and Wilsen but did not check Tomon’s charge. She was conscious of the rest of her men right behind her; she was conscious of every tiny detail in that moment before they struck the line. There was no time for fear—and yet time itself seemed to slow.
The wind was whipping her hair, mud from the horse’s hoofs was being flung high, men were screaming, brandishing swords or spears, trying to give themselves courage by the sheer volume of noise they were making. To the right, Merren could see Conal about to lead a company into the men threatening Martil. To her left, down the hill, she fancied she could see Gello, and hoped he was filled with fear. The red lines in front of her were already trying to run, to escape from their doom, and she knew, in that moment, they had won.
With a noise like a hundred blacksmiths striking their anvil at the same time, the cavalry crashed into Gello’s infantry.
Rocus, shouting some wordless cry, kicked his horse into a jump that went through a pair of crouching infantrymen. As he soared over their heads, he hacked down with his sword and Merren saw blood spurt high in the air.
The closest infantry were gone in a moment, cut by swords, pierced by spears, ridden over by the big warhorses. These were doing the job they had been trained for: kicking out at any man that came near, and biting at others.
Merren squeezed Tomon’s flanks and the big horse gathered himself and jumped, his shoulder smashing an infantryman out of the way. She did not need her sword—her men were all around her, hacking and cutting at anyone who dared to come close.
Strung out, their lines stretched, Heath’s men did not stand a chance. The cavalry had unstoppable momentum; they tore into the helpless rear of the red lines and rode them into red ruin.
Merren reined in Tomon and looked for her standard bearer, while Rocus and the others unleashed their anger, fear and frustration. She watched Sendric, sword reddened, slash down again and again at cowering men, his eyes wild.
‘Link up with the archers and Rallorans!’ she cried, directing men to the attack with her sword.
Martil had almost stopped fighting when he saw Merren gallop out alone, then breathed a sigh of relief when the desperate charge of Rocus and the rest of his men had caught her before she struck the line of infantry.
The pressure on the Ralloran line vanished when Conal’s company struck home; the cavalry drove deep into the massed red ranks, hacking and cutting furiously.
Instantly the Rallorans went on the attack, and the men facing them broke, running in all directions.
But there was no escape. The mounted Norstalines were in a grim mood, having thought they had lost the battle for the Queen, and they rode down the running men.
Martil did not join in the pursuit. Instead he began running across the hill, to where he could see the Queen and her standard.
If waking up to see a dead stableboy in front of him and a bloodied knife in his hand was the worst sight of Kettering’s life, he decided the cavalry charge across the hill had to be the best.
Even better, the infantry who had killed and wounded so many of his men instantly turned to face the bigger threat.
‘For Menner!’ Kettering was not even aware he had screamed the words as he led the attack, slamming his sword into the back of an infantryman.
Moments later, the surviving criminals joined him, ripping into their tormentors, cutting them down from behind without mercy.
No troops could stand that, and the red-clad ranks simply dissolved, turning from an unbreakable wall into a rabble in a heartbeat.
Hutter just stayed where he was when the infantry dissolved in front of him. Some of his men, as well as scores of blue-clad Rallorans, were cutting down the slower runners, as well as any who tried to defend themselves. But Hutter did not have the energy. He dropped the shield from his bruised arm, and patted Turen on the shoulder
‘You did well, my lad,’ he told him.
Turen did not answer. He had taken a spear meant for Hutter in the chest just before the Queen’s charge.
Hutter gazed across the closest part of the battlefield at the carpet of bodies, many still writhing and screaming.
‘So, this is a victory,’ he told Turen numbly.
‘We need to recall and re-form!’ Martil roared as he raced up to Merren. ‘Gello’s still got two regiments of cavalry down there!’
Merren, who had been watching with rising jubilation as the red ranks fled downhill pursued by men in blue, waved in acknowledgement. She signalled to her standard-bearer, who fumbled out a horn from his belt and began breathlessly blowing the recall signal.
By now Martil was beside her, reaching up to grab her hand. ‘You did it, Merren! You won! You have your throne, you have your country!’
At that moment, he felt his heart would burst when he looked at her. She had saved him, she had won the battle—he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms.
Merren slid down from Tomon’s back, her legs trembling. It was almost too much to take in. She had spent much of her whole life—and certainly the last few years—fighting Gello. Now she had actually defeated him. Everything she had dreamed about, the promises she had made, not just to herself but to the men and women who had suffered and died to bring her to this point, they could come true. All because of this bloodied hillside. It was almost impossible to believe, and certainly overwhelming.
Martil was a grim, but welcome, sight. The Dragon Sword was spotlessly clean, but he was covered in blood—his surcoat was a rusty red, it was in his hair and all over his face and hands. Wordlessly he dropped his swords and held out his arms, and she clung to him, the smell of blood, sweat and leather thick in her nostrils. But it was still a comfort. For a long moment they embraced, hidden from the battlefield by Tomon.
‘Merren…’ he murmured.
‘Do not say anything,’ she whispered. ‘I need this moment—but I do not know what else we can have.’
He could smell her hair, see a fleck of mud clinging to the top. Carefully, he eased it away and restrained the urge to run his hand through her hair, covered as it was in blood, and worse.
‘You won the battle for me. You managed to unlock the Dragon Sword. It saved us all,’ she told him.
Martil smiled. ‘This was your victory. Not mine. I made so many mistakes! Without you, I would never have been able to use the Dragon Sword. And without your cavalry charge, we would all be dead. You rose above everything to bring us victory. You are the risen Queen.’
She looked at him.
‘What next?’ she asked.
‘We’ll go and offer Gello’s men their lives in exchange for his. His captains will hand him over when they know we have won.’
‘I mean, what next for us. I know those things you said to me—you only said t
hem because you thought you were going to die.’
Martil grinned. ‘My apologies, my Queen, for living.’
She slapped his mailed chest with the heel of her hand.
‘I am serious!’ She softened her voice. ‘You will be my Champion. If you can be anything else…I cannot say that yet.’
Martil nodded. ‘I can wait,’ he agreed, hoping that was true.
Merren smiled, and touched his cheek. ‘But now I must go. The real work begins.’
‘Yes, my Queen.’ Martil opened his arms and bowed, retrieving his swords at the same time.
By the time he looked up, she had stalked off, to where Sendric, Rocus, Conal and a score of problems waited for her.
Martil looked downhill. What was Gello doing?
Gello watched with mounting shock, fear and horror as his seemingly victorious army was shattered and sent running for its life. It was the throne room all over again. Six regiments had marched up that hill; little more than one was running down, casting aside shields, weapons, anything that might slow them down and see them killed by the vengeful blue-clad ranks.
He stopped himself from throwing up only with the greatest effort. He had lost an unlosable battle. The last time he had run from the scene of his shame in tears he had been protected by his mother. But she was gone now. He missed her suddenly, and desperately. He wanted someone to tell him what to do, make everything all right again. He was conscious of the deathly silence from those around him, and the feeling of every eye on him. He had to do something! He was Gello the Great!
‘Cav—’ he tried to speak, felt his throat close up and had to cough before speaking. ‘Cavalry! We still have two cavalry regiments! Feld, I think a charge is in order.’
