by Alex Janaway
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Noon the following day, Captain Jon Forge crossed over into Shifter. He had raided the commissary in the predawn hours and had taken a few days provisions. He had been of a mind to take a pack mule but figured that speed was more important. Besides, he didn’t really think he’d be coming back. As he had ridden through the border zone he had gone past some Ashkent pickets. They had raised their hands in greeting and wished him happy hunting. Obviously Dav had spread the word.
For the next two days he travelled at a steady pace, heading slightly north and east. He had soon picked up on the old Salm trail and it was clear that a body of horses had used it recently. The tracks and spore were but days old. He began to parallel the trail, sticking to whatever cover might be present. The land before him began to turn rougher and steadily climbed. On all sides he could see hills and peaks in the distance. On two occasions he had passed Shifter patrols. One had been heading along the trial to the west and the other on the far side of the track on high ground following a ridgeline. Both times, he had been lucky. He had been shielded by the copses of trees that lay scattered along the path. The first group had been but metres away from his hiding position. He had studied them carefully. These were regular cavalry. Their mounts look reasonably well tended, if a little shabby. Their riders were grim faced and alert for trouble. Likewise they appeared to have been in the field for some time. Armour had lost its lustre, uniforms were muddied and their weapons were in various states of over or under use. Shifter had no doubt become very fearful of its own security after its disastrous involvement with Graves. Forge couldn’t imagine they had many units left that hadn’t been beaten up by his guys. No doubt this unit had learned the hard way. Who knows, give them a few years with the right experience, they might even make a decent fight of it.
At night, Forge would snatch a few hours sleep. He did not build a fire and ate his rations cold. When it was light enough to follow the trail again he would rouse himself and continue the pursuit. It was odd that, as the days passed, the rage he had felt contained within him had dissipated. What was left was a sense of resignation. He was going to extract some kind of justice, some settling of scores. But he was not blinded by rage. Hate gave him no extra strength or resources. He was just doing what he had to do. There was nothing else, only his personal sense of duty. He was a soldier and all that mattered were those who soldiered with you. They became your family. He had always believed in the soldier’s code. That you did what you were told to do. Never took it personally. Life and death were just part of the job. All you could do was look after your own and hope that your sword-arm was stronger than the man you were fighting against. The battle they had fought around the redoubt had been different. The rules had changed. Burns had used him and his family. Burns had to pay. Any man in Forge’s position would have done the same. Sergeant Mac would have. Well, he probably would have done it with a company of hard-nosed infantry at his back. He had always been the sensible one.
It was noon on the third day when he finally caught up with Burns’ party. It was the spoor that gave it away first, still warm upon grass that was freshly imprinted from the hooves of many horses. There were also ruts from a number of wagons, no doubt Burns’ worldly goods. Topping a rise he spotted them, a few miles away, sky-lined on the next substantial high ground. Whilst he didn’t rate Graves's troops much, added to the fact they were well into Shifter territory, they might still have outriders looking for pursuit. No point in advertising the fact that he was one man. Forge slowed his pace. There was also no point in hurrying. He knew where they were, he just had to wait for nightfall and then he’d go in. As it was Burns’ group set camp a couple of hours later. Clearly, they were more relaxed than he had thought.
As he had reached the top of yet another gentle, wooded slope, the trees quickly thinned and led downhill into a dale. A stream flowed westward from a modest range of hills and aspiring mountains. It continued its course in a gentle meander. Forge figured it might even join up with the Rooke. The Graves soldiers were bustling about setting up camp some half a mile away by what appeared to be a ford. He quickly steered his horse from the path and walked back down hill and into the trees. Dismounting, he tied the reins to a low hanging branch and struck back up the slope. Making his way through the trees he moved to a covered spot just over the brow that afforded him a view of the dale. Looking at the land ahead of him, it sloped down towards the open area of the valley. He guessed that there was some four hundred yards of open ground to reach the river. More than a minute’s gallop for a tired horse. On the other side the trail began a steep climb through woods that began only two hundred yards from the stream. Forge did some quick calculations. If he tried to approach from the north bank he would have more cover but would then have to cross the stream on foot. He could not expect to charge out of the trees on horseback and then get the beast across a body of water that he had no knowledge of. That would slow him down and would be a bad place to get caught in the open. Whilst he realised this was definitely a suicide mission, he did at least want a small chance of reaching Burns before he in turn was cut down. Getting skewered with a dozen arrows whilst trying to gee up an old nag was no way for a soldier to go. His approach from either east or west would mean a longer distance moving in the open. He could of course just shadow them for a while; wait for an opportunity to present itself. But that meant going deeper into enemy territory and a greater risk of being discovered. No, he had had enough of this pursuit as it was. As his old blueblood captain had once announced ‘When in doubt, straight up the middle with bags of smoke!’. Well, he didn’t have anyone to provide smoke. He would have to get as close as he could, then charge. Ah well, it’ll shock ‘em if nothing else, he mused. Turning round he made his way back to wait for nightfall.
He awoke with a start, shrouded in darkness. A gentle breeze stirred the canopy of branches overhead and he caught a glimpse of stars. He was surprised that he had fallen into such a deep slumber, expected just to snooze. His last thoughts had been about his friend Sergeant Mac and the men who had died with him. He had not dreamt; he had slept too deeply. He had not realised how dog tired he was. He turned his head to his right where his horse was dozing but still standing. Well, it would make saddling easier, he thought. He was not entirely sure of the time but it felt that night was well progressed. Good enough. Forge stood, breathed deep and began buckling his weapon belt. Once that was done, he saw to his mount. He fed it some oats from his near empty feedbag and took time to smooth and calm the beast. Chances were she would be as dead as he would soon. He then mounted and steered the mare up and over the hill. As he went down the other side he could see flames through the trees.
“Shit, too damn close,” he muttered his breath. He had expected pickets but some clever bastard had pushed an outer cordon to the edge of the trees. The firelight penetrated well into the foliage and scuppered any chance of him being able to creep up to within striking distance of them. Knowing his luck they probably had crossbows. Forge quickly rethought his plan. The guards would expect trouble to come in a large group, not one man. So instead of charging hell for leather he would have to get as close as possible, spin them a yarn, then literally cut and run. He shook his head, spat and headed back to the trail. He then began his casual ride towards the dale. As soon as he was on the top of the slope he stopped for a second, deliberately skylining himself before heading down. That way there was a good chance they would see him coming. He certainly saw them. Two figures, indistinct but clearly outlined by the firelight between them. At the far side of the dale he saw a similar watch-fire. Within the camp there was one central fire, and a couple of smaller points of light, probably torches, posted to either side of a good sized tent. Thank you for pointing yourself out Burns, thought Forge. He was halfway to the picket fire. The figures moved forward and stood in front of the light. This puzzled Forge. By stand
ing on the far side of the fire they had ruined their night vision and helped to screen him to any watchers from the camp. He’ll be able to ride up to within a few feet of them before they get a sight of the dagger in his right hand. Too bad for them but good for him. As he drew closer and the two guards were easier to discern, something started to nag at Forge. It was something about the way they stood. It seemed…familiar. They didn’t hold themselves like soldiers, they seemed positively relaxed. Now he thought about it, he couldn’t even see drawn weapons or sword belts. But he did see two cradled crossbows.
“Evenin’, Captain. Didn’t think you’d ever wake up,” said Old Hoarty cheerfully. Next too him Juggs gave a toothy grin and waved. Forge was speechless for a few moments whilst his mouth tried to form words.
“Oh, don’t ask the obvious ‘But How, Where, When did you?’ questions, Jon,” said Holis Lode’s voice from behind him. “Just rest assured you had five expert trackers on your trail. You weren’t hard to follow.”
Forge turned and saw Lode at the edge of the trees, arms folded, smiling at him. Behind him stood Lissa sporting a rueful grin. Forge had never seen her smile so much. It suited her.
“Bloody left a path a blind and lame dog could’ve followed,” added Corporal Jonas who was leaning against a tree next to Lode. Beside him was Corporal Kyle who had a bow resting against his knee.
“Right, I’ll get the boys,” Corporal Kyle stood and pushed back into the undergrowth.
“What are you bastards doing here?” was the best Forge could muster.
“C’mon, boss,” said Corporal Jonas. “We ain’t stupid, it was obvious what you were going to do. Me and Kyle and the rest of the boys checked in with the Major. He reckoned you might need some company. So we headed off after you. And wouldn’t you know, guess who should we run into?” Jonas inclined his towards Lode who shrugged his shoulders.
“Old Hoarty and Juggs decided that we still had unfinished business with that bastard over there. So we thought we might seek our fortunes in Shifter,” he said. “Lissa helped to make the guards a little more inattentive than usual, a bit sleepy if you get my meaning.”
“And those pups in the camp pushed these guys so far out it was no bother to get rid of ‘em without anyone noticin’,” added Old Hoarty.
“I should have bloody expected this,” said Forge scratching his beard. “Getting addled in my old age. You know we might not make it out of this, get caught by Shifter troops, start the whole bloody conflict up again.”
“Their mistake if they do,” said Corporal Jonas.
Through the tree line a group of horses were now gathering. As Forge watched, he could pick out the riders. Damn, it was all of them, all the survivors. All of his men, the last of the First. Kind of poetic that, he mused. The group included the Bantusai. Kely reined in before him and nodded.
“Didn’t know you boys could ride,” said Forge.
“We cannot,” replied Kely. “My arse hurts like a bastard. So,” he quickly dismounted and pulled his spear from the saddle, “we will run.” His three companions followed suit and commenced a brisk jog toward the camp. I see his language skills have improved, probably Jonas’ fault, thought Forge.
“Shit, that fella has got a head start. I bet him two crowns that he couldn’t get there before me on horseback,” moaned Private Smitty from the back of the horsemen.
Old Hoarty punched Juggs in the shoulder. “C’mon I ain’t getting’ me old bones shook to death in a cavalry charge. Let’s wander over there and do some damage with these.” He patted his crossbow and winked at Forge. The two turned and followed after the Bantusai at a gentler pace.
“Best we get there before them, Captain,” said Holis.
“We’re ready, Sir,” said Corporal Jonas, now mounted, his longbow held with an arrow notched.
Forge gazed over his men feeling overwhelmed. He felt pride and more than that he felt belonging. He realised that he had felt truly alone and that that was the cause of the emptiness he had gnawing at his stomach. For the first time since the death of his First Sergeant, he smiled with pleasure.
“Right, let’s get that bastard.”
He turned his horse, kicked the flanks and began a steady gallop. To either side of him, his men formed a line abreast. Halfway there they overtook the Bantusai. From the end of the line Private Smitty let out a whoop of joy. This caused a general bellow of shouts from the other riders. Forge lent his own voice to the howl, and he began to laugh. Ahead he saw figures running in all directions within the camp. Oh, aren’t they in for a bad night, he thought.
The noise and uproar awoke Duke Burns. He emerged from his tent blinking and trying to focus. He stood open mouthed as around him chaos reigned. Men were waking up and trying to arm themselves. Someone was shouting orders to form a battle line. A soldier broke ranks and ran for the stream, then two more followed. He watched in horror as a line of horsemen smashed into the camp and commenced the slaughter of his shocked men. He stared, rooted to the spot as a dirty, bearded warrior charged at him. It seemed to Burns that time took on a dreamlike quality. Everything seemed to slow down and he was able to discern the man’s features as he drew closer. The face was grim, the eyes flashed in triumph. He wasn’t sure but even in the darkness, he swore he knew the man. Then recognition and horror swiftly followed. He even registered the flash of a blade as it swept towards his neck.
THE END
Jon Forge will return in Metropolis
About the Author
Alex Janaway is an officer in the British Army during the day and a writer by night (and occasional lunchtimes). He has been on operational tours to both the Balkans and Middle East. He has a Bachelor’s degree in English and American literature and Film Studies. He has also written for a number of computer games including the BAFTA nominated Merlin: The Game.
He also worries that he spends far too much time collecting and painting metal figures and then pushing them around a table.
