When his breathing slowed, he lay on the ground, palms flat upon the carpet of long-ago fallen leaves, twigs and dead bark, then pushed himself up until his arms were ramrod straight. He lowered his body, until his face was close to the earth and then pushed himself upward once more, the muscles of his chest and arms protesting and weakening with each repetition. On the fifth occasion, his arms failed, and he slammed onto the ground, face buried in leaf litter. Boots crunched towards him, stopped followed by the familiar crack of that knee bending.
Vyder tapped him on an arm. “You are getting stronger, lad. Not strong enough yet. Not by a long shot, but if you keep doing this every day, your strength will increase at a rapid rate.”
Henry sat up, his breathing still coming in rapid gasps. He brushed a dry leaf stuck to his lip and appraised the highlander knelt beside him. “I feel stronger. Sore, but stronger.”
Vyder’s eyes flicked above him, his blue eye exuding a tiny glow. He followed the highlander’s gaze and noticed an owl perched on a branch above them.
“Come on, lad, time to eat.” Vyder stood and strode away.
When he regained control of his breathing, Henry wiped his brow with the back of his hand and pushed himself to his feet. He returned to the fire, and the trio ate in silence. The meal was scolding, but it tasted divine. The meat falling off the bone, the roots soft and juicy. When he’d eaten the larger chunks of stew, he allowed the water to cool before upending the wood bowl and drinking the remnants of dinner. He gathered the bowls after the others had finished and turned towards the nearby river with a mind to wash them clean.
“You not washing bowls!” Ahitika jumped to her feet. “You chief.”
A grin broke Vyder’s face. “Prince.”
“You prince,” the Kalote warrior corrected herself.
Henry stared at Vyder, and then turned his attention to Ahitika. “Are you mocking me?”
“You too important for this,” she grabbed the bowls and attempted to pull them from him. “No, no, you too important to wash bowls. You no slave!”
But he kept a firm grip of them, aware of the amused glint in the woman’s eyes. “Ahitika, I’ll be fine.”
She stepped closer so she was inches from him. “I like the way you say my name,” she breathed. She flashed him a grin. “I joke, you wash bowls.”
He chuckled, turned away, and made for the river.
* * *
Ahitika’s heart thundered as she watched the chief walk away from her. She felt light-headed. Prince! She corrected herself again.
She turned back to the fire and noticed Vyder watching her. “You like him, don’t you?”
She sat by the blaze and poked the burning logs with a stick. He’s a handsome man, strong in his heart, too. “Maybe.”
“Of course you do. He likes you, too, you know?”
Oh, I know that. She nodded, smiling. She’d felt his hardness as she pushed her naked body against him in the river that day. But she wouldn’t give herself to any man. A man must prove himself.
“Don’t grow too fond, though.”
Her smiled faded, and she withdrew the stick from the fire and held Vyder’s stare, ignoring the blue eye which seemed to carve the skin from her body. “Why?”
“Tomorrow, we leave the forest behind and enter the plains.” Vyder cleared his throat, the distant sound of splashing competing against the campfire’s crackle as bowls were rinsed. “And I don’t know if we’ll be fast enough to make it back to Lisfort before the Huronian Army ensnare and kill us.”
III
The incessant drumbeat assaulted the air, ricocheting from the forest around them. The Huronian Army was strewn in a mighty single file stretching for many miles in length, creeping westward towards Wendurlund.
“I don’t know why it’s so important the ground troops remain in step.”
Commander Garx turned in the saddle to appraise the junior officer behind him. “That is what the king has decreed, Lieutenant Sed. Simple as that.”
“I know, but it’ll give away our position. It just seems such a–”
“Hold your tongue. That is what the king has commanded. End of story.”
No need to lose your bloody head over an opinion, whether your spoken thoughts carry good sense or not.
The young man nodded and clamped shut his mouth.
“I’ve told you before, keep your thoughts to yourself, Sed. Else your neck feel the cold, sharp steel reserved for those judged with insurrection.” Sed’s eyes widened, and the bump in his throat rose and fell.
“Aye, sir.”
Garx faced forward. King Fillip would have killed you if he’d heard your first sentence, never mind the rest. Between the monotonous drum beats, a loud peel of laughter echoed from in front, a deep booming rhythm so familiar to Garx. He’d spent enough time in King Fillip’s throne room, assisting with the kingdom’s petty squabbles, to know the sound of his monarch’s laugh. It was followed by a few shouted words, which was greeted with a ruckus of chuckles and claps.
Our mighty liege no doubt regaling his inner most circle of cavalry officers with another of his stories of incredible heroism. Probably only the fifth time they’ve heard it so far.
He clenched his teeth together, the muscles in his jaws rippling beneath his beard. He’d lost all respect for his king when he’d been instructed to behead the royal diplomat weeks before.
Blake was his name.
He searched the huge boughs, branches, and leaf blotched greenery of the upper reaches of the forest as if it would somehow dampen the memory of cutting Blake’s head from his neck. The man had dedicated five years of his life in enemy territory for the love of his Huronian home. When Wendurlund looked to be under threat and weakened, he had reported to his king, whom he’d served with unquestionable loyalty.
And our great king treated him like a fucking criminal and ordered him executed. By mine own hand no less.
The forest disappeared behind his clamped eyelids. Air filled his lungs, his chest pressing against the cold steel of his armour. Garx let it out slow, eyelids parting to reveal the same cavalrymen as before, riding in front of him. Gods above, Blake, if you can hear me, I’m sorry.
That same booming noise rose to compete against the drumbeats, accompanied by more shouting and clapping. Anger’s searing heat speared through Garx. With great will, he refused to allow the muscles of his face to show the snarl they wanted to form.
At least common sense had prevailed when the small cavalry unit tasked with chasing down the escaping prince had returned. No further groups were sent in chase of the prize.
“I shall capture that bastard runt when I storm into Lisfort!” King Fillip’s voice echoed in the halls of Garx’s memory.
The returning group of cavalry had not only failed in their mission, but they’d been cut to pieces. I could have foreseen the end result, but my mighty liege is all knowing. The death riders of Wendurlund were designed, amongst other things, to fight guerrilla style. Fast, aggressive, agile, and hard hitting, their skill set was unanswered by almost every unit currently employed by the Huronian Army. The Huronian Cavalry could stand against them, but only on the right terrain and situation. Sending our cavalry, armed only with curved sabres and spears into thick woodland, to pursue a highly mobile, heavily armed adversary was madness. Like my king, I suppose. Utterly mad. He spat into the scrub and withheld a curse.
Garx was confident that given an open field of battle, using the cavalry soldiers under his command, he’d be able to destroy any King’s Own unit arrayed against him. Provided they were of a similar number, of course. The Huronian Cavalry, particularly King Fillip’s household cavalry, were the finest soldiers in the world. But they deserved to be commanded and deployed appropriately. Something my liege is unable to do. He cursed under his breath. Careful, Garx, if Fillip catches you out on your attitude, your head will roll. Just like Blake…and just like the king’s loyal cavalrymen.
The five cavalry soldiers who’d retu
rned from their failed mission, three of them badly wounded, had been dragged away and beheaded for their effort. Their shouts and screams still seemed to echo through the forest around him. At least he’d been spared from carrying out the gruesome duty.
Dusk beckoned and soon night would make its presence felt. It’d be another long, fire-less evening, filled with cold, raw food, and fitful sleep. Ever since Blake’s execution, Garx’s slumber was railed with guilt-riddled dreams. Nightmares more like.
Shouts ran down the long, snaking file of the Huronian Army, and they came to a halt. It’d be another few hours before the hunting and foraging parties returned to the army and distributed their gatherings. The process was made even more convoluted by the sheer amount of ground upon which the Huronian Army was spread.
Garx dismounted, stretched his legs, and patted his horse. “Lieutenant Sed!”
“Aye, sir?”
“Organise a water party for us.”
“Right you are, sir.”
The Stream of Taraxon’s soft burble issued through the forest now the war drums had ceased their incessant noise. Garx unsaddled his horse, and with a soft cloth, wiped the sweat from the animal’s fur. Sed’s voice rose above the burble of many voices, caused by thousands of soldiers chatting in hushed tones with one another. The young officer had soon organised a party of forty cavalrymen, each armed with buckets. The group made their way to the nearby stream. They’d be able to gather enough water for Garx’s cavalry sub-unit to drink their fill. As was their routine, once this had been completed, their horses would be led to the water to allow the animals to fill their belly with the precious fluid.
His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it, as he did the biting hunger, which had swept his belly for most of the day.
* * *
Before the sun broached the eastern sky, the mighty snake that was the Huronian Army was on the move again. The drums were silent and would remain so now until they neared Lisfort. Garx shifted in the saddle. Thank the gods. The dull thump of a trotting horse grew louder until the rider in question appeared around a bend in the track, he reined in beside Garx. It was a junior officer with less seniority than even Sed.
“Excuse me, sir.”
He glared at the young man. “What is it, sub-lieutenant?”
“Sir, according to my commander, King Fillip would like a word. Please, follow me.”
Garx pushed his horse into a trot, following the young cavalry officer. They passed a constant stream of cavalrymen, either talking amongst themselves in hushed tones or lost in their own thoughts. The obnoxious laugh to which he was so familiar boomed out ahead of him louder than ever. Laughter, claps, and praise followed. Garx looked up at the forest’s canopy, pleased with himself for hiding what had started as a roll of his eyes. The throng of cavalrymen grew thicker until Garx and the young man behind whom he followed were forced off the track altogether, steering between trees, saplings, and shrubs. Finally, a blob of mounted soldiers, moving at a fast walk, blocked the path, and even pushed out into the surrounding forest, desperate to be near their king and thus be considered part of the monarch’s most trusted.
Whether through loyal service, backstabbing, or deceit, these were the inner circle of King Fillip’s household troop. Their skill in battle was without question, but the morality of their character most certainly was, as far as Garx was concerned, anyway. The sub-lieutenant reined in, and when he was beside the young man, so did Garx.
“Ah, yes here we are, my liege,” one of the officers closest the king gestured towards them. “Commander Garx has arrived.”
“Garx, you old bastard!” King Fillip called, a menacing grin splitting his lips.
Younger than you, my lord.
“Take one hundred of your cohort and relieve the troop currently scouting our front. They’ve been out there now for the past five days and deserve a break.”
With a clenched fist, he touched the cold metal of his chest armour. “Aye, my lord. As you wish.” He turned his horse away and urged it into a canter.
“And Garx!”
He brought the horse to a halt and turned the animal around.
“If you come across an enemy force, destroy them!” The mad king’s crazed smile widened further.
Gladly.
“Without question, my lord.”
He returned to his soldiers and glared at the closest man. “Lieutenant Sed to me.”
The cavalrymen touched his chest and cantered away in search of the lieutenant.
His chest expanded, cool, fresh air rushing into his lungs. He watched a small flock of starlings explode into flight from the safety of a well-hidden branch. They ascended towards the upper most reaches of the forest. It’d be good to be out front of the army, keeping watch. It’ll help alleviate the bloody boredom. He exhaled through his nose. Might be a distraction from Blake’s haunting.
The sound of galloping hooves pervaded the cavalry moving in single file at a brisk walk. Garx cast a glance over one shoulder. Sed reined in beside him. “Sir?”
“Gather one hundred soldiers. We’re advancing to provide scout cover for the army.”
“Right you are, sir.”
When the sun had reached its zenith, they were underway. Garx led the small group of cavalrymen at a canter, passing the steady flow of his comrades. Soon, they’d dodged around the blob of cavalrymen encompassing King Fillip.
“Have at it, Commander Garx!” The words were followed by a hollow cheer from the monarch’s inner circle.
“Aye, my lord!” he shouted over his shoulder. Then what seemed to be an endless formation of cavalry was behind them, replaced with the general infantry. The walking soldiers were silent, many of them watching the ground with disinterest, probably in their own private hell as they attempted to ignore the pain in their feet and legs.
Occasionally, the gruff voice of a non-commissioned officer boomed through the forest, directed at either a single man, or ordering for the pace to be quickened. Several of the troops glanced at the passing cavalry, but the ground in front of their feet drew their attention again just as fast. When the sun had journeyed a quarter of the way to the western horizon, the last of the general infantry streaked by and were soon lost behind the cantering group of cavalry. They were replaced by a convoy of wagons as far as the eye could see. Some stacked with bales of hay for the horses. They’d been overflowing when the army departed Huron, but at least two were now near empty. There were another forty wagons full with fodder, enough to see a protracted campaign at an end. When the last of the hay was fed out of the few near empty wagons, they’d turn around to revisit the long trip back to Brencore for resupply.
As the army proceeded on their axis of advance deeper into enemy territory, supply wagons would become a constant flow back and forth. The last of the fodder wagons came to an end and were replaced by carts full of rations for the soldiers. These were not usually distributed at the beginning of the march, the army relying instead upon countless foraging parties to provide the lion’s share of food. One of the dual axle carts was out of action, pulled off the side of the path, a broken wheel being replaced by a cursing blacksmith. Garx and his small group thundered past.
The ration-filled wagons were soon gone, and Garx stared at horse drawn carriages carrying spare muskets, swords, armour, boots, cannon balls, massive barrels of black powder, and first aid supplies. Then they, too, were consumed by the forest as the group of mounted soldiers chewed up the ground.
Powerful draught horses towed cannons or mortars behind them. The convoy of mighty weapons ran like a giant caterpillar until they disappeared around a distant bend in the path. Their dark maws were silent for now, but their roar would echo off the walls of Lisfort soon enough.
Thick pockets of gunners and mortar-men strode in between the horse-drawn weapons. Some of the artillerymen sat upon the colossal barrels in groups, chatting, laughing, or playing cards. Then the vast power of Huron’s artillery was behind Garx’s small force. They were
replaced with the elite formation of The Mortals, the elite ground troops of the Huronian Army. Five thousand in number, their red cloaks drew the eye. Even without the aid of the annoying din of drumbeats, they marched three abreast and in perfect step. The columns of red-cloaked warriors stretched far into the forest, forming the spear head of the Huronian Army’s advance.
Garx had always thought The Mortals was a senseless name for an elite force. Why not The Immortals? That was until he’d overheard an officer explain to a junior soldier that death was part of war, and The Mortals were not afraid of the grave. They’d do their duty knowing their lives were finite. Regardless of their adversary, The Mortals, if required, would fight to the last soldier. Fear of death played no part in the completion of their task.
Imagine if they were trained to fight by horseback? He watched the neat formation of red cloaks slide by. They were worlds apart from the general infantry, who’d been bumbling along, staring at their feet. The elite warriors strode with heads raised, shoulders pulled back, focused eyes staring ahead. They’d be unstoppable. Unlike the general infantry, trained in sword and spear, The Mortals, in addition, employed rectangular shields. Garx had seen them training in phalanx formation several times. They were able to change direction fast, providing protection on all sides of their rank and file, including assault from above. Each warrior carried a slung musket, adding to their formidable arsenal. One officer at the front of the formation glanced at the passing cavalry. Garx caught his eye, and the man touched his fist to his chest. He returned the salute. Then The Mortals were behind them. As the sun touched the mountains in the west, the only friendly troops between Garx now were the small group of cavalry scouts somewhere in front of them.
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