Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  Rounding a bend, Garx slowed his mount to a trot as the Likane Forest came to an end, and he was greeted by the endless, open plains of Wendurlund, painted with the orange of sunset. In the far distance patrolled the small cavalry force he’d been sent to relieve.

  * * *

  Rone knelt and placed the thick, juicy stem of King’s Foil upon a flat stone. To this, he added a Florence Flower and sandwiched the colourful bloom with two leaves he’d plucked from a Targow tree. Using a fist-sized rock, he ground the items together, a pleasing aroma immediately rising to keep the sickly-sweet stench of his comrade’s corpse at bay. He continued to grind until there remained only a green mash. To this, he added a touch of water and massaged the liquid in until only a thick paste remained. Scooping this into his palm, he stood, approached his warhorse, and smeared a generous portion of the pleasant-smelling paste around the animal’s nose. He then painted a thick line beneath his own nose. Rone mounted, ensuring the dead body draped across the neck of his horse was still tied securely, before urging the destrier into a fast walk. They were well north of the Huronian Army and, come morning, would turn west towards Lisfort. Another few days and they’d be clear of the Likane Forest, travelling instead upon the mighty, open plains. He patted the animal’s flank. “We’ll be home soon, lad.”

  * * *

  Intermittent, soft breeze kneaded open expanses of knee-high grass with a faint hiss. Occasionally, tiny flocks of birds took to wing, flying clear of the King's Own column as the horses clopped along the path. The sun had long ago fled beneath the distant mountains, allowing stars to blotch their pinpoints of light upon night's black canvas. Baras stared at the moon's bright orb, its dim light casting dull illumination across the open fields unfolding before the force of mounted elite warriors.

  Baras touched the bugle clipped to his belt. The instrument was his weapon of choice, more so than the spear sheathed in the leather holster attached to the saddle and positioned forward of his right knee. The curved metal felt cold but gave him comfort. Thought I'd needed its use a little while ago. He tore his eyes from the moon and returned his attention to the open fields expanding in every direction as far as the limited light would allow.

  Hours before, as the sun had cast hues of pink and orange across the sky, several shouts from the rear of the formation had caught his attention. He'd cantered back, finding six or seven King's Own in extended line, muskets drawn but resting across their laps, facing back the way they'd travelled.

  “Huronian cavalry, sir,” one of them had called, gesturing at the distant blur of green that was the Likane Forest.

  “Are you sure?”

  His view had narrowed to a thin line as his eye lids drew closer together. There was a small, brown blob in contrast to the green of the forest, which they'd departed earlier in the morning. But that was as much as he'd been able to see. Age is a harsh task master.

  “Positive, sir. Maybe one hundred. Probably a scouting party for the main army.”

  “So then, the Huronian Army is catching us. Time to pick up the pace, I think.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Baras remembered touching the bugle on that occasion as well. “Are they giving chase?”

  “I don't think so, sir.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on them and let me know if they do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let them chase us,” another warrior said, chuckling.

  Baras flashed a grin. “Aye. We'll get our chance again soon enough.”As sunset retreated before the gloaming's onslaught, Baras led the small force onward, where they would normally have stopped for the night. Now that they were upon the open plains, there was nowhere to hide, and while they could destroy a small enemy cavalry force of a similar number, if the mainstay of the Huronian Army reached them, the enemy would overrun them in moments. We no longer own the element of surprise.

  He stood in the stirrups, stretched his legs, and sat down again, his arse beginning to ache. But he ignored the annoyance. I hope the prince has enough sense to make a break for Lisfort now the safety of the forest is behind us. He coughed into a crook of one arm. And how goes Rone, I wonder? The man was a fine officer who cared for those under his command. Little wonder the warriors trailing behind Baras would follow Rone through the gates of hell if asked. The moon's shine caught his eyes again. Myself included.

  * * *

  “Here, eat.” Ahitika, sitting in the saddle behind him, pushed something into his hand.

  The darkness cloaked what it was she'd given him, but judging by the feel, it was the root dug up from beneath a King's Foil tree. Tasty when boiled, but bitter when eaten raw. He held up his hand until the soft glow of moonlight swept his open palm. As I suspected. King's Foil root.

  “What you wait for?”

  He bit off a section of root and chewed the crunchy food into smaller sections. Henry winced against the bitter taste.

  “You eat slow!” Ahitika tapped him on the shoulder. “Good for you, you eat more.”

  He stifled a laugh. “Oh, you want some?” he mumbled through a mouthful, a few small chunks of root exploding from his mouth, glistening with saliva in the dim light.

  Her chuckle was almost inaudible. Almost. “No, I not hungry. Kind offer, though.”

  Henry swallowed and spat out a sliver of tendril. “Are you sure?” He held what was left of the raw foot behind his back to make it easier for the woman to take it from him. “There's bloody plenty.”

  “No, you eat rest of food. You need more,” she squeezed his shoulder. “Good for muscles.”

  Henry worked his way through the remaining portion of crunchy root with reluctance, wiped his hand clean upon his trousers, and ignored the terrible aftertaste. He took a swig of water, swilled it around his mouth, and spat it out.

  “More?”

  “Very kind, Ahitika, but I'll be fine until tomorrow.” Is she having a laugh?

  “I have plenty,” she patted him on the arm. “You tell me when want more, yes?”

  He wasn't oblivious to the tiny chuckle in her voice.

  “Oh, don't worry about that.” He smiled.

  Vyder's powerful horse slowed until the highlander was walking beside them. “Is your horse recovered?”

  The man's blue eye burned with a fierce glow, boring into Henry before it shifted to glare at Ahitika behind him. Henry patted the King's Own destrier. The animal had regained its breath, and the fur felt dry.

  “Aye, I believe so.”

  “Then let us increase the pace once again.”

  Vyder pushed his horse into a canter. Ahitika urged their mount to a similar speed, falling in behind the highlander. Five times throughout the evening, they'd increased the pace of the animals until they began to lose their wind, moonlight glinting from sweat-streaked flanks. Then they'd slow to a walk to allow the mounts time to recover before pushing them on again.

  We can only maintain this pace for perhaps another three days at the outside.

  “We'll ride throughout the night,” Vyder called over one shoulder. “If we can keep up this speed, we'll be at Lisfort by sunset tomorrow.”

  * * *

  For four days they'd maintained a fast walk well in advance of the Huronian Army. The tiny blob of the King's Own unit in the distance remained visible. Garx had hoped the enemy force might have doubled back to offer a fight, but they seemed content to continue their advance for home. He was confident his force could destroy the enemy unit, but he wasn't going to chase them. The horses of his group would be exhausted by the time they caught the King's Own.

  Late in the afternoon, a relieving force joined them to allow Garx and his men to return to the main force. They were led by an arrogant, young man by the name of Branf. The lad must have been all of twenty summer's in age. Garx tried to steer clear of the youth at every opportunity.

  How in the hell is he in charge of a cavalry force already?

  Branf caught his eye and nodded, steering his mount to walk alongside Garx.
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  “Well met, Garx. What news?”

  “Not a lot, lad.” He ignored the sharp look with which Branf appraised him. “There's a King's Own force in front of us, but they're keeping to our pace and have remained at a similar distance for the past few days.”

  “What?” Branf stood in his stirrups and held a hand to shade his eyes from the afternoon glare. “Are you sure they're King's Own?”

  “No friendly forces between us and Lisfort. We're leading our army.” He fixed his eyes upon Branf. Remember, dolt?

  “Oh, I see them!” he slumped back into his saddle. “And why have you not chased them down?”

  “First, because our horses would be next to useless by the time we reached them.” He stared at Branf. “And second, because I don't fucking answer to you, nor do I need to explain myself.”

  Branf's mouth dropped open. “Well, if you won't do your damn duty, I most certainly will!”

  He kicked his horse into a gallop. “My men with me,” he roared. The group of cavalrymen followed their officer in his head long charge towards the blob of enemy in the far distance. Garx's force remained in place, following their commander.

  “Gormless fool,” someone muttered from behind Garx. “The King's Own will tear them apart when they arrive with their horses barely able to walk.”

  I have to agree. “Now, we have a real problem.”

  “What's that, sir?”

  “We have to backup Lieutenant Branf in his stupid endeavour. If we are found to be sitting back while a friendly force rides to battle, King Fillip will behead us all.”

  This was met with curses, soft chatter, and grumbling.

  “So, let's have at it, men. Stay with me, orders to come once we're closer to our target.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Curse you, Branf,” he muttered and urged his horse into a trot.

  While not even close to the speed of a gallop, a trot would eat the ground between Garx's troop and that of the King's Own, while not overworking the mounts.

  * * *

  The brown plains stretched out before them, ending when they met the line drawn by the sky's blue hue. Baras liked to think the tiny dark blob in the far distance was Lisfort, but they had far to travel before safety of the capital embraced them. Probably some hillock. They'd still not caught up with the prince, and the King's Own had been pushing hard. A good sign. The pair escorting the young royal seemed to have decided to make a run for Lisfort.

  “Enemy charge!” someone roared from the rear.

  He blinked, eyes regaining focus. Baras pushed his mount into a trot, turned back, and was at the rear of his force within moments. He re-joined the same small group of soldiers as before, all facing rearward, staring at a dust cloud drifting into the sky. One of the soldiers leaned on the pommel of his saddle, eyes squinted. “Aye, sir,” he said without concern. “Perhaps one hundred of them. They're at full gallop.”

  Baras chuckled. “Senseless. Their mounts will be winded by the time they get close to us.”

  “Their mounts are probably already winded.”

  “Re-join the unit. We'll deal with them when they arrive.”

  The man who'd spoken shrugged. “Right you are, sir.”

  The tiny group turned away and trotted to catch up with their comrades, Baras on their heels. When they re-joined the force of King's Own, the few soldiers slowed to a walk, Baras continuing on around them at a trot. “We have an enemy force charging towards us,” he yelled. “Face front and keep your horses walking at a steady pace. They need to think we are oblivious to their assault. When they are in fighting distance, bugle orders will follow. Clear?”

  Baras made three circles of the King's Own unit, shouting the same words until he was confident all men understood what was about to take place. When he was at the front of the column once more, he slowed his horse to a walk. Pulling on the reins, he moved to one side so as to better see around the soldiers immediately behind him. The blotch of dust came into view, a dark smear now visible below the brown mist drifting high into the air. My eyes grow worse by the year.

  Catching the eye of the soldier immediately behind him, Baras gestured at him. The man trotted forward a few steps until he was adjacent with him.

  “Sir?”

  “Muskets at the ready, pass the word.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The warrior slowed his mount to re-join formation and spoke the command to his comrade, who in turn repeated it to the soldier beside him. In short order, the spoken command had drifted across the ranks like wildfire, and the unit of King's Own walked on seemingly without a care in the world, muskets in their hands, the weapons resting upon the manes of their horses.

  He guided his horse to the side once more, glaring over one shoulder, the dust cloud, now much closer, came into view behind one of his soldiers. They're almost here. He could decipher the tiny shapes of individual horses amongst the dark smear leaving the cloud of dust in its wake.

  Baras unclipped the bugle. The cold steel felt good in his hand. It had served him well over the years, not to mention the unit of King's Own behind him. He'd issued hundreds of orders and survived countless clashes with enemy forces. Into the silver metal was pressed a single word. The King's Own war cry. Twisting in the saddle, he could make out individual enemy soldiers, the dull thunder of hoofbeats assaulting his ears. Almost drowned out by the drum roll of hooves slamming against the ground were the shouts, yells, and shrieks of the Huronian soldiers.

  He took a deep breath, placed the bugle to his lips, and blew. About turn, arrowhead formation, full charge.

  The formation of King's Own blurred into movement, pivoting towards the oncoming threat, and within a short space were galloping straight at the Huronian cavalry. Baras positioned himself at the tip of the arrowhead. The destrier settled into the gallop, stretching out, enjoying the speed. Tall grass reaching Baras's stirrups slid by in a blur. His lips touched the bugle. Fire!

  Muskets crackled to life, sending their shot screeching towards the oncoming cavalry. Within a fleeting moment, the King's Own had galloped through the blanket of gunpowder. Right and left flanks. Break formation. Re-join at rear.

  The King's Own unit split asunder on the fly, avoiding the enemy charge passing where the King's Own had been moments before. The Huronian cavalrymen found themselves charging at a vacant plain. Baras smiled with grim determination when the confident enemy war cries faded to silence. He led the left flank at a headlong gallop, streaking past their opponents galloping in the opposite direction. The King's Own tactic, from a bird's eye view, displayed the same form as the horns of a buffalo. Baras cast a glance over his shoulder, ensuring the Huronians were clear before guiding his horse to the right, straight towards the oncoming right flank. Arrowhead! They met in the middle, turning so they were travelling parallel to one another back towards the adversary. Then they moved into the arrowhead, Baras once more leading the point. The Huronians in front of them appeared in disarray, their commander unsure what to do. They slowed, starting to wheel around.

  Baras clenched the bugle in a tight grip, lifted the instrument, and without taking his eyes from his enemy, issued the next order. Blunderbuss. Fire! The mighty roar of the blunderbusses spoke in unison, cutting a swathe through the cavalry. Baras estimated more than half of them were dead already. The Huronian horses were lathered in sweat, some of them refusing to comply with the desperate kicks of their riders, unable to accelerate beyond a slow trot. The cavalry formation broke into a messy straggle, a vast contrast to the tight, neat, lethal force approaching their flank. They closed the gap in quick order, and Baras watched the commander cast a terrified glance in his direction. Only then did he realise the youthful age of the officer. He almost felt sorry for what was about to happen. Almost. Baras's lips touched the Bugle. Battle at will!

  “Obragarda!” the war cry echoed across the plain, rising above the noise of thundering hooves and panicked yells.

  Baras clipped the bugle to his belt
and withdrew his spear. The smooth, cool wood was comforting in his grip. He guided the destrier slight right, towards one man, urging his exhausted horse onward with repeated, powerful kicks. But the spent animal could advance at no more than a fast walk, despite the painful insistence provided by its rider. The enemy cavalryman stopped as he caught in his peripheral vision what was approaching. He stared at Baras, eyes wide as dinner plates, mouth yawning open. Baras leaned forward in the saddle and brought the spear forward in a powerful lunge. The razor-sharp weapon skewered the man's chest, smashing through rib cage, and exiting in an explosion of blood and tiny chunks of bone and flesh.

  Baras released his grip of the spear. He'd tried to wrestle the weapon free in a similar situation years before and had nearly dislocated his shoulder. Clashes as steel met steel, thuds of weapons plunging into soft flesh, shouts and screams of the wounded, and panicked whinnies surrounded Baras. The King's Own unit barged through their enemy like a sledgehammer, leaving dead and dying soldiers in their wake.

  He unclipped the bugle. At the walk! About turn. The galloping formation slowed, allowing the warhorses to regain their breath. They swung around, facing their near decimated enemy. Reload muskets. Advance. The King's Own unit, remaining in arrowhead formation, allowed their mounts to walk at a sedate pace. The warriors reloaded their muskets with rapid, confident, well-practised movements. Inside fifteen seconds, the last man had completed the task, the weapon placed across the mane of his destrier.

  The enemy officer, having so far survived their onslaught, led his men away from Baras at a trot. They were finished, all fight gone from within their ranks. The boisterous war cries replaced by the cries of the fallen and shrieks of frightened cavalrymen.