Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  “Great minds think alike, Gorgoroth,” muttered Vyder. “Come on, just a little closer.”

  “Signal it again, Hyglak.”

  The horn cut through the noise, and the shield wall remained steadfast, like some monstrous, frozen beetle. Vyder's brow creased. Clan Firestorm slowed and stopped, forming their own shield wall.

  “Bastards want us to come to them.” Hyglak laughed and spat on the ground.

  “Then we shall oblige them.”

  “Advance!”

  Hyglak took a deep breath and pursed his lips around the horn's mouthpiece.

  The Highland army took two paces forward and halted. A guttural grunt accompanied each footstep, then the war cries started again.

  “Advance!”

  The shouting stopped, another two paces forward, a powerful rumble booming out as each boot struck the ground. Then the shouting recommenced.

  “Again!”

  The highlanders were used to fighting in shield wall formations and had done so for centuries. But introducing the black powder element in such a focused, organised way was something entirely new.

  “I just hope it works,” he whispered.

  The two formations were within a stone’s throw.

  “Forward!”

  The horn blasted, and two more paces brought the formation within spitting distance of their enemy.

  “Hold!”

  Vyder remained trotting along the rear rank, Hyglak beside him. “Ready?”

  Hyglak clutched the war horn in his right hand, his fingertips white. He nodded once.

  Vyder took a deep breath. “Call black powder!”

  He trotted up the flanks so as to better view the front rank.

  The instrument's voice pierced the roar of voices. The front rank turned side on as they'd been trained, maintaining the position of their shields. Then their shields dropped, and the front two ranks disappeared in a cloud of burnt gunpowder. The crack of muskets and boom of blunderbusses dominated the ferocious words issuing from thousands of throats. The front rank brought their shields back into position and the second rank dropped to their knees to commence reloads.

  Vyder advanced a few more paces, the acrid smell of burnt black powder bringing a cough. The shouts that had been so aggressive from Clan Firestorm persisted, but screams, pain-filled yells and groans of the wounded mingled with the noise. The cloud dissipated, and he saw the front rank of the enemy shield wall had been decimated, many of their number either dead or dying.

  “Advance and engage!”

  Hyglak blew the command and the Highland army jogged the last few steps of open ground separating the two forces. Their shields slammed against those of the enemy, and they pushed them back. Swords appeared beneath shields to slice, cut or stab at feet, ankles or calves. Working in tiny teams, those in the front rank called for those holding shields above them to provide a gap, whereupon they stabbed their swords above their shields and down upon the enemy. Once the sword arm was retracted, the gap slid closed.

  “They're fighting well, lord!”

  Vyder grinned. “By the gods, they are!”

  He trotted almost to the fray, and stared down at the first couple of ranks of his fellow clansmen. “Second rank!” he shouted. “How goes it?”

  “We're reloaded, lord!” the muffled voice shouted back from beneath the ceiling of shields protecting them.

  “Right then.” Vyder flinched as a spear sailed past his nose. Saigh barked and sprinted for the man who'd thrown the weapon at her master. “Saigh!” he bellowed. “To me, girl! To me!” He turned Storm away, the hound at the horse's heels, and they trotted to the rear of the shield wall formation. “Call withdraw.”

  Vyder's force disengaged from the enemy and withdrew two paces. “Black powder!”

  The muskets and blunderbusses spoke again, spewing another cloud of burnt powder to drift over the field of battle and blotting out those in the first few ranks of each opposing force.

  “Advance and engage!”

  The roars of the Highland army reignited anew, and the shield wall slammed home against those of their enemy, pushing them back further than they had before. When the cloud had dissipated, the efficient, lethal power of the black powder weapons was obvious. The projectiles had cut the second and some of the third row down, splitting the enemy shield wall open like a rotten log.

  Sensing their opportunity, the Highland army pressed forward, cutting down their foe in scores. Vyder pushed Storm back to the front.

  “Hold the wall!” he shouted. “Hold your formation!”

  Some highlanders may have been tempted to break free and storm in amongst their enemies, inadvertently weakening their own shield wall. But they remained true, advancing against Clan Firestorm together, keeping the shields interlinked.

  “Second rank?” he roared.

  “Reloaded, lord!” the same muffled voice yelled.

  Firing the weapons while engaged with an enemy force was a risk.

  “Lord, if the front drop their shields while fighting, it'll leave them vulnerable to counter attack.”

  He twisted in his saddle and appraised Hyglak. “I know, but if we disengage, it will give the bastards precious time to reorganise. Call black powder!”

  Hyglak blasted the order and mere moments passed before the deafening explosion of flintlock weapons sang their lethal song. The screams of the wounded and moans of the dying drowned out the shouts of the Firestorm highlanders. When the smoke dissipated, the opposing shield wall back to the fifth rank was decimated.

  Vyder's army didn't need the order, they pressed forward, shattering the enemy's wall and dispatching them in short order. Clan Firestorm broke and ran towards the protection of their city.

  “Hold!”

  The horn's blast echoed over the field of battle, and although the Highland army continued to yell, jeer, and roar obscenities at their retreating foe, they held firm the shield wall. High-pitched screams pierced the sky, and Ahitika led the loose formation of galloping horses. They tore across the ground towards what remained of Clan Firestorm. Henry was at the rear, spear in hand. The former female slave lifted a leg over her horse's neck, leapt clear of the saddle, and hit the ground at full sprint, slamming into a highlander and bearing him to the ground.

  Her hand, clenching a knife, rose and fell and continued until the struggling man lay still. She changed the grip on the weapon, leaned over her adversary, and sliced. Vyder only realised what she'd cut when she stood over the downed warrior and held the scalp above her head, her face creased in a snarl and eyes glinting with fury.

  Holding his spear double-handed, Henry stabbed a highlander through the back, but the haft was ripped clear of his grip when the wounded man fell to the ground. He tried to rise, but his legs collapsed beneath him. One fleeing warrior swung his sword at Henry, but the horse was past him before the blade could connect. The Wendurlund prince turned his mount around and charged the highlander, the horse's powerful chest battering the man to the ground. Henry dismounted, retrieved the weapon, and killed the man with his own sword, then climbed back into the saddle.

  Ahitika loosed arrow after arrow. Her mount moved at such speed, some of the projectiles missed their intended targets. But many did not. The former male slave jumped from his horse and landed on the back of one unfortunate Firestorm highlander running from the battle. His death was quick. As fast as they'd ridden in, Ahitika led the group out of the fray, leaving even more enemy dead or dying behind them.

  A hand slapped him on the back, and Vyder looked away from the tiny force galloping clear.

  “I think we won, lord,” Hyglak bellowed, a wide grin splitting his beard.

  When the last of the Firestorm highlanders disappeared into their city, the gate was closed and probably barred.

  “Back to the forest!” Vyder encircled the army shouting the words over and over until they broke their shield wall and streamed back to where they'd started.

  “Gather your horses and prepar
e to move!”

  Hyglak helped spread the word amongst the army. Their blood was still running hot, and many of them were shouting, laughing, recounting stories from the recent battle, making good natured jests, or helping tend to the wounded. A small group carried the fallen. Vyder counted eight dead, and perhaps three times as many wounded, of which most were minor lacerations.

  Hyglak reined in beside him. “We got off lightly, lord. Your tactic worked well.”

  “It was a risk, but it worked. I'm not sure it'd work again now Firestorm know what to expect. They may even try to replicate it.”

  “Doubt it. They won't be replicating much for many a year.” Hyglak turned in his saddle and looked out at the open ground between them and the enemy city. “See for yourself.”

  Vyder turned Storm around. Saigh sat nearby, her tongue lolling from her mouth. He swept his eyes over the enemy fallen in the distance. They littered the ground in a heap of cluttered and broken shields, weapons and bodies.

  You and your little army have done well today, brother.

  A broken Clan Firestorm flag lay amongst the dead, wind teased one corner of the fabric causing it to flutter. Vyder had never been good at estimating numbers, but he assumed there were several hundred bodies lying upon the field of battle.

  Hyglak leaned a forearm on the pommel of his saddle. “Five hundred is my estimate. We cut their clan in half. It'll be some time before they consider sweeping the highlands again.”

  Vyder grunted. “Good.”

  Within the hour, the Highland army was mounted and on the move, winding through the forest towards their respective clan homes. Vyder, riding at the front of the army seized the opportunity.

  “Chieftains to me!”

  Hyglak and Bordrog were already nearby, but the others took some time before they cantered up the flanks of the army and joined him. Holrik was humming a tune when he slowed to walk his mount beside Vyder.

  “You're in merry spirits, my friend.”

  “My family and clan have been avenged,” the chieftain of Clan Coppersmith smiled.

  Bulvye arrived next, dark circles beneath his eyes. He yawned.

  Rafe galloped into view, his horse skidding to a walk. He cheered. “A victory, Warlord!” The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, probably remnants of his berserk rage during the battle.

  “Aye, Rafe, our clans fought well today.”

  Vyder took a deep breath and clenched the reins in a tight grip. “Now that Firestorm have been dealt with and rendered incapable of storming the highlands for many years to come, I have news from further afield.”

  Rafe laughed. “Another clan whose arse needs handing back to them?”

  “Not quite. Have any of you been south into the lands of Wendurlund?”

  Rafe spat and looked away.

  “As a child, briefly,” Bulvye said.

  Bordrog shrugged. “Not me. I'd like to see the lands that once belonged to our ancestors, though.”

  Holrik nodded. “Lisfort is a nice city. Although the people were hostile.”

  Hyglak remained silent.

  Rafe leaned forward in his saddle, eyes boring into Vyder. “Why, lord?”

  “They are under siege by a much larger Huronian army. Who knows, they may have already fallen.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Not my fight. Not any highlander's fight.”

  “I know what you're saying, Rafe, but it will be your fight when Huron subjugate all of Wendurlund and sweep north to plunder our beloved highlands.”

  “And why would they do that? It makes little sense,” said Bordrog.

  “Do you know of King Fillip?”

  Silence answered the question.

  “He's a madman, an utterly deranged madman devoid of logic, and at his hands is one of the largest armies ever known to our history. If Lisfort falls, they will take over Wendurlund, enslave or kill the people. And then, have no doubt, King Fillip's eyes will turn north.”

  “And if we refuse?” asked Bulvye.

  Vyder shrugged. “Then you refuse. But regardless, Ahitika, Henry and I will travel into Wendurlund to help. No, they are not our allies, but things can change with the advance of centuries. If we do not face this great threat now while the army of Wendurlund still has some strength, then we will be left to fend for ourselves and believe me, the Huronians will destroy us.”

  “Will you return here once it is done?” Hyglak's voice broke the quietness.

  Vyder shifted in his saddle. “I will die there, my friend.”

  “You can't know that,” Bordrog said.

  “I know that I will. When it is done, I will die.” Verone's face appeared in his mind. She was smiling.

  “I will come with you then, lord,” said Rafe. “If I am with you, death will be too afraid to approach!”

  Vyder chuckled.

  “But it is the choice of my clan whether they join me,” said Rafe.

  “I understand.”

  Holrik cleared his throat. “You have done us a great service by bringing our clans together so that we might avenge our loved ones, Vyder.”

  “Lord,” corrected Hyglak.

  Holrik ignored him. “So, I will join you. Tonight, I will put it to my clan, but like Rafe, I can't guarantee they will join me.”

  Hyglak unclipped his war horn and held it up. “You'll need someone to signal your commands upon the battlefield, I suppose?”

  “Aye, I will.”

  “A temporary chieftain will be appointed while I'm away,” said Bordrog. “But like the others, it may just be me if my clan chooses not to join me. Fighting the war of another country is a choice they have to make on their own merits.”

  Bulvye sniffed. “I, too, will join you, my lord.”

  “Thank you all. As you say, when we rest this evening, put it to your respective clans, and if you choose to change your decision, then I will lose no respect for you. For any of you.”

  “When do we leave?” asked Rafe.

  “Right now, my friend. We're on our way right now.”

  Rafe grinned. “Let's show those southern bastards how a Highland army fights.”

  Part III

  Hold the Wall

  IX

  The sweeping, grassy planes of Wendurlund offered no place to hide. Only the veil of darkness gave refuge from prying eyes. So, Rone moved at night, always heading west towards his home city of Lisfort. Sometimes he dismounted and walked, allowing the powerful horse to rest. There was enough of the paste left to stave off the stench of rotting flesh, until he was able to bury his soldier at least.

  Dawn announced its arrival, bringing a halt to their advance. Rone stepped from the saddle untied his dead soldier from the mount's back and pulled the corpse clear, lying him on the ground. Then he unsaddled the animal, brushing the slick fur down. Strengthening light invaded the sky, sending stars into full retreat. Ignoring the horse grazing in the near distance, the King's Own officer crouched, his eyes just above the top of the thigh length grass.

  “What the hell are they doing?” he whispered.

  The blob of Huronian cavalry moved west in a tight formation. Rone couldn't see them individually, but dogged experience told him there were perhaps twenty or thirty of the enemy soldiers.

  If they're deserters, why are they still heading into the fray? Why are they not running from the war?

  Every morning they were there. Sometimes south of Rone, other times north, but they were always heading in a westerly direction. It seemed they chose to move during daylight, whereas Rone rested while the sun shone and travelled when the moon rose. So, each night, he closed the distance between them. He watched them, noting they were heading in a slight south westerly direction. When evening came, he would move in a west or even north westerly direction to ensure he would not stumble upon their camp during the night.

  He slumped to the ground beside the deceased soldier. Even the thick, pleasant smelling paste was on the verge of not being enough to stave off the stink. But it would do for now. />
  “Only two days before we can lay you to rest,” he muttered.

  The dead man remained silent and still while the horse, oblivious to Rone's thoughts, continued to take its fill from the plentiful grass. If he had his bearings, there was a small lake a little way to their north. When it was time to move, he'd deviate in that direction so the animal could quench its thirst, and he could refill his water bladders.

  Rone lay on his back, rested hands behind his head and closed his eyes. The gentle heat of the sun on his skin was soothing. Combined with the occasional snort and chewing of the destrier nearby, it was enough to bring sleep to him. He awoke once at midday, rolled onto his side, and noticed the warhorse standing over him, legs locked straight, dozing. Closing his eyes, exhaustion swamped him, whisking him away into the ether of slumber.

  He jerked away when something soft touched his face. Rone's eyes snapped open to find a horse nose inches from his face. The nose descended towards him and nuzzled his cheek again.

  “Alright, alright.” He stroked the soft skin and sat up. “I'm up.”

  He saddled the warhorse, asked the animal to kneel, and lifted the body into place, securing his soldier with rope. Rone straddled the saddle, then coaxed the destrier to stand, and they were underway. The lake was closer than he remembered. It did not take long for the animal to take its fill of the precious resource. After he refilled his water bladders, they departed westward.

  The night passed in a slow, tiring grind. When the dawn announced its imminent arrival, they stopped, and he repeated the process he'd carried out the morning before. The horse, now clean skin, grazed nearby. Rone knelt amongst the grass and scanned the horizon, but the group of Huronian cavalry which had been in front of him for the past few days were nowhere to be seen.

  Did they spot me and gone to ground?

  He was tired, hungry and weakening. It was only the strength of his mind which kept him persisting. Were the enemy group aware of his presence, there was no way he could take on ten of them, let alone twenty. Dragging the saddle to him, he unsheathed the musket and blunderbuss. He cocked them and lay the weapons on the ground beside him. He lay down, one weapon either side, and allowed sleep to claim him. Darkness, broken dreams, flitting views of the hot sun and the tickle of grass against his skin kept him company during the daylight hours. A wet sponge pushed on his cheek. He groaned and tried to push the arm away.