Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  Who wakes someone up with a wet bloody sponge? Gods knows where it's been!

  The wet sponge pushed his face again, this time harder. He ascended through the depths of slumber, and his eyes flickered open. He had a mind to berate the person using the wet sponge on him, but all that greeted him was the warhorse's snout an inch from his face. Streaks of deep purple painted a section of the western sky, but all else was darkness. He patted the animal, rubbed his face, yawned, and sat up.

  “Time to move,” he mumbled. He knelt over his deceased soldier. “Tomorrow morning, I lay you to rest in the King's Own Cemetery, brother.”

  The night's journey, no less boring than the last, passed with gruesome sluggishness. Twice he dismounted and led the horse by the reins, allowing the animal some reprieve from carrying the body weight of two men.

  The destrier plodded onward, head hung low. He patted the powerful shoulder.

  “You're tired, too, aren't you boy?” he whispered. “Not long now.”

  Riding boots were not designed for long distance marching, but Rone ignored the aches in his feet, ankles, and knees. He cursed the burning sections of his toes, where blisters were forming, but refused to remount his horse. Sweat beaded his forehead, exhaustion racked him, and pain assaulted his mind. Rone gritted his teeth and continued. He wore his musket slung across his back, barrel pointing to the star-filled sky. Just in case he happened upon the mysterious enemy patrol.

  Stopping, he retrieved a water bladder from a saddle pouch and drank deep. Pouring a small amount into a cupped hand, he held it beneath the warhorse's muzzle, waiting until the animal had licked it clean. Hot spots all over his feet burst into life as he continued the walk towards his home city, the destrier beside him. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He snarled against the sting and wiped a sleeve across his forehead.

  Wafting across the night air issued the putrid stink of his dead comrade. Rone stopped again, opened the flap of a saddle pouch, and pulled clear what was left of the poultice. He wiped more beneath his nose and did the same for his horse. The pleasant smell helped, but it was no longer enough to defeat the stench completely.

  Rone drew air in between his teeth. He trudged on. The blisters had gathered reinforcements while he'd been applying the poultice, and they attacked with renewed vigour. He felt one blister burst and closed his eyes with relief, albeit short lived.

  An explosion boomed in the distance, and his heart leapt into his throat. The noise ripped the night's solace apart. A second explosion followed, and then a cluster roared to life. It was only when the night's peace was restored that he realised it was cannon or mortar fire.

  The Huronian Army has arrived at Lisfort to besiege the city. I hope that's Wendurlund cannons firing.

  A flicker of light to the southwest caught the corner of his eye, and he scanned the blackness in that direction. A moment later, another battery roared to life, their powder-filled voices echoing across the landscape.

  That's a lot of cannons.

  “I hope they can hold the wall,” he muttered.

  The horse snorted in reply and plodded on.

  Another long flicker of light silhouetted the tiny shape of Lisfort against the horizon, then the staccato responsible for the brief light show rumbled across the plains. If the city was southwest of his position, he was at least heading in the right direction. The King's Own Cemetery lay somewhere directly ahead.

  Rone strode on, ignoring the burning agony radiating across the bottom of his feet. With each boot fall, it felt like hot coals pressing against the skin exploded into flames. Another blister burst, and he breathed out a sigh.

  He patted the horse's flank. “Nearly there, lad.”

  Rone remounted the destrier for a while to give his legs and feet a rest. The cannon-shot was louder with each hour that slid by. The second time he stepped into the saddle, he cast a glance over his shoulder to the east. The sky in that direction was gunmetal grey and lightening by the minute.

  “Never thought the damn dawn would come,” Rone whispered.

  When swirls of pink and orange cast their presence across the sky, Rone walked into the King's Own Cemetery. The newer graves were located on the far western side, but the shovels were kept in the centre, inside a large brick room.

  Leaving his warhorse behind him, he turned the handle and pushed open the door. Hinges creaked, and he stepped into the darkness. Although the eastern sky continued to warn of the sun's advance, the light was still too dull to light the room properly. The heady aroma of fresh earth filled his nostrils. The shovels were lined in neat rows against the far wall. His brow creased. They hadn't been cleaned since they'd last been used.

  That can't have been more than a few days ago. He knelt by the closest shovel and touched the soft dirt adorning the implement's surface. With a sinking power tugging at his stomach, he stood, grasped the shovel, rested it on one shoulder and strode out of the building. He led the destrier to the west past smart rows of old headstones, belonging to warriors of the King's Own who'd fallen long ago. Some of the graves were hundreds of years old.

  They negotiated the wide, paved path leading west. The headstones grew more modern, the letters engraved into the stone much sharper and distinguishable than those etched onto the plot markers closer to the centre of the huge cemetery. The path continued on for half a mile, but the western graves came to an abrupt halt. The smell of freshly tilled earth pervaded the air. Rone dropped the reins and squatted beside the closest.

  One of my soldiers. He moved to the next. And another. He looked along the line of the newer graves. All my soldiers. He counted them, stopping beside each to offer a short prayer. Forty-two. Gods above. What happened out there?

  When he reached the nearest vacant plot, he sighed.

  “Here, lad,” Rone called to the warhorse. The animal plodded to him and stopped only when it nuzzled his chest. He stroked the animal's neck.

  “I know, my boy. Once this one last thing is done, we can rest.”

  The officer pulled free his bladder of water and laid it close by. He'd need to quench his thirst often.

  He slammed the shovel head into the ground and with a wince, pushed it deep with a boot. The blisters would not relent, their protests sending sharp pain across his foot. He threw the clump of dirt to one side, far enough away that it would not fall back into the grave later. Another shovelful followed the first. He repeated the movement in a continuous cycle, the muscles of his shoulders and arms burning. Half his sub-unit had fallen. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes. The blisters had multiplied, seemingly sending reinforcements from his feet to his hands. But he ignored their pain as well. The grave was taking shape. When his hands bled, he stopped for a drink.

  When Rone's breathing returned to normal and the ache in his back subsided, he approached the grave, jumped into its depths, and continued work. A horse snorted nearby.

  “I know, lad,” he managed between breaths. “I'm working as fast as I can. Patience.”

  It was only when there was a second snort from another direction that he realised he was no longer alone. He stopped work, gasping for breath, sweat streaming down his face.

  They sat upon their warhorses in the near distance watching him. Formed in a semi-circle was the group of Huronian Cavalry he'd desperately attempted to avoid.

  “Oh shit.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Graff ran along the rampart of the eastern wall, shoving past soldiers, weaving through throngs and shouting to make way. He glanced intermittently out at the Huronian Army in the distance. They'd set up their cannons, although only several fired in order to obtain ranges, elevations and desired targets.

  On the cobbled street far below and paralleling his direction of travel, trotted a horse bearing an artillery gunner. A puff of smoke plumed from the mouth of an enemy cannon, closely followed by the deep boom of the shot. The black, round blur tore across the sky, skipped off the ground, gouging a large chunk of gra
ss and flicking it into the air. Then the cannon shot smashed halfway up the wall and fell to the earth.

  They're almost on target.

  He increased his pace, sweat beading his brow. Graff's legs and lungs ached. “Make way, lads!”

  Just a little further and he'd be in line with the main battery of enemy artillery. He stopped only when he positioned himself on the section of the wall that lined up with the middle section of the enemy guns. He swivelled and looked down to the cobbled street. He pointed out towards the enemy.

  “This is their centre!” he roared.

  The artilleryman turned, cupped his mouth and roared a command. Further back, another mounted gunner nodded and galloped from view to pass on the message to the long-distance guns positioned in the centre of the city.

  “What's the plan, Sarge?”

  He inhaled a deep breath, refilling his lungs with cool, fresh air. Graff wiped his forehead. “We're going to fucking kill them is what we're going to do.”

  It was a race against time. The Wendurlund artillery needed to get their guns on target before the Huronian could achieve the same.

  The dark smear of the enemy army looked to be about a thousand yards away.

  “How far away you lads think they are?”

  “Eight hundred, Sergeant,” said one.

  “Thousand,” muttered anther.

  “Six-fifty.”

  “Direction's on!” a distance voice shouted.

  The same enemy cannon burst to life, this time the cannon shot hit three quarters up the wall.

  We're losing this bloody race.

  Graff stared down at the gunner far below. He held open palms around the corners of his mouth. “Distance eight fifty.”

  The gunner turned away, his powerful voice only a distant noise to the soldiers high up on the rampart. “Eight fifty, send it!”

  The second gunner further down the street galloped from view.

  He knelt, pulled a time piece from his pocket, unlatched it and counted the seconds. A powerful explosion rocked the city behind him, reverberating through the stones of the rampart.

  “Forty seconds,” he whispered. “Need to speed up, lads.” He snapped the time piece closed and pushed it back into a pocket. A large, black blur streaked above their heads, trailing a crackling shriek as it cut the air. Graff jumped to his feet and watched the distant dot. It reached its zenith and plummeted, smashing into the ground short of the enemy army and bouncing high into the air. Barrelling over its intended target, it disappeared from view. He glared at the spot of bare earth where the cannon ball had fist impacted and judged the distance between it and the enemy.

  Graff returned his attention to the gunner staring up at him from far below. “Up one hundred!”

  The elevation call was passed on and the second gunner galloped from view to pass on the order to the gun line. The second cannon ball sliced through the air much the same as the first and landed perhaps ten yards short of the enemy guns. But the lead ball, larger than a man's head ricocheted from the ground and smashed into an enemy gun, cutting a soldier in half at the waist and sending the barrel of the huge weapon somersaulting through the air.

  “You're on! Repeat fire!” screamed Graff.

  The gunner standing on the street below passed on the message. “On! All guns repeat fire!”

  The distant boom brought Graff's attention back to the enemy. The Huronian cannonball arched through the air, smashed against the parapets and shattered chunks of stone from the wall. The cannonball slowed only a little, taking a soldier's head with it. The fragments of stone cut through a group standing close to the point of impact. Some died immediately, others lay writhing upon the rampart, their life blood leaking upon the stone.

  Graff passed a hand through his hair, lowered his helmet upon his head and attached the chinstrap. “They have their range.”

  A series of explosions behind him shattered the hum of the city. Every gun of the Wendurlund artillery had copied the direction and elevation of the first cannon and were firing upon their enemy. The scores of shot crackled through the sky above Graff's head, on their way to wreak havoc amongst the Huronian adversary.

  Every enemy cannon disappeared behind a thick cloud of spent gunpowder, closely followed by a rolling rumble and their cannonballs were sent skyward, arching towards Lisfort.

  Fear gripped Graff. He stared at one small group of black dots, which seemed to hang in the air above him, although they grew larger by the moment. He ducked behind the wall. “Stay low, lads!” He grabbed a young soldier, who was frozen in place, his eyes wide as saucers. “Get your arse down, son!”

  “Get down!” an officer further down the line shouted.

  “Take cover!” another voice yelled.

  A chorus of screeches growing in volume drowned out the panicked voices of soldiers. Graff gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and pressed himself against the stones of the rampart. The noise was deafening. A powerful vibration reverberated through his chest and a small chuck of stone cut through his cheek and mouth. Another sliced his nose, missing an eye by a hair's breadth. A heavy weight fell upon him, slamming his face into the ground. Warm liquid, streaming from the object pinning him down soaked through his uniform. He grunted and tried to move. Spitting blood, Graff growled and with all his strength rolled to one side. Two dead soldiers lay upon him, one missing half his head, the other an arm. The last of their life blood found solace in Graff's uniform.

  “You alright Sarge?”

  Graff tried to speak, but only a mumbled noise issued from his damaged lips. The weight of the corpses disappeared when they were dragged from him. He pushed himself to his feet with a groan, wiped his face, and winced against the pain.

  “Thanks, lad,” he managed through the agony.

  He looked up and down the rampart, taking in the damage and casualties.

  The cannonballs had struck the parapets the length of the eastern wall, shattering merlons and cutting down scores of soldiers. Many were still dying, others had been carried clear, their broken bodies lying upon the cobbled street far below. If the soldiers remained on the ramparts, they'd be cut to ribbons. Only a few were required to remain to feed distance and direction to the gunners waiting on the street.

  “Get off the ramparts!” blood-stained phlegm exploded from Graff's mouth with each word. He licked his lips and winced against the sting. Some men complied, but others were too badly wounded.

  “Carry the wounded off as best you can, but get down, lads. Form up in the town square.” He cast a glance at the enemy guns. Tiny figures moved with rapid, fluid movements, ramming shot down barrels, pushing cannons forward into their original position, ready for the next barrage. “Quickly now, lads!”

  Officers and senior soldiers, like Graff instructed the soldiers at their section of wall to do the same. The Wendurlund soldiers, shouting, muttering, moaning, or silent, followed the orders. They carried, dragged, or assisted the wounded down the stairs. One soldier, wounded so badly he was no longer conscious, slipped from the hands of his comrade trying to lift him down the steps. He rolled off and hit the cobbled street below with a dull thump. The soldier who'd been carrying the unconscious man covered his face with his hands.

  “Keep moving, lad!” Graff roared. “No time to grieve. Now, get going!”

  An ear-splitting boom exploded from the centre of the city, and the next barrage was sent skyward, the numerous cannon shot, cutting through the air above Graff's head with a familiar screech. He knelt upon the rampart strewn with dead bodies and watched the progress of the artillery's fall of shot. The balls hit in much the same location as before and cut through the enemy with devastating effect. But it was not enough to stop the remaining enemy artillery from opening fire.

  Graff leaned over the edge of the rampart and waved his hand until he caught the gunner's eye. “You're still on!”

  The man nodded, turned his horse, and roared something at his comrade, who galloped away. Graff was unable to hea
r the words of the gunner over the noise of his withdrawing troops. He dropped to his stomach, covered head with his hands, clenched his eyes shut, and waited for the enemy cannon balls to strike home. Their crackling progress grew in volume until it drowned out everything else. A series of powerful thuds rocked the battlements of the eastern wall. Graff left the ground by a few inches and slammed back to the stones of the castle, his head smashing against what remained of the closest merlon. His eyelids parted a little, and he blinked against the thick dust settling around him. He coughed, pushed his aching body into a kneeling position and wiped blood from his face.

  Some of the soldiers at the back of the withdrawal had been forced to take cover upon the stairs leading down to the streets. A few were thrown clear by the power of the enemy artillery shot. A section of one of the stone stairs had sheered away, taking at least half a section of men with it. Their broken bodies lay upon the ground far below, chunks of stone stairs littering the cobbles around them. Graff cursed and returned his focus to the enemy gun line, visible as a dark line through the clearing dust.

  He sniffed, wiped his leaking nose and noticed fresh blood upon his hand. Blood dripped from his beard, splattering upon his armour. Graff returned his attention to the remnants of soldiers clambering down from the parapets.

  “Keep going! The next barrage ain't far away.” Pain in almost every part of his face and head led to his words slurring. Graff steadied himself when the next volley fired by the Wendurlund gun line roared to life. The enemy guns disappeared behind another thick cloud of smoke. He knelt, agony racking his legs and knees. He groaned.

  “I'm getting too old for this shit.”

  Crackling whines sang over his head, the Wendurlund cannon shot barrelling across the sky towards their targets. No sooner had their symphony of violence faded, the growing shriek of incoming enemy rounds drowned out the shouts of soldiers far below. Graff opened his eyes, lifted his head, and peered over the destroyed merlon. The storm of dark dots arced through the air towards him. A frown creased his blood covered brow.