Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  They've changed their elevation. Fear assaulted the pit of his stomach. He knelt up, ignoring the protest of the muscles in his legs.

  “Get to cover!” he shouted at the milling soldiers below him. The whistling screech of inbound cannon balls almost drowned his own voice out. He cupped his mouth. “Get down!”

  A scarce few heard his words and spread the command. A hail of dark blobs tore the air asunder around Graff's head. They were so close that he felt the wind they created against the skin of his cheek. The enemy rounds smashed into nearby homes, skimmed over rooftops, bounced upon the cobbled street, but as far as he could see, Graff was unaware of any casualties.

  He whirled in time to see the fall of shot of the Wendurlund artillery slam into the enemy rank and file, although their elevation had dipped a touch. They'd also decimated the enemy gun line at which they'd been directing their shot. The thickest section of enemy cannons yet to feel the wrath of Wendurlund artillery were positioned two hundred or so yards to the left.

  “Up twenty, left two hundred,” he roared at the mounted gunner below.

  The soldier stood in his stirrups and cupped a hand to his ear.

  Graff repeated the command in a loud, slow deliberate manner.

  He nodded and passed on the command.

  It'd take time for the gunners to swivel the cannons to the new target. The Huronian artillery opened up with their next volley. Silence emanated from the heart of Wendurlund, where the gun line was still being organised. The enemy rounds cut past Graff, dropping towards buildings below in a lazy arc. They shattered houses, punched holes in walls and several cut down a group of soldiers. The Wendurlund artillery spoke then, their resounding boom vibrating the ground upon which Graff stood.

  The blobs screamed past him, their fading song gifting him with a high-pitched ringing in his skull. So far, they seemed to be on target, but it was too soon to tell for sure. Graff's eyes were drawn to movement much closer to the ground. He leaned upon the ruined wall, squinted, and ignored the blood-stained strands of saliva hanging in tendrils from his beard. Fear reignited its assault within his guts. The Huronian infantry were advancing.

  “Gods,” he whispered.

  They surged across the open field towards Lisfort. The main charge followed groups of soldiers bearing huge ladders at a steady trot. At this distance they resembled teams of ants.

  Graff returned his attention to the cannon shot. The cannon balls struck the earth near the feet of the enemy artillery. Dirt and clumps of grass were sent skyward. The massive pieces of round lead shattered cannons, cut men in half and left countless others critically wounded.

  “On! Repeat fire!” he roared at the gunner below. Graff inhaled a deep breath, cupped his mouth, and shouted, “Everyone back on the wall! The infantry is charging. Get back up here!”

  An officer further down the wall and looking as bad as he felt, ran to him. “We shouldn't have ordered them off the wall, Sergeant.”

  “Then we'd have had no one left to fight the bastards off when this happened,” he gestured at the closing enemy charge.

  The distant, dull wall of sound erupting from thousands of enemy throats washed over the pair. But the enemy cacophony disappeared as Graff's order was taken up by the soldiers far below. Corporals and some officers organised them into some form of structure and then sent them back up the stairs toward the few senior soldiers and officers who'd chosen to stay on the wall. He stared up and down the ramparts.

  “It appears, sir, that we are the only two alive of the few who chose to stay and bear the brunt of the enemy barrages.”

  The warriors leading the Wendurlund Army negotiated the stairs two at a time and were halfway up. But even their shouts were matched by the charging enemy. Graff leaned upon the destroyed merlon near him and peered out upon the closing dark smear which marred the landscape to the east. He spat blood, wiped his mouth and waited.

  “We have maybe two minutes before they reach the wall.”

  The officer looked behind Graff at the line of soldiers streaming up the rock stairs. “Not enough time.”

  He could see the individual faces of those carrying the ladders. The front rank of the main charge, all red-cloaked Mortals, broke into a sprint, passing the ladders with ease. They closed the distance fast, stopping in a single rank near the base of the wall. Graff frowned. “What in the blazes are they -”

  They brought muskets into their shoulders and aimed up at him. He grabbed the officer's arm. “Down, sir.” He ducked out of sight, pulling the younger man with him.

  The officer chuckled. “Idiots won't hit anything from that range!”

  The staccato of distant musket shots sounded strangely eerie. Hisses, cracks, and dull whines cut the air above them.

  “I don't think that's their intention. They want us ducking for cover to give their comrades time to lean the ladders against the wall.”

  Graff stood, leaned forward, and stared out over the edge of the wall. “The ladders have arrived,” he muttered.

  The war cries, yells, screeches, and indecipherable, aggressive blabber rolled over the eastern side of Lisfort. But the resounding boom of the Wendurlund Artillery cut through the clamour. The cannon-shot swept over their heads, destined for the enemy gun line in the distance. The Huronian Artillery had ceased fire for the time being, he noted.

  That's something at least.

  Breathless, the first batch of troops approached Graff. “Right, you lot, push these corpses off the rampart.”

  They hesitated. One of them stepped forward. “Sarge?”

  “You heard me!” Graff roared. “Get it done!”

  “Sarge, these are our comrades.”

  The statement was met with muttered agreement.

  Another distant crackle of musket shots and hot lead hissed by their heads, forcing them to duck. The first ladder crashed upon the battlement, bounced a little, and then settled against the stone. Another further down the wall following almost as fast.

  “We need room to move. When they start pouring over those ladders, we'll be tripping and losing our balance.” Graff took a breath and stepped forward, holding out his hands. “Look, I know it sounds harsh, lads, but we need to push our dead clear of the ramparts so we have freedom of movement.”

  The soldiers accepted his words and started to work, lifting, pushing or rolling their deceased comrades clear of the ramparts. A team of men started pushing upon the ladder.

  “Wait!” Graff yelled. He jogged over to them, leaned out over the edge and peered down at the thronging masses below, waiting their turn to start the climb up to the top of the wall. The first man wasn't even halfway.

  The muskets opened up again, and he ducked down just before the rounds reached him, their whines almost inaudible over the calamity.

  He held up a hand to the group of soldiers. “Stop! Wait until the first man is almost at the top of the ladder, then we push. Got it?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  The rampart was clear, the cobbled street below now littered with the dead of the Wendurlund Army.

  He gestured at the closest group, leaning over the battlements hurling down abuse, chunks of stone, knives, and anything other than their personal weapons and armour. “You soldiers! Get ready to push against a ladder.”

  Graff leapt up onto the wall, rested a hand upon a nearly intact merlon to steady himself. The first Huronian on the closest ladder was nearing the top. The enemy soldier glanced up at him and snarled. Graff grinned and without haste, dragged an index finger across his throat.

  He leapt back off the wall and jogged up and down the rampart organising soldiers into teams ready to start pushing against ladders.

  “Ready?” he shouted. “One, two, three push!”

  Those closest to him heard his command, but the others watched for his hand signals.

  The groups grunted and the ladders slid a few inches.

  “One, two, three push!”

  Another few inches. Each group w
orked as a cohesive team. Graff wiped his mouth where blood continued to ooze from his damaged lips and nose. He drew his sword.

  “Again!”

  The ladder slid a few inches but continued for almost a yard before coming to a rest. The first soldier appeared, leapt clear of the ladder. Graff grabbed him by his chest armour and using his momentum against him, pushed him over the rampart towards the waiting cobbles far below. The soldier's war cry morphed into a scream, his arms flailing.

  “A bird he is not!” Graff shouted. This was met by a few chuckles. “Right, once more lads. Push!”

  The ladder shifted and gathered momentum, skidding sideways along the battlements. Before it disappeared from view, a Huronian soldier leapt from the doomed ladder and clambered onto the battlements, brandishing a sword. The man charged straight at him. Graff brought his sword up, parried the thrust, punched the man in the face with his spare hand, then kicked him back over the battlements from whence he'd come. The ladder smashed into the next further down the wall, causing that to begin its sideways journey as well, then the pair struck a third and a fourth. The soldiers who'd been clambering towards the top of the wall, held on to the ladders for grim death, but it did them no good. Some let go, free falling towards the mass of Huronian soldiers below.

  Graff leapt onto the battlements to watch the ladders speed towards the ground. The massive things thundered to earth, crushing men and sending up clouds of dust. A thick, dark silver mist appeared on the horizon, and the enemy artillery disappeared from view. The boom of cannons washed over him, and he jumped clear. The dark dots arced into the sky on their original path. The gunners had lowered their elevation and were firing once more upon the eastern wall.

  “Get down!” he roared. “Take cover!”

  He threw himself to the stones as did many of those around him. But others, too slow to follow suit, disappeared, swept clear of the battlements by chunks of debris sheered off by the massive rounds. One cannonball cut a man in two, another shattered a soldier's leg clean off. Graff coughed and rose to his feet. The enemy muskets opened fire forcing him to duck back down, the musket balls whining through the air near his head.

  A dull thud vibrated through his feet and a ladder, looking no worse for wear for its recent demise, slammed against the wall.

  Graff ignored the pain coursing through his body, wiped blood from his mouth, and drew a deep breath. “Gather yourselves and prepare to push!”

  He peered over the edge of the wall. Where before Huronian soldiers were teetering up the ladder, unsure of their footing, this time red-cloaked warriors ran up the ladder, swords sheathed across their backs.

  Fear cut through his pain. “The Mortals,” he muttered.

  “Hurry up!” he shouted. “Prepare to push the ladder.”

  The first red-cloaked man was more than halfway up the ladder and showed no sign of slowing. Those following him were negotiating the rungs just as fast.

  “Push!”

  The ladder shifted a few inches. “Gather yourselves and push!”

  Another fraction of movement. “Ready! Again!”

  The ladder slid a small margin, but it wasn't enough. The first Mortal jumped into view, unsheathed his sword and cut a bloody swathe through the soldiers of Wendurlund. He killed seven warriors before he was dispatched. Graff ran towards the battle, where a small group of Mortals were fighting as a cohesive fighting unit, pushing the men of Wendurlund back. More Mortals leapt into view, joining the fight. He pushed his way into the thick of the fight, killing one enemy, kicking the knee out from another, and stabbing a third through the throat.

  Another vibration beneath his feet and Graff swivelled. A second ladder appeared further down the wall behind them. He pushed his way through the throng until he reached the edge of the wall. He leaned out over a shattered merlon. Mortals were streaming up that ladder as well. Graff grabbed the arm of the closest soldier.

  “You!”

  The man, breathless, sweat beading his forehead and streaming down his cheeks stared at him with wide eyes. “Sarge?”

  “Run back to the barracks and pass on a message to the commander. Tell him we need immediate reinforcements.”

  The soldier pushed his way clear and sprinted away.

  “And, lad?”

  The young man stopped and turned back to him.

  “Tell the commander the eastern wall will fall within the hour unless he gets here with more swords.”

  X

  Garx's boots hit the ground together. He patted the horse's neck and approached the exhausted Death Rider. It'd been a long time since he'd needed the Wendurlund language. He was fluent at one time, but he was forced to concentrate on the words.

  He stopped a short distance from the grave digger. “I am Garx. How goes it?”

  The other nodded and wiped his forehead with a wet sleeve. “Rone. And not so well.”

  “At least you're honest.”

  Rone clambered out of the grave. “Let's get it over with then, shall we?”

  Garx remained silent, although the constant thunder of cannon fire in the distance did not.

  “Just make it quick.”

  The Huronian officer chuckled. “We are not here to kill you, Death Rider.”

  Rone shrugged. “Then what else are you here for?”

  He gestured at his soldiers behind him, sat astride their warhorses observing the exchange in silence. None of them would know what it was they were saying. “We have been cast out of the Huronian Army by our king. We are no longer welcome in Huron and will be hunted unto death.”

  Rone dug his spade into the pile of dirt and released the handle, a bloody imprint of his hand staining the wood. “What did you do to earn that?”

  “We failed in a task set by King Fillip.”

  He need not know just yet that it was another King's Own unit we were fighting.

  “He sounds like a madman.”

  He nodded but did not acknowledge Rone's words. “So we are here to help you.”

  “I can bury my soldier by myself,” Rone grunted. His face softened a little. “Although my thanks for the offer.”

  “We shall wait then.”

  When the grave was complete, Rone accepted a second offer of help. Rone and a few of Garx's soldiers lifted the corpse into the grave, then filled it in.

  He returned to his horse, rummaged in the closest saddlebag and brought out a clean bandage. Garx gestured for the King's Own warrior to hold out his right hand. Blood was dripping from the fingers. Squeezing a bladder of water over his hand, the King's Own man flinched.

  “Hold still,” said Garx, binding his hand.

  When he was finished, he passed the water bladder to Rone and watched the man, who up until days before had been a mortal enemy, drink his fill.

  “Now we talk,” said Garx.

  Rone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “About?”

  “What we do next.”

  “We eat.”

  Garx laughed. I'm beginning to like this soldier. “Fair enough. We eat, and then we plan.”

  Rone nodded. “Then we plan,” he agreed. A fierce glint entered the Death Rider's eyes, giving Garx a moment of pause. “And then we fight the Huronian Army.”

  He gestured at Rone's weary looking destrier stood nearby. “Do you have any food spare?”

  “None, I'm afraid.”

  “We have plenty. You can share some of ours. Your horse needs some food, water, and rest, too, by the looks.”

  Rone moved to the warhorse and patted the powerful neck. “He does.”

  * * *

  When the small group departed the King's Own graveyard, the sun was at its zenith. Rone, mounted in the midst of the cavalry unit allowed the exhaustion to roll over him. He leaned forward and patted the horse, knowing the animal too must be feeling bone tired. It stumbled as if highlighting the point but regained its balance just as fast.

  Although he remained calm and ensured his face was impassive, Rone did not li
ke being surrounded by Huronian soldiers. It felt alien to him. He'd spent near ten years training hard to protect his king from just such warriors. Now he rode amongst them. A soft prickle teased the skin of his back reminding him that enemy were directly behind him and could skewer him at their leisure.

  What if the story about being thrown out of their army and hunted for traitors is a lie?

  He clenched his bandaged hand and in some dark way enjoyed the dull, painful throb emanating from his palm.

  What if they have made me a prisoner and I don't even know it?

  Rone opened his fingers and stared at the bandage now stained a faint pink. He'd heard how the Huronians treated their prisoners. The skeletal humanoid that was Prince Henry was testament to that. He grunted at the memory of the charge he and his sub unit had conducted against the Huronian Army that day.

  You'd know it if you were a prisoner, Rone. Think with logic not fear.

  He stretched his back and relaxed.

  My hands aren't bound, I'm not gagged, nor have I been beaten. He raised his face, the sun's heat caressing his cheeks. And unless I'm mistaken, I'm not dead.

  The dull, persistent ruckus issuing from Lisfort continued to pervade the afternoon. They'd moved a little further away from where the battle raged, unseen, some miles away.

  “I'm stopping here,” said Rone. He brought his horse to a halt, dismounted and unsaddled the beast. He stroked the sweat soaked fur. Rone unclasped the bridle and pulled it clear, allowing the steel bit to fall free of the warhorse's mouth. The animal immediately started grazing.

  “Here's as good as anywhere,” agreed Garx. The foreign officer said a short sentence in his native tongue, and the group also dismounted.

  The men who'd once been his enemy shared their rations with him. When he'd taken his fill of food and water, Rone offered water to his horse. The destrier went through a full water bladder, but the Huronian cavalryman to whom the supply belonged simply shrugged and grinned. He gestured in the direction of the Therondale River and muttered something in his language.