Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  Rone nodded. “More where that came from, I understand.” He offered the spent bladder back to the man. “My thanks.”

  The warhorse continued grazing, filling its empty belly. “Keep it up, my lad, you'll need your strength in the days to come.” He patted the powerful rump. Garx approached him and gestured to an open piece of land nearby.

  “Yes, let's make a plan on our next course of action.”

  “No,” Garx replied. “I think you should sleep, Rone. You need it. I can see it in the bags beneath your eyes.”

  “I'm fine.”

  The foreign officer pointed at the same open piece of ground. “No, my friend, you sleep now. Half my men will rest as well. After sundown, we talk.”

  He wanted to refuse, but at the mention of sleep, the exhaustion made a second assault on his body, breaching his willpower and depositing lead weights in his limbs and thick mud throughout his skull. He nodded. “Wake me when you're ready.”

  Sometime in the evening, Rone's eyelids fluttered open, he drew in a deep breath and stretched. He felt movement nearby, a deep groan and a thump. A heavy weight pushed against his flank and his brain, still recovering from slumber, took a moment to process that his warhorse had flopped to the ground beside him, stretched out and fallen asleep. What sounded like the distant rumble of thunder rolled across the landscape. He swore he smelt the faint aroma of spent gunpowder wafting to his nostrils. But it must have been some trick of the mind.

  He stroked the animal's flank. His eyelids touched, and the dusk skyline disappeared from view. Sleep came for him again, assaulting his mind. He didn't resist, allowing himself to descend into the thick, warm, dark depths of rest.

  Something prodded his arm. Rone rolled over, groaned and rested his head on a hand. A voice spoke his name and a boot nudged his back. He yawned and then slumber retreated at full pace and his eyes snapped open. He sat up and squinted against the morning sun. Smoke drifted across the clearing accompanied by the smell of frying bacon. The far-off thunder still assaulted the sky. Although it wasn't thunder.

  Of course it isn't you fool! It's time to move. My people are fighting for their lives.

  He burst to his feet, heart thumping. War spirit flooded his body. A hand clasped his shoulder and Garx stopped beside him.

  “Good morning, Rone. I see you are full of life.”

  He grunted. “Let's plan our first course of action and get on with it.”

  “Soon, my friend. First, we eat. Then we plan.” He turned and walked towards the nearby campfire. “Then we fight,” he said over his shoulder.

  Rone followed him and noticed the Huronian cavalrymen had dug a large indent into the ground in which they'd built the fire. This served to hide the fire from view, only the highest flickers of flame coming close to the level of the ground surrounding the man made cut out. They'd also cleared the ground around the fire of grass to stop the likelihood of the flames spreading. The grass-filled open plains would burn so easily.

  His warhorse was grazing nearby amongst a few of the Huronian mounts. The beast lifted his head and stared at Rone. The animal, chewing on a clump of grass, snorted and then returned to his food. Rone focused on the smell of cooking bacon and his stomach tightened.

  Garx passed him a thin, wooden platter heaped with bacon and some boiled vegetables. “Here.”

  He nodded his thanks and sat with the others. The soldiers ate in silence, apart from a couple talking in hushed tones. Rone understood snippets of their language, but given their body language, he knew their topic of conversation was not sinister in nature. The orange vegetable was soft to touch and from memory, was a Huronian root called Makamet. It was soft, sweet, yet carried a hint of bitterness. Rone hadn't eaten it in years. He lifted a piece of crisp bacon to his lips, ignoring the heat.

  When they'd eaten their fill, they sat in a tight group away from the fire. Garx translated for Rone and when he voiced an idea, Garx also relayed the message to his soldiers in their native tongue. It would take a little time, but their aim was to use their small force to cause maximum disruption and casualties amongst the Huronian Army.

  * * *

  Sheer force of numbers dealt The Mortals a foul hand. Their skill at arms was magnificent, but outnumbered and encumbered by the ladders wide enough for one man only to advance onto the rampart was their downfall. Eventually they were defeated, and the ladders flung clear of the wall. Graff leaned against the battlements, mouth open and rasping, ragged breaths filling his desperate lungs. His face stung where an enemy blade had snicked his cheek. Had he not blocked in time, it would have taken his eye.

  And half my damn head as well, probably.

  He hawked and spat a glob of blood over the wall at the milling enemy far below. The red-cloaked Mortals were still aplenty down there. But for now, they'd ceased their efforts. Another few mass charges like that, and the wall would fall.

  Wendurlund artillery thundered behind him and cannonballs screamed overhead towards the decimated enemy battery units. Where once they'd seemed indomitable, their cannons lay mostly destroyed. Although a few continued firing, sending their rounds deep into Lisfort.

  “At least our lads have taken out their artillery,” panted a young man nearby.

  Graff straightened, gaining some control over his breathing. “Hardly, lad. We haven't even seen their mortar lines yet. The mortars can rain hell fire down upon us like something you've never seen.”

  “If that's the case then why haven't they used them already, Sarge?”

  Graff wiped his sword upon the red cloak of a dead enemy and then sheathed the blade. “They'll wait until they take the wall, and when the fighting is conducted house to house and street to street, they'll bring in the mortars to force us out into the open.”

  The young man remained silent, although over the next minute or two his flushed face took on a whiter pallor, his confident eyes now glinting with fear. “They'll never take the wall,” the soldier replied, a slight waver entering his voice.

  “Oh, mark my words, lad, they'll take the wall.” He gestured at the expanse before them. An expanse now marred with the presence of tens of thousands of enemy soldiers. “How could they not? We can hold them for a time, though.”

  “What's the point of fighting if we're simply going to lose?” another man spoke up on the other side of Graff.

  He chuckled. “Who said anything about losing?”

  “You did, just then Sarge!”

  “I said they'd take the wall. I said nothing about defeat. Our withdrawal from the wall is only the first step, lad.”

  “Why not just walk off the wall now then and save our losses?”

  “We're buying time. More than that I know not. But as you know from our mission brief before this hell storm started, we are to hold the wall as long as possible.”

  The friendly cannon shot smashed through another few enemy guns, ending their assault.

  Graff strode to the edge of the rampart and leaned out. He waved his hand to gain the attention of the mounted gunner standing amongst a crumple of dead bodies. “Elevation's good! Come left one hundred!”

  The gunner nodded and passed the bearings on. A powerful shudder vibrated through the rampart almost spilling Graff into thin air. He stepped back from the edge and turned. A battered ladder, chips and chunks gouged from the thick wood, slammed against the wall closely by another four.

  “Here they come again!” A soldier bellowed.

  Graff clamped a hand to his sword hilt and drew the weapon. His shoulder ached and his arm burned, but that was a small complaint. He stepped onto the outer edge of the battlement and glanced down. The Mortals were streaming up the ladders again like angry ants.

  He took a deep breath. “Ready yourselves!”

  Graff pushed his way through a throng of his soldiers and approached the closest ladder. The first red cloak burst into view, leapt clear of the ladder and snatched his sword from its scabbard. He grabbed a hold of the man's mail shirt and dragged him
over the edge of the battlement. Copying the move, one of his soldiers sent another Mortal tumbling to his death in a similar manner.

  “Make way!” a voice roared.

  An officer led a group of men carrying a steaming cauldron. They wore gloves and leather aprons to protect them from the hot contents should it accidentally spill. The small team approached a point in the wall where a merlon had been smashed from existence, stepped to the edge of the battlements and upended boiling oil. The steaming liquid streamed from the cauldron.

  Distant war cries morphed into high-pitched screams of agony. An archer, with flaming arrow attached to his bow, sent the projectile straight down after the oil. The screeches intensified and spread.

  Graff returned his attention to the nearest ladder, stabbed a red cloak through the throat and pushed his way towards the departing officer and his team. They'd be heading back to bring more boiling oil.

  “Sir!”

  The officer glanced over his shoulder. Graff caught up and walked alongside him. “Sir, can you bring the next batch of oil to one of the ladders?”

  “Sergeant, I know what you're going to say next. But the oil, and mind there's not that much left, is better being poured upon those wretches down below. It ruins their morale, not to mention kills them.” The man smirked.

  “Understood, but if we pour it on the ladders then have your bowman ignite the wood, it'll give those bastard wretches nothing to use to get up here.”

  The officer grunted but did not reply.

  Graff halted. “Sir, we can only hold off another two perhaps three waves of these Mortals. If we don't burn the ladders, the wall will be lost by sundown.”

  The officer stopped, fixed him with a baleful glare, and nodded. “I'll see what I can do, Sergeant.”

  Graff strode to his original position and paused. He'd been so fixated upon his section of the wall, he'd neglected to appreciate the other sergeants, officers, and the ranks in between who were commanding squads of soldiers in defence of their city. Ladders lined the length of the eastern wall. Red cloaks and general infantrymen streamed into view, one after the other. Many of them were killed before they could set boot upon stone, but small groups, particularly the red cloaks, had gained a purchase and forced their way into fighting positions.

  The combined voice of the Wendurlund artillery spoke as one, the noise drowning out the raucous of battle for a fleeting moment. The shot cut through the air above the rampart with crackling screeches. Graff darted to the edge of the wall, leaned against a merlon, and tracked the group of tiny cannonballs slicing the sky towards their target. They bounced off the ground, cutting deep gouges from the earth and smashed into cannons and soldiers alike.

  He ran to the opposite edge of the rampart and glared down at the mess of dead bodies littering the cobbled street below. He caught the eye of the mounted cannoneer.

  “On!” he shouted. “Repeat fire!”

  The man nodded and passed the message along.

  The soldiers defending the section of wall under his command were making a good account of themselves. They were tired, some were injured and there may not have been as many standing as there had been mere hours before, but they were holding their enemies at bay.

  For now, anyway.

  His lungs burned less so, and the muscles of his arms and legs were rested. Unlike the soldiers closest the action who were breathless, fighting for their lives. Anger's warmth pierced him, and he advanced through the throng, shouldering aside his soldiers to join the battle at the base of the closest ladder. One young man, red-faced, saliva hanging from his mouth in strands, gasping for breath, blocked a sword thrust with a clumsy stroke. Graff clenched a fist-full of the soldier's mail shirt and pulled him away from the fight, sidestepped him, and placed himself where the young man had been standing moments before.

  He batted aside the enemy's next attack and smashed the pommel of his sword against the Huronian's face. Blood exploded from his nose, and he doubled over, dropped his sword and cupped his hands to his nose. Graff delivered a powerful kick, sending the injured enemy soldier backward and over the wall, disappearing from view with a shriek.

  Graff sent his sword whistling through the air, the blade severing a man's head from his neck. He stepped over the body, stabbed another adversary and ducked below the wicked sweep of an axe that would have shattered his skull. He shoulder-barged the axe bearer, a bear of a man, and bounced clear of him like he was a child. He slipped on fresh blood and fell to the rampart beside the headless corpse he'd so recently dispatched.

  The giant stood above Graff, one boot either side of his hips and lifted the axe high above his head. A snarl stretched his lips apart, displaying missing and yellowed teeth beyond. He brought up his sword and stabbed it into the man's groin, feeling the metal bite deep. Bright blood streamed from the wound and down the blade, wetting his hand. The huge axe-bearer roared in fury and pain. He brought the axe down. Graff shifted to one side, but the boot of his enemy stopped him from moving any further. The heavy weapon bounced off stone beside Graff's head with a deafening ring and sending several sparks flying.

  Graff ripped the sword free and stabbed again, this time the sharp metal finding a home in axe-man's belly. The massive enemy fell to his knees and brought his weapon down for a second time. Graff attempted to pull his sword free, but his hand, slick with blood, slipped from the hilt. He lifted his arms and gripped the axe haft with both hands, stopping the blade inches from his nose. The curved blade glistened with fresh blood, a clump of hair stuck to one side, and the bottom edge of the steel was chipped. Graff looked beyond the weapon hovering above his head and focused upon the face of the dying enemy. Hatred, anger, and determination glinted from his narrowed eyes. But pain resided there as well.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Graff roared. “You going to kill me or not?”

  Axe man growled and muttered a string of foreign words. Warm liquid soaked through Graff's mail shirt and down his leggings. For a moment, he thought he'd pissed himself, but realisation dawned on him as the light of life departed the eyes of his giant enemy. His grip faltered, and Graff pulled the axe clear of the man's hand, throwing it clear. He pushed the dying titan away, the man collapsing onto his side and lying still, blood leaking out upon the stones beneath him.

  Graff left him to his dying and regained his feet, the lower half of his armour stained with blood. It looked like he'd been wading through a river of the stuff. He stooped, pulled clear his sword, ducked under a sweep that would have claimed his head, and kicked a man's knee out from under him.

  “Push them back!” Graff shouted. He swung his sword two handed, ensuring it did not slip from his grip. The sharp steel cleaved through the neck of an enemy. The man dropped his club, eyes wide and held his hands against the deep wound, from which spurted bright red blood. Graff took a step back and kicked the mortally wounded warrior back over the wall from whence he'd come.

  “Move forward!” he roared over his shoulder.

  His soldiers rallied behind him, and the Huronian warriors, red cloaks and general infantrymen alike, fell back. Those on the ladders started yelling for those below to climb back down. Panic swept their ranks, and they were soon overwhelmed and sent on their way to meet whatever maker in which they believed.

  * * *

  The sound of battle was almost inaudible, aside from the occasional chorus of artillery opening fire. A flock of tiny birds sat on a branch nearby twittering amongst themselves. Wind passed through the forest canopy in a soft whisper, competing with the distant shouts, screams and clamour. Garx waited in the middle of the road. His sword was sheathed, and he kept his hands by his sides. The supply wagon rumbled towards him, the driver had already seen him and called the heavy horse to slow his pace.

  Garx grinned a lifted a hand. “Ho there!”

  The wagon rolled to a halt, and the driver applied the wheel brake. “You're a long way from the battle, friend.” He looked Garx up and down. “Cavalry,
hey? Where's your horse?”

  “Lost him a few days back. Colic.”

  “Ah, sorry to hear that. Not a nice way for them to go.” He leaned forward and patted his own horse. “Not nice at all.” He frowned. “Still, the battle's that way.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Oh, I'm well aware. I'm on my way there now. How fares the fight?”

  The driver shrugged. “They're making slow progress. The Wendurlund soldiers holding the wall are fighting well. Their artillery is some of the finest I've seen. Better than I thought they would be, to be honest.” He paused and scratched the heavy beard covering his chin. “Still, once we start using the mortars, we'll take the walls within a day.” He cast a glance around him and lowered his voice. “I'm not sure why his majesty has not ordered the mortars forward before now.”

  “That's because he's a bloody madman and doesn't have a clue what he's doing.”

  The driver's eyes widened and his mouth dropped opened. “What?” he hissed. “You can't say that! Not if you want to keep your head, my friend.”

  “I'll say what I like about King Fillip, he's a raving lunatic.” Garx dropped his hand to his sword hilt and drew the weapon. “And I'm not your friend.”

  “That so?”

  “Step down from there. I'll take your wagon from here.”

  The driver's hand disappeared into a hidden pocket in his shirt and reappeared clenching a pistol. He pulled the hammer back and pointed the weapon at Garx. “I think not, friend.”

  He hesitated, staring at the dark barrel.

  “Now get out of my way!”

  Garx stepped forward, clenched a tighter grip on his sword and snarled. “Not going to happen I'm afraid. Either get down from there or die.”

  “Only one man dyin' today.”

  The pistol spoke with a loud bang, gun smoke hiding the driver from view. A loud buzz snapped past Garx's head, the small, round piece of lead close enough he felt the wind against his skin.