Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  Jad spread his hands. “I'm only passing on the wishes of his grace, Tork.”

  “The wishes of his grace will mean nothing when Lisfort is burning to the ground and her people slaughtered or put to the chains of slavery.”

  Tork pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “I understand that, Jad. But the wishes of one man, king or no, may be the end of our empire. Sometimes what King George doesn't know about won't harm him. It's easier to seek forgiveness and all that.”

  Jad shrugged. “You've been given your answer. Be satisfied with it.”

  He turned away and strode towards the door.

  “You must remain inside the city's walls by royal decree, Tork!” Jad called after him.

  He ignored the king's adviser, pulled the door open and stepped through. The pair of King's Own guards standing either side of the entrance came to attention with a simultaneous thud.

  “Tork, your unit will not leave Lisfort!” Jad shouted. “Do you understand me?”

  He allowed the guards to close the door behind him. He smirked. “Watch me.”

  * * *

  The wooden floor rattled with each bump in the road, the wagon's axles groaning and squeaking. Apart from the occasional gentle words of the driver, the men were silent, each lost in his own thoughts. Garx sat cross-legged concentrating on the rhythmic song of the cannons. After each deafening volley, the distant sound of battles upon the walls of Lisfort returned. Without any view of the battlefield, it was difficult to know exactly what was taking place. All he knew was that the Huronian Army had gained a foothold upon the eastern wall and were fighting hard. If they could push beyond the wall, they'd be able to open the Eastern Gate and allow entrance for the rest of the Huronian Army.

  If that happened, Lisfort would fall in a day, or if the madman king used his forces to his advantage, in a matter of hours. That couldn't be allowed to happen. Garx stretched his legs out, the dull ache in his thighs subsiding. If the Huronian Army was victorious, Garx and his soldiers would be put to death, not to mention the soldiers under his command, who had chosen to journey home to retrieve their families and spirit them away to safety.

  “Think we'll make any difference?” one man asked from further back in the wagon.

  “We're about to find out,” another answered.

  Garx cleared his throat. “One way or another the mad king must be stopped. We'll die if he wins, anyway. So, we may as well attempt to thwart him while we can.”

  “But, sir, why not simply run far from here? We'd be safe.”

  Someone swore. “You turnin' coward, Harton?”

  “No!” Harton said. “Just a simple question is all.”

  “And what do you think will happen if Lisfort falls to the mad king?” Garx asked. “You think they'll pack up their army and simply march home?”

  Silence met him in the darkness.

  He crossed his legs again. “No, of course they won't. They'll bring Lisfort into subjugation. Then they'll take over all Wendurlund and we'll be safe nowhere ever again. Except perhaps Shadolia.” Garx leaned back. “So, we could run for now and be safe for a time. But we'd always be looking over our shoulder. You want to live like that?”

  “No, sir,” Harton muttered.

  “So, we have a choice then. Do nothing and leave the Army of Wendurlund to deal with the assault on their own. Or, few as we are, try to help where we can.”

  His words were met with muttered agreement.

  The driver called a greeting, his voice muffled a little by the canvas canopy.

  “Here we go,” a man whispered just behind Garx.

  “What you hauling?” a gruff voice asked from outside.

  The men piled in the wagon were silent. Garx was unaware he'd been holding his breath until his chest started aching.

  “Rations for his majesty's army,” the driver said in a cheery voice.

  “Food! Sounds good to me,” the gruff voice wavered on the edge of a chuckle. “What happened to your shirt? That blood?”

  “No, my wife was experimenting with ochre and spilled a heap on our clean clothes. Haven't been able to get the damn stain out. This is the least stained shirt I own.”

  A long pause followed. “Is that so?”

  “On my life.”

  “Jump down, my lad, show me what you're hauling.”

  The driver's bench creaked and a thud resounded. “Fine. You don't believe me?”

  The question went unanswered.

  Oh, this isn't good.

  Garx rest a hand upon his knife, his fingers encircling the deer horn hilt.

  To their credit, the soldiers sitting behind Garx remained silent, although the soft whisper of a knife unsheathed from a rabbit hide scabbard teased his ears. The rear canvas flap was untied and loosened. The driver whistled a tune as he worked. Cracks of sunlight appeared between the tiny gaps between the ration boxes.

  “There you go. See?”

  The wagon rocked a little. “Looks good to me,” the guard's voice was much louder than it'd been, leading Garx to think the man had climbed up into the back of the wagon. One of the boxes slid clear, and Garx ducked down. “What have we here?”

  He withdrew his knife slowly.

  “That's preserved beef,” the driver said.

  “My favourite.” The box slid back into place casting the interior of the wagon into darkness once more.

  “Really? Too salty for me.”

  “You grow accustomed to it, waggoneer. You don't train in the field as often as us, I suppose.”

  A smirk touched the edges of Garx's mouth. The Huronian Cavalry, an elite unit, deployed with far more regularity than the foot sloggers.

  “True. That's something for which I'm thankful.”

  The wagon moved again, and the driver's bench creaked for a second time.

  “Well, on you go. Let's get these troops fed, shall we?”

  “My thanks!” the driver called. He clicked, the leather reins snapped, and they lurched forward.

  Garx let out a breath and sheathed his knife.

  “On you go!” the guard bellowed behind them, probably allowing the second wagon to pass through.

  “Gods that was close,” a whisper broke the silence.

  “I may need to change my drawers,” another soldier muttered.

  “Keep it down,” said Garx.

  The chatter died to silence.

  “Over this way, driver!” someone yelled in the distance.

  They changed direction, and the road became even more pot-hole riddled. A ration box slid clear and landed on Garx. He cursed and pushed it away, rubbing his arm.

  “Gods, who cut this road, a brain hurt blind man?” someone hissed.

  “I don't think we're on a road,” another said, his voice juddering with each vibration.

  Garx rolled his eyes. “What makes you think that?”

  His arse left the wooden floor, and then slammed back onto the hard surface again. Garx winced and adjusted his position. A grunt exploded from behind him.

  “Bloody hell, feels like a giant just pounded my arse cheeks!” a soldier grumbled.

  “Shut up, Barkod, no one wants to hear what you got up to on the weekend.”

  Suppressed laughter came from all sides.

  “Shut it!” hissed Garx.

  Apart from a soft chuckle, silence returned once again.

  “Alright driver, pull er up beside the others. Good to see you! Come and share a drink with us, then we'll help you unload.”

  “Sounds good!” the driver called.

  The wagon ground to a halt, and the squeak of the wheel brake pierced Garx's ears. The soldiers remained quiet and seated, listening idly as the horse was unhitched from the wagon and led away to join the other animals, which were probably kept in a makeshift paddock somewhere in the nearby vicinity.

  “We moving, sir?”

  “No,” Garx whispered.

  “Beggin' your pardon, sir, but when are we makin' a move? My arse has gone nu
mb.”

  “Then you shoulda stayed home on the weekend, Barkod,” a soldier whispered.

  “Shut it!” Barkod retorted, with a chuckle.

  “We wait for nightfall. Then we move. Make yourself comfortable.”

  * * *

  Rone sat upon the grass in the middle of the makeshift paddock. Two of the Huronian cavalry horses stood close by, dozing. The others were grazing in the distance. He cleaned his blunderbuss of blackened powder, ensured the hammer was oiled and moved with ease. He pushed a lightly oiled rag down the barrel, then loaded the weapon and placed it away. Withdrawing his musket, he unloaded it and commenced the cleaning process. When he'd finished, he inspected it for damage or malfunctioning components and when he was satisfied, he loaded the weapon. Sheathing it in the leather holster attached to the saddle at his feet.

  Cleaning weapons was always somehow cathartic to Rone, almost as if he was in some kind of meditative trance. Using a small amount of oil on a cloth, he rubbed the spear's tip until it shone. When he was satisfied, he tested the edge with a thumb for sharpness. Shifting closer to his saddle, he delved into one of the smaller pouches and came away with a sharpening stone. A few strokes on each edge returned the spear head to a lethal sharpness that would cut through almost anything. Placing both the stone and weapon away, he stood and stretched.

  Hot air blew against his cheek and he turned to face the horse sniffing his skin. The dark, intelligent eyes watched him, ears flicked forward waiting for a command. The animal knew something was about to happen, knew that before long he and those of his herd would be called to work once more. Rone stroked the soft nose.

  “Eat while you can, my friend.”

  He ran a hand along the shining flank. Other than a few words, Rone couldn't speak the Huronian language fluently, so he'd been unable to travel with Garx and his team of cavalrymen. Someone had to look after the horses left behind, so it was better for him to sit out the infiltration. When the time came, it would be up to him to make the horses ready so that he and his new comrades could make an escape.

  If their mission was successful, they'd have dealt a deadly blow to the Huronian Army, but it'd be at the expense of their identity. When night fell, he'd gather the horses together and tie them to the long hitching line in the centre of the temporary paddock, ready for the signal that would mean the small group of cavalrymen were withdrawing to his position. But for now, most of the animals ate their fill.

  When the sun sank in the west throwing a pink-streaked orange blanket across the sky, he led each horse to the hitching rope placed in the centre of the rudimentary paddock. He saddled each one, going through the same process with each. He pulled on the pommel, ensuring the girth was tight and that when the destrier's owner stepped into the stirrup, the saddle wouldn't slip sideways. He moved from one beast to the next, checking all the tack in the same way. The last war horse to accompany him was his own. Lifting the leather saddle onto the back of his destrier, he tightened the girth, tested it, tightened it a little more and then waited.

  “What will be the signal?” Rone had asked of Garx.

  “Oh, you'll know,” the officer had replied, a smile touching the edges of his mouth. “By the gods, you'll know.”

  * * *

  Night came, but it felt like a damn eternity had passed. The sound of battle had quietened, and the cannons from within Lisfort were mute. Although their hungry maws would be fed again with the dawn, no doubt. Garx moved into a crouch and felt his calf spasm. He sucked a breath in through clenched teeth and attempted to stretch out his leg. It seemed to help spirit away the pain. The crunch of boots across the forest floor towards them gave him pause. He knelt back down and pain shot through his calf, but he ignored it.

  “Lads!” a voice whispered from outside the wagon. “Hey, lads!”

  “We're here,” Garx replied through clenched teeth.

  “I convinced the others we'd unload the wagons in the morning.”

  Garx swivelled to face the rear of the wagon, and the group of soldiers behind him hidden within the blackness. “Time to move.”

  With the help of the soldier who had driven them into the midst of the enemy camp, they unpacked the ration boxes and one by one, leapt down. Some of them lay stretched out upon the ground, others rubbed aching legs or backs.

  Garx ignored the aches in his body. “Right, get yourselves together.” He took a few minutes to stretch out his calf.

  The group of soldiers, reinforced by those in the second wagon, gathered around.

  “We need to get out of these uniforms,” said Garx.

  “They have a number of dead placed in groups over there, sir,” the former driver pointed away into the forest.

  An army of campfires were visible beyond the forest where the Huronian military had setup for the night. In the far distance, groans, cries and screams of pain rent the night, no doubt where medics and surgeons were working to remedy the injuries of those wounded in battle.

  “What uniforms do the dead wear?”

  The driver grinned. “It appears we've been transferred to the artillery, sir.”

  Garx smiled. “Artillery it is. Lead the way.”

  The driver saluted. “Sir.” He strode away, the group following him.

  Within an hour all of the members of Garx's unit had replaced their cavalry uniforms with those of the dead artillery soldiers. They buried the cavalry uniforms under a blanket of long dead leaves and made their way back to the wagon to eat their evening meal and prepare for the coming day. It was going to be challenging, not to mention dangerous.

  * * *

  Garx awoke before dawn. He relieved himself against a tree, then strolled back to his soldiers. Many of them still slept. A few of them stirred. He stretched his back and rubbed a growing ache out of his left leg. His stomach was no longer willing to be ignored, and he levered the lids off several of the ration boxes in search of something palatable. While they hadn't commenced their jobs as would be gunners in the Huronian Artillery, he could afford to be picky in his choice of meal.

  Using his fingers, Garx ate the cold meal straight out of the ration box.

  “What you got there, sir?” one soldier whispered, squatting beside him.

  “Preserved bacon and boiled eggs,” he managed between mouthfuls.

  The man didn't look impressed and went in search of something else.

  Garx shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  When he'd finished eating, he downed a long pull of fresh water. He stood, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach and walked around those still deep in slumber, waking them with a gentle kick, tap, whisper, or shake of the shoulder. When his soldiers were sitting in a group eating and muttering between themselves, the eastern sky displayed a few spears of pink tinge.

  He knelt beside one young man and tapped him on the back. “What's wrong, lad?”

  “Not hungry, sir.”

  He recognised the voice from the darkness of the wagon. “You have to eat, Harton.”

  “I really don't feel like it.”

  “You might not, lad, but your body needs it. We may not eat a decent meal again for some time, so make the most of it.”

  Harton sighed and delved into a ration box.

  “Good man.” Garx stood and swept an eye over his soldiers. They were all eating. One of them talked in hushed tones while those close by chuckled.

  “What in the name of the gods is happening over here!” someone yelled.

  Garx whirled and spotted a man of medium height striding towards them. He was well-built and dressed in the dark garb of the Huronian Artillery. Dark stains coloured his face.

  “Breakfast!” he replied walking to intercept the newcomer's advance.

  “And who said you could break your fast?”

  “That little runt of an officer. I've forgotten his name.” Garx held up an open palm. “I mean no offence.”

  “You mean Brogat?”

  “Brogat, yes that's the man.”

  Th
e newcomer halted before Garx and nodded. “Very well. You artillery or bombardiers?”

  He hadn't taken much notice of the Huronian Artillery during his time in the army. He'd been too preoccupied with the endless missions and tasks given to the Huronian cavalry.

  What the hell's the difference?

  He didn't want to refrain from answering for too long so simply chose one. “Bombardiers.”

  “Well, you'll know that now it's your time to shine. We've done our bit and paid for it as well.” He gestured towards a destroyed cannon nearby. “So good luck to you bombardiers and I hope you give those bastards sheer bloody hell!”

  “Of course we will!” Garx grinned. He hoped it looked convincing.

  The newcomer nodded again, glanced over Garx's shoulder at the men staring back at him, turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Sir?” someone hissed.

  Garx looked back at the group of seated cavalrymen. “What?”

  “What was he talking about?”

  He shrugged. “No idea.” He strode back to them. “I guess we'll find out soon.”

  XII

  Graff sat against the wall, or what remained of it, one leg bent up, his forearm resting on his knee. He stretched his other leg out and rubbed at the muscles of his thigh. He was bone weary. His arms ached, his legs were heavy and salt from dried sweat made the skin of his face itchy.

  Half of the soldiers who'd been tasked with holding the eastern wall had now fallen. With dusk setting, the enemy had withdrawn from their efforts.

  And taken their damn ladders with them, thank the gods.

  Come the dawn, though, they'd be back. Of that he was sure.

  “How long can we hold, Sarge?” a young man asked from nearby.

  Graff looked at the soldier lying flat on his back, hands resting on his chest. Long dried blood spattered his armour and his sword lay upon the ground beside him.