Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  He sucked a breath in through his teeth and turned his attention to the darkening sky. “Maybe another day. Perhaps two at best. But no more.”

  “We're weakening them, though,” the young warrior said in a tone of voice that gave way to the fact he was attempting to convince himself.

  He shrugged. Graff'd been soldiering long before the lad sprawled out nearby had been born. What the boy spoke was the truth, to a point. “Just not fast enough,” he added. “Unless something changes, we can hold for another day or two.”

  The smell of burnt wood and charred flesh still hung in the air, as did the ear-piercing screams of Huronian soldiers when the boiling oil had been poured onto the ladders and then set alight. Brutal, but effective. Graff tried to shake the inhuman noise from his mind, but the screeching of dying men continued to bounce around his skull.

  “The mess is open!” a voice yelled from far below.

  “Half you lot head on down to eat. The rest of us will stand guard. We'll swap once you've finished.”

  “I'm not hungry, Sarge,” a man muttered. “I'll stay up here.”

  “Reckon I'll vomit if I smell roast meat,” a second man said.

  Graff pushed himself to his feet and winced. He used all his inner strength to stop crying out when his left leg cramped. “Go and eat!” he roared. “You might not feel hungry now, but you'll thank me for it tomorrow. Get some food in your guts, even if you don't feel hungry!”

  Some of the soldiers around him grumbled or tutted, but they did as they were told. He turned away from the lines of warriors descending from the wall down various lines of steps, which were still intact and leaned against the wall. Where there had once been merlons and crenels, there was now raw, jagged rock. Parts of the rampart itself in some cases had been cut away by cannon shot.

  “One more day,” he muttered. “Then they'll be inside the city.”

  “And we'll be fighting from house to house and street to street,” a voice finished.

  He noticed an officer standing beside him.

  “We won't be, sir.”

  “Oh?” one eyebrow arched. “And why not, Sergeant? You planning to go somewhere?”

  “No, sir. We'll be dead.”

  The eyebrow descended, and the officer's eyes widened a little. “Yes, well, I'm off to eat.”

  “Help yourself, sir.” He watched the man's departing back. “Might be it's your last supper,” he muttered.

  * * *

  Several horses snorted, and one pawed at the cobbled street, impatient and eager to be underway.

  “Open the gate,” Commander Tork said.

  The guards glanced at one another. One took an interest in his own feet. The other held Tork's stare. “We can't, sir. We were warned that the King's Own might try this. The king has ordered that –”

  “Open...the...gate.”

  “But, sir, we'll be whipped within an inch of our lives and be out of a job, not to mention homeless.”

  Tork nudged Might forward. The war horse complied. His large, shod hooves clopped upon the road until the seventeen hand animal stood directly in front of the guards. One guard took a step back.

  “There's an enemy out there that will very likely breach the walls soon. When they do, you'll die screaming on the end of a sword.” A slight smile touched his lips. “Although on the upside, you won't have to worry about being homeless. Tell your superior you were overpowered and opened the gate under duress.”

  The guard sighed and nodded. “Alright, sir. I'm not happy about it, but I'll do it.”

  “I shall take the blame if anything is said. Well,” he smiled, “if we return, that is. Open the gate as quietly as you can.”

  The drop bar was craned clear of the massive doors. Then, inch by inch, the Northern Gate creaked open. When it was wide enough to allow three horses to ride abreast, the guards ceased from opening the gate any further.

  He pushed Might onward, and the destrier walked through and out into the darkness, closely followed by Roland, Tork's bugler. Tork was careful to maintain the pace at a steady walk. At a gallop, or even a trot, one thousand horses would be heard by the Huronians on the eastern side of the city. Noise tended to travel further after the sun retired.

  When the group of King's Own were clear of the city, the gate was closed, and the drop bar craned gently back into place. Tork turned his soldiers to the east, following the city's wall around towards where the battle had raged for the past few days. King George would not be happy, to say the least.

  If I survive, I'll probably be whipped within an inch of my life and cast from my home.

  He sniffed and relaxed in the saddle.

  Oh well, too late to turn back now. When the enemy is at the gates, one does not hide inside and hope for the best.

  The stars blotted the dark sky like an infinite black, glistening blanket. The formation of mounted warriors hugged the wall. Tork drew them to a halt in the blackness out of sight of the enemy. Come dawn, they'd hit the enemy like a battering ram.

  * * *

  The eastern sky was gun-metal grey, the sun's advance still more than an hour away. Yet onward they came, their war cries piercing the once still, cool morning air. He guessed it'd take the Huronian foot sloggers a good five minutes to reach the eastern wall. By the time they'd placed their ladders, commenced climbing, and reached the wall to join battle, the sun should be kissing the horizon.

  I can only hope, anyway. I don't fancy fighting in the dark.

  “Look lively, lads!” Graff shouted.

  The closest soldier, sprawled out on his side snoring was unlucky enough to receive a sharp tap with Graff's boot. “Up, lads!”

  Other soldiers whose turn it'd been to stand watch were also shouting warnings. Exhausted warriors were ripped from slumber. Sharp, fear-filled reality settled into place where carefree sleep had once resided. Swords were drawn, some given one last sharpen. Spears were readied, clubs leaned against what remained of the wall and tired, aching muscles stretched.

  “Ready yourselves!”

  They'd changed their tactics a little. The ladders were pushed clear of the wall immediately, giving the Wendurlund troops precious time while wearing out their Huronian adversary. The soldiers holding Lisfort's eastern wall no longer possessed the energy to push clear ladders teaming with climbing enemy warriors.

  Graff and the remaining sergeants and officers much preferred their men withhold their waning energy for combat. The overwhelming barrage of war cries pervading the eastern side of the city gave evidence as to how close the enemy were to commencing the day's fighting. A ladder came soaring through the darkness, slammed against the stone, bounced once and then settled.

  “Push it clear, lads!” Graff roared.

  A team of men gathered on one side of the ladder and pushed it away. The thing slid sideways, gathering momentum and smashed into another which had just been placed against the wall. Both went shearing clear of the wall and disappeared into the darkness below. Ladders up and down the wall all met a similar fate, aside from one, which had managed to wedge in a large crack in the wall. Despite their attempts to lift it clear, the Wendurlund troops could not budge it. With each passing minute, and with more enemy warriors beginning the long climb, the ladder became heavier, until the soldiers stopped their attempts to lift or push the ladder. Preparing instead to fight their fast approaching adversary. The head of the first Huronian was shattered like a melon with a sickening strike from a club. He fell away, limp. The next died with his neck half-severed. The third and fourth met with the wrong end of a razor-sharp spear head. But the fifth, a bull of a man wielding a double headed battle axe, smashed Wendurlund soldiers clear and jumped onto the rampart. His comrades oozed over the ladder and followed him in quick succession like ants.

  Graff watched the fight further down the wall and couldn't help but admire the axe-wielding brute. He appeared unstoppable. A loud thump and vibration moving up through his feet brought his attention back to his section of wa
ll. The ladder had reappeared in its original position.

  “Send it back where it came from!” Graff shouted.

  Again, the ladder was pushed sliding from the wall. The eastern sky was seared with shades of pink and orange, dim light now gracing the land with its presence. He stepped onto the jagged, raw edge of what had once been a crenellation and peered down the sheer drop of the wall just forward of his boots.

  Lucky heights don't bother me.

  The Huronian army, visible as a dark smear upon the ground below, continued to bellow their war cries. Intermittent musket shots rang out, but they were nowhere near Graff. Besides, a musket ball drilling a hole through his skull might not be such a bad thing given events to come, if the wall was breached. The ladder was lifted back into an upright position, and then flung forward, towards where Graff stood. He jumped back onto the rampart.

  “Prepare yourselves! The ladder's back!”

  It bounced onto the wall, and soldiers immediately teamed around it, attempting to push it clear, but it wasn't budging. Graff darted forward, leaned out over the wall. The Mortals were back. The red cloaked demons were already halfway up the ladder and ascending at a run.

  “The Mortals are coming!”

  “Gods save us,” one man muttered.

  A young soldier nearby licked his lips, eyes wide, sweat shone upon his forehead.

  “Remember their name!” Graff roared. “They are called The Mortals. It means they can be killed!”

  The first red-cloaked Huronian burst into view and was upon the wall readying to jump onto the rampart, sword in hand, when Graff's blade cleaved his head clear of his neck. The corpse dropped from view.

  “You see?” Graff shouted.

  The second Mortal leapt clear of the ladder and met Graff's boot, sending him out into thin air. Graff's sword skewered the guts of the third.

  “They can die!” he panted. “Nothing to be scared of.”

  Shouting war cries of their own, the warriors under Graff's command surged forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with him.

  * * *

  Dawn announced its presence with a smear of pink across the horizon. A glow of light in the centre of the eastern skyline told of the sun's advance. Tork pushed Might on and trotted clear of the King's Own formation, halted and turned back to face them. He stood in his stirrups, held his arms above his head and made slow, deliberate hand signals.

  I am the centre. Single file. No war cry. At the trot.

  Tork slammed his helmet's visor down into place with a metallic clap. His soldiers followed suit. He guided Might around to face away from his troops and urged the war horse into a trot. Roland accelerated alongside him, bugle in his hand.

  He didn't need to cast a glance over his shoulder to know his soldiers were following in a tight formation. They negotiated further around the slow curving wall, and the noise of battle increased in volume with each hoof fall. Tork stood in his stirrups and signalled canter. Might's stride lengthened, and the ground beneath slid by at speed. Remaining standing in the stirrups, he noticed bright hues of orange had joined the pink, and the first hint of the blazing ball kissed the horizon, sending shards of light spearing through the sky.

  The battle hove into view around a bend in the city's wall. Tork drew his arm back and snapped it forward. Full charge!

  Might's gait chewed up the ground, blankets of grass blurring by beneath Tork's feet. He swivelled in the saddle to ensure Roland was with him. The bugler was on his left flank. His soldiers snaked out behind him in single file, thundering across the terrain, a light cloud of dust rising into the air. The enemy infantry assaulting the eastern wall of Lisfort hadn't seen the unit of King's Own. They were focused on taking the wall, the noise they were making drowning out the powerful drumming the thousand war horses galloping to their rear created.

  Tork guided Might within a stone's throw of the enemy soldiers. When he was sure those behind him at the front of the single file formation were in line with the enemy, he turned to Roland and rotated his visor up, clear of his face. “Rolling blunderbuss! Right flank!”

  Roland lifted the instrument to his lips. The piercing call of the bugle cut through the battle's clamour. Blunderbusses roared their fury one after the other. The King's Own warriors only opened fire once they'd reached the enemy troops laying siege to Lisfort. The continuing staccato of blunderbuss sent relentless lead pellets amongst the Huronian adversary. Men fell in their scores and as the blunderbusses persisted, the attention of the Huronian Army was turned to their rear. Tork stood in his stirrups to see over the heads of those who followed immediately behind him. The very last King's Own soldier galloped into view, pulled his blunderbuss into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, then swerved away from the enemy soldiers, to re-join his unit.

  “Swine array!”

  The bugle sang the command, and the long, snake-like single file formation changed shape as if by magic. Those at the front slowed to a trot, the middle proceeded at a canter, and the very rear continued in a gallop. In less than a minute the swine array had circled around and was facing the Huronian infantry. They advanced at a walk, allowing the war horses to recover their breath.

  Tork, who'd remained standing, stared at the distant Huronian Army proper still deployed far from Lisfort. No response to the presence of the King's Own had yet been employed. He'd expected a cavalry charge at the very least.

  “Sir, they're charging!” the bugler's voice forced him to face the front again.

  What looked to be near five thousand infantry ran towards them, possibly in the hopes of surrounding and destroying Tork's outnumbered unit.

  “Split four!”

  Roland gave the command, and the swine array formation turned instantly into four neat formations, each row twenty soldiers across and ten deep.

  “Halt! Reload!”

  There was no use wasting energy when the enemy were doing just that to close the distance. When the charging enemy, roaring their war cries and insults were halfway to the King's Own unit, the blunderbusses were reloaded and holstered. Warriors sat upon their destriers in silence, watching the approaching threat.

  “Muskets! Hold fire!”

  Men pulled clear their muskets from the leather holsters just forward of each soldier's right knee and laid the weapon across saddle pommels. Index fingers were placed outside the trigger guards, and the wait continued. The enemy mass was now almost upon the grossly outnumbered King's Own unit. In stark contrast to the Huronian charge, the only noise issuing from the King's Own formations were the occasional snort or nicker of a horse, a stamp of a hoof here, the swish of a tail there. Tork appraised his warriors and pride swelled. They held firm, fear finding no resting place.

  He turned his attention to Roland. “Fighting withdrawal!”

  The piercing bugle call cut through the wall of noise issuing from the Huronian charge. Muskets opened fire from the front rank of each formation. The rank broke left and right, galloping clear to re-join at the rear of the formation to commence reloading. The new front rank opened fire and copied the move, clearing out of the way so the next rank could bring their weapons to bear upon the charging enemy. Every five seconds, eighty rounds were sent hissing through the air to embed in soft, Huronian flesh.

  Within two minutes, more than one thousand enemy soldiers were dead or dying without the loss of a single King's Own soldier. Running out of ground between his unit and the closing enemy charge, Tork's hand was forced. “Withdraw! Gallop! Swine Array!”

  The four separate formations conducted an about turn, accelerated into a gallop and merged into a single swine array formation, leaving a trail of dust where they had once stood. The exhausted Huronian soldiers stopped to regain their breath.

  Cool wind streaked through Tork's open visor and teased his sweat plastered head. He guided the charging swine array around to face the isolated group of enemy infantry. Far from the wall of Lisfort and the safety of their comrades, and too far from the main Huronian for
ce, they'd be easy pickings for the King's Own.

  “Arrow-head!”

  Tork, Roland following directly behind him, formed the tip of the arrow-head, diagonal left and right flanks snaking out behind him.

  “Battle at will!”

  Tork reached forward, lifted clear his blunderbuss and pulled it into his shoulder. Clenching his thighs tight to Might's body, he ensured he didn't slide clear of the saddle. He stared down the metal sights at the closest Huronian soldier hunkered down behind his shield, wide eyes peering at him above the flat piece of metal. Tork squeezed the trigger. The cloud of gunpowder spewing from the wide barrel and thundering boom occurred simultaneously, leaving his ears ringing. Then he slammed into the enemy ranks, Might hardly slowing. The warhorse bit one man's face clear of his skull, trampled another, barged a third out the way to fall beneath Roland's destrier.

  A rolling thunder and crackle of blunderbusses and muskets echoed out behind him.

  “OBRAGARDA!”

  The rest of the arrow-head formation struck the Huronian force like a sledge hammer. Tork dropped his blunderbuss into the leather holster and withdrew his spear. He stabbed it into a soldier's neck and ripped it clear of the terrible wound before Might galloped by the dying man and momentum could sweep the weapon out of Tork's hands.

  Leaning forward in the saddle, he thrust the spear, the weapon burying deep into a warrior's gut. Tork twisted the haft and dragged it clear, the smooth wood almost ripped clear of his grasp. A long-handled axe swept straight for him. The heavy weapon bounced from his helmet with a metallic explosion that snapped back his head and left his ears ringing. The dent the axe head left pressed against the skin of his forehead.

  Clamping the spear between his thigh and the saddle, Tork pulled clear his musket, aimed it one handed into the mass of enemy soldiers teaming in front of him and pulled the trigger. He dropped the spent weapon back into the leather holster and took the spear back up, stabbing it down at a wounded soldier on his knees. The spear slid through the soldier's leather armour and pierced the skin of his shoulder and embedded deep into his chest, parallel with his spine.