Gritting his teeth, Tork stood in the saddle and used both hands in an attempt to drag free the spear, but the wooden haft was carried clear of his grasp. Might continued in a headlong gallop. Clenching his legs tight about Might's body, he leaned to one side in the saddle, allowing the enemy sword to cut through thin air beside his shoulder. Retrieving his blunderbuss, he reversed the weapon and used the butt stock as a club. The thick, polished wood shattered a soldier's face, bounced from a steel helmet, smashed the wind from one man, fractured an arm, and sent teeth sky bound. Then Might pushed clear of the Huronian force. Tork tilted forward in the saddle, clamping a hand to the pommel to right his balance. He heard the thud of Might's double-barrelled kick connecting with a Huronian skull.
He grasped his visor and pushed it upward, but it was stuck. Using two hands, he pushed the visor up and away from his eyes. With a stubborn screech, the visor shifted, opening his field of vision from the narrow horizontal slot he'd been enjoying up to that point. The dent left by the axe had ruined the hinges of his visor. Turning in the saddle, relief washed over him. Roland was still galloping nearby, although a deep gash in his forehead had allowed a river of blood to wash down his face.
“Swine array!”
The bugle's high-pitched tune sang its song, and the arrow head formation morphed in shape, leaving the beleaguered enemy force fast departing behind them. Tork led the formation around in a wide arc.
“Canter!”
The command was given, and the horses were allowed a little reprieve. The formation continued to come about towards the isolated group of Huronian infantry in the near distance. Tork estimated at least another thousand or so had met their maker. Close to half their number had been systematically taken out of the fight in short order by the King's Own unit. Overconfident of their abilities, and realising the King's Own hadn't yet finished with them, the enemy group turned and fled towards Lisfort and the safety of their comrades.
“Trot!”
Again, the horses slowed.
“Walk!”
Breathing slowed and tired muscles regained strength.
“Sir, cavalry to our rear!” shouted a man from the back of the swine array formation.
“Halt! About turn!”
The rear rank became the front, and Tork galloped around the swine array, closely followed by Roland, to re-join the front once more. In the distance, trotting towards them came a large force of Huronian cavalry.
This fight won't be so easy.
* * *
Graff kicked the soldier from him and dashed forward, shoulder barging him over the wall and into thin air, where he fell to his death. The advance up the ladders and onto the wall had slowed since the appearance of the King's Own on the open plain below.
The next Huronian didn't appear for some moments, but when he did finally negotiate the last few rungs of the ladder and attempted to scramble onto the wall, a spear stabbed through his throat. He slid from view, gurgling, arms flailing.
The eastern wall was now teaming with soldiers of the Wendurlund Army, cheering and shouting in support of the galloping formation of King's Own. They'd dealt serious damage to the enemy mass at the base of the wall, but with many thousands of foot soldiers now in pursuit, even with their speed and agility, Graff feared the mounted warriors would be soon overrun.
How wrong he'd been. He found himself shouting and cheering with the soldiers around him and watched in awe as the outnumbered King's Own went through the chasing enemy throng like a dose of salts. The blob of enemy infantry, isolated and alone far out on the flat plain fled for their lives. They ran towards the wall and their comrades. When the King's Own formation turned back to prepare for another charge at the enemy soldiers, the Huronians had started climbing the ladders in earnest.
No longer were they fighting to take the wall, they were attempting to overrun the rampart to escape the advance of the deadly King's Own.
“Gods, here they come again!” Graff roared. “Prepare yourselves!”
The enemy soldiers streamed up the ladders and made purchase on several sections of the wall. Fear caused them to fight with angry, wild, carefree abandon and it made them dangerous. Almost each enemy troop fought like some crazed berserker from Shadolian myth. Where one fell, three more replaced him.
Graff ducked a sword stroke, stabbed a soldier in the midriff and stepped away to prepare for the next assault. His boot landed in a pool of blood, and he slipped upon the slick stone, almost losing his footing. On each side of him battled men under his command. They fought well, accounting for at least two, or perhaps three enemy dead per soldier. But it wasn't enough to win the day.
He blocked a spear thrust, grabbed the wooden haft before the weapon could be withdrawn and pulled the enemy soldier to him. Graff's sword slid into the man's chest, grating against rib bones. He pulled the spear free of the dying man's grip and hurled it back at the enemy host spewing over the ladders and onto the rampart. It took a man in the shoulder. Pain lined his face, and he fell from view. In a slight gap between the advance of the Huronian Army, a giant force of enemy cavalry advanced towards the unit of King's Own. He would dearly liked to have watched that battle, but his men were fighting for the wall. They battled for their city and their families, but it was still not enough.
The day is lost.
* * *
Garx pushed one of the mortars, aided by a small team of his soldiers. On either side of him, small groups of the former Huronian cavalry, now dressed in the uniforms of bombardiers, strained against the weight of their mortars. The weapon was placed upon a set of miniature wagon wheels for easy manoeuvrability upon the battlefield. One of the wheels butted against a rock, and the forward momentum stopped.
“Easy to move, my smelly arse!” roared one of Garx's troops.
“Shut it!” Garx panted. “And push!”
The group heaved as one, and the wheel edged over the rock with the speed of a snail. Then they were underway again. The thunder of hooves overcame the squeak of the axle, indicating the mortar commander was inbound.
“You lads, speed it up! The rest of the mortar crews are already in position!” shouted the officer galloping past.
“Good for them,” one man growled.
The mortar itself was nothing special. The barrel was short. Were it resting upon the ground, the entire weapon would only reach an average man's hip. But the maw of the barrel was huge, the mortar rounds requiring two soldiers to lift them into place. They eventually trundled the mortars into position, in line with the other bombardier teams.
“Took your bloody time!” someone yelled from down the line.
“You don't, I hear,” one of Garx's soldiers roared.
“Oh? Says who?”
“Your wife!”
Laughter washed over the area.
Garx darted forward and grabbed the soldier by the arm. “That's enough,” he hissed. He turned. The man his soldier had insulted was storming towards them. “You!” he yelled, pointing at the red-faced bombardier. “Forget it and return to your post. Now! I'll take care of this.”
Garx leaned closer to his soldier, his face murderous, teeth bared. “Do you know how hard I had to work to stop from laughing?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Good work, lad, keep it up.” He slapped the soldier on the back of the head, his face still lined with mock fury.
“Shut your mouths before I have you all whipped!” the officer roared. “Change elevation to five notches. Target is the city of Lisfort!”
“What does five notches mean?”
He and his soldiers observed the other crews and how they adjusted their mortars.
“You down the end there!” the officer withdrew his sabre and pointed it at them. “Stop dawdling and get to work! Adjust your elevation!”
“Right, something to do with this wooden pin, here.” Garx took hold of the peg and pulled it clear. The mortar barrel swivelled upward, and he pushed the pin back into place before it could r
otate any further. He made a show of kneeling behind the mortar, closing one eye and lining it up with the distant city. “Looks good.”
“Does it, sir?”
He shrugged. “We'll find out soon,” he whispered.
“Load!”
Powder was poured down the barrel, but Garx realised too late that the more experienced bombardiers were measuring the powder in a small bucket, prior to pouring it down the barrel. Pairs of soldiers lifted the massive, lead mortar rounds into the barrel.
“Ram!”
Two or three soldiers were required to use the thick ramrod. Five or six rams was enough to pack the ball into the pillow of powder beneath.
“And fire!”
Garx pulled a thick mitten on and snatched a red-hot poker from a fire nearby. He held the glowing tip to the fuse, which sputtered to life with a soft hiss. He shoved the poker back into the coals. An earth-shattering boom exploded from the mortar and the round scudded through the sky and disappeared from view. He didn't need to be an expert to know the heavy lead ball had overshot its target by a large distance. A series of much tamer booms echoed down the firing line, and the rounds soared through the sky heading straight for Lisfort.
The mortars either side of Garx, crewed by his soldiers roared to life, their noise causing the ground to vibrate. The elevation peg on one mortar tumbled free, and the barrel swung on its axis. The huge ball shot through the air in the opposite direction of the target, whilst gun smoke from the second blotted everything from view.
“Just what in the hells is going on down that end of the firing line?” the officer shouted.
Garx tried to reply, but all that left his mouth was a series of coughs.
“One round went behind us! Another overshot Lisfort. What were you aiming at? The fucking moon?”
“Apologies, sir!” Garx said. “Won't happen again.”
“No, it bloody won't. Same elevation, apart from you lot down the far end. Fix it up! Powder!”
Garx knelt behind the mortar, not that he could see anything through the cloud of gunpowder still pervading the area. “Bring her down!” he said loud enough the officer would have heard. Although he did not change the elevation. “Right, that's good. Get her loaded.”
More powder fed the hungry mortars, shot was rammed into the bed of powder. Fresh fuses were pushed into the recess and hot pokers were held in place until soft, sibilant hisses indicated the mortars were about to speak once more.
And speak they did, all save those of Garx and his soldiers, those mortars screamed, vibrating the ground with their powerful voices. All three rounds rocketed into the air, overshooting Lisfort by a good margin.
“You bombardiers at the end of the firing line, cease fire!”
“Apologies, sir,” Garx said. “But we don't have measuring buckets. We're guessing.”
“Runner. More powder canisters!”
“Yes, sir!”
Garx rubbed his eyes, attempting to alleviate the grit of burnt gunpowder from settling there. “And, sir?”
“What!”
“We're out of powder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he want us to draw a picture?” a soldier whispered from close by.
“Shut it!” Garx said.
The cloud of gunpowder cleared, and Garx was able to make out the mounted officer trotting towards them. The man brought his mount to a halt nearby.
“How much bloody powder did you use? You're lucky not to have blown yourselves up!” he held his forehead in his hand. “Fine, send a few of your men to retrieve more powder. The rest of you continue to fire on Lisfort at your will!”
“Yes, sir!”
Garx waited for the officer to turn away and make his way further down the line in the opposite direction. Then he grabbed the closest soldier and dragged him closer. It was Harton. The soldier's face was painted black with spent gunpowder.
“Harton, you and I are going to find where the powder storage is –”
“And bring more back, sir?”
“No,” Garx said. He pointed at the poker buried in the glowing coals close by. “I'm going to blow the fucker up.”
He strode through the thinning cloud of gun smoke, blinking the sting from his eyes. He cleared the haze, the poker clenched in his gloved hand. He took a deep breath of fresh air and let it out in a rush. If life had taught Garx one thing, it was that to move with confidence and a purpose made one invisible. It was a good five-minute walk to the powder wagons, so there was a chance they might be intercepted before they reached their target. Advancing with meek steps and a posture worthy of the defeated drew attention. He glanced behind him. Harton followed, staring at the ground, his wide eyes darting around in search of some enemy that had not yet presented itself.
“Head up, lad! Back straight, look ahead, stop trying to mimic a stunned fish.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'm no hero.”
“Harton, a hero is only ever a person who learned to harness their fear. You can't be a hero without fear, or even terror lining your guts first.”
That helped. The young lad pulled his shoulders back, and his wide eyes narrowed.
“Good lad.”
The mortar line roared to life behind them and more rounds were sent spearing through the sky to wreak havoc amongst the city of Lisfort. He spotted a supply wagon in the distance. The canvas canopy had been stripped from it, leaving the curved bare wooden ribs visible. On the floor of the wagon were stacked barrels of gunpowder three high. Two soldiers sat by the rear wheel, talking.
“That's as far as you need to come, Harton. Stop behind this tree and don't advance any further. You hear?”
“Sir!”
Garx left his soldier behind. The mortar officer, too preoccupied with his firing line, hadn't noticed that Harton had stopped, or even that Garx carried an implement that could blow the powder wagon to kingdom come. Heat continued to bleed from the poker, and the metal's tip, once bright red, was turning a dull orange.
He walked past the pair of soldiers deep in conversation and stepped up onto the rear of the wagon. The axles squeaked under his weight, drawing attention from the two men nearby.
“Oi!” one shouted. “You can't bring that thing here.” He pointed at the smoking poker, the orange glow fast fleeing the tip. “You'll bloody kill us all!”
Garx jumped back down and walked to the pair. “Oh shit, forgot I had this with me,” he waved the piece of steel in front of him. “I just need a barrel of powder.”
The closest soldier stooped and picked up a cow hide parchment and quill. He lowered the feathered end of the quill in Garx's direction. “Fine, but place that bloody poker on the ground first.”
Garx grinned and continued advancing. “But of course.”
He lunged and buried the poker in the soldier's neck, the hot steel skewering his throat in one clean, sizzling stab. He withdrew the makeshift weapon, allowing the mortally wounded man to drop to his knees, clutching the terrible, cauterised wound at his throat. The second man withdrew a pistol, levelled it, and fired.
Agony exploded in his guts, and Garx stumbled backward. He lost his balance, fell on his arse and spat blood. The soldier reloaded the pistol with rushed, nervous movements. He held a hand to his abdomen and winced as fresh pain lanced his body. His fingers came away painted with fresh, bright red blood.
A dull, staccato of thuds closed upon Garx and for a moment he thought it might have been the mortars firing once more. But movement caught his attention. Harton sprinted past him and shoulder barged the soldier making ready to fire a second shot. The young cavalryman followed his adversary to the ground and opened the soldier's throat with a knife.
All strength fled Garx, and he fell to the ground, staring up at the clear sky. A small cloud drifted above at a lazy speed. The pain in his midriff was easing, but then numbness was spreading throughout his body, so it was little wonder. A shadow blocked out the sun and Harton stood above him, blood dripping from his han
ds.
“Sir!” the young lad's voice was muffled. “Sir, you have to get up.”
Garx attempted to sit, but fresh agony exploded, and he groaned. The mitt was ripped clear of his hand as was the poker. The young cavalryman stepped beyond him and climbed onto the wagon. Garx held up a hand to try and stop his soldier. He should be the one to die, not Harton. The lad had so much of life left to live. Detaching the lid of the closest barrel, Harton threw it clear. Taking the poker in a reverse grip, Harton held the smoking tip above the exposed powder.
He tried to speak, attempted to tell Harton to stand down, but all that left his mouth was a stream of blood. Ignoring the pain spearing his body, Garx forced himself into a kneeling position, gathered his legs beneath him and stumbled to his feet. Blood dripped from his chin, soaking his armour. He held an open hand at Harton and shook his head.
“What in the gods are you doing?” a distant voice boomed. “Stop!”
Harton glanced up, caught Garx's eye and grinned. “So long, sir. It was a pleasure.”
“Hang on, lad!” he said. He spat blood and groaned as new agony attempted to double him over. Climbing onto the rear of the wagon, he pushed with his legs, forcing himself onto his stomach on the wooden floor. He cried out, blood oozing from his lips. “Help me up,” he said, the words bubbling upon his lips.
Harton grasped him under the arms and assisted him to his feet.
He grabbed the poker, and Harton resisted. The skin of his hand sizzled, and the stench of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. The pain was intense but was nothing compared with the gut shot slowly taking away his life.
“Give it here,” whispered Garx.
Harton released his grip.
“Get you gone, boy! This is my task and mine alone.”
“But, sir.”
“Go. Now!”
The young cavalryman cursed and leapt down. He ran towards the distant mortar line.
A wracking cough took hold of him, each one forcing blood spraying from his mouth. “And Harton!” he shouted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
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