Warlord

by Keith McArdle

  The lad stopped, turned.

  “Fight hard, boy!”

  Harton touched a clenched fist to his chest. Then he ran.

  “Fight hard,” he muttered.

  “Oi! You! Stop this instant or we'll shoot!”

  He ignored the voice, as he did the musket blasts. One round took him through the calf.

  He looked at the small group of guards, his lips stretched wide in a death's head grin. “I'll see you in hell.”

  The guard commander raised his pistol. Garx rammed the smoking poker deep into the gun powder barrel.

  * * *

  Graff slashed, stabbed, blocked, kicked and punched. His soldiers fought just as hard, their ferocity unmatched by their adversary. The Huronian Army continued to push onto the rampart, though. He kicked one man's knee out from under him, and the disabled opponent disappeared beneath the feet of his comrades.

  A series of deep booms echoed out over the plains, and the rounds, much larger than the previous cannon balls, streaked high above the heads of those battling for the wall. Graff only caught a glimpse of them out the corner of his eye. The massive balls of lead were heading into the deep heart of Lisfort, where they would, no doubt, smash apart buildings and cause fresh chaos.

  The next warrior leapt at Graff, forcing the sergeant back. The rampart was only ten yards wide, so he was aware to maintain his balance and not stumble too far towards the rear edge. To do so would see him fall to his death. Clenching a fistful of the Huronian's chain mail shirt, he dragged the man close, clamped his teeth onto his ear, and bit down until he felt the gristle give way. The man's high-pitched scream exploded in Graff's ear. He threw his enemy away and spat clear the appendage. Stepping forward, he rammed his sword into the man's guts, withdrew the blade, and met the next attack on the forefoot.

  What sounded like a god striking a bass drum rolled over Lisfort. The stones beneath Graff's feet vibrated with such force he lost his balance. He'd heard stories told about earth quakes, but he'd never experienced one. His back hit the rampart's hard surface and his breath left him in a rush. The sword went skidding from the safety of his fingers. Opening his mouth, he breathed in, but no air filled his chest. He noticed almost all the warriors had lost their feet, as well.

  Rolling onto his knees, he stood and darted the few yards to his fallen weapon, scooping it up. Desperation flooded him, and he attempted to inhale again. This time fresh, cool air quenched him. He stabbed one warrior attempting to clamber to his feet, hacked a head clear, kicked another from the wall. He stared over the mass of soldiers still finding their feet and noticed a thick pall of spent gun-powder sweeping the distant Huronian army blotting the infinite camp from view.

  He grinned, brought down his sword in a merciless arc, and another head was swept clear of a neck. “It appears their comrades blew themselves up! On your feet, lads!”

  Many of the soldiers under his command were already standing and taking the fight to their adversary anew. A high-pitched sound cut through the sky and a series of loud blasts rent the air. The Huronian soldiers so close to taking the wall backed away. Some even climbed onto the ladders and descended towards the safety of the ground below, shouting and pleading with those beneath to do the same. A war cry erupted soon after. He knew it well and relief washed over him.

  The King's Own sprinted onto the rampart. There must have been near a thousand of them. They slung their blunderbusses, withdrew their muskets, and fired again. The bugle spoke, muskets were slung, and spears appeared in the hands of the elite warriors. And they charged.

  “Rally!” Graff yelled. He didn't take the time to notice if his soldiers had obeyed, but ran at the Huronian soldiers in front of him. Where there had been arrogant confidence, now only fear shone in their eyes. They backed away to the safety of their ladders.

  Amazing how one small unit could have such an impact on a force outnumbering the defenders. Less than ten minutes and the Wendurlund Army were the only ones standing upon the wall. Another noise, gentle at first, gathered in volume. The incessant wailing soon drowned out the screams of the wounded and groans of the dying. The new sound was coming from the north.

  He gestured at the soldiers around him “You lads stay here! Defend the wall if those bastards return. I'm going to check on what's approaching from the north.”

  He sheathed his sword and jogged along the wall, brushing past clusters of troops, leaping over bodies. He almost lost his footing in a pool of coagulating blood.

  “Make way!” he shouted.

  “Shit, sorry Sarge.”

  On he ran, ignoring the ache in his lungs. His thighs burned and with each boot fall his ankles shot pain up his shins. He burst clear of the furthest flank of the Wendurlund defence and pushed on. Graff followed the slow curve of the wall that would, in time, lead to the Northern Wall. The wailing was louder, piercing his ears. He slowed, the pants of air clearing his mouth turning to a chuckle and then a laugh.

  I haven't heard that sound in years!

  A thunder of boot falls slowed behind him.

  “What's that gods awful sound, Sarge?”

  Graff's arms dropped to his sides, hands slapping his thighs. He looked up at the sky, and his laughter boomed.

  Graff turned to the panting trooper nearby and clapped a hand onto the young man's shoulder.

  “I take it you've never heard bagpipes before?”

  He pointed to the north, the soldier's gaze following. The trooper's eyes bulged, and he took a step backward.

  Silhouetted against the northern horizon stood a mass of people in an extended line. There must have been five thousand of them. Some were mounted, many were not, but they were all armed. In front of the host was a mounted warrior. By his side was a war hound that looked to be half the height of the destrier. Nearby, a Kalote woman sat without saddle upon her horse. Mounted beside her was a soldier. And not just any soldier. Graff grinned.

  I'd know that armour anywhere.

  “Prince Henry's back!” shouted Graff. “And he's brought a bloody highland army with him!”

  * * *

  To be continued...

  Novels by Keith McArdle

  The Unforeseen Series

  The Reckoning: The Day Australia Fell

  The Unforeseen Series Book One

  Australia has been invaded.

  While the outnumbered Australian Defence Force fights on the ground, in the air and at sea, this quickly becomes a war involving ordinary people.

  Ben, an IT consultant has never fought a day in his life. Will he survive?

  Grant, a security guard at Sydney's International Airport, finds himself captured and living in the filth and squalor of one of the concentration camps dotted around Australia. Knowing death awaits him if he stays, he plans a daring escape.

  This is a dark day in Australia's history. This is terror, loneliness, starvation and adrenaline all mixed together in a sour cocktail. This is the day Australia fell.

  Aftermath

  The Unforeseen Series Book Two

  Mick and his family have returned home to the farm following Indonesia’s withdrawal. But thousands of battle-hardened enemy soldiers remain hidden in the forests and hills, ready to strike when they are least expected. This fight will take Mick to the limit, and protecting his family will require all his strength and determination.

  Jimmy and Spud lead a platoon through the Australian scrub on relentless guerrilla strikes. But when they find themselves outnumbered and outgunned, it might have all been for nothing.

  A new Australia will rise again … or will it?

  Havoc

  The Unforeseen Series Book Three

  Australia has survived invasion.

  Now the people of Brisbane must face a new, fearsome threat. At the same time, Ethan and his small team of specialist soldiers are tasked with a mission deep within the heart of Indonesia. When the mission goes horribly wrong, they have to fight their way out of a situation that may be their end.

 
Hiding is no longer an option.

  Stand Alone Novels

  Tour To Midgard

  Tasked with a mission in Iraq, an Australian SAS patrol deploy deep behind enemy lines. But when they activate a time portal, the soldiers find themselves in 10th century Viking Denmark, a place far more dangerous and lawless than modern Iraq. The soldiers have no way back. Join the SAS patrol on this action adventure and journey into the depths of a hostile land, far from the support of the Allied front line. Step into another world…another time.

  Short Stories by Keith McArdle

  Assassin

  Vyder Ironstone is an assassin with a troubled past. At the order of his king, Vyder must undertake his most dangerous mission yet. A mission from which he may never return. If he is successful, it might just be enough to alleviate war tearing the kingdom apart. The prospect of failure is not worth considering.

  Against The Odds

  Three veteran hunters are on the trail of a supernatural creature. It is a simple tracking mission, promising easy money. But things go horribly wrong and the mercenaries realise too late that they are facing one of the deadliest creatures known to man. Embroiled in a desperate fight for survival, their doom may well await them.

  Ground Zero

  Generations after a bloody nuclear civil war, the United States is not as we know it. The inhabitants of the Northern states live as normal, but the South, after being decimated during the Second Civil War, are a changed people. Nuclear fallout has stolen any vestige of humanity. When the aircraft carrying the President of the Northern United States takes an erroneous detour, it is shot down somewhere over the south.

  Now Brek and his small team of Delta Force soldiers must infiltrate enemy territory to save the president. But outnumbered and with time rapidly running out, they will be hard pressed to fight off the onslaught about to surround them. Can they survive?