by D.E. Dunlop
The allied forces quickly set up the catapult in a small clearing just inside the tree line and moved the archers toward the west. The hold on the archers had done exactly what Jessie had hoped. The Sitts stopped firing on them, thinking they had pulverized them.
The silence lay thick and heavy for almost an hour. The wind was constant and the Sitts had completely rearranged their positioning. The archers had moved thirty to forty degrees west and the catapult, yet to be introduced, was thirty to forty degrees east of the advancing army. All of the movement was done within the tree line allowing Katharine’s army to see very little if any. Not knowing what they were up against, they advanced very cautiously.
The allies announce their secret weapon with a great explosion as a powder keg dropped in the midst of the Sitts, followed by a keg of flaming pitch and more powder kegs. Being generally unruly by nature, the Warminster soldiers were quick to wedge bits of steel, spearheads and even cutlery in to the wood of the powder kegs, sending extra bits of shrapnel into the air as they exploded.
One of the Sittyans’ cannons had been blown over by a powder keg, but the soldiers had it back up and loaded within a few minutes. The cannon’s commanding officer saw the crack but it was too late. The flame was set and the big gun exploded out the side. Regardless of the brutal beating they took, Katharine’s army continued to advance slowly. The cannons continued to fire at estimated or even guessed positions, one toward the archers and one toward the catapult. As they drew ever closer they very gradually, and completely unintentionally, began to divide. White puffs of smoke erupted on all sides, accompanied by cracks, pops and small flashes of light as the armies gathered within rifle range. Unaware of their blunder, the Sittyan army had divided to the point that empty space grew steadily between their flanks.
The allied forces took advantage of the moment and charged in with two hundred horses from out of the original position in the forest. They drove hard through the centre with swords drawn and pistols snapping. The Sitts closed in around them and the charge grew bloody. The allied horsemen kicked, cut and shot their way in the mob for what felt like hours. By the time they came out the other side and circled around toward the catapult they had lost about thirty soldiers. The horsemen came about to meet a horrifying spectre.
The catapult location billowed with black smoke and flames licked at the sky and the enemy had crept dangerously close to both flanks.
The infantry stepped out of the trees on the crest of the hill and fired several volleys while the archers and catapult team retreated. The allied forces had done their best. Now it was time to flee, hoping only to live long enough to fight again. They fled through the beech forest; only the density of it and occasional clashes slowed them down. At least the allies had the advantage of being raised in this type of terrain. They ran through the thick forest and over its rocky floor with little effort. The Sitts, however, fell quite regularly because of the uneven ground.
Within hours the Sittyan army had lost the allies completely and began to slow the pursuit. When the high command caught up to the foot soldiers they were making camp for the night.
“What are you doing?” The commander asked. “Is the victory sealed? Where are the bodies? Where are the prisoners?” He pressed with increasing anger. “I don’t recall ordering a halt or a camp!” He continued in their faces. “Have you not learned anything? When we let the enemy rest he gathers support and retaliates! Solution? Don’t let him rest! We outnumber them ten to one! They should be obliterated by now, but no. We’re tired. The terrain’s too rough. You useless, pathetic wastes of flesh! Get off your lazy butts and bring down those renegades! I want them destroyed by tomorrow night!” He hollered as he kicked the stool out from under a foot soldier and the troops jumped and ran into the night.
Due to the short pause the enemy soldiers had taken, the allied forces had managed to place a fair sized gap between them. They had managed to reach their base camp and prepared for defensive manoeuvres. They had built the camp with the purpose of hiding. A stranger would be half way through before noticing he or she was in it. They had built around existing landscape and forestry to assist the illusion.
Around mid morning Mormaer found himself alone in the forest. The majority of the forces rested while a small sentry stood guard. He had been sitting about fifty yards outside of the perimeter for a number of hours when he turned to see how well the camp was hidden. No sooner had he begun to scrutinize over the area in which he had expected to see the huts than he heard a blue jay screeching overhead. Not knowing if he had sat up too high he began to crouch lower.
“On yer feet, skirt.” A greasy sounding voice said from directly behind him. Mormaer stood up to look down on a weasely sort of man who was pointing a pistol in his face. He was momentarily disgusted with himself for not having smelled the stench of the filthy Sitt. The soldier half chuckled, half snorted through his gap-toothed grin. Mormaer continued to stare as though he had never seen such a creature as this. He towered over his assailant by thirty-two centimetres and outweighed him by at least eighty kilograms.
“What ya got to say fer yerself now?” The weasely little man asked while poking the pistol at Mormaer’s face. “Cat got yer tongue, skirt?”
Like most Warminsters, Mormaer had great pride in his kilt. It represented the history of his people and mocking it was one of those things that really turned his temperament sour. In one very angry moment the Warminster Chief grabbed hold of the man’s pistol hand and punched him in the face with it. In that one very angry motion extensive damage was done. He broke several bones in his pistol hand, pulled the arm out of its socket, broke his nose, knocked out four of what few teeth were in his mouth and dropped him unconscious in the under growth.
“Well that was disappointing and short lived.” He said to himself as he flipped the Sitt over with his foot. “Pathetic little rodent. I can’t even snuff him now.” His moral fibre refused to allow him to kill an enemy who had been knocked unconscious or found sleeping. Mormaer may have felt pity for his pulverized victim had he not mocked the plaid.
The pistol had gone off when Mormaer grabbed it and the sound of approaching voices reminded him of the war at hand. With the speed and the grace of a deer he vanished into the forest, leaving the Sittyan in the ferns and trilliums for his comrades to find.
The hidden Northern armies didn’t have long to hide before their enemy was upon them. The Sitts crept carefully through the bush with scouts several metres ahead of them. Knowing they would be discovered within minutes the hidden soldiers waited only long enough for the scouts to pass through. The element of surprise faded quickly and the fight was gruesome; as many as could, fled north. In the mad rush they barely had time to notice as they raced past twelve solemn figures clad in white from head to toe. Jesse and Mormaer turned back to warn the people, they had nearly run down, but were dumbfounded by the scene that unwrapped before their eyes.
The twelve stood motionless, silent, glowing before the ravenous black beast that was the Sittyan army as it stared back mulling and pawing at the ground. A darkness that could be felt more than seen welled up around the Sitts and pressed closer and harder upon the silent figures. One of the twelve moved to draw a sword but before it left the sheath five arrows pierced him in his organs and he fell dead. The remaining eleven fell to their knees and the looming darkness leapt upon them.
Jesse and Mormaer continued to watch in disbelief. The darkness was great where this strange standoff had taken place yet the Sittyan army still did not advance. After an eternity of raging black silence they could hear a faint voice, or was it many speaking in unison, as it grew ever louder. A glimmer of light also appeared and grew brighter from the depths of the dark imposing beast.
“The Master is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Master is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? In you, O Master, do I put my trust; let me never
be ashamed: deliver me in your righteousness. Bow down your ear to me; deliver me speedily: be my strong rock, for a house of defence to save me. For you are my rock and fortress; therefore for your name’s sake lead me, and guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid secretly for me: for you are my strength. Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord God of truth. Have mercy upon me, O Master, for I am in trouble; mine eye is consumed with grief, yea, my soul and my belly.”
The voices grew ever louder and the light shone even brighter. The darkness and the light contended to fill the same space.
“Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. Many bulls have compassed me. They gape upon me with their mouths, as a ravening and roaring lion. Dogs have compassed me: the assembly of the wicked have enclosed me.”
The light was suddenly unbearable and the dark beast leapt from its foe as though scalded.
The voice of the Saints resounded through the forest.
“The Master has heard my supplication: the Master will receive my prayer.”
Jesse and Mormaer stared on in utter amazement as the expressions of the Sittyan soldiers changed from fierce to horror stricken. They looked at each other with wonder. “What manner are these who spread fear in the hearts of such a large and violent enemy?”
The eleven saints stood and shone like the sun with fire in their eyes and mouths. The Sitts turned to run. They clawed, clutched and trampled one another to escape. “Witches!” Many screamed.
“Your hand shall find out all your enemies; your right hand shall find out those that hate you. You shall make them as a fiery oven in the time of your anger; The Master shall swallow them up in His wrath, and the fire shall devour them. Their fruit shall you destroy from the earth, and their seed from among the children of men. For they intended evil against you. They imagined a mischievous device, which they are not able to perform. Therefore shall you make them turn their back, when you shall make ready your arrows upon your strings against the face of them.”
The voices of the Saints rang as one echoing voice from a covered cauldron throughout the forest. The two allied soldiers continued to look on, open-mouthed. They could not see what the horrified Sittyan army could see. Behind the saints stood countless thousands of ghost-like soldiers glowing in the same manner as the saints. A great flash of light went out from them and several hundred Sitts fell dead as their comrades disappeared into the forest.
After the Saints had beaten back the Sitts, Jesse and Mormaer caught up to their own soldiers to tell them what they had seen. Greatly encouraged, that the enemy was on the run, the few remaining soldiers turned around toward Harrington Fields once again.
When they arrived they were encouraged even more to see that Orillia had come to assist. The three northern armies now consisted of barely more than three hundred and fifty soldiers. Now that Orillia had joined, their combined numbers were equal to just over half of the army they faced.
Refuelled with a new hope of actually regaining their home, Jesse and Mormaer charged in at the rear flank of the Sittyan army.
The, impersonal, sun set once more on brutality and bloodshed. In its fading loam, Zardo’s soldiers recognized the banners coming in from the north. Their cheers rose against the sounds of steel and guns and the vigour of the event increased greatly. The northern armies fought harder and harder as the darkness increased around them. With every fallen Sitt the taste of success grew sweeter. They fought with ferocity unknown to man. If weapons were dropped they punched, kicked and bit their way to replacements. Their ferociousness struck fear even in the hearts of the Sitts.
In a brief passing moment between opponents Jessie noticed the Sittyan army was being decimated. The odds were now in favour of the north. His heart leapt and he thought of how only a dozen turned the tides. “Where are the Saints, anyway?” He thought to himself as he put another Sittyan down. “This would have been a lot easier had they stuck around. Forget them!” He thought angrily. “They may have turned it around, but we did the rest! We will do this on our own and they can bow down tomorrow and thank us very much for their freedom! Lousy Do-gooders!” He spat.
“Victory!” Mormaer’s voice drifted over the silent field as the last enemy soldier fell.
The remaining allied soldiers nearly collapsed from exhaustion. They gasped, spit and wept for joy. Their chests heaved and they coughed through blood-smeared faces. They leaned on swords, spears, and shields. Some were on their knees and some were even on their hands vomiting from the stress and trauma of it all. Gradually they gathered in the centre of the field, still panting and gasping. Occasionally they smirked as they rested their heads on one another, patted each other’s shoulders and greeted new friends. They looked around in the moonlight at the devastation about them. It was then that they noticed the faint, hollow sound of approaching drums. They scanned the fields. Panic infected the company like the plague, as the sound grew louder and filtered in from all sides.
“What madness is this?” Jesse exclaimed.
“Do they never cease?” Screamed Zardo as Sittyan soldiers appeared by the thousands and hundreds of thousands. What the allies had not known was that Katharine had decided she wanted all of the northland and she wanted a guaranteed success. While her first army rooted out the rebels and renegades she was collecting an even larger army from across the marsh, an army at least ten times larger than the first, an army that would have no problem conquering any of the small northern communities and villages. This army was one that could make even a great nation surrender without a fight, that is, of course, if that nation was not home to any Warminster.
The allied soldiers were backed together in a circle, shoulder to shoulder. They turned about measuring the size of the force that stood against them. They clenched their teeth, wrung their fists and groaned dissatisfied, angry groans.
Mormaer stepped side-to-side switching his sword from hand to hand and roared as a mad man or even a caged beast. Foam and spittle came from his partially pursed lips. He raised a defiant, disappointed scream and would have charged head long if not for the firm hand on his shoulder.
“It is time Mormaer, the Telling awaits.” A soft voice whispered from behind.
He turned, puzzled, to look into eyes that burned like the morning star from beneath a brown, over sized, woollen cloak. The figure stepped back toward ten others in a circle within the circle of the allied forces.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Jesse muttered in shocked disbelief as the Saints raised their left hands to the centre of their small circle and to the heavens and held their swords straight out with their right hands. All the while the Sittyan commanders ordered the allies to drop their weapons and surrender.
Calmly the Saints spoke once again as the Sittyan ocean began to close in around them.
“Arise, O Master; let not man prevail: let the heathen be judged in your sight. Put them in fear, O Master: that the nations may know themselves to be but men. Be exalted, Lord, in your own strength: so will we sing and praise your power.”
All at once the ground heaved violently, knocking man and horse alike to the ground. The sky ripped open as a torn parchment and a great and blinding light erupted upon the field. Legions of heavenly armies appearing as white light and fire tore into the masses. Their flaming swords threw their victims around like so many fallen leaves in the wind. The sound alone was enough to cause a grown man to weep and cower.
Just as quickly as it had begun, all fell silent, black, nothing.
Chapter 24
The Telling
A mob of children collected from throughout the forest. They gathered along the roadside to inspect the new comers. The scene is fairly similar to the arrival of Tinne, Ren and Ezbieta just a couple of weeks before. The difference, of course, is in the guests. There are no injured soldiers this time or long lost heroes. Today the cloud of dust an
d the rumble of hooves and wooden wheels are caused by a much more regal and mystical company. The children marvelled at the polished armour and the fantastic horses marching into their refugee home along the forested beach. In the middle of the company rolled a large armoured cart with its driver hunched and hooded, the passenger a young woman whose armour matched that of the other soldiers. The well-disciplined group marched sharply up to the infirmary and stopped with the cart at the door.
The hooded driver turned to the young woman. “Janice,” an old woman’s voice said. “Retrieve the Gorchan, please. You should find young master Tinne in the infirmary there.” Janice climbed down from the carriage promptly. Ren stood watching the entourage curiously. He leaned against the doorframe of the infirmary, smoking a cigarette. Janice walked up to the door and Ren stepped in front of her. Before he finished his step, however, there were ten guards in front of him.
“What?” Ren demanded. “My friend’s in there. You think I’m just gonna let her walk in there all war like without knowing what she wants?”
Tinne was laying on his cot staring out the window at the activity there. The old glass was faded and streaked with barely a fist size space scrubbed clean in the middle. He could hear the voices, but not what they said. He had been fading in and out of consciousness since his ordeal with Katharine. Focusing on anything, lately, had become difficult, considering he was still trying to get over the loss of Shayla. He tried to hear what was transpiring outside the door, but lost his train of thought as it followed the cracks in the stained and faded plaster.
He followed the crack from the window to the ceiling and across to the light bulb that hung from one screw in its housing. He wondered if the light worked, in its current condition. Had he seen it lit? He didn’t think he had. Where’s the switch for that light, anyway? He wondered. It should be on the wall by the door, but I don’t recall seeing it. He concluded that, if the cracks run from the wall to the light then he should be able to follow the cracks back to the switch and thus, locate the switch. His train of thought was travelling well on the crack on the wall when it was derailed once again. The window exploded as a guard came flying through and the sky went red. The door came crashing down with half of its frame. The sky outside had become red and a dark figure filled the broken space in the wall. Tinne leapt to his feet with his sword in hand when he recognized Katharine’s laugh. She threw her hand toward him and the wind blew him and the cots against the far wall. He reached into his clothes and grasped the Gorchan tightly. He felt the mattresses being lifted off of him and he curled himself around his fist.