Dryw Henge

by Jonathan Forth

  They were joined by the captain of the boat who nodded to them.

  “You know it’s not easy to build a bridge. This one was built first by the Gamuran Army a thousand years ago on one of their prior campaigns. It’s been repaired many times having been destroyed by fire and floods every generation or so. Story has it that a mountain dragon even once obliterated it. The dragon swooped down from the mountains in the north. It would follow the meandering path of the river to the coast. Then lay an egg in a rock cave that was submerged by the sea. The warm ocean currents bathing the egg until it was ready to hatch.

  “Anyhow, the bridge had just been rebuilt the year before. A particularly flamboyant engineer embellished it with raised arches spanning its length. Completely caught the dragon off guard, who careered into it and subsequently smashed it to smithereens. The dragon was sent tumbling into the water sending waves lurching over the banks. When it finally emerged, it was a very sorry looking drenched dragon covered in river weeds and mud. It was so mad it first fluffed out a nostril full of river water and then spewed a fireball of flames destroying what was left of the bridge. In fact, for a century or so, it made a point of burning the bridge to destruction every year as it passed. Talk about holding a grudge. God help you if you were crossing at the time. Once a shepherd was driving his flock across the bridge when the dragon flew by. Burnt them all to a crisp. On the bright side the local inhabitants all had roast lamb for dinner.

  “Well they learnt their lesson. The bridge is more function than beauty nowadays. Just in case. The current incarnation was finished a hundred years or so ago. The supporting structure consists mainly of oak piles driven into the bed of the river. Cross-girders, again made of oak timber, connect the pile caps and support the twenty-five spans of the main bridge structure. It now stretches five hundred yards or so.

  “Mind you it’s the damnedest thing. This is the main bridge that crosses the River Symbel. Any further south of here it becomes too wide to ford. Also, as the alluvial plain widens, the river often shifts its course when it floods. One day you build a bridge, and then you have a couple of days of torrential rainfall and the river floods. When the water subsides, it has shifted a couple of leagues east or west. I know of at least a handful of other bridges that have been abandoned as the river has altered its course. They stand with their piles disappearing in the dry dust beneath. Weeds and creepers slowly carpeting its beams and struts. The local residents end up using the wood to build their homes and barns.

  “Often you’ll come across towns that reflect this past. Buckley-on-Symbel is in fact ten leagues away from its banks. I guess the residents at some point may rename the village. Perhaps Buckley-there or thereabouts-Symbel. Or they hope one day the river reverts back to its original course.

  “The townspeople of Abinford gave up and eventually renamed the town Abindowns. They pretty much got fed up with travellers turning up and asking where the ferry was. Or questioning why fish and chips was not on the menu at the Anglers Inn. It was the funniest thing. I’ve visited a couple of times. It’s great sport asking a local for directions to the river. You normally get an answer like this:

  “‘The river, you say?’ And then they look at you suspiciously. ‘Not pulling my leg are you?’ I always give them the ‘me who me?’ innocent look. You can tell they are scanning you for a twitch, a blush, or a ‘tell’ that may give you away. But, poker-faced, me! I’ve always been able to keep a straight face. Then they sigh, ‘Well this is Fisherman’s Crescent; take a left on Shipwreck Avenue, continue past the Old Boat House until you get to Shoreline Drive. Follow Shoreline Drive for a couple of hundred yards, then cross the old bridge.’ It’s a classic; they always pause at this point in time. You’ve got to prompt them, always. ‘And?’ Another sigh. ‘And then walk ten leagues due west and you’ll reach the Symbel.’”

  The boatman cackled to himself and then, put his hands on his hips, leant back and hollered a deep resonating laugh. “The local tribes use the rope ferries we have seen intermittently up and down the river. They are a sensitive lot. Bridge building is much more for the thick-skinned.” And he chuckled again.

  “Quite,” said the Queen, who was still peering through the scope.

  “Captain, what do you make of this? The Horde are crossing the bridge but if you look at three o’clock there appears to be another force.”

  Captain Blade took the scope and followed the Queen’s directions. “You are right, I believe the Horde may be retreating. It is organised though, not a rout. It appears that a large Windstrom force is in pursuit.” He scanned his eyeglass to the west along the Horde’s formations.

  “The Horde is carrying wounded. The armies must have engaged each other on the Windstrom Plains. Though both forces are largely intact so I doubt it was a decisive battle.”

  The Queen turned to the captain, “Windstrom must have received the King’s scroll requesting its forces come to the aid of Ampheus. It warms my heart to think Ambassador Martis and Gulden succeeded in their mission. That Windstrom put such faith in old alliances and sent its young men and women to stand side by side with Terramis. I assume Gorath may have anticipated this and dispatched a portion of the Horde to intercept them.”

  The captain nodded but then cautioned, “But why are they retreating when the force is largely intact?”

  “Will they turn and re-engage the Windstrom over the other side of the river?” asked the Queen.

  “Perhaps,” said the captain, “but my gut tells me that they are simply using delaying tactics to prevent the Windstrom force from reaching Ampheus. Once the Horde have cleared the bridge, they are much more likely to destroy it than engage the Windstrom again. But it will serve to delay the Windstrom force as they’ll have to reconstruct the crossing or build floating pontoons.”

  “How long until they clear the bridge?”

  “Well it is dusk now. It may take the remainder of the night for the Horde to cross. So, they’ll likely cover it in pitch at first light and set it to burn mid-morning.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Of course,” said the captain. “I have a daring, dangerous and cunning plan.”

  “Just as well,” smiled the Queen. “Anything less than that and frankly I’d be a tad disappointed!”

  As they spoke a couple of bodies floated past the boat. The captain caught the eye of one of the crew and pointed at the corpses. The pirate let fly a couple of arrows that thudded into the bodies.

  “Just to confirm they were definitely dead dead, not just floating dead,” said the captain.

  He chuckled, “I’d imagine it’s not an easy matter moving a large force across a bridge. All it takes is for some dimwit to bend down to tie up his laces and before you know it the formation is backing up. As more men press forward, troops start spilling over the sides. If they can’t swim they end up like those poor buggers. I guarantee they are not the last we’ll see before the sun goes down.”

  The captain turned and shouted to his men, “Stay on guard, any more bodies floating past, fire an arrow into them. Let’s be sure they are dead dead. Not just drowned dead. We don’t want to make the same mistake again,” then turned and smiled a toothy grin to the Queen. “Aaiiyyaaii tis hard enough to kill a man once without some mischievous sea sprite bringing drowned men back to life again. If you are not careful there you are admiring your reflection in the water, and a couple of hands rise up and drag you down to the depths. At least if you put a hole in them, the fish will nibble away at them before the sprites have a chance to enchant them.”

  As the sun dawned over the horizon, it gave way to crystal-clear light that brightened the view of the bridge. The trail of Horde had thinned noticeably, and the rear-guard of cavalry was the final formation following the engineers and support troops to cross the bridge. Two hordesmen stood leaning on one of the bridge’s supports. They shared a pipe and passed it between each othe
r as they waited for the last sections of the army to cross the bridge. One turned and spat into the water below and watched it fall near a floating mass of reeds below. Both men failed to register that the bundles of reeds were indeed moving upstream. In the opposite direction to the hordesman’s phlegm which slowly meandered downstream.

  General Mersal sat on his horse and surveyed his army as it passed in front on him. He was feeling in pretty good spirits. His force was intact and had crossed the bridge with only limited casualties. Once they destroyed the bridge it would buy even more time and delay the Windstrom Army even further. He touched his right breastplate. He was sure he would get another medal. It will be nice and shiny. He smiled to himself and asked himself ‘did he not deserve it?’ ‘Yes he did’.

  He turned to his captain, “Fetch me General Litha.”

  When the General arrived they saluted and General Mersal continued, “General Litha. I want you to take twenty hordesmen. Line the bridge with pitch. When our last man steps off it, set it alight and burn it. Oh and General Litha, don’t mess this up.”

  General Mersal saluted once more, kicked his horse and headed up to the front of the formation four leagues ahead.

  Now General Litha was perhaps the individual the most physically incapable of carrying out this assignment. He was an ageing general whose pride prevented him from retiring and handing over his responsibilities to younger, fitter and more capable men. As a medical specimen went, you’d have to read an alchemist’s encyclopaedia cover to cover to fully comprehend his disabilities. At seventy years old he was clearly senile. He was deaf in one ear and almost blind in both eyes. Years of heavy drinking meant that he suffered from excruciating gout. The journey had taken its toll inflaming his rheumatism to the point his legs were crippled. His arm was still in a sling from when he had fallen asleep on his horse, slipped off and broken it. He now had to be carried everywhere on a litter, added to the fact that the food did not agree with him so he suffered from flatulence and diarrhoea, to the dismay of the rear litter bearers.

  Yes, perhaps the most unsuitable appointment. As they waited for the stragglers to cross the bridge, he promptly fell into a deep sleep and snored loudly.

  As General Litha slept soundly, his men watched the rear-guard of the Horde disappear into the distance. They peered suspiciously as a boat sailed up to the bridge and then moored itself on the far bank of the river. Standing on the foredeck appeared to be a gnarled old ginger pirate and statuesque lady of some bearing. Just as the ship was tethering its mooring lines, a single rider cantered over the bridge. His stallion’s hooves causing a dull echo as they clattered over the oak beams. He pulled his horse up just in front of General Litha’s men and leaned nonchalantly on the neck of his charger.

  “I need to speak to the commanding officer with some urgency,” he stated, scanning the faces of the men. As one they turned and looked at the dozing general who was still lying prostrate on his litter. The rider swung a leg and dismounted his horse. He strode confidently through the open-mouthed hordesmen, even barging a couple out of the way for good measure.

  As he stood in front of the general he barked a loud, “Ahem,” and watched as the general’s eyes opened in shock. Then his body floundered in the litter, while his senile brain caught up with where he was. It instructed his tired and arthritic limbs to lift him up into a seated position. It was like watching an octopus try and catch a nifty little tiddler that is swimming in and out of its rubbery arms. In the end a couple of his men stepped forward and helped him up.

  “To whom do I have the pleasure in addressing?” asked the rider.

  The general squinted at the man, “General Litha of the Horde, and you sir?”

  “Gulden of the King’s Cavalry, general,” replied Gulden.

  “I am here to remind you of the armistice between Gamura and Terramis. Peace has come to the Four Realms. The bridge is now Terramian and you should remove your troops and by no means set it alight.”

  The general’s eyes widened wildly and he looked round at his men. “An armistice, why do I not know about this?”

  “You do,” said Gulden, “I just told you.”

  “True,” but then he paused as his brain finally caught up. “But then you may be lying.”

  “If I am lying, would I be foolish enough just to ride up here unarmed and address you? I assume a senior military officer like yourself would be fully informed. There is a truce at Ampheus, in fact Gorath and King Armanar are probably having afternoon tiffin as we speak.”

  On top of all his other ailments, General Litha was now developing a severe migraine. He rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger to try and bring some relief, but it had little effect.

  “No, no,” he said shaking his head. “My orders are to set fire to the bridge.”

  “Ahhh to the contrary,” said Gulden. “It’s to give up the bridge, you must have misheard.”

  “In fact, General Mersal said under no circumstances to let Windstrom cross.”

  “Again he probably said, under no circumstances get Windstrom cross… by setting fire to the bridge.”

  “This is all very confusing,” said the general. “Sergeant what do you think?”

  “It is clearly a ruse sir, the quicker we set the bridge alight the better. Windstrom’s forces are approaching.”

  The general nodded, and a brief moment of lucidity fell upon him. “For once I agree with you sergeant. Kill this man and set the bridge ablaze!”

  Gulden hardly had time to remove his sword and take guard when the first arrows fizzed through the air thudding into the chests of General Litha and his sergeant. Two of the hordesmen grabbed torches and dashed forward onto the bridge only to face several pirates who swung themselves up from the cross beams below and confronted the hordesmen. They stopped in their tracks, only to be cut down by the pirates who tossed the torches and the bodies into the river. It was over in seconds. The remaining Horde turned and fled. If they had surrendered there was a chance that they may have lived. Unfortunately, in fleeing, they were subsequently court-martialled. Later, as the Windstrom Army continued across the Midland Plains, they passed their decapitated heads presented on spikes.

  The Queen strode onto the bridge. “I’ve seen some things in my time but trying to take a bridge single-handed is altogether foolish.”

  Gulden span round, completely taken off guard by the Queen’s voice. “Your Majesty!” he bowed his head. “I’m sorry, I felt it was a risk worth taking.”

  “Indeed,” replied the Queen, “foolish and brave. If all Amphean knights behaved this way we would have none left in no time. Thankfully, some have enough brains simply to follow orders,” and smiled broadly at him. “I assume you already knew my pirates were here, and just wanted to create a diversion.”

  “I did?”

  *

  Aron, Aland, Sumnar, Urien and Sister Hulda led the remaining knights, Aksel’s Janshai unit and clan from the Great Forest of Tarn, and through the Gabas Pass. The cavalry walked at a snail’s pace. Tired aching limbs held the reins of their mounts. Broken bones and open wounds patched up as best they could. Even the most stoic of men winced and gasped as they were jolted by the motion of their chargers. A melancholy mood descended over the group. The retinue plodded on in silence, each deep in their own individual thoughts. Urien brought his horse alongside Aron.

  “Sire, I believe we have earnt some respite and it will serve the men well to take some time to think and reflect on the battle. But some may be struggling to come to terms with the part they played and whether they fought with sufficient courage and chivalry. Others will be suffering from the trauma of seeing friends and comrades fall and perhaps feel some guilt that they survived. We cannot let this cloud hang too long. We need them to rally to you, understand we have a cause to fight for still, that there is hope to be found.”

  The Prince looked up. “Is t
here hope? We failed. We lost our King, the Captain of the Guard. Our friends have been killed or scattered and are still under threat. Our comrades and families are under siege. Vane now has the five totems, and his power increases day by day. If there is hope, then I do not see it.”

  “I understand,” said Urien. “It may appear that way. But I would not measure hope in terms of circumstance, for you are right, our prospects look grim and I don’t deny that. I measure hope in terms of the heart and bravery of men, the sacrifice one is willing to make for your brethren. Even when all seems lost, if you can embolden your men, if one man can breach the enemy’s ranks, and can inspire those around him, then anything is possible. A man who has given up hope is already lost. One that believes there is hope always has a chance to change the world. Your father was such a man and you will be too, in time.”

  Aron looked at the captain of the cavalry. Though tears blurred his vision, perhaps this was the first time he appreciated the wisdom and strength of this quiet unassuming knight. He saw him in a new light and wondered whether his father had known for many years what the Prince now discovered. Here was an astute and considered officer, who understood his men and how to lead them.

  “Urien, I apologise. I know our paths may not have been so entwined in the past. We will have time I am sure to understand each other a little better. For now, your counsel is wise and well taken.”

  The Prince turned his horse and held up his arm bringing the meagre column to a halt. He scanned the bloodied and battered faces of the men.

  “Do not judge yourselves too harshly this day. Instead revel in the gallantry you have shown in facing overwhelming odds. Do not mourn the loss of our captains and friends. Take fortitude in the heroism they displayed. Do not give up hope. Believe that we will have the determination to rise and fight again. Turn to the man next to you, look into his eyes, and tell him he is brave, fearless and stouthearted. That you would die for him, as no doubt he will die for you. In our world there remain the humble, the weak, the young, and the old. Their futures are in our hands. They will look to depend on us and we shall not let them down.