‘Now?’ He inquired. Akerz shook his head. He could see the Pits King, and he prayed that today would be the day his head would be separated from his neck. Unlike their King, he always led in battle and seemed to be kissed by the golden lips of the gods himself for he rarely took a scratch. He had seen him in action several times; on his diamond starred mount looking like a vengeful god, slashing down at lesser mortals with a bloodied sword.
‘Wait…’ He bayed at his archers, who were lined behind him, ready to unleash a volley of arrows. He bade his time, watching the enemy move closer and closer. Finally, he shouted.
‘Now!’ A horn sounded, instantaneously followed by hundreds of arrows wheezing through the air, turning the bright blue sky dark.
The Pits army as one lifted their shields and the “thunk” “thunk” “thunk” of arrowheads piercing could be heard all over. The King grimaced as the arrows pierced his shield. Some were not as lucky as the shaft found gaps and pierced soft flesh.
‘Okay lads,’ the King shouted, as the arrows subsided. ‘Onwards.
After a few meters a second more voracious volley flew down on the Pitsmen who once again held up their shields. The second volley was deadlier, as many Soldiers saw colleagues killed by thudding arrows. Screams of anguish permeated the air as the wounded were trampled upon by a determined army.
Akerz frowned. He was not getting the results he wanted. ‘The boulders,’ he shouted. ‘Bring forth the boulders. His archers made way as four giant stones were heaved forward by sweating soldiers, using human might and long sturdy wood. The noblemen, moved out of the way as the boulders were set loose, and rolled down the slope, gaining momentum with each oscillation.
‘The hair of the gods,’ someone screamed, and a great murmur arose from the petrified Pits army as they saw the giant boulders hurtling towards them.
‘Out of the way…out of the way damn you!’ Daarrk screamed, and for the first time, the military discipline of the men flagged as they strove frantically to avoid the boulders. The first one came straight for the King who said a prayer and crouched on his horse, at the last minute it hit an outcropping and diverted sharply to his right, missing the King but smashing through a couple of his guardsmen like a wrecking ball and going on to cut a deadly swathe through a mass of unfortunate soldiers. One boulder veered widely off the mark, but the other three were devastatingly on target. A massive cheer could be heard from the Osterlays while a great moan arose from the ranks of the Pitsmen.
Akerz smiled wolfishly. ‘Great men of Osterley!’ he shouted raising his sword arm. ‘Set upon the jackals.’ With a great battle cry, the Osterley army rushed forward, eager to take advantage of the chaos in the Pits rank.
Chapter 9
‘Pitsmen…Pitsmen,’ the King shouted. ‘Ready yourself.’ He could hardly be heard amid moans and crying of his men. The rest of his guard gathered around him and steadied themselves, just in time for the vanguard of the Osterlays, who came crashing into them like a crashing wave.
Jaks, Daarrk, Murchee, and Borday, slashed and hacked desperately at the Osterlays who pressed forward grimly. Three soldiers made straight for the King but were cut down by the elite guards, a group of highly trained soldiers, who were sworn to protect their regent. Jaks himself was already drenched in enemy blood. He howled in fury and slashed down at an Osterley soldier grinning in satisfaction as he took off an arm. A sword missed him by a whisker, and he brought down his shield forcefully on the head of the attacker, taking him down with the blow. All around, there were individual mini death battles; for every Osterley, a Pits took down there seemed to be dozens of them ready to take their place.
From a distance, royal eyes appraised the battle.
‘They are stubborn sons of bloated sows, aren't they?’ the King of the Osterlays said to a fat man, balding red-faced man, who perched precariously on his mount.
Derkt of Osterley was the King's chief accountant and personal confidant. He was a lot of things: studious, devious, cunning and intelligent but one thing he wasn’t, was brave. Even far removed from the bloody battle being waged, his fat thighs trembled on his mount.
‘Y…yes, yes they are…oh my!’ He gasped as he saw a head separate from a body with a gush of spraying blood.
‘Oh steady yourself, man,’ the King said irritably. ‘We are quite safe here; our army is prevailing - even though slowly, and besides, several of my guards protect us.’
‘Yes sire,’ Derkt mumbled, wishing he could turn away from the carnage.
As they spoke, to the East, obscure from others, hidden in high bull grass that grew meters eyes, the Unta king watched the battle impassively. Besides Kroos, was his deputy and cousin, behind were 50 of his best archers, mounted on dwarf hardy grey mounts that were ubiquitous to their Island.
‘For a people that spend their lives bathing, throwing parties and hiding in damp stone castles,’ his deputy hissed, ‘they are putting up a good resistance.’
Kroos grunted in reply without moving his eyes from the battle. The Osterlays General had executed his strategy flawlessly, he thought admiringly. The boulders had decimated the Pits rank, and they were in chaos; fighting gamely but leaderless. In any other situation, they would have been doomed to a terrible defeat.
He turned to his deputy. ‘Take 20 of the men and attack from the left flank. The rest of you, follow me and head for the King.’ There was a whoop as the Unta men, bored with inactivity were glad to join the fray.
‘About time,’ his deputy said and wheeled round to carry out his command. Soon there was a thundering of hoofs, and 20 members of the crack hunter unit raced past him to join the fray. Each Unta archer had a quiver of 30 arrows; the average hunter learned to ride as soon as they learned to walk and shoot an arrow shortly after that. The bow was made from a weird gnarled looking tree, only found in Unta land and crafted by specialist craftsmen, whose knowledge was passed from generation to generation. The craft was secret, but the result was a bow three times as flexible as any that could be found in that World; so elastic it was impossible to break.
The Unta arrows were barbed at the tip and festooned with individual feathers at the end which gave it unerring accuracy in rain, wind or sleet. Untas practiced shooting, on horseback, 4 hours a day, seven days a week until even the most inept of them could hit an acorn tossed into the air, riding at top speed 50 meters away.
Their reputation was fearsome, so when the first Osterlays and Pits, heard the rumbling of thunder and looked round to see, 20 fierce Unta bearing down on them, ululating loudly, a fear, even more, terrifying than the death battle they were engaged in enveloped them.
The deputy was at the vanguard of the group; with a swift and fluid movement he reached back, grabbed an arrow, notched it and let it fly at the exact moment his Horse had all four legs in the air - a trick that was essential as in that brief moment, there was enough stability to enable a surer shot.
The arrow found its mark; the forehead of an Osterley warrior, who had turned bravely to face the Unta’s. In the space of 5 seconds, each Unta warrior loosed ten shots each - each shot felling 10 Osterley warriors. A few meters before they reached the mass of men, the Untas veered away in a sweeping semi-circle only to circle back for another round of terror. The Osterlays, now sure they were the target of the Untas howled in derision as wave after wave brought down a whole slew of men in a breath-taking display of riding and marksmanship. The battle was turned on its head, as the Pits, realizing that the Untas were allies, fell on the floundering Osterlays with renewed gusto. Soon the Untas were all short of arrows and retreated for a new stash.
At the same time, the second group of Untas reached the King and his beleaguered guards just in time. The King and a cadre of men were surrounded by a phalanx of Osterley's, who were fighting feverishly to cut a path to the Pits regent. The Osterlays never knew what hit them. A few turned and were met with arrows in-between the eyes; others were too engrossed with the fighting fell f
orwards, a single bolt in the back. Not more than one shaft for one death was the Unta mantra as wave after wave fell upon the mass of Osterley's men.
Jaks, Daarrk, and Munchee, stood with what was left of their men staring blankly in amazement at the mass of dead and dying Osterley, who a minute ago seemed sure of victory.
Jaks recovered quickest. ‘Men - set upon the surviving scum!’ he shouted, and the Pitsmen rushed upon the confused Osterley and cut them down one after the other.
The King of the Osterlays looked on white-faced while his confidant, Derkt, felt a little dribble run down his fat thighs creating a tell-tale patch on his leggings.
‘The Untas - we have not seen those bow-legged devils for nearly a decade,’ he said, scarcely above a whisper.
‘My lord - shall we not go before they set their sights on us?’ He glanced around him in disgust. He was surrounded by several of his personal guard and a few noblemen - all had their heads down white-faced.
‘This is indeed a crushing defeat.’ He looked ahead; far in the distance, an Osterley warrior was staggering towards them, heading for safety - when a tiny dot, with a cloud of dust behind it, appeared in the horizon. An Unta warrior chased him from behind and loosed an arrow from his bow and the Osterlay pitched and slumped.
‘My Lord. We must go.’ The Osterley King looked up wearily at his most trusted nobleman.
‘To what? All is lost,’ he said.
‘We live to fight again…come my Lord; we will not all die on this plain to those God-forsaken savages.’ For a minute they all feared that the King, overcome with grief had become irrational, but suddenly he looked up and said. ‘Yes. Yes, we must go.’ He turned his horse and galloped towards the Osterley Camp followed by his men.
There were no Osterlay prisoners taken on that grim day. As the sky grew dark, the Pitsmen, mercilessly slaughtered any Osterlay that lay dying on the gory, body-strewn battlefield before making way for the ravens and wild dogs who had been waiting patiently to feast on the remains.
After stripping the dead for all valuables, the Pits headed back towards camp. Jaks rode wearily on his pony alongside his brother, and his trusted acolytes; Murchee and Boday.
Their men trudged wearily behind; none were without injury on that terrible day, and all had lost friends and comrades. The King himself had a deep cut on his shoulder and left thigh. The physician had tried to stem the wound by wrapping it in a thick clothe, but the physical exertions of riding had reopened it and a red patch was slowly forming on the makeshift bandage.
'It's getting late,' Jaks said wearily. 'Let us camp here. Tomorrow, we will continue.' Orders were passed down the rank and soon there was a flurry of activities. Tents were erected, fires were started, and soon what was left of the Pits army were littered around a plain grassy field, relieved to get some rest.
The doctor went around with several assistants, seeing to the wounds of the worst hit soldiers; starting with the King, Daarrk and the top warriors. A bird cawed in the distance and insects chirped. The Kingsmen huddled around a fire under a night sky littered with bright stars. They feasted on a meagre meal of dried meat, hard bread and mulled wine.
'The Untas worry me,' Murchee said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'The way they fought...I have never seen such skill, such efficiency, such ferocity.'
'50 Untas killed thousands of Osterlay and not one casualty,' added Boday, wincing. He had fallen off his horse and severely sprained his hand.
Jaks grimaced. Despite the victory, he was filled with a sense of foreboding. He suddenly realized that the Untas were a threat far worse than the Osterlays. At least the Osterlay s could be matched in martial valor by his people; the Untas, they were something else. If 50 could do such damage, how much could a hundred? 1000? Despite the heat of the fire, he shivered. His people had used the Untas in wars before, but this was the first time in 50 years that they had been employed; he had heard of their feats on horseback and their uncanny proficiency with their peculiar bow and arrows, but it was quite another thing to see it in person. Arrow after arrow had wheezed past him and his men, and even though they were engaged in close quarter skirmishes with the Osterlays, each missile had hit its intended target. Not one Pitsman had been so much as nicked by an Unta missile – it was indeed almost like magic.
A youthful soldier suddenly emerged from the darkness. 'The Unta King wishes to see you, sire.'
Jak straightened. The slim, wiry figure of the Unta King and his deputy stepped forward from the dark. 'I greet you, comrade,' he muttered. Greetings were exchanged and the Untas were invited to sit with the Pits nobility.
The Pitsmen looked at the Untas with a new found respect. What manner of devils are these Boday thought as he watched the two Untas, both unharmed, even though they had been involved in the bloodiest battle he had been through.
'We are on our way back to the Islands,' the Unta King said. 'My men are camped beyond the woods to the East. Is it wise to make fires?'
All the Pits bristled but Jaks replied pleasantly enough. 'My men are weary and the Osterlays - thanks to you - are defeated. All we have to fear are wolves and wild dogs.'
The Unta shrugged. He sipped the mulled wine and belched loudly. 'We will be off, but remember -' He stood up '- our people will always be of service if needed.'
'One thing Kroos King of Untas,' Jaks said.
The Unta King raised an eyebrow, the lights of the fire made shadows in his hawkish craggy face.
'I would like to visit your Islands...soon.' Daarrk raised an eyebrow and Murchee started. The Unta stared back blankly, and then, his face broke into a craggy smile.
'You will experience a hospitality from a people like no other. Come whenever you want.
‘After he had gone Boday turned to Jaks. 'Why would you want to visit such savages?'
Jaks took a sip of wine. 'Tell me Boday,' he said, leaning towards the older man, 'after what you saw today, wouldn't you want to be allies with such savages?'
Boday grew silent.
The next morning they set off towards their camp, which was less than half a day's march away. The great Pits trudged wearily through grassy plains, across streams passed a snaking river and a wooded plain. It was then in a distance on the hill they saw the Osterlay. He was unusually tall and was dressed in the ubiquitous brown and Burgundy attire of an Infantry man.
'Well, well,' a Soldier said aloud. 'Some of the scum remain.'
Jaks frowned. The Osterlay had obviously emerged from the woods a fair distance away.
'Shall we hunt him down?' Daarrk said.
'No. He's too far. He will probably disappear into the forest.' As he finished the Osterlay raised a bow and notched it.
The Pits men looked amused. No Osterlay arrow, could reach within 100 metres of them.
'Looks like, he wants to take us all on,' a brusque voice said and all around him laughed.
The laughter was cut short by the sound of an arrow striking the Kings chest THUUUNKKK!!. For a minute there was disbelief. The Kings eyes widened in disbelief as he clutched at the arrow.
A sudden howl of anger came from within the Pits rank. The Osterlay archer, stood for a minute and lumbered into the woods.
'The King is hit! The King is hit!' Daark shouted. 'Someone get the Physician. You three, after the scum.' Five calvary men galloped towards the woods as the King pitched forward on his Horse into the hands of two Soldiers, blood gushing from the mortal wound the missile had dealt.
Chapter 10
The sound of Horses hoofs roused the soldiers who had remained to guard the camp. Ceriuz, who was lying in his tent, got up slowly and emerged into the hot sunlight.
Three Soldiers on Horseback rode towards him and reared to a halt. As soon as he saw their faces he knew something was wrong.
'Ceriuz? You are to come with us,' said a burly soldier panting. Ceriuz nodded and made to go to his tent. 'Sorcerer, bring your herbs and medicine.'
&n
bsp; Ceriuz paused his heart racing. By now there was a crowd gathered around them. Soldiers, children and a few women - all of whom had been anxiously waiting for news of the battle. Ceriuz nodded and moved quickly belying his age. Soon he re-emerged from his tent with a burlap sack. He mounted the horse that had been reserved for him and turned to the commanding Soldier.
'How bad,' he whispered.
‘Very bad Sorcerer.' He turned to his men. 'Let's go.'
Ceriuz scarcely remembered anything of the 1 hour ride to Jaks. The King lay on his bedding, being tended to by a fat and sweaty physician.
'Stand aside,' he commanded and the Physician obeyed. A lesser man would have gasped if he had seen someone, who he considered a son, so close to death but Ceriuz' face was impassive as he appraised the wound.
The arrow had missed the heart by a few inches but it was fatal nonetheless. The Physician had cauterized the wound and further stemmed the blood flow with a piece of wool.
'Boil some water quickly,' he barked at a shocked Soldier. He untied his sack and unpacked some herbs and a small pestle and mortar.
'Will he live?' Daarrk, who was crouched by his brother, asked hoarsely.
Ceriuz gazed at him; not one to mince words he said, 'His life is in the hands of the gods.'
With steady deft movements, Ceriuz brought out three small packages wrapped in pieces of linen and undid the knots that tied them. He poured the herbs in the packages into a little hollow mortar and with a tiny pestle he ground them. He added boiling water and a piece of root; while muttering under his breath. Soon the paste was ready. All the while the wrinkles on his fore-head grew more furrowed. The King was deathly pale and his breathing was shallow. His lips were a thin white line, and a quick feel of his pulse barely registered that they were weak. Working quickly he cleaned blood that was sipping out of the gash and smothered the paste he created on the ugly wound.
The King winced and mumbled something. The green paste dabbed on, he placed an improvised piece of compress on the wool and with great difficulty and the help of Daarrk strapped a thin piece around the King's chest as tightly as he dared. Booday and Murchee suddenly appeared. The worry on their faces was palpable.
The Legend of Brigaard Page 8