by B R Crichton
The wood had started to catch and burn as the vessel stalled at around fifty yards from the dock. Oars emerged from narrow slots suddenly, fifty to a side, dipping into the water and clawing at it to give them some forward motion, but the bow had wandered off course and within a few strokes of the oars the ship had bottomed out on the mud to either side of the main channel. The marker buoys had been removed, and so the shallow water was an unseen hazard.
A cheer went up from the victorious archers as the hulking vessel listed to starboard, and stuck fast, with the fire on deck beginning to take hold. The second vessel came into range with more speed, its oars already deployed after witnessing the misfortune of the first. Sails billowed, and oars swept, throwing out a bow wave that rolled in the gentle waters of the estuary.
The bowmen readied themselves for another volley.
Ordered regiments of Heavy Infantry that had been waiting out of range of the enemy bowmen were called upon to rotate front-line duties with those currently battling at the canal edge. Their commanders bellowed their orders, urging the men to march forward, advancing on the backs of their comrades who were engaged in bloody battle.
Despite their almost inhuman size and strength, the sheer weight of armour and weaponry carried by each man was such that their useful time engaging the enemy was limited. One of the most repeatedly drilled exercises was that of rotating the front-line. A dozen yards from the rear of the battling soldiers, they charged, making their way into the fray with fluid ease, allowing their exhausted and bloodied fellows to fall back from the assault of swords and arrows for a chance to recover some strength.
Valia watched this happen twice, seeing the Heavy Infantry edged back each time. The relentless press of Jendayan footsoldiers began to spread as they pushed against the armoured wall of the Heavy Infantry. The four fronts fanned out from the end of the crossing point as the speed and ferocity of the enemy swordsmen took their toll on the defensive line. Soon those four fronts would merge into one.
Arrows still rained down on those attempting to cross, but very few found their target, thudding into thick shields or else skidding uselessly into the water. The Jendayans were forced to fight with the bodies of dead and dying at their feet. Most of the casualties were the lightly armoured Jendayan footsoldiers, with their red hued leather armour proving no defences against the brutish blades of the Heavy Infantry. But there were Koratheans among the dead too, proving that the speed and agility of the lighter soldiers could be effective against their heavier opponents. And the Jendayans had numbers to spare along with the will to use them.
Valia glanced downstream, along the canal, to where the sails of the enemy vessels loomed large in the estuary. One was ablaze in the shallows, throwing a pillar of thick, grey smoke skyward. The battle was definitely established on two fronts. She hoped that both would hold firm.
The second ship was well ablaze by the time it reached the dock. At the last moment the oars were ejected from the slots to avoid being levered into the oarsmen within the vessel. It coasted under its own momentum as it glided parallel to the timber decking of the loading dock, edging closer as the fires rose. Screams could be heard from within the confines of the hull.
With a screech of protesting beams and shattered boards, the starboard side struck the dock. It rose in the water, and listed to port, splintering its way along fifty yards of waterfront before grinding to a standstill as flaming arrows added to the fire. A few tatters of sail still fluttered defiantly, smouldering as the vessel began to roll away from the dock, settling back into the water.
Then a full top third of the hull folded down from the starboard side, from forecastle to quarterdeck, and fell onto the quayside, driving metal hooks into the timber to hold the ship fast. The opened hull revealed nothing but thick smoke and curling flame for a full heartbeat, before it spilled its eager cargo onto the dock.
The ship belched panic stricken horses into the open air, quickly brought under control by the skilled cavalrymen on their backs. They thundered down the ramps and onto firmer footing as the wooden dock gave way to stone flags and cobbles. They rushed through the perilous exposure of the loading area, quickly darting among the buildings for the cover they offered in an attempt to encircle the thousand strong ranks of archers. Footsoldiers stumbled from the smoke, some falling as they staggered, blindly onto the sloping ramp. A few ran screaming, burning, desperately trying to find the water before they succumbed to an agonising death.
Caspar Gillen hurriedly split the fire from the bowmen, redirecting a quarter of them to the soldiers exiting the stricken ship, whilst the rest returned their attentions to the remaining, quickly approaching vessels. Out in the shallow water, the beached vessel had dropped its hull ramps, and men and horses tumbled into the water like torches, their screams audible over the chaos of the dock.
The mounted soldiers closed the gap quickly, bursting from the temporary cover of the buildings to charge at the ranks of defenders with an impetus they had carried with them from the burning vessel. They cleverly steered their wild eyed horses, still terror stricken from the fire, into the gaps between the blocks of Heavy Infantry, choosing instead to drive the attack into the softer wall of lighter units. Around a hundred had made it off of the ship, and they struck the footsoldiers at speed, trampling and hacking their way to the bowmen. They were desperate to put out the fiery rain that had cost them so dearly, and even a momentary disruption of the incessant volleys would help those that were still vulnerable on the water.
The ‘Remnants’ found themselves in the way of a small group of six such frantic attackers. The horses cleared the barricades effortlessly, scattering the defenders gathered behind. They had not expected cavalry, and there were no pikemen to hold the mounted soldiers at bay, so they were forced to get close and risk the scything swords and flailing hooves of the enemy. The horsemen were not co-ordinated in their attack however, leaving both flanks open to the defenders’ blades, and while hacking down on one side, the other was left vulnerable. Emerico took such an opening to step in quickly, driving his sword into the ribs of the soldier, finding a point just below the leather armour, forcing it upward with both hands. The Jendayan arched his back in pain as the sword bit home, and toppled from the horse’s back to fall limply onto the cobbles. Emerico struggled to free his sword as the rider fell, and was pulled to the ground under the weight of the body. The riderless horse, still panicked from the fire, and now surrounded by shouts and cries of fear and pain, bolted through the crowd. As it did so, it kicked and bucked, knocking many of the ‘Remnants’ to the ground, and sending others scampering away for fear of being trampled.
A hind hoof caught Emerico on the side of the head with a sickening crack as he tried to free his weapon from the corpse of the dead rider. He was tossed back like a rag doll, and hit the ground dead. Alano saw the damage the animal had done, and did not take the time to run to his aid. He could mourn his friend later. For now he was fighting for his life.
The wide entrance to the fish market suddenly felt very narrow, with five horses still in their midst. Alano dodged to the side as one of the mounted Jendayans was carried sideways by his skittish horse and threatened to trample him. He ducked a scything blow, and then parried another. One of the ‘Remnants’ grabbed the foot of the rider, pulling it from the security of the stirrup. Before the Jendayan could correct his balance, he was toppled from his saddle, shouting incomprehensibly as he went. He was quickly silenced. The dead and the injured were dragged deeper into the market, out of the way of the next attack, when it came, but Alano did not allow himself more than a glance at Emerico’s limp body.
The other riders suffered a similar fate as their attacks failed to breach the defences. Archers, and other footsoldiers finished the others that had made it from the ship before they could gather themselves into any sort of organised attack, but Alano turned back to face the dock, and realised that that was about to change.
Valia urged her horse towards the enemy unit as it tried to
form up in a defensive square. This was the third time that the Band had been required to mop up what had been spilled from the ‘unbreakable’ line of the Heavy Infantry.
The Jendayan infantry was fast. On leaving the pontoons and entering the battle with the Heavy Infantry directly, the Jendayans discarded their shields - that had proved so useful a defence against the bowmen - and used their swords two-handed. They were agile, and as eager to force their way through the defensive line as they were to engage it. This meant that many slipped through. It was a tactic obviously devised to sow confusion in the defence, and leave the Heavy Infantry feeling exposed at the rear.
As yet, none of the enemy had managed to form into a unit large enough to cause any real difficulties, but the holes were beginning to show as the Koratheans tired, and eventually the defence would be on two fronts.
She charged into the huddle of around twenty Jendayans, backed by a dozen mercenaries. Olimar had taken a similar number to round up another breakaway group to the north. Truman was a heartbeat behind her, with Marlon close behind too. The coordinated attack broke the Jendayans instantly. There was no way for them to get at the riders directly, as the horses trampled through their hastily formed ranks, and those that were not crushed, were cut down summarily.
Two of the horses were injured in the attack, however, and the lame animals were let loose to hobble their own way to the sanctuary of the pens.
“Take up a position to the south end of the archers,” Valia said to the grounded riders. “There are units there to add your weight to. If you can scrounge horses, then re-join us, but otherwise keep those bowmen safe.”
The mercenaries nodded, and loped off to their new positions.
“The Heavy Infantry are exhausted,” Truman said as he pulled his horse in to Valia’s side. “They will not hold out much longer against those numbers.”
Valia glanced back to the canal. “They must hold,” she said firmly.
The ground on the eastern side of the canal was littered with bodies. Thousands lay dead with their comrades climbing over them to join the fray as though they were no more than inconvenient mounds to be stepped on, or over, in order to make progress.
“The breakouts are growing in size and frequency, Valia.”
“Then we must fight harder,” she said defiantly, and pointed her horse in the direction of another growing knot of Jendayans.
Alano watched as two more vessels disgorged their cargoes onto the dock. They had arrived simultaneously, splitting the fire from the archers, and crunched into the timber waterfront with devastating finality. There were two more directly behind those, aiming for gaps in the wreckage. It was clear that these ships had not been built with the return journey in mind. The bowmen turned their attentions from the vessels to their passengers as the hull ramps drove their claws into the dock, and abandoned the flaming arrows for more conventional ordnance. They were able to fire faster and more accurately without the weighted tips, and scores fell in the initial volleys. Horses screamed, and men cried out in pain as the hail stripped their numbers down before they were able to make their landing count.
Several dozen riders survived the arrows and managed to break through, or dart between the ranks defending the bowmen. They caused havoc amongst the archers, who scattered before the mounted attack, and though the riders did little damage to their number, the ranks were in disarray when the final vessels crashed home.
When the hull ramps fell, there was little resistance. The mounted men from the previous vessels were still charging about the scattered archers, not even attempting to kill, but simply there to keep the ranks from forming up again. Footsoldiers were trying to close up on the horsemen and bring them down, as Caspar Gillen bellowed his orders. Easily two hundred horsemen, and three times as many footsoldiers were now forming up on the flagstones beyond the dock.
There were three options open to the attackers. They could stay and fight on the docks, but Alano was sure that they would not, since their main purpose had to be to outflank the defences at the temple. They could head north, directly towards the temple, but this meant confronting the ranks of Heavy Infantry positioned against that eventuality. Or, they could push east, into the city, and make their way through the streets to come about on the defenders’ rear.
A sense of dreadful inevitability began to grow in Alano’s belly, like lead. The fish market was one such entrance to the city, and the bulk of the Heavy Infantry not at the temple itself was positioned north along the docks against a direct assault on the temple defences.
“Barricades!” he shouted, as the first of the mounted soldiers began to move in their direction. “Get them higher!” His men began hauling the remaining wooden stalls and tables of the fish market to the wide gap, tipping them over frantically to form a better obstruction against the onrushing soldiers. They would struggle to make it any higher, but if they could make it deeper those horses would not jump the obstruction quite so easily. Horses would shy away from a jump they were not certain that they could make, and surely they would sense the danger of breaking a leg in attempting to jump.
Surely.
Alano suddenly realised that he was basing a great deal on an assumption. He did not know horses well at all.
The hooves clattered deafeningly on the stones, and showed no sign of slowing as they reached the barricade. Whether through pressure from those behind, goading from the saddle or shear bloody mindedness, the lead animals jumped.
The first clipped the detritus and fell in a tangle of legs and shattered boards, but more followed. Many landed safely in gaps left in the clutter while still more fell with a crunching of bone that was audible over the noise. Those that fell and were thrown from their horses were crushed under the hooves of those that followed, uncaring of their comrades. Dozens made it over the barricade, and charged beyond the ‘Remnants’, not lingering to fight when their true aim lay beyond the docks.
“Leave them!” Alano shouted. “Let them be!” There was no point in throwing away the lives of his men as they were no match for the riders. Being trampled cheaply would do the defence no good. The mounted soldiers would get through whether the ‘Remnants’ died or not, and there were footsoldiers hurrying towards the barricade that they could do something about.
Alano looked about him. He had fewer than sixty men still standing after the last two attacks. A hundred and fifty or more Jendayan footsoldiers were quickly advancing on their position, looking fresh and eager with their swords held two-handed across their chests.
What Alano would not have done for a handful of archers right then. But the bowmen were scattered as still more horsemen had driven the attack home, evading the hapless footsoldiers or driving through them. The fire spread to the docks and smoke from the burning ships filled the air, covering many of the movements beyond the burning quayside. Confusion reigned, and unseen through the smoke, Alano heard the tell-tale crunch of more ships hitting what was left of the dock further to the north.
The Eritanian, Caspar Gillen had managed to organise what few Heavy Infantry he had at his disposal into a protective cordon, from where a hundred or so bowmen managed to put a few volleys into the air. It did Alano no good though, and the footsoldiers arrived at the barricade with fierce expressions.
Dimas stepped forward, and leapt deftly to the top of the barricade. He checked the solidity of his footing, and took a defensive stance.
“Dimas!” Alano yelled, “Get back down!” But the man ignored him, his attention fixed on the first soldiers to reach the debris below.
“Dimas!” Alano called again.
The newly forged steel blade flashed, and the first to come into his range fell limply against the toppled stall. Then another. His movements were quick and assured, no energy wasted. Attacks were brushed aside and enemy soldiers toppled by their own weight or else cut down, the ‘Malmotti’ blade deadly in the hands of its master.
Alano returned his attention to the soldiers pouring over the barricade to
either side of Dimas like a wave breaking around a rock. Some of the attackers fell as the stalls or tables teetered under their weight, and were easily dispatched as they tried to right themselves or untangle their limbs from the debris, but most arrived sure-footed and ready to fight.
The Jendayans were skilled, and Alano had been battling with one for a few moments before he realised that the enemy would easily break their ranks. Even without their superior number, the Jendayans were better fighters, and on even terms, there was no contest. His men were dying to either side as he fought for his own life, barely able to defend against the attacks and being edged backwards all the time.
Dimas still stood tall against the attack. His eyes were fixed on his enemy and cold as ice, yet his body was relaxed and his movements measured. His sword was a part of him; moving as he willed and cutting down any that ventured within its reach with a whispered passage through the air. Whatever turmoil existed in his head – memories of his family, and the Jendayan slaughter – his outward demeanour was one of absolute calm and control.
Even with Dimas’ efforts, this battle was being lost. A full third of the ‘Remnants’ now lay dead, and more Jendayans poured over the barricades every second. The fighting was now taking place within the fish market as the defenders were pushed back. Alano was still battling with the first he had met, when a lucky slip knocked the Jendayan’s balance off centre. Alano was quick to react, slashing the man’s shoulder as he stumbled, and then driving his sword into his exposed chest before he could react. Another took his place in the blink of an eye, and Alano knew that they were lost.
He saw Dimas leaping from the barricade into the advancing Jendayans, his sword held high and drenched with the blood of his enemies. He disappeared beyond the barrier to unleash his vengeance still further.
Then, without warning, a hail of arrows began to fall on the Jendayans. Dozens of archers appeared on the flat roofed buildings around the market, firing at will, and cutting the enemy down. Alano ran his opponent through as the screams of his comrades pulled his attention away, and suddenly, he felt a swell of hope.