They had already divided the enemy. The Hammer had struck.
Now for the Anvil, he thought. The cavalry reached ten paces, charging as best they could on the steep downhill, which amounted to a rapid shuffle. Horses running downhill lifted their heads up and squatted their hindquarters to keep from tumbling forward. This exposed their necks and chests to attack.
“Spears!” Gallord-Smit shouted, pulling his own up and placing it in its slot atop his shield, then stepping on the haft.
The horses did not so much slam into his line, as stumble. The sudden appearance of speartips gave the horses time to flinch, but not enough time to stop; nor did it allow their riders to react. The horses, divided and reduced in number to less than three companies, impaled themselves on a hundred spears. Most went down, many simply stumbling in terror.
What came next was near mayhem. Spearmen quickly withdrew unbroken spears from fallen horses or fell upon the shocked and injured riders. The few horses that made it through the line were horrible outnumbered, and Gallord-Smit’s group had been thoroughly versed in fighting as a group against a single rider; they would raise shields, charge in as a unit from all sides, and chop at the steed’s legs.
Gallord-Smit himself had impaled the horse charging at him, then thrown himself aside to avoid its collapse. The rider fell near him, so he rolled over and buried his sword in the man’s neck.
Leaping to his feet, he surveyed the scene and saw his men doing well; they had taken their training to heart. Shields, swords, and spears were striking fallen riders. Horses snorted and stumbled about, some with injured legs, their eyes wide in fear, surrounded. One rider managed to dismount his injured steed before it fell and rose to his feet before Gallord-Smit; he still had his sword, a long, curved sika. He charged and slashed; the Front-Captain retreated, deflecting the blow with his shield. The sword snagged briefly in the boiled leather, so Gallord-Smit held it high and chopped at the Somrian’s ankle with his shorter, quicker lakat. The man went down, screaming. Someone put a spear in him, and Gallord-Smit turned away.
A few of the horsemen had paused on the hillside when presented with two groups of enemies, then followed their commander’s charge; they came charging through with no reception. Gallord-Smit bellowed a warning, then shouted at the two men nearest him to form up. Shields in hand, they came to him and advanced on the nearest rider. One of his men was down under the horse’s hooves, and the rider was smashing his sword repeatedly into the shield of another, who seemed to have lost his weapon.
“Flank!” Gallord-Smit commanded; the two men with him ran around in front of the horseman, shields high. The rider wheeled his steed to face them, urging the horse into a charge. It slammed into the two men’s shields, knocking them down, but Gallord-Smit had a clear line from behind. He ran behind the horse and chopped into its groin with his sword. The beast screamed as its legs splayed, then it fell awkwardly, trapping the rider’s leg under it. One of the fallen men got up and swung an axe into his head. Gallord-Smit moved on.
Soon the only horses still standing were running away riderless. A few of the cavalry might have escaped, but he didn’t see any. The battlefield, strewn as it was in edge of the trees, was a mess of equine and human bodies.
He didn’t look to have lost many men; twenty at worst, including a few archers. Gallord-Smit moved out of the trees to see how Hellamer was faring.
There were a few cavalrymen galloping around on the slopes above, with Hellamer’s men variably chasing them, or running from them. Gallord-Smit looked around him, saw enough healthy bodies nearby, and bellowed another charge, running up the hill.
He did not expect to have much impact on the battle, given the length and steepness of the uphill charge, but he was pleasantly surprised. Though less than a company joined him—the others either wounded, dead, or out of earshot—the cavalry saw a new enemy running en masse up the hillside, and gave up the fight. Before he could even reach Hellamer’s group, the remaining horsemen—about a dozen—were fleeing along the ridge to safety.
He didn’t see Hellamer, but he spotted Charese nearby, and waved her over. “Where is the Right-Precept?” he asked. She was covered in blood; he wondered if any of it was hers, but she seemed to be moving well enough. Her red hair matched the splatters all over her face and armour; with her wild eyes, she was a fearsome sight.
“Wounded, Front-Captain. Run down by a horse. He’ll be all right, but he won’t be walking anytime soon,” she said. Then she looked around her, and down at the forest. “We’ve won the day!” she exclaimed.
A number of others heard her cry and a cheer went up. Gallord-Smit pounded her on the shoulder; she had proven her worth this day, as had many. He took quick stock as the rest of his group emerged from the trees; the Hammer group had suffered greater losses, fighting in the open, but overall he had lost less than a quarter of his force, against an enemy on horseback with a slight numbers advantage.
Won the day, indeed.
He ordered the men nearest him to seek out wounded and gather them in the jungle about a hundred paces east of the battle site. He stressed that they should treat enemy wounded with respect and bring them for treatment, if they surrendered. Otherwise, they would be left. He would not have any atrocities on his hands.
It was a short while later, after meeting up with Hellamer at the makeshift infirmary site, that another scout arrived. Hellamer received him, sitting up in a gurney; his left leg was broken below the knee, though he seemed in good spirits.
“Right-Precept, Front-Captain, I bring dire news,” the scout reported. he was another young fellow, tall but not more than eighteen summers, with peppery hair and a burgeoning beard on his chin.
“Speak it,” Hellamer said, frowning. Gallord-Smit stood at his side.
“There is another group of footmen in the forest, northwest of us. At least our size. They are moving this way, my lords.” The young man having delivered his message, stood staring at them.
Hellamer’s eyes widened in shock. “How . . ?”
“Are you sure, boy? You saw them clearly?” Gallord-Smit demanded.
His intensity shocked the boy, who stumbling backward and fell on his rear. Gallord-Smit offered a hand, which the boy nervously accepted.
“Calm down, boy. Again, slowly, in more detail,” he commanded, more gently but just as fiercely.
“I’d estimate four companies, my lord,” the scout said cautiously. “Infantry. Shields and spears. About a half-morn’s run from us, by my reckoning.”
“Four . . ?” Hellamer muttered. “Impossible. The grassland was clear.”
“They were hiding in the forest, then,” Gallord-Smit suggested.
“No,” the Right-Precept objected. “I ran scouts through the entire forest, right to the edge. Were you among them, boy?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, my lord. I scouted the entire forest yesterday with the others. It was clear, as was the grass plain.”
Gallord-Smit shook his head. “Obviously not,” he pointed out stoically.
The scout slumped, abject. “I promise you, my lord, it was.”
“I don’t doubt you, son,” Gallord-Smit said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Well, it doesn’t matter where they came from; they are there now, and we’ll have to deal with it. Get some drink,” he ordered. The boy bowed again and moved quickly away.
“This is bad,” Hellamer said. “We don’t have the strength to fight them, and we can’t retreat back into the hills quickly enough taking our—” He paused, glancing down ruefully at his leg. “—with the wounded.”
Gallord-Smit nodded. “You’re right. But it wouldn’t matter. They would follow us into the mountains anyway, this time,” he said distantly, his eyes on the lush green mountain above them.
“How can you be sure?”
“They planned this, Hellamer,” Gallord-Smit told him sadly. “I don’t think it went quite right; if we had still been at the camp, the cavalry attack would have aborted, and our men would
have chased them down in retreat. Then they’d have had infantry waiting in the forest. It would have—” he froze abruptly.
“What is it?” Hellamer asked, alarmed.
“Scout!” Gallord-Smit shouted. From nearby, another youth approached, lightly armoured and fresh-faced. It was a girl, he realized after a moment; her black hair had been cut short so she didn’t look it, and her face was dirty besides. He felt a pang of anguish. For a moment, he imagined how he would feel if she had been his daughter. His daughter—
No time for pain, he chided himself. Need to stay alive. And keep this girl alive.
“Run to the southern edge of the forest, and look across the plain in the direction of the army base. Come back immediately and tell me what you see,” he commanded.
“I’ll be right back, my lord,” she agreed, and dashed off.
Hellamer tried to inquire, but Gallord-Smit waved him off. He had to know, first. He dug through the medical supplies and found a jug of wine, and poured Hellamer a cup to ease his pain. He ran scenarios in his head while they waited; she came back before the Right-Precept finished his cup.
Gallord-Smit only needed to see her face to know he was right. “How many?” he asked quietly.
“All of them, I think, my lord,” she gulped. “A day’s hike.”
“What?” Hellamer exclaimed, shocked.
Gallord-Smit sighed. “They got us, Hellrack. If we’d been at the camp, and our men had fallen into the trap, we’d have been decimated. As it is, we’ve bought time. But there’s nowhere for us to go. We’re done now; they’ll march until we reach the sea, then slaughter us. Or until we hole up at the mountain’s summit, and slaughter us there. We’re done.”
Hellamer shook his head slowly, his eyes still wide, beseeching now. “I can’t believe it. Truly?”
Gallord-Smit nodded, poured himself a cup of wine, and threw it back. “Done,” he repeated. I didn’t expect to see Rena again. “Unless you have a ship waiting to take us back to Benn’s Harbour.”
He walked away from Hellamer, into the forest. For a while he just stood there alone, listening to the wind and the birds, considering how things had come to pass. He’d come here knowing he likely couldn’t win. What had he expected? To be a hero?
Maybe.
He’d never known defeat, not truly. Oh, he’d fought some pitched battles, had to retreat at times; he’d given up ground. But he had never truly been beaten—he had always found a way.
This time, they would surrender, or die.
He made his decision, and went back to Hellamer.
“It’s your call, Hellrack,” he said. “I thought there was a chance—no. There was a chance. It’s just went wrong.” He sighed. “Your men. You’ve put your stake in here; you deserve to make the decision. I’ll fight with you to the end, if you wish it. Or, I’ll turn in, and take the fall as commander. You make the call.”
Hellamer was staring at him with an odd look in his eyes.
“Make the call,” Gallord-Smit urged. He poured himself another cup of wine, then topped Hellamer’s cup as an afterthought.
The sky was clear blue, he noticed. The afternoon sun was hot, and the shadows lay long through the trees. There wasn’t much time.
Charese was standing there, he suddenly saw. Solid, pretty, young Charese, her face still covered in blood, her armour scuffed and stained, her expression hard. She was watching Gallord-Smit, as well. Had he finally fallen in her eyes?
“Front-Captain Smite,” Hellamer said finally. Gallord-Smit looked over at him in surprise; the Right-Precept was smiling at him. Charese was still looking at him sternly, but her expression wasn’t one of condemnation. Quite the opposite; it was . . . admiration. No—something stronger. Awe.
Gallord-Smit frowned. “I am missing something here?”
“You never quit, do you? I knew you were a hard man. But I never knew you were so ready to die,” Hellamer admitted, shifting his position. He grunted in pain, and lay back on Charese’ makeshift stretcher, holding his leg.
“What in the Great Link is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?” Gallord-Smit felt like shouting at the man. “We need to make a decision here. They’re coming, man.”
“You’re right; there’s no ship, Front-Captain. Benn’s Harbour is out of reach,” Hellamer said slowly, shaking his head. “But if we could get off the island? To another, smaller, island; say, a tenth the size? What if we could regroup there, and lay things out on our own terms?” Hellamer took a long, deep swallow from his cup, then tossed it aside. “Do you think we could do better?”
“One tenth the size?” Gallord-Smit shook his head harshly, then changed it to an emphatic nod. “YES, we could do better. We could lay out killing zones, plant traps . . . we could make it our island. Ten times our number couldn’t take it from us.” He rubbed the back of his neck, found dried blood there, and stared at it numbly. His? He didn’t think so. “But we’d have lost this island, Hellrack.”
Hellamer shook his head. “Never expected to hold it, Front-Captain. The goal was to be a thorn in their side, and hurt them so bad that they’d do anything to get rid of it.” He turned to Charese. “Do you think we can make it?”
Charese considered for a moment, then nodded. “We can make it, Right-Precept. The barge is beached on the eastern shore, below the cliffs. It’ll carry us all. We can make it,” she repeated. She looked at Gallord-Smit again, that glazed admiration still in her eyes.
“Well then, young lady,” Hellamer said, confidence back in his voice, “I think you had better tell the good Front-Captain about our barge, and about the volcano.”
38 WELGRAY
The harbour was full to bursting with towering warships, massive cargo ships, and countless nimble frigates, but none of them would be leaving the day Welgray made his way down to the docks, with Wissa and a pair of porters in tow. The huge ships, with their hundreds of oars and destroyer escorts, would be much slower and destined for a main port on the eastern coastline of Somria’s North Province. Welgray, on the other hand, would be traveling aboard one of an advance fleet of smaller, faster corvettes. Their mission was to capture the northernmost port town of Picho, and secure a landing area for advance scouts and infantry divisions. It would also serve as quick transport for Welgray, allowing him to make his way to Yalcinae to gain an audience with the Overlord—so the Council of Lords’ believed, in the hopes that Somria’s ruler would be displeased with Commander-General Sherzi’s reckless warmongering. In truth, he would be looking for the Lower Valley girl Sayri, or Merikal, as he had come to know her.
Welgray was not without misgivings regarding his mission. He felt that Llory’s plan was reckless and destructive in itself, showing callous disregard for human life, and he was not at all confident that she would treat the girl with any more compassion. Was he truly prepared to hand her over to Llory? The closer he got to the docks, the less certain he was.
Wissa strode behind him quietly. The last few days she had been very subdued; he wasn’t entirely sure why. When he spoke to her she was respectful and cheerful, but when he ignored her, she seemed to slump. He made a mental note to work on her a bit during the journey; a bit of delving would determine her issues, and he was sure he could cheer her up once he knew what bothered her. She was a simple enough girl, an easy subject for twisting.
They made their way down to the main boardwalk, then south along the docks to the farthest pier. A boat was waiting for them there; when the single oarsman saw Welgray’s robes, he leapt to his feet and jumped out of the boat. A middle-aged sailor with thinning hair, he didn’t speak to Welgray, but simply helped the porters load their cargo, then offered his hand to the Collector. Welgray accepted it graciously and stepped aboard, sitting upon one of the three benches in the long rowboat. The sailor went to assist Wissa as well, but she had already hopped nimbly aboard and found a seat opposite Welgray. The sailor pushed off and took the oars.
The rhythmic creaking of the oars lulled Welgray. The day was
overcast and cool, and perfectly still; the only waves were the ripples made by the oars. In the silence, every sound seemed deafening; the splatter of the oars as they sliced into the sea, the groaning of the boat under the weight of its cargo, and the echoing, distant calls of dockworkers fading behind them. Their course took them around the southern tip of the peninsula that divided the harbour from the open sea to the south. Welgray saw a group of ships, no doubt their fleet, waiting there, perhaps a score in number. They were all small and fast, and would carry only a modest number of soldiers, but the port town they were destined for would have little or no defenses.
Shortly thereafter they were among the ships, and found their way to The Sweet Song of Shellmoot, the ship that would act as command vessel for the fleet. A net was already down the ship’s port side, and their oarsman took hold of it and called for a cargo haul. Welgray was offered to be taken aboard with a rope seat, but he declined; even a Collector didn’t need to be pampered like a queen. He climbed the netting himself and slid over the rail, dusting off his robes. Sailors at work on deck carefully avoided looking directly at him.
The ship’s master was a Heartlander named Mikal Taramos. A sharp-eyed man, he was lithe and broad-shouldered, and kept his grey hair pulled into a single braid at the side of his neck. He also wore a thick, gold earring on his left ear, a Coastlander tradition; Welgray imagined there was a story behind that.
Welgray was not surprised to see the Master waiting on deck to receive him. He was, however, surprised to see Collector Drast standing beside him.
Master Taramos welcomed him formally; Welgray accepted his words graciously, but he was thinking about Drast. Why was he here?
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 46