by MJ Blehart
General Grom-Valock’s face grew stern, his tone terse and harsh. “You will break up this force, and surrender the Vann Region to us. You shall then pull troops back from the Vann Region, creating a demilitarized zone for one mile along the border. You will then relinquish, before witnesses, your claim as Second Prince of Medaelia. Lastly, a free-trade zone is to be established between the Vann Region and the Kingdom of Cordianlott. These things you will do, or we shall strike.”
Varlock-Sharron was silent. He turned to Generals Bodrir and Sopirr. “Well, that is rather equitable of Wilnar-Medira, is it not? He wishes us to roll over and play dead.” He turned to the opposing parley. “General Torma, Sir Ulnar, how about you join us, and we will just wipe out the Medaelian Army?”
Both men looked momentarily shocked, but turned away.
“They are our allies, Varlock-Sharron,” remarked General Grom-Valock smugly. “We have the mightier force this day. You cannot win, and this defeat will cost you far more than the Vann Region and a title. What say you?”
“What say I? You have never commanded a ‘mightier force’. In fact, I am quite certain the only reason you command the Medaelian Army at all is because you never had enough of a spine to be more than a yes man to your superiors. You may be a passable soldier, but you are undoubtedly an exceptional bootlicker. You have nary a true military victory to your credit, and have only shown marginal effectives at bluster. I am surprised that either of your allies here allowed you to retain command of this Army, as I am certain both are more capable leaders than you. So go back to your forces, Kiran Grom-Valock. The only message I intend to return to your King is your head, in a box.”
“I shall enjoy watching your Army suffer defeat, and your Kingdom crumble,” replied General Grom-Valock red-faced. He turned his horse, spurred it, and, flanked by all who had ridden with him, galloped back to the Medaelian Army forces.
Varlock-Sharron watched a moment longer, then gestured, turned his horse, and began to ride back at a slow walk.
“Shouldn’t we get clear faster?” asked Cam, finding himself increasingly agitated. “Won’t they attack when they reach their own forces?”
“No, Cam Murtallan,” replied General Sopirr. “He may be an ass, but he’s an honorable one. They’ll wait until we have reached our forces.”
“I do so enjoy trading insults with him,” remarked the King flippantly. “Hopefully I have infuriated him enough that he will make a critical error or two. Alright, Cam, as we discussed earlier. Tell Colonel Pirvarn to move the flanks, and ready for assault.”
Cam acknowledged that, and focused. “Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight. Stretch my voice to the ear of Von Pirvarn. Let me speak with him alone, across the distance at which we stand. Let me be heard, and him in turn, by my power...Hear!”
He felt the shift, could hear those standing with Colonel Pirvarn, an eighth of a mile away. “Colonel Pirvarn?”
“Cam Murtallan?” the voice was startled, even though he’d expected this.
“His Majesty wants the flanks shifted, and all troops ready for assault.”
“As ordered, tell his Majesty we will be ready,” he replied, awe in his voice.
Cam nodded his head to himself, and felt the power release.
“He got the message, sire,” replied Cam.
“So we are prepared,” responded the King.
They finally reached the lines, and rode back to the rest of the command staff.
“Majesty, we are in readiness,” said Colonel Pirvarn, looking at Cam with wonder on his face.
“Good,” replied the King.
“They shan’t wait long to strike,” commented General Sopirr.
“Arrows incoming!” came the shout almost instantly.
“Shields!” barked General Bodrir.
Cam reached behind, grabbed the shield from the back of his saddle. He saw them arcing above, a flurry of arrows. He crouched upon his saddle, beneath his shield, just as he’d been instructed.
They whistled around him, and he heard men cry out and horses whine, along with the sound of metal hitting wood and flesh and armor. He felt a glancing impact from his shield, then felt a solid hit. Peering at the underside, Cam noted the arrowhead lodged to the left of his arm.
Suddenly, his horse whinnied, and dropped beneath him. Cam rolled, breaking a few shafts imbedded in the ground along his path. He managed to end up in a crouch, beneath the shield. Soon, the first storm of arrows stopped.
“Archers, return fire!” ordered General Bodrir confidently, lowering his shield and rising up in his saddle.
Archers raised bows, and let loose their own hail of arrows.
Cam glanced to the side, and saw his horse down, howling piteously. An arrow was lodged in its right eye. Men and horses were wounded and dead here and there, and a cacophony of noise reached his ears, metal on wood, horses stomping, men shouting, muttering, cursing and crying. The arrows of the Sharron army arced high above towards the opposing force like a flock of speedy, slender birds.
“Arrows incoming!” came the alarmed shout again.
“Archers, second volley!” called General Bodrir urgently.
“Shields!” commanded General Sopirr, ducking quickly beneath his own.
Cam ran to his fallen horse, but was too late. The arrow had pierced too deeply, and the poor animal was dead. More ammunition fell around him, glancing off his shield. Two more missiles impacted and stuck.
“Archers, third, fourth and fifth volley!” ordered General Bodrir with an uncanny calm. The projectile weapons clearly did not phase him in the least.
“Arrows incoming!” someone exclaimed with obvious worry once again.
More missiles fell, and more men yelled out as they were wounded by the continuing storm.
Suddenly, the sound changed, and it seemed to Cam a moment as if the ground itself shifted as the enemy began to move.
“Charge incoming!” came a tense shout.
Cam glanced up, and could hardly believe his eyes.
Thundering ahead of the main body of the enemy forces, a huge number of mounted soldiers charged. Cam could not count them.
“Cavalry first ranks, Broadhead formation, make ready to charge!” shouted General Sopirr, lowering his visor.
“Archers, make ready!” added the King with steely determination.
“Cavalry second ranks, standby, Arrowhead formation!” called General Bodrir.
Everything shifted as positions were taken.
“Cavalry first ranks, Charge!” cried General Sopirr, spurring his horse.
“Honor of Sharron!” called Varlock-Sharron defiantly.
“Honor of Sharron!” answered the shouts of the amassed army.
Cam recalled strategy laid out over the past few days, but still found himself stunned when faced with the actual fighting. The utter detachment in the shouted orders of the Generals and King unnerved him. Cam felt his heart racing, breath catching in his throat as the world around him seemed to go mad. But beneath it all, he felt the center of his being, his power, and the very knowledge of it began to calm him. He composed himself once again, and observed the well plotted tactics in action.
As planned, General Sopirr led the charge of over ten-thousand mounted soldiers, in a long line, stretching out across the field.
The enemy force had a more narrow charge, but it was two lines. As they came closer to the Sharron forces, they moved apart, to the sides, spread out to overtake the advancing Sharron charge.
“Archers, stand-by!” ordered Varlock-Sharron warningly.
From the center of the Sharron charge, several trumpets bellowed at once. All of a sudden, the Sharron charge broke in half, wheeled about, and spread apart, breaking right and left, riding off behind the main body of Sharron forces.
The advancing Medaelian charge slowed, faltering, no longer faced with mounted soldiers from Sharron. They quickly recovered and rode on, however, towards the body of the Sharron forces.
“Fire!” cried
Varlock-Sharron tersely.
Arrows and crossbow bolts lanced out, striking at the Medaelian charge. Horses and soldiers went down, as the Sharron Army archers raked the Medaelian horsemen.
“Cavalry second ranks, with me, Charge!” commanded General Bodrir, spurring his horse.
They thundered forward, another ten-thousand mounted soldiers. The force spread out, in the shape of an arrowhead, charging into and through the ranks of the Medaelian cavalry.
The meeting of the charge was incredible, as men and horses collided, swords flashed, steel rang on steel, blood spurted. Men howled in pain and the heat of battle. Horses whinnied and snorted. The field was a damp and muddy disaster.
At first, the Sharron cavalry was outnumbered, though they had surprised their opponents with both a non-standard charge, and the previous arrow-storm. But as they closed in, hacking and slashing, the situation began to even out.
But it was not to last. The first Sharron cavalry ranks had again come about, and now rode into the advancing Medaelian forces and their allies, coming in from the flanks. Suddenly, the Medaelians found themselves overwhelmed.
Though the numbers were more or less equal, the psychological effect of the un-conventional Sharron tactics took its toll. The Medaelian cavalry had met its match.
Cam watched, fascinated, as the mounted soldiers hacked and slashed, deftly controlling the large animals beneath them with knees and spurs. The air smelled of sweat and blood and steel and earth. Sounds of hooves in mud, steel on steel, metal on flesh, cries of battle and pain became a loud jumble.
Suddenly, a new sound, a shout of some sort from behind the fighting cavalry, and the roar of thousands of men running upon the soft ground.
The Medaelian footsoldiers were charging into the fight.
“Foot coming!” came various calls from the body of the Sharron forces, a mix of tension, confidence, warning, and even excitement.
“All forces, Charge!” ordered the King with a detached determination that nearly made Cam shiver.
Soldiers began to advance forward, nearly at a run. Cam drew his rapier, felt himself moving forward. He stood not far off from where Varlock-Sharron sat his horse, surrounded by guardsmen. His sword was in his hand.
Cam saw the first of them meet, weapons flailing. It was chaotic. It was hard to tell what was happening at the head of the battle. A few horse-mounted soldiers in the enemy’s colors, having broken free of the cavalry battle, rode towards the King.
Varlock-Sharron spurred his horse, as did his guardsmen. They ran for the advancing enemy cavalry.
At first, they had been attempting to flank the Sharron Army footsoldiers. Now they faced Varlock-Sharron and his guards. They met, swords flashing.
Cam watched with awe as Varlock-Sharron rode at an opponent, ducking low to dodge his stroke. He rose up, swinging, and removed the man’s head from his soldiers. He spun his horse and blade around, coming back swinging, removing an opponent’s arm. He spun his sword again, thrusting it through the visor of another.
Cam noticed several enemy soldiers coming towards him. They must have broken free of the main clash of forces, or else they were cavalry who had lost their horses, he realized.
He felt his heart begin to race again, but he remembered both his meditations and rapier training with Lyrra-Sharron, and calmed his nerves.
The first opponent charged, and Cam dodged to the left, slicing his rapier up across the man’s unprotected throat.
The second had a longsword, and came at Cam, swinging. Cam ducked, then met the next stroke with the guard of his blade. He broke the lock, and altered his stance, thrusting the tip of his blade into his opponent’s chest.
The third and forth attacked savagely, forcing Cam back, trying to defend. He stumbled over some debris on the ground and tripped, landing on his rear. They came closer.
One fell forward, a crossbow bolt in his back. As the other turned, a sword swept down, removing his head.
General Sopirr was riding up, his crossbow discharged. Varlock-Sharron reigned in his horse beside the general.
“Well fought, Cam. Looked like you needed some help with these,” remarked the King.
“Thanks,” replied Cam, slightly stunned. The speed and brutality of the fight was unexpected, and his sense of time was completely askew.
“We’ve halted the first advance,” replied General Sopirr, breathing hard, gesturing towards the fighting.
Cam stood up and looked, and was horrified.
They hacked and fought. Shouted as they attacked. Screamed as they dropped. Swords flashed. Limbs were hacked and removed. Blood mixed into the mud. Horses scurried, with and without riders. Men rolled on the ground, crying out as they died. Arrows whispered from bows at short range. The carnage was terrific.
“Move in the flanks,” ordered the King.
“Flanks, advance!” called General Sopirr.
His order was repeated, and carried on.
“Move the re-enforcements closer. Get ready to bring them in,” commanded the King with that unnerving detachment.
General Sopirr rode to one of his officers. The man bowed his head, and rode away from the battle, towards the re-enforcements.
“This fight is very even,” observed the King. “Something is not right here.”
Cam could say nothing. The carnage horrified him.
A cry went up among the enemy forces, as the Sharron flanks rode in.
“We have them now, sire!” exclaimed General Sopirr.
“Ready the re-enforcements,” said the King. “If that is all they have, we should be ready to finish this.”
General Sopirr was about to move, when he pointed.
They turned, and saw General Bodrir riding for them, hard. He reined in, raised his visor.
“The fight goes well?” asked the King.
“We took out most of the first ranks of their cavalry,” replied Bodrir. “But look what just advanced behind them.”
Varlock-Sharron stood his saddle. It was unnecessary.
Behind the Medaelian army, another force had gathered. A very large force.
“By the crown!” hissed Varlock-Sharron.
“We were told the Lirdarrans provided only two battalions,” Bodrir commented.
General Sopirr frowned. “Damn. That looks more like twenty battalions.”
Cam could see the worry. “Remind me again. How many soldiers make up a battalion?”
“A thousand,” said Varlock-Sharron distractedly, clearly counting.
“Twenty thousand re-enforcements?” questioned Cam, anxious.
“No,” replied Varlock-Sharron, too calmly.
“Looks like King Pol provided almost his entire army for this one,” stated General Sopirr quietly.
“More like sixty-thousand,” added General Bodrir.
“Half the Lirdarran Army. All the Medaelians. All the Cordianlotts,” remarked Varlock-Sharron. “Not good.”
Cam was too stunned to comment at the King’s understatement of the situation, and did the math. The enemy had almost twenty-thousand in reserve. They were outnumbered three to one.
The fight was even no longer. Wilnar-Medira had surprised them.
Varlock-Sharron and his generals may well have been the finest military strategists in the world, but even they would be hard pressed to best such numbers. The prospects had just become truly grim.
Cam pondered to himself whether he would have been better off with Lyrra-Sharron and the Falcon Raiders after all.
Chapter 36
Second Lieutenant Andim Noros of the Falcon Raiders looked up at the walls of Penkira before him.
Nearly half of the Falcon Raiders, one-hundred and forty, were with him. At his side, Second Lieutenant Kallan Val-Sharron was crouched, also observing their objective.
“Has enough time passed?” asked Kallan, anxious.
“Not quite,” replied Andim. “Patience, son, patience. She needs enough time to reach the palace. Then we can start.”
> “I really think Nadav or Torman would have been better here,” remarked Kallan.
“No, lad,” Andim remarked. “She needs them with her, for the raid on the palace. We did this at Brivarn successfully. She’s confident we can provide well here.”
Kallan shook his head. “I don’t know. Aside from Palace Guard, how many soldiers do the Medaelians have in Penkira?”
“From what we’re told, almost none,” replied Andim. “We’ll be fine. We’re just a diversion, after all.”
Kallan swallowed hard, fingering his bow.
“Mikar,” Andim hissed.
The big Falcon Raider approached him.
“Take your people. Move. Await my signal.”
Mikar nodded his head once, gathered his people, and moved out.
“Kallan, get your people. Go. Good luck, son,” said Andim.
“You too,” replied Kallan. He gestured, and several Falcon Raiders came with him.
They were near the river, which passed beside the walled city. Guarded canals passed into the municipality itself, but here the bank was five feet high. Beneath this bank, the Falcon Raiders were spread out.
Penkira had not been attacked since the time of Gara-Loros Anduin, and with the current situation, the normal patrols had been cut. Not the wisest decision on the part of Wilnar-Medira, clearly over-confident with his current conquest.
Andim glanced up at the wall. Guards walked atop it, paying almost no attention to anything below. They were the targets.
He took up a banner, and waved it in the air several times.
He dropped it, turned, and aimed the crossbow he had at a guard on the wall.
Simultaneously, Falcon Raiders all across the bank opened fire.
The walls were only fifteen feet tall, but thick. No arrow holes, as in Gara-Sharron, but crenelated battlements from which Medaelian archers could shoot. The city of Penkira really served the purpose of delaying an attacker from reaching the Palace. The Palace of the Crown of Medaelia had far better protection.
Soldiers fell. A cry went up. They were under attack.
More arrows flew out, in both directions. Then the Falcon Raiders moved, shifting away from this part of the wall.
Andim’s orders had been simple. Create a diversion. Occupy the Medaelians. Lyrra-Sharron wanted a chance to reach the palace, and gain entry therein.