by Duncan Lay
But he was still wary of the number of ambushes his men had suffered. So although his cavalry officers begged for the chance to charge, and although the score of rebels trotted disdainfully ahead of them, he ordered the men to rein in. There would be no wild charges until he could see the keep, and know there were no barricades placed ahead of him, lined with archers to destroy his cavalry.
Deeper and deeper into the town they went, Havrick now wondering a little at the complete absence of people. Undoubtedly they were afraid, and had hidden themselves, but he still expected to see a few around. The little group of rebels trotted ahead of them, teasing them almost, and it took all Havrick’s authority not to let his men spur into the charge.
By now they were so far into the town that his men were strung out over several streets, and he could not see the rear of the column. He had just decided to pass an order down that Jennar should stay close, but the light cavalry should peel off and ride through the side streets, when the trumpets sounded.
Instinctively, men looked around, and the column slowed.
‘Do you hear that?’ someone called.
Havrick could only hear trumpets, a strange call that he did not recognise. Then he heard something else, a strange rumbling noise.
‘Look out!’ someone screamed.
A large farm wagon, filled high with straw and well ablaze, was hurtling down a side street towards them. Trapped by men in front and behind, Havrick forced his way forwards and out of its path. Others were not so lucky. Men and horses were struck by the impact and fell, or ran screaming as they caught alight. Other wagons had rolled out of other side streets, and up and down the column there was confusion, men shouting and screaming, wounded begging for help. Men instinctively tried to rally together but were being cut off from comrades by the flaming wagons.
Ahead, the rebels had stopped, but before Havrick could think to give the order to charge, other men in blue wheeled yet more wagons across the road, then tossed torches into them. These wagons also went up in flames, creating a barrier that no horse would charge. Their way ahead was blocked, the way behind was probably also cut off, which just left the side streets. Havrick opened his mouth to order his men to scatter into the side streets, when a new trumpet call sounded. This was one he did recognise—it was the call for archers to attack.
Instantly the column was raked by a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts. Men and horses fell, and not just from the arrows. Havrick saw a javelin sink deep into a horse’s haunch, the animal reared and the trooper fell backwards. He caught sight of something flying towards him out of the corner of his eye. He threw up his shield and it stuck into the shield’s face with a loud metallic thud. Glancing down, he saw it was a wickedly pointed star. A caltrop. Any horse that stood on one of those would not walk again that day.
‘Form up! Draw swords!’ the heavy company officer bellowed, trying to restore some order. Havrick thought he should be doing the same, but the words just did not seem to be coming out. Then he saw the officer hit by three crossbow bolts and realised that anyone shouting orders was swiftly going to become a target for the archers and arbalesters in the houses. He decided his first priority was safety, so he stayed low and kept his shield high.
Sergeants were now yelling for the men to dismount and break into the houses, take the fight to the archers, but every shouted order provoked a flurry of missiles.
‘We have to get off the street! Sir! What are your orders?’ a sergeant yelled at Havrick.
Before Havrick could think of a reply, the man’s horse stepped on a caltrop and reared high. The man threw his hands up to keep his balance, and a crossbow bolt smashed into his head, splattering Havrick with brains and blood.
Havrick stared as the man’s body slowly toppled over and tried to think what he could do. He knew he should impose himself on the battle. He had plenty of men, although at the moment they were cowering in doorways and hiding behind shields, rather than doing anything that would win this fight. But all he could think of was how angry Gello would be if he lost this battle, and how his brothers would have been proved right.
Then he heard a third trumpet call.
Martil watched Havrick fall into his trap with relief, but he knew it could not last. Scores of men had gone down from arrows and the fire wagons, but there were plenty left, and these would have to be tackled man to man. The plan was for Wime and Rocus to drive into the centre of the column, cutting it in half, then Rocus to push towards the head and Wime to push towards the rear, where, hopefully, the two pockets of men would surrender when they saw they were trapped.
‘Sound the attack,’ he ordered.
He watched as Rocus and Wime led the screaming rush of townsfolk out of side streets and into Havrick’s column. The remaining officers and sergeants—those that the archers and arbalesters had not already picked off—shouted at their men to get off their horses and form lines. They were not quick enough.
Rocus, fresh from luring Havrick into this rash advance, led the charge into the confused troopers. The men in the middle of the column were light cavalry, carrying just swords. Rocus, his guardsmen, Sirron and his farm boys drove into them, their shield wall giving them a decided advantage. Into the gap poured a variety of townsfolk, at the front mainly militiamen or men who had served in the army before, but behind them ordinary men.
These men had seen their friends and neighbours robbed, raped and murdered. Their own families were sheltering in the keep. They knew what it would mean to lose. Their hatred, their anger, their fear for their families, these propelled them into the troopers with a fury.
On the other hand, the troopers had spent weeks walking through woods, being picked off by archers. They had drunk little water and eaten only scraps that day, their horses were tired and they were expecting a short battle followed by a night of drunken looting. But they had been trained well, and after the initial surprise, when a score were cut down easily, they tried to stand their ground and fight back.
‘Don’t let them rally!’ Rocus knew the bulk of his force was yet to reach the battle and he had to create space for them to spill into the street.
He smashed his shield into the face of one trooper and let the men behind finish the writhing man off. Rocus had been insulted by men like these for years: told he was just a chocolate soldier, who would melt in the heat of battle, told he was little better than a servant, good for opening doors and standing at attention and nothing more. But the last month had been a true learning experience. He was fitter, stronger and far more skilled thanks to Martil. And when Martil told him he would be leading one of the attack, that he was now better than many of the officers Martil had known back in Rallora, he swore to himself he would make his captain proud. His men were formed up tight, shields locked together in a wedge shape, with himself at the point. Sirron led another wedge and the two of them forced their way into the mass of troopers. Even the weight of his chain mail hauberk seemed as nothing, as adrenalin drove him forwards. A man lunged at him, but it was easy to block the blow with his shield, then stab with his own sword to open a huge wound in the man’s groin. He screamed horribly and fell, so Rocus stepped over him, trusting a townie to take care of the man later. Behind him, his guardsmen stayed close, cutting down troopers who tried to tackle them individually. Their weeks of hard training were paying off, the men working together.
The street was crowded now, bodies of men and horses slowing their progress, but they were still pushing the troopers back, creating little pockets of men that were surrounded and cut down by the townsfolk behind. On the other side of the street, Sirron had stepped back to let the group that had trained with axes lead the attack. These were particularly effective. Troopers without shields were reluctant to get near to the wicked double-bladed axes. As Martil had hoped, none were willing to step inside the arc of the axes, and a group cowered away, forcing Sirron to turn aside to deal with them. A flood of townies pushed past, eager to join the fight, getting ahead of Sirron’s squad
. A dozen troopers, still in the saddle, saw their chance and spurred to the attack, riding down their own wounded to try and drive the townsfolk back.
They cut down several men and others scattered. Rocus saw instantly they had to be stopped, or they could reverse the gains already made. He was about to shout to his men to follow him to block them, when the last townies were cut down or ran back to reveal Sirron and his farm boys formed up in front of the charge. Rocus, the battle forgotten, watched, afraid of what might happen. He could not hear the orders, but the first rank went down on one knee, the shields came up and suddenly the horses were faced with a wall of spears that they refused to charge into. They swerved to either side, one horse went down with a spear in its chest, and the charge was broken.
Instantly the townsfolk swarmed in, preventing them from re-forming. Troopers cut and slashed furiously, handing out wicked wounds, but they could not guard themselves on all sides. Their horses were hamstrung and fell, or they were dragged out of the saddle and beaten to death with a variety of weapons.
Rocus raised his sword in salute to Sirron, then turned again to the troopers around him. The very narrowness of the street, which had caused the initial problems for Havrick’s troops, was now working in the soldiers’ favour. The townsfolk needed the advantage of numbers to smash through, but only a certain number of men could fight in the street at the one time. Rocus could see the armoured forms of heavy cavalry troopers ahead, who were pushing through their lighter cousins to join the fight, and knew his men would be in trouble soon. He wanted to win the battle by himself, but Martil had drilled into him that a good leader knew when to ask for help. He signalled to one of his men, who began waving a flag, so Martil and Barrett could see it. That done, he returned to the attack.
‘Kill them!’ he roared, pushing his way to the front of the wedge again, and battering down a trooper with repeated heavy blows, until the man failed to block one and took a sword through the throat.
Martil was the first to see the blue flag waving near Rocus, even before Barrett.
‘Rocus is asking for help. Obviously he thinks the heavy cavalry will be able to stop his advance,’ he said aloud.
‘Wime is doing well, driving his side further back,’ Barrett reported.
Martil looked down at the battle for a moment. He knew his options. He had not wanted to have too many side streets accessible to Havrick’s men. It would be too easy for them to escape down them. So he had used fire wagons to block them onto the main street. But it meant he could only get his fighters into battle down two streets, one for Wime and one for Rocus. And men who had not reached the battle could not win it. He had to push the cavalry far enough back to bring all his men into play. There was only one way to do it.
‘Let’s go. We’ll smash our way through them together,’ he ordered.
Barrett hissed his disapproval. ‘And the Queen’s order to stay out of the battle?’
‘We have to win this battle. If we don’t go now, it may be too late. The Dragon Sword will crack the defenders open. Come on.’ Martil had no time for debate. The battle was in the balance. Wime’s successes would count for nought if the townsfolk with Rocus were put to flight.
He and Barrett were on the roof of a large house, four storeys above the battle. Rather than run down the stairs, down several streets and then push their way through the men waiting to join the fight, Barrett simply took Martil’s arm.
‘Jump!’ he cried and together they leapt off the building, floating down gently to land behind Rocus. Martil had been warned what to expect but he still found it both terrifying and exhilarating to have their descent controlled by Barrett’s mastery of the magic.
Townsfolk made space for them to land, while astonished troopers stopped fighting for a moment to watch the amazing sight.
‘I don’t have any armour!’ Martil realised, too late.
‘Don’t worry,’ Barrett smiled. He touched Martil on the arm, and suddenly Martil felt warm all over. He looked down to see his skin had turned a deep brown. He poked at it experimentally and discovered it felt the same from the inside, but outside it was hard and unyielding, like leather armour, only stronger.
He looked up to see Barrett’s skin was the same.
‘You will be able to move as if you were wearing no armour, but it will stop most sword and arrow blows, although an axe cut can do some damage,’ the wizard grinned. His caution at joining the fighting seemed to disappear as he hefted his staff, which had suddenly become the size of a small tree again. ‘Shall we go and win this battle?’
Rocus was no longer pushing forwards, but standing and holding his ground against the heavy cavalry troopers who were facing him. Over to his left, he knew Sirron would be doing the same, but he dared not spare the time to look. His left arm was bruised from the battering his shield had taken, while his right shoulder and arm were on fire from where he had been trying to bash his opponents down. The armour was now a weight that was making his back ache, while he desperately wanted a drink of water and the chance to rest his arm. But he dared not step back. He and his men were taking a toll of the enemy, but the troopers were brutal on any brave townie who tried to take them on.
The two sides were locked together now, shield to shield, thrusting and jabbing with their swords, the men in the second ranks doing most of the killing. The ones at the front barely had room to swing their weapons.
Then he heard a bellowed war cry from his left, and risked a look. The trooper he was fighting did not take advantage of the sudden opening, for he too was staring in surprise and horror.
Rocus turned again, to see Martil and Barrett push their way to the front of the shield wall. None could stand against them. Barrett would swing his staff, and knock back two and three men facing him, not just sending them to the ground, but flying ten feet through the air, to crash into the men several ranks behind them. Martil, on the other hand, carried two swords but used only one. Each stroke of the Dragon Sword sheared through shields, swords, armour and flesh; one blow was all it took to cut down whoever faced him.
Into the space they created, townsfolk pushed forwards, attacking troopers from two sides.
‘Into them!’ Rocus, his sore arm forgotten, pushed forwards again, using brute strength to shove the trooper back, and then swung his blunted sword with all his might, forcing it through the man’s armour and into his groin.
The troopers in the front line simply could not stand against the wizard and the warrior. Martil was frightening in the way he fought, just a brutal economy of movement as one blow was all it took for a man to be killed or wounded so badly he could not fight on. There was something implacable in the way he drove into the troopers, the way the Sword cut through metal armour as easily as the flesh beneath.
But the one doing the most damage was Barrett. He fought as if he held a quarterstaff, but one that was four times as large as anything any trooper had seen. With each blow, men were sent flying, to crash into those behind them. Screaming men were sent high into the air, one even soared across the street to smash into the wall of a house. Another that got too close took a blow to the head and was punched downwards so hard his helmeted head was crushed level with his shoulders and his leg bones were smashed to shards. Men tried to back away, pushed into those behind them, and all the time Martil and Barrett were driving forwards, a mass of townsfolk behind them. The battle was at a critical point now. It required the troopers to do something dramatic to win. But the men were exhausted, hungry and tired and most of their officers were dead. They did not have it in them to tip the balance back again. One man threw down his sword and raised his hands in surrender, then another, and then a rush of them.
‘Hold!’ Martil bellowed, and the advance stopped.
The townsfolk nearby gave a massive cheer, waving their weapons in the air.
Martil signalled to Rocus. The big guardsman had slung his shield over his shoulder and was drinking deeply from a waterskin but he hurried over, a broad grin on his
face.
‘Well done, Lieutenant! But we’re only halfway there. Take your men and one hundred townsfolk and go and help Wime. He was pushing the other side back but I’m sure he’ll be glad of the reinforcements.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Rocus saluted. ‘Sirron did well, stood down a charge and broke it up.’
‘Did he? I’ll be sure to thank him. Now go! We’ll celebrate after the last man is in our hands.’
Rocus saluted again and then ran off, calling his men to him.
‘Sergeant Sirron!’ Martil waved the young farm boy over, but one look at his face told him this was not just a farm boy now, this was a soldier.
‘Good work, lad.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I think you are ready to become a lieutenant now, and take command of your own company!’
Sirron’s face lit up, the hardness around the eyes going and the young farm boy re-emerging in his broad grin.
‘And you, sir! You were amazing! You and Barrett won it for us!’
‘No, lieutenant. You and your lads won it for us, with your bravery.’ Martil smiled and took Sirron’s hand in the warrior’s grasp, wrist to wrist. He felt a great deal of affection for the youngster. Martil could see the parallels with himself in Sirron, and knew that on such men, an army could be built.
‘Your first task as a lieutenant is to get the prisoners into the houses we prepared.’ Along the street, houses had been turned into temporary prisons. All the furniture had been removed and the windows boarded up. Once the doors were locked, the men inside were no longer a danger and could be watched over by one or two men. ‘After that, you need to check the wounded and go and find the priests.’