Warrior Knight

by Paul J Bennett

  Cyn came up beside them. “What are we looking at?”

  “The enemy,” said Sigwulf.

  “They don’t look so scary. Hit them with a weapon, and they’ll die like anyone else.”

  Ludwig grimaced. “I only wish there wasn’t so many of them.”

  “Regretting your suggestion to hold here?”

  “Not at all, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.”

  “It’s the cavalry that scares me,” said Sigwulf.

  “They're not so bad,” said Ludwig. “We’ve built up our defences, so they won’t get in here so easily.”

  “It’s not only that,” said Sigwulf. “At the battle of Krosnicht, it was the cavalry that decimated my family.”

  “I thought you weren’t there?”

  “I wasn’t, but my brother was, along with my father.”

  “It was that bad?”

  “Let’s just say the king didn’t take prisoners.”

  “I doubt that’ll be the case here,” said Ludwig.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Cyn. “If I was going to conquer a country, I’d want all the old nobility out of the way. That way, I could put in my own people. That’s not so bad for people like us, but Lord Hagan might feel otherwise.”

  “Best not tell him your theories, then,” said Sigwulf. “We don’t want to alarm him.”

  “There, to the south of their line,” said Cyn. “Do you see it? The king’s banner.”

  Ludwig could make out the white and green background. Something was emblazoned on its front, but the wind had died down, making it hard to tell what it was supposed to be. He squinted, hoping it would help but found all it did was aggravate him.

  “It’s meant to be an eagle,” said Sigwulf.

  “Is it? It looks like it has two heads.”

  “And so it does. It represents the fact that the kingdom looks both to the sea and land.”

  “Andover has ports?”

  “Yes,” said Sigwulf. “It’s on the Great Northern Sea. Did you not know?”

  “I knew they commanded a great deal of river traffic, but I had no idea they were on the coast. How far away is the sea?”

  “Within a few hundred miles.”

  “I'd like to see it someday, providing we live long enough.”

  Sigwulf shrugged. “There’s not much to see, just a lot of water and a cold wind blowing in from the north.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Cyn. “He’s simply missing home.”

  “It’s not my home anymore!” defended the huge man. “The King of Abelard saw to that.”

  “You may see it again,” said Ludwig. “A lot can happen in the span of a decade or so.”

  “The Underworld would have to freeze before I set foot in that wretched place again. My home is here, with Cyn.”

  This pleased her no end. “Aw,” she said. “Now he’s making me all teary eyed.”

  Ludwig returned his focus to the king's flag. “We never actually saw the king's retinue,” he said. “Does he have an order of knights like the duke?”

  “He does,” said Sigwulf, “though they’re said to be more numerous. At least that’s what I heard from the locals.”

  “The locals?”

  “Yes, Baron Stein’s men. Sorry, I suppose they’re Lord Hagan’s men now.”

  “How do they know about the king’s guard?”

  “They know a lot more than they let on. Word travels quickly in an army camp, and the barons aren’t shy about expressing their opinions.”

  “Well,” said Ludwig, “let’s hope he doesn’t decide to use them to attack our position here. I don’t fancy fighting men in full plate armour, do you?”

  “No,” agreed Sigwulf. “Mind you, it wouldn’t be so bad if I had a hammer, or maybe an axe, but swords are almost useless against that kind of protection. In any event, I doubt they’ll come up against us.”

  “Why's that?” asked Ludwig.

  “Knights are nothing but glory hunters, present company excluded of course. They’d prefer to run around the battlefield fighting their peers, more chances of earning ransom.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “They’re halting,” said Cyn.

  “I can see that, but why?” said Ludwig. “Don't they want to get closer?”

  “No,” she replied. “They fear the duke’s knights. Their entire army is forming into a long line.”

  “Why are there gaps?”

  “I expect that’s to let their own knights through when the time comes.”

  “Where are their archers?”

  “Likely formed up behind their foot,” offered Sigwulf. “The royalists did the same thing at Krosnicht. I thought you would have known that—you read a lot.”

  “I do,” admitted Ludwig. “Unfortunately, the bowmen get short shrift in such accounts.”

  “That’s because the nobility doesn’t like them. They consider them cowardly for fighting at a distance.”

  “But in spite of that, they still employ their own.”

  “True,” said Sigwulf. “They’re not complete idiots. They’ll employ anything that can give them an advantage against the enemy, yet rail against those same tactics when employed by their foes.”

  “Such is the nature of war.”

  Cyn was looking eastward, back towards the duke’s army. “Something’s happening.”

  Ludwig turned to see a group of knights riding forth.

  “What is he doing?” he asked.

  A gap had opened in the duke’s line, and now a large group of horsemen were riding forth, their armour glittering in the afternoon sun. Ludwig felt his heart swell with pride, for it was an inspiring sight, yet his mind told him it would end in disaster.

  He watched them advance. “By the Saints, they’re a magnificent sight.”

  There must have been close to two hundred of them passing the farmhouse to the south, stretched out into a long line advancing at the trot. When they were almost even with Ludwig’s position, they drew swords as their mounts picked up speed.

  Ludwig struggled to understand their haste, for they still had hundreds of paces yet to go before contacting the enemy.

  Sigwulf’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Look,” he said, pointing westward.

  The King of Andover had responded with cavalry of his own. The duke’s knights now faced half again as many enemy horsemen. Ludwig could feel his heart racing, his pulse quicken, and, for a brief moment, he wished he were with them, tearing down on the enemy, ready to wreak havoc.

  The lines struck each other with a mighty clash. The closest part of the melee was less than a few hundred paces from Ludwig’s position, and he watched in awe as steel met steel, unable to tear his eyes from the carnage. To him, they were heroes of myth, battling the enemy in a life or death struggle. Lines began to disintegrate, merging to become hundreds of individual duels, the bright tabards of their heraldry blurring into a riot of colours.

  Even as close as he was, it was now impossible to tell friend from foe. Only the clash of metal told of the fight. Around the outside of this melee, individual knights rode, seeking an opportunity to strike. Then a trio of enemy knights spotted Ludwig and his men.

  Ludwig stood. “Archers, draw!”

  Closer they came, picking their way carefully through the stakes, not yet realizing what awaited them.

  “Loose!” he shouted.

  A ragged volley flew forth, several striking true, but metal armour protected their targets. It did, however, convince the enemy knights they were better served by re-entering the melee that raged nearby.

  Ludwig turned to Cyn. “Get the rest of the bowmen out here as fast as you can. If those knights come back, I want them taken down.” She ran off to the farmhouse like a madwoman, no thought to her own safety.

  Ludwig was frustrated, galled even, to have to sit back and watch the battle unfold, unable to take part in it. He turned to Sigwulf, who appeared content to watch.

  “We m
ust do something,” urged Ludwig.

  “What would you have us do? Charge forward and be cut down like blades of grass? Our time will come, my friend, but you must be patient.”

  The fighting began to slacken, the sounds of battle now dull in the distance. The combatants were tiring, the field churned up by the horses' hooves. Even as Ludwig sat there, he saw a small group of riders break off from the melee, riding eastward, desperate to escape the clutches of the king’s army. They didn’t get far.

  Ludwig watched in horror as a knight of Andover caught up to them, bringing a mace crashing down onto a helmet. The rider slumped, then slid from the saddle to lie, unmoving. The second victim took a blow to the arm and lost control of his reins. His horse kept moving, but the rider twisted, desperate to parry another blow. He got his sword up, but the manoeuvre was weak, and the mace crashed down, ruining the man’s shoulder. He screamed in agony and fell from the saddle to land with a thud as his horse ran off in a panic.

  The knight of Andover continued his chase, calling out at the last of the duke’s men. To his credit, the Knight of the Sceptre turned around, meeting his fate with courage and determination. They gazed at each other and, with a nod, urged their horses into a head-to-head confrontation.

  They rode past each other at the gallop, their weapons held on high. The Erlingener struck with the sword, but his foe deftly deflected the blow, then countered with a backward bash as they passed, catching his target in the lower back. The mace dug in, only denting the armour, but the weapon had done its job. The duke’s man fell from the saddle, screaming in agony, his spine likely crushed by the force of the blow. The Knight of Andover slowed his pace, turning to chase after the lost mounts, ignoring the cries of anguish.

  Ludwig looked away, sickened by the sight. It was one thing to die in combat, quite another to suffer such a grievous wound. Death would be a long time coming for the poor fellow, pain his constant companion. Ludwig felt the contents of his stomach rebel and fought hard to keep them in place.

  Finally, the fighting ceased. The enemy horsemen began turning their mounts around, seeking the safety of their own lines once more. Behind them lay the dead and dying, their cries of agony gut-wrenching.

  “We must do something,” said Ludwig.

  “There's nothing we can do,” said Sigwulf. “Go out there, and those knights will turn around in an instant and be amongst us. What chance would we have to survive that?”

  All his life Ludwig had read of battle, yet nothing had prepared him for this horror. In place of elation, he felt only revulsion and dread. Was he destined to lie mangled and in pain, only to die a slow, horrible death?

  “Saints preserve us,” he mumbled.

  “It’s not the Saints who will save us,” said Sigwulf, “it’s men.”

  At that moment, Cyn returned, a dozen of Hagan’s crossbowmen in tow. She deployed them at the southern end of their position, ready to ward off any horsemen who might get too close.

  Ludwig stared out at the carnage, sickened, and yet at the same time, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. He wanted to offer solace to the dying, to put them out of their misery but knew Sigwulf was right. Any attempt to help them would only lead to their own inevitable deaths.

  The two sides appeared to be content to stare at each other across the battlefield as the light waned, the night soon to be upon them. With it would come a brief respite, but Ludwig knew that morning would bring more slaughter.

  The sun sank in the west, casting its red hue across the field of battle, making the place look like a nightmare from the Underworld. A lone horse staggered out of the mass of dead and injured, then collapsed, its dying call echoing across the meadow.

  Ludwig found himself praying to Saint Mathew, not a conscious act, yet the words came to him unbidden. “Keep me safe, oh Blessed Saint, that I may survive the coming day. Watch over me as I do thy bidding and welcome me to the Afterlife when my time has come.” He halted the litany, feeling a calming peace fall over him, knowing what he had to do.

  He turned to Cyn. “Gather men,” he ordered. “A dozen should do.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “We’re going to go out there,” he said, “amongst the dead.”

  “To what end?”

  “We shall bring the wounded back here.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “No,” said Ludwig. “Those who cannot be saved shall be given a merciful death, be they friend or foe, but the rest we'll bring here, out of harm's way.”

  “You seek to bring the enemy here?”

  “Would you do any less were your own men dying?”

  Her face fell, and he felt sorry for berating her.

  “Pick the quietest men you can find,” he continued. “We shall have to move stealthily, lest we alert the enemy to our presence.”

  She nodded, then moved down the wall, tapping men on the shoulder.

  “What shall I do?” asked Sigwulf.

  “I’ll need you to keep an eye out for the enemy. The last thing we want is for them to attack us in the middle of evacuating the wounded.”

  “You’re crazy, Ludwig. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  He smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  The sun dipped below the horizon, throwing the field into darkness. Ludwig waited for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight. By this time, Cyn had returned, alongside a dozen individuals.

  Ludwig looked at the group. “Out there,” he began by pointing, “lay the dead and wounded. Our task this night will be to bring back those who can be saved. If you come across a man who looks like he won’t make it, then finish him off. Better to give him a quick death than make him suffer. If you’re in doubt, ask Cyn or me.”

  “What about the enemy?” came a voice.

  “What’s your name?” asked Ludwig.

  “Velton, sir.”

  “Well, Velton, the same rules apply to the enemy. If they have a chance of surviving the night, we bring them here. Otherwise, you dispatch them cleanly. I don’t want anyone to suffer unnecessarily. Now, is everyone ready?”

  He looked at their faces. They were all staring back at him, and he suddenly felt a chill in his bones. How many of these same faces would be staring at the sky in death by tomorrow night?

  “Come,” he said, leading them out from behind their cover. He passed by the outer edges of the battle, looking for any signs of movement. A horse shifted to his right, and he turned towards it. As he neared, he saw the poor creature rearing up its head. A nasty gash had been torn into the creature's rear leg, breaking bone and sending a flood of blood that had drenched the beast's abdomen, making it look black in the moonlight.

  Ludwig pulled his dagger and moved to the horse's head, trying to soothe it. It looked at him with wild eyes, shifting its head in fear. He drove his weapon through the creature's ear and into the brain, taking it out of its misery. Bile rose in his throat, and he turned aside, emptying the contents of his stomach.

  His men started spreading out, and he caught a glimpse of a dagger rising and falling, and then the last gasp of a dying man. He shook his head, trying to keep it clear. There was work to be done, he told himself; this was no time for sentimentality.

  Ludwig moved south, checking bodies as he went. Kneeling by a knight, he removed the helmet to see if he lived, but as soon as he did so, he saw the terrible wound that had been inflicted on the side of the man’s head. Despondency threatened to overwhelm him, and then he heard a gurgling noise.

  He froze, trying to ascertain from where the sound came, for the body before him lay still; surely, the man was dead? It was only then that Ludwig saw an extra arm protruding from beneath. Someone had fallen prior to this knight and lay covered by the corpse.

  He waved the nearest one of his warriors over, and together, they heaved the dead man to the side. Beneath was the crushed helmet of a knight, its visor jammed closed, likely the result of a blow from a hammer or mace. He tried to remove the helmet b
ut to no avail. The poor fellow was covered with mud, and in the darkness, Ludwig could see little.

  “Help me get him up,” he said.

  They took the man’s arms and pulled, hearing a sucking sound as he came free of the mud. “Drag him to the house,” he said. “We’ll examine his wounds back there.”

  He moved on, searching for others, determined to save as many as he could. Six men were already being helped back to their defensive position, then Ludwig heard a noise that turned his blood to ice. Men were coming from the west. That could only mean one thing—a nighttime assault. He abandoned the search, ordering his men back to their positions.

  42

  Night Assault

  Summer 1095 SR

  * * *

  Ludwig crouched behind the wall, his helmet removed to better hear the enemy's approach. At first, there were the small sounds: the snap of a twig or the smack of a boot hitting a puddle, but then came the sound of scabbards slapping against legs, of men struggling to advance in the dark.

  “Archers,” whispered Ludwig. “Draw bows.”

  The command was carried down the line. Men rose, pulling arrows back to ears while crossbowmen stood ready, their weapons pointing westward.

  “Aim waist-high,” he added, then waited again.

  Finally standing, he moved beside his archers, lest he impede their aim.

  “Loose!” he hissed.

  Bolts and arrows flew forth, disappearing into the darkness of night. He heard grunts and then a roar of voices as the enemy broke into a run.

  “Man the walls!” Ludwig called out. Warriors stood, their spears at the ready as he peered past them into the darkness. He could hear the advancing enemy well enough, but still the darkness hid them, and he wondered just how close they had gotten.

  All was revealed within moments as a wall of men came into view, the moonlight reflecting off chainmail coifs and kettle helms.

  The archers moved up to the wall, filling in the gaps and let loose with more arrows and bolts. This volley was much more accurate, and he saw half a dozen of the invaders go down. The enemy screamed out their defiance as they rushed the last few paces.