The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  Eleven days after acceptance, Don was called to go out with the full patrol, three troops strong, or about 150 men. Lord Cal was their overall leader, and their objective was an inspection of the rolling park country to the west of the mountains. Once settled by peaceful people, the area was now held by no one. The bands of Raiders that struck at eastern farms and settlements usually passed through this region from beyond the western range of mountains. Their patrol was charged to intercept and punish these ruthless bands.

  The first three days out had been fairly leisurely ones, allowing men and mounts to settle into the patrol routine. The fourth camp was made in the late afternoon at an outpost on top of one of the main passes over the range of mountains—the Western Wall. This particular pass (and outpost) was called “Brian’s Gate” after Brian the Warlord, a famous hero from their grandfather’s day. A thick-walled stone tower stood there, gazing stolidly toward the tumbled foothills and broad parkland to the West. Squat, about 50 feet high and with crenellated battlements, it looked to be a relic from the dawn of time.

  Scars of battle had marked it. The fire-blackened stones gave mute testimony to conflict, and fresh masonry showed the signs of recent repair. Only ten men manned it, ready with signal fire to warn of attack from the west and with sword and bow to defend themselves. Cunningly designed, and well provisioned, the tower had not fallen in living memory. A light horse troop, stationed north of Waverly, could make the ride to relieve the tower in one day, which more than once had saved the outpost.

  All this and more had Don learned around the campfire that night. The patrol had dropped off a cage of homing pigeons and a couple of boxes of crossbow bolts. Their camp was made in the shelter of a grove of spruce and fir near the tower, and the conversation around the fire was enlivened by the enthusiasm of the young men who kept watch there. Gray John had told the tales of Brian the Warlord and Carl the Elder. Don knew the tales, of course, but still he learned some details.

  The presence of these watchtowers was a surprise, for one thing. The towers themselves were the stuff of myth. Their forefathers, even before Carl the Elder’s time, had built these watchtowers along the spine of the continent like rows of silent sentinels. This was the northernmost tower of the eastern row. More lay to the South, manned by cities and towns from Stonegate to Hightower and beyond, guarding all major passes across the mountains. Still more towers had also been built along the blue range of mountains on the western horizon, but these were long abandoned and lay in ruins, it was said. The only surprise was to find this tower so well maintained and in fighting trim. Don had understood that the tower line was obsolete, and not kept up.

  “Twenty years ago that would have been true, Lore-man,” said Gray John, “But we have had to rebuild the towers and keep them manned in recent years. The times are evil, and the Raiders grow bolder.”

  “Can’t the Raiders simply creep over the mountains in the dead of night?” asked Don. “The guards at the watchtower would never see them.”

  “True. The towers are no barrier to small groups. But large forces would find it much harder. Besides, the guardsmen here run foot patrols for miles to the north and south of here, and if they find tracks or see Raiders they send the alarm.”

  “Do the patrols carry pigeons with them?”

  “Not usually. But if a patrol spies something amiss, it is simple enough to run back to the tower and dispatch a bird. They send a report back every few days, in any event, to show that the tower is still safe. At night, they can also set off a signal fire, which can be seen for many miles to the east and the next tower to the south, as well.”

  “Kyle, the pigeon keeper, would never let one of his birds go out on a foot patrol,” laughed one of the guardsmen, a slender lad with a wispy blonde beard. “I think he’d let his daughters go along first.” That brought general laughter around the fire. Talk then broke down into a number of private conversations. Anxious for company, the tower soldiers delayed their return to the tower until the last of the troopers rolled up in their cloaks to go to sleep. Even as Don’s eyes closed, he glimpsed the young guardsman eyeing him curiously, but gave it no thought.

  †

  Sweat trickled down Don’s dusty forehead and burned its way into his eyes. He rubbed at it with the back of an equally sweaty hand, accomplishing nothing. The coat of mail dragged at his shoulders, as did the iron-rimmed kite shield that bumped the back of his neck and the pack that hung at his side. His left hip was rubbed raw from the sword belt. Grimly, he toiled up the hill, using his ferruled spear as a staff, stepping in the footsteps of the man in front of him.

  Short tufts of sedge and bluegrass gave a sparse green carpet to the slope. It also had shrubby clumps of cliff-rose and bitterbrush scattered lower down. A few scattered serviceberry bushes were in early bloom, their white blossoms bursting forth like living snowballs. A rock wren came up from behind them, perched a dozen yards ahead, then flew on without a sound. The hilltop, as he saw when they reached it, was also grassy, but with several rock outcrops that came together along the northwestern face, forming a low cliff, perhaps eight feet high and thirty yards long.

  A cool breeze blew in their faces as Gray John’s troop crossed over to the far side of the hilltop where they could look toward the south. They saw a steep hill below them, nearly free of trees, but the valley below had a willow thicket that partially hid a stream. Further south, a thick forest of spruce and fir blanked a ridge that rose sharply up, but not nearly as high as the point on which they stood. At their frosty-haired leader’s order, they dropped their equipment in a line on the east side of the level crest, and wearily sank to the ground nearby.

  Told to rest, Don was only too glad to obey. Just before he dozed off in a cat nap, he saw a scattered line of skirmishers forming lower down the hill to the south and west, helms shining in the morning sun, war spears in their hands.

  The nap was not a long one, and great shouts awakened him. He jumped to his feet along with the rest of the Red Axes, who quickly formed a line just below the crest of the hill. Gray John calmly organized their placement, and then they waited. But no Raiders were anywhere to be seen, no matter how hard they looked.

  But somehow the black conifers gave a hint of an unnatural presence on the far side of the valley. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the jays that scolded someone or something unseen gave rise to that feeling. Then he heard that the keen-eyed scouts below had seen something at the wood-line, like many men moving, and the air hung heavy with tension.

  Without further warning, with a shrill cry and a blast of horns, a dark wave of men exploded from the dark woods below. Quickly fording the small stream, they loped across the narrow floor of the valley like a pack of wolves scenting a blooded prey.

  Their numbers were many, at least three, maybe four times the size of the defending force. The leaders slowed to a trot as the hill steepened. Don could not see separate individuals clearly. The breeze carried a fetid smell ahead of them, a smell of rancid fat and unwashed bodies. Then a hush fell on both sides, with cracking bushes and slipping feet on gravel making the only sounds. The Stonegate archers began to harass their leaders with scattered shafts, but Don could see no effect.

  As the enemy gained the last few steep yards, Don could clearly hear their horse breathing, like a hundred smithy bellows. The cling of metal against metal and the low buzz of curses made a harsh undertone. His body quivered like a windswept aspen. His mouth was parched and dry, and he wished he had taken a drink earlier. Too late now, they were almost on him.

  “Out spears!” rang out the order, at last.

  Reacting automatically, he thrust his spear forward over the shoulder of the swordsman to the front of him, just as he had been taught. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a steel-tipped thicket of spears spring full grown out of the line, three ranks deep. The first wielded sword or axe; the second, spear; and the
third, missile weapons. The burly trooper to his front leaned toward the enemy. Don glanced down and saw the mail across his shoulder blades stretch tight as he raised his sword and shield. He had a hard time looking up.

  Something swished over his head and he realized that the rearmost ranks were casting stones (cheap, yet effective weapons) and javelins. He raised his head to see a wall of oval shields, some pained purple-black, others bright red, rise up before his eyes and slam with a loud crash into the waiting line. Don’s spear caught on one of the black shields for an instant, and then slipped off. But he was knocked back a half-step by the impact.

  Don recovered and frantically thrust with all his strength, again and again. The enemy shield wall seemed to be trying to push them back by brute strength. Don concentrated less on pushing with his shield and tried to force the enemy defenses apart, to make an opening for the swordsman. The clanging filled his ears.

  A hellish din it was. Swords rang on helms, weapons collided, shields rang, while men shouted, cursed and screamed in agony. Time condensed into an eternity of now as he thrust and pushed with the sweat-soaked shaft, while being jostled from side to side by other spearmen and above all, struggling to keep from being forced back.

  He felt that he did little, except for one crystal-clear moment when a sword arm neatly assisted in skewering itself on his spearhead. The enemy shield dropped a fatal six inches. Don caught a vivid picture of his companion’s sword driving into the foeman’s cheek, of broken bone scraped bare for an instant, and the red lips of a gaping wound. He glanced away, eyes clamped shut. When he looked again, the man was gone.

  Another enemy filled the gap, with an enormous axe in two ham-sized hands. Steel scales covered his chest, and his upper arms were as thick as Don’s thigh. His black-bearded lips twisted into a cruel smile as the axe came down in a whistling arc to shatter the waiting shield wall. Don’s answering thrust glanced off the overlapping steel. At the same time, the swordsman to his front fell heavily back, knocking Don to one knee. Without clear thought, Don placed the butt of the spear against the ground, as though following the drill against a charge by mounted horsemen. The enemy axeman batted the spear aside with the flat of his axe, just as three arrows struck him.

  Two rattled off his armor, but one quivered in his right biceps. Don’s companion regained his feet, and as he lurched upright, chopped into the man’s other arm at the elbow. The limb hung, nearly severed, and the axe dropped to the ground. The man looked strangely down at his arm as a jet of black blood shot out. But then the gory sword blade swung back and bit into the side of the bull neck with a meaty chop. The foeman toppled sideways and thudded to the earth, feet threshing convulsively. Don was too numb to feel emotion, though later he was haunted by the stricken eyes.

  Actually, Don could never remember the rest of the attack very clearly, except for short intervals where the sharpness of the memory seared his brain. He remembered that the shield wall seemed to fall back and then pressed forward again. This happened several times. A succession of shadowy, dark figures, with red and black shields appeared and disappeared before them. Then he found himself in the front rank with his sword companion nowhere to be seen. He thrust wildly with the spear that now seemed incredibly long and awkward.

  “Your sword! Draw your sword!” a voice from the rear shouted. Don felt someone pulling on his spear shaft from behind.

  Releasing his grip, he stood for a moment defenseless, feeling for the hilt of his sword. An eternity later he managed to draw it free from the fleece-lined scabbard and hewed blindly before him. He instantly felt a stunning shock in every joint. A blood-red shield slammed into his from the left, forcing his guard down. Stumbling to the right, Don glimpsed hard black eyes and a curved blade sweeping over the shield-rim toward his neck.

  Instinctively ducking, he took the blade’s full force on his left cheekpiece. It felt like the kick of a full-grown stallion. Had he stood alone, he would have surely fallen, but the swordsman to his right blocked his lurch and elbowed him back erect. A timely thrust by the spearman to his rear bought Don another split second to recover. He raised his shield again as the tall figure stepped ahead to meet him, helm black against the sky.

  Thick ropes of muscles knotted in the enemy’s scarred sword arm and the long blade flashed again toward Don’s face like a striking snake. Don blocked it, but off balance, on the flat of his shield. Pain lanced through his shield arm, as he again staggered to the right. His feeble counterstroke was contemptuously brushed aside.

  Then the enemy hurled a combination of blows, hammering at Don’s defenses faster than a drumbeat. A vicious cut, aimed to cleave him asunder, flashed straight down over his guard. He partially blocked it with the notched edge of his shield, but the blade glanced off his helm and smashed into his left shoulder. Numbness spread down his arm, and the shield was becoming heavier than he could lift. His breath rasped in his throat, and the padded tunic, soaked with sweat, joined the mail in dragging at him, pulling him toward the trampled earth.

  Then the big man stepped back momentarily, as if startled. Don saw yellow teeth in an “O” surrounded by a bushy black beard. Don glanced down and saw blood streaming from his foe’s leg, reddening his trousers. One of his counter-strokes must have been better than he had known. He became aware of horns sounding, sounding. The enemy ranks seemed to be thinning.

  Yes! The Raiders were falling back, just as a brief rain of arrows arched up from below and fell among the defenders. Don saw an equal number of arrows pass over him to land among the retreating throng. Several swordsmen took a few steps forward.

  “Hold!” came the order. The booming voice was Gray John’s. All movement stopped in their ranks. The dark figures backed down the slope, shields held high to cover their faces. They recrossed the valley and the black forest swallowed them again. All, that is, but their dead and wounded. A hush fell.

  The silence lasted for what seemed like a long time. Men stared numbly down the slope, then looked wonderingly at each other. Don leaned on his sword, head bowed, trying to unclench his stiffened fingers from the shield-grip. There were many dead, laying before them like driftwood along the seashore. Just then, the ranks behind began to shout the war cry, “Stonegate! Stonegate! STONEGATE!” Even Don found himself caught up in the cry, and his heart leapt in his chest. The echoes died away. Then he could hear the wounded moaning.

  “They’ll be back,” someone said, near Don’s ear.

  Don did not, could not, care. Even the brief wave of exultation that he had felt could not banish the bone-deep weariness. The left side of his head throbbed, and his helm was a heavy weight for his neck to bear. His left shoulder was no better, he realized, as he sheathed his blade.

  “First rank. Fall back!” sounded the order. Don turned to comply. As he trudged past the spearman to his rear, he muttered his thanks and exchanged slaps to the shoulder. He glanced up to see Gray John looking fixedly at him.

  “Come on, Lore-man,” he said. “Let the rear ranks have a turn. You look like you need a rest.” Taking Don’s right arm at the elbow, he conducted him to the hilltop. Don forced his trembling legs to carry him to the level ground near the equipment. He did not have to be told twice to rest. He was asleep before he even unlaced his helm.

  †

  The small cut on his right forearm was not deep. It was strange that he had not noticed it before. The antiseptic burned like lye, clearing the fog from his brain. As the young surgeon’s assistant bound on a salve-coated pad, Don saw Gray John and Karl the Long approaching. They fixed their gaze on him.

  “Come, Lore-man,” said Gray John. “You have rested overlong now. If you lay there longer you will soon be too stiff to pick your teeth. Come, walk with us.”

  Wordlessly, Don picked up his shield and followed. His muscles had stiffened, indeed, but the crushing load of fatigue had lifted. He easily matched their rapid pa
ce as they walked to the west along the ridge to the center point where Cal’s red banner stood.

  Don finally broke the silence. “Has anything happened?” he asked. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait,” came Gray John’s reply. “I want to talk to you for a bit. And Lord Cal has a word for you as well.”

  He looked at Don searchingly and said: “First, you are lucky to be alive. I have no love for these devils, but they are strong and quick, and many are skilled by fighting since boyhood. Cutting travelers’ throats and such like. Their weakness is their strength. They each fight their own battle, each alone, with little real teamwork. Those that live past their first few battles become cunning and dangerous fighters.”

  Gray John stopped for a moment and surveyed the valley below, giving particular attention to the ridge to the east. Covered by dark forest, the ridge curved around the head of the small valley to the south and connected to the hill on which they stood by a low saddle on their eastern or left flank. A messenger approached Lord Cal and whispered something into his ear. Gray John looked back at Don and continued.

  “We fight as a team, both mounted and on foot. Our horsemen are the terror of the Westland and our shield wall has never been broken as long as men have lived to man it. Stonegate can afford to train its young men in battle, let them grow wise in battle-lore, and grow to manhood before they ever hold a sword in the front ranks. This is our strength, our organization.”

  Gray John had begun to pace, but now he stopped and looked Don full in the face. His eyes had the cold of the distant peaks. “You, outlander,” he continued, “you have stood in the forefront on your first battle. Since I knew you had a sword in your hand for the first time only two months ago, I gave you up for dead when I saw you there. But I must admit you did well. Come a bit further with us, now.”