by Ben Marshall
***
September 11th, 1187
The tears flowed unrestrained from the eyes of many Camentari as Olgerd’s shattered frame was carried in solemn procession through the streets, the funeral carriage flanked by the regimental guard with their banners billowing in the wind. Indeed it sounded to all as if the wind shared the collective sentiment of the populace, so mournful was the howl as it swept through the streets.
Within his open, intricately carved coffin, the deceased ruler of the Camentari looked at peace with the world, a look he hadn’t worn for many long years. The glass carriage, with its polished frame of gold and team of six black horses, rolled slowly and serenely down the main street. This cobblestone road, which dissected the city of Wolanionan into two distinct areas, was bordered on both sides by the stately Court halls and the various guilds that had branches within the heavily defended walls. From the balconies of the various structures many of the nobles and guild members paid their respects, bowing low as the dead and defeated leader of the realm rolled past on his way to the mausoleum that held the embalmed remains of his ancestors.
The tears that were shed by all were not just at the demise of Olgerd, but also at the thought of what a cruel hand Fate had dealt him. To fall when over a mile from the battlefield while locked in a war against a nation allied with his only heir, only to have his son ascend to the throne anyway. That wasn’t to say that Aithan Curith was unpopular. Indeed if truth be told he was more loved than his father, for Olgerd had squandered much of Camentar’s wealth fighting numerous feuds against his neighbours. Morambeth had then removed almost as much through the raids that still persisted, and were increasing in intensity, and Olgerd had never made an attempt at ending the debilitating attacks.
At the very centre of Camentar’s capital, Wolanionan, stood the mighty palace were Olgerd’s family had lived for generations. Sculpted of whitest marble, and capped with gold, the palace stood as a symbol for Camentar’s greatness in years that had ended long ago. From the fifth and topmost floor of the impressive construction, Aithan Curith gazed out at the shrinking carriage that bore away his father. Turning away from the wide windows of tinted glass, he turned back to face the large map before him. It showed the kingdom of Berinan, and several metallic figures had been placed at named sites upon it. Tapping one hand against the wooden table on which it had been spread Aithan moved a few of the pieces, designed to accurately depict the uniformed soldiers of Berinan, to a small village 20 miles north of the village Olgerd had attacked before his passing. Then he placed different pieces, this time depicting Camentari knights, to the West and South perimeters of the village upon which the Berinain miniatures stood. Then, to the East, he placed a third design of model, this time his own warriors in their armour of purest white. A smile spread across his surprisingly thin lips as he turned away at the sudden outburst from his Aide.
“The curse that rebel Morambeth laid upon your father must have affected him greater than the physicians thought, Highness, because since it was bestowed he avoided any action against the Half-Caste, and his negligence has almost certainly thrown the nation into an economic crisis beyond any we have on record.”
“I know full well my father’s actions, Alaunef, and what must be done about them, but now isn’t the time for such thoughts. My father isn’t even halfway to being within his tomb, and you are asking me to muster an army from one front and ship them to another, let alone decline the time to pay my respects to him?”
“Did I hear you correctly, Sire? Did you say that your army is already fighting on a front?”
“Indeed I did, Alaunef, for isn’t Camentar at war with Berinan?”
“Surely you wouldn’t continue your father’s war against those who were your allies?”
“But of course.”
Alaunef, a short and slightly corpulent man with thinning grey hair, stared aghast at his master, barely able to utter his next word.
“Why?”
“They denied my father that which he desired, and deserved, most; a soldier’s death. They killed him with less honour than one would kill a wild boar.”
“How are you so sure that the Berinain are responsible for Olgerd’s death?”
“Because no one else uses dogs within the region; you saw the wounds inflicted upon my father as I did.”
“But Sire…”
“Enough! The Berinain committed the crime of regicide; do not speak as if it were I! I must uphold my nation’s traditions, or I am no child of Camentar. Therefore my father’s death must be avenged, and the war shall continue until that is so. My spies have reported the force of Berinan to be stationed within the walls of this village.” As he finished speaking, Aithan stabbed violently at the map that lay before him, making the miniatures wobble upon their bases. “We attack tonight, to honour my father as his body is committed to its final resting place within the mausoleum.”
A defeated and horrified look upon his downcast face, Alaunef removed himself from his master’s presence, heading to drown his sorrows at the nearest tavern. Curith had always been a hot-headed warrior, it was the quality that had made him go to war with his father in the first place, but to carry out such a treacherous act could only lead one way; to utter destruction and eternal damnation.
***
As the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, the three bodies of Aithan’s army moved into position just beyond the sight of anyone watching from the village gatehouse or the stone walls. Though his own troops were unknown to the men who two days ago fought under Olgerd’s banner, they had been brought in to cut off the Berinain lest they attempt to retreat to the nearest garrison. Since Olgerd’s last battle, the Berinain had been ordered to defend the villages so the untrained serfs were not wiped out. If the war with Camentar ever reached an end, those serfs would be vital to rebuilding the economy.
Fires burned from the towers that rose every metre along the perimeter, casting golden glows across the glade, as the outer of the two portcullises slid down into the soft earth, its wrought-iron prongs firmly embedding themselves as the final preparations came close to completion. Each tower was manned by five sentinels, so that no direction was a blind spot from which an attacker could strike. Standing beside the sentinels, waiting for an order they hoped would never come, were groups of a dozen archers, each prepared with a large supply of arrows lest an assault was mounted. Nearly 250 archers were gathered in the courtyard, ready to reinforce any sections that came under fire. Though the army of Berinan had spent nearly five years at war with the mounted troops of Camentar, no commander had requested that the men become proficient with spears, still favouring the more mobile formations of axe men to win the day. Little had been seen of victory upon the battlefields of late, but the army had proven itself in defensive circumstances. Though the politicians in the capital had heralded Aithan Curith as a friend, King Agaron had remained sceptical. Though it had been advantageous to ally with him while Olgerd had been a threat Aithan had always appeared to be hungry for power, and such hunger was always going to hurt those who stood beside him. Now that Olgerd had met his end, Agaron had ordered his garrison commanders to prepare for the worst. Though Olgerd was unrelenting in his attacks Aithan had always favoured guerrilla-style tactics over open combat, and his under-handed manner could be turned against the Berinain now his resources were heightened by his soon-to-come coronation. Little had Agaron known just how predictive his thoughts had been when his orders had been made.
The howls of the war hounds filled the night sky as the thousand-strong horde of Berinain infantry marched into the town centre, the score of handlers moving towards the bases of the towers, or towards the gatehouse where the inside gate was barred against any who were waiting beyond the perimeter.
All movement ceased with the rapidity of a lightning flash, as the hounds below the West and South walls began to issue low growls from deep within their throats. The Autumnal breeze bore the scents and sounds of the approaching Camentari to assaul
t the senses of the hounds. One of the captains under the command of General Barinya issued an order, and the bowmen upon the corresponding towers set the tips of their shafts aflame. A second demand and the shafts were released into the surrounding night, the soft golden glows illuminating the soft earth as they landed, the reflections from the hauberks of the Camentari confirming what the dogs had already reported. How many of the enemy watched from the lightly forested terrain could not be said for certain, yet the sentries could each report at least ten-score upon either front. Curith had betrayed them, as Agaron had predicted. Power had corrupted their ally at last.
Without time to dwell on such dire circumstance, Barinya Escafaust motioned for the skirmishers to take up their positions upon the walls. The two hundred warriors, each armed with ten heavy javelins and fifteen lighter weapons, were swiftly joined by fifty archers upon each wall, their longbows made of stoutest oak. Each archer carried two quivers of thirty arrows, fully prepared to repel the attackers. All levels of the towers instantly became more alert, with archers poised at each bow loop, and innumerable pairs of eyes peered into the gloom as another volley of flaming arrows tore into the tree line. This round of shafts, utilising the knowledge gained by the first wave, travelled further into the darkness where it was known the enemy lay in wait. Three strangled cries rose into the sky as the shafts hit home, though the majority merely struck the ground or the surrounding birches. Now the troops to the West had been discovered the commander of the division signalled the advance, while his counterpart to the South did likewise, his ranks unsullied by any casualties. The third set of troops, Aithan’s company from during the time he had been an ally of Berinan, had yet to arrive in position, for their march took them around to the East, moving like wraiths in their white surcoats and capes. Now that the army of Camentar had began its assault upon the walls of the town, Barinya signalled for a rider to approach him. The youth, only sixteen years of age at the most, couldn’t hide his fear as the sentinels sounded the warnings of the enemy advance, the drums’ steady beat reverberating through the motionless night air. After hasty instruction the lad nodded, though whether in understanding or resignation it is difficult to say, and turned his mount towards the North-Eastern tower before trotting towards it. A guard pushed open the exit, which lay concealed as part of the stone wall that encased it, and the boy rode with all haste into the night, his task paramount to preventing the destruction of the Berinain settlement he had grown up in.
“We’re counting on you kid. Don’t fail us,” whispered Barinya as he turned to enter the West Gatehouse, his murmurs more to himself than anyone else as his subordinates moved into position upon the walls or close to the town gates.
Re-emerging onto the walkway upon the battlements of the gatehouse, the general surveyed the steady advance of the enemy column. The fore-half of the formation was already within range of the bowmen upon the towers adjoining the Western Wall but Barinya didn’t give the order, for something else had drawn his attention. Several sets of troops, protected by comrades who had raised their shields high over their heads, were slowly pulling strange contraptions of wood and steel from the tree line. The contraptions bore a great resemblance to giant crossbows, and had already been loaded with large iron bolts. Ballistae - weapons more dangerous than any the soldiers that approached, for their strength could devastate the defences without those upon the walls being engaged. Signalling to the archers upon the gatehouse, he barked the order to fire, and twenty flaming shafts flew towards the nearest of the ballistae. Instantly the weapon was ablaze, though only a handful of the arrows had struck it. Following his lead the officers upon the towers signalled for their archers to volley, and soon five burning piles of wreckage were seen. Taking the hint, the Camentari captain ordered the ballista crews to halt and remain out of range. The weapons would have to wait until they could bring carnage upon the major market town of this Berinain shire.
By now the rear-guards of the formations were all that remained out of range besides the commander and the ballistae, and only now did Barinya signal for the volley, and two hundred arrows flew into the marching ranks of the Western body, while two hundred and twenty struck the Southern ranks. Holding greater range over the attackers due to their increased height, few Camentari archers had the range to bring their own arrows past the crenulations of the battlements, and the few that did flew harmlessly into the solid stone, for the Berinain moved behind the raised sections while they reloaded, and the infantry held large shields of iron before them, waiting until they were required. Unknown to the attackers, several youths were bringing a weapon of defence that was, if it were possible, of even deadlier nature than the ballistae that faced them. Hidden upon the ramparts save for their heads, it appeared to the Camentari below that they were simply bringing fresh ammunition to the archers, and long would the survivors wish that such had been the case.
Moving out from behind the battlements to fire another volley into the advancing ranks, the archers saw just how close the charging Camentari actually were, and the lieutenants called to the skirmishers upon their sections of wall to prepare their spears.
“Ladders!” roared Barinya, as he barely made out the protruding ends among the throng of Camentari soldiers. The warriors were now just a hundred metres from the walls, and had drawn the fire from the many archers that had been unleashing wave after wave of deadly missiles, and now the western commander ordered that the ballistae advance once more, and the two that remained edged unhurriedly towards the locked iron gates. The southern commander didn’t have any of these weapons, but his arsenal boasted of more archers, who were now in a position to try and pay back the Berinain for the casualties they had sustained. Though few shafts were on target, the bombardment had the beneficial effect of keeping the defenders pinned behind the battlements, though they could do next to nothing against the archers within the body of each tower. These archers, unlike their comrades upon the walls, were armed with crossbows, requiring the added strength of the firing system to remain a threat since they lacked the ability to fire in sweeping arcs and had a very restrained angle of sight. These crossbows were now proving crucial, and the four tiers were aimed principally at the bowmen who stood tantalisingly close to their positions, shielded only by the charging infantry surrounding them. The fifty crossbowmen within the upper levels of the West Gatehouse, combined with ten reserve archers, were signalled by a sergeant to aim for the ballista crews. Those that could, peered across their weapons at the lethargic targets, while those who were unable to get an accurate sighting continued to strike down the advancing mass of infantry. The lack of firepower within the line-up of the western attackers was showing dearly, for the near-constant barrage from the defenders’ ranged attacks was practically keeping the distance constant. Pitifully the same could not be said for the southern flank, because the woefully slothful reload rate of the crossbows had allowed the Camentari to close to just a few metres, and now the skirmishers were called upon to do their duty, though it required a lot of pressure from the captain to cause them to move out from the protective shield that the battlements provided. Their efforts, however, brought fresh resolve to the archers, and they all rose as one to unleash a shower upon the bowmen who had plagued them. Sadly, close to thirty of the archers fell, though thankfully for the Berinain they all released their arrows before death claimed them. Thankfully the hundred spearmen also toted a hefty sum of kills from within the Camentari numbers, and brought the advance to a swift and painful halt as many of the assault ladders lost their handlers, and became little more than debris while the attacking soldiers scrambled to hoist them to their shoulders once more. Though shields had at first been placed upon the rungs to prevent such an event occurring, the rocking motion of the charge had dislodged many, and those who attempted to retrieve them presented inviting targets that were not missed by more than a few projectiles. Eventually the offer of protection was abandoned, the soldiers deciding it was safer by far to reach the walls tha
n to loiter until the shields had been re-aligned.
The deaths of the archers had a great impact upon the mindset of those upon the Southern Wall, because it reminded them that they were fighting for their lives, and that being prepared to make such a sacrifice themselves was all that would offer them a chance at survival. Both the skirmishers and the archers having reloaded, they rose again from their shelters to strike down another portion of the mass that was gathering beneath them. Their volley was joined by the crossbowmen, and the point-blank range proved devastating, with some bolts passing through 2 warriors before a third man felt the iron embedded within his hauberk of darkest-blue. The same was true of the javelins, aided by gravity, and several of the stricken warriors found themselves held upright by the weapons, the sight sending ripples of fear through the attacking Camentari who formed the ranks of the southern host. The Western flank was not feeling such apprehension, though their fate was following a similar road. Their greater morale was not down to extra valour or greater courage, but due to the extra numbers giving a confidence that each soldier was less likely to be felled than the throng that surrounded him. As the defenders upon the Western Wall reloaded their weapons for another strike, they heard their captain roar out a single phrase, and it sent a tingle of angst through the ranks.
“Ladders to earth, prepare for melee!” With surprising levels of control, the archers moved closer to the towers that segmented their numbers while the infantry, armed with viciously curved axes, moved to support the skirmishers. These spearmen now employed a mixture of options; either continuing to fire their javelins upon the insidious foe, or using the length of their weapons to try and prevent the rising of the assault ladders - no small task since each wooden construct had swordsmen upon its upper half. These warriors, attired in colours identical to their Camentari comrades, held desperately to the rungs upon which they perched, all too aware of the target they presented to those upon the battlements. As if to prove their vulnerability, the topmost soldiers felt the unmistakeable strikes of the spears, and felt the wet heat of their own blood against their flesh.