by Ben Marshall
Things had gone from bad to worse for the beleaguered Berinain upon the Western Wall, for both of the assaulted towers had relinquished their upper halves to the Camentari soldiers. The defenders had been pushed right to the battlements around the tops, fire from the pyres casting shadows of the fighting onto the courtyard below. The defenders that had followed the attackers, hoping to catch them before such a dire result could be achieved, but had met the rearguard upon the twisting stairs, finding the central column of the stairway to be upon their weapon side, and they were swiftly repelled. Such problems hadn’t been experienced by the assaulters, who had used their larger shields to force their opponents onto a corridor before breaking to engage. Decades of civil war in their past had developed in the army of Camentar the ability to seize control of fortified positions, and the knowledge was as invaluable now as it had proved to be as recently as thirty years before.
Yet, despite his success in gaining the foothold, the commander knew that his men were effectively under siege. The towers lacked a supply of food and water able to sustain his numbers for more than a day, and yet they were upon the walls of one of Berinan’s larger market towns, and each inhabitant of the buildings that stretched below them would be able to outlive them should the Berinain army hold its position. Now the commander turned his thoughts to the rumoured third body of Aithan Curith’s army, who had yet to show their faces in this battle. Had they been captured, or killed? Had they betrayed their king and joined with Agaron? The thoughts were unpleasant in the extreme now that the Berinain had regrouped, positioning themselves at all the exits. The food and water was stored within a cellar below the tower, but to reach it involved surrendering the advantage and leaving themselves open to having the full strength of Berinan’s army trap them within the confines of the miniscule storeroom. Where were those reinforcements and why were they so late in arriving? Would they arrive at all? Was he to die of starvation or to be aiding at this crucial moment?
***
Their steeds beating a steady rhythm upon the soft terrain, the cavalrymen trotted behind the commander of their division, the Silver Unicorn of Berinan galloping across the field of gold as the wind gently hummed past the plumed warriors. As the market town loomed to the west, watch-fires blazing in the cloudless night, the commander gave the order to conceal weapons. Silently, the soldiers drew their cloaks tighter over their scabbards, manoeuvring the decorated leather behind their surcoats of ethereal white. In the moonlight, the fabric’s hue was indistinguishable from the polished silver links in their armour, and upon their horses of a similar grey the troops appeared to be merely phantoms as they made their swift journey just within the forest boundary.
Within the eastern encampment of the Berinain soldiers, the sentries now began to witness the appearance of the coming troops. Had their relief arrived, or was this the rumoured final prong of the assault? General Barinya had warned that Curith might employ such a tactic, so at first the sentries gave the call to arms, and a lieutenant climbed to the top of the gatehouse within the Eastern Wall. He knew that the banner of Camentar was a rampant cockatrice in gold upon a sky-blue background, having faced the army while Olgerd had been at its head. It didn’t take long to discern that the banner was instead of Berinain colours, and he ordered that the gate be raised. Barinya had always warned against treachery and deceptive appearances, yet it was a crime against the nation to slay a Berinain cavalryman and no excuse would save the lieutenant from the death penalty if he ordered his troops to fire. As the guardsmen signalled to him that they had been allowed entry through the defences, the Camentari commander couldn’t hide a sneering grin as he whispered to the other men who were spearheading the formation.
“Prepare the supports, those iron grilles are powerful enough to crush a man in seconds, and that’s all we’ll have once we’re within range to charge.”
Lowering the mentioned supports through ninety degrees so that the sharpened bases were pointing towards the looming gatehouse, the leading soldiers resembled the lancers behind them. The supports were a great deal thicker than the weapons the wielders were trying to disguise them as, but the murky and crawling shadows made this flaw nearly indistinguishable to even the most sharp-eyed of sentries.
Though heavily armoured, so unlike the Berinain cavalry whose mounts bore just the saddle, the light grey mail blended so perfectly with their sleek coats that, combined with the speed at which they were covering the terrain, their identity as chargers of Camentar was still concealed from the defenders within the eastern sector of the market town as they came to within the last three hundred metres to the gatehouse.
“Form up!” came the crisp command, and the lancers brought their steeds into two tight columns, while the support-bearers spread out wide, so that all the remaining cavalry could pass between them when the time came. Golden glows from the fires within the town were cast over them as they raised their pace to a gallop over the cobblestones that formed the entry path to the gatehouse, which appeared to be poorly defended. It seemed as if the Berinain hadn’t been expecting an attempt to attack from the east, though the ringing sounds of battle showed that they knew of Aithan Curith’s betrayal. Suddenly the differences between the Berinain and the Camentari seemed to stand out as greatly as they had previously been masked by the darkened surroundings, and the commander was close to praying for some similar fortune as he and his men headed through the accusing lights towards the deep shadow beneath the twin portcullis.
Feeling remarkably conspicuous, the support-bearers tried to maintain their appearances as Berinain officers as they nonchalantly lowered their supports point-first onto the cobbles. Trying to divert the true Berinain from watching the cavalry, the highest commander of Aithan’s personal force used what Berinain he had acquired over the decade he had served as Aithan’s second-in-command in the war against Olgerd to enquire as to the current status of the battle within the western sector of the town.
“The Camentari have gained control of three towers, but the men General Barinya commands now control all exits, and they will surely starve within the coming days. It would seem like your troop is no longer the vital force it was while the vile Olgerd led his nation,” the answered lieutenant finished, his smile revealing the disdain he felt towards the mounted force of Berinan, who had always stolen the glory from the infantry by their effectiveness in combat. The Camentari knight broke back into Camentarin as he responded, drawing his broadsword as he spoke.
“Well I will agree that the cavalry of Berinan is obsolete this day, but it shall not be the men of Camentar who shall know defeat.” As he finished, the knight plunged his broadsword through the unprotected neck of his victim, while his troops, who had been positioned a few metres from the relaxed and unprepared Berinain, brought their horses into a full charge. Lances facing their foes, the knights rolled over the ill-formed ranks, impaling many upon their lethal weapons before switching to their swords to cut down any who were not immediately in front of their heavily-armoured mounts.
Finally reacting to the infiltration, the archers upon the gatehouse and walls fired into the unstoppable wedge of knights, while the twin-portcullis was released. With a chaotic set of groans, the iron grilles began to descend, only to force the supports firmly into the earth. Held firmly between the broken cobbles, the supports became completely immobile, leaving the pronged bases of the grilles hanging nearly half a metre above the heads of the charging cavalry. The rear ranks of the wedge, unlike the ranks that were meeting the hastily forming Berinain defences, were armed with longbows, and now they unleashed their rounds upon the archers who were practically defenceless when faced with fire from within their own encampment.
Passing swiftly from the Eastern sector the Berinain retreat soon became a full rout, with the unrelenting knights easily outpacing the running infantry. As each warrior fell to a slash from a broadsword the knights moved further through the town, splitting as they passed through the winding streets before they all converg
ed to pass into the western encampment.
Having formed ranks within his campsite, both archers and infantry ready to engage any Camentari that emerged from the towers that had been breached just hours ago, Barinya slowly turned his head as the beat of hooves and the screams of doomed men rose to a crescendo as the head of the cavalry charge burst from the narrow streets that latticed across the town. Though his ranks had been prepared for an attempt from the towers, no defences had been erected facing the east, and five rows were breached before the infantry could turn and face the heavily-armoured beasts that were striking. Purely by instinct, Barinya reached behind him, his gauntleted fist closing over the handle of his nearest axe. Spinning to face his opponent, he released the weapon into a whirling pass that caught one knight full in the throat, causing blood to erupt from the gaping wound. A second and third weapon followed, and two more of Aithan’s elite tumbled from their saddles, dusty heaps among the dead and dying Berinain.
Spurred on by their leader’s acts of defiance in the face of this seemingly unbeatable foe the remaining infantry also brought their axes to bear against the foe, and all the armour in the world couldn’t have prevented the heavy battleaxes from severing limbs or piercing the torsos of the Camentari. Despite these heroics, however, the efforts were ultimately futile, and the cavalry charge was unabated until even General Barinya was compelled to release his remaining axe. Mounted troops surrounding them as the archers and infantry lowered their weapons to the now bloodstained ground, a furious scowl upon each dejected face.
“Well, well, well,” murmured the Camentari commander as he manoeuvred his charger to face Barinya, his purr far worse than the sneering hiss he usually adopted when speaking to captured enemies. “The infamous Barinya, pride of Berinan, within my grasp at last. You’ve been quite a thorn in both Aithan’s and my side.”
“Even though we’ve been allies for a decade?” asked the bloodied general, though almost none of the blood was his own, with one eyebrow arched as he regarded the leering knight.
“Allies of convenience, nothing more, and yes you were a great annoyance during those times. Ever you prepared your troops so that we could not show our hand, and always you managed to somehow manoeuvre your men so that they never engaged until the enemy was fatigued.”
“You were angered by the fact that I considered all possibilities, and tried to avoid having my men massacred?”
“You stole glory that was rightfully mine! My knights did the bulk of the work, and ever it was you that was heralded as the victor!” The purr had become a harsh growl, the knight becoming increasingly angered by Barinya’s calm tones.
“And now you believe you have gained great glory by this treachery?”
“As I said, General, this alliance was only ever going to be maintained while it was convenient, and when your people attacked Olgerd within the Greenwood they provided the excuse we required to strike.”
“The Berinain have not engaged Olgerd within the Greenwood for several months. We are not responsible for his demise, though we also are not saddened by it.”
“Why deny the truth when we all know your nation is guilty?”
“As guilty as you and that traitor you follow?”
“Silence! It may have escaped your notice, but you are the prisoner here, not I. Accept your surrender and you may yet live to see tomorrow.” The knight’s tones were again a threatening whisper.
“Know this, traitor,” began Barinya, his eyes locked in a glare of purest loathing upon the leader of the cavalry that had brought about his defeat. “Whether I live to see tomorrow or not, I promise you now that I shall spit on your corpse before the end.”
“So foolish, I shall enjoy…” the knight’s leer turned to shock as his retort was cut short by Barinya bringing his muscular arms round to grip the lance that was held towards him. Twisting his body, the Berinain warrior pulled the knight to the floor before plunging the weapon through his enemy’s heart.
Outraged, the remaining knights closed in to avenge their leader’s passing, but stopped in surprise as a shower of javelins struck them, and the true Knights of the Unicorn galloped at them, their swifter mounts running easy circles around the slower Camentari, lances and axes finding marks against the betrayers.
The infantry of Camentar, who had emerged from the towers they had been imprisoned in until the arrival of the reinforcements, now found themselves under assault from the Berinain cavalry, and the liberation of the town was swift and decisive; with no warriors left alive when the dust had settled.
“General, mission accomplished,” a young voice called from the rear of the mounted Berinain. The youth, his body trembling with excitement and relief, moved into view, to be embraced in a fierce hug from the commander he had come to look upon as a father.
“I knew you could do it lad, and you’ve done your country proud,” Barinya muttered to him, his voice thick with emotion. Raising the lad onto his broad shoulders he walked at the head of his cheering men to the nearest tavern where he provided the youth, hailed as the saviour of the army, with the largest mug of ale that the teenager had ever seen. And as the night continued, none in the town failed to hear the celebrations, and Barinya’s eyes gleamed at the thought of what Aithan Curith’s reaction would be when news returned to him of this fresh failure.
***
September 25th, 1187
The past weeks had been incredibly profitable, both in terms of men and supplies. Men had poured into his ranks, often declaring their allegiance to Rothil’s cause by joining enthusiastically in the raids, be it by passing information or by bearing arms against the merchants. Though such acts were ultimately profitable to the machinations of the Half-Elf, the unruliness and unpredictability was most disagreeable to his logical and structured way of thinking. A skilled tactician, he had been forced of late to try and second guess what could only be accurately described as a reckless mob, and his once elite troop was fast disintegrating into a rabble. Efforts were being made to train and organise the warriors, but a multitude of problems were being faced. Possibly the most prominent factor in the disintegration was that only ten of his men were fully competent with both blade and bow, with only a further hundred skilled in one discipline or the other. The remaining numbers were learning, but therein lay the second most despairing factor. The frequency with which new recruits swore their allegiance to Morambeth was meaning that only a short period of each day was able to be given to the training, though much of it was repeated due to novices needing to learn the basics of wielding their chosen weapon, and the duties that had to be carried out daily meant that sessions couldn’t be prolonged for more than a few men at a time. The knowledge of such despairing news weighed heavily on Rothil, and he knew that only a major battle would show such a fact to his men, a fact that needed to be brought across if they were truly to realise what efforts were lacking. Trained from a young age the Half-Elf had developed great stamina under battle circumstances, and his skill was truly impressive, yet he knew that his troops didn’t have the century he had been given, but still their current level just wasn’t acceptable. News of Aithan’s coronation had reached him almost as soon as it had occurred, although the man who had imparted the information had also given an account of the subsequent strike against Berinan. In that moment, when Rothil’s vision of Olgerd being the only one within his family who would keep the Valinians within their state of persecution had been dashed, the ranger had realised that his force could never be powerful enough to drive the Camentari back across the Lumnashae. He realised also that his soldiers no longer had time enough to become proficient enough to even hold their own within the depths of Rinahuil, not without aid from an as yet unseen quarter.
His dark thoughts were broken as one of his lookouts called an alert. Climbing to a vantage point beside the soldier, Rothil looked down with a tremendous level of surprise as a lone figure continued along the trail below. Clothed in a light brown cowl, little else of his attire could be distinguish
ed save for dark green boots that just extended below the outer garment as he stepped. The stranger appeared to be part of a religious sect, yet his stride and posture resembled more the fighter than the clergyman. Shifting his thoughts from the bizarre arrival, Morambeth saw that the newcomer’s path was taking him directly towards the rebels’ camp. Unsure of the man’s, if indeed it was a man, intentions, Rothil called upon the Treefather to assist in delaying the trespasser until the men could be mustered and the man’s alignment could be ascertained. The trees that lined the trail began to close in around the newcomer, who appeared to shake with silent laughter before continuing undeterred towards his destination. Passing beyond the enclosing trees, with as much effort as if the trees hadn’t responded at all, the stranger held out his right arm, and the hand passed from beneath the cowl’s heavy material to reveal a strange marking. It appeared to be a tree though, from the distance Rothil regarded him, it was hard to distinguish the type, and the identification was made impossible by the fact that, moments later, the camouflaged perimeter wall suddenly shook violently. The timbers bucking as if suffering from seizures, the Valinians upon the structure were thrown to the ground within the compound. Those that were stationed already upon the grassy courtyard drew their weapons as the wall parted with many a tortured groan. Seeing the stranger through the yawning opening caused many of the novice troops to waver and, had it not been for sheer numbers and their confidence in Rothil, there’s no telling what they would have done.