Wintersong

by William Cooper

  ‘Gentleman, please!’ shouted Aran, though in truth it was Callum’s temper that he was afraid of, and he attempted to move between them. He felt a sudden fear for his uncle. Callum was a fine swordsman, young, quick and strong. His skill was such that he had won last year’s tourney for swordsmanship. Tobin was a man whose glories lay in the past, and he was near his fortieth year.

  Callum would not be placated; however, and before Aran could interpose himself between the two men the young knight charged with his sword ready.

  The young knight used his speed and strength to full advantage as he charged toward the general. He swung his long sword high over his right shoulder. Clearly he meant to kill Tobin. The general however, proved to be more artful than the young knight expected. At the last second the general dodged to the young swordsman’s right. Callum rushed by, and Tobin’s right leg deliberately tangled Callum’s feet. He was sent sprawling onto the cobbles of the courtyard, his sword and buckler clattering across the stones. Callum tried to roll over quickly, but he was too dazed, and before he could rise Tobin was on him. The general’s heavy riding boot crashed into the man’s exposed ribs with brutal efficiency. Callum screamed out in pain, but Tobin would not let up, a punch crashed into the man’s face tearing skin. The young knight tried to roll into a defensive ball, but Tobin pulled a dagger from his belt and hauled the young man up by his long well groomed hair. ‘Stop!’ roared the general as Adam and Kalin started to rush forward to help their stricken friend. They hesitated as they saw the knife to their friend’s throat. Uncertain they looked to Aran, who shouted in shame and fury. ‘Put your bloody blades down you fools!’

  ‘Look at this face!’ the general snarled, lifting Callum up higher by his hair. He was a man used to command and his voice carried a booming authority. Aran had never seen his uncle this way before, angry and powerful.

  ‘Look at him you thick headed fools!’ shouted Tobin, and they looked at the dirty, bleeding and sobbing face of Callum. ‘This is war! This is the real face of war! This is what it means, Aran!’

  Tobin let the shamed knight drop to the stones of the courtyard.

  ‘Learn this lesson...boys!’ he said, ‘War is not pretty songs and bard’s tales. It’s shitting yourself in the dark and the mud. It’s pain, hunger and fear. Men crying for their mothers as they try hold their guts in with their hands!’

  Tobin then stalked over to Aran and grabbed him by his shirt. ‘You swore your honour for an idea of war that never existed, lad.’ For a moment Tobin’s anger faded and was replaced with a look of sadness.

  ‘I will not leave you with bitter words as they may be our last,’ he said, his voice calmer now. ‘You have made your choice. I will respect that, I wish you success, and for your father sake, and this country’s, I hope you return alive.’

  Tobin turned and walked out of the courtyard and did not look back. It had all been so very stupid, thought Aran.

  Mickis’s shout of, ‘Get ready!’ brought Aran back to the present, and he watched as his sergeant at arms started getting the men in order. Mickis was one of Perriswood’s men. He was a thuggish stupid man with a barely concealed contempt for the levies, but fawning to the knights and the lords he served under. Aran looked around the men, and saw the pale frightened faces that surrounded him. As a lord he was expected to command some of the levy forces. Not a thought that filled him with relish. He didn’t know any of them. They were a rough mixture of boys and farmhands gathered from the estates and manors friendly to Perriswood and the King. The storm had taken its toll on these men and the decks were awash with their vomit and worse. They already looked exhausted and haunted; he hoped they would not have to fight today, and that Perriswood had been right when he said the Cathan would hide behind their walls.

  The ship lurched again and he gripped the ships rail harder as sea water pounded over the decks, he heard a man scream as the poor devil was taking over the side. He tried to shut out the sound of the man’s terror and swore to himself that he would be brave, he would endure. The beach was close now; he could see the long shore line and the high dunes beyond the sandy stretch in the far distance. The beach was empty. Perhaps Perriswoods guessed right; maybe the Cathan did not want a straight fight. They had also expected to face more Cathan wolfships as they came into the Crescent, but the few they had seen were easily chased off. The last he saw of them they were vanishing south beyond the bays sweeping arms, chased off by the Golden Isle ships The Lonely Spear and The Jilted Rose; two of Perriswoods best warships. Aran knew they would make short measure of the smaller Wolfships.

  After an agony of waiting the ships were close enough to land. The order was given to brace themselves as the flat bottomed boats sped towards the beach. With a crash and a lurch the ship hit the sandy shore, and the men were tossed around the deck as the ships ground to a slow, trembling, halt. He picked himself up off the sodden deck, and he caught a glimpse of the other ships to his left and right as they too came to a halt on the shores of Cathan and began to spill men onto the beach.

  ‘Off the ships!’ Mickis shouted, waving his mace. Some men jumped into the water, some of the levies whipped into doing so by Perriswood’s men. With a quick prayer and a cry he hit the water hard. Fortunately, it was not deep and as he landed it only came up to his knees. Aran felt the shock of the cold water and, fighting his rising fear, tried to trudge up to the dry sand. Other knights were less fortunate, and some fell into the water, the fortunate being pulled to their feet by their comrades. Aran watched horrified as soldiers screamed in panic as they were sucked under by the soft waterlogged sand. Breathing hard and feeling sick with terror, he struggled through the cold clinging sand, as he fought with the rest of the great mob of men as they tried to get to the firmer sand further up the beach.

  After what seemed like an eternity of struggling he finally got off a sand bank and reached the drier sand. He fell to his knees in exhaustion, gasping for air. His limbs numb with the cold he looked around for Callum, Kline or Adam, but he could not see them in the thousands of men that struggled up the beach. Above him gulls circled and he wondered what it must have looked like to those birds as they watched the men below. Perhaps it looked like a tide of men, moving inland. Gathering his wits, he tried to remember what he could of Perriswood’s briefing. Rising sluggishly to his feet, he began shouting orders to some of the levies to pick up the equipment that was being thrown from the ships.

  To his despair he saw much of the equipment was being dumped into the sea and trodden into the mud by the soldiers who were disembarking. They were meant to start digging ditches further up the beach, so they could start building a fortified camp. They would need trees for stakes, and looking around the long beach he saw no trees, only the sweeping grass that covered the high dunes ahead. Why they hadn’t brought them with them, he wondered. Looking around, he began to see the chaos unfolding before him. There seemed to be no order or control as the men spread out across the beach. To his left he caught sight of the Sacred Queen. Upon its prow the flag of the Honourable Company was fluttering proudly in the wind. He was impressed by the professional approach to their landing. They dropped small groups of men who formed a perimeter, as others carefully unloaded equipment onto rowing boats they had lowered for the task. In contrast Perriswoods officers were starting to look like petulant children barking contradictory orders at confused peasants. He caught a glimpse of garish purple silk on the ship’s deck and thought that must have been Lotho. He had been a loud and disagreeable presence in the war council. He mocked Perriswood openly and recommended that they land further south and harry the countryside of Cathan to draw out their armies. Perriswood had called him a ‘hired hand’ and had ignored him. Perriswood had seemed so sure, perhaps too sure, of himself. This was starting to feel bad.

  Without really knowing why he found himself drawing his sword and unshouldering his shield. He looked around for Mickis, but before he could find him he heard a distant horn blow. Then another answered
that mournful echo, and then another.

  A red hot light shot overhead followed by a whooshing noise. Men screamed, and a ball of naphtha exploded amongst a group of men. They died howling in agony as they were lit up like human candles. This was followed by another explosion further along the shore line. Then suddenly, the sky was full of the flaming comets, flung from behind the great dunes. They sailed down upon the soldiers of the Golden isle.

  ‘Catapults!’ someone shouted.

  The tightly packed mob of men on the beach began to panic. Men screamed and many started to run towards the dunes, a half mile or so ahead of them. Others tried to scramble back onto the ships, risking the sucking mud. Aran tried to shout orders to get his men to form up, but fear had struck too deeply in the men that surrounded him. Soldiers dropped their spears and tried to get away as death crashed around them from above.

  Aran turned to shout at the men fleeing to the ship and fell silent as he saw some of the ships burning. In that moment he perceived the Cathan’s plan. They meant to destroy the ships, to trap the army on the beach and no doubt butcher them there. Further up the beach Aran saw that more of the ships were on fire. The sky soon darkened as smoke rolled in like a dark mist and he felt himself choke on the stench of burning wood and human flesh. In panic he dove onto the beach and he covered his head. He was too numbed with fear to think and even pray. Then suddenly it stopped. Only the sound of burning ships, and the screams of men could be heard. After a few moments he stood and looked around. The air was thick with smoke, and his lungs burned with the foul air. Some men cried out in relief, but he knew worse was yet to come. He shouted ‘Grab your weapons. Form up!’ He heard other’s crying out, sensing the same danger, but it was not enough; it was too late.

  He felt the ground shake under his feet, and his mouth went dry. Cavalry! Thousands of them by the bloody sound of it. Aran knew it would end badly; the men were swarmed on the beach, with no formation and order. The enemies’ heavy cavalry had a long, flat stretch of beach to charge on. The momentum they built up would be devastating, and he soon heard the crash and screams of the dying as he saw the horse ploughing like some great wave through the panicked foot soldiers.

  He heard the cry. ‘Run! Run!’ He found himself mindlessly obeying the unknown shouter as instinct took over. Dropping his shield and sword he ran with the rest of the army of the Golden Isles. He had no idea where he was running too, escape was all that mattered. A horse flashed by. A sword sliced down, hacking the terrified Melkis across his head. Blood and brains sprayed over Aran as he ran past the stricken man. The horseman turned his stead and kicking its flanks bore down on Aran. Desperately he ducked away from the slashing sword and tumbled onto the sand. Spoiled for prey the horseman kept charging into the mob, his sword slashing left and right at the fleeing soldiers.

  Aran struggled to get up, his panic threatened to overwhelm him, and he heard a whimper of terror escape from his lips as he slipped again on the bloody entrails of a corpse. Fighting his fear he staggered to his feet picking up the dead soldier’s broadsword. Aran looked around and saw that the Cathan cavalry were everywhere, slicing into men, charging them down, and killing with brutal efficiency. He knew he had to get off the beach before they sent the infantry in to finish them off, but he could see no way out of the chaos. With a cold stab of realisation in his gut, Aran realised he was going to die today. Then, in that moment of pure terror, he felt the sudden freedom of that revelation. Embracing his fate, Aran offered a silent prayer, and gripping the sword with both hands he charged into the fray. Out of the black smoke a dismounted horseman came charging towards him with sword slashing for his belly.

  Desperately Aran parried the blow, and countered with a head cut that the knight easily ducked. Grinning the knight laughed at the lord, and in perfect Isle said, ‘Where you taught to fight by your whore of a mother, boy?’ Roaring in anger, Aran charged, realising too late that was the knight’s plan. His sword was easily knocked aside with a graceful block and the horseman lashed out with his left elbow, smashing it brutally into Aran’s face. He went reeling back with a curse, spitting blood, raising his sword to defend himself from the knight’s onslaught. As they both traded blows, Aran realised that he was outmatched by the Cathan soldier. Breaking away for a brief moment the knight saluted Aran with his sword with a mocking grin, ‘Would you like another go?’ he said. The arrogance of the man enraged him further, and Aran slashed at his head with a curse. The knight laughed and moved to block the blade easily, but he was horrified to find Aran had pulled his sword back from the blow, causing the knight to overextend and stumble. Panicking the knight tried to recover his defence, but Aran’s sword snapped around and punched through the unprotected groin of the knight. The young lord tore the bloody sword out of the man as he fell screaming to the sand. Aran looked numbly at the bloody sword in his hands, and with perfect clarity he grasped the madness of the butchery and savagery around him.

  Everywhere Golden Isle soldiers were dying or running. The battle was lost, hell it had never started! All Aran wanted to do was to get back to his father to say he was sorry, to apologise to Tobin for the rudeness of his friends, and ultimately to live. But that was a dream now, a fool’s wish. He was never going to see another day, he knew, but he would be damned if he would give up. Hefting his sword in his hands he run into the swirling black smoke to find the enemy, and maybe make an account of himself.

  Bad Tidings

  Maria felt a deep unease, a growing fear that had kept her awake and on edge, though she would not show it to her children or her husband. No word had arrived as of yet of Cathan. Despite her fears her husband did not seem concerned as they sat in the King’s Hall of the Tower. He was surrounded by his lords and councillors at the high table, talking animatedly with them, while she sat by the large fireplace playing with her children. She had distracted herself from her fears by spending time with her children and trying not to think about the ramifications of failure. Merric had gambled so much, and she wondered if he really understood the risks.

  The messenger arrived as she sat on the ornately tiled floor making her boys laugh at the ridiculous faces she was pulling. The King looked pleased and told the guard to let the messenger into the hall. A hush fell across the chamber as the messenger entered. It was a soldier, wearing the livery of Perriswood. The soldier approached, looking tired and drawn. In his right hand he gripped a sealed scroll and his face was a tragedy as he looked around the hall. Slowly he made his way towards the King. The dull thud of the man’s filthy boots and the sharp jingle of his spurs were the only sound that could be heard as he approached the now silent and troubled King.

  Maria was breathless, she sensed the message was not good news for the King. If it had been a message of victory the lords of Perriswood’s army would have fallen over themselves to be the first ones to deliver it to the King personally. No, they sent a rider, some man at arms of the Perriswood family. It had fallen on a common soldier to bring the King bad news. Perriswood was a coward, she thought. She watched the scene before her. Her two boys fretted and pulled at her rich gown wondering why their mother had stopped playing. Instinctively she shushed them and pulled them in closer to the folds of her dress.

  The soldier, nervous and awed in the presence of the King hesitated half way up the pillared hall. He licked his lips and seemed unsure of what to do next. Merric stood slowly, and, his face pale, motioned for the man to come closer. Reluctantly, the man did so, and as he got to the foot of the dais. He fell to his knee and held out the wax sealed scroll. The King reached out and took the scroll out of the man’s shaking hand. Without a word the messenger got up and bowing low turned and fled from the hall.

  For a moment the King looked at the parchment, as if it was a poisoned cup of wine. In a quick movement Merric broke the seal and unfurled it. Reading the contents, the King’s face suddenly flashed with anger, and he thrust the document at the lord.

  ‘My army! Lost!’ he roared. ’Eigh
t Ships returned of forty! The fool lost my army and tries to blame it on treachery!’ Merric staggered back and fell onto his throne; his eyes glassy and unseeing as Davish read the scroll aloud to the other lords. They glanced at one another as the list of disasters were read out. An army caught in the process of landing. Catapults that burnt the ships to the waterline, and Wolfships blocking the bay. A massed cavalry action, combined with infantry causing a rout on the beach. The Fleet had been allowed to land, but not allowed to leave. Perriswood had escaped as his ship was still at sea during the attack. He had abandoned his army to its fate as he fled back home.

  As Davish read the report the Queen’s eyes turned to Middleton. The only Lord of the Concord who had come to court. The others had been conspicuous by their absence over the last few days. She was certain she saw malice in the lord’s eyes as he watched the scene unfold before him. She felt her anger rise as she realised that he would soon scuttle off to his Ryder, like the good little pet he was, and fill that lords ears with the venom and hate he felt for his own King. The Concord would make much of this she knew, and she hoped the King would be strong enough to face that storm. Yet, a part of her knew he would struggle to rein them in now. This was a total defeat, a grand humiliation in front of the nation. Perriswood was an old friend of the King, and Merric’s critics would accuse him of placing an incompetent favourite in an important role. Soon the Concord would avenge themselves on Perriswood and the King. This nation had a bloody history, and she feared what might happen to her husband. If he refused them. If he was disposed what would happen to her children? They were of the royal blood, yes, but some had claimed that they were not real lords, and accused her of secretly bringing the royal children up in the hated High Church faith. For men such as they; it would be politically expedient to cut her children’s throats.