by Doug Kelly
Other groups of allied warriors struggled up the bank. They formed a line for battle, and after a pause, started slowly through the woods into the rear of the withdrawing skirmishers, who were continually melting into the scene, only to appear again farther on. They were always reappearing, intensely engaged in intermittent fighting with bands of scouting troops. Aton tried to observe everything. He seemed to bump into trees and branches, and his feet were constantly tripping over stones or getting entangled in cocklebur. The small pockets of advancing combatants, probably scouts for the enemy, fascinated him with their bravery. His position as archer kept him in the rear, and that greatly pleased him.
While the march continued, the formation encountered the body of a dead enemy. He was on his back staring at the sky. He was dressed in a torn cotton shirt, a wool tunic embroidered with an unknown symbol, and leather leggings, all stained red with his dried blood. He was barefoot. Someone had stolen his shoes. As they marched, the ranks opened wide to avoid the corpse. Aton looked intensely at the pallid face. Death had frozen the man’s arm in an extended position, as if he was begging. Maybe he had begged for his life with an unseen spirit and frozen like that in his last moment alive. Aton wanted to stare at the dead soldier, as if that might answer the questions and calm his doubts about bravery and battle.
A house standing peacefully in a distant field had an ominous look. The shadows of the woods were formidable. He was certain that the nearby landscape hosted the murderous enemy. A thought rapidly came to him that the commanders did not know what they were doing. It was all a trap. He thought that those close woods could suddenly bristle with swords, arrows, and spears. Attacking hordes would appear soon. The enemy would sacrifice them to their gods. He believed Grinald’s commanders were stupid. The enemy would swallow them. He cast his glare around, expecting to see the stealthy approach of his death. He thought that he must break from the ranks and caution everyone. They should not allow the enemy to kill them like wild boars, and he was sure it would happen unless he told everyone about those hidden dangers. The clan leaders and their commanders were idiots to send them marching into a slaughtering pen. He thought that he had the only pair of sane eyes. He told himself that he should step forward and make a speech, but he could not summon the courage to do it. Passionate words came to his mind, but not to his lips. His self-doubt grew deeper because he knew that if he were not brave enough to make a speech to rally his comrades to safety, he would surely melt during the heat of a battle. That was not an admirable characteristic of a leader of men.
The line of warriors continued through fields and woods. Aton looked at the men nearest him, and saw serious expressions, as if they were examining something that had charmed them. One or two marched as if they were already in battle. Others walked as if they were on thin ice. Most of the men appeared quiet and absorbed. They were all going to look at and experience brutal combat. It was just ahead somewhere.
Aton assumed the character of a person who knew that he was doomed. With heartbreaking glances at the sky, he trailed behind. As he daydreamed about his impending fate, a troop commander surprised him and hit him with the butt of his spear. The commander yelled at him to move along, and Aton quickened his pace. It was all Aton could do to restrain his temper against that man, but he did not want to risk a trip to the gallows, so he bit his tongue rather than unsheathe it.
After some time, they halted in the filtered streaming light of a forest. The skirmishes continued somewhere in the distance. During the standstill, many of the men began searching for cover. They claimed ditches, bushes, and tree trunks, anything that they thought might offer camouflage. That caused a discussion among the men. The swordsmen wished to fight face to face because they believed hand-to-hand combat required the most heroic valor. The spearmen did not totally discount that logic, but found little dishonor in killing a man from a distance with a thrown spear, and a man wielding a spear can also fight in close ranks against the enemy. All he needed was a sturdy shield on his forearm and he could go forward into the adversary’s line and thrust his spear tip directly into his foe. The archers did not excuse their desire for distance or conceal the fact that they usually did not do their work at close range. They also had to fear the arrows of the enemy’s hidden archers and always reminded the men of how many adversaries they could kill before one line of troops advanced on the other. They could bring death from above.
The swordsmen laughed at the archers. The archers scoffed in reply. The debate continued and became more heated as additional archers and swordsmen joined, but the discussion cooled when an aged and experienced archer came from around a wide tree, carrying his longbow, which had survived many battles with him. The tall veteran of many battles towered over the group and easily got their attention. First, he looked at the group of archers, then at the young faces of the swordsmen, and made apparent the simple fact that although some of the archers were young, many had the distinguishing characteristic of graying hair around the temples. The bowmen had obviously survived battle many times. The gray hair of experience proved that there was merit in their argument. Then he cautioned the young swordsmen, and before he turned to conceal himself again, he told the swordsmen, “Die for your commander. I will live for mine.” The tall archer’s brief speech dampened the debate, but when a commander ordered them to march again, the ranks segregated themselves by specialty and without further discussion, continued forward on the road.
When the columns of soldiers found a location to stop and eat, the search for concealment and the various debates on bravery and fighting techniques happened again. After the noon meal, the commanders and clan leaders moved them along.
Aton’s father had taught him that a man became another thing in battle. He saw his salvation from cowardice in such a change. Therefore, the constant moving and waiting on the way to combat was an ordeal to him. He was in a fever of exasperation. He wondered what the purpose of endless marching and continually moving positions could be. Soon they stopped again. He accepted the new location and circumstance with great coolness, eating from his satchel at every opportunity. On the march, he had gone along with the stride of a hunter in the woods, not overtly objecting to either pace or distance. He had not raised his voice when any commander of troops had ordered him away from the cover of a bush or tree trunk, because he had decided to save the energy of losing his temper, and expend it on the enemy.
In the afternoon, the columns of men entered another territory that appeared very similar to where they had been that morning. The countryside had finally stopped feeling like a threat to Aton. He had been close to it and become familiar with it. The enemy would appear when the enemy was ready; there was no sense in obsessing over it. However, when they began to pass into another region, his old fears of stupidity and incompetence assailed him again. The problems of battle and manhood relentlessly occupied his mind.
Once he thought that it would be better for the enemy to kill him directly and end his troubles. Regarding death in the back of his consciousness, he considered it nothing but rest. A fleeting bewilderment filled his mind that he would have made an extraordinary commotion over the mere matter of dying in combat. He thought that he would die here in battle because it made absolute sense to him now. Formidable and experienced enemies would line up on the battlefield against him and his comrades. They wanted him to die and had experience in those endeavors. Aton had faith in his ability as an archer, but he was not really a fighter. He was mortal and he knew that the tip of a sword, or an arrow falling silently though the sky, could kill him as quickly and easily as any other man. He began to realize that trying to find glory in battle was foolish, and he wished he had never sought combat to prove his manhood, or enlisted with Grinald.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning they continued the march. Aton could see that the road was taking them up the gentle slope of a hill. From behind that hill, a mounted courier galloped toward Aton’s formation. The messenger’s eyes were
wide with fear, his long hair trailing behind his head like a kite, and the horse galloping as if death were chasing it. Suddenly, Aton could hear the sound of battle. Some warriors ran ahead. A few stray arrows pierced the ground. The racket began to increase. Angry men shouted at their enemy; their unified voices became a loud growl, like the roar of a charging lion. He had forgotten about being killed; he gazed spellbound as combat unfolded in front of him. His eyes grew wide and busy with the action of the scene; his mouth was a little bit open. All of a sudden, he felt a heavy, sad hand bump his shoulder, which brought him out of his trance. He turned to see a young and unfamiliar face.
“I don’t want to die,” pleaded the stranger, with penetrating despair. He was pale and his bottom lip was trembling.
“What?” murmured Aton, in great astonishment.
“I’m not going to die here. Not me,” continued the stranger.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve seen the way you look around. You’re ready to jump and run like a scarred rabbit, too.” He looked around to make sure no one had heard him speak. “Let’s run away. Draw an arrow as if you’re ready for battle, then we’ll slip into the woods. We can hide in the trees until it’s dark, then we can leave during the night. I don’t want to die.”
Aton was embarrassed that someone had noticed his trepidation. If it was that obvious, then surely the enemy could see it, too. They would attack him fearlessly; he would be an easy target. Sudden terrifying thoughts paralyzed him.
The stranger gave him a glance as if from the depths of a tomb, raised his trembling hand in a prophetic manner, and turned away. Aton had hesitated, so the stranger left him where he stood, and disappeared into the rear of their formation.
The skirmish was quickly over. Most likely, it had been more advance troops scouting for information on their enemy’s location and number of soldiers. The ox horn blew, and Grinald’s army continued its march. The short trek onward stopped near the fringe of a thicket of trees. They crouched in the grove and scanned with their wary eyes for any sign of the enemy. They had stopped on a ridge, and a light fog hung over the stream valley below. They were to hold the high ground; that was where the battle would commence. Now, there was no escaping what was about to happen.
Out of the haze, they could see men running and hear the distinct clatter of swords as fierce bloodthirsty men beat their edged weapons against their shields. Spears and arrows impaled the ground below. Aton’s group of men watched and listened eagerly while they speculated on gossip about their involvement in the unfolding combat. A battle commander dispelled all rumors when he informed them they were in a reserve position for the warriors in the frontal assault, but they were to hold the ridge at any cost if the enemy were to advance up the hill.
The clamor in front swelled to an incredible pitch, but Aton and his fellow archers had frozen in silence. They could see a banner flapping angrily in the wind. Near it were the distorted and frantic forms of troops. Then a wild torrent of men came across the fields. Cavalry flanked both lines of warriors, and the slaughter of men really began. A catapult stone screamed over their huddled heads. It landed behind them in the grove, and exploded in a shower of brown dirt. There was a little sprinkle of torn leaves. Arrows began to whistle among the branches and nip at the foliage. Arrows dropped from the sky and stabbed the ground in front of them. The vertical shafts looked like a forest of arrow saplings that were magically conjured by some mysterious unknown, but lethal, spirit from above. Many of the men were constantly dodging and ducking their heads, expecting an arrow to strike them dead at any moment.
The enemy shot the commander of Aton’s group in the hand with an arrow. Nervous men wondered at the skill of the opposing archers, but Aton knew better. A stray arrow had hit their commander. If the archer had actually been proficient, he would have sent a fatal volley of arrows. It was not a lethal wound, just demoralizing. Someone snapped the offending shaft, and then pulled it through the commander’s hand. He tossed it on the ground as if it were a hot stone. The commander held up his wounded hand and expressed no emotion, signifying bravery in battle, then held his hand away from his side so the blood would not drip onto his battle clothes.
A stiff breeze went through the stream valley and blew away floating dust that violent conflict had churned from the dry ground and suspended in the air. The waning haze of war revealed their battle flag in the distance, jerking about madly in the wind. It seemed to be struggling to free itself from an agony. Below, Aton could see that the forces with which he had marched here were moving backwards. The retreating men grew in numbers and he quickly realized that their whole front line was fleeing. Their flag suddenly sank down as if dying, as if it had fallen under great despair. Then the men in Aton’s line became breathless with horror.
“They’re retreating. The enemy will follow!” exclaimed the man next to Aton.
They shrank back and crouched as if forced to wait for a violent deluge. Aton shot a swift glance along the ranks at either side. Their profiles were motionless, like statues with open mouths and wide eyes. The retreating men went whirling around the flank. The exodus carried cursing commanders like debris during a flood. With their sword handles, the commanders struck at the retreating warriors, punching every head they could reach. They cursed at them with relentless rage.
A clan’s battle commander had witnessed the line breaking and his men retreating. He galloped around and screamed for them to fight. The hooves of his horse threatened the heads of the running men, but they still stampeded in the direction of retreat. In the rush to safety, they were apparently all deaf and blind with fear.
During the turmoil, the reserve soldiers yelled grim jokes at the retreating men, but the withdrawing warriors apparently did not realize they had been performing for an audience. The reflection of battle horror that had shone for an instant in their faces made Aton realize that there would have been nothing that could have stopped his legs from a hasty retreat, except a deadly sword slash, a piercing spear tip, or an arrow through the heart. The sight of the retreating stampede exerted a force that seemed able to rip trees and men from the ground, but a battle commander had instructed Aton’s group to hold the high ground, to hold on at all cost.
Someone near Aton yelled, “They’re attacking!”
There was rustling and muttering among the men. The grim jokes ceased. They displayed a heated yearning to have every possible weapon ready and in their hands. They pulled their swords from scabbards. The archers spilled the contents of their quivers at their feet. Sweaty hands held tightly on the shafts of spears as their tips dipped forward toward the enemy, and they raised their shields.
“Stand your ground!” yelled the clan leaders. “Stand your ground!”
Across the valley came a swarm of running men who screamed terrifyingly as they charged. They advanced swiftly, slashing their swords at all angles, followed by a volley of arrows. An enemy flag, tilted forward, sped toward the front. As Aton caught sight of the charging enemy, he was momentarily startled by a thought that perhaps his bow might break or his arrow might not fly true. It was not really his bow; he did not make it or the arrows. He doubted if he could trust his life to these meager weapons that he possessed. He stood, trying to rally his vacillating resolve to fight. This might just be unfounded fear, an excuse to use, to run and hide.
A clan leader appeared on a large black horse. A servant behind him carried his battle standard. The clan leader waved his sword in the air and yelled, “Hold your position! You have to hold your position!” The wounded commander held his battle sword high, put his bleeding hand over his heart, and stood in front of his group of men. He took this position to show the clan leader that he was committed to hold the line and win the battle. The mounted clan leader made a fervent gesture toward the battle line and galloped away. The commander, maybe to relieve his suppressed anger, began to curse savagely at the gods he worshiped. Aton, turning swiftly to make sure that the rear was still free of an encir
cling enemy, saw the commander regarding his men in a highly resentful manner, as if he regretted their existence.
The man at Aton's side was mumbling. He kept repeating to himself, “They’re going to slaughter us like boars.”
Another commander had been pacing eagerly back and forth in the rear. He spoke in an endless repetition to the archers. “Save your arrows, men. Wait until they get close. Make them count; there are no supply wagons nearby.”
Perspiration streamed down Aton's face, but it made him look like a weeping child. He frequently, with a nervous movement, wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. His mouth was still a little ways open, but he could feel himself breathing through flared nostrils. He could see the field in front of him swell with enemy forces, so he instantly forgot about whether the bow would crack or if the arrows would fly true. Before he realized it, he had sent his first arrow toward the enemy. He had selected the closest charging man that was carrying a sword and who was near the front of the meandering enemy line. The man dropped to his knees and then fell on his face. The charging men behind the fallen warrior trampled over the body. Aton did not know if his arrow had killed the enemy, or if it was someone from the adjacent row of archers who were already picking their distant targets, too.