The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  Our bowmen were on the hill and had greater range. But surely, by now ...

  As if they heard my thought, the Norland archers raised their bows.

  “Down, Rodrigo!”

  But the volley found no targets on the battlements. Instead, every arrow soared to the plateau.

  The Norland bowmen, shooting upward, were at the furthest extent of their range. Most of the barbs fell short. A few did not.

  “Now!” Tursel gave the order to our archers on the wall, but it was too soon; most of the arrows thudded harmlessly into the turf.

  “Can’t you see it’s a waste of ...” I broke it off. Tursel would do as he pleased, and demons take my orders. He was always stubborn and willful.

  As if in a dream I watched the Norlanders lumber forward. Their front ranks made way for lurching wagons that bore tall ungainly towers. We ought do something to prepare, but the cries of wounded men burst my fragile draughts. Now the Norland bowmen found the hillside, and our men were falling.

  Men of Cumber, with pikes and shields, awaited the Norland assault of the hill.

  Behind us, a tremendous crash. Anavar whirled. “What’s that?”

  As if in answer, a half dozen stones smashed into the parapet. A yeoman shrieked and flailed as a ricocheting shard pierced his eye.

  “Catapults. Stay down.” Foolish advice, I knew as I gave it. Nowhere was safe.

  The Norlanders’ pace increased to a run. Most swept toward our archers’ hill, traversing the field. Our bowmen on the battlement loosed arrow after arrow, picking them off.

  Leather-garbed Norlanders lay kicking, crawling, screaming, twisting, clawing at barbs.

  “Reinforce the hill!” Duke Tantroth.

  I said, “How? It’s outside our wall.”

  “Send our horse against the Norland flank!”

  “They’ll be slaughtered.”

  “We’ve a thousand bow and pikemen on the plateau. Ten thousand attack!”

  “Their siege wagons make for the wall.”

  “They won’t need their towers, if they take the hill! They’ll shoot down on us!”

  Tursel overheard. “I’ll pull the archers from the front battlement, send them to the right.” He gestured. “Concentrate their volleys on the troops attacking the hill.”

  Tantroth’s cheeks grew red. “Then we’ve no defense of the wall! Once they close ...”

  Tursel snarled, “What would you, my lord?”

  “Down!” Anavar leaped upon us. We sprawled as stone flew close overhead.

  “Get off me, you—” I clamped my mouth shut. Time for his insolence later.

  Groenfil stalked onto the battlement. “Our reserves are too near! The catapults will find them!”

  “By blind luck. The Norlanders can’t see over—”

  “Roddy, you fool, you’ll get us killed!”

  What came upon Groenfil, that he would speak so? I was his king!

  I drew sudden breath. “The Rood!”

  “What?”

  “Hriskil’s at work, can’t you feel it? We’re at each other’s throats.”

  Groenfil paid no heed. “Move the reserves, you simpleton, or I will!”

  Anavar snarled. His dagger glinted.

  “NO!” I caught his arm. Had we all gone mad? What was I to—how could I think with—I gritted my teeth. I couldn’t think. That was the problem. “My lord, last night we set our dispositions. We pledged agreement. I hold you to your oath.” I swung to Tursel. “Don’t move the archers. The hill must save itself.”

  Spitting curses, Tursel stalked off.

  “Imbar!” My voice was a snarl. “We’ve a bloody mess up here!” It was little enough I asked of him. Why couldn’t he—

  The Rood. I swallowed.

  With a mad rush, men and ladders attacked the steep hill.

  “Sire, off the battlement, I pray you.” Pardos.

  I shook him off. “I must see.”

  Frantic men pulled the wheeled towers toward the wall. The first of them was but a moment away.

  “You, and Kadar, take his arm!” Without ceremony, they hustled me to the stair.

  I swore and raged, to no avail. They set me down in the roadway, surrounded me with shields.

  A crash, as a tower leaned into the wall. Men swarmed up its supports, leaped over the parapets. A surge of defenders rushed to the spot.

  A hail of arrows. Kadar yelped, clawed at his shoulder. I saw my chance, bolted to the parapet. Anavar thudded behind. “Stay back, sir!”

  I whirled, teeth bared. “Get away from me!” Could they not understand? I must see.

  Tower after tower lumbered to the battlement. Arrows thudded everywhere. Our bowmen aimed for the wagons, with flaming arrows dipped in pitch. Rocks flew. Arrows. A pike thrust. I cowered behind my shield.

  The swarthy soldier in front of me grinned. “Hot work. They’re—” An arrow thunked into his temple.

  A dozen Norlanders were over the top, then twenty.

  “Caledon, follow me!” My voice was shrill. Brandishing my sword, I charged into the fray. Anavar raced after. A few paces behind, Pardos and his squad charged to my rescue.

  I slashed, threw up my shield, ducked away, slashed anew. Blood spattered, not mine. A howl. I sidestepped a blow, parried with my shield, ran to an upthrust ladder, hacked off an arm.

  Someone kicked me in the stomach; I gasped, doubled over, lunged.

  The day was an endless dream of combat.

  I struggled to wake.

  “Use our reserves on the wall!” Tursel.

  I rasped, “No changes.”

  “We can’t hold!”

  Time drifted past.

  Tantroth himself overturned an upthrust ladder with an outstretched pike. A Norland tower burned, sap steaming and hissing, as foemen jumped to safety, fire arrows still raining upon it.

  A scream of agony from the parapet.

  A barrel of arrows burst asunder from a catapult shot, scattered arrows splintering underfoot. Imbar sweated under his breastplate, leading his men with grunts and curses to salvage what they could.

  Kadar nursed a bloody arm, refusing to leave me untended. Towers leaned crazily as sweating Norlanders rocked them toward the wall. Arrows. Arrows. The hill swarmed with bearded ants, struggling desperately up ladders toward the rise. Arrows.

  “The gate! The gate!” A desperate voice, below.

  Old, fat Imbar snatched up a pike, stumbling to the splintered barrier under furious Norland assault. Anavar leapt off the wall, arms windmilling, sprawled at Imbar’s side, bounded to his feet. Fifty of our men raced to help.

  On the hill, our bowmen fired steadily, through ever-increasing gaps in their ranks.

  “Caledon!” My voice rang out. “Fight for Caledon and Fiber!”

  “Rez!” An attacker pointed. “Rez Caledi!”

  “Soa rez,” I taunted. “Rez qa han modrit!” The king you can’t kill.

  Someone on a tower launched a spear. I skittered aside. It thunked into stone. I snatched it up. “Doa Rez Caledi!” From the king. I hurled it with all my might. Kachunk. It pinned a blond youth to the beam. His mouth fell open. His eyes faded.

  A dozen of our bowmen thudded along the wall, took up station beside me, loosed mercilessly into the nearest towers. Gasps, shrieks, moans. For a moment a Norland soldier staggered, pierced through with arrows, then he fell, bowling over two comrades beneath.

  Anavar, blood-spattered, appeared at my side.

  “The gate?”

  “Reinforced.”

  I licked dry lips. Would the day never end? The sun was barely at midpoint. The field swarmed with Norlanders. For an instant a jagged cross gleamed, across the field, near the wood.

  Parry. Thrust. A lithe young boy, the image of Genard, swarmed up a ladder. I rammed my sword through his ribs. Dead, he fell like a sack of wheat.

  Anavar and I stood back-to-back, sword and shield poised.

  “Let me send our horse against the towers.” Tantroth.


  “No changes.”

  “No changes, no changes,” he mimicked. “Must we die for your stubbornness?”

  The Rood.

  My sword arm ached. I risked a glance at the plateau.

  The foothill below was covered with unmoving bodies. Obstinate Norlanders climbed over them. Behind our pikemen’s shields, fewer and fewer bowmen still stood.

  Imbar thrust me aside, prodded a body. “Dead. Check this one.” Two litter-bearers knelt by a bloody swordsman.

  When will it end?

  “To the south! The south!” A frantic defender beckoned as Norlanders swarmed the wall.

  “Charge!” I raised my sword.

  Pardos caught my wrist. “Stay, lord.”

  “They need aid!”

  He held tight. “It’s our work to save you.”

  Somehow, I broke loose. “Save me by saving Caledon!” I thrust him toward the breach. “All of you!” I jumped atop a bulwark. My shout pierced the din. “CALEDON! THE WALL MUST HOLD. To the south!” I jumped down not an instant too soon; a dozen arrows whistled past. One caught at my tunic. I yelped, but it was a mere scratch. “Save the wall!”

  Imbar and his litter-bearers joined the frantic surge. Twenty Norlanders were already over the top; they jumped down into the road behind the wall. With a roar, Soushire’s reserves charged them, unbidden, undirected. Four hundred swords and pikes fell on the hapless foe.

  On the wall, all hung in the balance. Our men and Hriskil’s grappled for the southernmost battlement. I seized Anavar’s forearm. “Together!”

  His grin was feral. We raced along the parapet to the melee.

  Our blades flew. Heaving for air, my every nerve straining, sword arm swinging, I caught glimpses of madness.

  On the deck, a severed arm still gripped a sword.

  Someone fell. A bloody hand clutched my ankle. Coster, with whom I’d sat at a campfire two days past. He tried to speak, failed. I kicked free.

  In the field below, swarms of men. Bodies. A fire arrow missed a tower, embedded itself in a Norlander’s chest. As he slid to the turf smoke curled from his jerkin.

  A soldier staggered along the parapet, arms stretched before him. One ear was gone, and an eye. The other was spewing blood.

  Calls, screams, death.

  At long last, the Norlanders on the wall fell back.

  We’d saved the battlement.

  I looked about for men to kill, found none. I shook my head to clear it. “Now where?” I was so winded I could barely speak.

  “Two more towers.” Anavar.

  “Where?”

  “Closest to the hill.”

  “Pardos, round up your men, we’re—”

  “Look, sire!” My bodyguard pointed below.

  In the meadow, the Norland host was milling about in disarray. Officers rode among them, shouting orders.

  Panting for breath, I leaned on my sword.

  Hriskil’s men were in retreat. From our hilltop, a ragged stream of arrows sped them on their way. With them careened their surviving towers. A few men carried ladders that had failed to secure the plateau.

  There was something I ought do. What was it?

  Slowly, Hriskil’s minions fell back. We were done. I had but to lie down ...

  I spun to Anavar. “Quick, the gate! Clear the barricade!”

  He bounded down the stairs.

  Tantroth heard and stormed across the battlement. “We can’t, Rodrigo, we’ve taken too many losses. Now’s not the time—”

  “NO CHANGES!” My scream made my throat raw. “Why aren’t you with your cavalry? Go!” I fought to think through fog. “Kadar, get word to Groenfil! We attack in—” I peered at the torn and ragged field. In moments, the Norlanders would be halfway across. “On my signal. Tell him they withdraw!”

  For a moment Kadar looked ready to object. Then, “Aye, my lord.” He strode off, clutching his blood-soaked shoulder.

  “Rodrigo!” Anavar shouldered past a guard. “Tursel won’t clear the gate! He says—”

  Unutterably tired, I marshalled my scattered thoughts.

  “—the Norland retreat’s a feint; Hriskil will turn at any moment The gate’s smashed, and only the piles of debris protect—”

  I managed to sheathe my sword without unmanning myself. “Pardos, Anavar, all of you!” I charged down the stairs.

  Tursel was before the splintered gate. So, to my surprise, was Larissa of Soushire, guarded by half her regiment. “It’s madness, Rodrigo! My men won’t take part!”

  “Out of the way!” I took her by the arms, spun her from our path, threw myself against a rough-hewn beam. “Anavar, get that barrel of sand out of—it’s what we agreed, madam.”

  “Before Hriskil butchered half our force!” Larissa’s face was red.

  “Pardos, must I heave this myself?” My eyes bulged from the strain, and the beam barely moved.

  Tursel barred the path. “Roddy, you’ve lost your senses! We can’t attack a force five times—”

  “Ten. But it’s the course we set.”

  “That was before—”

  “No changes! The Rood drives us mad! Pardos?”

  My bodyguard said wearily, “Help the king.” A dozen hands took hold.

  Soushire stamped her foot. “They’re in retreat, what more do you want? You die, if you insist on it. My men go to camp!”

  “Very well, madam, let Earl Groenfil fight alone. With luck, he’ll survive.” Brutal, but she left little choice.

  “He’s not so foolish as—”

  “Who’s at the road’s bend?” I looked past her shoulder.

  Earl Groenfil, mounted, led a long column of six hundred men toward the gate, at the trot.

  “Imps take you,” she snarled. A mastiff began to howl.

  My spine prickled. “Control thy ire, madam. Tursel, help, or stand aside.”

  “You’ll rue this day!” Still snarling, he helped throw aside our makeshift barrier.

  Now what? “Anavar, what should I ...” Why ask him? He was a child. “My lord Earl.” I bowed. “On my signal.”

  His face was hard. “If I hadn’t sworn to this ...”

  “Where’s Tantroth?”

  “They mass by the mill. Make sure he follows. I’ve seen treason enough!”

  It was the Rood.

  I made for the stair.

  When the Norlanders were halfway across the meadow I rushed to the inner parapet. “Now!”

  The splintered gate crashed aside. Groenfil’s men raced across the field, dividing to left and right.

  Shouts from the Norland officers. Their men paused in their stolid retreat. With admirable order, they set about making a stand. A Norland chieftain gestured frantically. Even from the battlement I knew he was pointing out our weak, almost nonexistent center, trying to ready a charge.

  And then the duke of Eiber cantered through the gate on his black stallion, three officers at his side. Behind them, four abreast—the most that could pass the narrow opening—thundered the mass of Caledon’s cavalry, armed with sword and lance.

  Tantroth raised his sword. The horsemen spurred their mounts. They charged the Norland center.

  The thud of a thousand hooves, a mass of drumbeats, a sound like no other.

  A few brave Norlanders held their line. The rest broke and ran.

  The timing was exquisite. As Tantroth smashed their center, our racing foot soldiers rolled up Hriskil’s flank.

  Our horse caught up with the wobbling towers. Barely a moment’s pause, and down they went. I danced from foot to foot, beside myself. If only I could have ridden with Tantroth. But I’d have had to slay Pardos first.

  The charge became a battle, the battle a melee. Grunts, cries, shrieks of agony wafted across the bloody field. One couldn’t tell who was winning, except that the fighting moved inexorably closer to the wood, and the Norland camp.

  Then the Norlanders were breaking free, running, and Caledon was giving chase. I pounded Anavar’s back. “We hav
e them! Oh, we have them!”

  He said thickly, “Take your hands off—”

  A snap, within my mind.

  Our startled eyes met.

  I blinked, awakened from a dreadful dream. I could think again. I frowned. What had just passed?

  “Sir, I meant no offense; I don’t know why I ...”

  The Rood!

  “Hriskil’s in flight!” My tone was joyous. “He’s set down the Rood!”

  On the steep hill our surviving archers, their day’s work done, lay down their bows and massaged aching shoulders. Imbar’s troops continued their grim work of removing the dead and succoring the wounded.

  The cries of battle receded. I watched anxiously. Soon, the only men moving about the battleground were ours. The Eiberians among them began walking the field, methodically slitting the throats of the Norland wounded, until, aghast, I sent frantic runners to put a stop to it.

  From the wood beyond rose a plume of smoke.

  Hriskil’s camp burned. His tents, foodstuffs, wagons of costly supplies. That would give him pause. I wheeled, ran to the stair. “Tursel!”

  “Aye, my lord.” He came out from the gateway, discomfited.

  “Send riders to Tantroth and Groenfil. Remind them not to chase Hriskil beyond the camp.”

  “Of course. We agreed so.” He blinked, looked up at me with a moment’s unease, before turning once more. “Lady Soushire, two horsemen, if you will!”

  She gestured assent. In moments they cantered across the carnage.

  There was no need. Tantroth and Groenfil were already marshalling their withdrawal.

  “Sire, if I may ...” Tursel again. “We ought strip their dead.”

  I grimaced. “We don’t need gold so badly that—”

  “Swords, shields, sheaves of arrows. What’s left on the field is ours for the taking.”

  And Hriskil wouldn’t have me use of it. “Quickly, then.” In moments, our wagons jounced to midfield.

  Gratefully, I unslung my arm from my battered shield. My forearm was cramped and sore, but nothing could dull my exultation. We’d won, soundly and utterly. Of course, the war wasn’t over; Hriskil had been bloodied, not crippled. His force still vastly outnumbered ours.

  I rushed down from the wall to greet Groenfil and Tantroth. I called happily, “A glorious victory!”

  They paused together, by a handful of wagons, as their troops filed past. Groenfil’s face was bleak. Tantroth said nothing.