The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  Tolin smiled at the young man in hopes of calming his nerves. “Fear is a valuable tool.” The hostler looked at him like he was crazy. “No, it’s true. Fear is what keeps us sharp, keeps our minds active. Fear is what keeps us alive. Show me a man without fear and I’ll show you a fool.” Tolin laid a firm hand on the hostler’s shoulder. “Just remember, without fear there can be no courage.”

  The wiry lad paused to think, wiping a strand of fallen hair out of his face. “I never thought about it like that before. Thank you, sir.”

  Tolin removed his hand. “So take heart lad. When the time comes for courage, I’m sure you’ll do us proud.” The young man seemed to perk up as he nodded with a half-smile and went back to his grooming.

  The ominous signal fire was still burning into the early morning sky behind him as Tolin stepped inside the shelter. On either side of the command post were kennels of runners whose job it was to supply information to and from the commander and his officers.

  Tolin took a seat and began perusing his battle strategies for what seemed like the thousandth time. They were already ingrained within him, but he never wanted to stop looking. He never knew when an unexpected thought would emerge that could change the tide. “Elior!”

  A short man with a gray beard, wearing the Elondrian crimson and gold, shuffled through the front flaps, dragging a gimp leg behind him. He had the appearance of having seen one too many battles in his time. “You called, sir?” the head runner asked as he stood as straight as he could, considering his age and infirmities.

  Tolin admired the man. Elior was considered a good luck charm by most in the camp. He had survived what no other man should have. Tolin kept him around for moral support. The man would never be able to participate in battle, but he had a way of keeping the runners running that more than trumped his inabilities. And since the man had no other family, Tolin didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave.

  “I did,” Tolin replied with his head bent over his work. “Have we heard back from those scouts we sent out yesterday?”

  “No, sir. No one has returned since this morning. If I might ask, sir, where were they headed?”

  Tolin lifted his head from his papers. “The Black Hills.” He had a look in his eye that was all too telling, especially considering the enormous pillar of fire rising out of that same range of mountains.

  “Oh. That’s not good.”

  Tolin exhaled. “No, it’s not. If you do hear anything, let me know immediately.”

  “Yes, sir!” the old runner’s voice was sharp with respect. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, you’re dismissed.” Tolin’s eyes were locked on his battle plans.

  “Very good, sir.” Without looking up, Tolin could hear Elior limp his way out.

  A moment later, he heard another rustling of the flap.

  “Sir, you might want to see this.” One of the lancers standing guard pointed off in the direction of the Black Hills. Tolin left his table and stepped outside to get a better look. He took a deep breath. The pillar of red flame was gone.

  “Send runners to have the men ready their positions. It appears our time has just run out.”

  Chapter 67 | Tolin

  THE EASTERN SKY darkened with the rolling in of a new storm.

  The morning sunlight was completely overshadowed by clouds and a light mist, a precursor for what was to come. It was going to be a rain-soaked battle. As if in answer to his thoughts, a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, followed closely by a loud clap of thunder.

  From the top of his painted warhorse, Commander Tolin watched as the Cylmaran army on the other side of the valley closed ranks. Their attack was imminent.

  “Looks to be a bad one!” Overcaptain Asa said as he tightened the slack on his horse’s reins, holding his mount steady under the sounds of the approaching storm. His long hair, which was streaked with a dignified gray, had been pulled tight behind his head and tied off with a leather strap. The sullen patch over his eye and long scar down the side of his face gave him all the presence of a warrior stepping out of some mythical tale.

  “It does indeed.” It was dangerous for horsemen to ride into battle across sodden ground, but it looked as though they weren’t going to be given a choice. His men were up to the challenge. They were the best trained cavalry unit in Aldor and he had no doubt they would make him proud.

  Tolin’s strategy was simple. He had split his mounted lancer regiments into two groups. The first led by Asa, the second by himself. He planned to use them in a flanking maneuver to pierce the enemy’s sides while Captain Janus and Undercaptain Bashan pushed from the front with two six-column formations of pikemen. The polearms would bear the brunt of the initial attack.

  Directly behind the pikes, Tolin positioned a full squad of crossbowmen led by Undercaptain Bellos and a regiment of longbowmen under the command of Captain Nadeer. Following them marched the Elondrian Lancer’s main force. Sometimes, it was the simple, direct assaults that provided the most efficient victories.

  From the far side of the valley, Tolin watched them come. The Cylmaran army was at best a disorganized grouping of ragtag armsmen whose premier battle strategy was to aim in one direction and charge when someone gave the signal. Their armor was piecemeal at best, and their uniforms consisted mostly of whatever they happened to be wearing at the time, which made it fairly easy for both sides to spot the other. However, with the heavy rain moving in, it wasn’t going to matter since vision tended to blur dramatically in a dense downpour.

  Tolin watched Asa tug anxiously on his ducktail beard. He wondered how the man maintained any whiskers at all with as much fondling as he gave the ugly thing.

  “I believe it’s time for us to be parting ways, Commander,” Asa said before spitting off to the side. He flipped up his eye patch and rubbed his finger around the inner edge of his empty socket. He knew how much it unnerved Tolin when he did, and he seemed to get a perverse pleasure in watching Tolin squirm.

  Tolin smiled at his crazy battle-hardened friend. He held out his arm. “To victory!”

  Asa took it. “To the swift death of our enemies and to the women who await our return!” Asa released his arm with a determined look. He spun his horse around and laid his boots into its flank. Tolin watched as his captain sped off in the direction of the awaiting cavalry unit. He wondered if this would be the last time he ever got to speak with his friend. He had lost a lot of men along the way. It was the harsh reality of living by the sword.

  The rain thickened. He wiped the water from his eyes where it dripped from his narrowed brows. His shoulder-length hair had been pulled back and tied off with a crimson leather strap to keep from getting in his eyes.

  By now, the Cylmaran troops had made it halfway across the open field in a slow march and were holding ground. Tolin noticed their horsemen, few as they were, had been added to their frontal assault. “That was a mistake.”

  Out in front, he could see where Captain Janus and Undercaptain Bashan were instructing their footmen to brace their raised pikes to be ready to meet a mounted charge. The impact would be swift and hard. The most valuable weapon for slowing a heavy wave, however, would be a weapon of range.

  Behind the pikes, Captain Nadeer stood with flags raised while his bowmen spread out in a staggered line formation. They drew their strings and waited. Nadeer was a good man, a veteran of several campaigns. He was also one of the best marksmen Tolin had ever seen, able to hit the red from three hundred paces.

  A horn sounded in the distance behind the Cylmaran lines and their army charged. It started slow but quickly picked up pace. Their shouts and battle cries were drowned momentarily by another surge of lightning and roll of thunder.

  The enemy ranks tore across the valley floor like a tidal wave ready to make land.

  Nadeer’s flag came down. “Release!” he hollered above the clamor and his bowmen fired their first volley.

  Tolin held his breath and counted. One, two, three, four— It was
a tradition of his for as long as he could remember as he waited for the initial impact. He watched as the deadly cloud raced toward the oncoming soldiers. He exhaled as the wall of shafts fell across the front of the Cylmaran ranks. Eight.

  Men were chopped down in large swathes, arrows piercing arms, legs, chests, and heads. Those in front looked more like pincushions than men. The screams and shrills of the wounded and dying were only covered in part by the blood-frenzied roar issuing from those coming up behind them as they continued to close the distance on the Elondrian front lines.

  The Cylmaran’s mounted regiment had suffered tremendous damage from the initial rain of the bowmen. By the time the horses reached the front of the Elondrian lines, there was hardly a quarter of them left, which was why Tolin had kept his own cavalry back during the initial incursion. Many of their riders were clearly inexperienced in warfare and having seen the dark wave of arrows approaching, had tried turning their horses to flee. But with the unstoppable rush of the army behind them, they were thrown down and trampled to death, horse and all.

  “Fools, the lot of them!” Tolin shouted, gesturing at the ludicrous scene playing out in front of him.

  The Cylmaran strategy of attack made no use of bowmen and their offensive was in the most general of terms, what you see is what you get. Their soldiers drew on what they knew—blunt force. And with such a strategy came animalistic aggression. They were more familiar with fighting off pitchfork-wielding farmhands, ravaging villages, and raping defenseless women, not standing toe to toe with well-armed and well-trained troops.

  Their weapons consisted of large heavy blades, battle-axes, war hammers, and maces, each used as a definable weapon of terror or position. Apparently, in Cylmaran eyes, the larger the weapon, the grislier the death and the more prestigious the wielder. However, when faced with battle ready tactics used for holding and maintaining a defensible line, those strategies were wholly inadequate.

  Their army had now crossed to within fifty paces, and Tolin’s gloved hands tightened on his reins as he anticipated the initial clash. He could hear Nadeer ordering his longbowmen into a defensible retreat, while at the same time allowing for Undercaptain Bellos and his ranks of crossbowmen to step into position.

  “Fire at will!” came the call as Bellos’s men released their bolts into the front ranks of the closing Cylmarans. Chaos ensued as men were forced to stumble over the bodies of their fallen as they fought to reach the Elondrian lines.

  The crossbowmen retreated just as the front ranks of the Cylmaran army broke across the Elondrian pikes. The sound of the impact could be heard even above the storm.

  Tolin couldn’t pull his eyes away from the gruesome carnage below as the bodies piled in front of the pole-bearers. Their great pikes skewered one, two, sometimes three men at a time. All of the ballads ever sung, plays ever performed, and masterpieces ever painted, fell unequivocally short of capturing the sheer horror of a single battle. They sung of the glories of victory, of the depths of conquest, the nobility of it all, but, as Tolin noted, if they were ever to receive an honest answer from a veteran who had lived through the true horror of hand to hand combat, they would be the first to tell you there is nothing glorious or noble in the slaughter of men.

  There are no words, or ink, or paint which could describe the warmth of another’s blood as it sprays across your face, or the taste of their internal fluids in your mouth, or the sight of a man’s body as it is hacked into pieces. It was a nightmare Tolin had been forced to relive for years.

  Tolin hated war. But he knew that there was evil in the world, and as long as it remained, war would inevitably be the byproduct, for greed was the consequence of the human heart and there were many who served its dark purposes to their own destruction and to the destruction of others. If there had to be war, he intended to win.

  The rain was now washing across the battlefield in heavy sheets.

  Tolin shifted position in his saddle as he scanned the carnage. He wasn’t a commander who appreciated sitting on the sidelines while his men were fighting and dying in front of him. He was a man who wanted to be in the middle of the action. He wanted to feel the burning of sweat in his eyes, the rush of death at every swing. He was a warrior—heart, mind, and soul.

  The forward momentum of the Cylmaran army had stalled as they struggled to push beyond the front lines of the Elondrian forces. Tolin moved his horse out in front. On the far side of the field, Asa’s unit was moving into position as well.

  Taking one last survey of the landscape, Tolin waved his horsemen forward and into position at the edge of the gently rising slope. His painted stallion pranced to the front. Another crash of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the battle ahead. Already anticipating his maneuvers, he could see Janus and Bashan signaling to push their footmen forward.

  He grunted his approval. “Good men.”

  Nadeer and Bellos had already moved their bowmen behind the large earthen mounds flanking the sides of the field. From there they had the advantage of striking at the Cylmaran lines threatening to break free while herding them back to the center.

  Turning in his saddle, Tolin drew his sword. Its familiar grip of wrapped steel was a welcome sensation between his gloved fingers. He raised his blade over his head and shouted, “For Elondria!”

  There was a loud ringing of steel from behind that sent a shiver of excitement rushing straight through him as his men echoed his call. “For Elondria!”

  Tolin’s blood was pumping in his ears. He started his horse forward. He knew better than to kick his mount into a hard run from a dead stop. They needed to build their speed at a manageable pace.

  The ground rumbled and shook as the surge of riders tore across the field.

  Tolin lived for this—galloping at the head of a stampede of horsemen, sword drawn, teeth bared, hair ripping in the wind. He could feel his heart racing, his breath slowing, and his mind coming into focus as they neared the wall of Cylmaran armsmen in front of them. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was the rush.

  He could see the faces of the enemy come into focus, the whites of their eyes as they stared down his charge. They had no idea what was about to hit them. Or maybe they did. He could see the look of horror in the eyes of the closest. Taking a deep breath, he raised his great sword in the air and released a mighty roar as they tore into the Cylmaran’s right flank.

  His horse trampled across the bodies of those unable to get out of the way. He swung his arm with the fury of a mad man, separating the first ranker’s head from his shoulders. It bounced off three other men before finally dropping to the ground. Tolin’s heart raced. It was the rush.

  An arm carrying a large cleaver swung in his direction. He countered and sent the cleaver flying through the air along with half the arm still holding its handle. From one side of his horse to the other, he swung his deadly blade and severed limb from torso. Like an artist, he painted his canvas with blood-filled strokes, wielding his sword like a brush through the bodies of color around him. Men cried out in rage, cried out in terror, cried out for mercy. But there was none to be had. Tolin’s focus narrowed. It was the rush.

  He took a deep cut to his left leg, but his mind was so focused on the task at hand that he barely felt it and, with that same leg, he kicked a soldier in the face as the man raised his axe to strike. Tolin didn’t let up. He forced his cavalry onward. They couldn’t slow down. If his charge were to falter and stop before exiting, they would be cut to pieces.

  As hard as he could, Tolin pushed his men forward. Like a great arrowhead, his unit tore halfway through the Cylmaran ranks before he angled their drive back out again. They couldn’t afford to get stuck inside.

  From both sides of his horse Tolin hacked away at the armsmen below as they fought to reach him. He felt another cold slice of pain as one of the Cylmaran blades deflected off his sword and opened the top of his forearm. He struck the man with the hilt of his sword, collapsing the top of his head while catching another in th
e chest with his boot. The pain was beginning to increase. He could feel the blood seep around the open wound on his arm.

  He couldn’t falter now. Tolin pushed them on, cutting down as many of the enemy as he could. Some cried for mercy at the last possible moment, but he showed them none.

  Was there mercy given to those poor farmers whose lands these savages had burned, whose daughters and wives they had raped, whose sons they had killed?

  With a swift boot to a soldier’s face, Tolin thrust his sword through the man’s chest on the way by. The perimeter of the Cylmaran forces was just ahead. He blocked another strike on his left, and with the same motion, opened a soldier’s neck on his right with a swift backswing.

  A grateful sigh of relief escaped Tolin’s lips as they cut their way back out to open ground. He turned in his saddle. The v-shaped hole his men had dug out of their enemy’s flank slowly closed in on itself. He needed to get back to the command center to prepare for their next engagement and to see if there had been any further orders from the king.

  On the other side of the battlefield, Tolin caught a glimpse of Asa and his men fighting their way out of the Cylmaran’s outer lines. The overcaptain still held his large battle-axe in one hand as he directed his regiment away from the main force.

  The cavalry’s precision strikes had successfully managed to give their lancers a stronger foothold from which to maneuver forward.

  “Commander!”

  Tolin turned at the sound of his name to find one of Elior’s war-runners heading in his direction. The young man looked like a half-drowned tabby just pulled from the river.

  “What is it?” Tolin asked, shouting to be heard above the sudden roll of thunder.

  “Three of the scouts have returned, sir.” The runner’s face said it all. “Sir, you need to hear their report, immediately.”

  Chapter 68 | Tolin