by Perrin, Don
The runner, crawling on all fours, saluted. Moorgoth fought to hide his laughter. Crawling on all fours and saluting looked extremely idiotic.
* * * * *
Sunlight flashed off armor. The knight had returned to the ridgeline about twenty minutes later. Moorgoth studied him with the spyglass. Through the glass, he saw the knight look directly at him.
The baron dropped down to his belly. Quickly, he looked up. He was all right—he’d been standing in the shade. He had feared that the knight had seen the reflection of light off the glass’s front lens. The knight must have been just scanning the forest.
The knight was joined by another, then another, and then by twenty more. One held a standard—a white flag hanging from a long pole with a crosspiece. The emblem on the flag was the same black-and-red kingfisher that the knight wore on his armor.
The party of knights stood at the top of the ridgeline for several minutes, looking around. Moorgoth found he was sweating. All it would take was one fool to sneeze and the knights would know they were walking into an ambush.
Silence.
Ten of the knights broke away from the main group and galloped down the hill toward the town. A bugle call rang out across the valley.
The baron looked nervously behind him. One of his men might have mistaken that bugle call for their own. He waited tensely for his soldiers to leap forward—too early.
Nobody moved. Everybody watched the ridgeline.
Moorgoth breathed again.
The main force of knights came down the hill, walking their horses. Over the ridgeline, a column of knights, four across, appeared. Behind the knights came their foot soldiers. They marched eight across and kept up with the cavalry.
Moorgoth brought his glass up again to study the infantry. They all wore leather cuirasses and steel helmets. Most were armed with swords or axes. They carried large shields on their backs. As he watched, he saw a break in the column, and behind came a group of two hundred archers. They did not wear any sort of armor. They carried longbows strapped over their shoulders.
The baron looked around. He could see the anxious expressions on the faces of his soldiers. He gave them a stern look meant to reinforce discipline—that’s what mattered most in an ambush. He motioned for his bugler.
The baron turned his attention back to the army crossing the distance between the ridge and the town. When the last of the infantry had cleared the ridge, but the first of them had not yet entered the town, he knew it was time.
He stood up. The bugler, alert, stood up beside him.
“Bugler, sound ‘archers advance,’ ” the baron ordered.
The twelve notes rang out in perfect pitch across the field and through the forest. At first, nothing happened, as if no one had heard the call.
Then, suddenly, a thousand archers, from all across the front of the forest, moved forward, lining up in front of the trees.
They stopped, planted their arrows in front of them, and drew back their first nocked arrows. A lone officer held up his sword. With a single yell and a swift downward motion of his sword, he commenced the battle.
“Loose!”
The arrows leaped from the longbows almost in unison. Quickly, each archer retrieved his next arrow from the ground in front of him, nocked it, and raised his aim to achieve the maximum range.
“Loose!”
The second volley flew skyward, before the first had even hit the ground. Many of them found their targets. A shower of arrows rained down on the unsuspecting infantry, caught out in the open.
Gaps formed immediately in the Solamnic infantry column. Dead and wounded fell everywhere. Their officers responded quickly. They shouted for a charge. Shaken, but certainly not broken, the infantry charged forward.
The Solamnic officers’ instinct was correct. If the men had stayed where they were, they would have been cut down. As it was, many more fell from the second volley of arrows. But the third volley missed completely, overreaching their targets. Now came the hardest task for Moorgoth’s archers. They had to hit a moving target.
The charging infantry could see only the archers to their front. They were heartened—archers were no match for good heavy infantry. Behind them, the Solamnic cavalry heard the fighting and turned their horses to race back to the battle. Bugles blared, sounding the alarm and ordering the charge.
This was the toughest part of the battle for Baron Moorgoth. He had to keep his infantry hidden. The Solamnics were getting closer, but every flight of arrows took down a few more. Closer they came.
When they got to within two hundred yards, the archers poured on the fire. Their officer ordered them to fire at will, allowing the archers to choose their own targets. The baron yelled over the din of battle to his bugler.
“Sound ‘infantry advance!’ ”
The bugler nodded and brought the brass instrument to his lips. The clear, cold sounds of the order issued out. Men surged forward to join the fight. It seemed that the very trees had come alive. The infantry rushed to meet the charge.
The archers ran back to the safety of the woods. They were no match for well-armed and armored attackers. The baron’s infantrymen swarming out of the trees would handle that task.
The soldiers had no time to form into ranks. They ran forward into the tired and depleted ranks of the oncoming Solamnics. The two sides met with a thunderous crash, sounding like fifty trees falling to the ground at once.
Due to their overwhelming numbers, not all of Moorgoth’s men could get into the fight. There just weren’t that many Solamnics to go around.
The archers caught their breath and watched the fight intensely. If the Solamnics broke through, it would be up to the archers to stop them. Luckily for them, it did not look as if the main infantry was going to break or fail.
Moorgoth motioned for the runner again.
“Tell the command group to fall back from the fight and join me here. Then go tell the cavalry commanders that I want them to ride hard to the back of that hill.” He pointed to the ridge that the Solamnics had only recently crossed. “Tell them to listen for my call. When it comes, I want them to charge into the Solamnics’ rear. Now go!”
The baron’s heart was pounding. He lived for the excitement of battle. He looked out to the fighting not fifty yards away. His infantry was pushing back the Solamnics. They were faltering, their lines starting to give way.
“Push them, damn you!” Moorgoth yelled to no one in particular. As if they had all heard him, the baron’s infantry line surged forward. The Solamnic infantry broke.
They were no longer a unit, or a group of units. Now, they were individuals, fleeing to save their lives. The Solamnics ran toward the town.
The baron’s infantry started to pursue.
Moorgoth turned to his bugler. “Quick, sound ‘form line!’ ”
The notes carried out over the noise.
Officers yelled and senior nonofficers shoved and prodded men back into position.
The command group of four armored bodyguards and two officers moved toward the baron. Moorgoth motioned for the bugler to follow him and he left the trees to join them. The red-and-black banner flew proudly in the wind.
Moorgoth moved into a run. He ran through his command group and forward to the infantry line just ahead.
“Come on!” he ordered. “Follow me.”
The bodyguards and officers did as they were told.
Moorgoth broke through the ranks to see what was going on. His infantry were beginning to straighten into lines. Several infantrymen were forward of the front line, pulling wounded survivors of the fight toward the rear, into the woods. They took only men in maroon uniforms. The Solamnics were either left to die where they had fallen or helped along the way with a stab through the heart.
Then, in his moment of triumph, the baron saw the danger. Instead of attacking piecemeal, as he had expected, the Solamnic cavalry were forming in the field. They numbered around eight hundred, the baron estimated, confirming his sco
ut’s report.
Moorgoth ordered the bugler to call “officers to me.”
He was infuriated by the arrogance of the knights. Their commander stood out in front of his cavalry, and instead of ordering a charge, it appeared that he was giving a speech!
The baron’s own officers came in at a dead run.
“Gentlemen, I’ll make this quick. When you hear the retreat bugle call, have your men run back into the woods. Be ready to come out again fighting. Have your archers prepared to pepper them once we’re in the trees. Understand?” He looked around. “Good. Once we’ve broken the charge, the fight’s on. Do your best. Now, hurry!”
The officers sprinted back to their various commands and began shouting orders. On the top of the ridge, the knights’ commander had concluded with something inspirational. The knights raised a rousing cheer.
Lances up, they began their advance at a trot.
The cavalry was a sight to see. Eight hundred armored knights and horses, moving forward in brilliant lines, all the heraldry of many families proudly displayed. They broke into a canter.
Quickly, the distance between the two armies was shrinking. As they advanced, the command group could see more and more details of their foe. They kept their lines straight as they moved forward to meet their enemy.
At five hundred yards, bugles called out from several places in the advancing cavalry line. Their lances came down into horizontal positions, couched to kill upon impact.
The knights broke into a full gallop.
Chapter 22
Theros came down from the hill and walked back to his smithy. Nothing had been heard from Moorgoth about the direction of the battle. It was late afternoon. If they were going to set up, they would need word soon. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be enough light left to do anything.
He hadn’t taken two steps when a rider came galloping into their wagon area. The rider went straight to Belhesser Vankjad, the logistics officer.
Theros hurried to hear the news. When he arrived, the rider saluted Theros and then continued to speak with Belhesser.
“… and we should, if the fight goes well, be here just after sundown. Baron Moorgoth wants you to set up. He feels confident in the day’s decision, and wants a hot meal and a ready camp waiting for him and his troops when he arrives.”
Belhesser looked up at the sinking sun. He thought for a moment, then turned to Theros.
“What do you think, Ironfeld? Could you set up before sundown?”
“Yes, sir. I can be ready, sir.”
Belhesser turned back to the rider. “There you go, Corporal, you have your answer. We will be ready. You can report to Baron Moorgoth that we wish him the best of luck on the field.”
The rider saluted, remounted his horse, and sped away, back to the army in action.
“Any news of the fight?” Theros asked. He was confused, wondering if he wanted the baron to win or be soundly defeated.
Belhesser shook his head. “All he knew was that there had been heavy fighting, and that the Solamnics were fighting near the town. Moorgoth sounds confident, though. We’re to set up and all.”
Theros agreed. “I have to get back and get to work if I’m to be ready to mend weapons and armor tonight.”
He turned and ran back to his wagon. Erela was the first soldier he could find.
“Where is Yuri?” Theros asked, then realized that he already knew the answer.
The soldier blinked. “I thought he was around here somewhere, sir. He was a moment ago. I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him for the last half hour. Shall I go look for him?”
Inwardly, Theros cursed his young apprentice.
“Never mind. I’ll find him. Set up the tent over there.”
In a foul mood, Theros stomped over to the commissary area. People were beginning to move around the wagons, unpacking, setting up. He could see Quartermaster Sarger shouting orders.
And there was Yuri, rushing out from behind a wagon, heading for the smithy. And there was Telera running back to the rear of the wagons, hoping to arrive before someone noticed them. It could all be perfectly innocent—a stolen kiss behind a wagon.
Theros stopped in his tracks and pointed to Yuri. “You! Get over here!”
The men and women working to put up the commissary tent stopped and looked, wondering if the smithy was yelling at them. Yuri ran over. Defiance on his face, he stood in front of Theros.
Theros raised his hand to teach some discipline to the young man. Yuri tightened his jaw, braced himself for the blow.
Theros, scowling, let his hand fall.
“Get to work!” he ordered. “And stop hanging about that wench. People might get the wrong idea.”
Yuri blinked, astonished that he’d not been hit, astonished at the order. “What wrong idea? How—”
“Shut up, you fool. People are listening. Get back to the wagon and see that the smithy is set up correctly. Go!”
Yuri ran over to the smithy area where the soldiers were raising the first tent poles.
Theros stood gazing after his apprentice. Yuri did not want to be a soldier. He had never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to be a blacksmith. He had come to Theros, offering to work for food and board if only Theros would teach him the trade. Yuri had a talent for detail work, but he didn’t have the strength or girth to pound out huge axes or swords. It wasn’t his fault. He was born thin and wiry and he’d be that way until the day he died. Still, he had the brains to know that he could do good work within his limits.
But Yuri needed discipline. He couldn’t discipline himself, apparently, so Theros would have to do it for him. And the first thing Theros had to do was see that this romance came to a halt. For Yuri’s own good.
Theros found Cheldon giving his final commands to his section leaders.
“… and I want the cooking fires lit before it gets dark. I’ll want a hot meal for every soldier. Oh, and keep two extra cooking cauldrons on with water boiling. The wounded are going to need attention when they come in, too, and boiling water will be essential. Right, get to it.”
The two section leaders saluted and went about their duties. The quartermaster’s workers parked their wagons behind their tent lines, setting up long wooden tables to dispense food and supplies.
“Cheldon, I need to talk to you,” Theros said.
“What is it, Ironfeld?”
“I’ve got a problem with my apprentice, Yuri. I keep catching him over here with one of your women workers.”
Cheldon laughed. “Oh, is that all? You had me worried there.” He winked. “Boys will be boys, eh, Theros? And girls will be girls, praise the Seeker gods. Let them have some fun.”
Theros scowled. “Look, I’ve heard rumors that the spy may be one of your women. She may be getting more out of Yuri than a few giggles in the night. If he gets into trouble, I’ll be blamed. All I’m asking is that you keep my man away from here.”
“One of my women, a spy?” Cheldon was angry. “Listen, Ironfeld. It’s your man who keeps coming over here, not the other way around. If you’ve got a problem with him, then you take care of it. As for my people, I brought most of them with me from Sanction. I know them a lot better than you do. Now leave me alone. I’ve got a lot to do!”
Cheldon Sarger stormed away.
Fuming, Theros turned and walked back to his own section.
* * * * *
The bugler stood beside Moorgoth, waiting for orders.
“Not yet … not yet … not yet—now!”
The charging Solamnic cavalry were a hundred and fifty yards to their front. The bugle again rang clear and true, sounding the retreat.
The baron watched the bugler. “I’m going to have to reward this young lad,” he thought. “He’s never faltered once under such extreme pressure.”
As the boy finished the notes, the entire command group turned and began to run at a dead sprint toward the tree line. The thunder of the knights’ horses behind them grew louder and louder.
&
nbsp; Many of the soldiers were running so fast that by the time they reached the tree line, they tripped and dashed headlong into tree trunks. Most made it safely. Some were not so fortunate.
The left end of the line was extended out past the trees, stuck out in the open. The knights hit these men hard, catching them from behind, running them down. Nearly half were overrun before the rest made it to the trees.
At the forest’s edge, the knights faltered. Their horses balked at entering the tree line at full speed. Several riders were thrown from their saddles. Those who were able to stay seated urged their steeds forward.
Moorgoth gave another command.
Archers sprang up and loosed arrows at the knights.
The baron and the bugler both dodged a sword swung by a knight who had managed to urge his horse in among the trees. One of Moorgoth’s bodyguards struck the knight down. The bugler remained standing beside the baron.
“Sound the attack!” Moorgoth yelled.
The boy once again blasted out the call. The Solamnics had just realized that they’d been caught in an ambush. They were trying to organize themselves. Their own buglers were sounding the retreat, the calls sounding raucously together. The buglers were waging their own battle, it seemed.
Moorgoth’s soldiers rushed forward. They struck at the knights when they could, struck the horses when they couldn’t reach the riders. They outnumbered their mounted foes by over two to one.
The knights were attempting to fall back, but they were surrounded and had to fight on. In front of the baron, five knights stood back to back in a circle. Twenty soldiers surrounded them, yet no one had struck a blow. Moorgoth’s men appeared daunted by the knights’ proud demeanor, their bright armor and flashing blades.
Seeing the standoff, the baron ran over, shoved his men aside, made his way to the front.
“Surrender or die here on this field. The choice is yours,” Moorgoth shouted to the knights.
The knights glanced at each other. It was a hard decision, but finally one slowly nodded his head. Walking stiffly forward, he raised the visor of his helm and held out his sword—hilt first—to Moorgoth.