But before Stuart could answer, Corporal Jessup rounded on the trooper with a snarl. “We fight the fell beggars!” he said. “We kill ’em till there’s no more left to kill!”
His aggressive tone steadied the young trooper. He swallowed once or twice, his Adam’s apple working in his thin neck. Then he took a firmer hold of his spear shaft and nodded. Stuart clapped the corporal on the shoulder.
“Well said,” he told him, although he doubted they would “kill them till there’s no more left to kill.” It would be more like “kill them until there’s none of us left.” Crouching under the low entrance, he emerged from the bunker and ran back through the trees, his riding boots clumsy and awkward, his left hand holding his sword scabbard to prevent it tangling in his legs.
He reached the cleared ground of the campsite and looked quickly around. The men were almost all armed now and had moved to their positions by the palisade and ditch that protected the camp. He bellowed for his page and the young boy came dashing toward him, his young face ludicrous under the severe lines of the helmet that was a size too big for him.
“Fetch me a pigeon!” he ordered. “For Castle Araluen.” He added the last as they had pigeons trained to home on various sites in the Kingdom. The young boy nodded and dashed away as Stuart grabbed pen and paper once more, selecting one of the small, flimsy message forms designed to go in the metal holder on a pigeon’s leg. He dipped his pen in the ink, glad he had rescued the bottle before it all spilled away, and paused, composing his message. Space on the form was limited and he had to be succinct. Finally, he wrote, taking his time and keeping his letters as small as possible:
M’s army exiting 3SP. Full invasion likely.
He frowned thoughtfully. Technically, it wasn’t an invasion. Morgarath was already in the country. But he needed to make it clear that this wasn’t a small-scale patrol or a sortie. This was Morgarath’s full force coming out to fight.
The page came dashing back, his ridiculous helmet falling over his eyes. He held a pigeon in two hands and had no hand to adjust his headgear. He tried to shrug it back. Stuart reached out and removed it for him, dropping it onto the grass. He needed the boy to hold the pigeon steady while he inserted the message in the small cylinder on its leg.
“Thanks, sir,” the page gasped as the captain carefully rolled the small sheet of paper. He forced himself to work slowly. If he didn’t do it carefully, the sheet wouldn’t fit into the container. His hands were shaking, and at his first attempt, the sheet rolled a little off angle. It wouldn’t fit that way, he knew. Nerves, he thought. He paused, unrolled the form and began again, working slowly and steadily. This time he got it right and the message slid easily into the metal tube.
He tugged the cylinder, making sure it was firmly attached. Then he took the slightly ruffled bird from the boy’s hand and held it, settling it and steadying it. He could feel the tiny heart hammering against his hands like a kettle drum. The bird had sensed the nervousness of the two humans and was twitching and struggling. Stuart knew if he launched it now it was likely to fly back to its hutch and hide in fright. He slowed his breathing, stroking the little creature gently, and gradually calming it.
“You’re small and frightened and not very bright,” he said under his breath. “And so much depends on you.”
After what seemed ages, the bird stopped struggling and settled down, cooing gently as Stuart continued to stroke its head and make soothing noises. He looked into the clear sky above them. All they needed now was a patrolling hawk to set after the pigeon—although he knew if there was a hawk in the vicinity the little bird would have sensed it and been warbling frantically while it refused to take flight.
Gently, using two hands, he tossed the bird into the air. Instantly, it unfurled its wings and began to fly. It soared up above the campsite, circled once to get its bearings, then sped off to the north.
“Watch out for hawks, little one,” Stuart said. He heard pounding feet approaching and looked round to see the corporal and his men from the observation site.
“They’re coming, sir,” Corporal Jessup reported. “Coming straight at us.”
Forcing a calmness he didn’t feel, Stuart nodded. He reached down and loosened his sword in its scabbard. His shield was hanging on a low forked branch driven into the ground outside his tent. He picked it up, slid his left arm into the straps and gestured toward the men formed up at the palisade. It was constructed of heavy saplings cut down and driven vertically into the ground, held together by twisted rope at its top and bottom. Outside, there was a ditch a meter deep, with its bottom and sides lined with sharpened stakes.
Captain Stuart joined his men at the palisade, where a walkway had been built around the inside to allow the defenders to reach over the top. He felt the eyes of his small force upon him. He glanced around and saw the corporal from the observation post. He smiled at the grim-faced veteran, who nodded back. Then he raised his voice.
“Men!” he shouted. “Morgarath and his shaggy, evil-smelling creatures are on their way.” He had no idea how the thickset beasts smelled, but it was a safe assumption that they would stink. And none of his men knew any better. He caught the corporal’s eyes again. “Corporal! What are we going to do to them?”
The corporal drew his sword. It was a simple, brass-hilted weapon that had seen years of service. And it was razor sharp, Stuart noticed. “We kill ’em till there’s no more left to kill!” the corporal shouted, and there was an answering roar from the men at the palisade. Then the men fell silent as they saw dark figures moving out of the trees.
• • •
Morgarath surveyed the battle scene dispassionately. None of the defenders had survived. The palisade had been smashed and torn down by his Wargals. They cut through the rope binding at top and bottom with axes, disregarding the spear thrusts from the defenders that came through the gaps in the fence. Then they levered the uprights apart with their spears. Finally, they used their bare hands to claw the fence down, even as they died.
The beasts then swarmed through the gap and overwhelmed the defenders, ignoring their own casualties, scrambling over their comrades’ dead and dying bodies to reach the enemy. Killing and killing, even as they died themselves.
Morgarath had lost twenty-five of them in the assault. But the losses meant nothing to him. He could afford them. And this was his first chance to blood his new troops. They crouched and sat on the blood-soaked field now, snuffling and snarling to themselves as their leader walked among them, letting praise for them radiate out through his thoughts.
He stopped and called to the men who followed him. “Captains! Here!”
These were men who served him at Castle Gorlan, men who were his loyal followers for years. Previously, they had commanded his men-at-arms. Now each one would be in command of a force of eighty or ninety Wargals. The beasts had learned to understand and obey simple word commands, and Morgarath conditioned them to follow the leadership of the captains without hesitation. Now Morgarath would set them free to terrorize the fiefs and villages of the Kingdom. To burn, to loot and to kill.
His ten subordinates formed a rough half circle around him, ready for their final orders.
“You all have your objectives,” he said, and they nodded, murmuring confirmation. Each one had a series of villages to raid and loot. “Strike each one quickly and without mercy. Seize their harvest, burn their houses and kill the villagers. Smash down their castles if you can.” His troops had no siege equipment, but many of the fief castles were small and might be taken by surprise by a ruthless and determined group. And with eighty or ninety Wargals in each troop, they would outnumber most of the garrisons they were attacking.
“If we spread fear and destruction through the Kingdom, we will prevent the fiefs sending reinforcements to Duncan’s army. They’ll want to protect their own homes and villages. And not only will we starve Duncan of men, we’ll starve
him literally. He’ll be depending on the harvest to feed his men. So we’ll take it first. We’ll feast while he starves.”
There was a fierce murmur of approval from the men facing him.
“So spread out and sow fear and confusion in the Kingdom. Then in three weeks, we’ll rally at Twin River Forks.” He named a spot a few kilometers south of Castle Araluen.
“We’ll catch Duncan unawares, with his men hungry and his numbers depleted. And in a month, we will rule in Araluen!”
His voice rose as he spoke the last few words and the assembled captains cheered. The Wargals looked up curiously. Some of them stirred nervously. They hadn’t understood the words, but the passion and fury in Morgarath’s speech was all too obvious. The disturbance spread through their ranks. They rose to their feet and brandished their weapons, grunting and growling through their grotesque mouths.
Morgarath looked out at them and smiled. Duncan had no idea what was about to hit him.
17
ACROSS THE SOUTHERN THIRD OF ARALUEN, AS FAR AS THE eye could see, the sky was stained with columns of smoke, rising from the fiefs where Morgarath’s forces were wreaking havoc and destruction. The smell of smoke was everywhere, along with another smell: the sweet, sickly, rotting smell of dead bodies—animals for the most part. The carcasses of sheep and cattle lay bloated and rotting in the sun. But here and there one could find human bodies as well—farmhands and villagers who had dared to stand and defend their property against the remorseless tide of the Wargals.
They were poorly armed for the most part and stood no chance against the savage raiders. They were killed, and their farms and villages were put to the torch.
Crops waiting to be harvested were burned in the fields—after Morgarath’s army had taken all they could carry.
The small number of men-at-arms and knights who were present in the fiefs fared little better. They killed some of the Wargals, who attacked fearlessly and without thought for their own losses. But they were all too soon overwhelmed. They either died defending their territories or escaped to hide in the forests.
The barons were a little better off. They remained in their fortified castles while the tide of Wargals ebbed and flowed around them. The Wargals had no siege towers, trebuchets or battering rams, so most of the castles stood firm and unyielding. But their garrisons were always outnumbered and it would be suicide to venture out and attack the rampaging beasts.
Some of the smaller castles, with garrisons numbering less than twenty armed men, succumbed to attack by scaling ladders. Once the Wargals got inside the walls, the fate of the inhabitants was sealed. There was no surrender. The Wargals didn’t recognize the word. So the surviving barons remained in their castles, husbanding their forces against attack.
As Morgarath had predicted, the presence of his marauding forces was starving Duncan of men. Whereas previously they might have returned to bolster his numbers, now they were held back as protection against an attack that could come at any time.
With their womenfolk and villagers to protect, the barons couldn’t risk leaving their walls bare of defenders. A few did compromise, splitting their forces and sending half to reinforce Duncan. But many of those small parties were caught in the open by the rampaging beasts from the mountains. Fifteen men against eighty or ninety blood-crazed Wargals wasn’t a contest.
And Morgarath’s human commanders, adhering to their leader’s orders, always ensured that one or two of the men caught this way were left alive, and allowed to escape. They quickly spread the word of how futile it was to send levies to the King’s army, and the practice ceased.
“How many of these creatures does he have?” Duncan asked, running his fingers through his hair. On every side, he was staring disaster in the face as Morgarath out-thought him and outmaneuvered him. The King simply didn’t have enough men to face Morgarath in an all-out battle. And that was the only way the former Baron of Gorlan would ever be defeated.
“Close to a thousand,” Halt said.
“We can’t fight that many,” Lord Northolt said thoughtfully.
Duncan rounded on him with some asperity. “I know that! Tell me something I don’t know!” he snapped. Then he calmed down. “I’m sorry, Northolt. I know you’re only doing your job.”
“All I meant, sir, was that at this stage, we can’t afford to stand and face them. Castle Araluen is a formidable defensive position, but once Morgarath concentrates his forces again, we’d be trapped inside it. We’d find ourselves in a stalemate, unable to sortie and drive off his army. If we’re to have any chance, we’ll have to use different tactics, retreating to favorable defensive positions and wearing them down as they try to attack us.”
“Retreating never won a battle,” Duncan said heavily.
Lord Northolt nodded. “No, sir. But it’s the only course left to us. At least this way we can choose the ground we’re fighting on. And we’ll be buying time, so that the fiefs can send us reinforcements.”
“You’re suggesting we abandon Castle Araluen?” the King asked.
“Yes, sir. With a small garrison. If you’re not here, there’s no reason for Morgarath to lay siege. He’ll bypass it and come after us. Besides . . .” Northolt paused, flushing awkwardly.
The King gestured for him to continue.
“Well, sir, I doubt he’ll want to damage the castle too badly. He’ll want it for himself if he beats us.”
The King said nothing for a moment, realizing the truth of Northolt’s words. Then he turned to Halt. “Is there no way to defeat these beasts, Halt?”
Halt hesitated, then replied. “I thought there might be a way. The old hermit told me that they had an irrational fear of horses. And they scattered when I rode Abelard straight at them. Cavalry might be the answer.”
Sir David looked up with interest. But then he shook his head. “We’re short of cavalry. We have barely one hundred and twenty troopers. We can’t use them up in a headlong attack against nine hundred of these things.”
Halt nodded. “Understood. And of course, Morgarath is aware of this weakness. I saw him trying to drill it out of them on the plateau. If he’s decided to attack now, he must have succeeded to some extent.”
Northolt had been studying a map of the surrounding fiefs as Halt and David had been speaking. He jabbed his finger on a spot twenty kilometers to the northeast of Castle Araluen.
“My lord, I suggest we withdraw to this position initially—the Ashdown Cut.”
Halt, Crowley, David and the King gathered around him, studying the map as he explained further.
“It’s a narrow valley with sloping ground either side, covered with thick forest. Morgarath won’t be able to deploy his forces on a wide front. They’ll be concentrated in the valley, where they’ll make a perfect target for our archers.”
“Not that I have many archers,” Duncan pointed out. “Most of them were villagers who left for the harvest. And they haven’t come back.”
“We’ve got eighteen Rangers,” Crowley pointed out. “Twenty including Halt and me. We should be able to lay down a fairly considerable barrage.”
Duncan looked at him. “Good idea. I hadn’t thought of using Rangers en masse,” he said. “I always think of you lot fighting as individuals.”
Crowley shrugged. “Usually, we do. But this is a special situation.”
Northolt began rolling up the map. “We should get the army ready to move as soon as possible,” he said. “At the moment, all the advantages lie with Morgarath. He can choose when to concentrate his forces again and attack us. We should be ready for him.”
Duncan nodded agreement. “Do it then.” Then he held out a hand to stop his battle master putting the map back in its protective leather cylinder. “Just a moment,” he said, as a thought struck him. “Let me see that again.”
Northolt rolled the chart out again, placing small weights at each corn
er to keep it flat. Duncan leaned over and studied it, frowning.
“Yes. I thought so,” he said at length, then tapped two locations on the map. “If we move to this Ashdown Cut you’re suggesting, we’ll be some distance north of Woldon Abbey, where the Queen is. That leaves her rather exposed if Morgarath sends any of his troops that way.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Halt finally broke it.
“There’s no reason why he should,” he said. “There’s no castle nearby, and no large villages that would draw his attention.”
“Still, she is rather exposed there,” Northolt agreed. He glanced at Crowley. “Her bodyguard is still with her, of course?”
Crowley nodded. “Yes. But there are only seven of them—five men-at-arms and two archers. We had no idea that Morgarath was going to start the battle when I escorted her there.” He turned an unhappy look on the King. “I’d be loath to move her again so soon, sir,” he said. “The journey took a lot out of her and it could be dangerous to make her travel again.”
It was an awkward situation. Duncan couldn’t help feeling that by moving with his army to the northeast, he was abandoning his wife to the dangers of the marauding Wargals. Yet he knew only too well how weak she was, and how dangerous another journey might be for her.
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” he said at length. “First sign that Morgarath is moving in that direction, get down there and get her out, Crowley.”
“Yes, sir.” The Commandant nodded.
Halt looked at him. “I’ll come with you.”
But the King demurred. “No. I want you here. You can get the Rangers organized into an archery force. And I may need you for further scouting. We really have to know when Morgarath is planning to gather his troops. He won’t keep raiding forever. Sooner or later, he’s going to want to attack in force. And we need to be ready for him.”
• • •
Morgarath was in his pavilion, dining alone, when the prisoner was brought before him.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 12