The Battle of Hackham Heath

by John Flanagan

  “Of course not, sir,” Timothy replied. His attitude indicated that he thought the caution unnecessary. He never spoke about events discussed in the Commandant’s tent. Crowley noted the expression and decided to explain further.

  “The fewer people who know about her existence the better,” he said. “So far it’s the King and his chamberlain and the three of us. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Timothy nodded, a little reconciled to the order. “Of course, sir.”

  Crowley had a flash of recollection as he remembered the two palace servants who had seen him arrive in the great hall. He made a mental note to tell Gerard to warn them against talking about Cassandra as well. Or to place them somewhere they couldn’t talk to anyone.

  “Come on,” he said to Halt. “Let’s find Lord Northolt.”

  As the three of them exited the tent, they almost ran into a servant hurrying to find them. The man recoiled and apologized. Crowley waved his apologies aside as he saw the message slips in the man’s hand.

  “Sorry, Commandant. These just came in. I thought you’d want to see them.”

  He handed the message forms to Crowley, who scanned them quickly, then glanced up at Halt.

  “Three more fiefs,” he said briefly. “Morgarath’s really on his way.”

  He thrust the message forms into Timothy’s hands, then turned toward the castle, striding briskly to find the royal battle master, with Halt a few paces behind him.

  • • •

  The advantage of having a small army was that it took less time to get it mobilized. Within an hour, the tents had been lowered, folded and stowed on wagons, leaving only neat lines of dead grass squares where they had stood. The field kitchen had prepared a meal for the soldiers. Thankfully, the ration situation had improved. The Rangers had brought in deer to supplement the available meat, and a foraging party sent north had returned with bushels of grain, loaves of bread and stocks of potatoes, cabbages and carrots. Some of the latter were old and withered, but they were still edible.

  The men sat on the grass by the field kitchens, hurriedly downing the meal. They’d be on the march within an hour and they wouldn’t see hot food again until they reached the Ashdown Cut. Lord Northolt planned to have them continue marching through the night, with only a few hours around midnight to snatch some sleep. It was vital that they reach Ashdown Cut well before Morgarath’s troops, to give them time to prepare the ground for his attack.

  Duncan and his senior advisers ate as well—sharing the same rations issued to the rest of the army. But they ate in the relative comfort of Duncan’s office in the castle. Weapons and armor leaned against the walls and the desk, their martial appearance softened by the sight of the tiny crib in the corner by the window.

  Halt, Lord Northolt and Sir David had, of course, given Duncan their condolences on the death of his wife. Duncan had nodded his gratitude, his face bleak.

  Kings have little time for mourning, Halt thought. There’s always something to take their attention.

  Yet it became obvious that Duncan had considered the best course to take with the new princess.

  “She’ll stay here in Castle Araluen,” he said. “My mother will be in command.”

  Crowley frowned thoughtfully. “Have you considered taking the princess with us, my lord? She’s a good traveler.” He smiled wryly. “I should know,” he added.

  Duncan regarded him and a slight smile creased his face—a welcome expression amid all the gloom that had befallen him, Crowley thought. But he shook his head.

  “All things considered, Crowley, I think she’ll be safer here. I’ll leave thirty-five men to garrison the castle . . .”

  Sir David looked up from the bowl of stew he had balanced on his knees. “Can we afford to leave so many?”

  Duncan met his gaze evenly. “Yes,” was all he said, and David subsided.

  “Normally I wouldn’t leave so many,” Duncan explained. “But Cassandra is the future of the Kingdom, and she must be kept safe. As must my mother. The walls here are high and strong. There’s plenty of food in the castle now and there’s a well inside the walls. I think that’s enough men to keep Morgarath’s beasts at bay until we have the numbers to drive them off.”

  Halt nodded, shoving his empty bowl to one side. “As you’ve said, my lord, Morgarath has no siege towers or catapults. The only way his Wargals could get into the castle would be with ladders.”

  “Take a mighty long ladder to scale these walls,” Crowley put in, and Halt nodded agreement. Castle Araluen’s walls were among the highest and thickest in the Kingdom.

  “In fact,” the Hibernian said, “I’d rather like to see them try. Wargals aren’t particularly agile beasts. They’re clumsy and their hands have thick claws that wouldn’t grip a ladder’s rungs too well. I could see Morgarath losing large numbers of them if they tried scaling a long, high ladder.”

  “In any case,” Duncan said, “I’m his prime target and I’m guessing that the first item on Morgarath’s agenda is to close with the army and destroy it before we’re reinforced. Once he’s done that, he can take his time breaking into Castle Araluen.”

  There was a general mumble of agreement around the room. That was the Black Lord’s logical course of action. The army was small and lacking in essential forces like archers and cavalry. The castle was strong, and even a small defending force could make it well-nigh impregnable. Morgarath would be better served attacking the army, and leaving Castle Araluen, and others like Redmont, to wither on the vine. That was his logical course.

  There was a rap at the door and Duncan looked up.

  “Come,” he called, and the door opened to admit one of Lord Northolt’s captains. He bowed his head to the King, who acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand, deferring to the battle master with a quick gesture. The captain turned his commander.

  “Lord Northolt,” he said, “the army is ready to move.”

  24

  THE ARMY MARCHED AWAY FROM CASTLE ARALUEN IN THE early afternoon.

  Sir David sent out a screen of twenty of the precious cavalrymen to scout ahead. Crowley deployed half a dozen of the Rangers to follow the army as a rearguard and keep watch for Morgarath’s forces. Before his command tent in the castle grounds was struck and packed away, he and Timothy prepared messages for the Rangers who were observing Morgarath’s forces, ordering them to rejoin the army immediately, at a point halfway to the Ashdown Cut. He sensed he was going to need all his men before much time passed.

  Once the messages were sent, he, Timothy and Halt mounted and rode out after the army.

  They caught up with them after an hour and a half. From the top of a ridge, they could see the long, winding, snakelike force of men marching across an open plain. The infantry was making good time, marching in four columns, and wearing half armor. Every company had a horse-drawn cart with it, laden with the rest of the men’s armor and their heavier weapons.

  Weapons and rations were in half a dozen other carts, each pulled by two draft horses. A small herd of additional horses plodded alongside, allowing the wagoners to change their beasts every two hours, so that the fresh animals could maintain the fast pace set by Lord Northolt at the head of the column.

  Out to either flank, the Rangers could see the small cavalry force deployed. As they cantered down the slope toward the plain, they were greeted by the rearguard of Rangers, who seemed to materialize out of the trees and bushes.

  “Any sign of Morgarath and his beasts?” called Egon, one of the originals, as they rode past.

  Crowley shook his head. “Not so far. But they’ll be along, you can be sure of that.”

  Halt studied the line of fast-marching men ahead of them. He tried to make a mental comparison to the awkward, jogging gait of the Wargals. He suspected that perhaps the mysterious beasts would move faster than Duncan’s army. But they had a long way to go bef
ore they would catch up.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” he called to Egon and the others. The gray-cloaked men nodded grim agreement. Then he and Crowley touched their heels to their horses’ flanks and accelerated away from the line of Rangers ghosting in and out of the trees and long grass.

  As they neared the tail of the army, Halt could see pale ovals of faces, as the soldiers looked anxiously behind them at the sound of cantering hoofs.

  “Keep moving,” he said to the nearest men. “No sign of Morgarath and his performing bears yet. Keep up the pace and we’ll make Ashdown Cut before they’re up with us.”

  He saw the relieved expressions as the men turned back to the road ahead of them. It must be nerve-racking to be in the rear of a retreating army, he thought. In that position, you’d never know when the enemy might suddenly appear over a ridge or round a bend behind you. You would constantly feel vulnerable.

  The two Rangers continued to canter along beside the marching ranks of men, overhauling them easily and reaching the vanguard, where King Duncan, Lord Northolt, Sir David, Baron Arald and their respective staffs rode at ease. Northolt called a greeting and beckoned them to ride beside him. Duncan rode alone, several meters ahead of the small command party. His face was set in grim lines. No wonder, thought Halt. He’s in the open with a small army. He’s left behind his mother and daughter, hoping that Castle Araluen will provide shelter and protection for them. And in a day’s time, he’s facing a battle against a vastly superior force.

  That would leave little time for small talk.

  “Any word?” Northolt asked.

  Crowley shook his head. “Not so far. I’ve recalled the Rangers who were keeping watch on his forces. We’ve had enough messages to know that he’s mustering his entire army into one large force. Then he’ll come after us.”

  “Of course, assembling his forces and getting them on the road will take some time,” Northolt said thoughtfully. “We should reach Ashdown in plenty of time to set up a good defensive position.” He glanced up at the sun, now low in the western sky. The shadows of the trees stretched out across the ground, elongated and ungainly. So did the shadows of the marching men—seeming to be twice as high as the men who cast them.

  “We’ll take a couple of hours’ rest around ten,” he said. Then we’ll get moving again once the moon rises. That should be some time after midnight.”

  The two Rangers nodded agreement. At the start of a grueling journey like this, a few hours’ sleep would be enough to refresh and revitalize the men. Later, as their energy reserves were depleted by the constant marching, and the nervous strain of waiting to see if they might be attacked, they would need more time to rest and recuperate.

  “Anything you need us to do?” Crowley asked, but Northolt shook his head.

  “Just keep marching with the rest of us,” he said, glancing sadly at the despondent figure of the King riding a few meters away, his tall form slouched in the saddle.

  The army continued to march, eating up the kilometers beneath their nailed boots. Every two hours, Northolt would call a brief halt. The men would break ranks, drink from their canteens and sit in the long grass beside the road, while the wagoners unharnessed one team, then put a fresh pair of horses into the traces. Then the horns would blow along the small column and the march would resume.

  As darkness fell, the routine continued. The men were now sunk deep into the cocoon of weariness that affects any body of marching men after a few hours. Feet and leg muscles were numb and unfeeling. Shoulders were rubbed raw where leather straps passed over them, suspending the heavy swords they all wore at their waists. Each man carried his spear, and the outer two files wore their long triangular shields, to protect the column from any surprise attack by archers or slingers. They moved in a daze, almost asleep on their feet, concentrating on nothing but maintaining the plodding, unvarying rhythm, dully anticipating the next short stop and the chance to relax and ease tired muscles.

  As night fell, lanterns were lit and carried by every tenth man in the second file, held high on the end of their spears. The screening cavalry moved in closer to the column. To the rear, the ever-watchful Rangers cantered back and forth across the line of march. Occasionally, two or three of them would drop back and find a vantage point from which to keep watch to the rear.

  Periodically, one would ride forward and report to Crowley. Each time, the Commandant watched with apprehension as the cloaked figure drew nearer. But each time, he let his shoulders slump in relief as he heard the negative report. There was no sign of the pursuing force.

  On one occasion, when Samdash, another one of the originals, reported, Halt gestured out to the flanks of the column.

  “Keep watch on the flanks as well,” he said. “Morgarath may not come up directly behind us.”

  Samdash grinned and nodded. “We’re already doing that.”

  Halt shrugged. “Sorry. I should have known. There’s no need to teach you your job.”

  But Samdash’s grin widened. “Never hurts to remind us,” he said. Then he wheeled his horse around. “Better be getting back.”

  They marched on. The army plodded up a long slope, men groaning as their calf muscles strained and tightened and cramped. At the summit, Halt looked back. He could see for perhaps five or six kilometers behind them. It was dark, but he could see no sign of a large force following them. Naturally, he couldn’t make out the Rangers forming the rearguard. They knew how to remain unseen.

  “We might be in the clear,” he said to Crowley.

  The sandy-haired Ranger considered the statement for a few seconds, then came to a decision. “We’ll ride back and check the trail behind us,” he said. He apprised Lord Northolt of their decision and the battle master nodded agreement. Truth be told, Northolt would have liked to go back with them. Riding at this constant, unvarying pace was exhausting and mind-numbing, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Of course, he admitted to himself, it was a lot more tiring on the men marching. He glanced up at the stars, searching for the Great Cartwheel. Finding it, he estimated that it was close to nine in the evening. In another hour, he planned a two-hour halt, so it might be a good time to have their back trail checked and cleared.

  “Go ahead,” Northolt said. “Take care.”

  “That’s what we do,” Crowley told him. He and Halt wheeled their horses out of the line and cantered swiftly back down the column.

  Northolt watched them go. Those Ranger horses were amazing, he thought. They’d been traveling for hours but showed no signs of tiredness. His own horse was plodding, head down.

  A Ranger’s life was a good one, he decided. A Ranger enjoyed freedom of action and the opportunity to scout and reconnoiter almost at will. They weren’t subject to the strict discipline imposed on the soldiers and commanders of the army. They could urge their nimble little horses out of the line and go and check the situation for themselves.

  “Must be nice,” he muttered.

  One of his captains, riding close by and half dozing in the saddle, jerked upright. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  But Northolt made a negative hand gesture at him. “Nothing. Just thinking aloud.”

  The captain grunted and settled himself more comfortably in the saddle. His head drooped and he dozed off again. Northolt glanced at him enviously. Must be nice to be a junior officer, too, he thought. He can doze off in the saddle, knowing I’m keeping an eye on things.

  But this time, he made sure he didn’t say it aloud.

  • • •

  It took longer than Duncan had estimated for Morgarath to gather his forces together and set out for Castle Araluen. Bands of Wargals kept drifting into Morgarath’s appointed rendezvous area long into the evening. He was tempted to punish his commanders for their tardiness, but realized that there would be no point in it. Assembling a large number of men was always time-consuming. When they weren’t men
but the brutish, clumsy Wargals, it took even longer.

  Then, of course, once they were assembled, they had to eat and pitch their tents. Angrily, he resigned himself to not moving until the following morning.

  As a result, it was nearly noon by the time he reached Castle Araluen. His huge army deployed out onto the neat parkland in front of the castle. He rode forward, scanning the walls. He could see men there, manning the catwalks behind the lofty battlements.

  But there didn’t seem to be too many of them.

  He studied the site where the Araluen army had pitched its tents. The field was marked by squares of dead grass where the tents had stood. There weren’t a lot of them either, he noted. His plan to raid the fiefs and restrict Duncan’s numbers had worked. But now that the threat of the raiding parties had been removed from the fiefs, he knew that the troops would begin to drift north and augment Duncan’s forces.

  He rode in a giant circle around the massive, soaring castle, accompanied by Stott, one of the human officers who had served under him at Gorlan.

  The moat was wide and deep, and the drawbridge was raised. Behind that, he knew, was a massive iron portcullis. There was no easy way in. As Duncan had stated, Morgarath had none of the siege equipment he would need to take such a well-built castle.

  And even if he did, he didn’t have time to engage in a long siege. He had to move quickly, before Duncan’s scattered forces had time to rejoin him and bolster his numbers. At the moment, Morgarath knew all the advantages were on his side. But if he allowed too much time to pass, that equation would change.

  They completed the circle and sat on their horses before the drawbridge, staring up at the impossibly high walls.

  “How are we going to take this?” Stott asked.

  Morgarath glanced at him contemptuously. Was he so stupid that he couldn’t see that would be an impossible task?