The Battle of Hackham Heath

by John Flanagan

  “Make sure you give her the chance to do it,” Cedric said. Denison had a reputation for being painstakingly thorough when he took on a task. Cedric could see him leaving it too long to make his own escape from the hill, giving Morgarath’s mounted men time to overtake him. Then he shook his head. No ordinary horse could match the speed and endurance of a Ranger-bred horse. He touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and they trotted off.

  Denison watched them go. He preferred to work alone, as did most Rangers. But it had been comforting to have company, especially when he was so close to the enemy, and they were such an unknown quantity. He hunkered down in the long grass and fixed his eyes on the distant ridge.

  It was just under two hours before he saw movement there. A group of figures appeared on the crest, spreading out to study the land before them. They were all mounted, and he realized they would be Morgarath’s staff and commanders. He counted twenty of them. In the center of the line he could make out a tall figure on a white horse. Morgarath, he thought. Idly, his fingers dropped to the quiver at his side, and he touched one of the arrows nestling there. Of course, the Black Lord was well out of range. But if Denison angled down through the trees, heading toward the high road, he might well bring the enemy general within bowshot.

  Then he shrugged the idea aside. Morgarath was no fool. He was an experienced campaigner and he wouldn’t expose himself to the risk of a single archer. Besides, Denison had other things to do. He watched as the first of the horsemen started down the slope. Morgarath waited, he noticed. Denison hurried back to his horse and fumbled in the saddlebags for a small sandglass. He glanced back at the enemy, now moving down the slope. The first of the infantry had crested the rise now and dimly, he could hear the tuneless chant that they uttered when they marched. He turned the sandglass and began to measure their progress.

  As more and more Wargals appeared over the ridge, he felt his heart rate accelerate. There were a lot of them, he thought. They appeared to outnumber Duncan’s small army by at least four to one.

  “Well, we’re going to have to do something about that,” he muttered. He noted that the last few grains were running through the sandglass and quickly turned it, glancing up to see that the lead elements of Morgarath’s army were still well short of the grove of trees he’d selected as a marker.

  Big armies move slowly, he thought. They take a long time to muster, and then they’re restricted to the pace of the slowest man—or monster.

  At least that was something the Araluen army had going for it.

  27

  “THEY WERE MAKING ABOUT THREE AND A HALF KILOMETERS an hour,” Denison told the command team in Duncan’s pavilion. “But they’ve got a big, unwieldy baggage train that will slow them down.”

  “Probably full of the food from our harvests,” Duncan said bitterly. “So we should expect to see them toward the end of the day?”

  Denison nodded. “I doubt they’ll make it before then.”

  Lord Northolt rubbed his hands together in a satisfied gesture. “Good! That’ll give us time to make a few more preparations—and to get our own wagons started for our next destination.”

  “Where is that?” Crowley asked.

  Northolt deferred to Sir David, who strode to the large map mounted on an easel and tapped a point to the northwest of their current position. “Hackham Heath,” he said. “It’s a good defensive spot in the fief where I was battle master to Baron Siskin.”

  “So you know the territory well?” Halt asked.

  David nodded. “Yes. Although not as well as my son Gilan. He spent all his time roaming and exploring in the woods and hills.”

  Baron Arald glanced at him curiously. “How old is Gilan now?” he asked. He recalled meeting the boy at the annual tournament several years ago.

  “He’s twelve,” David replied. “But he’s big for his age. Shows a lot of natural talent with the sword. I’ve had him training with MacNeil for the past year.”

  Arald raised his eyebrows, impressed. “MacNeil indeed?”

  “Who’s this MacNeil character?” Halt said in an aside to Crowley.

  Crowley suppressed a grin. Only Halt would refer to the Kingdom’s legendary sword master as this MacNeil character, he thought.

  “He’s the foremost swordsman in the Kingdom,” he said. “An absolute master—and an excellent teacher. He only accepts the most talented young men as his students. Young Gilan must be something special.”

  “Hmmm,” Halt muttered, storing the information away.

  Arald asked a question of the room in general. “Do you think Morgarath will attack this evening?”

  There was a pause as the others considered the matter. Finally, the King looked to Lord Northolt for his opinion.

  “I doubt it,” the battle master replied. “They’ve been marching all day. They’ll be tired and hungry—even these indefatigable beasts that Halt has told us about have to rest and eat sometime.”

  “Plus they’ll arrive with the last of the light. If they do attack, they’ll soon be fighting in darkness—and that’s always risky,” Crowley put in.

  “Let’s not take any chances,” Duncan said. “Morgarath has a habit of doing the unexpected. And we know he has little affection for his troops. They’re a means to an end. But most likely they’ll make camp tonight and attack in the morning, when they have a full day to finish us off.”

  Northolt rose. “If that’s all, sir?” he addressed Duncan. “I have a few tweaks to add to the defenses, seeing we’ve got some extra time.”

  Duncan waved a hand in dismissal. “Get on with it then.” He looked at the others. “The rest of you, draw whatever rations and weapons you need for tonight and tomorrow from the baggage train. Then get the wagons on their way.” With any luck, they all knew, and by dint of traveling through the night, the baggage train would reach their next defensive position at Hackham Heath before dawn and be ready to receive the army as they withdrew from Ashdown Cut.

  There was a stir of movement around the table as the meeting broke up, and they all headed back to their respective commands.

  “David,” said the King, “could I have a word?”

  The erstwhile cavalry commander waited as the others filed out of the tent.

  “I know you normally command the heavy cavalry,” Duncan began.

  David’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “Not that we have any heavy cavalry,” he said. “We only have lancers, and precious few of them.”

  “Precisely,” Duncan replied. “That’s why I have a new job for you.”

  David regarded the King with interest. Truth be told, in the absence of any heavy cavalry to command, he had been wondering where he could best serve the army.

  “This battle is going to be fought on foot,” the King said. He saw David draw breath to speak and, correctly guessing what he was about to say, waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I know Halt has some far-fetched plan to pretend to attack the Wargals with thirty troopers, but in the main, we’re going to be fighting on foot. That means what cavalry we have will fight dismounted, and take their place in the line. Lord knows, we can use them.”

  David nodded and the King continued. “We’re outnumbered. You know that. And it’s likely that, at some stage, Morgarath’s troops will break through our line. When that happens, I want a fighting reserve ready to plug the gap and drive them back. You, Arald and I are the most skilled warriors in the army. I want the three of us to be ready as a kind of roving reserve. If the Wargals break our line, the three of us will charge in, rally our men and throw the enemy back down the hill.”

  David nodded slowly. “Sounds like a good plan,” he said. “What about Lord Northolt?”

  Duncan shook his head. “His job is the overall supervision of the defenses. But he’s a little old to be involved in hand-to-hand fighting.”

  David realized this was true. Northol
t was no longer a young man, and this was definitely a young man’s job. He smiled.

  “I’ve been wondering what I’d be doing when the fighting starts.”

  “You’ll be doing plenty,” the King replied gravely. “We all will.”

  • • •

  Lord Northolt set men to the task of digging a further ditch forty meters downhill from the main defensive position. This one was lined with sharpened stakes and covered in light branches and grass to conceal it. Two solid bridges were left on either side that would bear the weight of his horses and men as they moved down the hill. Ropes were attached to the bridges so they could be withdrawn when required.

  Another party was digging two diagonal trenches, running down the hill in the shape of a V and culminating at the new trench. At the top end of each, the men had placed a large cask of oil from the supply wagons.

  Baron Arald was watching all this with interest. “What’s the idea here?”

  “When it’s time for us to withdraw,” Northolt told him, “this will give us a little extra time. We’ll pour the oil into the two ditches, then set fire to it. With any luck, and if the wind’s in the right direction, it’ll set the grass burning on a broad front between us and Morgarath. That’ll give our men time to fade back over the hill and run like the blazes.”

  Arald nodded, impressed. He studied the slope below them, visualizing the twin rivers of flame running down the hill, then setting the long grass alight. The smoke and flames would form an effective barrier against their attackers. And they’d conceal that the army was vacating its position and withdrawing over the hill.

  “That will give us a start,” he agreed. “But will it be enough?”

  “Possibly not. But Crowley’s Rangers are going to act as a rearguard. They’ll set up ambushes at every bend in the road or every narrow valley. Morgarath will have to constantly stop and take up a defensive formation. That’ll slow him up.”

  Arald scratched his chin. “Crowley’s a good man,” he said. “We’re lucky to have him.”

  Northolt agreed. “Morgarath may have done us a favor without knowing it,” he said. “Crowley’s more energetic and imaginative that any Commandant I can remember—particularly the fop Morgarath appointed to the position a couple of years ago.”

  “Halt’s no slouch either,” Arald commented. “He’s been working in Redmont Fief for the past months and I can’t remember a better Ranger.”

  “They make a good pair,” Northolt agreed, then he turned to shout directions to some of the men working on the new trenches.

  Arald turned away. “Speaking of Halt, I want a word with him,” he said, heading back up the hill to where the Rangers were preparing their shooting positions. They had no need of any protective breastworks, as Morgarath had few archers or crossbowmen among his men. But they were building a light screen of saplings and brushwood. If the enemy couldn’t see where the volleys of arrows were coming from, it would keep them a little more confused.

  Arald found Halt dragging a large bundle of branches and saplings into position and beckoned him over.

  “David tells me you’re planning a cavalry charge on Morgarath’s front line tomorrow,” he said, without any preamble.

  Halt nodded. “It’s a feint. We won’t actually make contact. We don’t have enough troopers to risk losses in a frontal engagement.”

  “Then what’s the point?” Arald asked, frowning slightly.

  “I want to test something I discovered when I was scouting the plateau,” Halt told him. “The Wargals seem to be leery around horses. They seem to be the one thing that can unsettle them. I got the feeling that Morgarath was trying to train it out of them and I want to see if he’s been successful.”

  “So if they start looking nervous when they think they’re going to be charged by cavalry, you’ll know.”

  “That’s right. Could be a handy thing to keep in mind for a later time.”

  Arald tugged his mustache thoughtfully. “Yes. It certainly could be.” He paused, then continued, “Would you mind if I joined in on your mock attack?”

  Halt looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Not at all. The more the merrier,” he said. “But why?”

  “Well, I thought your little feint might look more convincing if you had a fully armored knight leading it, all shiny and ferocious looking, rather than a shabby Ranger.” Arald was smiling as he said it, robbing the words of any possible offense.

  “It’s a good point,” Halt agreed. “I plan to wait till they’re assembled and ready to advance up the hill. Then I—or rather you—will lead thirty or forty troopers out in extended line formation and start down the hill. Actually, if you’re leading, it’ll give me a chance to really watch the Wargals and see how they react.”

  “Fine. I’ll join you first thing then, once the enemy are in place and ready to open proceedings.”

  Halt nodded several times. He liked Arald. The time he’d spent at Redmont Fief had shown the Baron to be an honest and courageous leader—if a little too fond of good food.

  “We’ll assemble here,” he said, “on this side of the defenses. We’ll ride downhill, until we’re a hundred meters from the Wargals. Then we’ll swing back. If they’re still nervous about horses, that’ll give us plenty of time to see it.”

  “And if they’re not?” Arald asked.

  Halt shrugged. “Well, at least we’ll know.”

  • • •

  Morgarath’s army arrived in the early evening.

  They heard them first. The Wargals marched keeping pace to the cadence of a guttural chant. They could hear the sound long before the enemy came into view. Then they could make out the jingle and clash of weapons and harnesses as the beasts moved in their rolling, shambling gait. Duncan’s soldiers waited nervously as the noise grew louder and more ominous. They had never heard anything like it and the disembodied sound preyed on their nerves. Stomachs tightened and mouths went dry as the noise grew, ebbing and flowing on the evening breeze.

  “Where are they?” someone asked, his voice cracking slightly.

  Duncan, standing at the head of his men, turned in the direction of the voice. “Steady,” he said, his voice firm and seemingly unconcerned. “They’ll be here soon enough.”

  Then several of the men cried out at once as the first of the Wargal horde came into sight in the indirect light of the setting sun, crossing a low ridge to their front and swarming down the near slope to the beginning of the uphill, narrow valley where the Araluen army waited for them.

  A ripple of excited comment swept across the army, then slowly died away as the soldiers became aware of the numbers facing them. The black-furred, shambling creatures came over the ridge in eight ranks—and kept coming.

  “There are thousands of them,” one of the archers said, his voice a little higher-pitched and a little louder than he’d intended it to be.

  Halt turned to face the group of men, leaning on their bows as they watched Morgarath’s army deploy onto the level ground at the foot of the Cut.

  “Actually,” he said, “there are probably fewer than a thousand.”

  But the archer who had spoken looked doubtful. “That’s still plenty more than there are of us,” he said.

  Halt patted the feathered ends of the arrows in his quiver. “By tomorrow, there’ll be a lot fewer of them if we all do our job,” he said calmly. His matter-of-fact manner seemed to calm the nerves of the archers, and those of the army who were within earshot.

  Finally, the ranks of marching creatures ceased coming over the ridge. They massed in eight extended lines at the base of the hill, facing upward to where the pitifully thin ranks of Duncan’s men awaited them. They stood, unmoving, for several minutes, simply threatening the watching men with their numbers. Then a tall black-clad figure rode forward on a white horse and stopped in front of them, facing up the hill to where Dunca
n and his officers stood watching.

  And waiting.

  Suddenly, without any signal seeming to have been issued, the assembled ranks of Wargals raised their weapons above their heads and let out one massive shout—a cry of defiance and threat that echoed around the hills. Early roosting birds were driven, chattering, from their trees by the sudden noise. Crowley, caught unawares by the cry, actually flinched, and cursed himself for doing so.

  Then, again without any discernible order being given, the ranks disassembled. Every tenth troop in the front rank remained in place, forming a sentry line and watching the enemy. The others broke up into six-man squads and began pitching camp. Fires were lit and several wagons came up from the baggage train, which was only now beginning to trundle over the ridge, and began preparing food.

  In the center of the camp, in the dying light of evening, Halt could make out Morgarath’s black-and-gold pavilion being erected. He turned to Crowley.

  “Maybe we should slip down the hill and put an arrow in Morgarath,” he suggested.

  Crowley considered the idea for a few seconds, then rejected it. “He’s too wily for that. I doubt we’d get anywhere near that tent,” he said. “Look how he’s surrounded it with sentries.”

  Morgarath, with the wealth of numbers at his disposal, had formed a protective screen around his pavilion. Halt studied it and reluctantly agreed. He heard a clatter of plates and pots behind him. The support staff were serving out a hot meal to the men standing behind the palisade. He nudged Crowley with his elbow.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” he said. “We’ll need it tomorrow.”

  28

  THE FOLLOWING DAY DAWNED CLEAR, WITHOUT CLOUDS IN the sky. There was a light ground mist lying over the hill leading down to the Wargal camp, but as the sun rose, it burned off.