The Battle of Hackham Heath

by John Flanagan

  The enemy was awake. Cook fires were burning once more and their thin columns of wood smoke rose into the air above the lines of low black tents. In comparison to the neatly ordered rows of tents that Duncan’s men pitched—although these had been struck and had gone ahead with the wagons the evening previously—the Wargals’ tent lines were untidy and haphazard.

  Duncan strode along the parapet of the earth rampart thrown up behind the hedge of sharpened stakes. His men were edgy, as was to be expected. They were, after all, about to go into battle with a new and unfamiliar enemy. And they were outnumbered nearly four to one. They had stood to at first light, in case Morgarath tried to catch them napping with a dawn attack. But there was no sense in keeping them tense and ready now.

  “Relax, men,” he said calmly. “Loosen your armor and take the weight off your feet. They won’t be coming for hours yet.”

  He could see the movement among the enemy lines as the Wargals fetched food from their field kitchen and hunkered down on the earth to eat. Back in the center of the camp, Morgarath and several of his cronies sat at ease around a table, with food and drink being served.

  “Eat your rations,” Duncan told the men. “No point in fighting on an empty stomach.”

  The camp cooks, in addition to serving a hot meal the previous evening, had left cold food for the men’s breakfast: grilled meat and flat bread. There were fires lit behind the waiting army and one man in eight—the men were divided into eight-man messes—was boiling water and brewing hot drinks for their comrades.

  Duncan sensed a relief in the tension as his men sat on the damp grass and loosened their armor, laying aside their heavy helmets and spears and beginning to eat. He realized that he was doing nothing to ease their nerves by pacing up and down the parapet. He saw Arald and David also inspecting the enemy camp below them and called them over.

  His orderly had been following him and he turned to the man now. “Bring us some breakfast, Walter,” he said quietly, as the other two joined him.

  Walter bobbed his head obediently. “Yes, sir. Shall I set up a table?”

  Duncan shook his head. He wanted his men to see him sharing the same food and the same conditions they were.

  “I think the ground will be good enough,” he said. Then, turning to the nearest group of soldiers, he asked with a grin: “What do you say, men? Is the ground soft enough for a royal backside?”

  The soldiers chuckled. One of them, a grizzled veteran, rose and walked over to where Duncan and his two senior officers were standing. He made a show of inspecting the ground, brushing aside a few twigs and rocks, then spread out a none-too-clean neckerchief and gestured for the King to sit.

  “There you go, my lord. Your royal bum should be comfortable there.”

  The others nearby joined in the laughter. Duncan grinned at him. “If it’s not, I’ll have you in the stocks later tonight,” he said. “We did bring the stocks, didn’t we, Sir David?”

  “I’m sure we did, sir,” David answered gravely.

  The veteran cackled at him and resumed his place among his companions. The three senior officers sat on the edge of the ditch, their legs dangling over it, and munched on the bread and meat that Walter brought them. He also brought a steaming pot of coffee. Duncan hesitated, then looked round to make sure the men had been served with hot drinks as well. Then he took a deep sip and smacked his lips appreciatively.

  “Ahhh!” he said. “Nothing like hot coffee in the morning!”

  “When do you think they’ll be coming, my lord?” It was one of the younger soldiers sitting behind them who asked.

  Duncan gave him a reassuring smile. “I should think they’ll be a while yet. They’re not the most organized troops, or the most disciplined. They’ll have to eat, then form up and then advance. I’d say you have a couple of hours. Get some sleep if you can. I’m going to.”

  And so saying, he stretched his arms over his head, took off his helmet and lay back on the soft earth, hitching his sword around so that he wasn’t lying on it. He closed his eyes and spoke to Arald out of the corner of his mouth:

  “Keep an eye on things. Wake me if anything happens.”

  Arald exchanged a grin with David. The sight of the King sitting eating on the edge of the ditch, then sprawling back and napping, had reassured the men around them. They elbowed one another and pointed, grinning at the reclining monarch.

  An hour passed and there was little of note happening in the Wargal camp. Then, as the sun grew higher in the sky, they heard bugles sounding and they could see the black creatures shambling into a loose formation. It took them some time. As Duncan had noted, they weren’t the most disciplined or thoroughly drilled troops. But eventually, they formed into four ranks, about fifty across, and began to shuffle forward.

  “He’s not committing them all to the first attack,” David observed.

  Duncan opened his eyes, feigned a yawn and sat up reluctantly. In truth, he had been wide-awake the entire time, his nerves trembling like fiddle strings. But to look at him, you’d never know it. He appeared to be annoyed that Morgarath’s troops had decided to interrupt his nap. Reluctantly, he rose and turned to the watching troops.

  “Get your armor on and move up to the ramp, men. Looks like they’re on their way.”

  The men began to take up their defensive positions. Unlike the Wargals, they were drilled and disciplined and they were in place in a few minutes.

  Arald glanced down the hill and gestured to the right-hand side of the line. “I’d better join Halt. We’ve got a cavalry charge to fake,” he said. He shook hands with the other two and strode off, his spurs clinking. His orderly had already led his battlehorse to the assembly point Halt had indicated. As Arald reached the spot, Halt greeted him. There were thirty cavalry troopers mounted behind him in two files.

  Arald called to them cheerfully. “Morning, men. Ready to shake up these shaggy black bears?”

  There was a chorus of assent. They were glad to be given a job in the upcoming battle. They knew their numbers were too small to waste on direct attacks.

  “Remember,” Halt told them, “we don’t make contact. We’ll trot forward to within fifty meters, then I’ll give a horn signal and we wheel and come back. Understood?”

  The men chorused their understanding.

  Halt studied them for a moment or two, making sure they had all grasped the idea. He didn’t want anyone to get carried away in the excitement of the moment and charge down on the massed ranks of Wargals. Cavalrymen did tend to get excited, he knew. But he could see from their faces that they all knew this was to be a feint.

  “All right. There are two bridges across the second ditch, marked by willow wands. See them?”

  The men stood in their stirrups and peered down the hill. The two stripped willow sticks were clearly visible. They assured him that they could see them.

  “We’ll cross the ditch there. The left file take the far bridge, the right file this near one. Once we’re across, form an extended line behind the Baron.” Halt gestured to Arald, now looking quite fearsome in his blue-and-yellow armor. “After that, I’ll leave it to you, sir.”

  Arald nodded. “We couldn’t just dash down and skewer one or two of them before we turn back, could we?” He gestured with the long spear he was carrying.

  Halt gave him a long-suffering look. Arald, after all, was a cavalryman.

  The Baron shrugged. “Didn’t think so.”

  Halt glanced down the hill. The Wargal line was finally formed up. Morgarath was riding his white horse across the field behind the fourth and last rank. The Wargal front line stepped out, shields raised before them, spears and swords held to the front. They started up the hill, their shambling, rolling gait, which could have looked comical, now looking ominous.

  “Let’s go,” Halt said, and swung up into Abelard’s saddle.

  He led
the way forward, angling across the hill. He could hear the jingling of harness behind him, and the dull thuds of multiple hoofbeats on the soft grass. He increased the pace to a trot as they neared the two markers. The left-hand file peeled off for the farther marker. Halt pulled his horse to one side as Baron Arald led the right-hand file toward the nearer bridge.

  Hooves clattered on the timbers of the bridges as the two files crossed the ditch. Arald marshaled his men into an extended line, circling his spear over his head, then pointing it out to right and left. From the bottom of the hill, Halt could hear the guttural chant as the enemy began to slog their way up the slope. He rode forward, staying out to the right and moving ahead of the line of cavalry so he could observe the Wargals more clearly.

  Arald raised his spear and was pointing it down the hill. “Form arrowhead!” he shouted as his battlehorse paced forward, pulling against the reins, eager to come to grips with the enemy. Nobody had told the horse that this was a feint. He was eager to charge headlong into the enemy line.

  The troop followed, the two lines angling back to form a V shape as they advanced down the hill. Arald and Halt had discussed this. They had agreed that Arald should put the men into whatever formation he would use for a real attack. Arrowhead was the most effective.

  They were still moving at a walk. Halt glanced down at the approaching Wargals. They were in one line, forging their way up the hill. They were clumsy and unbalanced in their marching, and from time to time one of them would stumble and fall. His companions didn’t wait for him. A beast from the next rank would fill the gap, treading over his fallen comrade to get there. The fallen Wargal would be left to regain his feet and get back into formation in the second rank.

  “Trot!” Arald commanded, raising his spear above his head again, then circling it.

  The jingle of harness and weapons and the thudding of hooves grew louder as the V-shaped force began to move faster down the hill.

  Halt looked keenly at the Wargals, and his heart leapt as he thought he saw the first signs of hesitation among them. It was only a moment of indecision, but he was sure it was there.

  “Canter!” Arald’s voice rang out, and the cavalry surged forward, moving from a trot to a canter in the space of one stride.

  “Hold your positions!” Arald shouted, as some riders began to move ahead of their neighbors. Troopers hauled on their reins, bringing their horses back into formation. Along the line, the riders held their spears pointing upward, waiting for the order to gallop. In order to conserve their horses’ energy, Arald wouldn’t give that order until the very last minute. Halt, eyes slitted with concentration, studied the Wargals.

  There! He saw it clearly. In the center of the line, half a dozen of the black, shambling monsters slowed and actually began to shuffle back from the horses bearing down on them.

  The half dozen became a dozen, then the entire front line was disrupted, either stopped in place or edging back against the following rank. As they bumped into one another and shoved others aside, the line became disrupted, milling in aimless confusion and doubt.

  “It’s working,” Halt breathed to himself. Then he saw a black-clad figure riding forward through the lines, the horse shouldering Wargals aside without any care for their well-being. Morgarath reached the front of the third rank and swung his horse to ride parallel to the disrupted and hesitating front line.

  Instinctively, Halt drew an arrow from his quiver and laid it on the string. Then he shrugged. Morgarath was well out of arrow range, he knew. He replaced the arrow reluctantly.

  Then he saw the Wargals steady and resume their advance. He realized that Morgarath was goading his troops to return to the attack. The Wargals might have been frightened of the horses, but an enraged Morgarath was a far more frightening prospect. Slowly, they regained their formation and began to march forward once more.

  Halt raised his horn and blew a long, descending note—the signal for recall. He saw Arald’s right hand go up, holding the long spear high overhead. Then he began to circle the spear in an unmistakable signal. The cavalry halted, and Arald wheeled his horse in place, the riders behind him following in turn until the V formation had reversed its direction and was heading back up the hill again. As they neared the bridges, they split into two files and rode across. The rearmost riders leapt down from their saddles and hauled the bridges back across the ditch. Then they remounted and followed their comrades, riding round the end of the line to take up their position in the rear of the army. They’d be fighting as infantry, ready to reinforce any part of the line that faltered.

  Arald saw Halt waiting in front of the ditch and rode across, raising his visor.

  “We shook them up,” he said.

  But Halt shook his head. “Only until Morgarath was able to get among them and drive them on,” he said. “If we do that again, we’re going to have to take him by surprise.”

  Arald looked back down the hill. The Wargals had regained their discipline and were moving steadily up the slope, like a malevolent black tide.

  “Still,” he said, “it’s something to keep in mind. We’d better get to our positions.”

  He urged his horse through the gap at the end of the palisade and swung to the right, heading for the command position in the center of the line. Halt waited a few moments, still watching the indefatigable march of the Wargals, hearing the grunted cadence as they kept in time and the rattle and jingle of weapons and shields.

  Then he wheeled Abelard to the left and cantered to his position on the right flank of the line.

  The battle that might determine the fate of the Kingdom was about to begin.

  29

  “URRGH! URRGH-URRGH! URRGH!”

  The guttural chant of the advancing Wargals was getting louder and louder. Some of the men behind the palisade glanced nervously at their comrades beside them. A few of the veterans snarled in response to the Wargals’ chant. The sound seemed to put heart back into their less experienced companions.

  One gray-bearded veteran looked fiercely at a group of younger soldiers standing beside him, licking dry lips with even drier tongues.

  “Let ’em get close,” he said, “then let ’em have it. See how their chanting sounds when they’re stuck on the end of a spear.”

  Elsewhere along the line, other experienced fighters were muttering words of encouragement to the younger members of the army. Their savage confidence transmitted itself to the novice soldiers, and they set themselves more firmly, eyes riveted on the black line slowly advancing up the hill.

  Mouths were dry; hands were damp. But the soldiers of Araluen stood resolutely, ready to fight for their King against these creatures of ill omen.

  Then the Wargals reached the concealed trench, covered by nets layered with light branches and grass. The first of them failed to see the obstruction in time. When they did and tried to halt, the rank behind cannoned into them, knocking them over the lip and into the trench—where sharpened stakes were waiting for them.

  Perhaps twenty Wargals tumbled into the ditch. Five of them were impaled on the stakes and let out shrill shrieks of pain. The chanting stopped, and the steady march was disrupted as the survivors tried to clamber up out of the ditch, shoving at the rank behind them to make room.

  On the left wing, a bugle sounded.

  Within a heartbeat, a withering storm of arrows flashed across and down the field. Most of the Rangers fired two shots in quick succession. Crowley managed three. All of them were aimed at selected targets, not released haphazardly at the mass of figures on the edge of the ditch. Along the first and second ranks, Wargals cried out in pain and surprise. At least a dozen went down and lay still. Others were wounded, blundering wildly, tearing with teeth and claws at the cruel arrows caught in their flesh.

  On the right, Halt’s party waited, arrows nocked but not yet drawn.

  “Steady . . . ,” Halt growled. Then
he saw the Wargals identify the direction from which the arrows were coming. Their small shields swung to their right, exposing their left sides and backs to Halt’s shooters.

  “Now!” he yelled, and let three vicious shafts fly in less than the time it takes to tell about it. His companions shot as well, each of them releasing two shafts. Cedric, trying to match Halt, managed three, but his third was rushed and he snatched at the release, sending the shaft skimming over the Wargal army. He cursed at his own impatience.

  Now the shooting became independent, with the Rangers selecting targets at will. Inevitably, several would choose the same Wargal, and many of the black-furred beasts fell with two or three shafts in them.

  Another trumpet blast. Halt heard Wearne’s rough voice calling orders from the rear of the defensive position, then there was a loud clatter and hiss as twenty longbows released their arrows high into the sky. Before that volley had fallen back to earth, Wearne’s men released another. Then the long, barbed shafts began falling almost vertically into the rear ranks of the attacking force. Wargals tumbled and fell, or staggered, clutching arrow wounds in their arms and upper bodies. They blundered into their comrades, who shoved them roughly aside, leaving them to their fate.

  Still the Wargals pushed forward, ignoring their losses. Already, almost thirty of them were lying dead or mortally wounded on the field. But the remainder closed up the gaps in their lines and forged forward, picking their way through the obstacles in the ditch, then scrambling up the far side, eyes blazing with hatred and rage, intent on one thing: to reach the Araluen line and strike and strike and strike.

  As the first of them scrambled over the uphill side of the ditch, Farrel’s little force joined in. The six apprentices shot coolly and steadily. Their lighter bows didn’t have the same power as the massive longbows wielded by the senior Rangers, and the shafts often broke or deflected from the Wargals’ shields and leather breastplates. But some of them plunged home.