Halt nodded. “Sounds like you know where you’re going,” he commented. Then he made a gesture toward the trees. “Lead on.”
Gilan hesitated. He may have been confident, but he wasn’t sure that he could order the troop to move out. He was concerned that they might ignore him. Or, worse still, laugh at him.
Halt hid a smile and turned to the captain in command of the company. “Move them out, Lorriac.”
“Troop, in column of threes . . . trot!” the captain barked. It was a firm, carrying and authoritative command voice. He lowered his raised hand, the signal for the order to be carried out, and the column began to move forward at the trot. Their harnesses jingled and weapons clanked against each other as they headed north. Halt, Gilan and Lorriac rode in the lead. As the column passed the spot where King Duncan and Sir David were standing to watch them go, they all saluted, turning their eyes to right as they came level with their commanders, then snapping them back front again as they passed.
The two senior officers stood watching until the last of the cavalry had passed them. The little column of riders angled up the slope toward the trees, eventually disappearing over the crest a hundred meters away. For a short time, a slight cloud of dust hung in the air to mark their passing. Then it settled and there was no further sign of them.
“I hope that boy of yours knows what he’s about,” Duncan said.
David glanced at him, seeing the strain and worry on the King’s bearded face. “He does,” he replied, with a lot more conviction than he felt.
They made their way back to Duncan’s pavilion, where his servants had set out a simple meal. They were halfway through the inevitable flat bread, cold meat and dried fruit when Crowley entered the tent.
“My patrol has come in,” he said. “Morgarath’s on his way.”
Suddenly the food seemed to have no flavor. The King and Sir David exchanged a glance, then pushed back from the table. Duncan drained his tankard of watered wine and the three men stepped outside, hurrying to the earth parapet the army had thrown up behind the protective ditch with its hedge of sharpened stakes, where Lord Northolt greeted them. Most of the soldiers had gathered there to watch as well. Word had spread quickly of the enemy’s arrival.
They could hear the rattle of equipment and the guttural chanting of the Wargals as they made their way onto the open ground beyond the river, spreading out to pitch tents in their usual ragged lines.
“There are still a lot of them,” Crowley observed.
The others said nothing, then Duncan pointed. “What are they?”
Several of the baggage wagons were loaded with strange wooden frames. Each was about five meters long and fitted with a large, solid wheel at either end. As they watched, teams of Wargals unloaded them from the wagons. There were five of them in all. Then men hurried forward, placing panels made from saplings across the front of the frames and nailing them into position. Each panel was further reinforced by oxhides. The sound of the hammering carried on the wind to where the Araluen army waited.
“Portable barricades,” Northolt said after several minutes. “They’ll wheel them up the hill, with their troops crouching behind them. That should reduce the effect of our archers.”
Crowley nodded, suddenly seeing the purpose of the strange, elongated structures as the battle master explained.
“Why the oxhides?” he asked. “They’ll hardly stop an arrow.”
Northolt nodded, agreeing. Then he explained further. “They’ll soak them with water before they start out,” he said. “It’ll stop us using fire arrows to burn the barricades. Morgarath has borrowed the idea from siege towers that you’d use against a castle.”
“You said he was no fool,” Duncan muttered, his eyes fixed on the structures. They were roughly made and, as a result, not perfectly aligned. But they would be effective in protecting the advancing force from the arrows of the twenty Rangers.
“I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t always right,” Crowley replied. He glanced at the sun, low in the western sky. “Still, I don’t think they’ll have time to mount an attack before dark. We may as well get a good night’s rest. We’re going to need it.”
Arald of Redmont had joined them as word went round the camp that Morgarath had arrived. He studied the strange barricades, then looked around the slope of the land and the shallow ford at the base of the hill.
“Maybe we can do something about spoiling their sleep,” he said.
Northolt looked at him curiously. “What do you have in mind?”
Arald paused, collecting his thoughts and choosing his words before replying. Then he pointed to the supply wagons, parked on the left side of the Wargal campsite.
“I’m thinking that if I took twenty men later tonight and forded the river quietly, we might raid Morgarath’s supply tents and set fire to his food and weapon stores. Then, when he’s thoroughly distracted, Crowley and his men might manage to get in among those barricades and burn them.” He glanced at the Ranger Commandant, saw the quick nod of agreement, and continued. “Then you and your Rangers could skip back across the river and cover our retreat.”
Northolt pursed his lips, considering the plan. He could see that Crowley was in total agreement. But he was the battle master, and he was charged with preserving the King’s forces as far as possible.
“It’s a risk,” he said.
Arald thrust out his bottom lip in an attitude of dismissal. “It’s war,” he said. “War is full of risks.”
“The question is,” Duncan put in, “whether the risk is outweighed by the potential benefit.” He didn’t seem to be making a judgment one way or the other, so Arald continued.
“What’s the alternative?” he asked. “We can sit on our backsides here and watch Morgarath push those glorified wheelbarrows up the hill tomorrow until they get close enough to charge.”
“You could always use plunging volleys against those things,” Northolt said, but Crowley was already shaking his head before he completed the sentence.
“Plunging volleys aren’t anywhere near as effective as direct shooting. And they’ll be sure to have shields over their heads to protect themselves. I say we try Arald’s plan.”
Duncan eyed Arald and Crowley for several seconds, then looked sidelong at Northolt.
The battle master shrugged. “It’s worth a try,” he said. “If they’re discovered, Arald and his men can always fight their way out. And Crowley’s men will be on hand to cover them.”
The King looked at the three of them and saw the determination in their eyes.
“All right. We’ll do it,” he said. Then he added, in mock desperation, “And here was I, hoping for a peaceful night’s sleep.”
33
HALT’S LITTLE FORCE RODE NORTH, MAINTAINING A STEADY trot. At regular intervals, they would stop and dismount, leading their horses for several kilometers before remounting and setting the horses to the trot once more.
At three, they halted and unsaddled the horses, letting them graze while the men ate a simple meal. They rested for forty minutes. Halt reclined with his back against the trunk of a tree. He noticed that Gilan was prowling restlessly around the camp and beckoned him over.
“Relax,” he told the boy.
Gilan shook his head anxiously. “We should be moving on,” he said. “Morgarath and his Wargals could be attacking while we sit here twiddling our thumbs.”
“I doubt it,” Halt told him. “We had scouts out looking, and when we left, there was still no sign of them. So the odds are they aren’t attacking while we ‘sit here twiddling our thumbs,’ as you put it.”
Gilan flushed and looked away.
Halt rose to his feet a little regretfully. That tree trunk was very comfortable, he thought. He dropped a hand onto Gilan’s shoulder.
“We have a hard fight facing us in the next few days,” he said. “And we need the m
en in top condition for it, not worn out by rushing around looking for the ford. Even more important, we have to conserve the horses’ energy. We don’t have remounts, and they’ll need to be fit and ready when we charge Morgarath’s army. Once a horse is exhausted, it takes a long time for it to recover sufficiently. Fighting is hard work. So when we hit Morgarath’s army, I want to hit them as hard as we can. And that means we keep the horses fresh and ready for battle, all right?”
Gilan nodded morosely. “All right,” he said. But he sounded only half convinced. He was young and the idea of hastening slowly was totally foreign to him.
Halt glanced at the sun, estimating that they had rested long enough. He gave a signal to Lorriac and the men began to saddle up and remount once more. Gilan was first into the saddle, waiting anxiously for the rest of the men to form up. His horse seemed to sense his impatience. When they moved out, it pulled against the reins, so that the boy had to work hard to keep it down to a trot.
They rode on for several more kilometers. They came to a point where the path led up a narrow defile, fringed by steep rocky cliffs surmounted by thick-growing trees. Halt saw Gilan nodding to himself, a satisfied look on his face. This was clearly a landmark he recognized. But over the next two kilometers, the boy’s confidence started to wane and he began to look anxiously from side to side, occasionally standing in the saddle to get a better view of the surrounding landscape. The land had leveled out again and they were in open country and still moving uphill. The heavy forest lay on their right. To the left, there was broken scrub with the occasional clump of trees. None of these looked like old growth. The tallest was barely five meters high.
Gilan pulled his horse to the side of the track they were following and stood in his stirrups again, looking back the way they had come. Halt rode to join him as the troop filed past, the soldiers glancing at them with mild interest. They knew the young lad was their guide, and one or two of them started to comment on his obvious uncertainty.
“Problem?” Halt said quietly.
Gilan turned an anguished face to him. “It’s all changed,” he said. “It’s not the same!” His voice was cracking with the strain of uncertainty. He had been sure he could lead them straight to the ford, but now everything seemed to be going wrong.
Halt put up a calming hand. “Keep your voice down. Don’t let the men see that you’re not sure what you’re doing.”
Gilan made an effort to calm down. He took several deep breaths. But then he looked around again and made a helpless little gesture.
“When we came up that gully back there”—he waved vaguely to the rear—“I thought we were fine. I remember that. But now there’s no sign of my main landmark. We should have seen it by now.”
“What was it?” Halt asked.
“It was a double-trunked pine tree—like a huge V,” Gilan replied, the anxiety creeping into his voice once more. “You could see it for miles. It was over there . . . I think.” He pointed to the west, toward the new growth Halt had noticed.
“But now it’s gone,” he repeated desperately. He was very conscious that he had led them here, away from the main battle. And now he had managed to get himself, and the cavalry, lost. He was also aware of the pivotal role that the cavalry had to play in the coming battle.
“We’ll lose the battle,” he said. “And it’ll be my fault.”
“Get a grip,” Halt told him crisply. He was just a boy, and Halt could see his confidence ebbing away. But he needed to be brought up sharply. This was no time for soft words. Halt urged Abelard toward a clump of low trees. “Let’s take a closer look.” He turned back to the captain. “Halt the column, Lorriac.”
“It’s not there,” Gilan told him as the column came to a halt, horses stamping and snorting, then lowering their heads to crop the fresh grass underfoot. “We’d see it if it was. It was ten meters tall, for pity’s sake.” But he urged his horse to follow Halt.
The Ranger allowed him to come level with him, then spoke again.
“Trees can fall down,” he said. “Particularly big, old ones. Or they can burn in a forest fire. Or be struck by lightning.”
They reached the section of new growth, a tangled mass of young trees, festooned with vines. He edged Abelard forward, peering into the jumble of branches that faced them.
“There,” he said, pointing. Concealed in the tangle of greenery, they could make out an old, splintered stump. It had once supported a massive pine, but its edges were blackened, a sign that it had taken a lightning strike.
Looking farther afield, they saw the charred remains of the V-shaped tree it had once supported, lying in the long grass, overgrown with creepers. More charring was visible on the old timber.
“There’s your V-shaped pine,” Halt said calmly, and he saw the relief flood into Gilan’s young face.
“So it is. So it is,” the boy said, his confidence returning with a rush. He looked eagerly up the slope to the crest.
“What do we look for next?” Halt asked.
Gilan indicated the higher ground ahead of them. “At the ridge, we should be able to see two mountains to the west. If we line them up, they’ll show us the way to the ford.”
He began to trot up the hill. Halt allowed Abelard to follow him.
“Well, at least they won’t have been struck by lightning,” Halt murmured.
They reached the crest of the ridge and looked west. Immediately, Halt could see two large hills—hardly mountains, he mused. Gilan seemed to echo his thought.
“They seemed taller when I was young,” he said.
Halt smiled. “That’s often the way. I used to think my father was a giant, and he was actually quite short. But they are the mountains you spoke about?”
“Oh yes,” Gilan said, nodding emphatically. “I remember that bare white patch halfway up the nearest one.” He pointed and Halt could make out a white scar among the trees on the distant hill. Probably chalk, he thought.
“So now,” Gilan said, concentrating, “we line up the crest of the first hill with that U-shaped gap in the second one . . .” He urged his horse forward until he had the alignment fixed. “And that’s the direction to the ford.”
He turned in his saddle to look behind him, checking once to make sure he was looking along the line indicated by the two hills. “So we go into the forest right beside that very dark green tree. Then, if we keep heading east, we’ll come to the river—and the ford.”
Halt regarded the young man for a few seconds. He was handling this situation very well for someone so young, he thought. Then he glanced back and forth several times, getting the alignment and the direction set in his mind. Once they were in the trees, he knew, it would be all too easy to lose their direction. But he had a way of preventing that.
“How long before we reach the river?” he asked.
Gilan considered his answer. “An hour,” he said. “Maybe a little longer.”
Halt looked at the cavalry troop, sitting at ease a hundred meters down the hill. It’d take a lot longer with nearly one hundred and fifty riders pushing through the closely set trees, he thought. And that meant it would be getting on for dusk by the time they reached the ford—assuming they found it without any further delays. He came to a decision.
“We’ll leave the men here and go on alone,” he said. “Once we find the ford, we’ll come back for them. But realistically, I don’t think we’ll get them all across the river before dark.”
He cantered down the hill and apprised Captain Lorriac of the plan. As the men dismounted and began unsaddling their horses, Halt cantered back up the hill to the spot where Gilan was waiting for him. They rode into the trees together, Gilan leading the way.
Instantly, Halt realized that he’d been right to leave the men behind while they found the ford. The trees grew closely together so that he and Gilan had to wind their way through them, riding single file
. And it was dark under the heavy leaf canopy. He knew it would be almost full dark under here in an hour or so.
“There used to be a game trail,” Gilan called back to him as he edged his horse round the trunks of three trees growing closely together, then resumed his course on the far side, shoving saplings and lighter growth aside and trampling the knee-high undergrowth. Thankfully, with the thickness of the overhead leaf canopy, there wasn’t a great deal of underbrush. Halt followed him, but his innate sense of direction told him they were straying from their course. He reached into his belt pouch and produced his Northseeker—a magnetized steel needle balanced on a slender pin in a brass case. The needle always pointed north–south. He let it steady, then saw they were heading slightly north of east. He pointed his arm in the right direction as he studied the little instrument.
“That way,” he said. “Swing back to the right a little.”
Gilan complied, glancing with interest at the instrument in Halt’s cupped palms. “That’s very handy,” he said.
They continued in that fashion for the next hour, with Halt pausing at intervals to correct their course. Every five meters, he drew his saxe and cut a long notch in a tree, marking their course for the following day.
Eventually, Gilan drew rein and waited for Halt to force his way alongside him. He was frowning.
“We should have reached the river by now,” he said.
Halt glanced around at the dark forest surrounding them. “Was the growth as thick as this last time you were here?” he asked, and Gilan shook his head. “That’s it then,” Halt continued. “We’re having to force our way through, and we’re making detours around the bigger trees all the time. Stands to reason we’re taking longer than you used to.”
Gilan opened his mouth to reply, but Halt held up a hand for silence. He leaned forward in his saddle, listening, his ear cocked to the east. “Listen,” he said. “What’s that?”
They both listened. They could hear the birds chirping in the forest, and the occasional rustle of small animals moving between the trees. Then they heard another sound—a musical ripple of running water.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 23