The Battle of Hackham Heath

by John Flanagan

  Duncan’s troops stabbed down at the black shapes below them, their spears taking a terrible toll. For a moment, the first Wargals into the ditch faltered. Then a second wave poured in behind them, pushing them forward, grabbing their comrades and lifting them up to help them scale the far bank of the ditch. They slashed and hacked with spears, swords and clubs, attacking the legs of the men standing above them. And now the defenders began to fall as well, and their comrades behind them dragged them back and replaced them in the line, even as they called for the healers to come and take care of them.

  One Wargal, mortally wounded, dropped his sword and shield and reached up for the leg of the man who had just speared him. His clawed hands fastened round the leg, and even as the soldier beat frantically at him with the shaft of his spear, he dragged him, screaming in terror, into the ditch. A host of black-furred bodies swamped the man, hacking and stabbing until his screams grew silent.

  A Wargal clambered up from the ditch onto the earthworks, snarling hatred and defiance. He was promptly spitted on the end of a spear and sent crashing back onto his comrades. But now more and more Wargals made it out of the ditch, urged on and boosted by their comrades. As the defenders turned to repel them, they left gaps in the line, which allowed still more of the terrible beasts to clamber up the earth slope and drive their way forward.

  Crowley, finding a clear spot from which to shoot, cut down half a dozen of the beasts in a matter of half a minute. But more of them came to take the place of their comrades and, slowly, the line of defenders was thinning. Gaps were appearing and men began to take their first tentative steps backward. They gave ground slowly at first, but that rearward movement could become a panic-stricken retreat at any moment.

  King Duncan, standing back several meters on a raised earth platform, saw the line begin to fade back. He drew his long sword, turned to Arald and David, standing beside him, and pointed to the spot where the defenders were faltering.

  “Come on!” he shouted, and dashed forward. The other two drew their swords as well and followed him, setting their shields more firmly on their arms as they went.

  Duncan hit the Wargals like an armored battering ram. Swords clanged harmlessly off his helmet or were deflected by his shield. His own sword rose and fell and swept and thrust with deadly efficiency as he mowed down the clumsy enemy troops. And right behind him, at either shoulder, Arald and David joined in, their own swords flashing in the early afternoon sun, the blades at first bright-burnished silver, then slowly becoming stained with red.

  The three expert warriors were unstoppable, hacking and cutting and stabbing as they forced their way into the Wargal ranks. A sword caught Arald a glancing blow on his left shoulder, tearing through the mail armor there. The steel links held firm long enough to prevent any serious injury, although blood began to cascade down his arm, mixing with the blood of the Wargals he had killed.

  In the heat of battle, he didn’t even notice the wound. A Wargal rose in front of him, fangs bared in a snarl, and Arald slammed his shield into the beast, using the reinforced center boss to smash bones and the force of his lunging body to send the Wargal toppling back into the ditch. He fought like a man possessed, the sheer speed and power of his sword strokes carving great gaps in the Wargal ranks.

  David was more clinical in style. Lacking Duncan’s and Arald’s size and massive strength, he substituted speed instead, lunging with the point, withdrawing it instantly, then lunging at a new target. Where Arald smashed and battered and hacked his way through the enemy, David fought coolly and precisely, seeing a gap in a Wargal’s guard and darting his sword point out like a striking death adder.

  And, like a death adder, his strikes were fatal.

  The three warriors, each one a champion in his own way, broke the impetus of the Wargal attack and rallied the defenders to go forward once more. Then, from his vantage point on the mound, Northolt bellowed an order.

  “Second squad! Forward!”

  The second squad, standing ready behind their comrades, had been waiting for this moment. Fresh arms and legs thrust forward into the Wargal ranks. Now the Wargal line began to bend backward, the rearward movement gathering speed and momentum.

  From the left, they heard a horn blast, and the enemy began to retreat. But it wasn’t a wild rout. Defeated for the moment, they fell back to the barricades and formed behind them, as arrows rattled and quivered against them. Then, under Morgarath’s mind control once more, they retreated down the hill.

  Over a hundred of their comrades lay dead or seriously wounded, sprawled on the earthworks or tumbled together in the ditch. Morgarath had paid dearly for this attack.

  But forty-three of the defenders lay dead as well. And another fifteen were seriously wounded, carried back to the healers’ tents.

  There was no question of pursuing the Wargals down the hill. They were still in relatively good order, and the men of Duncan’s army were exhausted—and their numbers seriously depleted.

  Crowley, his quiver empty, joined the senior commanders as they leaned on their swords, breathing deeply. All of them were wounded, and all three were stained with the blood of the Wargals they had killed.

  Duncan shook his head wearily and watched Morgarath’s troops receding down the hill.

  “We can’t afford another attack like that,” he said.

  David wiped his hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of blood there, some of it his own.

  “There’s not much we can do to avoid it,” he said.

  38

  THE EXHAUSTED ARALUEN SOLDIERS DROPPED TO THE ground where they stood, draining the last few drops of lukewarm water from their canteens. Fighting like this set a man’s thirst raging and they reacted gratefully as stewards moved among them with full water skins.

  The water skins themselves had been soaked on the outside, then hung from tree branches in the morning breeze. As the wind evaporated the water from the exterior of the skin, the contents inside became cooler. For the last hour or so, when they’d had time to gulp a mouthful of water, the soldiers had been drinking slightly leather-flavored warm water from their canteens. The cool, fresh water was deeply appreciated.

  Other servants moved among the fighting men, handing out food—flat bread wrapped around dried meat, cheese and pickles.

  Still others carried baskets of crisp, juicy apples on their hips, handing them out as they passed. Duncan crunched appreciatively on one of these, feeling the tart juice spring to life in his mouth, quenching his thirst and overcoming the metallic taste of battle.

  “This was a stroke of genius,” he said, looking appreciatively at the glossy fruit. “Who thought of this?”

  “My man Chubb,” Arald told him. “He’s the young kitchen master at Redmont.”

  “Kitchen master? What’s he doing with the army?” Duncan asked.

  Arald shrugged. “I tried to leave him behind but he can be downright disobedient at times.”

  “Good for him!” Duncan said, finishing the apple and sucking the last juice out of the core before he hurled it aside. “I might steal him from you when this is over.”

  Arald’s smile disappeared. “You could try,” he said, a warning note in his voice. Duncan raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. One rebellious baron at a time was enough for him.

  “Someone’s coming!” one of the sentries shouted, and the men stirred, some climbing wearily to their feet and reaching for their weapons.

  Duncan stood up on the parapet and looked at the valley below. “Relax,” he called. “It’s one man. And he has a flag of truce.”

  The Wargals had withdrawn as far as the near side of the ford, setting the rolling barricades down in position there and sitting on the grass to rest and recover. A single horseman was pushing through their ranks, urging his horse up the slope. He carried a white banner on the end of a spear, waving it from side to side as he came.


  As the men saw him and heard Duncan’s words, they relaxed. Those who had stood sank gratefully back onto the soft grass. Duncan took his sword from where he had placed it, point down, into the earth as the Wargals withdrew. Now he slid the blade back into its scabbard and stepped up onto the earthwork, an audible groan escaping his lips with the effort. Every muscle in his body was aching. The multiple flesh wounds that he had received during the battle, hastily bandaged by a medical orderly, throbbed painfully.

  “Give me something white,” he called back over his shoulder. One of the soldiers stepped forward and handed him a white surcoat taken from a wounded comrade when the healers had begun to work on him. The King glanced at it, wrinkling his nose at the blood and dirt smeared on it. Then he raised it over his head and waved it slowly from side to side.

  Morgarath’s messenger paused momentarily, then rode another twenty meters uphill. He was now well within arrow range and Crowley fingered a shaft thoughtfully. Maybe Morgarath would come as close, he thought.

  “Lord Morgarath offers a parley,” the herald shouted, his voice just carrying to them.

  Duncan straightened, filled his lungs and bellowed back. “Tell Morgarath to come ahead,” he called, intentionally leaving out any title.

  “Will you respect the flag of truce?” the herald shouted.

  Below and behind him, Duncan heard Crowley mutter, “Right up until the moment I shoot him.”

  The King glared at his Ranger Commandant and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Touch that bow, Crowley, and I’ll cut you down myself. You will not dishonor my word.”

  “As you say, my lord,” Crowley said. But his tone was rebellious.

  Duncan caught Arald’s eye. “Arald, keep him from doing anything stupid.”

  Arald nodded. “Aye, my lord.” He eased his dagger out of its scabbard. He stepped closer to Crowley, and the Ranger felt the point of the weapon poke into his ribs. “Do be sensible, Crowley,” he said.

  Crowley shrugged and set his bow down on the grass. “All right. But we’re making a mistake,” he said. I’ve been spending too much time with Halt, he thought.

  The herald sat his horse uncertainly, waiting for Duncan’s answer. The King hurriedly shouted it.

  “Tell Morgarath he’s safe. We’ll respect the white flag,” he said.

  The herald nodded and raised a silver whistle that he wore on a lanyard around his neck. He placed it to his lips and blew a long, trilling blast. From the ranks of Wargals and human troops below, a black-clad figure on a white horse detached itself and began to ride slowly up the hill.

  “And here he comes,” said Crowley softly.

  Morgarath’s white horse paced deliberately up the slope. The black-clad former Baron was in no hurry, content to let his enemies’ speculation about the subject of the parley take hold. He passed his herald and continued riding uphill for a further twenty meters, finally reining his horse in thirty meters from the earth rampart. Still he said nothing. He sat impassively, letting the silence drag out and, by his silence, forcing Duncan to open the discussion.

  Duncan was having no part of Morgarath’s mind games. When they had confronted each other at the tournament at Gorlan, he had been caught out by the former Baron’s smooth tongue and honeyed words, and his way of twisting the truth ever so slightly, so that it suited his own purposes.

  Now he simply turned his back and stepped down from the earthworks, disappearing from Morgarath’s view.

  “Tell me when he feels like talking,” he muttered to Arald and Northolt.

  Morgarath cursed. This wasn’t what he had expected. He rose in his stirrups, trying to catch sight of the King. Finally, he was forced to speak first.

  “Duncan!” he called, and waited as the King slowly remounted the earth barrier.

  “You had something to ask me?” Duncan asked. The wording was intentional. It implied that, in this scenario, Morgarath was the supplicant. It was only a small point, but parleys like this were made up of small points, with each participant trying to gain the ascendance.

  Morgarath’s forehead contorted in an angry frown. In the past, he had become accustomed to besting the King in these verbal confrontations. It seemed Duncan had learned quickly. He decided to do away with petty one-upmanship and get straight to the point—which was what Duncan had intended.

  “You’re defeated!” he shouted now, the anger obvious in his voice.

  Duncan smiled. “Yet here I am. And there you are below me,” he replied smoothly.

  Morgarath gestured to the lines of Wargals at the base of the hill. “You’re outnumbered. You can’t possibly win.”

  “So you say,” Duncan replied smoothly. “Yet I’m still inside the palisade here and you and your men are still outside.” He gestured to the bodies of the Wargals who had died assaulting his position. The army had taken in its own dead and wounded, of course, and had laid them out for treatment or burial behind the defenses. The lack of any of their bodies emphasized the fact that so many Wargals had died.

  “Don’t bandy words with me—”

  But Duncan cut Morgarath off, his voice rising in volume to shout over the top of the enemy general. “Morgarath, when a person calls for a parley, it’s usually to make some kind of offer—not make meaningless threats. Say what you came to say or ride away.”

  There was another silence. Morgarath swallowed his anger, allowed his breathing to steady and slow. Then he spoke in a deliberate tone.

  “I’ll offer you a chance to surrender,” he said. “One chance and one chance only. In spite of your prevarication, you know your situation is hopeless. You don’t have the numbers to continue.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Duncan said calmly, “we’re expecting reinforcements from three of the northern fiefs any day now.”

  Morgarath’s laugh was harsh and scornful. “Any day will be too late for you. You won’t last another day. Do you want to hear my terms or not?”

  Duncan shrugged. His claim about the imminent arrival of reinforcements was more wishful thinking than fact. Lady Pauline, riding frantically between the neighboring fiefs to engender their aid, had been given assurances of support. But assurances were one thing. Troops were another matter entirely. Duncan was convinced that many of the barons, without actually declaring for Morgarath, were standing by to see how matters transpired here at Hackham Heath.

  “Go ahead,” he said, keeping his tone as matter-of-fact as possible.

  “Your soldiers can lay down their weapons and walk away—back to their farms and villages. I’ll do nothing to stop them,” Morgarath said. “Your commanders’ lives will be spared. They’ll be banished from Araluen, of course. I can’t have them here fomenting another rebellion against me.”

  Duncan smiled mirthlessly, noting the way that Morgarath had typified their present conflict as a rebellion against him.

  “My commanders?” he asked. “Whom do you include in that?”

  Morgarath nodded toward the small group standing behind Duncan. “Arald, David, Northolt and Crowley. Naturally, they’ll all have to swear an oath never to return and try to create an uprising against me.”

  Behind him, Duncan heard Arald snort scornfully.

  “What about the other Rangers?” Crowley demanded, stepping forward a pace.

  Morgarath studied him calmly. The red-haired Ranger’s face was flushed with anger. He shrugged. “They can continue in the Corps,” he said. “So long as they swear allegiance to me. Otherwise, they will be banished with you.”

  “Does that include Halt?” Crowley asked.

  Morgarath’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the faces behind the earthwork barrier. “Where is Halt?” he demanded suddenly.

  Crowley bit his lip, wishing he hadn’t raised the subject.

  Arald stepped smoothly into the gap. “He’s in the healers’ tent. He was wounded in the raid
last night,” he said.

  Morgarath nodded in satisfaction. He had no idea who had taken part in the failed raid, but it stood to reason that Halt would have been among them.

  “Let’s hope it’s nothing trivial,” he said viciously. “But I’m afraid the offer of amnesty doesn’t apply to Halt. He’s caused me too much trouble.” The black-clad former Baron had a special antipathy to Halt. The Hibernian had refused his offer of a place in his army—and had then gone out of his way to thwart Morgarath’s plans for seizing the throne.

  “And what do you have in mind for me?” Duncan asked.

  Morgarath studied him for a few seconds before replying. “You know I can’t afford to let you live, Duncan,” he said. “You’d be a rallying point for rebellion against me as long as you were around. But I’ll guarantee you your execution will be as quick and as painless as I can manage.” He paused and shrugged diffidently. “You know I have to do it.”

  Duncan slowly nodded. It was no less than he expected. “I’ll need time to think about it,” he said.

  Morgarath gestured for his herald to ride forward. He held out his hand for the spear the man carried, then leaned down and scraped a groove in the ground, before planting the spear at the end of the groove.

  “I’ll give you until the shadow of the spear reaches that mark,” he said. “That should be about two hours. If you accept my terms, wave a red flag. Otherwise, no quarter.” He turned abruptly and spurred his horse away down the slope. The herald, caught unawares, hurried after him.

  Duncan stepped down from the parapet and faced his comrades. “Perhaps we should consider it,” he said. “There’s no way we can defeat him and there’s no reason for all of you to die.”

  “He’ll kill us anyway,” Crowley said, and the other two muttered agreement.

  Duncan shrugged his shoulders. He agreed with them. Morgarath was a liar and a cheat and a murderer. The King had no faith in his word.