The Battle of Hackham Heath

by John Flanagan

  “With what?” he said. “Our men are exhausted and we’re still outnumbered. Halt’s cavalry have ridden over fifty kilometers in the past day, then pulled off one of the finest cavalry charges I’ve ever seen—riding uphill to do it. Their horses are spent. The riders are exhausted.”

  “But . . . they’re running!” David said, gesturing toward the Wargals far below. Tactical wisdom said that when your enemy broke and ran, the best course was to pursue them. To harry them. To give them no rest.

  But tactical wisdom didn’t allow for the fact that your own men might be exhausted, wounded and their numbers decimated. That your cavalry might be at the end of its tether. If they went after Morgarath and his army now, the Wargals might recover and turn back on them. And the weary soldiers might be overwhelmed by a sudden resurgence.

  If that were to happen, the Wargals’ confidence would soar and the victory might be reversed. Perhaps it wasn’t likely. But it was possible.

  “We’ll go after them tomorrow,” Duncan said. “We’ll chase them back to their dark, rainy mountains and bottle them up there.”

  He glanced up as two riders walked their horses up to the small command group. Halt and Gilan slid down from their saddles. The boy embraced his father. Halt nodded at David.

  “He did very well,” Halt said. “Killed two Wargals who had me cornered.”

  “Halt killed the third before I could,” said Gilan, still a little aggrieved.

  Halt hid a smile. “Well, I did apologize.”

  The King stopped further conversation. He stepped forward and embraced the bearded Ranger. “Good work, Halt. You saved us today,” he said.

  Halt sighed. “Pity we missed Morgarath.”

  The King glanced down the hill at the enemy army, streaming across the plain and disappearing over the distant ridge.

  “We’ll get him next time,” he said. “I think we need a few reinforcements before we take that lot on again.”

  All around them, men were stripping off their helmets and mail shirts, sinking wearily to the ground, unable to believe that they had secured a victory when everything had seemed lost. Baron Arald’s indefatigable cook had his orderlies out once more, passing out cold water, apples and bread and meat.

  Crowley pushed through the crowd and joined them. He embraced his fellow Ranger, then stepped back, grinning. “Did you have a nice little ride in the country while we were here doing all the fighting?”

  Halt glanced down at his friend’s belt quiver. Like his own, it was empty.

  “Lost your arrows somewhere, did you?” he said, and the two of them laughed. Crowley put an arm around Halt’s shoulder.

  “Come and see the others,” he said. “They’re all keen to hear what you’ve been up to.”

  Halt glanced at the King, who made a gesture to indicate that the two Rangers had permission to withdraw. Duncan turned to Northolt.

  “We’d better do a roll call,” he said. “We need to find out how many men we have left. We’ll have to fight again in the next few days. Then I want to visit the wounded and thank them.” He left unsaid that they faced another, grimmer task: the burial of those who had given their lives in the battle.

  Northolt nodded. A commander’s work was never done, it seemed. Once the battle was over, the soldiers could rest. But the leaders had to make sure they would be ready to fight again when needed.

  The two Rangers had gone half a dozen paces when Halt stopped and turned back. He eyed Gilan keenly. “You did very well, Gilan. I owe you my life.”

  The boy flushed at such praise, particularly as it was delivered in front of his father and the King. Before he could reply, Halt continued. “If you still want to be a Ranger, come and see us in a couple of years.”

  A huge grin spread over Gilan’s young face. His father regarded him curiously. This was the first he had heard of Gilan’s desire to join the Rangers. The boy bobbed his head in gratitude.

  “I’ll do that, Halt,” he replied.

  Halt hid his answering smile, maintaining a deadpan expression.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you,” he said. “I have a certain amount of influence with the Commandant.”

  Crowley raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is that so? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Halt slapped him on the back. “You’re always the last to know things,” he told his friend.

  • • •

  As it turned out, the army was called upon to fight again over the ensuing days, in a series of bitter engagements with the retreating Wargal army. Once he had put sufficient distance between himself and Duncan’s forces, Morgarath managed to regain partial control of his troops, although it would be years before he managed to reclaim the complete dominance he had enjoyed over them at the start of the campaign.

  While Morgarath headed back to the Mountains of Rain and Night with the bulk of his army, his Wargal forces set ambushes and made surprise attacks on the royal troops as they doggedly pursued the rebel baron.

  The army fought half a dozen skirmishes, all of which served to delay them while Morgarath made his escape. Crowley had his men out scouting and reporting on his progress. There came a day when Berrigan rode into camp, dust-covered and weary.

  “He’s made it back to Three Step Pass,” he reported, and there was a general chorus of anger from the command group gathered in Duncan’s tent.

  “We can’t touch him there,” Northolt said bitterly.

  The King nodded. “His time will come,” he said. “In the meantime, we have a hundred Wargals camped a few kilometers away. Tomorrow, we’ll have to fight them.”

  “They’re the last of the troops he set to cover his retreat,” Crowley said. “After tomorrow, we’ll be rid of them.”

  “And after that, we’ll need to set a force to contain Morgarath in the mountains,” Northolt said.

  Duncan nodded agreement, then smiled.

  “I’ll leave that in your capable hands, Northolt,” he said. “After tomorrow, I’m heading back to Castle Araluen. I have a daughter I want to get to know.”

  EPILOGUE

  IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT IN CASTLE REDMONT. ONE BY ONE, the windows in the keep went dark as the occupants retired to their beds. One light remained burning.

  Halt and Lady Pauline sat in comfortable chairs in the parlor of her suite of rooms. On the floor between them lay a large basket, holding a small infant, wrapped in blankets. His alert brown eyes peered over the top of the covers, swiveling between them as they spoke in lowered tones.

  “His father saved your life?” Pauline said.

  Halt nodded. “Without a doubt. It was the last skirmish with Morgarath’s Wargals, south of Hackham Heath. I was knocked down and I thought I was done for. I was done for, to all intents and purposes. Then he was there.”

  His eyes had a faraway look as he thought about that day. Pauline said nothing. After a traumatic event like that, a person often just needed to talk—to relate what had happened, to exorcize the mind-numbing fear that could leave one helpless and exposed.

  “He leapt over me, armed only with a spear, and fought them off. Then one of them smashed the head of his spear and he used the shaft like a quarterstaff, knocking them senseless, sending them reeling left and right. Then he ripped a sword away from one of them and struck out again.” He shook his head over the memory. “Bear in mind, he wasn’t trained as a swordsman. He was a simple soldier—a sergeant, as it turned out. I was dazed and not seeing too clearly, but I figure he killed a dozen of them before they eventually brought him down.

  “Then the other soldiers reached us and drove the Wargals off. But they were already beginning to back away, even as Daniel fell.”

  “Daniel. That was his name?” Pauline asked.

  “Yes. He managed to tell me that. And he made me swear to find this little fellow and his mother and see that they w
ere safe. Of course, I promised I would. Then he was dead.”

  “What became of the mother?” she asked.

  Halt sighed unhappily. “It took me days to find out where they lived. When I finally reached their farm, she was being attacked by two of Daniel’s so-called comrades. Seems they specialized in robbing the homes of soldiers who had been killed during the battle.

  “There was a fight. One of them dragged me down, and the other was about to stab me. Then the mother threw herself on him and gave me a chance to fight back.” His face set in grim lines as he remembered the scene. “But he killed her before I could stop him. As she was dying, she told me the boy’s name: Will.”

  They both fell silent, looking down at the little person in the basket. As before, the lively brown eyes switched back and forth between them, watching them. Pauline reached down a hand to touch the baby’s face. Instantly, a tiny fist emerged from under the blankets and seized her forefinger. The baby smiled and gurgled happily at the contact.

  “He’s a cheerful fellow,” she said, jiggling her hand. The baby clung tightly to her finger, refusing to release her. His smile widened.

  “He is,” Halt agreed. “He was no trouble at all on the trip here.” He paused, then sighed once more. “The question is, what do I do with him now?”

  “You can hardly look after a baby,” she said. “You’re always away.”

  “I know,” he said despondently. “And even if I could, it might not be the best thing for him to be associated with me.”

  She raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question and he explained.

  “You know how people feel about Rangers. They trust us to a certain degree, but they do have suspicions about us. Some of them even think we’re wizards. They’re frightened of us, more often than not.”

  She made a small moue. “I’m not. Nor are any of the people here in Redmont.”

  “Not the Baron or the knights or their ladies,” he agreed. “But the common folk definitely want to keep their distance from us. The people in the villages are only happy to talk to us when they need us.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she said. “Mind you, the Rangers have done a lot to encourage that attitude. It adds to your sense of mystery.”

  “I know that. But I wouldn’t want him to grow up facing that sort of prejudice. Oh, there’s the Ranger’s boy,” he said, in a fair approximation of a countryman’s accent. “Don’t get too close to him. You can’t really trust them.”

  “I can see that might be a problem,” she said, and another silence fell over them. Then she frowned and said suspiciously, “You weren’t hoping that I’d take care of him for you, were you?”

  Halt threw up his hands in surprise, rejecting the suggestion. “Lord no! You have your own career, and you’re away nearly as much as I am. More, sometimes.”

  The suspicion cleared from her face and she relaxed. She jiggled her finger again, but the baby resolutely refused to release her. She smiled at him. There was something endearing, something trusting, in the warm grip around her finger.

  “What about the Ward?” she said eventually. “The Baron set it up to look after the orphans of parents who died serving the Kingdom. He’d be well treated there. He’d be educated and trained. Eventually, he’d be able to choose a career path for himself.”

  Halt was nodding as she spoke. “I was thinking about that.”

  Pauline took his hand in both of hers. “It’s a perfect solution,” she said. “It’s a happy place and the children are loved and cared for. Arald keeps an eye on it and takes a personal interest in the children raised there—as does Lady Sandra.”

  He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “They couldn’t know that I brought him there,” he said. “People mustn’t know I have any involvement with him or the stigma will apply to him.”

  She nodded. “Of course. You’d need to leave him there anonymously.” She rose and went to a small writing table by the window. She rummaged in the drawers and produced a plain sheet of paper, took up a quill that was resting in the inkwell, then hesitated, searching for the right words.

  Halt gently took the quill from her hand and wrote rapidly, speaking the words aloud as he did. “His mother died in childbirth.” He looked up at Pauline. “That’s not strictly accurate, of course.”

  She considered the point, then dismissed it with a hand gesture. “You’re right. But the full details of her death are too complicated. People would ask questions and your involvement could be revealed.”

  “I suppose so,” he said slowly. He continued writing for a moment.

  “His father died a hero,” he said softly as he added the words, “Please care for him.” He weighed the sheet of paper in his hand, then placed it in the basket, tucking it in at the foot of the blankets, away from Will’s questing little hands.

  “Seems like that’s the answer,” he said. “And of course, I can keep an eye on him as he grows older.”

  She grinned, finally securing the release of her forefinger. “Who knows, you might even train him to be a Ranger one day.”

  But Halt shook his head. “Not me. I’m not the type. I don’t have the patience for it.”

  “You might surprise yourself,” she said.

  Halt rose and made his way to the window. The castle outside was dark, the courtyard deserted. The three-story building that housed the Ward was opposite Pauline’s room. There was an oil lamp burning over the front door, but the rest of the rooms were in darkness.

  “I may as well take him there now,” he said, “while there’s no one to see me.”

  He picked up the basket and headed toward the door. Pauline held up a hand to stop him.

  “I’ll check and make sure there’s nobody in the corridor who might see you,” she said. She started toward the door, then stopped beside him and smiled down at the little face on the pillow.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” she said. “We’ve been through so much death and destruction and yet here he is, a brand-new life.”

  “Just like the King’s daughter, Cassandra,” Halt said.

  Pauline nodded. “Yes. Life keeps renewing itself, doesn’t it?” She gave a little laugh. “I wonder if he and the princess will ever meet?”

  Halt shook his head. “A princess and the orphan son of a farmer? How could that happen?”