by Damien Black
Gore from his second foe was dripping down his nose guard, but he didn’t let it distract him and stayed focused on the mayhem unfolding around him. A frightened squire flashed before his gaze – but he ignored this unworthy adversary and instead spurred his horse towards another knight, a great big burly man wielding a morning star to devastating effect. He had just downed a raven, his face exploding in a shower of blood and bone as he fell from his horse.
Torgun drove hard at him. The burly knight took his first blow on his shield, which bore a portcullis as a coat of arms. He renewed his onslaught, cutting left and right in rapid succession. But the knight moved quickly for his size, ducking one blow and blocking the other with his shield. Then, twisting in the saddle, he brought his morning star round in a great loop. This passed above Torgun’s shield, striking him in the side of the helm with a force that set his ears ringing and jostled his teeth in his mouth.
But the hardy knight had suffered more than one knock like that in his time. Roaring a great war-cry he spurred his horse at his foe again. This time the burly knight’s own steed responded, snapping fiercely at Torgun’s. The sudden reaction threw the knight off balance for just a moment, presenting his flank to Torgun’s line of attack.
A moment was all he needed. Suddenly lunging low he caught the knight beneath his hauberk, thrusting deep into his thigh and beyond into his horse’s flank. Horse and rider screamed as one, and the fierce black charger reared and threw its master to the ground to lie bleeding and groaning in the churned mud.
‘Torgun, behind you!’
The shouted warning from Tarlquist came not a moment too soon. Torgun turned just enough to interpose his shield between his head and a descending axe. Just then Tarlquist spurred forwards and thrust his blood-slick blade into the rebel knight’s side. He screamed and lurched off his horse into the mud and blood.
‘Well met, Sir Tarlquist!’ cried Torgun above the noise. ‘Let’s find more rebels to slay!’
‘Aye, let’s do that, Sir Torgun!’ answered Tarlquist with a wolfish grin.
The joy of battle was on them, subsuming all fear. Together they pressed further into the melee, searching for new foes to wet their blades.
Vaskrian’s first experience of war consumed him in shroud of steel. No sooner were the two hosts joined than he found himself separated from Sir Ulfstan. He had been riding in his master’s wake but lost sight of him as soon as the armies met.
Riding his courser into the fray he passed a myriad of knights clashing noisily before coming up against his first opponent: a battle-scarred squire of some twenty summers, clad in a shabby brigandine and wielding a shield like his own and a cruelly spiked mace. The older squire gave a hateful sneer as he lashed out at Vaskrian. He parried with his shield before trying a sword thrust to his midriff, but the rebel squire was too quick and twisted in the saddle to avoid the strike.
The attack left Vaskrian momentarily off-guard. His opponent took advantage of this to strike again. With an agonising crunch his mace bit into Vaskrian’s left shoulder. And his ribs had been healing up so nicely. Biting his lip hard to avoid crying out he felt blood run into his mouth but recovered in time to counter attack, aiming a thrust at the squire’s unprotected face. The squire blocked with his own shield, before counter counter-attacking.
Vaskrian was pressed back before a flurry of blows, and forced to parry any overhead strikes with his sword, for he now could not lift his shield above his injured shoulder. He saw his life flash before his eyes... but then his overconfident foe made one fatal mistake, bringing his mace around in a sidewise swipe at Vaskrian’s head. With a speed born of instinct he ducked the blow. The wild attack left his foe momentarily unguarded – taking his sword in both hands he slashed from left to right across his face. The squire screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching at the wound as blood streamed through his fingers. Without hesitation Vaskrian finished him off, thrusting his sword deep into his bowels.
His battle lust went up another notch. The aching in his shoulder diminished. Spurring his horse through the riot of blood and steel he cut down another squire, a timid-looking noble of barely sixteen winters. He felt no pity, only the joy of battle. Hadn’t his master said something about not attacking bluebloods? Ridiculous notion.
Speaking of which, where was Ulfstan? The melee had thinned slightly – it appeared that the rebel knights were giving ground. All around was a surge of violence as mounted warriors clashed at close quarters with sword and axe and mace.
A war cry alerted him to another attack – this one from the ground as a dismounted knight charged at him with a sword. Clearly he had been badly wounded – his light helm revealed a face streaked with flowing blood, and his shield arm was bent at an awkward angle, presumably broken in his fall. His injuries must have robbed him of all self-possession, for a squire would be considered an unworthy opponent to aggress by most self-respecting knights.
Vaskrian had little time to consider this as he parried the knight’s first blow. The second came quickly, but by the time Vaskrian returned the attack it was clear that his opponent was fading fast. Hacking down at him frenziedly Vaskrian’s initial blows were turned by the knight’s mail – but his final cut found a weak spot and sheared through his collar bone in a spurt of blood.
The knight slumped to his knees and looked up at his killer with an expression of profound pain and bewilderment.
‘A... squire,’ was all he managed to say, before keeling over.
Vaskrian felt something hit him hard on the top of his helm. His ears rang and his vision swam. He felt himself falling slowly backwards into a black pool of night. Then he felt nothing.
Adelko watched the battle unfold anxiously. The King and a rump of his knights did likewise. Most of them were unknown to Adelko – Ulnor had been left at Strongholm, to supervise the last defence of the city if it should become necessary, whilst every fighting man of status had been deployed in the field. Beside him his mentor remained as impassive as ever, looking upon the spectacle with grim eyes.
The knights on either side had been first into the fray – Adelko knew that much of the day depended on the success of their vanguard, but with several thousand knights and squires fighting each other it was hard to discern who had the advantage. Thinking of his friend Vaskrian in the thick of it, he mouthed a prayer for him. He still didn’t entirely agree with what his mentor had said on the eve of the march, although the spectacle of war was sickening enough.
The flanks were next to meet. As these advanced towards each other both sides gave the order for their archers to fire.
That was the worst part of the battle for Adelko, who watched with his heart in his mouth as men fell by the dozen before the pitiless hail of shafts. The advancing footsoldiers left a carpet of corpses in their wake as they charged to meet the foe, who sustained similar casualties. The screams of the dying and wounded footsoldiers drowned out the distant din of mounted knights clashing, and the young monk’s stomach heaved as he saw some of the men trying to crawl back towards the camp, their bodies feathered with arrows. Even at this distance he could see that some of them wore the colours of his own Highland people.
As the foot battle was joined it soon became apparent that they were dreadfully outnumbered. Before long all semblance of formation on either side was lost, and serried ranks gave way to a seething mass of men and horse, as mounted warriors did battle with footmen and vice versa.
The distant cries and screams and ring of steel on steel continued interminably as the sun climbed slowly towards its zenith.
And then a series of clarion calls came. Far and wide they rang out across the corpse-strewn field.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Adelko.
Horskram’s face remained icy as he said: ‘It means a general retreat. Our strength is overmatched and we must withdraw the field.’
‘Withdraw...? But that means they’ll come for us here – what about the King?’
Horskram turned to loo
k at Freidheim, whose face was as inscrutable as his.
‘I’m sure His Majesty is more than aware of the situation,’ was all he said.
Krulheim heard the clarions and rejoiced. He had led his own knights into the fray as befitted a true king, and slain more than his fair share. Even so, they had been hard pressed by the White Valravyn that morning, and had it been simply down to their horse the battle would probably have gone ill for them. But once the main body of his army had joined battle, the tide had quickly turned, for not even those myrmidons could hope to prevail over such weight of numbers.
Or so it had turned out, anyway.
The knights commanded by loyalist jarls could be seen riding hell for leather towards the east, leaving the White Valravyn and the Royal Knights to fight a brave rearguard action to protect their fleeing footsoldiers.
Krulheim was on the verge of ordering a new attack, when things went out of his hands. The Northland berserkers, filled with bloodlust and greed for loot, broke formation and charged pell-mell after the fleeing footsoldiers, highlanders and levies towards the King’s camp. Many of the southron levies, their blood up, followed suit. The loyalist knights who had not fled the field, inspired by the dwindling numbers on the enemy side, renewed their attack against the rebel knights, the more disciplined regular footsoldiers and those yeomen whose commanders had had presence enough to keep them from breaking ranks.
Krulheim spat into the bloodied earth at his charger’s feet. He turned to Sir Jord. He too had done his share of killing: his tabard was covered in the blood of loyalist knights and footsoldiers.
‘You see what comes of this alliance, Jord!’ snarled Krulheim. ‘I never should have made a pact with such Northland brigands!’
Jord glanced sidelong at him, but kept his counsel.
‘Pah!’ the pretender snorted. ‘What does it matter anyway? Half their horse flee the field, and their footsoldiers are all but finished. The day is ours, I say!’
This time Jord did not so much as look at his liege. Instead he watched the tumultuous battlefield, his lined face set grim.
Adelko watched with his heart in his mouth as thousands of berserkers and peasant levies screamed after their retreating footsoldiers. Off to his left those knights commanded by the Efrilunders and other jarls loyal to the King were fleeing the field.
‘But they’re abandoning us!’ he cried. ‘They’re running away!’
‘It would appear so,’ said Horskram grimly. His face remained expressionless. The faces of the King and his personal bodyguard of knights were taut and tense. Helplessly Adelko watched as the horde of fleeing footsoldiers hurtled back across the field towards them.
Suddenly the King turned and motioned to a herald next to him, who raised a horn to his lips and blew three short sharp blasts. The fleeing knights, who had been dwindling on the horizon, suddenly wheeled around and began riding back towards the fray.
Their target was unmistakeable.
Simultaneously the footsoldiers who had been fleeing abruptly turned and stood their ground. Their pursuers outnumbered them hugely, and for a few minutes there was fierce fighting. It was close enough for Adelko to fancy he could smell the blood being spilt now, as the enemy cut a dreadful swathe through the hard-pressed loyalists.
But they managed to hold on just long enough for the returning knights to smash the berserkers and common footsoldiers in the flank, riding them down and slaying on the left hand and the right. The Northlanders turned and fought viciously, transported by berserker courage, but the peasant levies panicked and quickly broke into a rout.
Even the Northlanders were no match for the combined forces of their mounted opponents and the King’s hardy men-at-arms, and soon their bodies were piling up atop the others already littering the bloody sward.
Embroiled once more in combat at close quarters, Thule had no idea of what was occurring in the wider field. Not that he cared. With a great blow of his war axe he cut down another raven. He felt a great rush of exultation – Ragnar’s ministrations had left him feeling fearless, and rightly so. He had cut down two more knights by the time he came face to face with the High Commander of the White Valravyn.
‘How very fitting,’ he snarled from a mouth made feral by bloodshed. ‘The King sends his little brother to do his dirty work for him.’
‘As to that, Krulheim,’ replied Freidhoff, lowering his visor, ‘there will be nothing dirty about ridding the realm of a traitor such as thee.’
They joined battle. No one about them on either side interfered. They fought long and hard, trading fierce strokes, and soon both knights’ shields were in splintered tatters. Then Freidhoff made a skilful feint at Krulheim’s head – he raised his iron-shod axe haft to parry but the High Commander changed the direction of his attack at the last moment, thrusting his sword deep through a chink in his armour just beneath the shoulder.
And Krulheim laughed.
Freidhoff’s eyes widened behind his visor as he wrenched his blade free of the wound – not a drop of blood stained his sword. Clutching his battleaxe in two hands Krulheim aimed a swipe at Freidhoff. He raised his shield instinctively to ward off the blow, remembering too late that it was in tatters. The sharp blade sheared through the remnants of the shield and the mail beneath, biting deep into flesh and bone. With a great cry Freidhoff brought his sword down onto Krulheim’s shoulder. It was a powerful cut, enough to break through his mail, but again he merely laughed.
Blood was spurting from Freidhoff’s maimed arm, which hung limply at his side, kept in one piece only by a few threads of flesh and mangled sinew. Raising the war axe over his shoulder again the self-style Prince of Thule aimed another cut at his head. The High Commander tried to parry... but he was faint from shock and loss of blood and his reactions were slow.
Krulheim’s axe smashed heavily into his helm, crumpling the visor inwards with enough force to break his nose. With a gasp he slipped from his horse to lie prone in the churned mud. With a malignant sneer Krulheim prepared to dismount from his horse and administer the coup de grace, but at that moment Sir Wolmar was on him in a frenzy, raining furious blows on him.
Such was the shock of his attack that Krulheim found himself swiftly disarmed, although none of Wolmar’s other blows did him any harm. But then why would they?
Laughing madly he drew his sword and returned the young knight’s onslaught in kind.
Things would have gone ill for Wolmar had not Torgun intervened, spurring his charger at Krulheim and forcing him back with another salvo of attacks. Just then another surge of rebel soldiers, by now a hotchpotch of regular foot and pressed conscripts, pushed forwards to menace the loyalist knights with long spears. Krulheim, Torgun and Wolmar all became separated from one another as a sortie of Saltcaste’s knights joined their part of the battle.
Of the fallen High Commander there was no sign. No matter – he was sure he had incapacitated the Order’s precious leader at the very least. Let the high-and-mighty ravens think that over, if they survived the day.
With the berserkers slaughtered and more than half of Thule’s peasant levies in rout, the King’s victorious forces lost no time in riding back up the field to rejoin their comrades.
By now it was past noon. Adelko had felt his emotions go from the depths of despair to the height of joy in that time, as what had happened finally dawned on him.
‘It was a feint!’ he exclaimed. ‘They never really meant to flee the field at all! It was just a ruse to draw out Thule’s men!’
‘Welcome to the wily ways of warfare,’ was all his mentor said.
For his part the King was now grinning broadly, as were most of his attendant knights.
‘Well, Horskram,’ he proclaimed loudly. ‘What think you of my tactics? I may be too old to fight a war, but I’m still not too old to plan one! I knew those Northland barbarians and that jumped-up rabble could be counted on to take the bait!’
‘Your Majesty is indeed wise in the ways of war,’ answered Horsk
ram levelly. ‘Though may I be so bold as to say it was a dangerous manoeuvre that could easily have gone awry, with disastrous consequences.’
The King glared at the old monk. ‘War is ever decided on dangerous manoeuvres, master monk,’ he replied testily.
From where he was in the vanguard with the Royal Knights, Sir Braxus could see nothing but men and horses about him. It had been a hard morning’s fighting, and his limbs ached.
At least that was his only complaint. Regan had not been so lucky – he’d taken a nasty spear injury to the thigh, his squire Conric had had to drag him out of the battle for treatment. And Braxus’ own steed had been taken out from under him, forcing him to continue the fight on foot.
As a man-at-arms charged at him wielding a spear he found himself briefly wondering whether volunteering for someone else’s war had been such a good idea after all – there was little glory to be had in killing commoners.
As he nimbly dodged the soldier’s first spear thrust before stepping in to open his throat with an arcing slice of his sword, he consoled himself with the thought that he had at least managed to slay three brave knights before being unhorsed. That would give him something to sing about in his next song.
Vaskrian’s eyes fluttered open. Everything was the same as he remembered – the noise of war and armoured men all about him, screaming as their weapons clashed or found flesh. He was lying in the mud, a soldier’s corpse on top of him. With an effort he pushed the dead man’s body off him and struggled to sit upright.
His head was pounding and his left shoulder throbbed painfully. His ribs were aching too. His target shield was still strapped to his arm. Of the helm that had saved his life there was no sign – he could only suppose it had rolled off his head when he fell from his horse senseless. His side also ached, from the fall he supposed. Thank Reus he hadn’t fallen on to his broken ribs – they hurt enough as it was.