by Damien Black
This time the King and his advisers had opted to divide their archers, putting six hundred on each flank. Behind these marched the trained men-at-arms and the remnants of the highland foot, divided evenly into two flanking companies five hundred strong.
Foremost on either side went the remainder of the yeoman levies, some six hundred apiece: the cruel realities of war dictated that these should be sacrificed and used for arrow fodder if need be, to give the trained footsoldiers a better chance to survive the approach.
When he learned this Adelko felt his heart contract. The poorest soldiers in the army – men of humble birth like himself – would be used as fodder. Perhaps Horskram had a point after all: could anyone hope for redemption while they remained party to the ugly trade of fighting? He tried not to dwell on it – he felt miserable enough as it was with the prospect of another bloody battle before him.
At the centre rode the knights, divided into four companies, each four hundred strong. The black-and-white banner of the White Valravyn waved in the steady breeze above the first of these, the royal unicorn coat of arms flapped briskly above another. The remaining two companies sported the varied coats of arms of the barons that commanded them.
Adelko and Horskram rode before the knights with the King’s contingent. As the distant grey walls of Salmor gradually sharpened into visibility the scouts came back with their first report.
‘The archers in the hills to the left numbered at least five hundred, Your Majesty,’ said the lead scout, falling into a canter between the King and Lord Visigard. ‘They’re stiffened with a large contingent of levies. As far as we can tell, the hills to the right are much less well defended – we reckon they’ve got two hundred bowmen up there.’
‘What about the Salwood?’ asked the King, without taking his eyes off the castle.
The outrider shook his head. ‘We couldn’t get close enough without being picked off by their archers to tell, sire.’
Adelko followed the scout’s line of sight. Away to the south the dark eaves of the Salwood beckoned, still and silent as the grave. Adelko felt his sixth sense tingling.
The enemy had constructed a hasty palisade directly to the left of the castle, behind which were stationed many more archers. Drawn up before the castle moat was a motley array of trained and conscript foot, numbering fifteen hundred at the most. Of Thule’s knights there was no sign.
At the King’s command the army halted just out of bowshot range. Freidheim and his personal contingent broke off to the right and crested a nearby hill for a better view of the coming battle. As his squires began pitching the royal pavilion Adelko looked south again. He could see the rebel archers clearly now, clustered on the hills about them that lined the flat approach to the castle.
Surveying the field the King frowned. ‘His left flank’s barely defended,’ he muttered to Lord Visigard. ‘Unless he’s hiding men in the Salwood – there’s been no sign of his knights.’
‘He can’t be hiding them in there,’ replied Visigard. ‘The trees are too dense and the wood’s too small for seven hundred mounted knights. Unless our reckonings are wrong, he appears to have all the rest of his army deployed.’
Adelko felt his sixth sense go up a notch. Yet again his mind went back to the faerie woods of Tintagael. Flicking the thought away he tried to concentrate on the situation before him.
‘Send scouts out back the way we came,’ ordered the King. ‘I can’t see how we’ve missed hundreds of mounted knights, but it’s possible Thule might be planning some sort of surprise rear attack. Have them check the land close to the main road as well.’
A herald nodded and hurried off to relay the command. Turning back to face the scene before him the King frowned again and took counsel.
‘We should waste no time,’ insisted Sir Toric, the new High Commander of the White Valravyn. ‘If he is planning a surprise attack then the sooner we join battle the better.’
‘All the same we should not be too hasty,’ countered Visigard. ‘I’d suggest we pull back one company of knights to guard our rear, until the scouts return.’
Reluctantly the King decided to act on this advice. Adelko could almost sense the baffled irritation from the Efrilunders and Woldings as they complied with the order – with an enemy right in front of them what need was there for fencing with shadows? He could feel a palpable unease spreading through the wider army as the company of knights turned and broke formation, cantering towards the rear of the army to face south. Glancing at Horskram he found his mentor to be his same old inscrutable self.
After another brief conference it was decided to act on Toric’s advice as well. At the King’s command the heralds gave the order for both flanks to begin advancing towards the hills on either side. The steady beat of a drum matched their measured tread.
When the loyalist archers drew within range they stopped to nock and draw at their leaders’ command. At that moment the levies charged up the hills with a great yell, the regular soldiers and highland foot following closely in their wake.
His heart once again in his mouth, Adelko watched the gruesome spectacle of battle unfold anew.
The casualties on their right side weren’t so bad. Thule had fewer bowmen on the hills there, and these were soon overwhelmed by the answering fire of the loyalists. When the conscripts reached the remainder they made light work of them, massacring them so that there was little sport left for the Highlanders and heavily armoured men-at-arms charging in their wake. By the time it was over perhaps two hundred loyalist yeomen lay dead or dying on the slopes.
On the left side things fared much worse. The first hail of arrows fired by loyalist archers found meagre pickings, for they were at maximum range and the wind did not help. The rebel archers aimed their first volley at the charging levies, mowing down dozens of screaming men. The thousand-strong levy serving Thule had meanwhile charged down the hills to meet their oncoming attackers, and soon the two hosts were joined together in a bitter bloodletting, as peasants hacked and stabbed each other to death with axes, scythes and spears.
Though he was too far away to see it in much detail, Adelko felt queasy. He didn’t think watching wholesale butchery was ever something he would get used to. At any rate, he prayed he never would.
The rebel archers had now switched to targeting their loyalist counterparts, to avoid hitting their own side in the melee. For a while the fight continued thus doubly, with archers picking each other off and the two hosts fighting hand to hand. But the loyalist flank, stiffened with armoured foot and Highlanders skilled at fighting on uneven ground, gradually began to gain the upper hand.
When the victorious right flank cut across the sward to join up with their fellow loyalists, the tide finally turned decisively in their favour. The remaining rebel levies broke into a rout, leaving their surviving bowmen to unleash a last deadly volley at close range against their attackers before being butchered to a man.
Watching before the royal pavilion, the King did not appear to share his generals’ exuberance. The motley rebel company drawn up before the castle had not budged throughout the engagement.
‘I like this not,’ he muttered. ‘We may have Thule on the back foot, but this seems all too easy.’
When the two flanks had rejoined the knights at the centre a quick estimate of casualties was taken. Perhaps half the yeomen on the left had perished, along with a third of its regulars including the Highlanders. From the rear company of knights there was no report of any enemy on the horizon; scouts had returned during the hill skirmish to report similar non-findings.
Adelko’s sixth sense flared as the King prepared to order two companies of knights, the Valravyn and the Royals, to charge the remainder of Thule’s forces.
The faerie kings returned to plague his thoughts. He could see them sat before him, their gossamer forms shimmering as they spoke voiceless words of warning: Forces of darkness are abroad, not all shall take an open road...
The two companies of knights began jo
stling into position, their steeds stamping and snorting in anticipation of the coming charge.
Wounds ‘neath woods are harder healed...
At the King’s command the herald gave the order for the knights to couch lances. Behind them squires prepared to ride in their masters’ wake. Everyone he had met on his adventures would be in that charge – Vaskrian, Braxus, Torgun, Tarlquist, Doric and Cirod...
And then the last stanza uttered by the faeries came back to him, loud and clear in his mind:
So keep your wits about you all,
Many are the Fallen One’s thralls,
And though trees may offer refuge,
Yet others conceal subterfuge...
The knights lowered their spears and prepared to charge. The remaining enemy footsoldiers prepared to receive them. Adelko found his gaze moving beyond them to where the trees of the Salwood stood stock still. Brooding and menacing they looked; not a leaf or branch stirred.
And though trees may offer refuge, yet others conceal subterfuge...
And suddenly he knew. ‘Your Majesty!’ he cried suddenly, turning to address the King. ‘Don’t give the order to charge! It’s the trees! Thule’s knights are the trees!’
Horskram blinked, staring at his novice in bafflement. The King, who had been on the point of ordering his herald to blow the signalling note, turned and stared at Adelko.
‘What nonsense are you speaking, lad?’ he thundered. ‘A novice should know better than to interfere in a war!’
But Adelko had never felt more sure of himself. ‘No, don’t you see? The knights are the trees!’ he yelled again.
‘Adelko!’ cried Horskram, recovering his wits. ‘Be silent! This is no time for your antics!’
‘Thule’s knights cannot possibly be hiding in the trees,’ said Visigard sternly. ‘Did you not hear what I said before?’
‘No, not in the trees,’ insisted Adelko, shaking his head. ‘They are the trees – those aren’t real trees you’re seeing! The Sea Wizard must have disguised Thule’s knights using his magic!’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ roared the King. ‘Horskram, you will remove your novice from my presence at once. Herald - ’
‘But look!’ cried Adelko as his mentor seized him roughly by the arm. ‘The trees can’t be real – there’s been a steady breeze all morning but their leaves aren’t moving!’
Horskram turned instantly to look at the forest. It was true. Though the bracing wind continued to ruffle their habits and the surcoats of the knights, the line of trees stood still as stone.
‘Wait,’ said Horskram, letting go of Adelko’s arm. ‘He’s right – look at yonder trees, they aren’t moving.’
Visigard rolled his eyes and looked at his King, who was staring at the Salwood with thoughtful eyes. Down on the field the knights’ horses were stirring impatiently, their armour and spurs jingling as their battle standards flapped in the breeze.
The King measured his words carefully. ‘Are you trying to tell me, Master Horskram, that yonder trees are knights?’
‘I’m saying that my novice is right about them not moving in the wind – and if everything we’ve heard about this Sea Wizard is true, he has the power to meld elemental magic with illusion. Think on the earlier battle here.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ snapped the King irritably, motioning for the herald to hold off.
‘If you give the order to charge and Adelko is right, you will leave your flank exposed to a ferocious charge – he will serve you the same turn as you did him,’ said Horskram. ‘If he breaks your formation with most of his remaining horse and foot intact, he puts himself back almost on a level footing with your remainder. And though the Efrilunders be stout men of arms, I would not stake the outcome of a battle on the oafish Woldings you’ll have left besides.’
‘He has the right of it, sire,’ put in Sir Toric. ‘As strange as it seems, if that is a company of knights seven hundred strong, they are poised to regain the initiative – that’s a chance we can’t take.’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’ demanded Visigard, his eyes bulging. ‘Order our men to charge at a clump of trees?’
‘If you give them such an order you will be calling the Sea Wizard’s bluff,’ said Horskram. ‘If Adelko is right, they will have no choice but to return the charge, or else be swept away. As soon as Thule’s knights move – if it is them – the glamour disguising them should be broken.’
‘And if your novice is wrong, he’ll have our best men charging at trees!’ cried Visigard, his whiskered face flushing.
‘The decision is yours, Your Majesty,’ said Horskram flatly.
The King said nothing, looking thoughtfully from the woods to the rebel footsoldiers and back again.
‘What’s keeping them?’ muttered Tarlquist. ‘They’ve had us sitting here ready to charge for more than five minutes.’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Torgun. His face was unusually pensive beneath his helm. That didn’t do much for Tarlquist’s jangling nerves – he’d had a bad feeling about today since he rose to bathe his face and hands.
‘Well I hope they get a move on,’ said Aronn, his ruddy face a deeper red than usual. ‘If we wait here all day Thule’s knights are bound to show up eventually. We should dispose of his remaining foot while we have the chance!’
‘Perhaps it’s the missing knights that concern high command right now,’ suggested Torgun.
‘Aye, perhaps,’ returned Tarlquist sullenly. Even so, this delay didn’t make sense – for once he was inclined to agree with hot-headed Aronn. A swift charge would see the remaining rebel foot crushed and dispersed. Just what was high command playing at?
He glanced nervously at the moat enclosing Salmor. No sign of ghostly knights this time – but that didn’t mean their conjurer wasn’t still at large.
Taking a deep breath he steeled himself. Mustn’t show fear in front of the men – a brave man felt fear and mastered it. He repeated that to himself several times, words his father had told him years ago, when he was but a green page.
Together with Sir Wolmar, who since his father’s death had said little to anybody, and the twin knights, who said little to anybody at the best of times, Tarlquist waited restlessly with the rest of the vanguard for the order to charge.
Then an order came. But not the one they had expected.
‘What?’ Wolmar exclaimed, breaking his self-imposed silence.
‘We’re to about face along with the Royals and make for the woods,’ confirmed Sir Redrun. Promoted to Deputy High Commander in place of Toric, he had just relayed high command’s order to Sir Tarlquist. ‘The Efrilunders and Woldings are to charge the foot.’
‘Have they gone completely mad?’ gaped Aronn. ‘There are no soldiers in that wood – and it’s too cramped to hide knights. We’ll be smashed to pieces charging it!’
‘Nevertheless, orders are orders,’ replied Redrun firmly. ‘We’re to couch and charge the Salwood as if it were a living enemy.’
A great tumult was growing across the wider company as news of the controversial order spread. Up and down the lines commanders and their deputies had to shout down a general dissent and reissue the command directly.
‘I don’t pretend that there is aught but rank foolishness in this,’ said Sir Tarlquist reluctantly, addressing his men. ‘But the order comes direct from the King himself, and we are sworn to obey him in everything.’
That settled the matter. Even sullen Wolmar saw no choice but to acquiesce. Amid great confusion the entire company of the White Valravyn pulled around and changed formation, preparing for what seemed like a direct assault on nothing more threatening than leaves and branches. Next to them the Royal Knights could be seen doing likewise.
When the clarion call came both companies spurred their horses forwards. No battle roar came from either; not a single throat uttered so much as a cry. Eight hundred heavily armoured knights thundered wordlessly towards the Salwood.
Clutching spear and shiel
d as he digged his spurs tightly into his horse’s flanks, Tarlquist watched the forest loom nearer by the second. Off to the side he could hear the Woldings and Efrilunders striking up a war cry as they charged the waiting army of footsoldiers.
Carried by their swift Farovian destriers, the knights of the White Valravyn would smash themselves to pieces against the unyielding boughs of the dense wood. Sir Tarlquist was just saying his prayers and thinking what an ignominious and absurd death he rode to when something strange happened.
The line of trees before him shimmered. Once, twice, then all of a sudden melting away... and where before had beckoned static green and brown there now appeared a surging tide of colour, as Thule’s seven hundred knights charged to meet them.
As they closed to do battle, a great cheer went up through the ranks of the White Valravyn. Sir Tarlquist joined his voice to it, bellowing a war cry that sounded more relieved than fierce to his ears.
In the clashing thick of battle, Wolmar lay about him with an unquenchable fury. Left and right he hewed, striking down knights. A dreadful rage augmented the strength of his limbs. Once he ran a hapless squire through, gutting him mercilessly on the point of his sword. ‘Father, help me!’ were the youth’s last words as he slid off the saddle, his entrails flying in his wake.
Wolmar found time to spare a sneer for his fallen opponent. Crying for his father instead of dying like a man in the field – pathetic. Even if he’d been a loyalist, such a weakling only deserved to die.
Wolmar was thinking of his father too – but not like that. Driving his dappled Farovian through the melee the princeling hoped his prayers would be answered.
They were. Before long he saw it – a stylised black shield divided by a single white triangular line, with a rose, a dagger and a gauntlet picked out in red at the three corners. Thule’s standard, beckoning him on to sweet revenge.
A dismounted knight lunged at him from the ground as he rode towards it, but Wolmar disarmed him with a sidewise swipe of his sword, taking off several of the man’s fingers in the process.