The Battle for Skandia

by John Flanagan

  Horace was almost back to the elevated command position now, still fighting off the determined attacks from the Temujai. He was fighting alone, however, and vulnerable from the rear. Will, his stock of arrows finally exhausted, drew his two knives and moved to protect his friend’s back.

  In the center of the Skandian line, Erak sensed a similar moment of opportunity. The Temujai were fighting hard, but the savage intensity had gone from their attacks.

  Weakened and demoralized by the regular downpour of arrows from the right flank, their support ranks were withdrawing, and leaving those troops engaged with the Skandian line without the regular reinforcements that they needed to maintain the rhythm of their attack.

  He cut down a Temujai captain who had come screaming over the earthworks, and turned to look for Halt. The Ranger was positioned behind him, standing on a parapet and coolly picking off the Temujai as they came forward.

  Haz’kam’s tactic of stripping his Ulans of their shooters was working against the Temujai here. For a change, it was they who were losing their commanders to accurate, aimed shots, while the Skandian leaders continued to devastate anyone who came within range of their whirling axes.

  Disengaging himself, Erak vaulted up beside Halt. He gestured to the Skandian left wing, so far uncommitted.

  “I’m thinking if we hit them from the flank, we might finish them,” he said. Halt considered the idea for a moment. It was a risk. But battles were won by taking risks, he knew. Or lost. He came to a decision.

  “Do it,” he agreed, and Erak nodded. Then he looked beyond Halt and cursed. The Ranger swung around to look in the same direction and together they watched the Temujai breaking through the line below Will’s position. They both knew that if the rain of arrows stopped, the Temujai rear ranks might well recover their cohesion and their moment might be lost.

  Now was the time to act.

  “Bring the left flank in,” Halt said briefly. He grabbed up a spare quiver of arrows and started to run toward Will’s command post. Erak watched him go, knowing that one man wouldn’t make any difference. He looked around desperately, his gaze lighting on Ragnak, standing in the middle of a circle of fallen Temujai. The Oberjarl’s eyes were wild and staring. He had discarded his shield and was swinging his massive ax two-handed. Blood streamed from half a dozen wounds on his body, but he seemed oblivious. He was on the point of berserking, Erak knew. And he also knew that one man like that might make all the difference in the world.

  Erak cut his way through to the Oberjarl, winning a brief respite as the Temujai fell back from the two huge warriors. Ragnak looked up, recognized him and showed his teeth in a triumphant, savage grin.

  “We’re destroying them, Erak!” he yelled, his eyes still wild. Erak grabbed him by the arm, shaking him to make him focus his attention.

  “I’m bringing in the left flank!” he yelled, and the Oberjarl smiled and shrugged.

  “Good! Let them have some fun too!” he bellowed. Erak pointed to the battle raging on the seaward side.

  “The right wing is in trouble. They’ve broken through. The Ranger needs help there.”

  It seemed odd to be giving orders to his supreme commander. But then he realized Ragnak was incapable of directing the flank attack in this state. He was good for only one thing—a devastating, crushing attack on any enemy who stood in his way.

  Now, as he heard Erak’s words, Ragnak nodded repeatedly.

  “That sarcastic little know-all needs help, does he? Then I’m his man!”

  And with a roar, he charged off after Halt, followed by his retinue of a dozen axmen.

  Erak breathed a quick prayer to the Vallas. A dozen men might not be a lot, but with Ragnak in this near-berserk mode, it could be enough. Then he shoved the troubles of the right flank to the back of his mind and began yelling for a messenger. The right flank would have to look after itself for a few more minutes. Right now, he needed the left flank to hit the enemy from the side.

  38

  HORACE SENSED THE PRESENCE OF SOMEONE DIRECTLY BEHIND him and pivoted rapidly, his sword swinging back, ready to cut side-handed. Seeing the slightly built form of his friend there, grimly engaging a Temujai swordsman with his two knives, he widened his stroke and laid open the Tem’uj’s forehead with the point of his sword. The trooper staggered away, hands to his face, sinking to his knees.

  “What do you think you’re up to?” Horace yelled, in between parrying another attack from the front.

  “I’m watching your back,” Will told him, as he blocked a thrust from another Tem’uj trying to take Horace from the rear.

  “Well, next time let me know,” Horace said, grunting as he sidestepped a lance and hammered the hilt of his sword into its surprised owner’s skull. “I nearly cut you in half just then!”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Will replied. “I’m not enjoying myself here.”

  Horace flicked a rapid glance over his shoulder. Will was using the Ranger’s double-knife defense to parry and block the Tem’uj’s saber. But it wasn’t a form of fighting he was particularly skilled in. Besides, it had been over a year since he and Horace had practiced the moves in the hills of Celtica. The Temujai swordsman was having the better of the exchange and in that quick glance, Horace had seen blood seeping through the left arm of Will’s shirt.

  “When I tell you, drop to your knees,” Horace said.

  “Fine,” Will replied grimly. “I may even do it before you give the word.”

  In spite of himself, Horace grinned. Then, as he drove two attackers back, he called over his shoulder: “Now!”

  He sensed that Will had dropped to the ground and, flicking the sword into a reversed grip, he thrust backward and heard a startled cry.

  “You all right?” he called, reversing the sword again and deflecting that persistent lance once more. For a moment, there was no answer, and he felt a sudden jolt of fear that he had just stabbed his friend. Then Will answered him.

  “Very impressive. Where did you learn that?”

  “Made it up just now,” Horace said, then grunted in satisfaction as the lancer stepped a little too close and took the point of his sword in the shoulder. As the man sank to the ground, Horace withdrew the sword, flicking it into a whirling overhand cut at another Tem’uj. The cavalryman’s thick felt helmet saved his life as the sword crashed down on it. But there was still enough force in the blow to knock him to his knees, concussed and cross-eyed.

  For a moment, they had a brief respite. Horace stepped back and studied his friend.

  “Is that arm troubling you?” He nodded toward the widening seep of blood on Will’s sleeve. Looking down, Will seemed to notice it for the first time.

  “I didn’t even feel it,” he said in some surprise. Horace allowed himself a grim smile.

  “You will later,” he told him. Will shook his head doubtfully.

  “If there is a later,” he said. Then, from the lines behind them, they heard the thrum of bowstrings and the hissing flight of another volley. They looked at one another in amazement.

  “It’s Evanlyn,” said Will. “She’s still got them firing!”

  Horace gestured to the swarming Temujai, surrounding the thin line of defenders who were keeping them out of the archer’s redoubt.

  “She won’t for much longer,” he said. The Skandian line was already beginning to buckle. “Come on! Watch my back and yell if you get in trouble.” And with that, he bounded down the slope, his sword rising and falling as he drove his attack into the rear of the Temujai. Startled at the ferocity of his assault, they gave ground for a few seconds. Then, seeing that the new assault consisted of only two men—one of them armed only with knives and small enough to be a boy—they rallied and drove forward again.

  Horace fought grimly, gathering the few remaining defenders around him. But the enemy numbers were beginning to tell and now individual Temujai were bypassing the small knot of defenders and dropping into the trench itself, where the archers were still sendi
ng their volleys into the main Temujai force.

  The two boys heard Evanlyn’s voice raised in urgent tones as she directed some of the archers to fire point-blank at the attackers. They knew it was a matter of minutes before the Temujai overran the trench and killed everyone in it.

  “Come on!” said Will, leading the way toward the trench. Horace followed close behind him.

  A Temujai warrior barred his way and he struck at the man with his saxe knife, feeling the blow jar all the way up his arm as it struck home. A warning cry from Horace alerted him to danger and he turned just in time to block a savage saber cut with his crossed knives. Then Horace was by his side, slashing at the man who had attacked him, and the three others with him. The two friends fought side by side, but there were too many of the Temujai. Will’s heart sank as he realized that they were not going to reach the trench in time. He could see Evanlyn, not twenty meters away, with a group of archers around her, facing a still larger group of Temujai as they advanced up the trench—moving slowly, held back only by the threat of the bows.

  “Look out, Will!” It was Horace again, and once more they were fighting for their lives as more of the Temujai swarmed toward them.

  Nit’zak led a party of men into the trenches that had sheltered the Skandian archers. His other men could take care of the two young warriors who had counterattacked so effectively. His task was to silence the archers once and for all.

  His men poured into the trench behind him, striking out at the unarmored, virtually unarmed bowmen. They retreated down the line of the earthworks, some of them scrambling up and over and running to the rear. Grimly, Nit’zak followed until, rounding an angle in the trench, he stopped in surprise.

  There was a young girl facing him, a long dagger in her hand and a look of total defiance in her eyes. The remaining archers gathered protectively around her. Then, on her command, they brought their bows up to the present position.

  The two groups faced each other. There were at least ten bows aimed at him, Nit’zak saw—at a range of barely ten meters. If the girl gave the order, there was no way the archers could miss. Yet, once that first volley was released, the girl and her archers would be helpless.

  He flicked his eyes sideways. His men were level with him, and there were more behind. He had no intention of dying under the Skandian volley. If it might serve a purpose, he would do so willingly. But he had a job to do and he didn’t have the right to die until that job was done. On the other hand, he had no qualms about sacrificing ten or twelve of his own men, if necessary, to get that job done. He gestured them forward.

  “Attack,” he said calmly, and his men surged forward in the constricted space of the trench.

  There was a second’s hesitation, then he heard the girl’s command to shoot and the instant thrum of the bowstrings. The arrows tore into his men, killing or wounding seven of them. But the others kept on, joined by more men from behind him, and the archers broke and ran, leaving only the girl to face him. Nit’zak stepped forward, raising the saber in both hands. Curious, he studied her eyes for some sign of fear and saw none there. It would be almost a shame to kill one so brave, he thought.

  Off to one side, he heard an agonized cry—a young man’s voice that broke with fear and pain.

  “Evanlyn!”

  He assumed it must be the girl’s name. He saw her eyes flick away from his, and then she smiled sadly at someone out of his view. It was a smile of farewell.

  Will had witnessed it all. Helpless to intervene, fighting desperately to protect Horace’s back and his own life, he had seen the Temujai move up the trench, saw the archers threaten them with a point-blank volley, and then watched, horrified, as the Temujai calmly moved forward once more, oblivious to the danger. The final volley stopped them for a second or two, then they charged, sweeping the archers away before them.

  Horace’s urgent warning brought him back to his own situation and he darted sideways to avoid a saber, jabbing with the saxe to drive the off-balance Tem’uj back a few paces. He turned to look again and saw a Temujai officer poised over Evanlyn, his sword held in two hands as he raised it.

  “Evanlyn!” he cried in torment. And, hearing him, she turned, met his agonized gaze and smiled at him—a smile that remembered all they had been through together in the past eleven months.

  A smile that remembered all they had ever meant to each other.

  And in that moment, he knew he couldn’t let her die. He spun the saxe knife in his hand, catching it by the point and feeling the balance, then brought his arm back, then forward in one fluid movement.

  The big knife took Nit’zak under the left arm just before he began his downward cut.

  His eyes glazed and he crumpled slowly to one side, lurching against the earth wall of the trench, then sliding down to the hard-packed earthen floor. The saber fell from his hands and he plucked with weakened fingers at the heavy knife in his side. His last thought was that now Haz’kam would probably abandon the invasion after all, and he was angry about that.

  Will, now unarmed except for his small throwing knife, was under attack once more. He leapt forward to grapple with a Tem’uj and they rolled down the earthen slope together, with Will clinging desperately to the man’s sword arm, while he, in his turn, tried to avoid the ineffectual slashing attacks Will made with the small knife.

  He saw Horace overwhelmed by four warriors attacking him at once and he realized that, finally, it was all over.

  And then he heard a blood-chilling roar and a huge figure was standing over him, literally plucking his adversary from the ground and throwing him a dozen meters down the slope, to send another three men sprawling under the impact.

  It was Ragnak, terrifying in his berserker rage. His shirt had been torn to ribbons and he wore no armor save his massive horned helmet. The horrifying roaring noise came constantly from his throat as he plunged into the midst of the Temujai attackers, the huge double-bladed ax whirling in giant circles as he struck his enemies down on either side.

  He made no effort to protect himself and he was cut and wounded over and again. He simply ignored the fact and cut and hacked and beat at the men who had invaded his country—who had dared to awaken the berserker rage in his blood.

  His personal guard followed him, each man in the same awful killing rage. They drove a wedge into the Temujai force, implacable, irresistible. A dozen men who didn’t care if they lived or died. Who cared about one thing and one thing only: getting close to their enemies and killing them. As many as possible. As quickly as possible.

  “Horace!” Will croaked, and tried to scramble to his feet, remembering that last image of Horace desperately holding off four attackers. And then he heard another sound—a familiar one this time. It was the deep-throated thrum of a longbow. As he watched, Horace’s attackers seemed to fade away like snow in the sunshine, and he knew that Halt had arrived.

  On a knoll a kilometer away, Haz’kam, general of the army and Shan of the People, watched his attack fail. The enemy’s left flank had curled around to crash into his main force, buckling them and driving them back, causing severe losses. On the enemy’s right flank, Nit’zak and his men had finally managed to silence the Skandian archers. In his heart, he had always known that his old friend would succeed in the task.

  But he had taken too long over it. The success had come too late, after his main force had been demoralized and disorganized by the constant hail of arrows. After they had been driven back in confusion by that flanking attack.

  It was just one failed attack, of course, and he knew he could still win this battle, if he chose to. He could regroup his Ulans, commit his fresh reserves to drive these damned Skandians out from behind their defenses and send them scattering into the hills and the trees. For a moment, he was tempted to do it—to have a savage revenge on these people who had thwarted his plans.

  But the cost would be too high. He had lost thousands of men already and another attack, even a successful one, would cost him more than h
e could afford. He turned in his saddle and beckoned the bugler forward.

  “Sound the general withdrawal,” he said calmly. His face gave no hint of the seething fury, the bitter rage of failure that burned in his heart.

  It was not polite for a Temujai general to allow his emotions to show.

  39

  RAGNAK’S BODY WAS CREMATED THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE. The Oberjarl had died in the final moments, before the Temujai had begun their withdrawal. He had died battling a group of eighteen Temujai warriors. Two of them survived—so badly injured they could barely crawl away from the terrifying figure of the Skandian leader.

  There was no way of knowing who had struck the fatal blow, if, indeed, there had been one. They counted over fifty separate wounds on the Oberjarl, half a dozen of which could have caused death under ordinary conditions. As was the Skandian custom, the body was laid on his cremation pyre as it was—without any attempt to clean away the blood or the mire of battle.

  The four Araluens were invited to pay their last respects to the dead Oberjarl and they stood silently for a few moments before the massive pile of pitch-soaked pine logs, gazing up at the still figure. Then, politely but firmly, they were informed that the funeral of an Oberjarl, and the subsequent election of his successor, was a matter for Skandians only and they returned to Halt’s apartment to await events.

  The funeral rituals went on for three days. This was a tradition that had been established to allow jarls from outlying settlements time to reach Hallasholm and participate in the election of the next Oberjarl. Obviously, there were few jarls expected from the areas that the Temujai had already passed through, and the majority of the others had already been summoned to repel the invasion. But tradition called for a three-day period of mourning—which, in Skandia, took the form of a lot of drinking and much enthusiastic recounting of the deceased’s prowess in battle.