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Battle at the River
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Battle at the River
A Mercerian Short Story
Published by Paul J Bennett
Copyright © 2017 Paul J Bennett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Visit the author’s website at www.pauljbennettauthor.com
First Edition: November 2017
This story is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any person, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Visit the author’s website at www.pauljbennettauthor.com
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BATTLE AT THE RIVER
A MERCERIAN SHORT STORY
PAUL J BENNETT
Battle at the River
937 MC*
(Mercerian Calendar)
THE strike hit the shield squarely, and the clash of metal on metal sang out, ringing in their ears.
“You’re getting too good at this Gerald,” said Lord Richard Fitzwilliam, Baron of Bodden. “It’s getting harder to beat you.”
His opponent stepped back, drawing a breath. They were both sweating extensively, their breath frosting in the cold winter air.
“It’s your fault, my lord,” replied Sergeant Gerald Matheson, “you taught me everything I know.”
The baron laughed and stepped forward unexpectedly, catching his opponent off guard. With a deft flick of his wrist, he struck his sergeant’s blade near the grip, knocking it from his hand.”
“Thankfully, I didn’t teach you everything I know,” he chuckled.
Gerald bowed and laughed, “That’s true, my lord, but you won’t be able to use that technique again.”
Now it was the baron’s turn to smile. “True, I’ve never had to show you something twice. You’re a quick learner, but I’m getting old, so forgive an old man’s treachery.”
“Old? I’ll remind you, Lord, that you’re only six years older than me.”
“Right again, my friend. Now stop calling me Lord and call me Fitz.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The conversation was interrupted by Sir James, who entered the courtyard at a trot.
“My lord,” he announced, “raiders.”
The news immediately sobered the two combatants’ mood.
“Where?” asked the baron.
“To the west, Lord,” said the knight. “We spotted them from the top of the keep.
Sergeant Matheson blew on his hands to warm them up. The air was biting cold, and even as he did so, his frozen breath wafted back in his face, obscuring his vision for a moment. He was on the battlements of Bodden Keep, and from his current position, he could see, far off to the west, a column of smoke.
Baron Fitzwilliam moved up to stand beside him, surveying the area. “Looks like they hit the Spencer farm.”
Gerald watched as the smoke climbed higher. “It’s hard to watch from up here, Lord, helpless to do anything. The men are preparing to ride, but it’ll be too late to make a difference.
“Perhaps,” mused the baron, “but we must make an effort. Once there, we may discover where they’re heading next.”
“I hope so; the sun will be at its peak before our troops arrive. If we can’t tell where the raiders are going, we’ll have no chance of stopping them.”
As if on cue, another thin trail of smoke began to snake its way upward.
“They’re heading south, Lord,” Gerald glumly observed.
“We have them now!” exclaimed the baron. “They’ll be heading toward the Greene farm; we’ll intercept them there.” He turned to face Gerald, his Sergeant-at-Arms. “I’ll take the knights and strike for the Greene farm, you take half the foot and archers and head north. You’ll need to cut them off when they try to cross the river back into Norland. If we can stop them at the river, we’ll dissuade them from taking action in the future. Take the horsemen with you as well, in case you need them.”
“Aye, my lord,” Gerald nodded in agreement. “I’ll get them going the moment the courtyard is clear.”
Twenty knights rode with the baron, mounted on Mercerian Chargers, the largest horses in the kingdom. The cost of becoming a knight was exorbitant; in addition to their mounts, knights also required armour and weapons and very often felt obliged to flaunt their wealth by embossing or engraving their breastplates. In the capital, they kept their armour nice and shiny, but here, they quickly learned it was preferable to have it dull and non-reflective, making them less of a target on the battlefield.
Baron Richard Fitzwilliam was nervous. These men could fight, he knew that, but they were an ill-disciplined lot. One on one, they were intimidating, but facing a formed enemy, they were all but useless. He had tried to instill order to their ranks, but it had been an uphill battle. Many knights came to Bodden seeking glory, some of them even attaining it, but most found actual combat to be sickening. Killing wasn’t the problem; it was the aftermath; the guts, the blood, the entrails.
He mused on this topic while the sun rose higher in the sky, finally reaching its peak when they came into view of the Greene farm, as Gerald had predicted. The raiders had apparently just arrived but had not yet had time to start their plundering. The leader of the Norlander group was preparing to dismount when one of his warriors shouted in alarm.
Fitz ordered his men into a gallop. The crunching of the snow grew louder as the charge built up speed. Soon, it combined with the jingle of harnesses to build into an overwhelming cacophony, announcing their presence to the raiders. The baron drew his sword and held it high, ready for the coming impact.
They were rapidly closing the range towards an enemy that was utterly disorganized. Two arrows came at them, but they went wide. Fitz roared a challenge as his forces crashed into the small cluster of enemy horsemen. The clang of metal on metal was intermingled with shouts as each side fought to gain the upper hand.
The baron rode in with his knights, swinging his sword, carving a deep gash across a raider’s arm. His opponent tried to pull his horse back, to gain some distance, but Fitz stood in his stirrups to extend his reach, his blade seeking its victim once more. There was a temporary resistance to his blade, and then his foe’s arm was severed from his body; the spray of blood quickly turning into a red mist.
Fitz’s ragged breath hung in the frozen air like a fog as he struck opponent after opponent. He broke through the cluster of men only to see the remaining enemies fleeing, intent on putting distance between themselves and their attackers.
There was no way the knight's heavy steeds could catch up to the raider’s fleet horses, so Fitz turned back to his men, surveying the damage. Five raiders lay dead on the ground, but none of his knights were wounded save for Sir Percy, who suffered a light cut to the upper arm.
Fitz stared him straight in the eye as he spoke, “I told you to keep your shield higher.”
The man grinned and saluted him with his sword. “Glorious!” he exclaimed.
Fitz bit back a retort; death was not glorious but a necessary evil. He wanted to take some time to bury these men, but he must make his way north to rendezvous with his Sergeant-at-Arms.
As the enemy disappeared over the horizon, farmer Greene and his family came out of their house.
“I’m sorry John,” he called out, “I’ll have to leave the bodies for you to clean up.”
“No
bother, my lord,” replied the farmer, “better to be cleaning up dead Norlanders than being dead ourselves.”
They rode off without fanfare, leaving the thankful farmer Greene and his family to deal with the aftermath of the encounter.
Gerald halted his horse and watched as his detachment filed past. Over their armour they wore cloaks and blankets to stave off the cold. The sun reflecting off the snowy landscape was practically blinding, causing many of the men to shield their eyes. The snow was too deep in some parts, so he had sent William Blackwood ahead with some horsemen to make a path. Their mounts ploughed through the drifts making the way more accessible for the foot soldiers following them. He knew the best way to fight the cold was to keep them moving, and there’d be no time to stop and eat anyway; they must make the river before the raiders arrived.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He had ridden for years but never developed a liking for it, unlike Fitz, who seemed born to the saddle. He was much more at home on foot with his men, but he had to command here, and to command, he knew he had to be visible. He turned to observe the tail end of his troops. The snow had been churned up by all the feet that were trudging through it, giving those at the end of the line the easiest going.
He rode back up to the head of the column and noticed the effort needed to make headway, even with Blackwood’s horses creating a path. The baron had once told him ‘look after the men and the men will look after you.’ Now, seeing them struggle to move through the snow, he realized the import of this statement; not only must they march, they most likely would have to fight a battle at the end. He halted the column and rearranged their order, placing the lead marchers to the back of the column for a break. Now, with fresh boots blazing the trail, the pace picked up.
He glanced up at the sun and saw it was just past noon. He silently hoped that Fitz was right when he had improvised this plan, or they might be marching for nothing. They had travelled for some time when he saw a rider coming towards the front of the column.
Blackwood reined in his horse as he approached. “Soldiers ahead,” he warned, “just over the rise.”
“How many?” asked Gerald.
“Three hundred or so.”
Gerald looked at his troops; they would be badly outnumbered if he continued over that hill. “That’s not just raiders,” he said, “that’s a bloody army!” There was more going on here than met the eye.
“Halt the column,” he commanded. “Keep your scouts out but avoid contact with the enemy. Don’t let them know we’re here. Who’s your fastest rider?”
Blackwood balked, “In this weather? I have no idea.”
“What about Henderson, he won the riding competition last summer?”
“He’s here, but I don’t know about the snow.”
“It’ll have to be risked. We have to get word to the baron; he could be heading into a trap.”
“What makes you say it’s a trap?”
To Gerald, it seemed obvious, but he set out explaining his thoughts. “Those raiders set a deliberate trail. They were luring the knights out of Bodden; they knew the baron would follow them. I’d bet my armour that they’re hoping to lure the troops back here, to the river, then hit them with everything they’ve got.”
Blackwood mulled it over before speaking, “That being the case, shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”
“No. Don’t you see? They aren’t expecting us, just the knights. We’ve come across their trap. If I know the baron, he’ll want to take advantage of the situation.”
“With what? Even with the knights, we’re still badly outnumbered!”
Gerald looked him directly in the eyes, “I’ve seen you take on a whole bar by yourself. Are you saying you won’t fight?”
Blackwood snorted in disgust, “I’m not one to back away from a fight, you of all people should know that. I just like to know I’ve got a chance of coming out on the side of the living. I don’t fancy a one way trip to the Afterlife.”
“I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Gerald began repositioning the troops behind a small copse of trees that was nearby. Fortunately, the enemy army was still some distance off, and the land rose, then fell as it came south of the river, putting them behind a hill which hid his troops. He was conscious of the fact that the Norlanders might send out riders to scout and wanted his men as safe as possible. Now, with his own scouts deployed, he would have to wait to see what developed.
It was late afternoon by the time the baron caught up to him, Henderson thankfully having reached him in time. They sat in amongst the trees as Gerald explained the situation. Blackwood and the others had done some more scouting, and he now had a firmer picture of the enemy’s strength.
Fitz examined the small map scratched into the snow. Gerald was pointing to the sticks he was using to represent the troops as he explained.
“They seem to have massed their foot in the middle.”
“Could you see who was leading them?” Fitz asked.
“A very tall man,” offered Blackwood. “I couldn’t see him clearly, but his banner was a white dragon on a black field.”
The baron glanced towards Gerald, and a look of recognition passed between them. “That’s the same Norlander that laid siege to us four years ago.”
“You mean the bastard’s back?” Gerald interjected.
“Precisely, my dear fellow. It appears he intends to finish what he failed to do back in ’33. We have to make sure we put an end to it this time.”
“And how do we do that, my lord?” asked Blackwood.
“Capture or kill the leader,” declared Gerald.
“Exactly. Now tell me about the rest of the troops, Gerald,” commanded the baron.
“They have some archers but not enough to be a real threat. The horses are the biggest danger; if they turn our flank, we’re in trouble.”
The baron stroked his beard absently as he absorbed the information. “We’ll form a line similar to theirs; foot in the middle, archers on either flank with our horsemen to discourage the enemy cavalry. Knights to the rear so they can exploit a breakthrough if they get a chance.”
“Will they let us form up, Lord?”
“Undoubtedly! They wanted us here; they’ll see it as a chance to wipe us out. If they let us form up, there’s less chance of us being able to run away. Just to be on the safe side, we’ll form our line on this side of the rise, then we can advance ready for battle.”
“Are you sure we can beat them, Lord? They outnumber us.”
The baron looked directly at Gerald. “I have no doubt. Besides, we have two things in our favour,” he said.
“Lord?”
“We have the knights…”
“And?”
“And we have you, Gerald. I’ve seen you training the soldiers. They’ll hold the line. I think they might be more scared of you than the enemy.” He laughed at his jest.
“What if they don’t attack, Lord?” Gerald asked.
“Then we’ll have to attack them.”
“Attack them? When we’re outnumbered almost two to one?”
A smile crept across Fitz’s face. “Well, I never said it would be easy.” He laughed again as he rose from his crouched position. “Get the men ready to move Gerald. I want to have this affair settled before the sun sets. We still have to march back to Bodden, and I need to say goodnight to my little girl.”
The plans made, everyone moved into their assigned positions. It was a welcome respite from the cold to be moving again, but the mood was sombre.
Piece by piece the soldiers fell into position just behind the rise. With the order given, the men stepped forward just enough to line the top of the ridge. Gerald, mounted on his horse, peered over the heads of his contingent to see the enemy spread out before them. The Norland army started shifting their forces, positioning their line to run parallel to the Mercerians. This battle would soon commence, he thought, and then all the chaos of the Underworld would br
eak loose.
He saw horsemen running back and forth behind the enemy lines, and he remembered back to his youth. How many years ago had that been? He still remembered seeing an army for the first time, from the top of the keep. He was so young then, but here he was now, commanding a portion of an army himself.
His reverie was interrupted by the baron, who rode up beside him. “All set, Gerald?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied.
“Remember, whatever happens, you have to hold the line. You’ve been training your men to use a shield wall; now it’s time for them to test it in battle.”
“They won’t fail you, Lord,” Gerald promised.
They could hear horns sounding across the field, and enemy horsemen began proceeding toward their flank.
“It’s time for me to go,” said Fitz. “Remember, hold the line at all costs!”
Gerald sat, watching, as the enemy horsemen cleared their own flank and started to move toward the Mercerian line. He saw the baron, easy to identify on his Mercerian Charger, leading the knights on an intercept course. The enemy had been heading for the archers on the flanks, but at the appearance of the Bodden horses, they changed their target. He watched in fascination as the two groups collided. There was the distant sound of battle; the cold, crisp air magnified it, bouncing it off the nearby hills.
Gerald shivered. He was chilled by his frosty chainmail, despite being covered in furs, and there was nothing to protect his face from being numbed by the sub-zero temperatures. He wondered how the men standing in line felt, were they as cold as him?
The clash of horses didn’t last long. The two groups separated, leaving a red smear on the snow.
The enemy line of foot began to advance, and Gerald gave the order; shields were raised and interlocked to form the shield wall. He regarded his troops with pride; all the practice had been worth it, the men stood, tense with anticipation, but steady.
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