“Where are the others, General?” a man to his left said nervously and then ducked as another stray arrow came in.
Good flaming question!
“I told them to have dinner first. Can’t have them getting tired arms, can we?”
The legionnaire gaped, but then he realised and laughed sheepishly, which gave the others more heart. Navarien grinned more in fear than any real feeling of humour and forced a laugh. The others took it up until it was loud enough for the clansmen to hear. The warriors glanced at each other as if wondering what the jest was.
They soon found out.
Four battalions of legionnaires marched into position at treble time—almost running—and cut off any chance of flight by the clan warriors. At an order from each captain, every second man dropped his shield and ran forward to cast his javelin.
Screams erupted from the clansmen and their horses as a deadly hail of javelins two yards long rained down upon them from all sides. Many missed their targets, and no few struck horses, but they were only the first wave. Navarien had distributed his and Corbin’s javelins to the other four battalions, which equated to five waves of four thousand javelins each—twenty thousand javelins to kill a few hundred warriors. They had no chance—no chance at all.
The javelin throwers ran back to retrieve their shields. A few men fell to arrows in the back, but very few. Perhaps only a quarter of the clansmen died to the first wave of javelins, but the terror engendered from seeing friends nailed to the ground with three javelins in some cases, was enough to make anyone reconsider their plans. They attempted to mount and flee, but the first four thousand very sharp javelins, were quickly followed by a second wave, and then a third in quick succession.
All was chaos.
Falling men here, horses lying pinned to the ground and still kicking there. The screams were terrible to behold—horses and men screaming fit to burst eardrums. A hundred or so clansmen without mounts were charging the line and dying beneath legion steel, legionnaires were falling beneath clan arrows, screaming for wives or mothers as they died. One clansman, perhaps destined to live, maybe just lucky, leapt his horse over the legion line and killed two men in passing as if he did it every day. The warrior tried to weal his mount, but his horse was crazed and it would not turn back. The warrior howled in rage as he was carried away from the site of his tribe’s destruction.
The arrows ceased to fall, and Navarien issued new orders. “Shields down! Form line of battle!” The two phalanxes reformed into line seventeen hundred and fifty two men strong. “Out swords!” he ordered and the few remaining sergeants echoed the order.
Seventeen hundred and fifty two blades made quite a loud sound as they whisked free of scabbards, but it went unheard in the din. Clansmen arrows were sporadic now, but they still continued to take a toll. Navarien ignored the missiles and concentrated, waiting for the optimum time. He raised his shield to intercept the occasional arrow, and watched the fight intently.
And now! “Advance at the walk! Ad-vaaance!”
He knocked aside another arrow with his shield as it sought to stop his orders, but he couldn’t be stopped—not any longer. All six battalions advanced, implacably squeezing the remnants of the tribe into a compact mass.
The slaughter commenced.
Navarien called a halt at noon a few days later and sat cross-legged to eat food no better than that given to pigs. He couldn’t recall ever eating worse, but then he was young yet. No doubt in some future time he would look back at this day with fondness. Much of the meat was rancid, but he cut away the worst portions and forced the rest down with some water. He listened to the usual grumbles of ill fed men and grinned, this was the life!
He had no doubt the God would send him back when it was his turn to be judged. When that time came he wanted to be in the legions again. Failing that, he thought a clansman riding forever across the plains would be the next best thing. Fighting another tribe when he was bored, hunting the bison when he was hungry—yes a clansman’s life was a good one.
He looked around and found Tikva tending his men, Bannan sat not far away eating doggedly, and obviously not enjoying it. Duer and Fifth Battalion was taking their turn at what had come to be called the cavalry screen. Corbin had argued as usual, but he had subsided when told he could have the screen tomorrow. The cavalry position had become a choice assignment—not surprising when one considered how many leagues on foot they had covered since leaving the boats in Cantibria.
“Some of the men have the foot rot, Sir,” Tikva said sitting next to him and taking a drink from his water bottle.
“Hmmm, not really surprising is it?” he said taking another swallow of water himself. “Make sure everyone uses their magic powder.”
The powder was something that all legionnaires carried. They were supposed to use each it morning before pulling their boots on. As far as he knew, it wasn’t really magic, but its effects seemed magical to men marching day after day.
“I tell them every morning, Sir, but there’s always someone who knows better—until they come up lame that is.”
He nodded. Since the destruction of the clansmen at the ambush site, he had marched the legion unimpeded toward Calvados. That pleased him and the men no end, but it was the capture of the horses that had been the real prize.
“What do you think of the cavalry screen?”
Tikva was the closest thing to a Cragson that he had here. Duer was good, so too was Bannan, but as with Corbin, neither was general material. Unlike the others, Corbin didn’t realise this and chafed at restrictions he felt were unnecessary.
“I like it, Sir,” Tikva said thoughtfully. “If we all had horses, we would be chasing the clans over the plains trying to force them to engage us. If we had none at all, we would be dog meat! They could hit us and disengage at any time, and we would be unable to give chase.”
“I like your thinking,” Navarien said. Tikva’s words mirrored some of his own thoughts with regard to next year’s campaign. “The legions have always fought either afoot, or all mounted with nothing in between, but this way we can force the enemy to attack the infantry where we choose, at the same time as hitting the wings with the cavalry.”
Tikva rocked a hand, not quite in negation, but not precisely agreeing either. “I was thinking we could keep them at a distance with the cavalry, Sir—just far enough for the javelins. If they pull back, we use the cavalry with the captured bows to harry them.”
“Hmmm, a possibility I’ll admit, but if we do that, their bows will also be in range of our throwers. With a full legion in mind, I think I like my idea better, but we need more than a thousand men mounted—two would do it, four would be better.”
“That’s a great many horses, Sir. Where are you planning to get them?”
“I’ll buy them from the clans with gold captured at Calvados.”
Tikva whistled. “Do you think Mortain—may he live forever—will agree?”
“I don’t know, but I can hardly ask him can I? I’ll use the gold and hope all will be well. It’s all I can realistically do, isn’t it?”
Tikva nodded then left to chivvy his men back into line. Navarien dusted himself off and resumed the march with Bannan’s men in the lead this time.
This land, this unending ocean of grass, made time seem unimportant, but the rest of the world continued its pace unimpeded by his progress or lack thereof. The campaigning season was ending, and he had yet to reach Calvados. The clans couldn’t have realised just how successful they had been at buggering his plans. With their harassing attacks during the day, and their night time exploits keeping everyone awake at night, his pace had been reduced by as much as two-thirds. They should have been there days ago, but they were, still in the middle of nowhere.
The first indication he had of a change in the weather was the wind. Up until now, the wind had blown at his back hurrying his steps toward the east, but his morning it began blowing into his face from the east. He could smell winter in the air
. He needed to be inside Calvados before the snows hit. Would Turner’s stone thrower work, or would they have to squander even more time building towers? No, it had to work. Once inside, he could billet the men in the houses if he had to, but it wasn’t something he wanted to do. A fort would concentrate his dwindling men into a strong force for any contingency. Spread out in small packets they could be overwhelmed. The thrower had to work.
The days raced by and the march continued. Tikva’s foot-rotted men recovered and others came down with it. Bad food continued to be grumbled about, Corbin led the cavalry then grumbled about handing the horses to Tikva for his turn. Through it all, Navarien marched at the head of his men and worried. At one point he wondered if the God was playing tricks on him and shifting the stars in the heavens—surely they should be there by now? Was he lost? He gauged the sun’s position—he was moving in the right direction.
More days went by.
Duer was again leading the cavalry screen when he and his men rode back early. “We’re here, Sir.”
He frowned. “We’re where?”
“Calvados, Sir. Ah… you can’t see it from here. It surprised me as well. Calvados is sitting in a big… hole? A basin shaped hollow I suppose it is.”
“Any sign of the ship?”
“That’s why I came back, Sir. It’s anchored off-shore waiting for us, but there’s a bit of a problem. The city folk are camped nearby and shooting arrows at it—not that they have the range, but Cragson can’t land with the crafters, Sir.”
“We’ll see about that straight away,” he said looking forward to some action. “How many opposing us?”
“Er… all of them I think.”
His temper flared. “Be clear man! What do you mean all of them?”
“Sorry, Sir. The old folk and children aren’t there, but nigh on every one else is, they must be. There are too many to count, but at a guess I would say there must be thirty thousand.”
Navarien blinked in dismay. He looked back at his six thousand plus men, and then back at Duer. “We’re screwed.”
Duer nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
Navarien crouched with Tikva on one side and Duer on the other. The rest of his men had withdrawn a short distance and made camp while he investigated this wonder. Duer had led him on horseback for a look at the city. The captain had exaggerated the situation somewhat, but not by much. He estimated that he faced an army of twenty thousand at most, still that was almost four times his numbers—too many to attack with any realistic chance of victory.
What by the God, did these people think they were doing sitting outside the walls? Why didn’t they hide inside so he could attack them as he’d planned?
“What about signalling Cragson to sail out of sight? They might wander back inside,” Duer said.
Navarien grunted, they might do that, or they might decide to have a look this way. He shook his head. They couldn’t have done anything worse from his point of view. He couldn’t attack so many and survive; he couldn’t leave either. Food was short, and what they did have was poor. He needed to be inside the city when the snows hit, but the inhabitants weren’t cooperating! He watched another wagon leave the city with supplies for the camps, supplies he desperately needed.
“I think they did this on purpose,” Tikva said.
Well of course!
“What I mean is, they must have heard about Durena, so they took steps to prevent towers being built. Why don’t we wait till dark and sneak in?”
Navarien opened his mouth to rebuke Tikva, now was no time for jests! He closed it with a snap and glared down at the open gates. They were open now, but would they be tonight? Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough… surely?
“We wait,” he said. He closed his eyes for just a moment, but the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake. “Now what?”
“It’s full dark, Sir,” Tikva said.
Full dark already! He must have been more tired than he’d thought. Half the day had fled while he slept, he didn’t feel any better for the rest either. If anything he felt worse. He took a drink to wash his mouth out, and used a little water to unglue his eyes. By the God, he hated that! He looked over the ridge into a well lit and quiet camp. The gates were open!
Boom! Clunk!
“Ah, curse it! Why did they have to go and do that?” he said to no one in particular. He took another look at the closed and barred gates, and then slid down from the ridge out of sight.
“Now what?” Duer said sliding down to join him.
How should I know?
“Back to camp.”
Upon his return, he was pleased to find that Bannan and Corbin had chosen a good site. The camp was dug in on a reasonably flat section of ground up slope from the beach. Latrines were at the lower end, and fresh water was available from a small stream. He had ordered the water wagons refilled before he left, and he could see that was still being done. The river, though small, was a weak point in their defences, so Bannan had chosen it for the gate. They splashed into the shallows and were challenged at the trestle. They were recognised and allowed in. Navarien handed the reins of his horse to one of the men and ducked into his tent.
“How did you get here?”
Turner laughed. “Nice to see you too, General!”
He smiled and took Turner’s hand. “It is good to see you, but answer the question.”
“We swam of course. Had to wait for dark, but it weren’t too hard.”
Navarien sat on his cot to remove his boots. “We?”
“Me and a couple of my boys. Cragson couldn’t come. He can’t swim!”
He chuckled, he had known that. Cragson must be steaming mad. “Well, we have a fine situation on our hands, don’t we?”
“The way I see it, General, you can’t afford a battle here. Even if you found a way to force them back inside the walls, you would be hard pressed to take the city defended by so many.”
That had been an unpleasant surprise. His information made it plain that Durena was the largest of the three coastal cities, and physically that did appear true. The problem arose when considering the strength of arms each city had. Calvados wasn’t supposed to be any stronger than Cantibria, but it obviously was.
“Where did they all come from?” he said and threw his boots into a corner.
“Don’t know for sure you understand, but my guess would be Durena. Do you remember Tikva’s report about the exodus from the south gate? Well, here they are.”
“Good thought that,” he said with a nod.
He had lost a great many men at Durena. The Camorins were better than anyone he had fought before. Without Turner’s scaling towers he would have lost a lot more of his precious men.
“General—” Turner hesitated.
“Spit it out, man. If you know a way to pull this off, I’ll promote you to captain!”
“How important is Calvados to you?”
“I don’t care about it personally, but Mortain—may he live forever—wants it. That’s good enough for me.”
Turner hesitated, and then went on in a rush. “I suppose you wouldn’t consider burning it then?”
“Burn it!”
Turner nodded. “While we were waiting for you, we tinkered together a stone thrower. Master Belok was not happy, I can tell you! Cragson shut him up though. I don’t know what Belok’s objection was really; he didn’t need the spare masts for anything.”
Burn Calvados. Was the man insane? “Why burn it? Except in revenge for a buggered campaign, I can’t see why you would want to.”
“I don’t want to burn it, but it would solve the problem. They are hardly likely to stay once the city is gone.”
Navarien shook his head. He had hoped Turner would come up with a miracle, but no, he should have realised that miracles only came once per campaign. Durena had used his up. If he burned the city, not only would he kill thousands of innocents, but the supplies he needed for the winter would be destroyed.
“I can’t burn it. Thin
k of the women and children man!” Covering his slip, he hardened his voice. “Besides, we need somewhere to live through the winter.”
Turner smiled, he wasn’t fooled. “I could have a fort built for you in no time. The stone won’t be destroyed, and there will be plenty of it. I could build one twice the size of Durena’s fort.”
“I said no and I meant it! We’ll have to think of something else.” He was angry at the very thought of burning Calvados. He wouldn’t do to these people what they had done to his men at Durena, no matter the provocation.
“Like what, General? I suppose you could convince Belok to take us into the harbour, but what will that get you?”
Nothing much, he thought gloomily. A thousand men might be able to seize the gates, but then they would be attacked from within as well as from without.
What by the God, am I going to do? I can’t burn it…
* * *
14 ~ Final Battle
Navarien was more than ready for the fight to come, but the odds against victory were high. Never had he had such doubts before going into battle. Even at Athione he had been confident—stupidly confident as it turned out—but this time he doubted. This morning might see the end of him and the Fifth Legion.
Their food had run out yesterday and underlined the need for action. He had kept his men away from Calvados and used the time until now to prepare his camp. The wagons were broken up and the wood sharpened to use as stakes. They were bristling outward along the dirt walls of his rampart. The stakes would slow the enemy’s advance but not stop it. So would the ditches that ran parallel to the walls. He had ordered them dug deeper and flooded with water from the stream. The water level was low—the walls were too porous for more than that, but the ditches had become a slippery quagmire providing another obstacle to slow the enemy. The earthen walls had a shallow slope inside, and a much steeper one outside. With luck, he should be able to slow the onslaught enough that his men would take a heavy toll before falling beneath the Camorin swords. He hoped Mortain was watching; it would be nice to think that his last battle had a witness.
Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 Page 84