“Corbin should be hitting them about now, Sir,” Tikva said in a musing tone.
“Probably,” he replied trying to ignore his rumbling belly. “He’ll take a good many down with him.”
Corbin’s orders were to hit the enemy hard, but then fall back leading them this way. The problem was that with the new water-filled ditches and stakes, he would be unable to re-enter the camp. Once his task was done, Corbin had discretion. It would be his decision whether to attempt escape, or fight on to the death.
“There, Sir!” Bannan called as Corbin’s cavalry galloped toward them pursued by a like number of the enemy.
“Be ready to feather as many as you can!” he shouted to his bowmen as Corbin’s battalion raced by the camp and then away following the beach.
“Good luck to them, they’re going to need it,” Tikva murmured as the last man galloped away.
The bowmen stood and released a storm of arrows. Horses screamed and reared in pain, others fell rolling head over tail killing their riders instantly. Across the entire front, rank upon rank fell dead. The humming of bowstrings was a constant, as thousands of shafts were loosed in moments. The surviving warriors regrouped and charged the camp ignoring the chase they were originally on. More men and horses fell, but not enough. The warriors had seen friends killed and their anger was great. Navarien grinned waiting for the inevitable.
It arrived.
The horse is not a stupid animal. They will charge, and yes, they will ride men down, but charging a mud wall as tall as they are bristling with nasty sharp stakes was something else. They skidded to a stop, bucking the stupid men off their backs and into the slippery ditches. Many of the horses were unable to stop in time and they slid down into the ditch to bury the men. Navarien’s men kept a constant stream of arrows flying, and soon the fighting, if one could really call it fighting, ended. Perhaps a thousand Camorins had died. The legion lost none at all.
“I can’t believe they did that,” he said in wonder. “The fools actually charged a fortified position without scouting the defences.”
Tikva nodded. “They won’t do it again.”
The remnants of the charge had dismounted and seemed to be waiting for something. There was a noise in the air, a rumbling like thunder far away, but this was no thunder. It was the sound of many feet marching to war.
“It worked.”
“Looks like all of them to me,” he said with a snort of laughter.
Tikva turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. The men nearby glanced at each other as if asking what the jest was, others simply shrugged knowing all officers were crazy. No few of the legionnaires were caught up in the insanity, and peals of laughter rose over the camp drifting on the wind to the enemy.
Navarien watched them advance and drew his sword in readiness. His men had their swords in hand, all except those chosen for their skill with the captured bows. They had arrows standing in rows near to hand, and one shaft knocked to fire the instant he gave the word. Javelins had less range than the bows, but the extra elevation of the wall increased this to a hundred and fifty yards or so. The wall narrowed the gap between each of the legion’s ranged weapons considerably. Every one of his men had at least three javelins. Some—those with more skill—had four. He didn’t expect them to be able to score with every throw or shot, but even if they did, there were more men than he had weapons to kill them with.
He watched as the slow and ponderous advance turned into a trot. The trot turned into a run, the run into a screaming mass of charging warriors intent on killing him and all he held dear.
“NOW!” he screamed and the bows sang.
“AEiii!” the woman screamed and tried to gather up her guts as they slopped to the muddy ground.
Navarien finished her with a cut to the neck and kicked both pieces back down the slope. He took a chance to look around. So far there were no breaks in the line. The enemy had again chosen to mass against the south wall where the stream had previously caused a weak point in his defence. Knowing they would attack there, he had strengthened the section with extra dirt to damn the stream so its water overflowed into his ditches. That stretch had more than its fair share of the stakes also, but though they did their job of slowing the advance, they hadn’t been as effective as he had hoped. Many of the stakes had been hacked down now opening a clear path to his wall.
Bannan was heavily engaged and looked to need help. Navarien had no reserve so he ordered a man to send one maniple from the east wall to reinforce the western end of the south wall. He reshuffled his forces to plug the new hole, but it dangerously thinned his defences in other areas. There was nothing to be done about it. He turned his concentration toward defending himself against an over eager boy/warrior. He dispatched the boy easily enough, but then he had to focus on his next opponent. This man was cannier than others he’d defeated. The warrior came in close binding his sword with his own and attempting to use his weight to force him back.
It was working.
Navarien struggled and punched the man in the face with his free hand, but the Camorin shook off the effect easily. The punch evidently annoyed him however. Suddenly Navarien was down with his head ringing. He rolled away to escape a kick and was just congratulating himself on surviving, when he splashed into freezing muddy water.
He had rolled the wrong way.
Cursing his way back out of the ditch, he dragged himself upward covered head to toe in mud. He found himself next to another filthy man and stopped breathing when the warrior noticed him.
“Try to work your way over to the east wall,” the warrior said. “The monster has moved some of his men away from there,”
He gaped then nodded jerkily. “Right.”
The warrior climbed on.
Navarien scrambled upward and threw himself under a sword aimed to take his head. “By the God, Meran, watch what you’re doing! You flaming nearly killed me just then!”
“What are you doing out there you flaming… Sir?” Meran said impaling another warrior on his sword as he pulled Navarien to his feet.
“I was scouting!” he shouted and killed his own opponent.
All along the south and west walls, men were killing and being killed. He wished he could reduce the men to north and east, but if he did that, he would be begging to be hit there as well as here.
“Look there, Sir,” Meran shouted pointing behind the enemy.
Navarien took a quick look determined not to be distracted and end up in the stinking ditch again. Galloping at full speed, Corbin and his battalion slammed into the flanks of the enemy. The charge shattered the enemy rear, and a ripple seemed to pass through the horde as the effect spread. Warriors turned to attack Corbin, thereby lessening the pressure on the camp. Corbin shouted and the cornets blared. As one, the cavalry wheeled and raced away with hardly any casualties at all, the surprise was complete.
“That boy is full of surprises,” he had time to say before cutting his next man down.
“Knew he wouldn’t run out on us, General,” Meran said not sounding sure at all.
Navarien grunted with the effort of throwing back a warrior, “More… than… I… did!”
The attack ebbed and Navarien staggered away exhausted. The noise of battle died away allowing the screams of the wounded and dying to come to the fore. Bannan had a rough tourniquet tied around his leg, and Duer was bleeding from more than one gash on his unprotected arms. Navarien left the sergeants in charge while he called his captains together.
“What do you think?” he said panting.
Duer sank down to his haunches and gestured weakly with his sword. “We’re dead.”
“I know that!” he snapped in annoyance. Didn’t the man realise how bad for morale it was to say that in front of the men? “Can we kill enough of them to give the sorcerers a chance at finishing up?”
Bannan nodded. They had killed thousands, perhaps as many as three thousand, but they had lost nearly a battalion in return. Some of those men wer
e only wounded, and under normal circumstances they would heal with rest, but the fact remained they couldn’t fight now and the only rest they would get was that of the grave. Three to one odds was a good ratio, but wasn’t good enough to ensure victory. They needed five to one at least, and that would still mean the legion’s destruction.
“If we can do this for a few days more, they might give it up for a bad job.”
He sat on the muddy ground. More collapsed than sat, but he had to rest… just for a moment. His side hurt like a sorcerer’s fire, but he’d checked earlier and found the armour uncut. The impact had been bad enough. He would have fainted with the pain but in the heat of battle it had seemed only a small thing, now he almost screamed. He held it down to a groan that his captains thought was for Bannan’s observations. His ribs on the left side must be cracked; if they were broken he would be unable to fight, so they were only cracked and that was that.
“Sorry sir, but that’s how I see it,” Bannan said contritely. “If we hold for a couple more days, they might give up… only might. I really don’t think one will be enough, not unless we can kill twice as many as we did this time.”
That was obviously impossible. They had no food and the lack was already taking its toll. He had no option but to continue the defence. The walls were a force multiplier—he was stronger on the defensive than on the offensive, but either way he needed more men. It was good of Corbin to stay—that would keep the Camorins looking behind them as well as in front, but he would need another legion to attack this many men under normal circumstances. The circumstances weren’t normal in any sense of the word.
“They look set to have another go, Sir,” Duer said.
Navarien struggled to his feet biting his lip as his ribs shifted. The warriors had been arguing among themselves about something—probably on what to do next—but now they were agreed on a new course and had shifted into a new order of battle. He shaded his eyes—the sun was directly overhead now.
“Oh, shit…” he breathed. “Everyone under shields now!”
Hunkering down behind his own shield, Navarien watched the Camorins send an arrow storm at the camp. The legion shield would stop arrows that dropped in as these were doing, but any that flew straight would punch through. His men were down low with only their heads above the wall to watch for a charge, but still some were struck. Many arrows overshot the walls and landed sticking up from the ground or hanging from the tents in the centre of the camp. Some of the enemy were better bowman than others however, and he watched sick at heart as experts sent arrows straight to their targets. Men were punched backward to roll down the inside slope of the walls. Arrows were hitting targets as tiny as a legionnaires helmet and in some cases penetrating the metal as well. Some of those struck were knocked senseless, then struck again and again, as they tried to stagger away. Arrows slammed into shields and nailed men’s arms to them, the men screamed at the pain, but endured at their posts, to do otherwise would mean their deaths as the defence weakened. The range was long, yet more and more men slumped forward dying in silence.
Arrows hit his shield, but he experimented with angles and succeeded in preventing his arm being nailed. Others seeing success, copied him, and after a time the arrows stopped penetrating the shields. Through all this he was cursing over and over, muttering what he would like to do to these Camorins if only had this thing or that.
Futile, all futile.
The Victory sinking at the beginning of his campaign had seemed like fate smiling on him. It had allowed him to show how good he was at taking three easy cities; now he would give his life to have some sorcerers here to save his men. It wasn’t to be. The sound of arrows coming down was like hail hitting a roof. He remembered sitting out a storm like that once. His father had been a farmer—he was dead now, but back then Navarien had been in awe of him. Varian had been a big man, and hardened from his labour in the fields.
He watched the arrows come down and the screams faded…
Varian walked slowly toward the barn as if unaware of the ice that pummelled him unmercifully. Up the dirt road he came as Navarien watched. His father seemed to enjoy it!
“Come out here, boy,” Varian said.
“It’ll hurt!” he shouted over the noise. He was only eight; surely papa wouldn’t make him.
“Come Navarien, be brave it’s only pain.”
He came out of the barn and was struck many times. He was determined not to show his pain. It stung something awful, but as he looked into his father’s eyes and saw the approval there, the pain seemed to fade. His father was right as he always was. It was only pain. To fail in his father’s eyes would be more painful.
“You see? A man will face the fear of pain and not let it sway him from what he must do. You will face worse than hail before you die, Navarien.”
Varian clapped him on the shoulder and they made to enter the house.
“What are you doing teaching my boy to stand around in this weather?” Navarien’s mother said in disapproval standing on the porch.
Varian and he grinned at each other.
“Men!” she said in disgust and stomped back inside.
Varian looked down at him smiling. “You see? Your mother knows that we are men.”
Navarien could feel the pain of that hail even now so many years later, it burned, and he moved to rub the spot on his shoulder. His hand bumped wood, and the pain flared higher.
“Shit… the bastards!” he growled as he snapped the shaft short.
He looked around but nothing had changed. Men were lying dead at the bottom of the wall; the rest hunkered down as he was doing behind shields that were bristling with spent shafts.
Whump!
The noise had come from behind him. He turned to look and saw Cragson’s boat so close to shore it would surely be beached when the tide turned. Master Belok must be hopping mad about that, but Cragson was a hard man to convince when he had his heart set on something. Navarien couldn’t see what had caused the noise, but he was sure Turner had something to do with it.
Whump!
This time he saw something fly away from the huge ship and pass overhead. It was so high that he couldn’t tell what it was at first. It dropped among the Camorins and a great chunk of the enemy fell. Gravel! Turner, the wonderful bastard, had smashed the stone blocks into fist-sized pieces of gravel, and he was throwing stone loads of the stuff at the enemy with his thrower. Navarien watched as Camorins fell by the score. Whether they were dead or not he was unsure, but they were out of the fight. Turner swung into a rhythm and hundreds died, then a thousand, then two. Corbin charged in from the right this time and took a heavy toll, but some of the gravel struck his battalion. Horses screamed in shock and surprise, but Corbin’s men kept them under control, and charged away again leaving chaos in their wake. Only a score or two had fallen to leave their mounts wandering loose.
“Bannan!” Navarien shouted.
“Sir?”
“Have the best bowmen start firing the spent arrows back to their owners!”
Bannan didn’t answer he was grinning too much. Moments later, the arrows collected from the camp went back out and added their weight to the toll being taken by the gravel.
Navarien watched as Corbin wheeled and charged back in again. The formation was ragged this time, but that would work to Corbin’s advantage he saw. If the cavalry was to have any chance at avoiding the gravel, it had to spread out. It was obvious from the first to him, but the enemy did not catch on as quickly. The warriors remained concentrated in large groups, which Turner used for an aiming point. The Camorins were still determined, but with gravel falling from the sky, and Corbin chopping them up at every opportunity, they were distracted. Thousands more fell.
“Dumb bastards! Run away!” he shouted as the Camorin bowmen withered under stone loads of gravel.
“Some are sir,” Duer said.
He nodded. Some were, but not enough. At the rear, the farthest from both the gravel and Corbin, he
could see men and women streaming away on foot. They were running as hard as they could for Calvados.
“But are they running away for good? They might be going for horses to use against Corbin.”
“No, I think not,” Duer said in a musing tone. “They’re planning on forting up.”
“That’s better for us today, but what do we do tomorrow?”
Duer laughed, and after a moment so did Navarien. Just a short while ago, he had been ready for death, now here he was thinking of how to complete his campaign! Corbin attacked again and again, losing a few men here, and then a few there. His battalion was dwindling now, just as the rest of the legion had throughout this year.
Navarien stood up and showed himself to the enemy. For a wonder, no arrows killed him, though a few did strike the ground at his feet and others added themselves to the cluster protruding from his shield.
“By the God, get down from there you flaming lunatic!” Duer screamed.
Navarien ignored him and pointed with his sword toward the retreating warriors. In his loudest parade ground voice, he shouted fit to shake mountains. “YOU STUPID BASTARDS! LOOK AND RUN AWAY! LOOK BEHIND YOU!”
To Navarien’s and Duer’s surprise, some did look back. Others saw the unease in their comrades and looked back also. Soon more than just the front ranks were looking behind at the retreat that was turning into a stampede as they watched.
Suddenly it happened.
A strike by Turner turned a group of men in the front rank of bowmen into so much dog meat. Those nearby recoiled from the shock of seeing a block of limestone fall from the sky weighing twenty-five stone or more. That was nothing compared to what happened to the men hit by it. The thud was loud enough to be heard in camp, and the results were obvious. Half a dozen men literally splashed away from the impact. Wasteful to use a block on so few, but the effect on the survivors made up for it. Those nearby tried to wipe their friends from their faces without success. Blood and brains dripped from their horrified faces, and ran down their clothes. Men were screaming as they tried to spit the disgusting stuff from their mouths. Another full sized stone came in. Then a load of gravel, and then another load of gravel followed by two blocks of limestone. That was enough.
Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 Page 85