by RJ Baker
And almost lost it.
The Nonmen withdrew, and rather than fall back and let Nywulf shut the gates so the troops around him could rest, Aydor followed the retreating Nonmen, berating them as he did.
“Beaten by farmers! By farmers!” he shouted as he strode after them. “Remember that and run while you can …” I cursed him from above, but he could not hear. Nywulf frantically called for him to return to our lines.
There was always one, always some unruly fool who pursued a retreating force and they all suffered the same fate for their lack of discipline. When Aydor was too far from the gate to easily return eight of the better-armed warriors split from the retreating Nonmen and circled back to kill him. Part of me rejoiced – he was nothing but trouble for Rufra and this would be a good way for him to die. But my master’s voice was in my head, telling me to study the whole battle and not just my own part in it. Dead gods’ graves, if Aydor fell now it would take the heart out of the men and women who had seen him fight so hard with them, to the farmers he must seem unbeatable, like a giant of war.
“Black Ungar take you, Aydor,” I whispered under my breath. I was moving before Nywulf shouted my name.
I leapt from the wall, rolling in the mud and coming up with my stabswords drawn and a sharp ache in my club foot. I ran hard, foot in front of foot, my gait lopsided and my mind full of anger. Four of the Nonmen readied themselves to meet Aydor, who charged them like a bull mount in full rut. The other four circled round to come at him from behind. It was them I aimed for.
Foot in front of foot.
Breathe out, breathe in.
No pain, no fear.
I am the weapon.
My thighs ached and my club foot burned. I’d not run hard like this for too long.
Aydor met the first Nonman, catching an overhand blow on his scratched shield and shattering the man’s skull with a return blow of my warhammer. Then Nonmen were in front of me, unaware of my attack as yet. Aydor would have to fend for himself while I dealt with them.
Twenty-third iteration: the Kissing Skip.
Building up momentum with a hop, skip and a jump. Landing with both feet on the first Nonman’s knee, forcing it sideways. A crack of shattered bone and ripped ligaments. Using his body as steps, propelling me up into the air – twentieth iteration: Swordmouth’s Leap – coming down with my stabswords held like the fangs in the beak of the flying lizard that hunts fish, blades straight through the face of the second Nonman as she turns at the sound of her friend’s scream. The remaining two spinning to face me, caught off guard and shocked to see two of their number already lying in the mud behind me.
Quicksteps.
Pushing the Nonman forward, forward, forward, panic in eyes half hidden behind bars of dirty hair. He makes a poor lunge at me. I bat it away and – eighth iteration: The Placing of the Rose – blade into his throat. The last remaining Nonman drops his weapon and runs. I ignore him.
Aydor.
Foot in front of foot.
Too slow.
Foot in front of foot in front of foot.
Run, Girton.
He has his second attacker down, but the other two are moving around behind him. A blade comes in towards his back
The Speed-that-Defies-the-Eye.
I am there.
The Meeting of Hands saving the life of a man who would have had me killed. The Nonman is dead. I came from nowhere and he had no time to prepare. My blade is in his heart. The second backs away and the warhammer comes around, breaking his neck.
For minutes it seems we stand there listening to the whimpering of the man with the broken knee and staring at one another.
“Thank you, Girton.”
I don’t want his thanks.
“No filthy Nonman is taking my warhammer as a trophy because of your stupidity. Get back to our lines.”
Aydor stared at me for a moment longer, then raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“Well, thank you anyway.” He laughed then. And I found myself laughing with him at my own prickliness, though it was laughter which came from the tension of battle fleeing and not any form of camaraderie. I still thought him dangerous.
Before we headed back to Gwyre, Aydor turned to the fleeing Nonmen and screamed at them, “Beaten by farmers! Beaten by farmers and a mage-bent cripple!”
We rejoined the men and women waiting for us, a jeering, screaming mass. Nywulf watched with a look of amusement on his face and then he shouted in his best parade-ground voice, “Quiet! We’ve given them a bloody nose, that is all.” The troops nodded and the villagers, who a moment ago had looked elated, became rather less full of celebration. “They’ll come back, and they’ll come back harder and cleverer.” He looked up at the bridge across the gate where he’d stationed his sharpest-eyed trooper. “You see anything, Geest?”
“Aye.” The woman sounded bored. “Ladders and what looks like a ram, but they’ve got no roof for it so we can rain merry hell on them before they get through.”
“You hear what she said?” He let his gaze play along the faces around him. “They’re bringing up siege weapons – not big ones, but enough to cause us a little trouble. “I want a child in every house – if the Nonmen start cutting holes in the roofs I want to know. And I want someone boiling water, and if we can get some torches up on the roofs of the houses we should do that too.” People were nodding, listening attentively to what Nywulf said. “Troops, if you are not in the shieldwall I want you protecting the archers and whoever else you can from arrows. Any villager or trooper who has nothing to do should collect fallen arrows and keep our archers supplied. Do you all understand?”
He was met with a chorus of “Ayes.”
“Right, everyone get a drink. Those who want to see Darvin or your own priest to sign your god’s book do it now.”
“I could do with some perry,” said Aydor with a grin.
Nywulf grabbed his arm. “Over here,” he said and took Aydor aside as the others queued up at water and perry barrels. I melted into the shadows so I could hear what they said.
“You fought well, Aydor.” And the huge man gave a smug grin that made me wish I’d let him die. “But do not congratulate yourself too much. You were lucky out there at the end. Don’t be a fool again. If not for Girton you’d be a corpse.”
“Sorry, Nywulf.” Aydor bowed his head. “Something happened, I do not know what.”
“Battle madness, Aydor. Sometimes Xus the unseen whispers in the ear of those who do his bidding, and his words are powerful.” I felt a sudden stab of jealousy. In Maniyadoc five years ago I was sure I had been led to safety by the god of death, and for Nywulf to say he spoke to Aydor felt like I had been betrayed, though it was foolish of me – death comes to all. “Now you have heard his words, you will recognise them next time the madness tries to take hold. I do not want to have to send Girton after you again.”
Aydor smiled at him.
“For years I dreamed of fighting Girton one on one,” he said. “Now I am glad that never happened or I would not be here. Dead gods, but he can fight.”
“Yes, and he fights clever, Aydor. You should too. First rule, don’t fight unless you have to, you understand?” The Aydor I once knew would have cursed Nywulf for telling him what to do; this one bowed his head and I wondered how long he had been working on this contrite act. “And the second rule, Aydor, is that you don’t drink before a fight.”
“But everyone drinks before—”
“Not officers, not Rufra’s officers, and that’s why he wins. Drunk officers do foolish things, you understand?” Aydor nodded, and I watched him walk away and join the queue for water.
“Girton,” said Nywulf, “you can stop skulking now.”
“We shouldn’t trust him.”
“Maybe not, but right now we need him to fight the Nonmen. I want you and your bow in the middle of the village watching the roofs until I need you in the house at the back. My troops will call you when it’s time.”
�
�Very well.”
“And did you learn your lesson out there?” he said, putting heavy emphasis on “your.”
“That Aydor is a fool?”
“No, that you should play to your talents and stop running from who you are. Your strength is not in the warhammer; leave it with Aydor.” He grabbed my wrist, lifting up the arm that held my Conwy stabsword. “You are fast, Girton Club-Foot, so be fast.”
“I’m out of practice,” I said, looking at the ground as he let go of me.
“They come!” A shout from above.
“You’re about to get plenty of practice,” grinned Nywulf, then shouted, “Places! Cearis, get on the wall and cause trouble for that ram. Aydor, the shieldwall. Village archers, I want you ready in the middle of the village. Boros, form a second line behind the shieldwall.” As Nywulf barked orders men and women ran to obey, he was in his element. This was a man doing what he was born for. “Telkir, Halda.” He stopped two soldiers. “Get in that house with the hole in the wall and take some spears to keep away any Nonmen trying to clear the hole and get in. They won’t get through yet, but when they are near send a runner for Girton to join you. When he does, you are to watch his back, you understand?” They nodded and jogged to the rear of the village.
Everything was illuminated in orange by the light of the fires lit in the gaps between the houses, and a column of thick smoke rose above Gwyre like Birthstorm clouds. Outside the walls the Nonmen had started up an eerie chant backed with hauntgrass flutes, and it sounded like Dark Ungar himself was coming for us. As I went to join the archers in the middle of the village I passed Cearis. She gave me a wave, and I saw the ink on her fingers from where she had signed the priest’s book. Darvin and Gwyre’s priest, Coilynn of Lasurd of the fields, had taken over a house and as I passed it Coilynn appeared. She was tying a rag of grey material above the door so we knew where to take the wounded. The priest already had blood down the front of her gown of green rags, and I wondered if it was hers or from the wounded.
As I passed she stopped me, touching me gently on the arm.
“King Rufra, will he really come?” she asked, and even though priests are trained to modulate their voices I could hear fear there.
“Yes,” I said simply, remembering a moment clear as a summer pool – Rufra clad in silver, appearing out of the dark when I needed him most. “He will come.”
“Good. I would like to see him. I have heard much that is good about him.”
“Even about his new ways?”
“I am not against them as some priests are. If the grasses grow and change, then why shouldn’t people? Lasurd told us the seasons changed for a reason, so change must be for a reason.” She finished tying the flag. “I must get water now. Darvin is still taking signatures, so if you would sign for Lasurd or Lessiah now is the time.”
“I must prepare for the next attack,” I said. She nodded and went back into the house.
I walked on though I felt guilty about my small lie; Coilynn’s simple faith in her god and her king had touched me in a way I did not understand. It had been long on long since I had felt faith in anything. Irritated, I joined the group of archers in the middle of the long central street where it widened. They looked frightened, holding their bows and quivers tighter than lovers. I had no quiver, only a handful of arrows I was gripping too tightly. I loosened my fist, watching the white retreat from my knuckles and be replaced by a more human pink. Down the street I saw Aydor laughing as he took a ladleful of water from a trooper and I thrust my arrows into the muddy ground with such vehemence the men and women around me took a step back. I must have looked like something from a nightmare to these people, my expression grim, body mage-bent and harlequin armour splattered with the same Nonman blood I could feel drying on my face.
“Empty your quivers,” I said. We were surrounded by the men and women Nywulf had sent to shield us. “Stick your arrows in the ground.”
“Why?” said a woman. It was Aisleth, Ossowin’s wife. She at least looked like she had some spirit.
“It makes them easier to get hold of, allows those gathering arrows to see who is running low and, more importantly, the dirt on the heads will poison a wound. If your target doesn’t die now, they will die later.”
“That would be a bad death,” said a small man, “like Vorle who died seeing Fitchgrass after he cut himself on the plough.”
“Good,” said Aisleth. “these Nonmen do not deserve to die clean. Hedgings take them all.”
“What about the Nonmen arrows?” said a man at the back. I pointed at the troops with shields around us.
“That is what they’re for, and—”
“Arrows!” The shout came from the walls, and I instinctively ducked; the villagers followed my lead and we were quickly encased in a shell of shields as a hard and deadly rain fell. Somewhere outside our refuge arrows found flesh, and screaming heralded the second Nonmen attack, followed by the shouting and whistling of the mettle-chanters and another rain of arrows.
“Magic curse them and sorcerers take their spirits,” muttered someone behind me.
“I think they already have,” said a soldier. There was a low chuckle from the men and women holding the shields. That they seemed so calm about the falling arrows helped to calm the villagers around me a little.
“My hand shakes,” said Aisleth.
“Mine too,” said another villager.
“Hold fast,” I said, turning to meet the eyes of the village archers. “Waiting is always the worst part. We’ll get our turn at them soon. Action will steady your aim.”
I could feel fear around me, the stench of sweat and piss and the gradual ratcheting up of tension as the Nonmen’s ram beat upon the gate and arrows rained down on us again. The trooper holding a shield above me flexed his fingers.
“Arm ache?” I said. He nodded. “I can hold the shield for a while if you wish.”
He shook his head. “Save your arm for your bow, Blessed,” he said, and I wondered at how, even though Rufra had brought his new ways, people still clung to what they knew.
“Archers!” Nywulf’s call was loud and clear. In a bigger battle a warleader would use a whistle, flags or a horn, but here Nywulf’s voice was enough.
The shields were removed from above us and a shudder went through me as the cool night air replaced the warmth of bodies huddled under our protective roof. Torches flickered and flared all over the village and for a moment I saw nothing. I let my eye run along the top of the wall, up to where it met a house, along the roof, down the other side to where the wall continued until it met the next house. A silhouette on a roof caught my eye – arrow-to-string, draw, aim and loose. A scream of pain and a body rattled down the slates.
“Shoot at anything on a roof or coming over the wall,” I said. “Take your time and aim well.” Aim, shoot – I sent another arrow into the night and was rewarded with a scream. “You don’t have to kill them. The fall will do that, and if it doesn’t there are plenty of our troops waiting at the bottom to finish the job.” Soon silhouettes were swarming over two of the houses, one to the left and one on the right – aim, shoot – the archers over the gate were no longer firing exclusively down at the men with the ram – aim, shoot – now they had split their attention between the ram and the walls and I knew the momentum of the fight had changed – aim, shoot – aim, shoot – we were reacting to the attackers this time rather than having them do what we wanted – aim, shoot – I heard the splintering of wood – the gate was starting to give.
“Where is our water?” roared Nywulf into the night. Two women struggled past carrying a huge steaming metal cauldron. Aydor left the shieldwall, which stood idle in front of the splintering gate – aim, shoot – and joined Nywulf, taking the cauldron and carrying it up two parallel ladders. As they got it to the top of the wall, an arrow hit Nywulf, bouncing off the metal of his shoulder piece. Nywulf shouted, “Signless filth, you need a wash!” And they tipped the cauldron of boiling water over those below –
aim, shoot. The steady boom of the ram was replaced by anguished cries.
“Arrows!”
The shields came over us. A hard ratatatatat as arrows fell. The Nonmen archers’ attack seemed to go on for a long time. Though there were probably no more than ten flights launched they staggered them, so just as I thought it was over another rain of arrows would fall. No doubt they caught out more than one of us.
Beneath the shelter of the shields Aisleth gave me a smile. “You were right.” She held out an unshaking arm. “The waiting was the worst part, my hand no longer shakes.”
“Girton!” I scuttled out of the haven of the shield roof to find Cearis waiting, her shield held above her head as she strolled along as calmly as if she walked through a rainstorm. “Nywulf wants you to kill some of their archers, see if you can drive them back a bit.” We jogged over the ground to where Nywulf was inspecting the gates.
“Pull them down,” he ordered.
Ossowin started to protest. He headed a small group of angry villagers that had gathered in the lee of the wall.
“Eight of ours have died already, Nywulf, and four more will succumb to their wounds soon enough,” he shouted. “And for what? They still come.”
“Thirteen of my troops have died, and they have died for you,” said Nywulf. I winced – that was more than we could afford. “If we let the Nonmen choose our tactics, they’ll rain down arrows on us or put their numbers into coming over the roofs of the houses and the wall. And we will lose. If we take down the gate, they will focus on this place.” He was right, but I knew it was a desperate tactic. Our troops were no longer as fresh as they had been at the start.