by Duncan Lay
He was stating the obvious; all could see it. Arrows were falling on the rear ranks, preventing them from doing their job of holding the front in place and stiffening the line. On the left, they had ignored the threat of falling arrows to hold the men and had now formed a new wall of spears and shields, pushing the elves back. But the right was being bent, the centre struggling to keep in contact with both. At that point, where the line was curving away, the elves were threatening to split them in two.
‘What about the Velsh and their bloody magic? Where is it?’ Ward shouted.
A marshal raced up on a sweat-lathered horse. ‘They say they are using all they have but the elves are blocking them. No magic is influencing the battle now, just swords.’
‘No magic?’ Ward snarled. ‘What smashed the front line then? The bloody wind?’
‘Sire, we need to send in the cavalry on the right to take the pressure off the men,’ Edmund said.
Ward looked at the milling cavalry, falling back from another pretend charge that had provoked a shower of arrows but no more from the elven side. He also saw his son’s banner in the centre.
‘Send Captain Wulf in,’ he said.
‘Sire, Wulf is on the left. It will do nothing. We have to take the pressure off the right. By the time Wulf gets around there, it will be too late.’
Edmund saw the fury and the anguish warring on the king’s face.
‘Send in the right,’ Ward said, the words sounding as though they were being dragged out of him.
‘What is Huw doing? We are using no magic on them!’ Sendatsu snarled. Then he felt the surge of magic — a surge matched instantly by another from the elven side.
‘He’s left it too long,’ Rhiannon said. ‘The elves will fail before our people but it will not matter — the Forlish are about to break.’
‘Save them,’ Sendatsu said immediately.
‘But Sumiko?’
‘Will have to wait.’
Rhiannon and Asami nodded to each other and then reached out to hold hands.
‘I’ll bloody kill Huw when I see him next,’ Sendatsu spat.
‘How are we going to get to Sumiko then?’
‘The hard way,’ Sendatsu said, looking at the mass of elves between them and Sumiko.
‘We are almost through on our left. Their right is about to break,’ Sumiko noted with satisfaction.
‘They have raised a flag for cavalry, High One,’ Oroku wheezed.
She looked over and smiled. ‘Well done. Rest now, I shall finish it.’
Oroku sat down heavily, servants rushing over with food and drink for him to rebuild his strength. Sumiko looked at the cavalry on her left, forming their right wing. She gave orders to her Magic-weavers with the two clans there.
‘Stop loosing arrows. Send a few warriors to run out and retrieve fallen ones to make them think we are out. Then when they charge, we shall hit them with everything.’
She glanced across to where the Forlish right was about to break — and felt a blast of magic strike there. The grass, trodden into blood and mud by hundreds of boots, suddenly sprang into life, grabbing elves and twisting them up and away, holding them helpless or flinging them back. In a few heartbeats the whole battle changed, with the Forlish now at the advantage, thrusting spears through the grass wall that protected them.
Sumiko heard the cheer that rose from the Forlish ranks, saw the way the other side was also heartened by this, and forcefully cut and stabbed at her warriors, who were taking a step back in the face of such extravagant magic.
‘So that is how you chose to use your powers. Well, here’s something you did not expect,’ she muttered to herself.
Ward could not restrain a shout of triumph as the magic finally took effect, sealing off his right and protecting his men.
‘Huw and his Velsh have proved their worth, after all,’ Edmund said with relief.
‘It is something we shall have to watch, when we take it for ourselves,’ Ward said, feeling his face break into a smile.
‘Let the men get their breath and then send them hooking around the right into the elven flank?’ Edmund suggested. ‘The elves cannot get through that grassy wall.’
‘Yes,’ Ward agreed, then held out his hand. He turned to give the order to the marshals. ‘Quick! First of all we should call back the cavalry.’
The cavalry flag was dipped three times, the signal to break off an attack. But there was no sign it had been seen by the cavalry.
‘Ride! As if your lives depended on it!’ Ward roared at the marshals.
Two men put spurs to their horses and raced off with the message, riding as if they truly believed death would be their reward for failure.
‘What is he doing?’ Ward snarled.
‘You stay here, my prince. I’ll take half the men in,’ the castellan said steadily.
‘I am in command, I should be the one to lead the charge,’ Wilfrid said hotly.
‘This is not a ride to glory, this is a ride to death,’ the castellan said softly. ‘We have to take the pressure off the shield wall, buy time with our lives. Your father would not want that for you — and would not let me live if I sent you in my stead.’
He held out his hand, but Wilfrid was looking past him, towards the elves.
‘We don’t have to die — we can win!’ he said excitedly.
‘What?’
‘Look!’ Wilfrid pointed. ‘They’re collecting arrows. They must be out.’
The castellan turned to see a dozen elves grabbing handfuls of arrows out of the ground, looking nervously towards the looming cavalry, just a hundred paces away. He had resigned himself to death — now hope bloomed again.
‘It could be a trap,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Who would sacrifice warriors like that? Look, they are running for their lines and we are not even moving — surely that means this is no trap!’
The castellan wanted to believe it, desperately. ‘I should still lead,’ he said.
‘No! If there is glory to be won, I shall win it,’ Wilfrid declared, his eyes shining.
The castellan could see what the young prince was thinking — it was written all over his face: win this battle, save the day and not only would he win everlasting fame, his father would embrace him.
‘My prince, please let me …’ he tried, but he did not have the words, nor the time, to convince him.
‘Form three ranks!’ Wilfrid shouted. ‘We don’t stop until every last elf is dead!’
The cavalry companies shook themselves into lines in an instant, eager to gain some revenge on their tormentors and avenge their fallen comrades.
Almost before they were ready, Wilfrid slapped his trumpeter on the shoulder. ‘Sound the charge!’ he roared.
The castellan pushed into the second rank beside Wilfrid.
‘Perhaps you would be better in the third rank,’ he tried to say.
‘This is my place!’ Wilfrid shouted.
The castellan knew a charge needed to begin slowly, then hit the gallop only in the last few strides, so that the men arrived together, in one massive block that was impossible to stop. But this charge was not like that. On the other side of Wilfrid, the trumpeter was lashing the men into the charge, blowing the long notes that fired men’s blood. The first rank went into the gallop almost straight away, before they reached the line of arrows that marked where they had previously sheared away.
‘There’s nothing coming from the elves! They are out of arrows!’ Wilfrid exulted.
Almost as soon as he spoke, he stabbed his mount with spurs and took off after the first rank, forcing the rest of them to go into a gallop as well.
The castellan drew his sword as he tried to catch up to Wilfrid. There was no stopping this charge now.
‘You can let the magic go now, the Forlish have reformed their lines,’ Sendatsu said urgently.
Asami and Rhiannon opened their eyes and then Asami fell into Rhiannon’s arms.
‘How much have you got left?�
�� Sendatsu asked.
Rhiannon wiped sweat from her forehead. ‘Some,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if it’s enough for Sumiko.’
‘I need something to eat before I even think of doing anything,’ Asami gasped.
‘Maybe we won’t need it. The Forlish cavalry is charging.’ Gaibun pointed.
Sendatsu’s head whipped around. ‘The fools,’ he whispered. ‘They’re dead.’
Sumiko smiled as the Forlish fell into her trap, spurring to the gallop.
She strode over to that side, uncaring of the bloody battle still going on at the front, where elves and Forlish scratched and clawed and stabbed at each other, the grass around their feet covered in blood, shit and brains, close enough to see the expression on the faces of those they killed, close enough to smell their breath and hear their last whisper.
But that was not where it would be won.
She watched the first rank pass the line of arrows and refused to give the order, although many elves, Oroku among them, looked at her anxiously. Her eyes were fixed on the second rank, where she could see the prince’s standard. Only when they went into a gallop, passed the arrow marker, did she relax.
‘Everyone with a bow, aim at the horses,’ she ordered her Magic-weavers.
Less than eight hundred horses were riding at them, in three ranks. That was still enough to tear her warriors into tatters if they struck home. But against them she had nearly four thousand archers, who had all been training for ten years and could loose an arrow every six heartbeats. The cavalry was less than one hundred paces away now, a distance from which every archer could put an arrow in a target the size of a hand nine times out of ten.
A cloud of arrows converged on them, followed by another, then a third.
The cavalry raced on for a few heartbeats, the big horses absorbing the first arrow hits — then the third volley struck home and the first rank simply dissolved. Riders were plucked out of the saddle by the force of the arrows, or sent flying through the air as their mounts collapsed under them. The screams of men and horses were terrible to hear.
A handful somehow escaped the slaughter and tried to turn around, sure they only had moments before arrows ripped them apart also.
‘Leave them! Kill the second rank!’ Sumiko screamed. ‘Aim for the flags!’
Elves laid fresh arrows on their strings and bent bows, lifting their aim from the wreckage of the first rank to where the second rank was trying to slow down and turn for safety. There was no way through the thrashing, writhing remnants of their first rank, even if they could hope to survive the arrow assault.
But it was not an easy thing to turn a galloping horse, particularly when there were more to either side. As they tried, the first volley of arrows landed on them, with another in the air and the third on elven bowstrings.
Wilfrid watched the destruction of the first rank of cavalry in horror. The sheer butchery of it left him bewildered and the second rank galloped on for precious strides before he thought to do something to save himself.
‘Get clear, my prince!’ The castellan tried to grab the reins of Wilfrid’s horse and force its head around.
‘Sound the split — break left and right and head for open ground!’ Wilfrid shouted, but his words were whipped away on the wind and the men around him were becoming ragged anyway as some slowed down and others waited for orders.
Then the arrows whistled down.
Wilfrid saw a pair of them strike the castellan and snatch him out of the saddle, then the trumpeter made a strangled sound and went over backwards before he could blow the new orders. Wilfrid glanced around, thinking to wave the men away, to see holes appearing in the tight ranks as men and horses were knocked down. His standard bearer opened his mouth, then an arrow disappeared into it and the tall flag came down. Wilfrid watched it fall towards him in slow motion and he could do nothing about it as his horse’s feet became tangled in the linen and he went over.
Sumiko stopped watching the massacre and looked instead at where the king’s banner flew high.
‘Now, Ward. Now let’s see how good my magic really is,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Make me proud.’
‘No!’ Ward said, thumping the saddle in fury.
They had all watched as Wilfrid’s wing had spurred into a gallop before the marshals could get there, the two men frantically chasing after the cavalry ranks.
That had been bad enough but to see the elven arrows casually destroy the front rank was worse. By the time they saw the prince’s standard fall and the remains of the second rank try to flee, there was nothing any of them could say.
Edmund swallowed and turned to his king, searching for words. Ward was staring out at survivors trying to hide behind dead and dying horses, sheltering from incessant arrows, while the last rank of cavalry turned and raced for safety.
‘Sire,’ Edmund said, not knowing what to add next.
‘He is still alive. I feel it,’ Ward said.
Edmund had no reply.
‘Edmund, I need you to take charge here. I will go and get him,’ Ward said calmly, as if he was discussing taking a stroll around Cridianton on a warm summer’s evening.
‘Sire?’
‘I have to go and get him. It is something I must do.’
‘But, sire, the battle — your men — the country … it all rests on you. One man, no matter who he is, is not worth all that,’ Edmund said desperately.
‘He is my son. My last son. I have to go.’
‘Sire, if you want him rescued, then let me go. You are too valuable —’
Ward reached out and gripped Edmund’s shoulder. ‘You are in charge until I return.’
Edmund grabbed hold of Ward’s arm. ‘Sire, this is madness! You are throwing your life away!’
Ward looked down at Edmund’s hand, his eyes on fire, and Edmund opened it nervelessly.
‘I have to do this. I cannot explain it, but it must be done. And I am the king — you cannot stop me,’ he said harshly.
‘Sire, I beg you, don’t do this!’ Edmund pleaded.
‘I have always listened to your advice, Edmund. But not this time,’ Ward said.
‘Why? The battle is in the balance, anything could happen.’
‘Which means you are the perfect man to finish it for me. You were the son I always wanted but never had. Win this for me.’
Edmund opened his mouth but nothing would come out.
Ward smiled at him, then turned and rode away, signalling to the three hundred cavalrymen who waited as his reserve.
Edmund watched him go, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
Ward could feel Edmund’s eyes boring into his back as he rode away. He knew this was madness but he felt completely happy with the decision. It was beyond strange but it felt right.
Ever since he had been healed by the elves, there had been a thought in the back of his mind about his sons, a voice saying he had failed as a father. It had been like an itch he could never reach. The death of Uffa had turned that into a shout — and now it filled his mind, shut out everything else.
He knew this was madness, knew he should be putting Forland ahead of personal considerations, as he always had. What was his son against the fate of the whole country? But he could not ignore the feeling his son was still alive.
‘We shall go at the gallop, one company to drive at the heart of the elves, the other two to form a ring around our wounded and rescue my son,’ he said calmly.
The cavalry captain glanced over at the wreckage of the last charge and gulped. ‘Yes, sire,’ he said hoarsely.
‘He is coming!’ Oroku cried. ‘I see his standard moving!’
Sumiko sent circling birds to swoop down to make sure it was Ward.
By the time Ward’s cavalry company had ridden around the edge of the Forlish line, she had the proof she needed.
‘It has worked,’ she told Oroku with a broad smile. ‘Exactly as I hoped it would. The Forlish king is about to deliver himself into our hands
. The battle will soon be ours.’
‘Shall I tell the archers to prepare their shafts, aiming for his standard again?’ Oroku asked eagerly.
‘No, I want him alive. Let the archers rest. I have another plan for proud King Ward.’
Mogosai backed away a few paces, careful of his footing. All around, wounded men and elves groaned and screamed and thrashed, their blood and guts churning the grass into a morass. One slip and you were easy meat for the other side, a technique he had taken advantage of more than a few times in the desperate battle. He had been sure the Forlish were about to break, had smelt the fear on them — and then the magic had surged through the ground, forcing them back and saving the Forlish.
He had been lost in the battle, concentrating only on the men in front and how to hurt them, kill them, make them pay for his father’s death and then make them run. But such an obvious use of magic brought all his old doubts back.
Humans could not use magic. All the Magic-weavers were on their side, except one traitress, Asami. That was what Sumiko said. Never mind that Mogosai had seen Asami fight the Forlish to a standstill with sword and magic outside Dokuzen. But even Asami could not stand against every Magic-weaver in the elven nation. Her grass barrier should have been swept aside like a fine cloth. But it still stood and, with every heartbeat it stayed there, more and more elves were asking why.
‘How is this possible?’ Mogosai said aloud, wiping blood off his face with his left sleeve, for the right one was even more soaked in Forlish gore.
Elves around him heard his words and looked at him. None had an answer.
‘Clan Chenjaku to the flank. Clan Munemori to replace you.’ The order came through the Magic-weavers and Mogosai turned and walked away.
‘Where in Aroaril’s name is Ward going?’ Sendatsu asked, watching the king ride around the end of the line.
Both sides had drawn back, leaving a few paces filled with heaving, weeping bodies. Ranks were rotating through on the Forlish side, fresh men moving to the front, tired front-rankers moving back, their shields splintered and hacked, their swords notched and their faces bloody. On the elven side the same thing was happening, archers drawing swords and moving forwards, warriors sheathing bloody blades and stringing bows. Every so often, a small group of elves would lunge at the Forlish line, swords swinging, and there would be a furious fight, leaving a handful of dead and wounded before the shield wall sealed itself and the elves pulled back again.