by Mark Acres
Bagsby took a deep breath, drinking in the piney scent of the crisp spring air. The cloppity-clop of the galloping horse’s hoofbeats came closer. Bagsby gazed at the sky; only a few, long, thin white clouds, scraggly and shifting, slowly drifted across that vast field of light blue. It would be a perfect day for battle, he thought.
“What is your plan upon encountering the enemy?” Shulana asked.
“We’ll meet them on level ground, our knights will charge and scatter them, and we’ll take all their stuff,” Bagsby replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “These knight fellows do this kind of thing all the time. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“You have only a hundred knights,” Shulana objected. “The Heilesheim force consists of five hundred men.”
“Foot soldiers, mostly,” Bagsby said, unconcerned.
“Do you remember the full reports of the battle that Dunsford fought? He had four thousand men, some six hundred knights, against a Heilesheim force with many footmen and only a few knights. Yet he was defeated,” Shulana cautioned.
“Huh?” Bagsby replied, his attention focused now on the approaching rider. “Oh, well, he probably did something stupid. These warrior types are not over bright. Perhaps you’ve noticed that characteristic,” Bagsby said, chuckling.
“Perhaps he did do something stupid,” Shulana agreed. “Like what?”
“What?”
“Like what?” Shulana persisted.
“Huh? What? Like what? Well, you know, probably one of the usual stupid things, like, uh, well, like, uh...” Bagsby stammered and stopped in mid-sentence. His cheeks puffed out and his lips pursed; his forehead furrowed. Then his shoulders slumped. He leaned over in his saddle, bringing his face very close to Shulana’s ear, and whispered, “I don’t really know. But I don’t want these knights to know that I don’t know. So please don’t keep on asking me questions I can’t answer. It’s embarrassing.”
“My Lord General!” the galloping rider shouted ahead. “The enemy approaches!”
“Well, then,” Shulana whispered back to Bagsby, “perhaps it would be well to give it some thought if you intend to lead an army into battle.”
The galloping mount of the scout was reined to a halt not three feet from Bagsby’s horse. The great steed snorted and shook its head, exhausted by the long ride at full tilt. The rider, too, was gasping, even as he gestured excitedly, pointing back the way he had come.
“We have found them, Lord General,” he reported. “Not more than three miles ahead. A convoy of ten huge wagons, drawn by oxen, very slow. They have with them a guard of footmen—we counted them at about four hundred—and a smaller body of knights, not more than sixty.”
“Good, good,” Bagsby said, putting on the scowling face he found so effective in dealing with these knights. “You have done well. How far ahead to the next valley, where there is level ground to deploy our force?”
“About a mile and a half, maybe two,” the excited rider declared. “If your lordship rides promptly, the column can be in the clearing and deployed before they arrive there. They must top a hill before spotting the place; they will not see you. They have no scouts riding ahead.”
“Hah! No scouts!” Bagsby crowed.
“Our own scouts are staying out of sight in front of them, working their way back here while continuing to watch them,” the rider added.
“Good. Take your place in ranks. Rest your horse. We move out in three minutes,” Bagsby declared.
“Very good, Lord General.” The man dismounted and led his horse back toward the throng of knights who, taking full advantage of the rest time, sat or lay on the hard, rocky ground, sharing swigs of wine and swapping tales of battles and of women.
Bagsby turned his horse around and surveyed his men. Soon, he thought, I’ll know their mettle.
“Royal Guardsmen of Argolia,” he cried, “the enemy approaches. We ride to meet them.” Bagsby drew his longsword and held it aloft, its tip straight up toward the pale blue sky. “Prepare for battle!”
A cheer went up from the knights, with shouts of “For the gods, for the right, and for King Harold!” The knights began to busy themselves checking armor, straps, weapons, and horses.
Shulana again drew up beside Bagsby. He felt a small chill of excitement as he felt her warm breath touch his ear.
“Better think fast,” she whispered.
Bagsby sat alone on his war-horse, wearing his full armor. Behind him, arrayed in lines deep over a short front of about fifty yards, sat his knights, deployed and eager for battle, but silent at his command. The great banner of the company, with its silver lion emblazoned over red and gold stripes, was held in the center of the front line, the honor having gone to Sir John, a gesture by Bagsby that guaranteed good morale among his men. Shulana and the camp followers Bagsby had placed out of sight, behind the hill to his rear.
Now he sat, patiently waiting for the approach of the enemy. He would call out, demanding their surrender as spies. His demand, of course, would be refused. Then he’d give the order to charge. Naturally, Bagsby thought, it would only make sense if his own mount dropped back during the charge, giving the honor of the first impact to the front rank of his knights.
From the distant north, Bagsby heard the sound of hoofbeats. He strained his eyes to the hillcrest, over which the enemy must pass to enter the flat, narrow valley where his force was deployed. There they were!
A column of knights, their leader carrying a huge square banner featuring the form of a black dragon with its wings extended, thundered over the crest of the hill. Immediately the knights fanned out, and without the slightest pause, formed a single, long, thin line, facing Bagsby’s lines. This line continued forward, then suddenly halted, about four hundred yards in front of Bagsby. Farther away to the north, Bagsby could hear drumbeats in a rhythmic pattern, but the line of knights blocked his view of the hillcrest. The leader of this force continued forward at the gallop, his banner snapping, his black armor gleaming in the near noonday sun.
The rider suddenly halted about midway between the two opposing lines.
Something’s wrong, Bagsby thought. Something’s wrong, and I don’t know what it is. Worse, I don’t have time to figure it out.
Not daring to show hesitation, Bagsby spurred his own mount forward, slowly riding forward to meet the enemy commander. He approached to within ten yards of the man. He was a large man, with swarthy skin and a thin black mustache and beard. Even at a distance of ten yards his eyes conveyed hardness, cruelty, and arrogance.
“Who dares block the path of the forces of King Ruprecht, the Black Prince of Heilesheim?” the knight demanded. His horse pranced skittishly from side to side as the man cried out his challenge.
“Sir John Wolfe, commanding forces of the Royal Guard of Argolia,” Bagsby answered. “Who marches an armed force through the lands of King Harold?”
“Sir Otto von Berne, commanding forces of the Black Prince, Ruprecht of Heilesheim. I have the word of King Harold of Argolia granting safe passage through these lands. Stand aside!”
“In the name of that same King Harold,” Bagsby answered bravely, “I order you and your men to disarm and submit to inspection of your persons and your chattels. If no evidence of crimes against this land is found, you may pass in peace.”
“We shall submit to no such search,” the knight snarled. “If you attempt it, you shall die.”
“To what gods do you pray, Sir Otto?” Bagsby asked.
Sir Otto tilted his head, puzzled. What kind of question was this? “To the war god of Heilesheim, to Wojan who wields the Hammer of Might and the Sword of the Gods,” Sir Otto bellowed back.
“Good,” Bagsby answered. “Then pray to him, and tell him to go to his own hell, where he can try to retrieve your own black soul within the hour!”
Having hurled this taunt, Bagsby reined his horse around tightl
y, turning his back on the foe, and rode at a trot back to his position in front of his lines. Sir Otto’s curses followed him a short distance across the field, then that knight, too, turned and spurred back to his own lines.
That seemed to go well, Bagsby thought as he approached his own men. Now, let’s see what these Argolian louts can do. He spurred his mount again and rode across the front of his lines, calling to his men.
“These enemies of your king dare raise swords against his name, his orders, and his Royal Guard. Guardsmen, give them your answer!” Bagsby brought his trotting mount back to a position in front of the center of his line. He raised his sword, pointed at the enemy, and screamed, “Charge!”
With one mighty shout the lines of knights surged forward, lances lowered. Those who had no lances waved huge one-handed bastard swords high in the air. Bagsby fell in beside Sir John, who bore no weapon save the great banner of the company.
“Lead on to glory, Sir John!” Bagsby howled above the din of the charge.
Sir John nodded, his face aglow with battle lust. He spurred his mount to even greater speed, and tilted the great banner slightly forward. Bagsby slowly reined back his own mount, letting the three waves of knights overtake and pass him. It’s their show now, he thought. But, by the gods! He wished he knew the meaning of that continued, damnable drumming.
From the rear of his own lines, where he finally brought his mount to a halt, Bagsby could see little of the battle that quickly developed. As his charging lines approached to within two hundred yards of the enemy, he heard a second great shout rise from his own men. From the rear, he saw his own lines surge forward with even greater speed, as the knights pressed their horses for the last measure of speed. Abruptly, the sound of drumming from the enemy’s side of the field ceased. His knights continued to surge forward, and Bagsby held his breath, awaiting the sound of the great clash that must come momentarily.
Instead, he heard screams, shouts, and curses. From the rear of his own lines, he saw his knights charge forward, then suddenly slow and begin to mill about in a confused mass. Some steeds reared on their hind legs, throwing riders to the ground. Knights disgustedly tossed their lances to the ground, drew their swords, and disappeared into the mass of horses and men, only to emerge again, cursing, raging, and furiously spurring the flanks of their horses, but with no response. Something, Bagsby realized, was very wrong. Then that drumming began again, slower this time, and the mass of Bagsby’s men—a confused swirl of horses, men, and weapons—began slowly backing toward Bagsby.
Bagsby considered his options. He could ride forward, see what was the matter, and try to correct the situation. He could flee; neither the war nor Shulana was likely to follow him if he made it as far north as Parona, where he could continue his life very much as he’d lived it so far. He could order a retreat, fall back a few miles to the next open field, and try again. What to do?
Without even making a conscious decision, Bagsby dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse and rode forward, angling toward the left of the melee. As he trotted around the line of his own men, he saw at a glance the entire problem.
“A thousand demon’s tricks!” he exclaimed. His horsemen were not in melee with knights: the enemy knights had retreated, and waited now in a single line, far behind the line of battle. As Bagsby’s men had charged, the enemy mounted force had turned and run, revealing the impregnable force of footmen that had formed behind them. The footmen, who now surged forward as a solid mass against his helpless knights, were formed in a great block that bristled with the points of spears extending fourteen feet or more beyond the men in the front ranks. Bagsby’s knights would approach that bristling wall and attempt to strike, but they had no weapons that could reach the foe, and their horses refused to advance against the spear points.
“Withdraw!” Bagsby bellowed. “Withdraw! Retreat!” Again without thinking, he guided his steed into the mass of his knights, waving his sword in the air, crying his order for the retreat. One knight looked at him, incredulous, not believing that a retreat order could even be issued.
“Retreat, you fool! We’ll re-form and hit them again! Retreat!” Bagsby screamed. Tears of frustration began to flow down the little man’s cheeks.
Bagsby saw the light of understanding flash in the man’s eyes. For an instant, the lord general felt a sense of relief. Then the pointed, hooked blade of huge spear split through the man’s cuirass and lifted him from his horse. Blood gushed from the knights’ mouth, and his legs kicked helplessly as he dangled on the ear of the broad spear before crashing dead to the ground.
“Get back! By all the gods, get back!” Bagsby cried in even greater rage. He spotted at length the great banner of the company, still held aloft by Sir John, whose armor was stained with flowing blood. Bagsby galloped up, grabbed the banner, and cried, “Follow your flag! Follow your flag!”
That seemed to gain some attention from the bulk of his surviving men. Slowly at first, then more hastily, Bagsby began riding toward the rear, holding aloft the emblem of the company. In scattered clusters, his knights began to follow, until within a minute the Second Company of the Royal Guard of Argolia was a scattered mass of knights, strung out across the battlefield, riding at the best speed their winded horses could manage toward the rear.
Now was Sir Otto’s moment. With the enemy in ragged retreat, they would be helpless against a formed charge. With a shout and a wave of his sword, Otto ordered his knights forward. They came first at a slow trot, the line splitting to weave its way around the block of footmen, which now halted its advance. Re-formed in front of the foot force, the cavalry dressed their line on the move, then, knee to knee, tightly disciplined, advanced their mounts’ gait to the canter.
Bagsby reached the crest of the hill on his own side of the field as the line of enemy horse began its canter. He stopped, looked back, and saw that the enemy force would overtake a good third of his own men, whose winded horses could not possibly outrun the fresh force. Tears began to flow freely down Bagsby’s face; his men would be slaughtered, and there was nothing to blame for it but his own folly and arrogance.
It was then that a flashing line of flame shot forth from among the fir trees off to the east side of the highway at the top of the hill. Longer and longer the streaking line of fire grew, arcing out across the plain, flowing through a seam in the ragged, scattered mass of retreating men, flying with increasing speed toward the line of charging horsemen.
Bagsby watched in silent awe and wonder as the line of flame went on and on until suddenly, it disappeared in a great, blinding flash, replaced by ball of fire some thirty yards across that exploded in the middle of the charging enemy line.
The concussion from the blast knocked down horses for a distance of sixty yards, friend and enemy alike. Those who retained their mounts saw flaming pieces of men and horse raining from the sky, and some quickly began attempting to beat out the flames the heat had ignited in their own blankets and tunics. The enemy charge dissolved; the survivors of that blast quickly reined their mounts and milled about in stunned, frightened confusion.
“I’ve bought you time,” said a voice simply.
Bagsby turned his stunned gaze back from the field of battle to the woods from whence the line of flames had shot. Shulana emerged from between the trees, a look of deep sorrow and even fear on her pale elven face.
“What was that?” Bagsby gasped.
“Magic,” Shulana answered. “Protect me. I have broken the Covenant.”
“Protect you? Lady, I will protect you to the day I die,” Bagsby replied, carried away with admiration and some other emotion he could not quite identify.
The retreating mass of Bagsby’s force began to crest the hill now, turning in toward the highway. The mounted men looked stupefied; their eyes turned to Bagsby for answers as their winded mounts trotted by.
“Fall back to the next clearing and re-form,” Ba
gsby shouted confidently. “Fall back to the next clearing and reform.” Then, in a flash of insight, Bagsby added, “I’ll join you there. I’ll join you there.”
As Sir John, raging and shocked, trotted past, Bagsby extended to him the great banner. “Fall back to the next clearing and re-form the men. Do not attack. I will join you there. Victory will yet be ours,” Bagsby said.
Sir John nodded, too tired and bewildered to answer. He took the standard and stood in the center of the spot where the highway crested the hill, waving on the remainder of the retreating force.
“Sir John,” Bagsby called as he began to ride back down the hill, “protect the elf on pain of your life!” Then Bagsby galloped away, back toward the field of battle, shedding his armor as he went.
“Give me water,” the panting soldier called as he approached the halted line of large, wooden wagons. “You there,” he said, pointing a weary arm vaguely toward a wench who lounged on the ground, leaning her back against the front wheel of the lead wagon, “get me some water.”
“What’s going on up there?” the wagon driver called down from his seat, where he half reclined, puffing on a pipe. “Is the way clear yet?”
The soldier shook his head. “No, Still fighting going on. Shouldn’t take much longer though. Those Argolians are a stupid lot—charged right into us, just like Sir Otto said they would.”
The driver chuckled, then leaned back again, reassured that his rest could continue and that no danger lurked in his future.
“Aren’t you the lucky one, sent back here—for what?” the wench asked. “Why ain’t you up there if there’s still fightin’ goin’ on” She cocked her head and stared at the man with her hard blue eyes.
“Orders,” the soldier replied. “Them lords left some papers in with Sir Otto’s stuff—maps, I’d reckon. The enemy is retreating off the main road—I’m to fetch Sir Otto’s charts. And you, wench, had better fetch me some water or feel my boot on your backside.”