Measure and the Truth

by Doug Niles

  The sentry’s face tightened. “Red Wallace is waiting for you at the Grandfather Oak,” replied the man, his hands clenching his bow and arrow. “And if that is true, then we’ll get revenge for Lord Kerrigan’s betrayal, my young lord. I promise.”

  “Thanks, Paddy. I know we will,” Blayne said, touching the sentry on the shoulder as he moved deeper into the grove. He passed other camouflaged men and, though he didn’t speak to them, the expression on his face seemed to communicate the grim news to the whole company waiting in the grove. He made his way through the ancient, gnarled apple trees until he reached a small clearing.

  The open area was dominated by a massive black oak, a giant tree that dwarfed all others in the grove. Enormous limbs, heavy with early summer leaves, reached out as if to envelop the place. Great beards of moss hung from the lower limbs, masking the shadowy depths closer to the gnarled trunk. The top of the tree—a scarred and blackened stretch of trunk and twisting limbs, proof of a lightning strike many decades ago—lofted over the clearing like a skeletal monument to age, strength, and tenacity.

  A lone man emerged from the mossy enclosure, still half concealed by the shadows beneath the dense foliage. As he stole forward, the crimson shade of his robe became visible in the growing light. Tiny images of silver and gold winked from the soft material, which included a hood that covered his head and concealed his face in its deep cowl. As Blayne approached, however, the Red Robe pulled back his hood and looked at him with penetrating eyes.

  “The emperor took your father at the parley,” the man declared, without preamble.

  “Worse. He killed him; I saw a guard run him through.”

  “The bastard! I wouldn’t have believed that even he would stoop so low!”

  “His treachery disgraces the knighthood!” Blayne spat. “He promised us safe passage and lured us into his trap.”

  “It is a good thing that you were prepared, then,” Red Wallace noted.

  “Thanks to you, old friend,” replied the young knight. “Invisible, I escaped their cordon. The haste spell allowed me to swim fast and cross the creek. Else I would be in chains, or worse.” He spat noisily. “They count the White Robes even as their allies! How can those wizards countenance such wickedness?”

  Red Wallace shrugged. “Sometimes even the cause of good will follow the path of least resistance. I believe the White Robes—with the lady Coryn at their head—feel the emperor will bring about the kind of orderly and law-abiding nation that holds such appeal for them.”

  “Even if they must break the law in order to pretend such a thing?” sneered Blayne.

  “Did you get a look at them—the machines, I mean?” asked the wizard, changing the subject.

  “Yes. They were the ugliest contraptions I have ever seen: nothing but great hollow tubes, black ironwood banded with steel. They’re carried about by these massive wagons—I’m sure they have to be hauled by oxen.”

  “Do you think it’s true—what we’ve heard about their power?”

  “I can’t be certain. Yet there was something about those black mouths that reeked of destruction, of killing. If they are brought within range of Vingaard Keep, our home, our families, our lives—yes, I know it in my heart, all will be lost.”

  Red Wallace grimaced as if in physical pain. Immediately shaking off that display of weakness, he put his hand on the young lord’s shoulder and looked Blayne steadily in the face.

  “With your father fallen, it comes to you to ready a response,” he said. “What do you plan to do?”

  For just a moment, an expression of consternation, perhaps even fear, flickered across the young man’s face. Then his features hardened to match Red Wallace’s.

  “My father’s plan remains in effect. If they try to cross at the ford, we’ll meet them here with a line of pikes. We have a good chance of holding the line at the creek.”

  “Aye,” Red Wallace agreed. “But you know they will probably just follow the road on the other side of the stream down to the river. They can cross the Stonebridge and march right up to the keep.”

  Blayne nodded. “We have light cavalry in position to harass the emperor, so at least we can slow his progress toward the keep. And we can fight him tooth and nail at the bridge.”

  “It can only be a delaying action,” said the wizard.

  “Yes, delay and harass,” Blayne replied. He stared through the trees, remembering the scene at the emperor’s camp. In his mind he saw the ranks of soldiers, the herds of horses, the tents and baggage wagons. Above all he remembered the three great war machines, the tubes of the bombards mounted on huge wagons.

  “If we merely delay him, he’ll bring those weapons up eventually, and Vingaard Keep will be destroyed,” Blayne said thoughtfully. “So we must take him by surprise, strike at his strength.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “The horsemen will harass him,” said the young knight decisively. “But when the wagons are halted, waiting for the road to clear, I will lead a group of determined men from ambush. We’ll attack with torches and pitch, and we will destroy his great weapons—before he can bring them to bear against our home.”

  From the comfort of his command center in the fortified camp, which resembled a temporary city, with a picket wall of trees and neat paths lined with tents and exercise fields, Jaymes ordered General Dayr to bring the Crown Army up from the Vingaard. The two forces were to merge at the camp, which occupied the ridge of hills overlooking the lone ford across Apple Creek.

  The vanguard of the Crown Army, led by General Dayr himself, came up to meet the Palanthian Legion.

  “The lancers under Captain Blair are busy patrolling along the river,” the general informed the emperor. “But I left the Stonebridge unguarded, as you requested.”

  “Good. The more of their men they put in the field against us, the easier it will be to conquer the keep later on,” Jaymes said.

  “What’s the next step, then?” asked Dayr.

  “I’ve already given the order. We will attack across the ford,” the emperor replied. “General Weaver’s legion will lead the charge. I’ll hold your men in reserve—I’d rather blood some of my newer troops.”

  “Of course, Excellency.” Dayr rode off to see to the deployment of his men. General Weaver quickly and precisely deployed his Palanthian Legion, and in a matter of less than two hours, the units had been moved into position, the attack prepared.

  “General, send the first wave across the ford,” ordered the emperor.

  “Aye, my lord,” replied Weaver.

  The emperor and his two generals sat astride their horses on a low hillock overlooking Apple Creek, very near to the ford crossing. Nearby, a knot of couriers and signalmen awaited commands. All watched eagerly as Weaver gestured to his flagmen, who raised the pennant signaling the advance.

  Immediately, three companies of light infantry moved in columns toward the bank of the creek, where the rutted gravel road sloped into the water. The warriors wore leather tunics and carried short swords and small, round shields. The first wave of the attack would be borne by those free citizens of the New City of Palanthas, who had enlisted in the past year. Fresh to war, they advanced eagerly, ready to impress their general and their emperor.

  “Forward! Double march!” barked the sergeants.

  The first attackers splashed into the water at a trot, swords and shields held ready, and began to slosh across to the other side. Just beyond the opposite bank, the road curved to vanish among the trunks of the trees in the hushed apple grove. The leading men broke into a run as they found their footing on the far bank.

  A dozen of the New City men fell at once, amid a flight of slashing arrows visible to the commanders on the hilltop. They heard screams and saw many of their soldiers writhing on the ground.

  Still pressing forward, the troops stumbled over the fallen bodies of their companions, and more went down under the relentless fire. The archers remained unseen, hidden in the orchard, but they obvi
ously had clear fields of fire. The volleys were heavy, lethal, and persistent. The big, steel-headed arrows punctured leather breastplates and wooden shields, even pierced metal helmets.

  The surviving troops darted into shelter behind tree trunks and among the dense hedges that lined the road. Wounded men crawled toward safety, while more than a score lay motionless on the ground, apparently slain. More missiles continued to shower the lead ranks, and within minutes all three companies were pinned down.

  No further command was given—the plan was already known to company officers—as the next wave, the heavy infantry, moved into the ford. Those soldiers wore mail shirts that descended almost to their knees, with steel caps to protect their heads, and they wielded much larger, heavier shields. Their swords were longer too. They were brawnier veterans, and they hoisted their shields to protect themselves from the arrows. The soldiers advanced slowly, passing through the ford, scrambling up the far bank and pressing toward the trees.

  A number of those men, too, stumbled and went down, tripping over bodies or potholes, and several soldiers who lowered their shields momentarily took gruesome wounds from arrows that pierced cheeks, eyes, mouths, and throats. Inevitably, the column spread to the right and left of the narrow road as men fought to find advantageous positions. Spread out and inching along, covered by the layer of shields, the second unit resembled a moving pincushion.

  That heavier rank finally penetrated the grove and drove against the picket line of Vingaard swordsmen who awaited them. Steel clashed against steel, and shouts of triumph competed with shrieks of pain and moans of the dying. More Crown infantry pressed across the river, ignoring the continuing arrow fire as they progressed toward the concealed enemy.

  The defenders fought stubbornly, working in pairs. The men of Vingaard Keep didn’t bother with shields, but instead stabbed and parried from behind the stout trunks of the apple trees.

  A bold Crown Knight raised a hoarse cry, lunging forward, chopping with his mighty blade—only to catch the sword in the tough limb of a tree. Before he could wrench it free, one of the defenders thrust from below, driving his keen steel right through the mail shirt and into the knight’s belly. With a low groan, the stricken veteran released his grip on his own blade and sank back into the arms of his comrades, who dragged him back.

  In a skirmish such as the one being waged, numbers would inevitably prevail—that was understood by the commanders on the hill and by the swordsmen on both sides. Company after company of the Crown Army marched across the ford, some veering right, others left, expanding the frontage of the attack. Ultimately, the men of Vingaard had to fall back through the trees, though they gave ground only grudgingly—and even then, at a high cost in blood and misery. As the shadows swallowed them up, they retreated more quickly, and the attacking soldiers gave chase, a tide of steel and fury, bent on avenging their losses and carrying the day.

  That tide broke, very abruptly, against a levee of pikemen who materialized, as if by magic, between the trees. They had not been disguised by any spell but merely had been camouflaged and lying low. The long polearms were unwieldy in the grove, but Kerrigan and his son had arranged the line shrewdly. Seemingly a thousand men stood shoulder to shoulder against the attack, forming a barrier that bristled with razor-sharp spear tips.

  Most of the attackers hesitated in the face of the surprising obstacle, although a few courageous Crown soldiers charged forward and were pierced to death. The defenders met the onslaught with taunts and jeers, drawing still more to reckless charges. But the line never wavered, and the attack faltered.

  One Crown sergeant managed to break a pike and bash another to the side, creating a temporary wedge. He charged ahead with a howl but was chopped at from all sides by multiple blades, losing an arm, and getting a fiendish cut in his thigh, which spurted blood.

  Everywhere swordsmen waited among the pikes, and whenever the solid line showed signs of a rupture, the swordsmen stepped into the breach and took on the charging warriors. The entangling trees prevented easy flanking movement, and the defenders had piled great nests of brambles all around on the ground. Sharp thorns hooked into clothes and skin; even the most sure-footed of the emperor’s men were tripped up by the tangle of branches.

  For thirty bloody minutes, the ponderous, chaotic struggle raged. Each side killed and each side died, and whenever the attackers gained a few feet, the defenders struck hard and drove the Crown soldiers back. When a man’s sword broke, he seized another from a fallen foe or comrade, and when he was wounded, he dropped back, allowing a fresh fighter to take his place in the line.

  Vingaard archers scrambled into the trees and showered arrows over the heads of their comrades, into the faces and breasts of the attackers. A rank of Crown men armed with crossbows came up behind the first line of the charge and returned that fire with admirable accuracy, their steel-tipped bolts puncturing the green leather shirts of the targeted bowmen with ease. The missile duel increased in ferocity until the opposing bands were engaged in their own lethal fight for supremacy, a battle that took place literally over the heads of most of their comrades trapped in the melee.

  On the hilltop south of the stream, the emperor strained to scrutinize the fight in the woods, his face showing ill-concealed displeasure. From there he could not claim to know the details, but the reality was plain. As more and more of his men crossed the stream, they were bunching up in the grove, and the advance had bogged down. Men were dying in growing numbers, and their sacrifice had ceased to have any meaning.

  “Sound the withdrawal!” he snapped finally.

  Dayr signaled to his trumpeters, and a trio of heralds raised their brass instruments and brayed out the command to retreat. Immediately the men at the edge of the grove turned and raced toward the ford. Others broke from the shelter of the trees, coming down the road, converging from the right and left on the narrow ford.

  “Dammit! They’re panicking, running like fools!” snapped the emperor. He put the heels to his horse and, with Dayr trailing behind, galloped down the hill.

  There were a dozen companies clumped together on the near side of the river, waiting to cross, and they scattered out of the way of their enraged commander. Jaymes drew up his horse at the edge of the river, even as a hundred men splashed into the shallow flow. Fleeing, stumbling, falling, and choking, they clawed their way toward the safety of the south bank.

  Jaymes pulled back his reins, and the roan reared. He brandished Giantsmiter; the blue flames that crackled on his legendary blade were visible even in the bright sunlight. The panicked men hesitated at the sight of their lord on his rearing horse.

  “Hold your formations!” he shouted. “Remember your training!”

  Some of the men responded, while others continued to flail through the water. More arrows showered from the woods, felling more soldiers. Even though Jaymes used the flat of his blade to slap at the first of the wretches to crawl up the near bank, he couldn’t stem the tide. The officers and commanders shouted themselves hoarse, trying to organize a proper withdrawal. The men of the New City, new to battle as well, did not listen.

  The enemy captain—Jaymes fleetingly wondered if it was Lord Kerrigan’s son—saw his opportunity, and hurled forward his line of pikemen. The pikemen poured out the apple grove, their long weapons prodding at the disorganized retreat. Vainly, the Palanthian officers shouted and cursed, trying to get the ranks to wheel and face the deadly threat to their rear.

  It was Dayr who saw what had to be done. He barked out commands to a large troop of longbowmen, who had been holding their position on the near side of the stream. Immediately they commenced a shower of arrows, which arced over the heads of the retreating soldiers, falling among the advancing Vingaard pikes. Quickly the pikemen halted their pursuit, withdrawing into the safety of the trees, as the weary and bedraggled attackers slogged through the stream and collapsed on the south bank of Apple Creek.

  Jaymes rode his horse back and forth before the shamed, defeat
ed men. Scorn dripped from his voice as he addressed them in loud, angry terms. “You men fought like you’d never heard the horn of battle before! I won’t fault you for failing to break a line—but to run like whipped curs at the first call of retreat? I would never have expected it, nor would I believe it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes.”

  “Forgive us, my lord!” cried one commander, standing amid the seated, soggy ranks. “Let us try again. We’ll carry the line of these traitors—or die trying!”

  A few of the soldiers raised a cheer at his brave statement, but most kept their eyes on the ground, humiliated and shaken. Jaymes spoke sternly. “You’ll have the chance to fight again. When you do, this shame will be scourged. Until then, you will all live with the memory of your failure—and you will not march with the rest of my army, but stay behind to lick your wounds and ponder your failure.”

  Some of the men wept, others shouted in protest, but he ignored them all as he spun his horse and rode back to General Dayr. “We’re going to have to march down the road and take the bridge after all. I’ll leave these men here so the enemy will have to worry about another crossing—but I want the rest of the army on the march within the hour.”

  “I’ve got them ready now, my lord. These hills along the stream should conceal us for the first few miles, so perhaps we can surprise them by our decisiveness and speed.”

  “All right,” Jaymes replied. He looked again at the ranks of defeated, soaking men near the ford, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. He stared for a moment then shook his head and put his knees to his horse, ready to join the march column on the road.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LORD OF THE WILDERNESS

  At first, Ankhar was enchanted with the ogre wench he had claimed as his prize from the two arguing chieftains. Pond-Lily had many natural charms: the swelling cheeks that gave her face such a fetching roundness, the twin globes of her immense breasts, the sturdy, admirable muscles of her hamlike legs. She was a pretty little blossom, a change of pace from the emerald-green wilderness.