by Damien Lake
Well, you were thinking you’d rather strike at night, and here you go! You should have your head examined by the chirurgeons.
He watched the torches drawing closer, moving at a slower rate than the Kings had. Hayden and Dietrik found him.
“Shut one of your eyes,” Hayden oddly suggested.
“What?”
“Those torches will screw up your night vision when they get close and we start fighting. Keep one eye closed during the fighting, and as soon we snuff the flames open your eye and your vision will be better than theirs.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s an old trick. I’m surprised how many people I run into who don’t know about it. Your smart hand is your right one, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then close your right eye. Your reaction time on the right is quicker and will make up for the blind spot. If you close the left, your blind side will be even weaker with the slower response on top of it.”
Marik closed his eye. “Thanks.”
“From me as well,” added Dietrik.
“Don’t mention it.”
Fraser and Bindrift wanted all the men carrying bows so Hayden departed. Orders were issued to target everyone carrying either a bow or a torch first. Once those were down, the archers would mark the nearest available targets.
Marik counted eighteen separate torches in the dark, a floating tide of fire with numerous men beneath. While he waited with Dietrik, he calmed his mind of extraneous thoughts, letting only the battle fill him. He triggered his senses as Chatham had shown him on the road.
Look at everything at once, not one thing only. Let the eyes lose focus for a moment, then see all around you so you can react to anything in your sight. Stop ignoring the sounds o’ the world around you; listen to every twig breaking, every insect singing, every branch rustling in the wind. Smell the air an’ smell all the men an’ land about you. Know where it all is.
It took only a moment. When he came back to himself, he felt ready for anything. He could feel the new muscles in his arm bulging as he gripped his sword and thought he could almost see them in his mind’s eye. He was aware. He was ready.
Dietrik must have sensed the subtle change because he said, “You seem bloody confident all of a sudden.”
“I am confident now,” he replied. “Look out there. There’s not as many of them as us, and they don’t seem to be as good at fighting as we are.”
“That’s no surprise, mate. Most private guardsmen spend their time sitting around and eating or telling stories or chasing the women. The only time they practice is during scheduled sessions, if their liege bothers to schedule any at all.”
“And I’ll bet they feel pretty good about themselves afterwards too,” Marik added with a hint of smugness.
“It’s part of the whole ‘the uniform makes the man’ state of mind. Private guardsmen are looked down on by the army regulars.”
“Do they realize it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never asked them.”
“I think they’re about to find out.”
Indeed, Fielo’s men were entering bow shot. They did not realize it yet since the two units made no advertising of their positions with torches and were still outside the light cast by the pursuers.
Packed together as a result of their pursuit, Fielo’s men made easy targets. Marik wondered if the archers could distinguish specific targets in that crowd when Fraser’s voice called out. The arrows shot forward.
Several men in the fore fell, either dead or to their knees. Confused shouts told the mob to scatter or charge, resulting in several men running forward as others jumped aside. Collisions occurred and Marik saw one man knocked off the nearby precipice. He could not hear the end result over the noise, but he could imagine it. This far south the wall was less vertical so perhaps he had survived by rolling.
The archers launched a second flight. Many of Fielo’s men had withdrawn shields after the initial volley. They held them in the direction the first arrows had come from, blocking several new shafts. A few found their mark while the angry mob surged forward to press their attackers.
Many torches had fallen during the first assault and, while they still burned on the ground, their flames were dampened, providing less than half the light as before. A scattered dozen remained in hands. By their light, Marik still judged the enemy to be less in number than they, though by fewer than he had first thought.
The arrows still sang, their voices solos or duets rather than the thrumming chorus they had opened with. No defender apparently carried a bow so the torch bearers drew the archers’ attention.
A wave of men crashed against the frontline of Crimson Kings. Marik faced a man wielding the same type of sword as the foe he had defeated earlier. Faint moonlight reflected from the blade’s surface. This allowed Marik to defend. He had feared that fighting in this darkness would render him incapable of seeing his enemy’s movements.
His current enemy seemed no stranger to the sword, despite his attacks lacking the speed and surety Marik had become accustomed to facing during the last winter. He blocked the attacks easily, then gashed the man’s arm on a counterstrike. The man clutched his wound and retreated quickly into his crowding allies. Another fighter took his place, leaving Marik no time to think.
The hacking, chaotic battle continued in the dark. Marik lost his time sense. Everything shrank to the moment, to the swing of the sword and the constant watch for new danger from every side. He could not have said how long they fought, only that it seemed unending.
Every time he felled a foe or forced one to retreat, a different fighter stepped forward. None displayed ability anywhere near what he had witnessed after a season in Kingshome. Fielo’s forces were dangerous in that they became one long, continuous opponent. Marik could feel the weariness of constant effort building quicker than usual due to his lack of sleep. Soon the exhaustion would rob him of the edge his ceaseless practice afforded him, drastically reducing his odds of staying alive.
Beside him a King went down under multiple blades. He could spare no time to see who. Marik continued the struggle, knowing his life depended on how much of his skill he could maintain.
A shout he recognized after a moment as Fraser’s broke through the haze surrounding him. The sergeant wanted the units to fall back, to retreat to the south. Why did they need to do that, given the two sizes of the different companies? Marik felled his opponent, his fourth actual kill if he remembered correctly, and strained to see through the night before another fighter engaged him.
He could do this now, he realized, because the night had faded. Early gray diluted the depthless black, the clouds pinkening with the first of the unrisen sunlight. In a half mark they would be able to see across the hills.
Marik also saw the Kings had been retreating already, inched backward with every blow. Fallen men a hundred yards north testified to the skirmish’s initial starting point. He also saw new men running from the camp. The number of foes they faced had grown substantially.
A fighter jumped forward to engage Marik. This time he backed away, retreating with the surviving Second and Fourth Unit members. They could not run without separating from their shieldmates, which would turn the retreat into a rout. Instead, the men half-ran, half-trotted, stopping after short distances to lash out at the enemies following. Once Fielo’s men stopped to meet the attack, the retreaters would run further.
Shouts rose from the depths of the defenders. They stopped to regroup, allowing the Kings to flee. Fraser ordered the retreat to continue and before long they stood atop that first rise Dornory’s forces had peered down on them from yesterday.
In the growing light, the two forces watched each other across the distance. The Kings caught their breath and took stock of their situation. Fielo’s men gathered and prepared for a second assault on the waiting Kings.
Shouts from the east diverted the attention of both groups. They turned as one to see a large force charge into
the defenders’ camp under Dornory’s banner.
* * * * *
Fielo called his men to rally around him and defend against Dornory’s forces, leaving his flanks open to assault by the separate Kings units. The main force’s initial unchallenged strike killed fifty of Fielo’s men, then the press afterward left three dead for every one of Dornory’s.
While the morning progressed, it became obvious the northern baron’s attrition rate would soon leave him holding the field alone. Before late morning arrived he ordered his remaining forces to retreat. Marik and several other frontline men who had rejoined the battle after resting on the side started to chase before Fraser called them back.
“Let them go,” he told them. “We’ll catch them soon enough. Look after yourself first.”
Marik had sustained two shallow cuts to his legs and another along his left arm. None were more than skin deep. The minor bleeding had stopped shortly after their infliction. His mail had saved him from a gashed torso twice that he could remember.
He found Dietrik cleaning his rapier. Most of the others were wandering around.
“You seem none the worse for it,” Dietrik observed when Marik approached.
“What happened to your arm?”
“Oh, this?” asked Dietrik, gesturing to a cloth strip wrapped several times around his forearm. “A minor scratch in truth, but I didn’t want to pack the cut full of dust and make it dirty.”
Marik studied his own cuts, including the dust and blood caking his clothing. “I think I could stand a solid washing down.”
“Go jump into the water. There’s enough flowing for that much at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Come along?”
“Yes.”
Fraser told them to report back in a candlemark for orders. While he climbed down the stone hill to the riverbank, Marik noticed several other men with apparently the same intent.
The depleted river spanned ten feet with only a foot of depth in the middle. He decided full immersion would be the quickest method so took off his helm and mail to fall flat in the center and let water flow over him for several moments. When he left the water, he pulled off his tunic and breeches, wrung them dry then scraped most of the mud off with his dagger. Marik repeated the process several times until they seemed as clean as they would likely get. After laying them on the stone to dry in the sun, he dunked himself into the rivulet like a bird shaking water through its feathers, feeling refreshed.
He sat on the flat riverbed in his smallclothes watching Dietrik pick over every inch of his own clothing like a mother. “It’s the best it’s going to get without soap,” Marik observed.
“I should have brought a cake from the camp.”
“Do you want to fight with half your possessions bouncing around in your pockets?”
“I meant from Fielo’s camp. They had to leave everything behind when they ran. Most likely there’s a cache of soap stashed away in one of their supply tents.”
“You should be a chirurgeon if you’re so adverse to a little dirt.”
“I see nothing wrong with being clean, unlike others who spring to mind.”
Once their clothing was damp rather than soaked, they returned to the camp in time to witness Balfourth’s angry search for Fraser bear fruit.
“How dare you start the attack before you were ordered to?” he thundered at Fraser, who was busy with other matters. “Can’t you obey your superiors? Are you deliberately trying to smear my name?”
“First of all,” Fraser responded, keeping a tight leash on his temper, “we were attacked, not the other way.”
“Then you screwed up, didn’t you? You’re supposed to be the best, but apparently you can’t follow the simplest orders! You damned well better do it right the next time or you can forget about your blood coin!”
Fortunately for both, the latter stamped off in a fit of righteous rage. Fortunate for Fraser since he would not be demoted and fortunate for Balfourth since he would henceforth still be able to regard himself as handsome…a difficult delusion to maintain once your nose has been cut off.
“It’s amazing,” Marik told Dietrik, “how that man lives in his own little world.”
“All of you get ready,” snapped Fraser to everyone more harshly than usual. “We’re leaving as soon as the lieutenant gets here!”
* * * * *
They marched the rest of that day, the Ninth once again eating the dust kicked up by Dornory’s men. Luckily, less dust accumulated atop the stone hills. The sky faded into evening yet they pushed on, wanting to reach their objective before stopping.
Marik felt ready to fall over dead once they finally did halt. The torchlight from the dam was visible in the distance. As soon as he unrolled his bedroll, he fell into a heavy slumber, undisturbed by the camp din around him.
In the morning he wolfed the congealed dregs left from the previous night’s meal before heading to Dornory’s supply wagons to claim his share of breakfast as well. He chewed on a bread end and a stiff cheese wedge when he returned to find Dietrik sharpening out the nicks in his rapier from the previous battle.
“Give me that when you’re done,” he nodded at the whetstone.
“Almost there, mate. You look ready for the new day.”
“I’m feeling better at least.” He looked for the dam in the distance. There were two small tower tops rising to the height of the canyon wall. “So that’s it, huh?”
“Indeed. Fielo and the remains of his army holed up there yesterday.”
“How many left do you suppose?”
“Fraser has it at only a hundred or so. We cut them apart nicely before they hightailed it away.”
“What’s our own loss? I saw most everyone last night.”
“The Fourth only lost two, amazingly enough. Starr and Garret.”
“I didn’t know either of them very well.”
“The Second took the most damage during the sortie yesterday morning. Six dead. On top of the losses Earnell’s group took, the entire Ninth is down to about seventy-five men.”
“Isn’t that what it was when we joined it?”
“That was after an entire campaign season.”
“Oh.” Marik paused a moment. “And we still have this blasted dam here.”
“Exactly.”
“Is this a bad assignment or can we blame all this loss on Balfourth and his father?”
“I think it’s a combination of both. On the other hand, the Ninth might have had an excellent summer before we joined.”
“We should ask Hayden.”
“I believe I can already guess what his answer will be.”
“Me too.” He looked at the portions of construction visible from where he stood. “How are we supposed to take that thing down? We have to get rid of Fielo first I’ll bet.”
“Of course. Those chaps wouldn’t take kindly to us hacking apart their water wall with them still on it.”
“And I can also bet who’s going to be the ones stuck clearing them out.”
Dietrik did not bother replying.
After he sharpened his own sword to its former razor’s edge, Marik wandered closer to the canyon. He gazed down its length at the dam.
If he remembered correctly, Fielo had built his dam at the narrowest canyon point. The canyon was forty feet deep while only twenty yards wide. Further back, the canyon split into the network Fielo hoped to fill with water.
The dam had been simply built. Two parallel walls stretched between the canyon’s sides, made from logs sealed with tar and ship oakum. Packed between the walls were rock and dirt to prevent the water’s weight from toppling the first log barrier. A missing center section held a sluice gate that could be raised or lowered. It had also been constructed of sealed logs with heavy stones across the top for added weight. Rising above the sluice gate were twin tracks with stops at the top to prevent the gate from being raised out of its niche in the double walls. Water burbled from beneath the sluice to form the meager stream. Even
at its closed position it was unable to completely stop the flow.
Protruding mostly on the dry side rose two square wooden towers on stone bases, reaching the top edges of the canyon walls. Thick ropes exited these towers through holes. The ropes ran through a pulley system atop thick, log poles on each side of the dam, then connected to the sluice gate. In his mind’s eye, Marik could see winches inside the towers that wound the ropes tighter, raising the sluice to let water through. Once the winches were unlocked, the stones atop the gate would push it back down to block the water.
The dam wall stood nearly twenty-five feet tall with the towers on each side rising forty. Lining the wall and the tower tops, men with bows watched every move made by the southerners.
Marik returned to tell Dietrik, “You can add at least fifty men that Fielo had left here to the hundred he took with him from the field.”
“Earnell came by while you were gone. We’re going to lead the charge in this afternoon.”
“Into what? There’s no interior, they’re all standing on the dam.”
“That’s what he said. We’re leading the charge. Since the Fourth took the least damage, we will take the point.”
“Through a hail of arrows. Fielo left all the bows here that the rovers weren’t using.”
“Let’s see if we can requisition a shield. There’s bound to be extras with all the losses.”
“I should have picked one up from the field. There were lots lying around back there.”
“A lesson for the future then. Let’s go see what we can find.”
* * * * *
Marik held the wooden circle the supply officer had given him, shifting to protect his face while he ran across the open area between the standing forces of Dornory’s guardsmen and the dam’s east tower. Arrows streaked past, but since the shooters were on the same level as the attackers, the defenders could not fire effectively until the Kings were uncomfortably close.
He pounded across the short wooden walkway connecting the tower top to the level ground. Marik tossed aside his shield, which had never been struck by any arrows, drew his sword and attacked the nearest defender. A clean strike felled him easily while the man dropped his bow to reach for his sword. Thunderous feet beat across the planks until the Fourth Unit swarmed the tower’s roof. Battle cries filled the air.