by Craig Davis
Chapter XVI
The ascendant sun dabbled about its palette, splashing the sky a rusty pink as I caught sight of Witness rushing his report back to the moors, his journey greatly winding him. Slowing to a jog past the guards, he threw a weak salutation and entered the open camp, resting his hands upon his hips, his head hanging backwards, chest heaving. I had used my history shared with Cirice to work into his inner circle, and I now drifted in his direction, to pick up what information I could.
Upon hearing Witness’ gasping message, Cirice’s first command sent his men directly back to their motley beds. Many obeyed eagerly; others lay stiffly upon the ground unable to sleep, complaining about the brightness of the sun or the chattering birds. Cirice kicked a couple of rib cages before turning deaf to the undercurrent, whipping instead into a whirlwind of thought.
“Well you grieve over battling your father, but you have no recourse at the moment. Perhaps a day comes with opportunity to seek forgiveness. Rest at peace for now, if you can; we must take the moment to think of our lives, while we have them.
“The sun safeguards us well enough during the day. Domen will do nothing by light of day,” he handed a steaming cup to Witness.
“Perhaps the strongest should stay awake, perhaps put to work on a stockade,” I offered.
“No, we must sleep as best we can in the sun, then lay awake at night, ready for his attack. Quiet over there! Go to sleep! Yes, and you too.” He shoved me with his open hand, to no effect – I knew a closed fist awaited me if my ears did not wake lively. “Domen will come down upon us like a storm one of these nights soon. Each man who enters in the evening will have to remain awake, then stand sentry the following morning. We’ll need only a few guards at a time. They can drop off for a few hours in the afternoon, and again spend the night awake, until the owls know to expect us. Every man will adjust to that schedule soon enough.
“Nobody can leave camp, not me, not anybody. All who come in must settle on remaining. The sentries must detain anyone trying to leave, and prepare to lay them low. Your father confirms our intuition.” Cirice stopped pacing and pulled close a fellow standing nearby, speaking to him softly. “Soldier, put in bonds those spies we know; we must open wide our eyes for others sent among us.” Now I truly did try to drift away, as benignly as I had drawn near, stretching as if to bed down, looking disinterested but staying within earshot.
“We must lie undercover, wise as snakes. We must expect Domen within the week, and make ourselves ready in secret. A week’s time, that’s to our advantage; they’ll come little prepared. They will rely upon their greater numbers, and honestly that probably will carry the day, but one never knows. They’ll bear the mark of little training, and the discipline only of fear. We’re much smaller, but the rugged life makes for steel readiness.”
Cirice’s shoes sorted the stones underfoot as his mind did ideas. “Good for us too, no fleet lies at Domen’s use. With Ocean Heofon at our backs, he can’t flank us. Men coming at our backs off the ocean, now that would mean real trouble. They must not know we expect them — keep our lights low, but have torches ready to burn. We must root out the spies. The cover of darkness alone offers them surprise, and in those hours we will make ourselves most ready. Events couldn’t turn better for us.” Cirice’s gaunt optimism again indicated either cynical confidence or utter insanity.
He caught sight of me and beckoned, “On second thought, come over here, friend.”
“What is it?” said I.
“Just this.” He planted a fist so securely to the underside of my jaw that later I found a shard of tooth stabbing my cheek. Only long after did I reckon what had happened to me; a horse once kicked me, too, an experience much the same. I remember the starburst, then awaking to find myself trussed up and tied to a persimmon tree. A gag crammed into my mouth also served as a bandage to my swollen jaw. How I got there, or for how long I sat so disposed, I can only leave to imagine. This I do know, though: It might have been the greatest favor a fellow man has ever done me, though certainly I blighted him then. For all the begging and pilfering of my life, this most precious gift I never asked for nor desired nor even knew I hungered after. Bound and gagged, I was given to be an ineffective turncoat, only an onlooker to the massacre of kinsmen, spared from being again a murderer against my king. Never will I forget the good work Cirice did me that day.
A similar scene unfolded a few hours before, dense in the wood at the opposite, darker side of Feallengod. Slow though he had walked, Beorn relayed his son’s message to Domen when morning still lay wee. Domen quickly sent Begietan with his lieutenants invading the village, armed with clubs and Beorn’s lists, to forcibly muster his army.
“Attack me?” Domen fumed. “Death they desire, to my glad accord. How dare they threaten me! I rule, prince of this land — so has he said. I will crush them — I will crush them under my raging will alone! If they so wish to retire to their graves, so will I accommodate them. They will choke on my army, on the writhing of my anger, they will learn my rage will never end. I will come down upon their heads like stars falling from the heavens.” A scorpion crawled around the back of Domen’s neck.
Beorn returned to the village and his hovel, where he found Cwen back at her sewing. She had made no progress since the evening before, the fabric she held now wet with tears. Without a word through the house, he walked to the back room. She saw only the lance and shield as he returned.
“Beorn, please, do not go out against Hatan,” her eyes begged him.
He could not look at her. “I must go. If not, Domen will compel me — all the worse for me, and the result the same. Here I flop about, futile, like a bird in a snare — my attempts to fly only entangle me more.”
“Beorn, please,” Cwen continued, blocking his exit at the door.
“Get out of my way,” he said curtly.
“Please, Beorn, please,” was all she could speak.
“Don’t make me have to – ” he threatened, but could not finish.
She collapsed into sobbing upon the step, her heart breaking at Beorn’s every footfall through the doorway, down the old path, making no reply.
Witness slumbered through the morning, not to arise until the heat of the day. He joined in Cirice’s constant planning as the defense of the camp took shape. I, wrapped in ropes like a winding sheet, sat near enough to see, distant enough to fall deaf. Cirice pointed generally in the air, Witness watching and nodding. Busy with his hands, he often took the young man by the shoulders, or jabbed him with a finger just enough to raise reaction. His familiar fondness caught in my throat.
“We will place the lances and pikes at the front, in case of cavalry charge,” he told Witness. “Our own riders will deploy in the open lands to the north, to come down upon their flank. Archers will be under my direct command; short of a slow advance of their infantry, longbows won’t do us much good, I fear. We’ll so decide as the battle bends, whether we lay down bows and take up swords. The infantry will establish positions in camp; we must pack the soldiers tight, keep our lines together. Witness, you will take command of these.
“Fellows, make yourselves two companies: Digging and cutting. Choose up your tools. First group, carve out a trench dug across the front of the camp, waist deep will do. This group over here, yes you, take up shovels and picks and get started. You others, scale the trees and cut fresh branches. We’ll need hundreds, not too heavy, full with leaves. Twice a man’s height or so. Quickly, we haven’t much time!”
Outside the deep forest, Domen thundered at his assortment of minions. Though clinging to the shadows of the wood, he could not avoid the sun’s exposure, adding light to his foul temper. Brandishing a whip, backed by Begietan and his deputies, he drove his fighters into formation and drilled them in his tactics.
“We will sweep down upon them hard! They threaten your homes, to rape your wives, devour your children! You must slaughter this creeping menace! You must wipe them out! The cavalry will come down upon them f
irst, and hard! The infantry will charge behind, hard! We will pound, and pound, and pound away! You, my troops, my right in Feallengod, will bring down all the evil upon them that I give you! Not one will remain standing, not one! They make much of that tree within the rubbish heap – I allow no other symbol! Bring me its head!”
His men raised all the enthusiasm they could, and some woodsmen set off to execute the tree. These farmers and mill workers, miners and cobblers, only that morning cast their thoughts only to their trades. Not a soldier among them, though they took up arms of their own accord, they trembled to hear of what lay ahead. Beorn tried to work into the heart of the throng, to escape the blows and humiliation of his son Begietan’s bullying.
Hastily, over no more than two or three days, the army organized and trained. These were the scruffy growth of Begietan’s gang once humiliated by Gelic-El. The ragged battalions bore no polish, but at least their weapons no longer posed threat to their own ranks. Finally Domen’s patience ran its course.
“Begietan!” The voice roared. “We march on the camp tonight!”
“These men bleed raw! Their fighting will do them more harm than their enemies can hope to,” Begietan spat his disdain.
“If I needed your advice …” Domen gritted his teeth. “You’ll not know that pleasure! I want it not now, nor ever! I care not how they die, nor if they die. Get ready to march!”
Begietan scowled. “All right, you people, you heard him! Get into ranks!” The green switch in hand streaked red upon necks and shoulders.
Three nights she sat alone, and for three nights Cwen did not sleep. The interminable days dragged, the nights worse still. Her fears for her husband and sons mocked the quiet, and she wept until her tears were exhausted, until the night fell fully upon her heart.
Witness watched the sun retreating over the mountain range, the musky dark filling his nostrils. The island’s high peaks cast dusk early upon the moors. He looked to Cirice and heaved a sigh.
“Each passing day draws them closer,” said Cirice.
“Yes. A clear sky tonight, likely, with a full moon — Domen will not like it so. Can we do no more to prepare?”
“Bid the men continue fasting into the night — keep them sharp. And pray.”
Beorn sat upon the ground, wiping an oily cloth along the blade of a dagger. Begietan swaggered behind and sniffed at his father’s bedraggled appearance.
Cwen rocked silently before a slowly dying fire, staring blankly into the coals.
Witness walked the lines of the infantry, securing armor and making his charges alert. Yet his own thoughts wandered to the orchards, and the single tree of the ashes.
And there sat I, lord of my domain, self-reliant to the end, held tight by my wooden guard. The folly of my pride strutted before me, struggling there against the ropes and muzzle I had chosen for myself, no more than just another inert object in camp. My captors’ indifference completed my dissolution, found out a traitor and made an impotent fool. I thought of the bonds about my arms and chest, and about the dangling stone, and how one rope persistently frayed while the others held fast. Helpless, I could do no more than watch events from over the tattered edge of the musty gag. What a vain peacock is man, to believe himself master of his own fortunes. How fickle our passing days seem to us, when truly guided by those who rule, though they remain unseen to us. Let go, oh man; you do not even know what to desire.
Domen croaked the order: “March to your glory, men! Serve me well! March to victory for the lion of Feallengod!”
Cirice stood at the front of camp alongside the sentries, the sharpest eyes scanning for movement upon the outlying country. Seconds slowed, breath held, and still they watched in wait. Then it came: Massive numbers of men, mounted and on foot, appeared from around the southern foothills. Their ranks approached rapidly, the cavalry at a canter and infantry behind, pushing a swift pace to keep up.
“They come! Look lively, they approach!” Cirice called out as he sprinted to camp, through the lancers and archers and into the infantry. The men roused themselves with a mighty shout, awakening an explosive fluttering of wings as great flocks of the birds of the heavens took flight from the canopy of trees overhead. The women and families of the camp, who had come to minister to the soldiers, retreated toward the ocean’s shore. I uselessly awaited fate.
“They come! Go, alert the horsemen! And try not to get your butt killed,” and Cirice dispatched a courier to the north. “They come! Though many or few, they avail nothing against the promise of Ecealdor! Stand fast! Stand fast! He will return! May these men not prevail against him!”
Cirice climbed to a post on a high platform, spying out the advance. Peering intently, he saw that Domen himself led, mounted upon a burly horse that only emphasized his own gaunt, wasted frame. Begietan rode beside, and then both flanked in turn by more chargers than Cirice could make out. Beorn lost himself among the multitude of infantry bringing up the rear.
Cirice jumped from his post to take up a bow alongside the archers.
About three hundred yards from camp, Domen’s army paused. Riders and infantry alike milled about, and indistinct voices shouted mottled orders. Torchlight flashed, menacing, off long swords and pikes. Cirice’s men strained their necks to spot the distant enemy. Then, without apparent cause, the horses startled and the mounted troops broke into a charge; a breath’s moment later the camp heard the sudden blaring of a brassy horn. At full gallop the brutes bore down upon the camp; a banner emblazoned with a gilt lion rode at their head, flickering in the wind. The camp’s lancers, their weapons planted in the ground, leaning toward the attack, braced against the brunt of the crashing wave of onslaught. “Stand fast! Stand fast!”
Abruptly, horses pressing in so close that the men felt the mists of their husky snorting, the line of cavalry disappeared into a writhing, tumbling confusion of legs and bodies engulfed in the terrible dark. A melee of twisted flesh and cursing spewed from below into the night air. The weak covering of branches, camouflaged by leaves and shadows, had given way under the horses and sent them screaming into Cirice’s trench directly in front of his lancers. Yet so many yards away, I winced and jarred against my bonds at the impact of the carnage. Even at my distance, I saw the flash of terror in their eyes; I saw men thrown upon the piercing spears. The animals struggled to regain their feet, scores of riders swallowed and crushed beneath their rolling bodies. Horses not at the front of the charge managed to stop short at the ditch’s edge, discarding their riders into the fray. At best, horsemen who remained unscathed had to abandon their refusing mounts and proceed on foot.
As Domen’s infantry struggled to cross the heaving mass of bodies, the lancers engaged them head-on with unrelenting, stabbing thrusts, pikes held high overhead. The archers let fly arrows in a high arc, returning again a deadly rain upon the rear of Domen’s infantry. Witness’ foot soldiers girded themselves for a new offensive, sure to come. Domen, still mounted, cursed and berated his men, as did Begietan, shooting well-considered and well-aimed arrows.
As Domen’s forces began to regain their bearings, the small cavalry from the camp swept down at a gallop from the north. This tiny force – pounding hooves racing past so perilously close that I feared for my legs – larger in bravado than strength, showed themselves ready to trade teeth for flesh, surely charging into their deaths. The northern flank of Domen’s army fell into disarray, and many broke and ran, including Beorn, who found cover in a low thicket. But I could see massive numbers of Domen’s infantry advancing, slow like a grinding wheel, and pouring into the breach, grasping hold of bridles and pulling riders down; the advantage of Cirice’s forces soon passed. Witness ordered the infantry into frontal attack. Cirice signaled the archers to take up swords and join the advance.
This second wave again set back Domen’s forces, but still line after line of his infantry continued to join the battle. Solid footing among the fallen bodies failed the grappling men. Cirice stood in the thick of the fighting, wi
elding his sword against three and four foes at once. A heavy blow from a scimitar broke his blade right in two. “Piece of crap!” he bellowed, and plowed into his adversaries with no more than his shield, bowling them over backwards. A second later and the shield too was gone in pieces, and Cirice picked up a discarded axe, wielding it with all the strength of both arms, daring his opponents to draw near.
Witness waded into the infantry, directing movement and encouraging the men to hold their ground. Lanterns and torches upset by the struggle ignited small fires in the underbrush and peaty soil; holding a line together grew yet more difficult. As the enemy swelled toward them, Witness could pick out familiar faces, each one bent upon killing him. His short sword served well, though each blow landing upon a man of Feallengod stabbed his own heart also. Somewhere amid the clash Beorn concealed himself within his hedge.
The swarm of Domen’s army gradually claimed the upper hand. “Press up to the trench! Hold the trench!” Cirice screamed over the incredible clashing, but to no avail. He, and Witness, and all the men of the camp understood the dawn of being overwhelmed. To the right a man slung a sword wildly with one hand; Witness’ stomach knotted to see the man’s other hand, swinging, useless, from a bloody gash halfway down his forearm. Cirice strained toward better fighting ground, but bodies of fallen comrades held fast his feet. And still Domen’s army drove harder and harder. The attacking numbers swelled, just too great; each of the camp’s small victories dissolved into the air as the onslaught continued.
War certainly shows mankind at its worst, the fruit of ambition and greed realized. Yet in the midst of all its bloody outrage, man can show himself altruistic as well. I sat in safety and pondered such things as I saw my fellow islanders on both sides falling at the cruel edges of swords and knives. Many tried to drag wounded countrymen to safety, only then cut down themselves. Others sought escape, only to meet the weapons of their mates. A stifling dust that rose and mixed with the mist plagued my nose and throat, and I remained unable to prevent any of it. And then, as if sent only to increase my affliction, there stood Gastgedal. Again, out of all the multitude of Feallengod, he had found me.
“Ah, what a grand spy you be!” he greeted me. With the battle swarming all around, as though not a single soldier took notice of him, the old villain squatted before me, beaming with grinning sarcasm. “Well you serve your master, supporting that tree. Your weakness will speak well of you in his courts.”
I made grunting sounds, so well gagged was I, pleading to be set free. My squirming at the ropes only added to Gastgedal’s entertainment, and he in turn let me remain his captive audience.
“Yes, you fool, strive against the bondage! Struggle against the grip of slavery! You cannot escape! And I will not release you. You and me, we belong together! Never would I think of abandoning you.”
He stood again and began to pace, hanging his head at me. “Long you’ve thought you had control, that you serve yourself, but time has come to show that you serve me. Though once we romped together with gladness, I sense reluctance in you lately. This does not please me. And now you are at my mercy, no? Will I let you go? Will you pursue your way or mine? Think you are better than me? I swear to you, you are only as worthy as I allow.
“So now you wallow at my feet, seeking aid at my kindness. First I think you have more lessons to learn yet again, and I think I it be who again must send you off to school. You cannot so easily shed me as by sneaking into this camp. Do you not see, here am I? Joining yourself with Cirice will not break my bond with you, friend. You will learn to follow my will, though you hate it with all your heart. You will learn to submit to me.”
With that he drew back the blunt end of his staff, taking careful aim. Our eyes attached, his with purpose and mine in pleading. Violently I lurched against the ropes, to no avail. The staff crashed against my head, though I tried to limply roll with the impact, and I could barely hear my own muted groan. Gastgedal took careful measure of his prey as he crossed back and forth before me, landing blow after blow, I defenseless as a newborn, as every moment I’d spent with him came back upon me. Thus did I partake in a battle, as a battle raged around me, unperceived, uncomprehended. I could no longer see it for my own conflict, and that to no good end.
Watching from atop his mount, Domen’s eyes found Witness. “For your testimony,” he growled, “you will fall to me.” Choosing a long trident from a tangled sheaf of weapons, he spurred his horse to pick its way toward Witness. Glaring down at the struggling warrior, Domen slowly worked through the teeming mass of violence around him. In the corner of his eye, Witness caught a bronze glint overhead and turned to see the trident aloft, its cold fingers pointing in accusation. Domen tested the balance of the weapon in his hand, grinning at his victim, ready to throw. “Prepare to join your beloved Coren,” he shouted, foam spewing from between his teeth. With swords and clubs threatening from every side, frustrated by the confusion of which bloody man was friend and which foe, Witness recognized eternity at hand. He could turn away from Domen or face him, force Domen to stab him in the back or stare him down, defiant in death. Disregarding the conflict around him, Witness set his feet and turned his chest to the blow, cocking his sword for one last, desperate thrust.
Terror was only just on the rise.
As the havoc had continued on every side, muddled thoughts shot through my head of the heroism I might offer; ah, fool, had reality somehow cut your ropes, you surely would have fled. But first I’d have crippled Gastgedal. On and on went his abuse, stick and words. “You belong to me! You cannot escape my grip!” His berating rambled and at last turned meaningless until I noticed he’d stopped altogether. Through blood and sweat, and no way to wipe it clean, I struggled to see as he scampered away into shadow. A familiar yet forgotten scent haunted the air. Not caring enough to be grateful, I hung from my bonds like a pig from a hook. Then I heard it too.
A low rumbling rolled in off the horizon, a quaking coming from the shores of the ocean, and the choking dust dissipated. The trembling earth gave warning; indeed, the fighting waned and then hesitated as the combatants turned their attention in the direction of the echoing rhythm, a sound like heavy hoof beats. There in the billowing vapor, a giant shadow, a fearsome form slowly took shape against the moonlight glancing off the ocean. A great black spectre, long hair and beard whipping in the wind, draped in a flowing cape that seemed to somehow cover the entire camp, came at the armies across the mossy ground, mounted upon a huge horse at full gallop, coming down upon the battle with irresistible doom. A majestic figure bathed in darkness that glowed with light not there, a roaring stillness streaming behind, delicately etching the swirling air. The rolling mists hastened to make way for the immense phantom borne upon the beating hooves, drumming out a bodhran’s military cadence. I tilted my eyes upward.
I swear, he smiled at me in my cowering as he passed.
“Blawan!” Domen screamed.
Indeed, Blawan, King Ecealdor’s mysterious battle lord. Greater than Mægen-El, greater even than Gelic-El, greater than Dægræd-El’s grandest conceit, Blawan came and went as the wind blew. At the service of the king he made ever present, seen and then unseen, never failing, never flagging, never far. His might in battle raged like a wildfire, consuming all in his path; his was the arm of Ecealdor’s power and determination to judge.
Blawan sat erect, tall atop his steed, a great animal bred in the highlands of Gægnian, mane and silken hocks snapping with each stride. His head bare, Blawan’s breastplate and shield flashed like pools of molten silver, so polished as to cast a perfect reflection. The moonlight framing his head tinged his hair red like flame. High against the night he held his peculiar sword: Broad and sharp in the blade it was, shining like a ray of the sun, and from its hilt flowed a long, elegant feather, as if topping a quill.
Ecealdor’s greatest officer had arrived, the lone passenger of a fleet of vessels from Gægnian, putting into the bays just as the conflict joined. Hearing the din of bat
tle, Blawan had jumped his mount easily over the ship’s railing and shallow waters, hitting the shore at full clip. A cold wind cut the bones of Domen’s troops. Standing in his stirrups, head back in full voice, the roar of the sea’s stout gales, the great Battle Lord drove his mighty beast up the lines of stone-struck men, hooves pounding flesh and sinew beneath. Men scattered in a deadly retreat, desperate to escape. He seemed a thousand, a million blades, drawn against a conquered nation. The fallen soldiers clawed after safety, thinking of injustice, and virtue, and judgment. Then down the line again, yelling throatily, Blawan rode through the midst of the fight, employing his sword tenaciously against the soldiers of Domen, scattered before his punishing blows and the panting, snorting brute below.
“Blawan!” Domen raged again as he drew near, startling his own steed with his eruption of furious shock. “Curse you, you bastard spore, son of a bitch! You pollute the shores of my island! You can not stop me, you dead man’s toady! How dare you intrude!”
“Vere Cirice goest, Blavan goest,” his ancient accent whispered in the wind. His burly steed pawed the ground impatiently, and musky swirls of fog swept in spirals around him. One swipe at Domen with the flat of his blade, and Blawan sent him head over heels down a small embankment into a puddle of murky water. “Vun day,” he said.
Cirice’s forces again took heart, and followed Blawan into the core of Domen’s army. As quickly as that, the battle flagged, floating into the vapors. In a confused tangle, Domen’s ill-trained troops had thrown down their arms and run under the threat of Blawan’s two-edged sword and the hammering of hooves; they had of a truth been many in number, but proved weak of spirit. Domen remembered another time thwarted by the failings of his army; as he gathered himself and slunk away, he swore never to let the weakness of his followers determine his fate again.
Cirice sat down hard upon the ground alongside his soldiers, too exhausted to hold up his shoulders. Shed blood, no telling whose, smeared his armor. Too much death surrounded him to allow for celebration, but he could not help a certain satisfaction at having survived. Not an hour before, he had hoped only to make a good end. Witness stood dumbly, his mouth hanging open as wide as his eyes, gazing upon Blawan, still high upon his steed. The king’s battle lord touched his blade to each of Witness’ shoulders, as if to knight him.
“Fly. Run. Walk. Standest faithful, as he ist.”
Smoke from the fires twisted lightly into the fog, creating a dense curtain, hung like mourning rags over the slaughter. Though locked in deadly combat only moments earlier, these men of Feallengod littering the field had lived as neighbors to each other long before they died as enemies. The dead and injured lay all about, but unless a wounded man cried out, the night gave not much hope of putting a name to anyone. So cruel irony had its way indeed as Beorn, picking his way out of the moors, stumbled upon the muddy, battered, lifeless body of Begietan.