Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  “Who was that man?” Thomas asked, still watching the battle unfold.

  “Your grandson,” Reynard answered.

  “My grandson? But…”

  “The year is 1415, as your people will reckon it. The place is a lovely field surrounded by woodland called Agincourt.”

  “And the knights?” Thomas asked. “There were so many of them!”

  “Destroyed. Utterly. Thousands of wealthy men in armour, convinced they can’t be defeated, taken apart by peasants with sticks and lengths of string.”

  Thinking back to the young, dark-haired man, standing so tall and brave amongst all those other archers brought a flush of pride to Thomas’s heart. “So what we started, all those years ago…it wins the war for us in this Agincourt place you showed me?” Thomas turned to see Reynard gesticulating wildly in an effort to coax a caterpillar to go left instead of right along a ridge of soil.

  “What? No, of course not. Wars are complicated things. Lots of moving parts. Like legs on a centipede or…a caterpillar.” The fox-faced man seemed to find that funny. “Besides, what do I care about which country wins or loses a war? The whole thing is silly if you think about it.”

  “Then—”

  “The knights. They’re the ones who truly lose that battle.” Reynard grinned. “Well, the knights and Wetiko, of course."

  “The knights? Won’t there just be others to replace them?”

  Reynard shook his head, though Thomas wasn’t entirely clear whether it was in response to his question or to the new direction the caterpillar was taking.

  “The knights will disappear from this world not long after Agincourt,” Reynard said. “And I will have proven once and for all that all this progress nonsense Wetiko prattles on about means nothing compared to the wild ways of the world.”

  The wild ways of the world. Certainly life had proven itself to be unpredictable, but Thomas couldn’t imagine a world without knights, strutting about in their armour, cutting people down and taking whatever they wanted. No, he realized suddenly. I really can see it now. “So that’s been your plan all along. Even though I never got to kill Sir Hamond…”

  Reynard raised a finger in the air. “You were very clear with me, Thomas. You said, ‘I want revenge on the knight.’” He smiled. “You didn’t say which one. Wetiko was equally clear when he said, ‘The boy will never kill the knight.’”

  All those years, Thomas thought, and despite himself, he nearly broke out laughing. But then he saw Reynard’s features become grim, and for the first time, Thomas thought the other man might be capable of violence.

  “They are vain, and violent, these malicious worms in their steel carapaces. They hide behind words like honour and chivalry even as they wreak havoc—and not the good kind, mind you—on the earth and all her children. I’ve watched them pillage and murder their way across one continent and into another, all the while telling themselves it’s a god’s work they do. They offend me. Wetiko thought his little metal men couldn’t be stopped. Well, you and I and your heirs will prove him wrong.”

  Thomas felt his knees go a little weak from the enormity of it all. “So, all those years ago when you told me to go fight in Sluys, that caused the end of the knights? Forever?”

  Reynard laughed. “Oh, it’s never quite as simple as that, Thomas. But you’ve been a part of it. An important part. A truly admirable trick requires many pieces—all in their perfect place—to work its magic.” Reynard gave a grin then, and for a moment, with his russet hair and pointy features, looked more fox than man. “And this, I’m sure you’ll agree, has been a most magnificent trick.”

  Arrow’s Wrath

  Charles F. Bond

  Mackell held Kannarra by the hips ready to help her into the cart. She laughed at his touch and looked into his eyes. They were the green of the ocean, and her hair the red of a Black Baccara rose flowing behind her lithe shoulders.

  In her glare, Mackell saw the reflection of her final strained efforts, and the blood-soaked babe fall from her body. It had her nose; precisely the same nose, in miniature. It was both weird and wonderful at the same time. And then he knew, knew how much he loved her. Had he heard it in a ballad somewhere, that when one could see their unborn in the other’s eyes, their love was real. True, most songs were stories, make-believe, yet somewhere, that line had stayed and spoken straight to his heart.

  He sucked in a breath, tasting her scent, remembering the afternoon and the feel of her warm and naked body next to his, and smiled.

  At the sight of his grin, her lips curled, and she giggled, staring, alluring and wanting, into his eyes. Those eyes sprang wide, shocked. In the same instant, droplets of fine warmth touched his chest where his shirt was half-buttoned. His gaze fell to her neck, the one he’d been kissing not long before, and saw an ashen arrowhead protruding from it. Blood ran along its edge, drops forming at the tip and falling.

  Kannarra reached up, touching the dart, choking out a muffled cry, gasping for breath. She coughed and gargled, coughed and gargled, her body trembling. Her knees buckled, and it took all his might to get his stunned body to gently lower her to the ground, the grass around them splattered with crimson droplets: her life’s fluid.

  The longest any good archer could shoot an arrow, and hit target, was 350 metres. There was one other, beside himself, who bested this. He had the Dragon’s Sight, and could strike a spinning coin at 400 metres, kill prey half a mile away.

  Kannarra lay in his arms, coughing and spitting more blood. Her lips mouthed words, which sounded like, “Eye ugg ooo.” She was leaving him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. In all the battles he’d fought, men died from such wounds, far swifter. Was this her showing resigned strength, or had time slowed somehow? A voice at the back of his mind told him to remove the arrow, even though all his training had taught him never to do so. He didn’t want to let her go, wanted her here as long as possible, but that was selfish. All he could do for her was help her pass swifter. He reached to the back of the arrow near her hair, placed his other hand behind her neck, fingers either side of the shaft. ‘I will always love you,’ he told her. And then yanked hard, removing the arrow. Three short gasps, and then she slumped, still.

  She was gone.

  The killing dart in his hands, he felt its smooth, almost enamelled, slenderness. It was weighted in its centre, better for covering longer distances, and was made from trees across the seas. He gripped it hard.

  On the death of a loved one, any man would yell the name of their lost, struck tight by bereavement. He did not. He looked up at the arrow, looked across the valley knowing the direction of flight, and with his left eye, his only one, saw a leaf flutter to the ground, stripped, no doubt, from the arrow’s passing as it had been loosed.

  ‘Valean,’ he yelled, drawing out the last syllable. It was all he needed to say. The other would know Mackell would not rest until his sword pushed through Valean’s heart.

  With tears streaming his cheeks, he pulled Kannarra close, hugged her tight one last time, then rose and lifted her into the cart. He moved to step up into the driver’s seat, changed his mind, and leapt onto his steed, and rode back to the fortress.

  Lorne Castle, the enemy fort, stood against a cliff, so well-constructed it looked part of the natural surroundings. Its outer walls were taller than the tallest tree, a dome of protection against the mightiest army. On this side, the east, the Forest of Fair Chance, as it had been renamed, stretched almost to the castle gates, ending 200 metres from stone. As expected, the woodland was littered with lookouts, perched among high boughs and concealed within crevices in boles: not the numbers calculated, much less. Among the Ninety men Mackell had gathered were loggers and trackers. They swept the woodland ahead, making short work of the lookouts, guiding archers to those hidden high.

  Sixty marched from the forest in tight formation, obscuring the view of a log, no taller than a man, twice the thickness of an elephant’s foot. As they approached 150 metres, shout
s were heard high among the crenellations and arrows were loosed into the air.

  ‘Shields high.’ As one the band halted and lifted their shields. No ordinary shields of wood, these were square and encrusted in slate, harder for arrowheads to penetrate.

  The shields were interlaced, preventing gaps, and no arrows got through. They moved on, shields up. Thrice more they were showered in shafts, some making it through where a man slipped, men sustaining minor scrapes.

  At the gates, they stopped two metres short. The gates were set within an arch a metre wide, giving them some relief from above. They came closer together, keeping shields tight over their heads, others to each flank, forming a tunnel. At the head, three men were allowed out and emptied small jars of oil they’d brought, covering half a metre of the bottom of the huge doors, all the while those above threw rocks of all sizes, none bigger than a man’s head.

  Once the jars were empty, the three retreated within their makeshift tunnel. At a command, they all stepped forward three paces, extending their formation, showing almost the entire trunk they’d brought. Those above would see it as a much longer log.

  From up high came the command they knew would follow. ‘Oil!’

  At the last, before being soaked, the forward half of the tunnel changed position, forming an overlapping slant. When the oil hit, it ran down the slant, covering the area at the foot of the gates. When no more oil came down, the party moved hastily back, just as a fire arrow shot down from the high walls. As it struck, another from within the woodland, loosed at the sight of their retreat, stabbed the base of the doors.

  ‘Noooo,’ a shout came from above as they realised their mistake. It was too late, the oil caught and, soon, flames licked the great doors.

  It would take an age, but now all they had to do was wait.

  As the men found the cover of the trees, all the while being harried by more arrows, those who’d stayed hidden in thicket and thorn took this as their sign and let arrows fly of their own, taking the high archers by surprise.

  The five crouched within the fringes of the forest, like deer before dusk. Here the forest had been cut away, leaving a mile-long expanse of nothing, disallowing a surprise attack. The wall, while tall, was shorter than Mackell remembered. It seemed to shrink a little more each time he visited. Its smoothness like ice sugared in the setting sun behind them.

  All along the parapet, he saw men standing watch on the crenellations. On this, the open western wall, there should have been more than the handful he was seeing now. He put this down to men having been moved to the east. Good. His ninety were in place. At the thought, billows of smoke rose on the opposite side. It had started. The lookouts on this side moved in the direction of the eastern wall.

  ‘Let’s move.’

  He leapt and sprinted across the plain, keeping a close eye above. With no watchmen, they made it to the wall’s base unseen.

  Where the main fortified wall of the castle met the sheer rock of the cliff, a small, cave-like tunnel had been burrowed beneath the foundations of the defensive wall. A fox had dug it out long ago and found a home to rear her cubs. When a guardsman found them, his father had the family slaughtered, much to his young self’s dismay. The channel so small, it seemed no one deemed it consequential enough to fill. Even if it had been, this was still his best chance at getting in. They each rummaged their cloaks to bring out the metal plating they’d brought for this very reason and began using the makeshift earth movers to enlarge the hole. With battle taunts and orders being shouted, and the last cries of the dying, none would hear their scraping.

  Soon, the gap was large enough and Mackell shuffled through.

  This portion of the structure was buttressed. In his older body, it was a tight fit, but he managed to climb, and did so without delay. Unable to look down, he was assured he was being followed when he felt a brisk brush of hand on his lower leg; accidental or assuring he was uncertain.

  He heard laughter, too: a young lad’s voice, sounding not too long after its breaking. Then he heard naked feet slapping stone, coming closer.

  Looking upwards as he climbed, he stopped when the young man’s naked form came into view, holding what his father had bestowed him in one hand.

  ‘Come on,’ the young man said, head twisted over one shoulder, ‘try it. No one will know. I do it all the time.’

  Knowing what was coming, he closed his eyes and looked straight ahead. The trickle of liquid hit the outer buttress and flowed down to soak the back of his cloak. Spray-back glistened his hair.

  ‘Attagirl,’ the boy cooed above as the flow stopped.

  He heard her feet hit stone, and stayed as he was, waiting for the girl to empty her bladder.

  He’d done the same when he occupied the room above, stopping only when he’d spied light shining through the slit below and the fox had moved in.

  He waited after the girl stopped. Heard their pattering feet move into the chamber, and then inched his way upwards.

  Soon, he heard playful laughter and soft pleasure moans from the girl.

  A shame a youngster had taken his old haunt, he thought, as he reached the ledge. Taking a peek, he saw the girl straddling the lad on the bed, her back to him, no one else in the room. Then slowly, silently, he crawled over the ledge. Keeping low, he stalked to the bed. In one fluid motion, he reached around the girl’s head, clasping her mouth, pulled his short blade, stabbing it into the young man’s throat, splitting his Adam’s apple, moving through his brain, and penetrating his soft skull. The young man’s body flailed on the bed, twitched twice, then went still.

  Beneath his fingers, he felt the girl’s attempt at a scream. She jerked forward as a rapier blade burst from her chest, below her left breast, piercing the gland. Blood gushed from the wound, covering her lover’s dead face.

  It made up a little for the piss soaking his back and buttocks.

  To get to his target, he had to move like a mouse, silent and swift. At the door, he lay flat on his chest and looked through the narrow gap between wood and stone, searching the flanks either side. Seeing no boots, he jumped up, opened the door, and moved out into the passage.

  The small party moved on unhindered. They passed his brother’s old room, its door left ajar. The next was his parent’s old quarters, this door firmly shut. They continued. In the diminishing light, the corridor was dark. What little light there was filtered through arrow slits, creating ghost-like doors of light, which they passed through, dust particles dancing in their wake.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to be here so soon.’ The voice came from behind. He knew it well.

  Turning, he saw Valean push back a portion of wall, a narrow door. It had been painted in pattern to look like the wall, and once Valean had it in place, it was hard to notice.

  Valean’s gaze shifted from one man to the next. Those eyes showed a scintilla of surprise. Valean held it well. There was no bow across his back.

  ‘Take him,’ Mackell said.

  The four jumped Valean, who offered small resistance.

  When Gurrin and Karrick, the more muscular of the quintet had him in their grasps, Gurrin said, ‘Where to?’

  ‘His quarters,’ Mackell said, ‘I’m guessing our folks’ old rooms?’

  Valean nodded.

  The room had changed completely. Not in appearance, that was still as Mackell remembered, and though the bed, not a four poster, was new, this wasn’t it either. It felt different, invaded perhaps, certainly not his parents’ old bed-chamber. He stifled the urge to shiver, feeling unnerved by the place. To the left of the central bed, a single easy chair stood. Gurrin and Karrick moved towards it.

  ‘No,’ Mackell said, ‘make him stand, as the rest of us will.’ Valean’s words when he’d snuck out of his hidden door filtered back. ‘What did you mean about being here so soon?’

  ‘What? No hello, how are you, brother? Just—’

  ‘Don’t call me that, we haven’t been that in a long time.’ Mackell reached for his mis
sing eye automatically, covering his patch with the palm of one hand.

  Valean, not the slightest taken aback, continued, ‘just straight to it, without the small talk, eh?’

  Gurrin punched his ribs, hard. ‘Not the time for that. Just answer the fucking questions or the blows go lower, got it?’

  Valean glared up at Gurrin, opened his mouth as if to remonstrate, then closed it, reconsidering. Instead, he said, ‘Well you weren’t. The plan was to attack while you were in mourning. You were supposed to be too stupefied for anything but seeing her body put to the ground, before coming here. And come I knew you would, for me.’

  Attack and mourning were the two words he heard above the others. He remembered the lack of guards outside the door of the boy and the lover he’d slain, the scarcity of lookouts on the wall. King Thorrin was on the march.

  ‘Knowing I’d come, why are you here and not surrounded by many more men?’

  ‘You mean why am I not with the others, attacking your fort. Simple, I am done with all that. I’m spent.’

  ‘Don’t like battles no more, I hardly believe that.’

  ‘Believe what you will, it’s true.’ Valean’s eyes fell on the bed. Mackell followed his gaze and, for the first time, saw the filled travel sack. ‘I’m heading south, as far south as south goes.’

  ‘You always did abhor the winter.’