Duel at Araluen Page 17

  “How many? Where are they?”

  The man grabbed his arm in return and began dragging him toward the doorway. “Looks like all of them. The archers, anyway. They’re coming out the main gate.”

  They blundered out into the open, Trask shielding his eyes from the mid-morning glare of the sun. He hurried to a vantage point close to his tent that commanded a view of the hill fort above them. He peered up the hill, and his heart began to race as he saw the group of armed men emerging from the gate, throwing ropes down the hill and beginning to descend to the next level of the track. He estimated there were about a score of them, which he knew to be the full complement of archers under Horace’s command. But where were the cavalry? He looked urgently left and right and saw no sign of them.

  Then a file of horsemen appeared, riding around the contour of the slope, already at the third level down from the fort. Twenty of them too, he estimated. He turned to the messenger who had woken him.

  “Sound the alarm!” he shouted, and the man raced away to find a bugler. A few seconds later, the strident notes of the alarm call blared out and men began to spill from their tents, pulling on their armor and helmets, buckling swords around their waists. One of his subordinate commanders ran up to him.

  “What are your orders, General?”

  Trask hesitated, then indicated a line across the front of their camp, at the base of the slope. “Form a shield wall there,” he said. “Two ranks. We’ll let them come to us.”

  The commander saluted and ran off, shouting orders. Gradually, the milling mass of men began to form themselves into some sort of order, pushed and shoved into position by their sergeants and corporals. They moved into two ranks, shields locked together, spears set at an angle, facing the enemy uphill, with forty men in each rank. The remaining twenty or so men grouped themselves around Trask, as a mobile reserve. If part of the shield wall was threatened, they would provide support and reinforcement.

  Still the archers swarmed down the terraces of the hill. On the right wing, the cavalrymen urged their horses, stiff legged against the slope, down to the final level, which was one terrace up from the base of the hill where the rapidly formed shield wall stood waiting. Ten troopers halted there, threatening the right wing. The others continued to move around the south face of the hill until they had joined the archers. They wheeled their horses around to face downhill. Only one gently sloping section of grass now separated them from the Red Fox force.

  Trask glanced nervously from one group to the other. The ten mounted men, lances held vertically, remained threatening the right wing of his force. The combined group of archers and troopers faced the center of his shield wall. He heard one of his officers calling orders on the right and saw the right-hand end of the shield wall pivot back through ninety degrees, like a gate moving on a hinge, so that they stood square on to the troopers, facing them directly with shields and spears.

  He heard a whisper of noise from the archers facing his center, then the scraping sound of arrows being released from their bows, and the first arrow storm was on its way.

  “Shields up!” shouted the officer commanding the center of the wall. The shields rattled and clashed together as the men raised them to deflect the arrows. Trask suddenly realized he was unarmored. He grabbed the nearest soldier by the arm and shoved him in the direction of his tent, stripping the man’s shield from him as he did so.

  “Get my armor!” he ordered, and the man ran off to do his bidding. Trask slipped the shield over his left arm and raised it to cover his head and upper body.

  He was not a moment too soon. A second later, he staggered as an arrow slammed into the shield. It struck slightly off center and nearly tore the shield from his arm. He regained his balance and lowered the shield to look uphill. The archers were releasing another volley. Hastily, he raised the shield again, hearing cries of pain from his men in the shield wall as arrows found their way through the gaps and struck home. His mouth dried as he realized this would be the final confrontation. The enemy had committed all their men to this fight.

  Then he calmed himself. He had them outnumbered by three to one. He’d lose some men, he knew. The enemy were skilled fighters. But sheer force of numbers would see him through. And with their entire force committed, the Araluens could do nothing to surprise him.

  He smiled. Now all he had to do was make sure he stayed well clear of the fighting.

  24

  On the ridge above the enemy camp, Maddie lay in the long grass and watched the opposing forces form up.

  Her heart was racing. The Araluen force looked pitifully small against the Red Fox numbers. She could recognize her father at the head of the small group of troopers who stood ready at the right wing of the enemy’s line. She saw a section of the shield wall angle back to face them. She licked her lips. They were dry with tension. Her father and ten men were facing probably forty enemy soldiers in a secure line, protected by shields and armed with spears. She scanned the enemy lines, seeing the smaller command group some distance behind the shield wall.

  So far, she thought nervously, the enemy didn’t seem to be making any mistakes—although the deployment of a shield wall was an absolutely basic tactic and involved no complex maneuvering.

  As far as she could see, nobody in the enemy camp was looking back up the hill behind them. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the archers and cavalrymen facing them.

  She heard the whimper of arrows rushing through the air as the archers started shooting. Men in the Red Fox force began to fall. Now there was no way anyone was looking in her direction. She rose to a crouch, looked back at the waiting Skandians, and signaled them forward.

  The sea wolves rose from where they were crouched in the long grass covering the hillside and moved forward. As they did, they moved into a wedge-shaped formation, with Thorn at its head and Hal and Stig close behind him. Then four more men followed, then six, and so on, with each successive line growing longer, so that the moving group, if it had been viewed from above, would have resembled a triangular wedge. Maddie waited until they had reached the crest of the ridge and motioned them to continue. She fell in close beside Hal. As they drew closer to the enemy, she would look for a good vantage point, from which she could cover Ingvar.

  The Skandian formation moved down the hill at a fast walk, the rustle of long grass around their legs the only sound they made. Thorn ensured that all of them had secured their weapons and equipment so that they didn’t rattle or clank or let out any other telltale noise.

  Still, none of the Red Fox soldiers noticed the danger behind them.

  But Gilan could clearly see them moving down the hill. He drew his sword and raised it above his head.

  “Archers, rapid shooting!” he shouted, then, circling his sword in the air, he called, “Troopers! Forward!”

  The cavalrymen had dismounted. Charging on horseback down the steep grassy slope would be too dangerous. The men would fight on foot. In each group of five, one trooper was assigned as a horse holder, keeping the horses ready for the time when the enemy broke and ran, and the cavalry could pursue them.

  The men in the shield wall saw the small group of dismounted troopers advancing. They shouted a roar of defiance and brandished their weapons above their heads—swords, spears and axes, gleaming in the sun.

  It was a mistake. As they raised their weapons, they inadvertently allowed their shields to drop. The archers were quick to seize the advantage offered and began to pour arrow after arrow into the gaps where the Red Fox warriors were exposed. Men screamed and fell as the cruel warheads slammed into them, penetrating mail coats and ripping into the bodies behind them. Half a dozen men in the front rank went down.

  “Keep your shields up!” a sergeant yelled, and the gaps in the shield wall were quickly closed. At the same time, men from the second rank stepped forward to fill the place where their comrades had fallen. Once again, the shi
eld wall was intact.

  Now the troopers started to run, their shields up and their long lances held ready over their shoulders. As they came within range, they stabbed forward with the lances, staying out of the reach of most of the weapons of the men in the front row of the shield wall.

  There was a series of resounding crashes as the lance points, with the impetus of the running troopers behind them, smashed into the shields, staggering the men in the front rank. The Foxes were ready for it, however, and the second rank leaned their weight into the backs of the men in front of them, straightening the line and holding them steady against the troopers’ attack. Some of the lances penetrated, forcing their way between the shields, hitting bodies, legs and arms.

  As the two struggling forces met, the archers, on a command, ran quickly to their right, so they could shoot without fear of hitting their own comrades. Once again, the deadly hail of arrows began to bring down men in the shield wall. As the angry Red Fox warriors turned to face this new threat, they exposed themselves to the darting, jabbing thrusts of the lances. Hastily, they swung back to face their original attackers.

  On the Foxes’ right flank, the section commander watched the small but dangerous group of motionless horsemen warily. So far, they had made no move. But he knew that as soon as he turned his men to aid their comrades in the center of the line, the enemy cavalry would charge into their exposed backs.

  Back in his command position, well out of the fight, Vikor Trask watched anxiously. The crash of contact, the clash of steel on steel and the cries of wounded and dying men echoed across the field. He had no idea how to counter the implacable storm of arrows that was whittling down the numbers of his men. He had never faced a disciplined, concentrated force of archers on the battlefield before. He watched in horrified fascination as their flights of arrows darkened the sky, seeming to pour into the ranks of his men without cease. Many of them, of course, were stopped by the shields. But a lot were making it through the wall, or over it, as the archers raised their aiming point and directed a plunging barrage onto his men.

  As the Red Foxes raised their shields to protect themselves from the plunging arrows, they exposed themselves to the lances and swords of the attacking troopers. The line took a pace backward. Then another.

  “Hold position! Hold your line!” Trask yelled, his voice cracking with the strain. He didn’t know what his men should do, what orders to issue. But he knew if they began to fall back, the order and cohesion of the shield wall would collapse, and they would be exposed to the vengeful lances of the troopers, and the murderous, plunging arrow storm.

  He glanced fearfully at the threat of those ten cavalrymen on the right, still motionless, still waiting for the right moment to launch their attack.

  Then, from behind him, he heard a mighty voice booming.

  “Let’s get ’em!”

  Trask wasn’t to know it, but it was the celebrated battle cry of the Heron brotherband, and it issued from Thorn’s powerful chest and lungs. It was a voice that was trained to bellow commands above the noise of the fiercest storm at sea. On this sunlit hillside, it carried clearly to Trask’s ears—and those of the men around him.

  As one, they turned to see a wedge-shaped formation of Skandians—recognizable by their sheepskin jackets, their huge round shields and their brass helmets, many adorned with ox horns—plunging down the hill toward them. At their head, barely thirty meters away, was a huge, white-haired figure, whose right arm seemed to end in a massive wooden club. Just behind him were two other warriors—one tall and broad shouldered and swinging a mighty ax around his head, the other slighter, slimmer and wielding a sword, with a kite-shaped shield on his left arm. Behind him was a terrifying figure, towering over the others, and with his eyes concealed behind two black tortoiseshell circles, which gave them the appearance of empty eye sockets. He carried a pole weapon, with a head that combined a spearpoint, ax and hook. He whirled it around his head, seeking a target.

  The plunging mass of Skandians bypassed Trask’s raised vantage point and smashed into the rear of his shield wall with a resounding crash of metal.

  The white-haired warrior flailed back and forth with the mighty club that seemed to be part of his arm, scattering his enemies, sending them flying. The thud of his weapon striking home was sickening to the ear. It could be heard clearly above the bellowed battle cries and the screams of those who fell before his terrible onslaught.

  Beside him, the tall warrior’s ax dealt death at every blow. Like the white-haired club wielder, he scattered the men trying to face him, bludgeoning a trail through the line. And at the same time, the third member of the wedge point was fighting with studied control, his glittering sword point darting forward like a striking snake, sending his opponents sinking to their knees as they stared with horror at the flashing sword.

  The black-eyed giant with the triple-headed weapon was wreaking havoc as well. Diverging from his comrades, he used the hook to jerk men off balance, then dispatched them with either a spear thrust or the ax head.

  Trask saw that two of his men had worked their way behind the giant, their swords poised to strike him from behind. Suddenly, one of them reared up in agony, clutching vainly at an arrow that had magically appeared between his shoulder blades. The other, seeing his comrade’s fate, turned to look up the hill, just as a second arrow smashed into his chest, punching through the mail shirt he wore and dropping him to the ground. The giant seemed not to notice, but Trask turned and looked behind him.

  Forty meters back up the hill, a slim, cloaked figure stood on a large rock, a bow in his hand. As Trask watched, the bowman quickly nocked another arrow, raised the bow, drew and shot in one smooth, continuous movement. Turning to follow the arrow’s flight, Trask saw yet another of his men go down.

  As the discipline of his shield wall collapsed under the assaults from front and rear, Trask’s men began to mill aimlessly, looking for an escape. Then a horn blasted out on the right, and the small body of cavalry that had been waiting there started to move. They trotted at first, then cantered, then went to a full gallop, slamming into the disorganized shield wall, scattering men left and right, rearing their horses to strike out at the men who faced them, discarding shattered lances in favor of sword and axes as they cut about them, leaning to either side out of their saddles.

  It was the final straw for the Red Fox force. Their shield wall was broken, their cohesion and mutual support was gone. The ten cavalrymen who had stood in reserve now drove their horses into the disorganized ranks from the right wing, cutting, stabbing and smashing as they came. The Red Foxes began to withdraw to the left, but found themselves confronted by the screaming, merciless Skandians who had forced their way through to the middle of their line. The Red Foxes wavered, broke into small groups, threw down their weapons and ran, running to the eastern side, where there was no force in place to stop them, knowing there was no future in trying to surrender to the Skandians, now that the fury of battle had seized them.

  As the broken force ran, Gilan’s archers began to shoot again, cutting the enemy down as they tried to escape. Then, at a shouted order, the troopers who had attacked the center of the line raced back up the hill to where their horse holders waited. They mounted and set off after the running, demoralized army, gradually riding them down, their swords and axes rising and falling in a remorseless rhythm.

  Trask looked around, his eyes wild and desperate. There was a saddled horse standing nearby, belonging to one of his men who had been detailed to carry messages. The man ran to his horse now, but Trask was too quick for him. Before the man could lay his hand on the bridle, Trask’s sword took him from the back and he fell, clutching impotently at the deadly wound.

  Trask swung up into the saddle, his sword still in his hand, and hauled the panicking horse’s head around to the south. The way out was behind him—up the hill and over the ridge. He kicked his heels into the horse’s ribs
, sawing at the bridle, and forced the animal into a terrified run, heading up the shallow slope.

  As the frightened horse gradually settled into a lumbering gallop, Trask noticed the slim figure in the cloak once more. Now, he realized dully, it wasn’t a man. It was a young woman. And she had set her bow down while she took what looked like a length of cord from her belt. She stepped down from the rock outcrop where she had been standing and moved to intercept his path up the hill.

  “So much the worse for you,” he snarled, although she couldn’t hear him. He set himself, raising the sword high over his head and standing in the stirrups, ready to cut her down. She made no move to evade him and he smiled cruelly. She was barely twenty meters away, standing side on, her right arm back behind her, her left leg advanced. He wondered what she was doing, then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter. Any second now, she’d be dead.

  He heard someone yelling—an inarticulate, wordless sound of anger and fury—and realized that it was him. Then the girl’s right arm snapped forward and she stepped onto her left foot, bringing something whipping up and over her head.

  A fraction of a second later, he felt a thundering impact on his helmet, right in the center of his forehead. There was a loud CLANG!

  Vaguely, he felt himself topple backward from the saddle and crash onto the soft grass. Then everything went black.

  Maddie stepped forward and stirred the stunned figure with the toe of her boot, returning the sling to its place under her belt. “You’re not worth wasting an arrow on,” she said.

  25

  Late in the afternoon, two crossbowmen inched their way around the curve in the stairway just below the gap in the south tower stairs. Once in position, they began to shoot bolts from their crossbows at the narrow gap on the right-hand side of the barricade wall that Cassandra’s men had erected on their side of the missing section of stairway. The bolts whipped through the gap, the first of them narrowly missing one of the defenders who were keeping watch. The others hastily drew back out of the line of sight, sheltered by the curve of the stairwell wall. One of Cassandra’s archers stepped out onto the stairs and shot a few arrows in return. But his shots were rushed, and he was shooting blindly down the stairs through the narrow gap. As far as he could tell, his shafts had no effect.