“I say we fight on, sir,” Northolt said. “We’re not beaten yet. And Halt may well turn up any moment.”
Duncan sighed. “Ah yes. Halt. I wonder where the devil he’s got to?”
• • •
The two hours passed quickly. The shadow of the spear seemed to race around the ground until it was level with the mark. As it crept past the shallow groove cut by the spearhead, they heard a rattle of armor and equipment from the base of the hill.
The Wargals were lifting the wheeled barricades once more and beginning to set out toward the small group of defenders huddled behind the palisade. As before, they moved in time to the toneless chant that had become familiar to Duncan and his men.
“How many would you say?” Duncan asked.
Northolt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Two hundred. Maybe two-fifty.”
Duncan sighed. “And we have ninety-three to face them.”
Still the Wargals came on. But then the defenders saw something new. The remainder of the Wargals across the river began to form up in ragged lines and march into the ford, splashing and lurching in the waist-deep water. On and on they came, until the camp was empty and the entire force was moving up the slope—nearly seven hundred in total. Morgarath was committing everything he had to this last battle.
A low murmur of despair went round the beleaguered army as they saw the numbers facing them.
Northolt turned and called an order. “Still!” he shouted, and the murmuring died away. But the sense of doom continued to hang over them all. They could see their fate lumbering up the hill toward them—implacable, unstoppable, unbeatable.
“They’ll stay out of range until the first group have closed with us,” said Duncan. “Then they’ll charge and swamp us with sheer numbers.”
The air was filled with the ominous chant of the Wargal army as they continued up the hill. Crowley and the other Rangers began shooting whenever they saw a target. But the opportunities were rare.
“Maybe we should have accepted his offer?” Crowley grinned. “Do you think it’s too late?”
As before, Morgarath was out to the left, just behind the rolling barricades, and protected by a ring of riders bearing shields. From close behind his troops, he was mentally urging them on, exhorting them with one simple message: Kill and kill and kill again.
Then Crowley, in the act of nocking an arrow to his string, stopped and looked more closely at the deserted camp on the far side of the river. A long line of armed riders had emerged from the trees behind the camp and were threading their way through the lines of deserted tents. They were led by a gray-cloaked Ranger on a small gray horse.
“It’s Halt,” said Crowley. “He’s made it in time.”
39
ASIDE FROM A FEW SUPPORT STAFF—COOKS, ORDERLIES AND servants—who fled into the trees at the sight of the grim-faced riders, the Wargal camp was deserted. The great majority of its occupants were marching ponderously up the hill to the redoubt where Duncan’s army waited for them.
Halt led the troops through the empty, irregularly spaced tent lines, halting them in two extended files on the edge of the ford while he consulted with Lorriac.
“How do you plan to do this?” he asked.
The cavalry officer twisted his lips in thought as he considered the situation. “We’ll go up the hill in three wedges of fifty men, echeloned to the right. I’ll lead the first squad. We’ll hit the rear of the Wargal line, drive into them, then withdraw. As we get clear, the second wedge will hit them ten meters to the right. They’ll hit and run, then the third wedge will follow. When they withdraw, we’ll go in again.” He paused, then glanced at the Ranger. “It’s a standard maneuver. We practice it constantly.”
Halt nodded agreement. Cavalry’s best weapon was the crushing force of the charge as it hit home against infantry. The horses’ momentum and weight would smash into the enemy ranks, scattering them and leaving individuals vulnerable to the troopers’ lances and longswords. But once the speed and impetus of the charge dissipated, as the cavalry became entangled in the milling scrum of enemy fighters, that advantage was lost. The maneuver Lorriac was suggesting meant the Wargals would be subjected to a continuing series of thundering assaults along their line.
Halt glanced around. The cavalrymen were formed into a long line along the edge of the ford. He rode out ahead of them, then turned Abelard to pace along the line.
“No noise,” he told them. “No cheering. No bugles. Keep quiet for as long as you can. We want to take them by surprise. That’s our best chance of panicking them. They’ll have their eyes on the battle at the top of the hill.”
Their faces turned to follow him as he rode past. Here and there, a man nodded, but for the most part they simply set their lips and gripped their spears more tightly, occasionally glancing up the hill at the advancing enemy army.
Halt turned to Lorriac, who was riding slightly behind him, and gestured toward the hill. The captain gave a hand signal and wheeled his horse toward the ford. The troop followed him forward, splashing through the shallow water. Horses tossed their heads at the sudden contact with the river, but kept going. The men stopped on the far bank, the horses twitching and shaking themselves dry.
Lorriac called out his two senior sergeants and told them the plan of battle. Then he rode to the left wing of the line and called softly, “First squad, on me. Wedge.” He supplemented the verbal order with a hand signal, then began to walk his horse forward.
The first fifty men formed on him as he did, creating an ever-widening wedge behind him.
Halt, seeing that all was in hand, cantered out to the left wing of the force. He saw Gilan hesitating, wondering whether he should join the cavalry. “Gilan!” he called. “With me.”
Gilan urged his horse alongside Abelard. He looked slightly disappointed. “Aren’t you going to charge with them?” he asked.
Halt shook his head firmly. “I’m not equipped for it,” he said. “And neither are you. Our horses are much smaller than cavalry horses.”
Glumly, Gilan had to admit that what Halt said was true. Much of the smashing impact of a cavalry charge came from the cavalry’s riding tall, heavy-boned animals that could crush the enemy beneath their weight. Gilan’s own horse, and Abelard, were both small and agile. They didn’t have the sheer mass of the cavalry mounts. On top of that, a horse needed to be specially trained to take its place in the battle line. A rider relied on his horse to cause injury and confusion to the enemy—biting, kicking out with iron-shod rear hooves and rearing high over an opponent. A trained, seasoned battlehorse was deadly to the enemy. An untrained horse could be just as deadly to its rider, panicking in the noise and confusion of battle, rearing without warning and throwing its rider off, leaving him vulnerable to the surrounding enemy troops.
“No. You’re right,” Gilan said.
Halt brought Abelard to a stop some ten meters to the side of the advancing line of troops, and thirty meters ahead of them. He studied the formation keenly. The horses were trotting and their riders had formed into the three wedge formations Lorriac had ordered, with each wedge to the right of and slightly behind the preceding one. Halt could hear the jingle of harness and the rattle of weapons, along with the soft thud of trotting hooves on the long grass. He glanced uphill anxiously. So far, Morgarath’s troops had no idea there was a force to their rear. The Wargals lumbered upward, the lead group still crouched behind the rolling barricades, the second wave safely out of range of the defenders’ bows.
Any minute now, he thought. He looked around the enemy formation, searching for Morgarath. Finally, he saw him, surrounded by his small group of shield bearers, out on the right wing. His head was bowed as he concentrated on sending orders to his troops, committing them to the coming battle.
Then the rolling barricades were flung to the side, opening like gates to release the first Wargal assault group as
they plunged forward up the hill. The Araluen force waited in place as Crowley and his Rangers released a killing barrage of arrows onto the charging Wargals. Once the Wargals were at the palisade and fully engaged, Halt knew, the major part of the force would advance and roll over the defenders, sweeping them aside with their crushing numbers. He looked across at Lorriac and waved his arm forward.
“Now!” he yelled. He saw the cavalry captain nod, then turn to the bugler behind him.
No need for further stealth. Now was the time to shock and surprise Morgarath’s fighters. The bugle rang out. Two long blasts followed by two short. Then the first wedge began to canter forward, the noise of their approach increasing with their speed.
The bugle sounded one long sustained note now and the horses went to a gallop, their hooves pounding, nostrils flaring, harnesses creaking and jangling. The troopers’ spears came down level, forming a bristling hedgehog of steel around the wedge, then the lead riders smashed into the Wargals’ rear ranks with a rolling thunder of noise.
“Stay with me!” Halt yelled at Gilan. He urged Abelard forward, nocking an arrow to his bow as he went.
He stopped fifty meters from the Wargal line and began shooting. Each arrow slammed home and dropped a Wargal to the turf. At the same time, Lorriac’s force were smashing their way deep into the Wargal formation, thrusting with spears, slashing with their longswords, smashing into the Wargals with the massive weight of their horses, hurling the black-furred creatures to either side.
They bit a deep, V-shaped hole into the Wargal ranks, then, as their speed began to drop off, the bugle blared again and the leaders turned inward, reversing the V as they withdrew, still striking out to either side and leaving broken, slashed bodies behind them as they went.
They didn’t get off scot-free. Some of the riders went down and were engulfed by the enraged beasts. But their comrades quickly closed up to seal any gaps in their line. Then Lorriac’s men were cantering into the open, and as the last of them emerged, the second wedge slammed into the Wargals’ rear rank.
The Wargals—at first surprised, then infuriated by this unexpected attack—were now overcome by a new feeling, as the first stirring of their ancient fear of horses was awoken. They began to look around fearfully, losing their formation and concentration as the second wedge struck them. It didn’t happen immediately. It was a gradual cancer of fear that spread progressively through their ranks, beginning with those closest to the horsemen and spreading out like the ripples on a pond. Some of them began to turn away, seeking to escape from the terrible pounding hooves and snorting nostrils.
Out on their left flank, Halt’s hands flew from quiver to bow as he nocked, drew and released, sending a stream of deadly shafts hissing across the battlefield, every one finding its mark and either killing or wounding one of the bestial warriors.
The second wedge crashed home, thrusting, hacking and cutting. Then they were clear, and the third wedge began to repeat the action. Halt’s hand went to his quiver and came away empty. He’d used all his arrows.
“Look out, Halt!”
Gilan’s voice cracked with tension as he called the warning. Halt twisted in his saddle and saw three Wargals only a few meters away, lumbering across the long grass toward him. They were among the first to leave the strictly formed ranks of the attacking army, slinking away to the side. Now they sought revenge against the solitary rider before them. His horse wasn’t plunging and kicking. It stood calmly while its rider loosed arrow after arrow, and in their brutish minds, they saw an opportunity to kill.
As they came on, Halt tossed the useless bow aside and drew his saxe, but he was in serious trouble. The Wargals were armed with swords, and one of them had a long-hafted ax. Too late, he realized he should flee, but that would leave Gilan alone.
He touched Abelard with his knees and sent him dancing backward, away from the danger of that long ax and the swords. The thought of exposing his horse to those cruel weapons sent his mouth dry. The Wargals, encouraged by the fact that the horse was retreating before them, snarled viciously, baring their cruel yellow fangs at him.
Then a gangly figure darted between Halt and the three vicious beasts, Gilan’s sword catching the light as he took guard in front of them. Halt took a breath to shout at him, realized that he might distract the boy if he did so, and slipped from Abelard’s back to help him.
But Gilan needed no help. The first Wargal swept his sword down in a brutal overhead cut. The boy swayed slightly to his left, and the massive blade hissed past him, missing by centimeters, then burying itself in the soft earth. As the snarling beast tried to withdraw it, Gilan thrust off from his left foot and lunged under its arm, driving his sword through its leather breastplate and deep into its chest cavity.
The Wargal gave an anguished roar, staggered and fell.
Its comrade lumbered forward clumsily, the long-handled ax sweeping in a deadly horizontal arc that would have cut Gilan in two at the waist.
If it had connected. The young fighter saw the ax coming and, a split second before it caught him, hurled himself forward in a somersault. The ax passed harmlessly above him, and as he rolled to his feet, he was safely inside the ax’s reach. Again, he thrust out with the razor-sharp sword, taking the Wargal in the middle of its body. The beast gave an unearthly shriek, fell to its knees and crumpled forward.
Which left one remaining enemy. Gilan withdrew his sword from the body of the second Wargal and took a guard position. The Wargal lunged at him, striking forehand and backhand in short, savage strokes. Gilan’s blade met the blows without any seeming effort. Knowing that the Wargal was putting all its weight and strength into the blows, he didn’t try to block them directly. Rather, he deflected them, letting the creature’s heavy blade slide off to either side without making solid, arm-wrenching contact.
He retreated a pace, and the Wargal, encouraged, surged forward. Only to be struck by Halt’s saxe, thrown with all the Ranger’s considerable strength.
The heavy knife slammed into the beast’s throat and it staggered back, dropping the sword and clutching in vain at the knife that was buried hilt deep. It let out a gargling scream, then its legs gave out and it toppled sideways onto the grass.
Gilan looked around, surprised. He had been so focused on the fight that he had forgotten Halt’s presence. Now he saw the Ranger a few paces behind him and grinned at him.
“Thanks,” he said. “But I did have his measure.”
“Well, forgive me for spoiling your little fight,” Halt said. He was somewhat amazed by the boy’s skill and speed. “Your father said you’re quite useful with a sword.”
Gilan shrugged. “I have a good teacher,” he said. Then he turned toward the Wargal army, advancing up the hill. He pointed his sword.
“Look at that!” he said.
40
IN LATER YEARS, WHEN HE RECALLED THE BATTLE OF HACKHAM Heath, Halt would be convinced that he saw a physical tremor run through the ranks of Wargals.
The third wedge of cavalry had just smashed into the rear of Morgarath’s army. Lorriac’s first squad was wheeling round to strike again as soon as the third squad withdrew.
The Wargals, already unsettled by the cavalry attack, stopped moving uphill at their steady, inexorable pace. They began to move in haphazard directions, all cohesion gone from their formation. They blundered into one another and struck out at their own comrades.
One of them began to retreat down the hill, then three. Then a dozen. Then the hillside was covered with hundreds of Wargals, running blindly from those terrible horses, panicking, terrified by the resurgence of that old fear that had been ingrained in them for so long.
Lorriac and his men withdrew to the side to let them go. Their horses stood, heads down, sides heaving, nostrils flaring as they drew in great, shuddering breaths.
At the palisade and ditch, the initial assault group sensed that somethi
ng was wrong. They looked back to see their brothers in full retreat, sensing the panic and terror that was in their minds. Morgarath, on the right wing of his army, tried to hold them in his control, but it was an impossible task. His mental orders were drowned by the ancient panic that seized Wargals when they encountered horses. He realized that he had lost control and wheeled his horse, galloping down the hill, passing his own troops as he went.
On the earthen mound behind the palisade, Duncan saw the enemy troops hesitate as their leader deserted them. He recognized that this was the pivotal moment in the battle and turned to Sir David and Baron Arald on either side of him.
“Come on!” he roared, and charged forward, shield raised and sword flashing in the sunlight. The two armored knights followed him and plunged into the Wargals’ faltering ranks. Forty of the defenders—those still unwounded—followed them, yelling battle cries and challenges. Some of them just yelled—inchoate cries wrenched from the gut in the moment of triumph.
And the Wargals broke.
A score of them died under that first charge. The others gave way to the terrible sense of panic that was sweeping through their ranks. Within minutes, the entire remaining force was streaming downhill, without formation or control. Some stumbled and fell on the smooth long grass. Their comrades trampled over them. They hit the river and spray flew high in the air as they fled across it, and kept going.
Duncan raised his sword and halted his small force. He watched the retreating army below them and shook his head wearily. For the moment, the Wargals were routed and terrified. But he had no idea how long that state would continue and there were still hundreds of them. At any moment, Morgarath might regain control and turn them back against the Araluen army. If that happened, all they had achieved this day could be lost.
“Do we go after them, my lord?”
It was Sir David who asked, but Baron Arald answered before the King could.