30
THE KING’S SKIRMISH LINE, CONSISTING OF LIGHT INFANTRY accompanied by archers, advanced on Morgarath’s left flank in a probing movement, retreating hastily when a battalion of heavy infantry formed up and moved forward to meet them.
The lightly armed skirmishers scampered back to the safety of their own lines, ahead of the slow-treading Wargals. Then, as a company of heavy cavalry trotted forward toward the Wargal battalion’s left flank, the Wargals re-formed from their column-of-fours marching order into a slower-moving defensive square and withdrew to their own lines.
As in most battles, the first moves were inconclusive, and for the next few hours, that remained the pattern of the battle: small forces would probe the other side’s defenses. Larger forces would offer to counter and the first attack would melt away. Arald, Fergus and Tyler sat their horses beside the King, on a small knoll in the center of the royal army. Battlemaster David was with a small group of knights making one of the many forays toward the Wargal army.
“All this to-ing and fro-ing is getting me down,” Arald said sourly. The King smiled at him. He had one of the most important attributes of a good commander: almost unlimited patience.
“Morgarath is waiting,” he said simply. “Waiting for Horth’s army to show itself in our rear. Then he’ll attack, have no doubt.”
“Let’s just get on with it ourselves,” growled Fergus, but Duncan shook his head, pointing to the ground immediately to the front of Morgarath’s position.
“The land there is soft and boggy,” he said. “It would reduce the effectiveness of our best weapon—our cavalry. We’ll wait till Morgarath comes to us. Then we can fight him on ground that’s more to our liking.”
There was an urgent clatter of hooves from the rear, and the royal party turned to watch a courier spurring his horse up the last slope to the knoll where they waited. He hauled on his reins, looked around until he saw the King’s blond head, then dug in his spurs again, eventually bringing his horse to a sliding stop beside them. His green surcoat, light mail armor and thin-bladed sword showed him to be a scout.
“Your Majesty,” he said breathlessly. “A report from Sir Vincent.”
Vincent was the leader of the Messenger Corps, a group of soldiers who acted as the King’s eyes and ears during a battle, carrying reports and orders to all parts of the battlefield. Duncan indicated that the man should go ahead and give his message.
The rider swallowed several times and looked anxiously at the King and his three barons. All at once, Arald knew this was not going to be good news.
“Sir,” said the scout hesitantly. “Sir Vincent’s respects, sir, and…there appear to be Skandians behind us.”
There were startled exclamations from several of the junior officers surrounding the command group. Fergus swung on them, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“Be quiet!” he stormed and, in an instant, the noise dropped away. The aides looked shamefaced at their lack of discipline.
“Exactly where are these Skandians? And how many are there?” Duncan asked the scout calmly. His unruffled manner seemed to communicate itself to the messenger. This time, he answered with a lot more confidence.
“The first group is visible on the low ridge to the northwest, Your Majesty. As yet we can see only a hundred or so. Sir Vincent suggests that the best position for you to view the situation would be from the small hill to our left rear.”
The King nodded and turned to one of the younger officers.
“Ranald, perhaps you might ride and advise Sir David of this new development. Tell him we are shifting the command post to the hill Sir Vincent suggested.”
“Yes, my lord!” replied the young knight. He wheeled his horse and set off at a gallop. The King then turned to his companions.
“Gentlemen, let’s see about these Skandians, shall we?”
Shading his eyes, Baron Arald peered at the small group of men on the hill behind them. Even at this distance, it was possible to make out the horned helmets and the huge circular shields that the sea raiders carried. A small group had even advanced down the near side of the hill and they were easier to make out.
Just as obvious was their choice of the typical Skandian arrowhead formation as they advanced. He estimated that several hundred of the enemy were now in sight, with who knew how many more hidden on the other side of the hills. He felt a great weight of sadness upon his shoulders. The fact that the Skandians were there meant only one thing: Halt had failed. And knowing Halt as he did, he knew that probably meant that the grizzled Ranger had died in the attempt. He knew Halt would never have surrendered—not when the need to stop the Skandians breaking through to the army’s rear was so vital.
Duncan voiced the thoughts of all of them.
“They’re Skandians, all right.” He glanced around the hilltop. “We’re going to have to fight a defensive battle, my lords,” he continued. “I suggest we begin to pull our men into a circle around this hill. It’s as good a spot as any to be fighting on both sides.”
They all knew it was only a matter of time now before Morgarath advanced, to crush them between the two jaws of the trap he had set.
“Rider coming!” called one of the aides, pointing. They all turned to face the way he indicated. From a copse of trees at the right-hand end of the ridge, a lone rider burst into sight. Several of the Skandians gave chase, hurling spears and clubs after him. But he was stretched low over his horse’s neck, his gray-green cloak streaming behind him in the wind, and he soon outdistanced the pursuit.
“That’s Gilan,” Baron Arald muttered, recognizing the bay horse he rode. He looked in vain for a second Ranger behind Gilan, hoping against hope that Halt might have somehow survived. But it was not to be. The Baron’s shoulders sagged a little as he recalled the force that had marched off so boldly into the Thorntree Forest. Of all those men, it seemed that only Gilan had survived.
Gilan had hit the flat land now and was still riding full pelt. He saw the royal standards flying on the knoll and swerved Blaze toward them. In a few minutes, he drew rein beside them, covered in dust, one sleeve of his tunic ripped and a rough, bloodstained bandage around his head.
“Sir!” he said breathlessly, forgetting the niceties of addressing royalty. “Halt says can you—”
He got no further as at least four people interrupted him. Baron Fergus’s voice, however, was the loudest.
“Halt? He’s alive?”
Gilan grinned in reply. “Oh, yes, sir! Alive and kicking.”
“But the Skandians…?” King Duncan began, indicating the lines of men on the far ridge. Gilan’s grin widened even further.
“Beaten, sir. We caught them totally by surprise and cut them to pieces. Those men there are our archers, wearing helmets and shields taken from the enemy. It was Halt’s idea—”
“To what purpose?” Arald asked crisply, and Gilan turned to face him, with an apologetic nod of his head to the King.
“To deceive Morgarath, my lord,” he replied. “He’s expecting to see Skandians attack you from the rear, and now he will. That’s why they even made a pretense of trying to stop me just now.
“Our own cavalry is just beyond the brow of the ridge. Halt proposes that he should advance with the archers, forcing you to turn and face the rear. Then, with any luck, as Morgarath attacks with his Wargals, both the archers and your main army should open a path through the center, allowing the hidden cavalry to come through and hit Morgarath when he’s in the open.”
“By God, it’s a great idea!” said Duncan enthusiastically. “Odds are that we’ll stir up so much dust and confusion that he won’t see Halt’s cavalry until it’s right on top of him.”
“Then, my lord, we can deploy the heavy cavalry from either wing to hit the Wargals in the flanks.” The new speaker was Sir David. He had arrived unnoticed as Gilan was explaining Halt’s plan.
King Duncan hesitated for a second or two, tugging at his short beard. Then he nodded decisively.
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“We’ll do it!” he said. “Gentlemen, you’d better get to your commands straightaway. Fergus, Arald, take a section of the heavy cavalry each to the left and right wings, and stand ready. Tyler, command the infantry in the center. Have them shout and cry out and beat their swords on their shields as these ‘Skandians’ approach. We’ll make it sound like a battle as well as look like one. Have them ready to split to the sides at three horn blasts.”
“Three horn blasts. Aye, my lord,” said Tyler. He dug his spurs into his battlehorse’s side and galloped away to take command of the infantry. Duncan looked to his remaining commanders. “Get to it, my lords. We don’t have much time.”
From behind, one of his aides called out, “Sir! The Skandians are moving downhill!” A second or so later, another man echoed the cry: “And the Wargals are beginning to move forward!” Duncan smiled grimly at his commanders. “I think it’s time we gave Morgarath a little surprise,” he said.
31
FROM HIS COMMAND POSITION AT THE CENTER OF HIS ARMY, Morgarath watched the apparent confusion in the King’s forces. Horses were galloping back and forth, men were turning where they stood. Shouts and cries drifted across the plain to the Army of Rain and Night.
Morgarath stood in his stirrups. In the far distance, he could see movement on the ridge to the north of the kingdom’s army. Men were forming up and moving forward. He strained his eyes to see more clearly. That was the direction from which he expected Horth to appear, but the rising dust kicked up by all the movement made it difficult to see details.
Although the bulk of Morgarath’s forces were the Wargals, whose minds and bodies had been enslaved to his own will, the Lord of Rain and Night was surrounded by a small coterie of men whom he had allowed to retain their own powers of thought and decision. Renegades, criminals and outcasts, they came from all over the country. Evil always attracts its own and Morgarath’s inner circle was, to a man, pitiless, black-hearted and depraved. All, however, were capable warriors and most were cold-blooded killers.
One of them now rode to Morgarath’s side.
“My lord!” he cried, a smile opening on his face, “the barbarians are behind Duncan’s forces! They’re attacking now!”
Morgarath smiled back at the young man. His eyes were renowned for their keenness. “You’re sure?” he asked, in his thin, flat voice. The black-clad lieutenant nodded confidently.
“I can make out their ridiculous horned helmets and their round shields, my lord. No other warriors carry them.”
This was the truth. While some of the kingdom’s forces did use round bucklers, the Skandians’ shields were enormous affairs, made of hardwood studded with metal. They were over a meter in diameter and only the huge Skandians, heavily muscled from rowing their wolfships across the winter seas, could bear such heavy shields in a battle for any length of time.
“Look, my lord!” the young man continued. “The enemy are turning to face them!”
And so they appeared to be. The front ranks of the army facing them were now milling in confusion and turning about. The shouting and noise rose in pitch. Morgarath looked to his right, and saw the small hill where the King’s standard marked the enemy command post. Mounted figures were pointing, facing the north.
He smiled once more. Even without the forces from across the Fissure bridge, his plan would be successful. He had Duncan’s forces trapped between the hammer of the Skandians and the anvil of his own Wargals.
“Advance,” he said softly. Then, as the bugler beside him didn’t hear the words, he turned, his face expressionless, and whipped the man across the face with his leather-covered steel riding crop.
“Sound the advance,” he repeated, no more loudly than before. The bugler, ignoring the agony of the whip cut and the blood that poured down his forehead and into his eye, raised a horn to his lips and blew an ascending scale of four notes.
Along the lines of the Wargal army, company commanders stepped forward, one every hundred meters. They raised their curved swords and called the first few sounds of the Wargal cadence. Like a mindless machine, the entire army took up the chant immediately—this one set at a slow jog pace—and began to move forward.
Morgarath allowed the first half-dozen ranks to pass him, then he and his attendants urged their horses forward and moved with the army.
The Lord of Rain and Night felt his breath coming a little faster, his pulse beginning to accelerate. This was the moment he had planned and waited for over the past fifteen years. High in his windy, rain-swept mountains, he had expanded his force of Wargals until they formed an army that no infantry could defeat. Without minds of their own, they were almost without fear. They were inexorable. They would suffer losses no other troops would bear and continue to advance.
They had only one weakness and that was facing cavalry. The high plateaux were no place for horses and he had been unable to condition their minds to stand against mounted soldiers. He knew that he would lose many of his own troops to Duncan’s cavalry, but he cared little about that. In a normal confrontation, the King’s cavalry would be a decisive factor in their battle. Now, however, split between the Wargals and the attacking Skandians, their numbers would be insufficient to stop him. He accepted the fact that Duncan’s cavalry would cause immense losses among his troops without a qualm. He cared nothing for his army, only for his own desires and plans.
“Faster!” he cried, sliding his huge broadsword from its scabbard and wielding it in gigantic circles over his head. The Wargals didn’t need to hear the word. They were bound to him in an unbreakable linkage of minds. The cadence of the chant increased and the black army began to move faster and faster.
In front all was confusion. The enemy, first turning to face the Skandians, now saw the new threat developing at their rear. They hesitated, then, for some unaccountable reason, they responded to three horn blasts by drawing to either side, opening a gap in the heart of their line. Morgarath screamed his triumph. He would drive his army into the gap, separating the left and right wings of the army. Once an army’s front line was broken, it lost all cohesion and control and was more than halfway defeated. Now, in their panic, the enemy was presenting him with the perfect opportunity to strike deep into their hearts. They had even left the way open to their own command center—the small group of horsemen standing under the royal standard on a hill.
“To the right!” Morgarath screamed, pointing his sword toward King Duncan’s eagle standard. As before, the Wargals heard the words and his thought in their minds. The army wheeled slightly, heading for the gap. And now, through the chanting, Morgarath heard a dull drumming sound. An unexpected sound.
Hoofbeats.
The sudden doubt in his mind communicated instantly to the minds of his army. The advance faltered for a moment. Then, cursing the Wargals, he drove them forward again. But the hoofbeats were still there and now, peering through the clouds of dust raised by the enemy army, he could see movement. He felt a sudden, overpowering surge of fear and again the Wargal army hesitated.
And this time, before he could mentally flail them forward, the curtains of dust seemed to part and a wedge of heavy cavalry, fully armored and at the gallop, burst into sight, less than a hundred meters from his army’s front line.
There was no time to form into the sort of defensive square that was infantry’s only hope against a cavalry attack. The armored wedge smashed into the extended front line of the Wargals, collapsing the formation and driving into the heart of Morgarath’s army. And the farther they penetrated, the wider the gap became, as the wedge shape split and separated the Wargals, just as Morgarath had been planning to do to his enemy. Now Morgarath heard one long, rising horn blast in the distance. Standing high in the stirrups, he cast his glance left and right, and saw, from either wing of Duncan’s army, more cavalry deploying, driving in on his flanks, smashing his formations. Dimly, he realized that he had exposed his army to the worst possible situation that he could have contrived: caught in the open b
y the full force of Duncan’s cavalry.
Over the years, Sir David of Caraway Fief had studied the tactics of cavalry in battle. He knew that the major effect of a cavalry charge came in the first moments of thunderous impact as horsemen drove into an enemy line. With the full momentum of the charge behind them, their three-meter-long lances smashed through armor, flesh and bone and hurled enemy troops back in disarray, to be trampled under the horses’ hooves. But once the horsemen lost their momentum, and a general melee formed, that major advantage was lost.
Accordingly, he had trained the Araluen cavalry in a new series of maneuvers. After that first thundering charge, the cavalry that had hit the center of the Wargal line withdrew and quickly reformed.
Each company of eighty cavalry men now split into four arrowhead formations of twenty troopers each—the formations riding one behind the other. The cavalry approaching from either wing were already deployed in the same formation. Now, as a bugle signal sounded, they employed a tactic that Sir David had christened The Hammerblows.
The leading arrowheads thundered forward and crashed into the Wargal line, scattering dead and wounded Wargals to either side as they drove in. Then, before their momentum was lost, they pivoted their horses and galloped away, splitting to either side.
A few seconds behind them, the second wave was already at the gallop. Giving the Wargals no chance to recover, they smashed into the line, lances thrusting, horses trampling.
Then, before the Wargals could come to close quarters, the second arrowhead swung about and withdrew, making room for the third wave to come crashing in after them.
As the fourth squadron began to gallop forward to attack, the first was already re-forming behind them, ready to begin the whole process over again.
All along the line, the Araluen cavalry hit the Wargal army with a rapid, nonstop series of devastating hammer blows, sending the savage, bearlike soldiers reeling at twenty different points, cutting the line into a series of disjointed, uncontrolled groups, which were then struck in their own turn.