Miglene peered out over the wooden barricade.
Still nothing.
“Maybe they’re tryin’ t’starve us out,” Ezra suggested.
Miglene turned to the large man beside him, aged well beyond his years. The man had friendly green eyes, short auburn hair, and a matching goatee. His facial hair covered most of his mouth, which became a hole of red when he spoke. A small scar adorned the area over the man’s left eyebrow.
Miglene himself had more scars than he could count. He was rugged and half-shaven, with long brown hair and crisp, dark eyes. His body was a mass of muscle, lean and powerful, towering at six-foot-two and a half, his face rugged and good-looking, intensely serious. Something about his expression always told of loss, of pain, and of passion.
“They’ll come,” he said, nodding his head. “You just be ready.”
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Ezra replied, lifting a scope to his eye.
The silence bothered him.
“See anything?” John asked.
“Naw, not a damn – Wait!” Ezra cried. “What’s that?”
“What?” John snapped. “What is it?”
“I think I see somethun.”
“What? Let me see.”
Miglene snatched the scope from Ezra’s eye and brought it to his own.
“Look,” Ezra said, pointing. “Over there, t’the right!”
Streams of uniforms could be made out coming up the pass.
Gray uniforms, with chain link armor.
“They’re here,” Miglene said.
He handed the scope back to Ezra and propped himself up on a nearby crate.
“They’re coming!” he screamed. “All men prepare! The enemy is here!”
Quickly, thirty-two men grabbed their bows and took their positions. Miglene, too, took a bow in hand and positioned himself at the front of the barricade, setting his frame next to Ezra’s much larger one.
“They’re gettin’ closer,” Ezra said, peering out.
“Let me see again.”
Ezra handed him the scope.
“Looks like about four hundred of them,” Miglene noted. “They’re gonna hit us head on.” He pulled the scope from his eye. “Go now and wait for my signal.”
In a huff, Ezra was gone, his large body shuffling off to his station.
Miglene peered out the scope again. They were heading straight toward him. After all, they had no place else to go; Miglene had stationed his men at the end of a road that was surrounded by dense woods, blocking off the main trade route to the south. His “barricade” was a makeshift log structure in clear area of that road, about two hundred feet up from where the woods ended. And now four hundred men were approaching that structure, ready to kill him.
John pulled the scope away. He no longer needed it; the men were clearly in sight. He picked up his bow and set an arrow in it, ready as always. And now came the worst part: the waiting. Waiting for those who intended to kill him.
He watched as the mass of men paused a mere three hundred yards away. Surely there would be another army following, but John planned to end this battle before they could arrive. He looked through the scope again.
“No Farv.”
The men were beginning to reform according to the landscape. He could see a swarm of gray passing over itself. They were merging and taking to their units.
John put down the scope and picked up his bow again. His eyes flittered through the air, searching for the leader. A moment later a man approached on horseback, a sheet of parchment in his hand.
“Messenger approaching!” yelled someone from behind.
“Let him enter!” Miglene hollered.
He put down his bow and pulled out his sword. Miglene never made the mistake of trusting the enemy.
The messenger entered through a wooden gate. He looked to be in his late thirties. He had a bald, uncovered head and a handlebar mustache, which bounded up and down as he spoke.
“Are you the man they call Miglene?” he asked. His voice was pestering and arrogant, and it bothered John.
“I believe so,” Miglene answered.
“I have a message for you from Sir Trent. And I quote…” He coughed into his hand and began reading from the paper: “…‘You are greatly outnumbered. Surrender now and be spared your lives.’ A-he-hem…”
“And if I refuse?” John asked.
“That,” the messenger guffawed, “would be quite unwise.”
“Ah,” Miglene said, “now I see. In that case I have a message for Sir Trent as well.”
“And what is that?” asked the messenger.
Miglene took the horse by the reins and began turning it around.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” the messenger asked.
Miglene slapped the horse with the side of his sword. Stung, but not hurt, the animal took off like a bolt, causing the messenger to hang off the side, gripping for dear life. One of Miglene’s men opened the gate and they watched him fly through.
A moment later, both messenger and horse arrived at Sir Trent’s front lines. When Sir Trent was told of the response to his declaration, rage shook his entire body. Quite a feat, considering his unusual girth. His forehead became a flame of red, and his mouth burst forth with these words:
“Prepare to charge! We’ll rout these vagabonds and trample their bodies.”
…………………………………………..
The ground began to grumble as four hundred men in gray began their advance. Faster they came, then faster yet - storming, a stream of arrows guarding their way. Arrows whizzing and feet stomping, but Miglene stood stolid.
“Hold your fire!” he yelled. “Wait for my order.”
The men beside him kneeled with arrows fixed. Their eyes twitched nervously from side to side, their faith in their leader the only thing that kept them from releasing too early.
The swarm of gray moved closer.
John’s heart was practically in his ear by now, and his hands, too, were beginning to twitch. He could feel the hate in his body.
“Hold it!” he yelled.
The rumble of feet brought pillars of dust into the air. The trees began to sway.
“Keep holding!” he screamed
Everything was growing louder. The trees the wind the feet the noise of the woods and the men pounding pounding pounding closer closer closer.
The rattling the yelling the lifting.
Miglene’s eyes flashed.
“Now!” he yelled.
In one swift stream Miglene’s men let go their arrows. Thwump, thwump, thwump! Some of the gray uniforms fell back, as quickly others replaced them. Again Miglene’s men set, fired, and again some gray fell back. Others appeared.
They aimed for the legs, where there was no armor. They were accurate, yes, but still Trent’s forces advanced. Another stream of arrows sent ten or fifteen more to the ground, but by now Trent’s men were a mere fifty yards away, with only forty men left behind.
Thwump! Thwump! Thwump!
Miglene was firing so quickly that his fingers began to bleed. He aimed for the masses. The advance was slowing, but not quickly enough. Only another thirty or so men brought down, and now Trent’s forces were a mere thirty yards away!
A tall, skinny man with a beard approached to Miglene’s side. He had an arrow with a piece of cloth wrapped around the end, and a torch in his hands.
“Now?” he asked.
“No. Not yet,” said Miglene.
The man looked out at the advancing gray.
“Now?” he asked.
Miglene paused.
“Now?”
“Now,” Miglene said.
Quickly the man lit the arrow and fired it toward the heavens. A terrible shriek rent through the air as two herds of men, one from the left and one from the right, rushed out from the cover of the woods. They had weapons of swords and rocks and sticks, and though there were only eighty of them, they seemed like hundreds to the unwary Guardsmen.
T
rent’s men fell back and faltered. John jumped from his cover and out into the open field.
There was no time to think. The battlefield became a mess of red as John chopped off a leg, then cut into a neck! He hated them! He hated them all! And he sentenced them to death!
Trent’s men tried to recover. Another fifty lost. But now they fought back. Forward, in greater numbers. Horses coming. Too many. More numbers. John saw his own diminishing. Enough, then.
“Retreat!” he called, his voice echoing off every tree. “Retreat, retreat, retreat!”
The men stormed off in separate directions, knowing they’d see their comrades at the rendezvous point.
Chapter 16
A Promise