“If we merely delay him, he’ll bring those weapons up eventually, and Vingaard Keep will be destroyed,” Blayne said thoughtfully. “So we must take him by surprise, strike at his strength.”
“What’s your idea?”
“The horsemen will harass him,” said the young knight decisively. “But when the wagons are halted, waiting for the road to clear, I will lead a group of determined men from ambush. We’ll attack with torches and pitch, and we will destroy his great weapons- before he can bring them to bear against our home.”
From the comfort of his command center in the fortified camp, which resembled a temporary city, with a picket wall of trees and neat paths lined with tents and exercise fields, Jaymes ordered General Dayr to bring the Crown Army up from the Vingaard. The two forces were to merge at the camp, which occupied the ridge of hills overlooking the lone ford across Apple Creek.
The vanguard of the Crown Army, led by General Dayr himself, came up to meet the Palanthian Legion.
“The lancers under Captain Blair are busy patrolling along the river,” the general informed the emperor. “But I left the Stonebridge unguarded, as you requested.”
“Good. The more of their men they put in the field against us, the easier it will be to conquer the keep later on,” Jaymes said.
“What’s the next step, then?” asked Dayr.
“I’ve already given the order. We will attack across the ford,” the emperor replied. “General Weaver’s legion will lead the charge. I’ll hold your men in reserve-I’d rather blood some of my newer troops.”
“Of course, Excellency.” Dayr rode off to see to the deployment of his men. General Weaver quickly and precisely deployed his Palanthian Legion, and in a matter of less than two hours, the units had been moved into position, the attack prepared.
“General, send the first wave across the ford,” ordered the emperor.
“Aye, my lord,” replied Weaver.
The emperor and his two generals sat astride their horses on a low hillock overlooking Apple Creek, very near to the ford crossing. Nearby, a knot of couriers and signalmen awaited commands. All watched eagerly as Weaver gestured to his flagmen, who raised the pennant signaling the advance.
Immediately, three companies of light infantry moved in columns toward the bank of the creek, where the rutted gravel road sloped into the water. The warriors wore leather tunics and carried short swords and small, round shields. The first wave of the attack would be borne by those free citizens of the New City of Palanthas, who had enlisted in the past year. Fresh to war, they advanced eagerly, ready to impress their general and their emperor.
“Forward! Double march!” barked the sergeants.
The first attackers splashed into the water at a trot, swords and shields held ready, and began to slosh across to the other side. Just beyond the opposite bank, the road curved to vanish among the trunks of the trees in the hushed apple grove. The leading men broke into a run as they found their footing on the far bank.
A dozen of the New City men fell at once, amid a flight of slashing arrows visible to the commanders on the hilltop. They heard screams and saw many of their soldiers writhing on the ground.
Still pressing forward, the troops stumbled over the fallen bodies of their companions, and more went down under the relentless fire. The archers remained unseen, hidden in the orchard, but they obviously had clear fields of fire. The volleys were heavy, lethal, and persistent. The big, steel-headed arrows punctured leather breastplates and wooden shields, even pierced metal helmets.
The surviving troops darted into shelter behind tree trunks and among the dense hedges that lined the road. Wounded men crawled toward safety, while more than a score lay motionless on the ground, apparently slain. More missiles continued to shower the lead ranks, and within minutes all three companies were pinned down.
No further command was given-the plan was already known to company officers-as the next wave, the heavy infantry, moved into the ford. Those soldiers wore mail shirts that descended almost to their knees, with steel caps to protect their heads, and they wielded much larger, heavier shields. Their swords were longer too. They were brawnier veterans, and they hoisted their shields to protect themselves from the arrows. The soldiers advanced slowly, passing through the ford, scrambling up the far bank and pressing toward the trees.
A number of those men, too, stumbled and went down, tripping over bodies or potholes, and several soldiers who lowered their shields momentarily took gruesome wounds from arrows that pierced cheeks, eyes, mouths, and throats. Inevitably, the column spread to the right and left of the narrow road as men fought to find advantageous positions. Spread out and inching along, covered by the layer of shields, the second unit resembled a moving pincushion.
That heavier rank finally penetrated the grove and drove against the picket line of Vingaard swordsmen who awaited them. Steel clashed against steel, and shouts of triumph competed with shrieks of pain and moans of the dying. More Crown infantry pressed across the river, ignoring the continuing arrow fire as they progressed toward the concealed enemy.
The defenders fought stubbornly, working in pairs. The men of Vingaard Keep didn’t bother with shields, but instead stabbed and parried from behind the stout trunks of the apple trees.
A bold Crown Knight raised a hoarse cry, lunging forward, chopping with his mighty blade-only to catch the sword in the tough limb of a tree. Before he could wrench it free, one of the defenders thrust from below, driving his keen steel right through the mail shirt and into the knight’s belly. With a low groan, the stricken veteran released his grip on his own blade and sank back into the arms of his comrades, who dragged him back.
In a skirmish such as the one being waged, numbers would inevitably prevail-that was understood by the commanders on the hill and by the swordsmen on both sides. Company after company of the Crown Army marched across the ford, some veering right, others left, expanding the frontage of the attack. Ultimately, the men of Vingaard had to fall back through the trees, though they gave ground only grudgingly-and even then, at a high cost in blood and misery. As the shadows swallowed them up, they retreated more quickly, and the attacking soldiers gave chase, a tide of steel and fury, bent on avenging their losses and carrying the day.
That tide broke, very abruptly, against a levee of pikemen who materialized, as if by magic, between the trees. They had not been disguised by any spell but merely had been camouflaged and lying low. The long polearms were unwieldy in the grove, but Kerrigan and his son had arranged the line shrewdly. Seemingly a thousand men stood shoulder to shoulder against the attack, forming a barrier that bristled with razor-sharp spear tips.
Most of the attackers hesitated in the face of the surprising obstacle, although a few courageous Crown soldiers charged forward and were pierced to death. The defenders met the onslaught with taunts and jeers, drawing still more to reckless charges. But the line never wavered, and the attack faltered.
One Crown sergeant managed to break a pike and bash another to the side, creating a temporary wedge. He charged ahead with a howl but was chopped at from all sides by multiple blades, losing an arm, and getting a fiendish cut in his thigh, which spurted blood.
Everywhere swordsmen waited among the pikes, and whenever the solid line showed signs of a rupture, the swordsmen stepped into the breach and took on the charging warriors. The entangling trees prevented easy flanking movement, and the defenders had piled great nests of brambles all around on the ground. Sharp thorns hooked into clothes and skin; even the most sure-footed of the emperor’s men were tripped up by the tangle of branches.
For thirty bloody minutes, the ponderous, chaotic struggle raged. Each side killed and each side died, and whenever the attackers gained a few feet, the defenders struck hard and drove the Crown soldiers back. When a man’s sword broke, he seized another from a fallen foe or comrade, and when he was wounded, he dropped back, allowing a fresh fighter to take his place in the line.
Vingaard archers scrambled into the trees and showered arrows over the heads of their comrades, into the faces and breasts of the attackers. A rank of Crown men armed with crossbows came up behind the first line of the charge and returned that fire with admirable accuracy, their steel-tipped bolts puncturing the green leather shirts of the targeted bowmen with ease. The missile duel increased in ferocity until the opposing bands were engaged in their own lethal fight for supremacy, a battle that took place literally over the heads of most of their comrades trapped in the melee.
On the hilltop south of the stream, the emperor strained to scrutinize the fight in the woods, his face showing ill-concealed displeasure. From there he could not claim to know the details, but the reality was plain. As more and more of his men crossed the stream, they were bunching up in the grove, and the advance had bogged down. Men were dying in growing numbers, and their sacrifice had ceased to have any meaning.
