“Let us not shoot too powerfully,” he whispered, “For beyond the soldiers crouch our comrades. If Gylain’s soldiers charge, fall back without hesitation and reform in the distance. We are not here to meet them in battle, but to weaken them for our comrades.”
In front of the soldiers rode an officer on horseback, a magnificent plume of feathers making his helmet conspicuous. Osbert pulled his arrow back until its string was steel, then waited: he could not shoot until they advanced to a certain spot, when both sides would attack simultaneously. The officer came forward slowly, drawing ever nearer to the fateful spot. Then, the same instant the horse’s hoof hit the spot, Osbert released his arrow. Its tail swirled silently as it sliced the air, then came a hollow clang, then the officer fell lifeless to the ground with an arrow camped in either side of his helmet. Yet before he had fallen, there was another arrow on Osbert’s string, and it was sent away as the officer’s body hit. The air was devoured by a dim droning and obscured by flashes of horizontal lightning.
Before the second string had been released, fifty of the soldiers had fallen. The remaining mass, however, was not thrown into chaos; rather, they continued marching at the same double pace they had previously employed. The leading officer was replaced by another with a thicker helmet and the actual commander was hidden safe within the ranks, out of the rebels’ sight.
“They take our assault without hesitation,” Osbert cried. “Keep up the pace, men!”
He returned his attentions to his prey, since no soldiers were detached to displace them. The first soldiers had passed through their ambush, though the long line continued to advance and take theirs in turn. Yet a battalion of soldiers from the rear had crept up and circled around Osbert’s company while they shot. Then, just before the ambuscade was ambushed, a cry came up from the rebels.
“Retreat!” he commanded, getting to his own feet. “Retreat, retreat!” and he fled into the forest abyss.
The rebels were unencumbered with heavy armor and soon left the soldiers behind. Still, a dozen of their fellows were lost in the surprise.
“Forward,” Osbert cried as he galloped through the trees. “Do not stop, or we will be slain.”
When they were safely away, they stopped and listened to the skirmish in the distance. Their pursuers could not be heard, but they did not stop to rest, following the rampant Osbert back into the fray. He led them to a point in advance of the enemy line and their attack began anew – albeit with sentries.
This time they released ten strings of arrows before they were displaced, and none of them were lost but a few who tripped along the way. Now, however, Osbert led them to a place where the grass was slightly discolored. He grabbed onto a knob that stuck out from the ground and pulled open a secret chamber, filled with arrows. The men refilled their quivers and refreshed themselves with water from a spring, then were once more sunk into the deluge of war. Only seventy-five remained.
This was continued all through the night. The soldiers were forced to continue their march without rest. Many were slain. By the next morning the men were weary and the adrenaline which had sustained them through the night began to give way. Their commander pulled them into ranks, where, under heavy guard, they ate a hasty breakfast. While their enemies rested, the archers kept to their work. They aimed high and shot far, dropping arrows deep into the camp, from which could be heard the sounds of dying men. Thus it was that the rangers – who would stop their work to assist an elderly man, or run through the night to fetch a doctor for an ill stranger – found themselves killing men whom they did not know and with whom they had no quarrel; they were merely on a different side of a name, a standard, a cause. This was war and there was nothing personal about it; yet those who killed and those who were killed were each persons. Such is the mystery of war.
The soldiers resumed the march and the rebels their harassing attacks. Then, at noon – after twelve hours of combat – Osbert pulled his twenty-five men together.
“We draw near the castle. Our best has already been given: if we grow tired and are caught, it will do our friends no good. So let us rejoin our comrades in the Treeway, where a spell of weakness will not mean death. We cannot sustain this fighting any longer.”
Only the strongest and most fortunate of the rangers survived, and these were glad to hear of their reprieve. They turned their fleet feet to the west, charging until they came to the first of the ring of platforms that skirted the plain. The enemy soldiers were not far behind.
“Hurry, friends!” Osbert called up, “Let down the ladders: the enemy approaches quickly. Signal the castle at once.”
“Yes, sir,” a ranger lowered his voice as he lowered the rope ladder. The canopy was several hundred feet above the ground with no branches within a hundred and fifty feet from the ground. Nor was it possible to climb the trees, even with spikes or ropes, for the wood was strong and the height too great. There were only a few places, bordering the mountains on the far northeastern side of Atilta, that could be climbed by assiduous exertion. Once up, the forest could be traversed along the branches and the rebels built their Treeway further and further into the forest, until it reached the Western Marches, where it was invincibly high: no one could enter from below without their assistance. So the ladder was lowered and a flaming arrow shot into the plain: the preconcerted signal that the enemy approached by land.
“I will ascend last,” Osbert said, looking anxiously into the forest. “Hurry, for they will be upon us soon.”
The rangers began the ascent, but only two or three could climb at once, lest the ladder break and they fall to their deaths. As the others climbed, Osbert peered into the forest. “What has come of you, my friend?” he whispered to himself. He seemed upon the edge of despair when, from the far left, he saw a rapidly approaching band of rangers. It took them a moment to come up, but Osbert smiled when they did.
“Griffith!” he cried, “I am glad you are well. What has come of your followers?”
“Alas, it is only me and these five. The battle was fierce and some chose to fight rather than come back alive: an obstinate choice, perhaps, but they will have done more than we.”
“The loss of a brother is grief. Go, the officers ascend last,” Osbert motioned to those newly arriving.
Blaine looked warily into the forest, where the soldiers were spewing from the trees in the distance. “If they approach while the ladder is down, we are lost,” Blaine said. “We should retreat to the castle, as there is not enough time for us to ascend without compromising our companions.”
“We should, old friend; yet after this night of battle, I have not the strength for such a sprint.”
The soldiers grew closer. The vanguard was only a hundred yards away.
“Come,” Blaine said, his voice firm, “If we wait longer we are lost: you first.”
Osbert nodded and jumped onto the rope; Blaine followed after he had gone thirty feet. The two climbed with all their strength; yet of that there was little left, and the foremost soldiers reached the ladder before they were halfway up. The ropes creaked and grew too taunt to be easily climbed; the ladder began to swing uneasily about. At length, Osbert reached the platform and rolled onto its safety. He waited only a moment, then took up his bow and turned over the edge to resume his attack on the invaders. Yet what he saw made him cry out in distress.
“Blaine! You must hurry, for they climb faster.”
Blaine Griffith, tired from the night’s work, was still twenty feet from the platform; beneath him the soldiers were growing closer. Their heavy armor added to their weight and it was too much: the ladder seemed ready to snap. At last, his hand reached over the platform and was grasped by Osbert, who held onto it in fear. Just then, the rope ladder snapped and fell to the ground, which clubbed the soldiers to death as they met it. But they were not the only ones.
“Blaine!” Osbert grasped his hand, but his strength gave way, “Blaine! This cannot be!”
There was no answer: only silence from below; then, far below, a muffled thud. Osbert raised his anguished face to the sky. Both were dark with storm.
“Blaine, my friend, what has happened?” he cried. “This war has taken many lives, but now? Now, it has begun in earnest.”
As he spoke, his voice was defeated by the charge of the legions below. They had begun passing into the plain, their way hotly contested by the rebel arrows. With gravity behind them, the arrows broke through to the soldiers’ vitals; but with fate behind them, the soldiers broke through to the plain.
“Let us die together,” Osbert moaned, “And our blood mingle with our enemies’!”
The soldiers below yelled and shouted and did all the things men do to encourage bravery and abandon; but as they ran, their ranks were abandoned, if not brave. A mound of the dead erected itself in a ring around the Treeway. With every moment it became more difficult for those below to pass. Osbert took his bow and sent his arrows off with the last of his strength. His hands began to quake and his arms to shake, his fingers danced in his exertion. He had pushed his strength to its limit in the night and only his iron will held the morning; but now both
