Bridge of Swords (47 page)

‘Crossbows!’ he called, to give himself time to think.

‘We need to make them do something stupid,’ Rhiannon said.

‘You’re right.’ He nodded and they locked eyes, knowing what that meant.

‘Back! Fall back!’ he shouted.

The villagers stopped loosing crossbows, turned and ran. With a roar, the Forlish flooded after them.

Everywhere I went in Dokuzen, there was fresh evidence of things going on that I had not ordered — and that should never be happening.

After the Magic-weaver attack, we had decided to train every one of our people with bow and sword, so they would always stand as a buffer between the Magic-weavers and their ambition to rule. But I saw a people getting ready for war.

And when I spoke to them, I barely recognised them. They had changed — and so quickly that it frightened me. They were not the people I knew, that I cared for. Those I remembered were missing — in their place was ugliness and prejudice. Truly, the name of Dokuzen was coming true.

Sendatsu breathed a sigh of relief that Huw did not try something really foolish, although it left him with a difficult task that could cost the lives of many of his dragons. He waited a few moments, until many of the Forlish were moving, racing after the villagers.

‘Attack!’ Sendatsu waved his sword and raced in, followed by the rest of the dragons, all of them shouting and cheering.

The Forlish closest to him slowed at once, orders were shouted and a shield wall was made to face him.

He knew how dangerous this was. Each of his men needed at least four feet of space around them, so they did not accidentally cut one of their comrades. But the Forlish stood shoulder to
shoulder, their short swords bristling in between the thick wood, needing only half that. If he tried to meet them in a line, each one of his men would be running down a corridor that ended with two men waiting for him in the first rank, another two behind. And good as his dragons were becoming, they were not good enough to beat four Forlish. Only he was. And that seemed to be the answer. Instead of following him in a line, they bunched up close behind him, in more of a wedge shape. Tadd and another squad leader, Bowen, were at his shoulders, the others spreading out from there.

Sendatsu picked his spot, aiming at where a tall warrior stood next to a much shorter man, so their shields were not quite at the same level. He had practised this move a few times with the dragons — this would be the first time for real. But he was not thinking about what could go wrong, about what was happening elsewhere — his total attention was on what he was doing. It was the most valuable lesson he had gained from his father.

He could see the Forlish line bracing for him, the sharp swords eager to cleave his flesh if he made the slightest mistake. The two closest to him had crouched slightly, tilting their shields to throw him off. Perfect. Gathering himself, he leaped high, his foot landing on the shorter man’s shield and driving him down, while allowing Sendatsu to push up and thrust over the top of the taller man’s shield, the blade slicing through tunic and neck, ripping the throat open and sending the dying Forlishman staggering back into his fellows.

Sendatsu landed in the space he had created and cut to his right in the classic thunder-strike stroke. The Forlish had their shields in their left arms, meaning the Forlishman on that side was unprotected and Sendatsu’s sword sliced through tunic and ribs and stomach, sending intestines puddling out. The man’s agonised screaming had only just begun when Sendatsu recovered and slashed back to his left, to where the shorter warrior was just regaining his balance. He had no more time, for Sendatsu scythed the blade around in the tiger-claw stroke, took his head and flipped it over onto the rear ranks, while the rest of the body slowly collapsed, fountaining blood.

The Forlish had seen death and destruction every day but this still gave them a pause — and then Bowen and Tadd were beside Sendatsu, their blades hacking and cutting. Unlike the Forlish, they held the swords two-handed and could change the point of attack in a heartbeat. If a shield was raised the blade cut low, if the shield stayed low then the head was the target. The Forlish to the left and right of the gap Sendatsu had made, now unprotected on one of their sides, instinctively turned to cover themselves. But that only made the line more disrupted, gave the following Velsh dragons more of a chance.

A dozen Forlish went down and every one that died or lay screaming in his own blood made the rest of the line that much weaker.

For a moment Sendatsu thought they might even throw the whole Forlish line into panic — but these warriors had fought too much to give up that easily. The second line held, locking shields and pushing back at the Velsh, trying to get close, to give the dragons no room to use their swords in extravagant blows. The closer they got, the more the advantage swung to the Forlish, with their shields and short swords, which were deadly at close range.

Sendatsu tried to create space by dropping to one knee and sweeping his sword out, slicing into legs. The elven steel cut through flesh and bone; with the Forlish wearing nothing more than woollen trews it was easy to bring down a pair of men, and they would probably never walk again. But, by the time he had stood, more Forlish in the rear ranks had pushed into the gaps. It was time to go, before there was no time at all, he judged.

‘Back!’ he cried, and the dragons responded instantly, as he had told them to, turning and running. He waited but a heartbeat before following them.

The Forlish saw them running and could not stop themselves. They raced after Sendatsu and the dragons, desperate to avenge the losses they had suffered. Sendatsu smiled to himself as he ran. More than fifty of the Forlish were chasing him, rather than taking on Huw and the villagers. Just what he wanted.

Broyle followed the mass of villagers through the wreckage of the inner wall. Ricbert had held off the attack of the elf and his Velsh warriors; now Broyle’s men were chasing the fleeing Velsh. This was all going to plan. A short fight and now the Velsh were running — just like everyone who tried to face the Forlish ran.

Huw looked back and almost quailed to see the mass of Forlish boil over the inner wall and race into the village. There were more than a hundred of them — and he could expect no help from Sendatsu for some time. But they had talked about this — it was the only way.

‘Hold at the barricade!’ Huw called as the villagers ran back among the first huts.

Getting everyone to stop, to get past the instinct to keep running was hard but two things helped — first there was nowhere to really run to, secondly the barricade they had built forced men to come to a halt.

‘Wait for them!’ Huw shouted, which was easier said than done.

Once among the huts, there were only glimpses of the pursuing Forlish and having to hold there was hugely difficult. Huw could sense the fear among the villagers — he was terrified himself. He gripped his crossbow tight and knew he should say something, but did not trust his voice.

‘Steady! Wait for them!’ Rhiannon called and he looked up at her gratefully.

Moments later the Forlish rushed into view, the fastest of them having drawn ahead of their fellows while the two dozen carrying crossbow bolts in their legs limped, further back.

Huw did not even need to say anything — as soon as the first Forlishman raced into sight, every man with an elven crossbow loosed bolts — and kept going, triggering their weapon time and time again.

The lead Forlish were engulfed in a cloud of bolts and collapsed, struck on all sides, from all directions by the wicked
little bolts. Men ran forwards, holding up their shields in forlorn hope, only to shudder and stumble as the bolts struck. Onwards they came, some of them almost to the feet of the villagers, but each strike made them jerk and shout, until they finally fell, twitching, some of them pierced in more than a dozen places.

For a few moments Huw dared to hope they could hold the Forlish off like this — but more were attacking all the time, and these came in a thicker mass, able to link shields and use them to make it across the dead ground and the dead bodies littering it to where the villagers waited. In moments, there was fighting across the line and Velsh threw down crossbows to draw swords to protect themselves. And every crossbow that hit the ground meant fewer bolts reaching out, making it easier for the Forlish to come to grips with the Velsh.

Glyn gripped his sword tight as a howling Forlishman raced at him. He had worked his crossbow like a demon, only to see the last of his bolts wasted on the shields many of these Forlish carried. He had practised with this sword every day for the past moon, after the elf Sendatsu had taught them all a handful of basic strokes. It was a polished piece of metal the length of his forearm and he had spent a turn of the hourglass sharpening it last night. He wanted to run but had nowhere to run to — and no way of protecting his family if he did not stand now. He looked at the sword and knew he had to steel himself. The first time the Forlish had come to his village he had stayed in his hut, listened in terror to the shouts and cries as friends were killed and dragged off, while his wife and children wailed around him. He tried to use that memory now to make himself stand. The fear was thick in his belly and his legs seemed frozen but he made himself step forwards to meet the charge. Move your feet, keep them light, he told himself, following the things Sendatsu had taught them. Shouting something, a wordless cry, he slashed furiously at the Forlishman’s sword arm. The blade bit deep, grating on bone, and he heard the man’s bellow of pain. A feeble lunge came back, aimed at Glyn’s eyes, but he swung the blade in a high block, flicking blood onto himself. Ignoring that
he moved smoothly into position, his body remembering what he had learned, then cut down at the neck. This one also bit deep and he saw the Forlishman’s eyes open wide in horror as his lifeblood spurted out. The man had a rough beard and cruel eyes but Glyn could only see pain and fear in them now. Choking, the Forlishman fell and lay writhing. Glyn did not know whether to finish him off or leave him there. He even had the urge to help the man try to staunch the wounds he had inflicted. But a shout from his left told him there was no time. Swinging around, he parried a blow without thinking, his hand ringing from the force. He brought the blade up in time to deflect another slash but then a young dragon came to his aid, driving his sword deep into the Forlishman’s side.

Breathing hard, Glyn gripped his sword again and faced the Forlish, the fear thick within him. But he could not go, he could not let his family down, his village down. Not again.

Huw watched as a Forlishman ran at him, sword drawn back for the death blow. He loosed twice, seeing them wasted in the Forlish shield, and dropped the bow to fumble desperately for his sword, knowing he did not stand a chance.

‘Face me!’ Cadel leaped in front of him, sword held in both hands.

‘Prepare to die, boy!’ the Forlishman roared. He was six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Cadel was just as tall but he was slim where the Forlishman was solid, his legs were scarce as thick as the Forlishman’s arms. But he was fast — Huw had seen him in action.

The Forlishman swung his sword in a massive cut that Huw knew he could never have hoped to block. But Cadel threw up his own sword almost nonchalantly, deflecting the blow over his shoulder, then he went on the attack, raining blows at the Forlishman, using the cross and figure-eight styles Sendatsu had taught him.

The Forlishman blocked one with shield, the second with his sword, then they came too fast for him. One sliced open his ribs, the next his shoulder then, as his shield dropped, the last took his head.

‘Stay behind me!’ Cadel told Huw, who nodded vigorously.

The Forlishmen seemed to be clustering around Huw now, perhaps sensing he was the leader, and Cadel’s squad fought furiously to protect the bard. Huw watched, feeling both delighted and useless as the young dragons worked as one, their superior skills too much for the Forlish to break.

Feeling safe now, as Cadel’s bloodied sword ripped apart the last Forlishman near him, Huw glanced around quickly. Men fought over the dead, slipping and sliding on blood and shit and entrails. Wounded screamed as their wounds were stepped on, as their lifeblood pumped into the ground. Forlish stabbed and swung at the Velsh, who tried to match their speed and new-found skills against the implacable Forlish advance. The villagers fought grimly, knowing it was not just their lives but the lives of their families at stake here. The men who had hidden from a handful of Forlish just a few months ago, when Huw’s father had been cut down, now stood toe to toe, swinging unfamiliar weapons and refusing to back down.

He glanced to his left and saw a Forlishman writhing on a hunting spear, the heavy iron head sticking out between his shoulder blades. To his right the village tanner was whirling a long hoe around his head, while a Forlishman reeled away, his eyes lost to the rusting iron blade, his face a mask of blood. But, to either side, other Velsh struggled desperately, or lay screaming in puddles of gore and brains. The smell was revolting, the sounds horrifying. They could not last.

‘Over the barricade!’ Huw bellowed.

It was the last refuge, their last hope. Several villagers were caught and hacked down as they turned to escape but most tumbled over the low barricade and then began thrusting swords and spears and hoes at the following Forlish.

‘Rhiannon!’ Huw shouted with all his might.

In answer, she stood.

She and many of the women were on the roofs of the huts that weaved in and out of the barricade — and all of them had elven crossbows in their hands. They worked the weapons furiously,
sending down a new rain of bolts. Attacked from in front and above, the Forlish were easy targets and a dozen fell in the first few moments.

But the Forlish were grim opponents, used to victory. Some began to pull apart the barricade to reach the men, while others scrambled up onto the low roofs to attack the women, seeking an easier target.

A pair chose the hut Rhiannon and half a dozen other women were using.

‘Get them!’ She pointed and they converged their aim on the two Forlish as they tried to clamber up the roof, which bowed under their weight. One of them was struck repeatedly by bolts but the second kept coming, a bolt jutting from his upper arm and a bloodied sword in his hand. The women began looking backwards, to the dubious safety of the ground and the huts beyond, but Rhiannon knew they could not leave. Let one Forlish through here and a dozen could follow — and the children were in the huts behind. She loosed her last pair of bolts but one missed and the second, while striking his chest, did not seem to slow him. Rhiannon dropped her crossbow and leaped at him, kicking out as if she was performing a dance. Her leather shoe slammed into the side of his head and tumbled him over backwards and off the roof. She landed awkwardly on the thatch and nearly followed him off the roof, while the rafters groaned under the weight of her fall. She clung to the roof for a long moment before scrambling back up to the top. She accepted her crossbow back and loaded it with shaking hands.