Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (28 page)

“Perfectly, my Duke.”

“Now, Captain Roemer. Take your force in for a
frontal charge, but at the last, wheel around and take them in
their left flank. I would like to see how quickly they can move
their formation.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was the exact strategy Franco had himself been
considering. Of course he would never have presumed to say anything
unless the Duke had asked for his input. The front of the hill was
too steep for a cavalry charge, but the approach to the rebel’s
left flank was much less so.

“Landenberg. You will follow after Captain Roemer
has crested the hill, and attack directly from the front. That
should scatter them to the winds.”

“Yes, my lord!”

It was a good plan. Franco was beginning to grow a
healthy respect for Leopold’s war skills. Perhaps he deserved the
nickname people were calling him recently: the Sword of the
Habsburgs.

“Today, gentlemen, we will teach these rebels what
it means to defy God’s Divine Order!”

Landenberg drew his sword and cheered. Other knights
close enough to hear Leopold also let out some shouts and raised
their weapons.

It was a good plan, Franco thought again. But as he
stared back at the hill and saw the Hospitallers in their blood-red
war tunics, he did not feel much like cheering.

***

Seven men wide. Seven men Deep. To bide time, the
square must hold.

Thomas watched the Sturmritter, perched atop their
huge war horses, pull away from the vanguard. They came to a
complete halt on open ground and remained motionless, like statues
carved from mountains. Then, with their lances pointed straight up,
they eased their mounts forward into a walk. Their timing and
rhythm were impeccable; their movements exact copies of one
another. Even the tall, blue feathers that crested each man’s
helmet seemed to sway in the wind to the same beat.

Thomas thanked God above that his forces commanded
the high ground. Even still, it was intimidating to see such a
perfect formation. A quick look at the men’s faces around him, and
Thomas knew his side was on the verge of losing this battle before
it ever began.

He stepped out from the square and turned his back
on the knights preparing to charge, and addressed his men.

“They are peacocks,” he shouted. “Peacocks on
horses, nothing more. They ride a fine show, but they cannot top
this hill without their mounts stumbling. And once they do, their
lances will be useless, and those plumed heads will be well within
range of our axes.”

He hefted Pirmin’s ax into the air, and heard Urs
let out a guttural holler. Max banged the flat of his sword against
his own long-handled ax. They were used to these pre-battle pep
talks. They knew the value of making noise to summon the battle
furies and subdue fear. Fear that would otherwise rise up and
consume even the bravest of men.

Anton whooped and other voices joined in.

Behind him, Thomas imagined the Sturmritter pushing
their destriers into a trot. He did not look back.

“Those peacocks have come into our lands uninvited.
Unwanted. And make no mistake, they mean to harm you and
yours.”

Thomas had to pause to let their shouts die
down.

“Once they have killed you and me, they will march
on Schwyz. After they have slaughtered your animals, burned down
your homes, and raped your women, they will enslave anyone who
manages to escape the initial butchering. Will you allow that?”

The men howled in outrage.

“Was any man here born to be a slave? Are you the
fathers of slaves?”

“No!” Thomas clearly heard Sutter’s voice over all
others. Men slung the foulest of insults at the army before them,
and screamed their defiance.

Thomas felt the ground shake with the approach of a
hundred war horses. Still, he did not look back.

“I ask you again, because today you have a choice.
Whereas tomorrow, you will not. Will you allow this?”

“NO!” The answer came as one deafening shout, as
united as the Sturmritters’ charge.

Thomas held up Pirmin’s ax again and shouted, “And
neither will I! God have mercy on their souls!”

The men went wild and waved their own weapons high
in the air. Thomas turned in time to see the Sturmritter break into
a gallop. They couched their lances, and as one, slowly lowered the
deadly points until they were horizontal with the ground. Each
man’s knee brushed against the man’s next to him. It was a perfect
conroi
in the making.

Thomas felt the earth tremble at his feet.

Erich sat with his legs dangling over the edge of a
small rock bluff. High above the Confederate army’s position, he
had a perfect view of the battlefield, so long as the clouds did
not get any lower. Boots scraping on stone made him turn, and he
saw the bald head of Reto push through the trees. He stopped well
back from the cliff’s edge, but tried to lean forward to get a
better view.

That was the problem with men such as Reto, Erich
thought. He wanted everything, but was willing to risk almost
nothing to get it.

“Are the men in position?” Erich asked, turning back
to the world far below.

“They are.” Reto tipped a wineskin to his lips,
swished the liquid around in his mouth, and then spit it onto the
rocky ground to Erich’s left. It stained the rocks there a rusty
red. “But some of the men are grumbling. Been asking when they will
get paid.”

Erich pulled one leg up from the overhang and turned
to look at Reto.

“You mean
you
have been wondering,” he said.
“Most of them have been with me long enough to know the answer to
that question.”

Reto took another drink as he stared back at Erich.
“All right, then. I will not deny that. But I know I am not the
only one.”

“You will get your pay, along with everyone else.
And the second you do, I want you gone.”

“Some of the men might want to come with me,” Reto
said.

“You are welcome to any who do,” Erich said.

He turned away and dropped his leg back over the
ledge. As he did so, a fist-sized rock tumbled off into the abyss.
He watched its long, silent descent until it disappeared from
sight, and then Erich pushed himself to his feet. He stood there
for a moment, with the tips of his boots hanging over the void, and
watched as Leopold’s cavalry began their charge.

It was time, he thought. Time to risk
everything.

***

As per Leopold’s command, Franco led his men
thundering straight at the hill. The men on top formed into a tight
square and braced themselves for a head on attack that would never
happen.

Franco raised his lance, pulled his destrier in a
tight, right hand turn and galloped toward the enemy’s left,
curious about what he would see waiting for him behind the hill.
Sure enough, as his mount started powering up the gentle slope to
the side of the hill, a loosely formed mob of rebels appeared
before him. They milled about, and seemed surprised to see the
knights bearing down on them from this direction.

He released his reins and, guiding his horse with
only his knees, pointed at the group on low ground. They would have
to take this group first, and then climb the hill for the second.
He shouted the command to change targets and, like a great flock of
migrating birds, the Sturmritter adjusted their course without a
single falter in the warhorses’ strides.

“Lances!” Franco commanded. The knights’ weapons
came down once again, their iron-tipped points aimed straight
ahead. The small group of rebels, who only seconds before appeared
to be on the verge of fleeing, formed up into a square with what
looked like short spears held before them.

The maneuver bothered Franco on some instinctual
level. He remembered the Hospitaller, and his beautiful, but poorly
trained mount. Why would a man ride a horse into battle that he
could not control? Especially, a man trained by the Knights of
Saint John. Some of the greatest horsemen in the world had come
from their ranks.

The answer, of course, was he would not.

Franco reached up his hand and threw open his helmet
visor.

It had been a diversion. The Hospitaller was drawing
all eyes to him, because there was something he did not want Franco
to see.

The men hiding behind the hill, perhaps?

The warhorses of the Sturmritter bore down on the
rebels at full speed, their hooves tearing up great divots of the
soft, grass-covered ground. The enemies’ faces began to take shape.
Franco flipped his visor back down. Impact was seconds away. Only
thirty yards of grass separated the Sturmritter from their
targets.

Thirty yards of grass that did not stand?

It was cut, and as Franco stared at it, very wet. As
though brought there from somewhere else….

“Bog!”

Franco drove his legs back, commanding his horse to
stop, but the animal’s blood was up. It was bred for war, and once
at full charge, stopping was the last thing on its mind. Desperate,
Franco grabbed the reins and yanked on them, pulling his mount’s
chin to its chest. He slowed, but not much.

Several knights shot past Franco, and as soon as
their horses’ front legs sank into the mud, he heard a series of
sickening cracks and whinnies of terror shot through with pain. The
momentum of their mounts’ rear ends carried them forward and over,
spilling riders and horses everywhere. Packed so tightly together,
there was little the knights following could do but trample their
comrades, or try to leap from their saddles.

Franco fought to stay seated and save his horse from
breaking its legs as it sloshed through three-foot-deep mud and
over slippery rocks. He thought he was going to make it to solid
ground, when an out of control knight speared his lance deep into
his horse’s flank. The horse fell, and rolled, with Franco still in
the saddle.

He lay there thinking he should get up, but the mud
was warm, comfortable, and a great weight was on his leg. He felt
quite content to remain where he was.

Until he heard a scream. And another.

He turned his head toward the sound, just in time to
see a peasant swing a long, heavy ax into the head of one of his
men as he attempted to stand.

Unlike the others, no scream came from his lips.

***

Thomas watched from the top of the hill as Noll’s
square charged the disoriented Sturmritter as they attempted to
free themselves from the wetland marsh. Several were already on a
firm piece of ground, and one of them blew a horn, summoning them
all to that spot. They were recovering much faster than Thomas had
anticipated. If enough of them managed to regroup, Noll would be in
trouble. Thomas hated to give up the high ground so early in the
battle, but the Sturmritter were far from finished.

“Square, left face!” Thomas shouted.

Every one of the forty-nine men lifted his ax to
point at the sky and then pivoted to the left.

“Forward, slow.”

As they began to walk, the first row lowered their
axes to stomach height and the next row, slightly staggered from
the row in front, aimed theirs slightly higher. The rest kept them
pointed up.

“Three man front!”

The last three rows of seven men broke away from the
square and ran to form a new front line beside the first. Thomas
checked to make sure the line was straight, then he tightened his
grip on Pirmin’s ax.

“Forward. Full!”

Every single man let out a loud battle cry and the
formation charged down the hill. They crashed into the knights,
driving them back onto the marshy ground where their heavy armor
became more hindrance than help.

Thomas pulled one of the few knights still mounted
out of his saddle with the hook on the back of his ax and then
speared him through the eye slits. He saw Sutter and one of the
Rubin boys bring down another knight in a similar fashion. To his
left, Urs exchanged blows with a knight covered in mud, but Thomas
had to look away to bring his ax down onto a knight’s arm as he
attempted to crawl out of the marsh. Pirmin’s ax slid into his
armor’s elbow joint and removed it cleaner than a surgeon’s
cleaver. He staggered back, screaming. A crossbow bolt appeared in
his eye and he fell over. Thomas looked for Urs again. He was gone,
but a dead Austrian knight lay on the ground.

The screams became fewer, the sense of movement
less. Men from Noll’s square appeared, and Thomas knew the
Sturmritter would not ride again. The thought saddened him, but
that did not stop him from bringing Pirmin’s ax down upon another
one’s head as he tried to crawl away.

His feet felt wet. Thomas thought he might be
standing in blood, but when he looked down the earth was hidden by
a thickening layer of mist.

Then it started to rain.

***

Leopold’s anticipation changed to confusion when he
watched the Sturmritter go down. Then horror took over as he
watched the two small squares of Schwyzers charge. A mist hugged
the ground where they were, and blotted out some of the action, but
the wind carried the screams of horses and men to his ears, leaving
little doubt as to what was happening.

The Sturmritter, the finest knights in the known
world, were being slaughtered to the man.

“God have mercy,” Landenberg said.

Leopold turned on him. “Why are you still here?”

Landenberg did not seem to hear Leopold. He could
not tear his eyes away from the axes rising and falling in the
distance.

“Landenberg!”

“I, uh, I was waiting for Franco to appear on the
hill. Only, he… never did.”

“Get as many cavalry to the front as you can. We
will hit them in the open, before they can climb back onto that
hill.”

Landenberg shook his head, his eyes still locked on
the dying men in the distance. A riderless Sturmritter warhorse,
its eyes wide and nostrils flared, trotted past him looking for a
new herd.