The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (22 page)

The Templar Position, Muscigny Estate

Arnold of Torroja stared confusedly down from the rise above the north-west wall of the Muscigny estate. Around him, his soldiers were deploying to battle positions. Infantrymen sprinted along the front of his well-built white charger to take up their positions in their square formations.

White Templar banners waved bravely in the early morning breeze as men and horses dashed to their pre-arranged positions. And, but for the strange array of what looked like horseless wagons in front of the low wall, Arnold could easily have imagined that it was an early morning exercise somewhere in France. But, something about the strange soldiers in black uniforms and helmets that scampered and darted around the position opposite disturbed Arnold. There were just too few of them. By a rough and ready calculation, Arnold speculated that there were no more than three hundred of the strange soldiers. Surely, no one in their right mind would dare to challenge twenty-thousand heavily armed and battle-hardened Templars with three hundred soldiers. The two thousand heavy knights alone would outnumber them over six to one. It was madness, Arnold considered. But, it was that very madness than made Arnold feel uneasy.

This little black-clad contingent was established right across the road that led to Jerusalem. It would be very easy just to sweep them aside and march straight on down the road. Yet, a flag of truce was flying, and the conventions of war dictated to even Arnold of Torroja that he had to listen to whatever the defenders of this place had to say. And, it was all taking up precious time, Arnold considered. Since Amalric had handed over the better part of thirty thousand men to Baldwin, Arnold’s only chance of retrieving some success from this venture was to get inside the city of Jerusalem and slam the gates in the leper King’s face. There was very little time left now, Arnold considered. Baldwin would be chasing shadows down on the coast, whilst Arnold had to get his Templars into the city before the King worked out that he had been duped.

“A flag of truce Grand Commander?” Arnold’s Aide-de-Campe, De Lancy, asked as he drew up on his own charger.

“It would appear so, Brother De Lancy.”

“Do we honour it, Grand Commander?”

“Do we have a choice, Brother?”

“Well, the rules of war demand…”

“The tedious rules of war and all this chivalric nonsense require that we go and listen to whatever rubbish these idiots have to say to us.”

“You’re not seriously going to parley with them are you, Grand Commander?”

“Don’t be stupid, Brother, we listen, dismiss them, send them down to the Devil, and then we march straight for the Holy City.”

“Very good, Grand Commander, do you wish to talk to them, or will I send one of the division commanders?”

“Oh, I want to see who their leader is to stand three hundred against twenty-thousand. Fetch my bodyguard, and start arraying the knights and archers behind the rise. I don’t want to spend too much time here.”

“As you command, Grand Commander,” De Lancy replied, and set his spurs to his horse’s flanks before bolting away to do his master’s bidding.

Settling his own highly-strung horse, Arnold of Torroja watched the black-clad defenders of Muscigny scampering behind the low wall, and felt the uneasy sensation settle onto him. With a brief shrug, Arnold turned his charger away from the expected battleground and began to trot back through the men scrambling to their positions.

He expected that a brief cavalry action would see the Templar force in Jerusalem by nightfall. And, Arnold of Torroja had never seen the Holy City.

“Dinner in Jerusalem,” he muttered, and trotted off to find his bodyguards.

The Landing Trooper Position, Muscigny

“Flag of truce approaching, sir!” the sentry called out from the Pulsar Gunner’s turret of the Personnel Carrier.

Standing up from his position behind the low-wall, Billy Caudwell scrutinised the figures on horseback who trotted purposefully down the slope of the rise. With a quick glance, Billy counted ten horsemen in two files; the leading two better dressed than the others.

“Well then, Officer Garn,” Billy said determinedly to the Landing Trooper next to him, “let’s go and hear what they have to say for themselves, and bring the Grand Master.”

“Do we put on a show of strength, sir?”

“Oh, I think we will.”

Raising the field-viewers to his eyes, Billy watched the numerals dance along the top of the image as he scanned the top of the rise. Large numbers of men were forming lines along the crest as they took up battle positions. The red and white Templar banners barely stirred in the feeble morning breeze as Billy tried to identify the function of each block of men. Large, heavy wooden shields in five offset lines, supported by curious ‘X’ shaped structures, indicated archers. The big shields were used by the bowmen to protect them from enemy arrows as they loosed their own flights. Three bowmen congregated behind each shield, making Billy’s calculation of the size of the archery contingent relatively simple. The Templars had brought three and a half thousand bowmen to Muscigny, outnumbering Billy’s entire force almost ten to one.

Behind the bowmen, blocks of infantry were forming up. These were the shield and spear men tasked with protecting the bowmen from any surprise attack. They were the expendables of the Templar formation. These expendables were in place simply to buy time for reinforcements to be brought up from the safety of behind the rise when needed. The Templar commander would be forming the bulk of his infantry and his cavalry behind the rise to keep them out of enemy bow shot. No point in leaving your entire force exposed for enemy archers to pick off at leisure and deplete your fighting potential.

From another rough and ready calculation, Billy speculated that there were probably in the region of two thousand expendables. So far, the Templar commander had shown him around five thousand men; about a quarter of his force. But, still no cavalry, Billy considered. The armoured knights on the heavy chargers carrying the long lances were the shock troops of the battlefield. Wherever they were arrayed was where the Templars were going to attack.

Scanning along the rest of the rise, Billy’ attention was caught by the flicker of white that indicated the flag of truce being carried by an armoured horseman. This would be the leader, Billy considered, as he focussed the field-viewers on the group of horsemen trotting towards his position.

He recognised the figure almost immediately from the pristinely clean surcoat and his manner. The figure sat astride the horse with an almost arrogant self-confidence, whilst the figure to his right leaned in towards him as if to hear instructions. Billy tried to get a closer look at the face of the figure. Unfortunately, the chain mail headgear combined with the nose and cheek-pieces of the helmet obscured most of the facial features.

Still watching the figure, Billy found it difficult to hate the individual despite his appalling plans. The part of his mind that was now a professional soldier knew that hatred was a redundant emotion that clogged up his mind when it needed to be icy calm and razor sharp. After all, it was an era where human life was still cheap if you were not one of the ruling classes, Billy considered. And, that was the danger of the situation. This individual would have no qualms about sacrificing thousands of lives for his own ends.

Lowering the field-viewers, Billy Caudwell knew what it was like to send people into combat, and to their deaths. But, Billy convinced himself, it had always been necessary. There had always been a legitimate reason, Billy argued. Or, at least, it was a reason he considered legitimate. Could this figure on horseback also believe he had a legitimate reason to sacrifice thousands of lives?

“Sir, we’re ready to go,” Garn said.

Turning his attention to the Personnel Carrier that hovered less than a metre from the ground, Billy saw Garn, six Landing troopers, and Grand Master of Saint Armand in the well of the vehicle.

“Grand Master,” Billy acknowledged the Templar, who sat resplendent in a dazzling white surcoat and bright chain mail on the long bench seat.

“Admiral,” the subdued Templar responded politely as the Personnel Carrier zipped off to meet the approaching horsemen in a great whine of anti-gravity generator.

It took only seconds for the Personnel Carrier to reach the advancing horsemen and draw them to a halt.

The lead Templar held up his right hand to halt his own contingent as the Personnel Carrier slowly turned to present its flank to the Templars. Tapping the pilot’s shoulder, the Carrier rose another metre from the ground, ensuring that Billy was looking down upon his adversary as he stood up in the well of the vehicle. Keep them off balance, the memories and experience of Teg Portan; the dead Garmaurian First Admiral, gently flowed through Billy’s mind. The object of the exercise was to frighten and intimidate, Billy reminded himself. If he could possibly avoid it, there would be no slaughter of Templars, or anyone else for that matter, on this day.

“Well, Brother Arnold,” the Templar Grand Master opened the proceedings from the well of the Personnel Carrier, “you seem to have gone up in the world in my absence?”

“Grand Master!?” the horseman on Arnold of Torroja’s right blurted in astonishment as he recognised Odo de Saint Armand.

Good start, Billy considered as he noted the shock on the faces of the two leading Templars. Keep them off balance, Teg Portan’s memories came to the fore.

“Brother Jean,” Odo replied to the leader’s right hand man, “you really must keep better company. So, what is this all about Brother Arnold, why are the Brethren here in such numbers?”

“The Order no longer answers to you, Brother Odo.”

Listening carefully, Billy heard the unmistakable stress in Arnold’s voice. The one called Jean was already badly shaken and indecisive. If Arnold was equally shaken, Billy knew that the confrontation would end here and now.

“No, Brother Arnold, the Order no longer answers to me when God chooses to take the life from my body.”

“To us, you are already dead, since you have treated with the Infidel.”

“Once again Brother Arnold, you are wrong. I am still alive and I am still, therefore, Grand Master.”

“Then, I do not recognise you as such, Brother Odo.”

“The rule of the Order is…” Odo snapped viciously.

“The rule of the Order is that we do not treat with the Infidel!”

“I did not treat with the Infidel, the Admiral here exchanged me.”

“You treated with an Outlander for your freedom?” Arnold of Torroja sneered.

“Outlanders are not Infidels, Brother Arnold, now, answer my question!”

“I do not recognise you as Grand Master, Odo de Saint Armand, you died the day you surrendered to the Infidels.”

“No, Arnold, I live and I breathe, and as Grand Master, I demand…”

“You demand nothing!” Arnold snapped viciously in reply.

“Yes, I demand, Arnold! And, if you do not show me proper respect, you and all of your cohorts will be expelled from the Order, and that means instant excommunication!”

For a moment, Arnold stared with pure hatred at the Grand Master who should have been rotting in a Saracen dungeon. The threat of excommunication was a severe sanction for any Christian, and Arnold was on shaky ground. The Pope’s ‘Blessing’ for the Jerusalem undertaking was little more than a quiet understanding with no formal Papal authority behind it. To stand against an elected Grand Master was a violation of the sacred oath of the Order, which had serious consequences both in this life and the next. But, having come this far, Arnold as not about to give up his ambitions just yet.

“Demand all you want, Brother Odo, you have no authority here!”

“I have all the authority here, Brother Arnold, you have defied the Grand Master and broken your oath to God, I hereby cast you and your followers out of the Order.”

“Pah! Brave words from a fool,” Arnold sneered as Jean, at Arnold’s side, crossed himself nervously. “You have barely three hundred against twenty-thousand, Brother Odo. You can demand as much respect as you want from the Devil himself in a short while!”

“Choose your words carefully, Arnold of Torroja...”

“Or what, Brother Odo? We are outcasts from the Order now, according to you, your words cannot harm us.”

“Very well, upon your own head be it. My Lord Admiral, I have done as you asked. I can do no me,” he bowed politely and resumed his seat on the Personnel Carrier’s bench.

“Well, My Lord Admiral?” Arnold turned quickly to Billy. “And what words do you have to frighten us with?”

“No words, Brother Arnold,” Billy smiled softly and raised his right arm as he issued the thought-command via his PES to the WATO aboard the Aquarius.

Talk was cheap with men like Arnold of Torroja, the part of Billy’s mind that was Teg Portan understood. Getting Arnold’s attention was going to require something a bit more direct.

And, to the point.

Strike Eagles 1 & 2, Above Muscigny

“Strike Eagles One and Two,” the voice of the WATO broke into the Comms Net., “Strike, Strike, Strike!” the order was issued.

The pilots aboard the two wedge-shaped Eagles fighters stationed nearly five kilometres above the confrontation at Muscigny were given the order to make their attack runs.

“Confirming order, Strike Commander,” the lead pilot, swathed in flight suit, helmet, mask, and visor responded calmly into the communications network, and then changed the channel to the Flight Intercom. “You heard the order, let’s tear up some turf down there,” he ordered his companion.

Renthar Suppac was an experienced Eagle pilot; seasoned by many pre-Alliance campaigns on the Ganthoran frontier. His specialty of ground–support work during those years had become invaluable in keeping the numerically superior Ganthorans away from front line positions of his own forces. Now, those skills were about to be tested to the extreme. First Admiral Caudwell had ordered one single attack run that he hoped would put an end to the marauding Templars’ ambitions in one fell swoop.

“Weapons are activated,” Renthar announced into the Intercomm to his sharp-eyed Thexxian wingman.

Harthus Sullianen was one of those quiet, yet tenaciously-professional fliers that Renthar liked having on his wing. There was no extravagance or showmanship with Sullianen, which contrasted to the outgoing and brash Suppac. Yet, despite being almost polar opposites in terms of personality, the two pilots seemed to have an almost psychic understanding of each other’s thoughts and intentions.

“Acknowledged.”

With the acknowledgement, Renthar knew that the six low-yield pulsar-cannon that were housed three on each side of the Eagles bubble canopy would be fully primed and ready for action. Similarly, the six pulsar-cannon on Renthar’s craft were also ready for action. Firing five low-yield pulsar-bolts per second, the wedge-shaped Eagle, with the huge twin tail fins, could deliver a devastating blanket of weapons fire against both in-flight and ground-based targets.

“Commencing strike.”

Smoothly, with the gentlest of touches on the Guidance Control, Renthar banked the clumsy and ungainly-looking Eagle craft to his left, and began the steep dive of his attack run. The single Thrust Engine of the pale-blue Alliance Eagle roared throatily as Renthar ran the middle and fourth fingers of his left hand to the right on the circular Acceleration Plate that stood on his Control Panel.

The coloured lights shifting from blues to reds as his fingers moved indicated that the Eagle fighter was placing a greater demand for speed on the Thrust Engine. With his gloved right hand, Renthar gently pressed forward on the tilting-table domed Guidance Control. The forward and downward pressure on the Guidance Control instructed the on-board Guidance Computers to regulate the flow of power to the Thrust Engine and the orientation of the huge twin tail fins that made the Eagle so wonderfully manoeuvrable.

Glancing to his right, Renthar saw that Sullianen’s Eagle was holding his tight formation pattern with his leader as they both hurtled at breakneck speed towards the ground. With a vicious smile behind his mirrored visor, Renthar knew that this would be a perfect attack. Ground Support pilots dreamed of such an opportunity to lay down fire on a defenceless enemy where no fighters or ground defence fire could impede or distract the pilot. And, as the Eagle picked up more speed for the attack, Renthar saw his enemy for the first time.

The Templar formation was arranged on the crest of the rise around one hundred and fifty metres from the northern wall of the Muscigny estate. Like any good, well-trained Ground Support pilot, Renthar was able to take in the enemy’s dispositions rapidly; to be able to evaluate where his weapons strike would do the most harm to the opposition. In the heat of high-speed battle, Alliance Flight Commanders had a degree of autonomy as to where their attacks should go in. This mission was, however, very different. The First Admiral had given clear and strict instructions to be followed to the absolute letter. And, Renthar Suppac had no intention of disobeying an order from so high up the chain of command.

Catching sight of the situation on the ground, Suppac’s attention swept from left to right across the terrain. On the extreme left, the wall of the Muscigny estate was split by the main road to Jerusalem. The flimsy looking barricade of Personnel Carriers that fronted the wall seemed so inadequate in Suppac’s mind. The black clad figures scampering over the vehicles like tiny insects reinforced the pilot’s opinion. About fifty metres from the Landing trooper position, Suppac saw the cluster of horsemen around the single Personnel Carrier where the First Admiral would be negotiating. And, judging by the distance between the First Admiral’s group and the enemy front line, Suppac knew that he would have to be careful where he laid down his weapons fire. Killing the First Admiral was not going to enhance his promotion prospects. The group of horsemen around the First Admiral’s Carrier looked to be about twenty men strong. Fortunately, they were in a tight formation close to what appeared to be their leader.

On the rise behind the negotiating group, Suppac saw the full array of the Templar forces set out in their battle positions. The long row of archers and their strange shields waited in front of the expendables. Meanwhile, on the reverse side of the slope, large block formations of infantry waited behind three lines of heavy cavalry. It was a big, fat juicy target that Suppac knew that he simply could not miss.

Turning the middle and fourth finger of his left hand through the full circle on the Acceleration Plate, Suppac demanded full speed from the Thrust Engine. The dull roar of the engine sharpened to a shrill whine as the Eagle fighter plummeted towards the ground. There was no turning back now Suppac knew, and readied his finger on the yellow and black weapons firing button that stood on the left side of the tilting-table Guidance Control.

On the ground, beneath the two diving Eagles, Billy Caudwell lowered his hand and smiled softly at the increasingly confused Templar Grand Commander. The shrill whine of the Eagles was just becoming audible to Arnold of Torroja, who stared in sheer consternation at the two dark shapes that seemed to be falling very rapidly from the sky.

“What is the meaning…” Arnold of Torroja began to question as his horse wickered and shuffled anxiously beneath him.

Arnold of Torroja was never able to complete the question as Renthar Suppac pushed the heel of his right hand down onto the tilting-table Guidance Control. At the same instant, he jabbed his thumb onto the black and yellow trigger mechanism and let fly with the full potential of the six pulsar-cannon lodged on either side of his bubble canopy. A heartbeat later, all six pulsar-cannon blasted five low-yield pulsar-bolts every second at the target outlined to Suppac. The Eagle, speeding towards the ground, reared up into level flight just an instant before it crashed, and began to lay down fire on the target.

With a loud triumphant yell, Renthar Suppac let fly with thirty pulsar-bolts per second at the front slope of the rise between First Admiral Caudwell’s negotiating group and the Templar front line. The white-hot, speeding pulsar-bolts seared into the dusty and dry ground, tearing the gentle slope of the rise to an exploding, convulsing and burning maelstrom of destruction. Flames and great spumes of dirt and debris were thrown metres into the air, cascading down onto the terrified Templar archers and expendables who ran and dived for cover from the nightmare that struck from the sky.

And, as Renthar Supac yelled with triumph, the calmer and more restrained Sullianen followed his leader and opened fire. With the additional fire support, the rapidly advancing cascade of destruction that tore across the front of the rise was magnified. The weapons fire from the two Eagles tore great gouges and craters from the ground on the gentle slope, which disappeared in a great seething cauldron of fire and destruction.

Up on the rise, terrified Templars scattered like chaff in the wind as they tried to escape the savage exploding horror from the skies. Some archers tried to hide behind the large wooden shields, many of which were blown over by the concussion from the pulsar-bolt strikes, or were dashed aside by the great cascades of falling dirt and debris. The rest tried to run over the crest of the rise and down the back slope to safety. The waiting horsemen, many trying to calm their alarmed animals, began to beat the fleeing archers and expendables back into line with the flat of their swords. Despite the initial shock, the Templars were able to restore a brutal form of discipline to their ranks very quickly.

With the two Eagles still tearing up the terrain, Billy watched calmly as the Templar commander’s bodyguard scattered in panic, trying to control their frightened horses. The rearing, bucking animals screamed in terror as the landscape behind them disappeared in a huge boiling eruption of flames and deafening explosions. Even the most experienced of horsemen found staying in their saddles to be a monumental challenge, with several of the knights thrown to the ground.

Panic-stricken, loose horses fled in every direction with the single objective of getting as far away from the place as possible. Those knights flung to the ground quickly found themselves dodging the flailing hooves of terrified animals in a melee of terror.

However, as quickly as the two Eagles appeared and tore up the ground, the two fighters were gone. Having delivered sixty pulsar-bolts per second across the entire slope of the rise in front of the Templar positions, Suppac and Sullianen pulled their fighter craft into a steep climb as they soared back up into the heavens, their job completed. And, as the two Eagles soared away, Billy Caudwell calmly watched as the Templar bodyguards struggled with their horses, and the great burning plumes of dirt and debris seemed to drift slowly back down, like a fine drizzle, to land amongst the smouldering fissures and burning craters of what had been the gentle slope of the rise.

On the crest of the rise, men were still pushing at each other and scrambling to get away from the nightmare that had just burst over them. Billy was delighted to see weapons being thrown away in the panic to escape the devastation. Really frightened men threw away anything that they thought would weigh them down as they tried to flee. And, with the harsh discipline of the Templar Order, a soldier throwing away a spear or a sword told Billy that he had really frightened them. Looking carefully along the Templar line on the crest, Billy was pleased to note no lifeless forms sprawled upon the ground in a pool of blood and gore. The two Eagle pilots had made his point to Arnold of Torroja perfectly. And, as he surveyed the scene of bloodless destruction and confusion, Billy crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Arnold to bring his horse under control.

Now, the real negotiation could begin.