The Protector of Esparia (The Annals of Esparia Book 1) (36 page)

The rising sun brought the enemy once again, advancing on the Gallish army, however, they were not nearly as numerous as they had once been.  Galland had lost thousands of men, but Hent had lost tens of thousands. 

They battled the entire day and little by little, the Gallish troops were forced back.  They were overwhelmed by the superior numbers of the Hent enemy.  Each night the two armies would retreat a bit while the wounded were cleared from the field, and each morning the fighting would resume. 

By nightfall of the sixth day, Galland had retreated fifty filons; past the abandoned tierns and charred fields, to the first fortified cities.  No tents were set up, no fires lit.  The exhausted men crumpled where they stood.  The retreat was so rapid, their food and supplies were left behind.  They were hard pressed to safely transport all of the wounded.

“I have received communications from both our northern and southern armies,” Ophir told his officers later that night.  “They are in the same situation as we.  Their troops are exhausted, but determined to fight on.  We know Hent has suffered severe losses, however. From what I can gather from our spies, we are still outnumbered.  The odds are improving, but the cost in human life is tremendous.”  He shook his head.  “I’m still confident we can defeat the enemy, but I’m beginning to wonder if the price is worth it.”   

Ophir had come to love the people of Galland, and to see them fall around him was heart-wrenching.  “I am sending word to your Olders of the situation, asking for any and all reserve troops to be sent to the three fronts.  I realize none of you have slept much these last few days.  You’ve fought as valiantly as an Ider warrior and I’m honored to serve with you.  Remind your men the reason they fight.  Freedom can be costly, but worth it in the end.  Hent seeks to destroy your nation and enslave your people.  Go now, my friends, and try to sleep.  It will be light soon.”  The Gallish commanders filed out of the tent.  They were a grim lot, but showed fierce loyalty to Ophir.  They had life-oathed to him. If he felt the war was winnable, they would fight to the bitter end beside him.

On the morning of the seventh day, the Hentan troops did not attack, but a Hent envoy rode into the Gallish camp under a flag of truce.  He carried a letter to Ophir from the Hentan commander.  Summoning the closest Gallish governmental leaders, Ophir read the letter out loud.

To Commander Ophir, leader of the Gallish forces,

My compliments to you and your valiant men.  You have proved a worthy adversary and we salute you.  This loss of life is so unnecessary.  Let the battles end now and surrender to us.  We will allow you and your Esparian soldiers to return to your homeland in peace.  This is not your fight and you cannot win.  Your situation is hopeless, for you are so outnumbered, you will never stop us.  I promise Galland will be dealt with in an equitable manner.  Their leaders are fools and we have come to bring true order to their country.  Unconditional surrender is all I require.  I will allow you and your men to go.  Stay and we will destroy you.

I am Commander Radan, leader of the supreme forces of Hent

Ophir felt astonishment, amusement, and finally anger at the boldness of Radan.  “I would never surrender to such a criminal as this,” he told the Gallish leaders.  “But, you tell me what you want to do and I will do it.”

The ranking Gallish political leader, Vice-Premier Grodin spoke up, “Let us read this ultimatum to the troops.  Let the people decide the matter.”

So it was done.  The troops were assembled, the letter read, and the choice left in the hands of the courageous men of Galland.  No debate was given, no words spoken to sway the opinions one way or the other.  The vote was taken by a show of hands.  First Vice-Premier Grodin asked for those who wished to surrender to make it known.  To Ophir’s astonishment, not one hand went up, then the Vice-Premier asked for those who would continue the fight.  Not only did hands go up, but swords and javelins as well.  The vote was unanimous, not one soldier would surrender. 

Ophir composed the reply to Radan’s letter with Vice-Premier Grodin looking on in agreement.

To Commander Radan,

Our fight is just. We will not surrender.

I am Commander Ophir, leader of the free Gallish

With the letter sealed, Ophir personally delivered it to the Hentan envoy, who was then safely escorted out of camp.  “This letter means there will be war again tomorrow,” Ophir sighed to Grodin. 

“We will be forever in your debt, Lord Ophir,” the Vice-Premier said.  “Whatever the outcome this war may have, no one will ever forget the courage you have shown, nor the love you have displayed for our people.”

That evening, a fresh division of young soldiers, barely fifteen and sixteen years old, marched into the Gallish camp.  Their leader saluted Ophir.  “We’ve answered the call from our leaders and are here to aid in the cause of freedom. There are eight thousand of us.  A similar force has been sent to reinforce your northern and southern camps.”

Ophir appraised the lad from head to foot.  “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Is there no one older who can come and fight this war?”

“No one sir.  All of the men are here, or in your other two camps.  Even the olders have taken up arms, and as we speak, ride to your northern army.  This is our homeland, and we’ve trained hard for this day.  Please, give us a chance.” 

Ophir smiled kindly at the youth.  “Your courage will inspire fresh hope in your tired comrades.  We’re proud to have you with us.”

The following morning dawned clear and bright, a cloudless sky with temperatures rapidly inducing sweat from the soldier’s bodies.  Ophir and his men rose early to complete their preparations for receiving the Hentans.  They clutched their swords and held their shields high.  Archers, slingers and javelin throwers stood combat ready.  This was a crucial day.  If they lost any more ground, they could lose the fortified cities and women and children would then be in mortal danger. 

Ophir was about to give the command for the arrows, stones and javelins to be sent eastward, when the resonance of distant, rhythmic thunder came to his ears.  Bit by bit, the sound increased in intensity and volume. 

“What the…” he looked around.  Other soldiers, on both sides of the battlefield, seemed to have also heard the unusual noise, as their astonished murmurs drifted in the still air.  Eyes turned skyward in an effort to locate the deep sonic source.  Growing ever louder, Ophir finally identified the rumble as coming from the north. 

Ophir squinted, his hand shading his eyes, as he searched the northern horizon for the cause of the strange sound.  To his utter and complete astonishment, an immense, dark mass appeared.  At first it was just a dark wall, but gained in height and breadth as it approached. 

The thunderous noise became clearer; it was the sound of loud drums pounding a marching beat.  After several minutes, Ophir could make out enormous forms, and when they reached the northern end of the Gallish army, his men cheered. 

“Come on boy,” he spurred his horse forward.  “Let’s find out what this is about.”  Riding swiftly to meet the approaching mass, he reined to a stop when only halfway there.  He too cheered when he realized the advancing wall was made up of thousands of giants marching his way.  Flying before them, proudly displayed from a grand flagstaff, was a great Banner of Freedom.

The Fight for Esparia

The North

Cordon received the communiqué from John warning of an attack on either the fifteenth or sixteenth of the month, so he and Lepsis hurriedly finished their preparations.  The armies assembled along the provincial border separating Verdure and Snow Peak, a flat, lightly wooded area.  To the north lay the Snow Peak Mountains, running the full length of the Snow Peak and Marone border, as well as a full third of the Verdure-Marone boundary. 

Where the land was not cleared for farming, tall, spindly evergreens grew.  These scraggy trees did not give the protection the trees of the deep southeast did, so hiding in the tops was not an option, but dense shrubbery thrived, much of it large enough to provide adequate cover.  This thinly forested wilderness sprawled eastward about two filons into Verdure from Snow Peak, before the farming lands began. 

Thirty thousand allied Maronian and Esparian archers, strategically positioned along the lengthy border, hid in the woodlands behind the thickest bushes.  These well prepared men carried enough arrows to bring down scores of Demarian soldiers.  They wore, from head to toe, lightweight, tightly woven palium chain mail.  The escape routes were thoroughly pre-planned.

Every civilian within fifty filons of the border had evacuated, fleeing to the safety of Esparia’s interior.  As per John’s instructions, Cordon, like Ophir, had fortified the cities beyond the evacuation line.  Thick, cemented stone walls, reinforced by local timber, were built up around the major tierns with battle turrets designed into them every hundred feet.  Twelve foot deep, V-shaped ditches, eight feet wide at the base, increasing to twenty feet wide at the top, surrounded the walls. The evacuated earth from these trenches was deposited thirty feet beyond the city wall, making a continuous ridge eight feet high that served as the first obstacle an enemy would need to cross.  Men, women, and children had worked non-stop to create these defenses.

Lepsis and Cordon had nearly five hundred thousand foot soldiers, twenty-five thousand slingers and one hundred thousand cavalry between them.  Not completely certain of the enemy force, they hoped they had enough men and supplies to beat back the Demarians and retake Snow Peak.

Cordon split the army in two, giving Lepsis full command of the north.  Each army was further broken down into legions of thirty-five thousand and labeled Maronian and Esparian one through ten, with cavalry divided into groups of ten thousand, numbered one through ten.  All of these were further subdivided into manageable fighting divisions.  Each division consisted of light infantry, archers, slingers and javelin throwers, heavily armored infantry, and cavalry to protect their flanks. 

Located in front of the foot soldiers, the spearmen and slingers’ job was to take out as many of the enemy as possible, then fall back, with swords drawn, behind the regular army.  Cordon and Ophir were trained in the same school and so, given similar terrain, their battle plans, as well as equipment, were basically identical.

Lepsis, however, had a few tricks up his sleeve and tried to convince Cordon to try something new.  His men dug trenches, just large enough to hide in, then covered them with planks and camouflage.  This was accomplished under cover of darkness to avoid the prying eyes of Demarian spies, of whom quite a few had been caught over the last several weeks.  Lepsis secreted a full one fourth of his men in the earth.  These were his best warriors, and were instructed to listen for the sound of the shrill battle horns.  The bellowing trumpets would signal the hidden men to rise up, thereby attacking the enemy’s rear and effectively surrounding him.  Cordon, conservative and from the old school, opted not to try this innovative measure, but wished Lepsis luck.

On the evening of the fourteenth, Cordon held a last meeting inside one of the large dining tents.  His command center was too small to accommodate the large company of upper level officers assembled for this historic moment.  Cordon personally arranged all of the wooden stools in neat rows as well as oil lamps along the sides and back of the room.  When the somber men gathered at the appointed hour, the tent was ablaze in light, an optimistic welcome in this time of dark foreboding. 

Cordon, smartly dressed in polished boots and a crisply pressed uniform stood to address his men.  “As we speak, the advance archers are taking their places where we believe the enemy will cross our borders.  Be prepared to give them cover once their missions are completed.  After the archers have cleared the field, have your slingers and spearmen ready, I fully expect the Demarians to be close behind.  I want the enemy reeling before they march twenty paces from the woods.” 

“This is not a war of our making, but we will not run from it.  Remember Saylon Dorsett, remember Protector Haesom, Protectoress Lila and their innocent sons, remember one thousand dead soldiers.  Do not let the men forget.”

Cordon reached into his pocket.  “I have here a message from Protector John.”  He held a small paper for them to see.  “It reads,”

To Cordon and all valiant men, Greetings.  We stand on the threshold of history.  Tomorrow and the tomorrows beyond will determine the fate of this great nation.  Remember who you are and what you fight for; your wives, your children, your heritage, your liberty.  In all your battles, remember mercy, always giving your enemy the option of surrender.  We are not murderers, we are not here to plunder or pillage.  Fare well, my friends, until we meet again. 

Your brother-in-arms, John Ernshaw of the House of Saylon, High Protector of Esparia

* * *

The morning of the fifteenth dawned cloudy and overcast.  A light drizzle cooled the gloomy summer day.  At the first hint of morning the Demarian army, eight hundred thousand strong, marched over the Verdure border.  When the first enemy soldier stepped onto Verdure soil, the archers opened up.  Runners kept Cordon informed of the various battles’ progress.  There were four points of penetration, and the fighting was fierce. 

Well supplied and fast on their feet, the bowmen hit the enemy hard.  They shot at close range, taking the Demarians by surprise.  The wave of advancing troops faltered slightly, but being well protected with armor, many of the arrows bounced off them with little damage done.  The archers pulled their bows with speed and accuracy, while the enemy pressed forward.  A volley of Demarian arrows flew in answer to the Esparians.  For a while it was archer against archer, a deadly contest of hide and seek.  The Esparian bowmen closest to the border began to retreat, with the others soon following.  Periodically they stopped their withdrawal long enough to send more deadly volleys at the encroaching enemy. 

Cordon, sitting on his horse at the front of his foot soldiers, watched while the first of the archers emerged from the light forest onto the cleared farmland where his vast army waited.  He knew this same scene was being played out for filons to the north and south, all along Verdure, and he steeled himself for the coming day.

The slingers and javelin throwers were set to aid the retreating archers.  At Cordon’s command, these troops inflicted the greatest damage to the invading enemy.  Arms and legs snapped like twigs when a well-aimed stone crashed down on it.  Skulls imploded inside dented helmets.  The javelins were thrown with such force, the armored target was gored clear through.  The ghastly work of death caused the Demarians to waver.

The cavalry charged next, making short work of the first enemy wave, but then the Demarian Dragoons met them.  At the appearance of the black clothed horsemen, Cordon commanded his foot soldiers to charge in.  Cavalry fought cavalry, soldier fought soldier, and the two armies raged on nearly equal terms.  Daenon’s men had suffered losses in the forests at the hands of the allied archers, but worse were their losses on the grasslands by the slingers and spearmen.  Their wounded were trampled by the battling horsemen, their dead strewn everywhere on the fields.

Cordon fought throughout that day, wielding his sword like a man possessed.  His chance for vengeance had come, and his only thought was to repay death for every comrade who had fallen at the Saylon Dorsett massacre.  He knew this was not a war of vengeance, but his anger poured out in the heat of battle.  He lost track of time.  His expertise as a swordsman had earned him a reputation in Esparia, but now the Demarians too witnessed his mastery in action.  As the day drew to a close, Cordon saw terror in the eyes of those whom he opposed.  Both armies had stood their ground throughout the day, neither advancing nor retreating.

When nightfall came, the enemy quickly withdrew into the forests.  Deciding not to follow, Cordon held his men and had them prepare for the morrow.  He gathered the many prisoners they had captured and forced them to retrieve the wounded from the blood soaked plain.

Alberod, John’s friend from Ider Hoffle, having finished his training at Ramadine, had swiftly risen in the ranks of leadership, and was in command of the surgical units interspersed along the northern allied lines.  He and Cordon were friends from long ago, so Cordon felt relieved to have someone he trusted in charge of the wounded.  Alberod came into Cordon’s command tent where Cordon was meeting with his seventh bars.  Without saying a word, the physician quietly set to work.  He pulled sutures and bandages from his medical kit, then stepped to the nearest seventh bar.  One by one, Alberod stitched and bound the men in the tent, coming last of all to Cordon when the meeting ended.

“I thought you might need some attention,” Alberod said when Cordon sat wearily on his makeshift bed. 

“I’m not hurt,” Cordon said, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Oh, really?  Then why is your side covered in blood?”

“Alberod, I’m covered head to toe in blood and gore.”

“Just sit still and let me do my job.”

Before Cordon could protest further, Alberod pulled his friend’s shirt open.  “You need mending here and here and here.” 

Cordon looked at where Alberod pointed.  To his genuine surprise, his flesh was indeed sliced open, three nasty looking gashes to his torso and several smaller ones in his arms and face.

“Huh!  You’re right.”  Cordon heaved a deep sigh.  “How bad were our losses?”

“Not as terrible as they could have been.  I have some very fine healers working with me.  They’ve saved many lives today.  Now clamp your teeth, this is going to hurt.”

Alberod poured a disinfecting liquid into a seven-inch cut in Cordon’s side, then a numbing powder.  Threading a fresh needle from his bag, he quickly stitched the torn muscle.

“I knew you would never come to a healing tent for help.  Your seventh bars are as bad as you are,” he chided.  “These wounds don’t heal well by themselves. They need tending.”

“Vengeance is hollow, Alberod,” Cordon said and he shook his head.

“Cordon?”

“I’ve waited so long for this day, to avenge my brothers from the Dorsett, but now…”

“It’s understandable, Cordon.”  Alberod began disinfecting the wounds on his friend’s arm.  “Not one man was left alive at Saylon.  You’re not the only one who wanted revenge for that, but at least you’ve come to understand that nothing good comes from it.”

Cordon nodded.  “There’s a prophecy, made by Larone’s father.  In it, he warns that vengeance would plunge this land into numberless years of darkness.  I understand that now.  I saw terror in the eyes of my enemies today.”

“I’ve seen you fight, Cordon and I never want to face the sharp end of your sword.  I can imagine the fear the Demarians felt.  What you need to do now is use that fear, that terror, to bring a quick end to this bloodshed.  John was right, we need to give more opportunity for Demarian surrender.”  Alberod finished the last stitch in Cordon’s scalp.  “Now try and take at least an hour or two of sleep.  If you can’t think clearly, then you can’t command coherently.”

Three more days of battle went much as the first.  The Demarians would attack, and as soon as they stepped out of the forest onto the bloody meadow, the Esparian archers, slingers and spearmen would cut down thousands.  Cordon did his best to take as many prisoners as possible, an all-out slaughter was not something he wanted.  After surrounding pockets of soldiers, the Esparian officers took to heart John’s orders and offered them their lives if they would only throw down their weapons.  Fighting for a higher cause, the Esparians found the edge they needed to hold their ground and win.

Throughout the battle, many black uniformed men yielded their scimitars, swords and spears, taking advantage of the Esperians’ mercy.  Soon the ranks of enemy prisoners grew to tens of thousands.

On the fourth day, about three hours before dawn, the Demarians struck with deadly force.  A volley of fiery arrows, stones, and javelins crashed through the tents of the sleeping Esparians.  Cordon barely managed to exit his tent before it collapsed in flames.  The entire camp was ablaze.  Men fought the fires while trying to protect themselves from the deadly projectiles.  Others ran, seemingly in circles, trying to escape the hail of death. 

“Leave the tents!” Cordon yelled.  “To your ranks!  Shields!  Shields!”  He ran among his men, shouting orders to assemble and counter strike.  The weeks of disciplined training showed as the men rallied.  After the initial panic of ambush wore off, the troops fell into combat formation at the first order.