Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (18 page)

Kendril stopped another man, and pushed him back. “If you run you’ll die,” he roared. “Your only chance is to form a line! Now
move
!” He turned to Joseph, whose rapier was already in his hand. “Joseph, get these men in a line. Crossbows in front, pikes behind.” He spun and galloped back down through the mud and tents, then stopped in front of two other men. He pointed his sword back towards an abandoned cannon chassis a few yards away.

“You two! Get that gun turned around! Maklavir, give them a hand! I want it firing in two minutes. Go!”

He swiped his sword down, and raced back a few yards. He swatted two more men with the flat of his blade, knocking them back towards the fighting.

A line began to form as Joseph stopped men and threw them back into place.

Two sergeants quickly recovered their nerves, and began barking orders at the fleeing men, smacking them back into place as well.

Kendril rode back and forth like a man possessed, shouting orders and giving words of encouragement to the bedraggled men.

Not more than a hundred yards in front of them, the barbarians were hacking at the last remnants of Lord Whitmore’s regiment, screaming as they tore down the few men who still stood their ground.

Sir Lasinger’s riderless horse galloped by, but there was no other sign of the regiment’s commander.

The Jogarthi warriors began to flood into the camp area, pillaging tents and supply wagons as they went.

Kendril stopped his mule right in front of the makeshift line of soldiers. His clothes were absolutely soaked from the downpour.

“Prepare volley fire!” he ordered. His voice boomed out across the line.

Kara wiped the rain from her eyes, and watched with awe as the haphazard formation of men, who had been fleeing in terror just moments before, obeyed.

Some of the soldiers that still had crossbows and matchlock muskets knelt in the front of the line, trying to shield their lit matchcords and bow strings from the relentless rain.

Thunder crashed overhead as Kendril rode along the front, his sword lifted high in the air.

From behind the line Joseph was riding fast, helping soldiers bring up pikes to the soldiers that had lost theirs during the rout.

On the far left Maklavir was shouting orders to four men who were man-handling the cannon around, pointing its muzzle towards the approaching enemy.

Kara glanced behind her, and looked across the tent-strewn valley towards the swirling masses of men on the other side.

Both Mulcher and Fielding’s regiments were fighting hard against the barbarians, crossbows singing out and pikes jabbing forward as the Jogarthi desperately hacked away at the hedged wall of steel that confronted them. Gunfire exploded sporadically from the squares, and barbarians fell right and left.

There were never enough killed, however. Three more barbarians took the place of each one that fell, waving their weapons and screaming curses at the soldiers before them.

Kara turned her head back to the front. She readied her bow to fire.

The barbarians were a shrieking mass, pillaging and plundering their way through the camp as they came. Some tents caught fire, the flames quickly spreading despite the pouring rain.

A massive man, his body wrapped in a red and green tartan and his face covered with blue war paint, jumped on top of an overturned crate. With a shout he lifted a gigantic war club and urged his men forwards. His arms and chest were covered with strange tattoos, some carved in the representation of spiral shapes and dizzying swirls. His bellowing voice carried across the tents.

The pillaging barbarians began to turn, forgetting the plunder for a moment as they began to notice Kendril’s ragged line forming in front of them.

Joseph came galloping up beside Kara as the barbarian chieftain continued to shout above the din of battle.

“There’s too many of them!” the scout said before his horse had even stopped. “We can’t hold this line if—”

A single rifle shot cracked out over the valley, its sharp cry audible for a moment above everything else.

The chieftain standing on the crate stumbled, then toppled back onto the muddy ground.

The Jogarthi warriors paused, a sudden uncertainty rippling through their ranks.

Kendril lowered his smoking rifle, and drew his sword again. “Ready!” he shouted.

The line of crossbowmen and musketeers took a half step forward, holding their weapons in their hands.

Several Jogarthi tribesmen leapt in front of their men, urging the others forward. They seemed to recover themselves, and charged forward once again with a yell.

“Aim!” Kendril’s words were almost lost in the deafening Jogarthi war cry.

The musketeers and crossbowmen brought their weapons up to their cheeks, and aimed at the quickly approaching enemy.

Kendril held his sword in the air for what seemed an eternity, rain dripping from the hilt.

The Jogarthi surged so close that Kara could see them clearly for the first time. Many were tall, half naked and covered with war paint. Tartans of different clans were sprinkled throughout their ranks, and many different banners waved in the wind. Some had wicker or wooden shields decorated with more spirals or the symbol of the raven, while others carried no shields at all. Almost none wore armor of any kind, and they carried every possible variety of sword, axe, and spear imaginable.

They advanced so close that Kara could see the colored tassels hanging from their belts.

Kendril’s sword swept down. “Fire!”

The line exploded with a shaking barrage of gun and crossbow fire.

The front mass of advancing Jogarthi was literally swept away as bullets and crossbow bolts tore into unprotected flesh and bone.

A second later the cannon thundered. The ball cut through rank after rank of barbarians, and left dozens dead in its wake.

The second line of Jogarthi warriors stumbled over the first, many tripping into the mud and becoming trampled by the surge behind them.

Kara fired as well. Her bow sang out as the arrows disappeared into the mass of Jogarthi in front of her. The barbarians were so tightly packed that it was almost impossible to miss.

The impact of the first volley had been shattering. Many of the tribal chieftains who had been leading the charge now lay dead with everyone else in the first line.

The Jogarthi seemed to collectively pause, as if unsure whether to continue on or run. The warriors in the rear continued to push their companions in front forward, and the teeming mass began to sweep towards the Llewyllian line once more.

“Reverse ranks! Charge pikes!” Kendril shouted.

The command was echoed up and down the line.

Kara watched in astonishment as the soldiers, most of who still did not know who this Ghostwalker giving the commands was, obeyed.

 The line of crossbowmen and musketeers retreated back behind the pikemen, who stepped forward and lowered their pikes in one solid mass, creating a hedge of steel points.

Kendril lifted his sword again. The blade flashed dully in the gray light of the morning dawn.

“
Advance
!”

With a roar the Llewyllian line swept forward, thrusting their pikes into an enemy that outnumbered them at least three times over.

Kendril led the charge, and crashed into the Jogarthi line just ahead of the pikemen. His sword rose and fell in countless blows until the blade ran red with blood.

Joseph kicked his horse forward, shouting and holding his rapier high as he raced into the thick of the fighting.

Kara continued shooting until all her arrows were gone, her fingers numb from the repeated action of firing.

Over by the cannon Maklavir raised his cap in the air, tossing it back and forth as he cheered the men on.

And then, the unbelievable happened.

The Jogarthi broke.

Slowly at first, and then all at once the barbarians began to flee back through the camp, throwing down their weapons and trampling their own standards.

With a roar the Llewyllians pursued after them, losing all semblance of cohesion as they stabbed, slashed, and shot into the fleeing horde.

The barbarians tumbled back through the tents, and tried to race back up the steep incline of the valley side. Most of them never made it.

Joseph rode through the swirling battle, dodging shouting soldiers who were cutting down barbarians right and left. He saw a black shape through the rain ahead, and galloped over.

Kendril was still on Simon, his face splattered with mud and blood. One of his swords was in his hand, and he was bringing it down on top of a wounded Jogarthi warrior just as Joseph came up.

The Ghostwalker jerked his mule to the side, and slashed out at another fleeing barbarian. The man stumbled, crying out a plea in his native tongue and throwing up his hands to show he was unarmed.

A snarl of rage on his face, Kendril brought his sword down again and split the man’s head open.

Horrified, Joseph galloped forward, and grabbed Kendril’s arm just as he was about to strike at another fleeing Jogarthi.

“Kendril!” he shouted over the screams and clanging of metal all around them. “
Kendril
!”

The Ghostwalker turned, and for a moment Joseph was shocked by the look on his face.

 Kendril’s features were twisted in a mask of bestial fury, the mud and rain mixing with the blood on his forehead and cheeks. He blinked, then slowly lowered his sword.

Joseph let go of his arm.

The Ghostwalker wiped his sleeve across his face, and glanced towards the far side of the valley. Both Mulcher’s and Fielding’s regiments had managed to hold against the combined barbarian onslaughts, but the Jogarthi were reforming on the other side of the valley, howling curses down toward the soldiers below.

Kendril turned his head, and looked up the valley slope before them. It was covered with fleeing groups of barbarians. He pointed towards the crest.

“We need to take the high ground before the Jogarthi reform. Get someone over to the other two regiments and tell them to join us there.”

“I’ll go myself,” said Joseph. He gave Kendril a probing look. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” the Ghostwalker said. “Now move it. We only have a few minutes before the Jogarthi attack again.”

Joseph paused for a moment, looking as if he was going to say something else, but then he turned and galloped off through the pillaged camp.

Kendril arched his neck back, feeling the cold rain on his face.

Simon snorted unhappily, his eyes wide from all the carnage around them. Bodies littered the ground, most of them Jogarthi.

Some of the surviving Llewyllian officers were trying to rally the men, getting them back into some semblance of order after the hectic pursuit.

The rain began to slow to a steady drizzle, plunking in the puddles that now covered the ground.

Kendril turned his head slowly to his right, gazing down the long ravine that led out of the valley. A sudden mist hung over the area, covering it from sight. That had been the last direction that Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guards had gone, before the attack had begun.

Looking round him once more, Kendril noticed that the other two Llewyllian regiments were throwing out skirmishers to hold off the barbarians, and were retreating slowly across the valley floor towards the opposite side.

They might just make it.

Simon gave another snort, and nervously pawed at the ground.

Kendril wiped the blood off his sword, then sheathed it.

Morning had come, and they were still alive.

The discipline of the Llewyllian regiments held firm.

Mulcher and Fielding’s regiments marched across the ruins of the camp, heading for the side of the valley that was now clear of barbarians. A thin line of skirmishers fought a running battle against the Jogarthi, battling amongst the burning tents and overturned supply carts to cover the retreat of the army. In less than an hour both regiments had gained the high ground of the valley crest, leaving the Jogarthi to plunder and burn the remains of the camp below.

The soldiers dug into defensive positions along the edge of the valley, ready to repel any other attack by the Jogarthi. There was no need, however. With half of their number put to flight, the remaining Jogarthi were content to plunder and loot the abandoned camp, and made no effort to attack the Llewyllian positions up on the crest of the valley.

Soon the Llewyllians got some cannons into place, and a few well-placed shots convinced the Jogarthi to abandon their quest for plunder. They retreated to the opposite side of the valley, shaking their fists and cursing at the gunners who continued to fire at them.

The casualties had been heavy. Many Llewyllians had fallen in the first wave of barbarian attacks, but the worst looked like it was over. Even the rain gradually ceased as the morning lengthened, the dark clouds blowing off to the north and west.

Joseph found Kara near the edge of the valley, sitting quietly with her back against a boulder. He dismounted and walked up to her.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded briefly, watching the tents burn in the valley below. Smoke rose into the air, mixing with the dark clouds above. She looked up at the grizzled scout.

“So what happens now?”

He shrugged, looking out towards the other side of the valley. “I don’t know. I doubt the Jogarthi will attack again. They took quite a beating.”

Kara glanced down the line of tired Llewyllian soldiers to their right. “So did we.” She collapsed back against the rock again.

“Here you are!” came a cheerful voice from behind them. Maklavir rode up on Veritas, a smile on his face. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see both of you alive and well.” He stopped, looking out over the valley. “I have to say I didn’t think I was going to see the sunrise this morning.”

Joseph leaned back against the boulder as well. He felt suddenly tired. “I don’t think any of us thought we would.”

Maklavir rested his arms on the pommel of his saddle, and patted Veritas gently on the neck. “Well after today I certainly have enough nightmares to last me a lifetime. At least it seems to be over for now.”