By dawn the island was a scene of devastation. Smoke rose from the dead fires and from the blackened bodies of the dead Malaac, who lay across the land like a dark malevolent fungus. The bodies
of the human dead were laid next to each other: eleven men including two of the contingent from the north; five women including three of the elderly nurses who had flung themselves at the Malaac to
protect their charges, and finally those they couldn’t protect – five sad little children shrouded by blankets. More, though, were missing; their numbers were yet to be known.
Many more were wounded, including Dumnekavax the Elder. Terath and Dirthen went among them, attempting to help with their magic. Terath seemed optimistic that they could neutralise the
Malaac’s bite at least. Cygan ensured that Whitey was among the first to be seen, though he had not yet regained consciousness. Amid the tears and wailing of the bereaved he felt it was his
duty to tell everyone that the Malaac could still return the following night, and so those fit to fight rebuilt the defences and waited, spears in hand, for the next attack as the moon again rose
before them.
But that night the Malaac did not return.
Nor the night after that, or the two nights following.
By the fifth day Dumnekavax was well enough to order the rebuilding of the houses destroyed to prepare the defences. This, of course, included Cygan’s. He also called for a meeting at the
great house to discuss the next step in the campaign to drive these creatures back to the place they had come from. As some rebuilt, others visited the fish traps, which were now chock-full. A
feast to thank the Gods was to be prepared, for, despite the death, injuries and destruction wrought upon them, one thing was becoming patently clear. The sacrifice of Cerren and their own doughty
resistance had not been in vain.
The village had been saved.
When it came to battle Esric Calvannen held strongly to two beliefs. Firstly, that troops should not be committed to the field unless victory was all but certain, and secondly
that a goodly portion of any conflict was won and lost in the mind. Psychology was all important, and if a fighting man believed in his inevitable triumph even before swords were drawn, then
triumph was probably inevitable. However, as he lined up to face Baron Garal’s rebels across a muddy field not less than three miles from the enemy’s home town and estate, he realised
that in this case neither of his beliefs had been adhered to. Firstly, victory here was not certain at all, far from it in fact. Both lines of troops numbered at just over a thousand.
He
had
the advantage in heavy cavalry and experienced regular troops, but they were superior in light cavalry and archers. His men sported contingents from Barons Josar, Spalforth, his own men of Sketta
and some lesser barons, as well as a hundred of Emeric’s knights.
They
had Garal’s own men, some southern mercenaries with olive skin and wicked curved blades, and Arshuman
reinforcements including some two hundred light cavalry. Though the heavy ground would do them no favours, it was still a lot more than he had been expecting.
Secondly, Garal, a cunning man of mixed Tanarese and Arshuman ancestry, had already inflicted two attacks on his men’s psyche. Last night a group of his men had silently infiltrated
Esric’s camp. Their target was Mikel the mage and, although their assassination attempt had been foiled, he had taken a nasty blow to the head, leaving him groggy, semi-conscious and in no
condition to fight. The other blow had taken place but a few minutes ago. It turned out that Garal had captured one of Esric’s second cousins, a callow young man named Andrean who was about
sixteen years old. The poor boy was paraded in front of Garal’s troops by the Baron himself, in full view of the watching Esric.
‘Behold!’ Garal had shouted. ‘One of the Calvannen whelps! How he has snivelled and begged for his life the last two days. I ask all of you,’ he called out to his men,
‘what ransom shall we ask for him? A hundred crowns? A thousand? Or would we rather spit on Calvannen gold and send him to the furnace?’
He cupped his hand to his ear as a thousand voices all shouted at once. After a couple of minutes of this charade he spoke again. ‘Very well, I accept your judgement; we will get
Calvannen’s gold the hard way.’ With that he cut the poor boy’s throat, letting his body pitch forward on to the wet grass. After a minute or so of watching the boy twitch feebly
as he died, Garal opened his breeches and emptied his bladder on to the boy’s corpse.
Esric could hear the rage and anger of the men behind him, not just at Garal, but at his own reticence to do anything to prevent the execution happening. Finally, he turned and addressed
them.
‘He is trying to goad us! He wants us to charge his lines without thinking and swing our weapons with anger and not precision! Do not fall for his tricks! Win this battle and I swear to
you his punishment will be as brutal as that meted out to any traitor, high born or low! Your generals have their orders. Follow them and we shall spend the evening on Garal’s estate, eating
his food and drinking his wine under the gaze of his own severed head. Trumpeters, sound the advance. Let us give this arrogant little upstart the justice he so richly deserves!’
As the men marched slowly over the clogging earth, even Josar had to admit that Esric’s speech had done its job perfectly, diffusing the men’s consternation and turning it into cold
anger at the waiting foe. He watched the banners approach the enemy in near-perfect coordination, the serpent of Emeric, his own bear, Spalforth’s all green, Calvannen’s red and blue,
as well as the banners of the lesser barons – the pike, the river crab, a black-and-white quartered banner and even a plain green sheet recently converted to a banner because Spalforth had
allowed the Marsh Men to join his army in return for land. Some fifty miles to the north he could see the green rolling Marassan Hills, a range of low bluffs that marked the formal boundary between
the baronetcies of north and south. This land was Calvannen’s and Tanaren’s and they would all die to make sure it remained that way.
As for the battle itself, the chroniclers would write that it took until late afternoon. Josar loved hearing the florid accounts they wrote with their exaggerations that enhanced the bravery of
the barons and commanders, emphasising their correct tactical decisions while burying their mistakes. The implication was that the doughty warriors involved had spent the entire day fighting their
implacable foe. The truth, of course, was another matter entirely. Deployment itself took an age. Then there were the prayers and blessings of the Gods to receive. Then, of course, everyone
involved had to drum up the battle lust – no one wanted to face the prospect of death, maiming or having agonising wounds inflicted on their person while in a cold, sober frame of mind. Some
needed a drink, others needed to scream their lungs out at the enemy, and others united their voices in the battle songs of the Gods. Once the collective determination to face the enemy had been
achieved, then the attack could begin in earnest.
The clash of arms itself lasted less than an hour. It turned out that the Arshuman contingent had the yellow banners and the armour of their country but not the fighting spirit. They were
obviously raw recruits who had undertaken a long march to get here and had no intention of laying down their lives when faced with any degree of adversity. Once the light cavalry had withdrawn
after loosing a couple of volleys of arrows at the Calvannen lines, most of which fell short of their targets, Emeric’s serpent knights and Spalforth’s battle-hardened regulars moved
forward, seeing the nervous Arshuman line as the soft underbelly to target with their first charge. To their credit, the Arshumans stood their ground as Spalforth’s men engaged them face on
though their losses were heavy. Emeric however moved his cavalry out wide and charged. Their first target was the protective screen of light cavalry stationed on the right flank. This however
dissolved like smoke at the sight of a hundred fully plate, armoured warriors bearing down on them, the green serpent hissing its venom from the pennants on their lances. As the defenders, horse
scattered, Emeric’s charge continued into the Arshumans exposed flank crumpling the entire line like paper.
And that basically was that. Garal’s archers never had a chance to properly use their skills so they quit the field as soon as they could. The rest of the hour was spent whittling down
Garal’s own troops and the mercenaries who in fairness were fierce, capable men. Ultimately though, seeing the way things were going, they put up the white banner of surrender and, with their
last allies gone, Garal and his men turned tail, too – back to Garal City, though they already knew its ditch and stockade would be barely adequate in holding out against a force of
determined men.
Esric did not bother pursuing the enemy to their deaths. Rather, they disarmed the mercenaries and consolidated their gains that day. Nearly three hundred enemy dead for the loss of a mere dozen
of their own men. The Battle of Pendle Stream and the suppression of the Garal Revolt had been a spectacular success.
As the sun took on the red tinge of the late afternoon, Esric sat on his charger close to the gates of Garal City. It was dominated by the baronial estate perched on the low
hill at its centre. Both it and the clusters of cottages surrounding it were timber-framed and thatched, their walls pristine and whitewashed. The barracks of the soldiers were located in a fort of
wooden logs protected by hides and sealed by pitch, located close to the gates, which themselves sported two low watchtowers crawling with men.
Against the advice of his generals. Esric rode right up to the gates. Not twenty feet from him he could see at least a dozen men poised with crossbows, all with quarrels fitted and aimed
directly at him. At this range each bolt could punch through his armour as if it didn’t even exist. In a voice as loud and clear as he could make it he called to them.
‘I am not here for revenge. I am not here for slaughter. I want nothing more than to welcome Garal City back under my wing where they can fight the true enemy, those wearing the yellow.
All I want is the Baron who turned you against me to stand before me, unarmed, at this gate. Him and his family. If he does not come to have justice dispensed upon him, then I have no other choice
than to assume you are all willingly harbouring him. Your city will be besieged and burned and any refugees will be denied food and shelter on the lands I command. I will retire now to pray that
you choose the only sensible path open to you. I will return in one hour. May Artorus guide you to follow the course of wisdom.’
With that he spurred his horse and rode back to his own men, leaving the garrison talking furiously among themselves.
True to his word one hour later he returned. Returned to find Garal standing there, his armour replaced by a loose black cotton shirt and leather breeches. The garrison had bound his wrists and
a couple of them stood either side of him, brandishing pole arms. Behind him, leaning against the gate or standing nervously fidgeting with hands and feet, were his family: a pretty dark-haired
girl about half Garal’s age who Esric knew to be his wife; a nurse holding their child, a mere babe in arms; an older lady, and two young boys in their early teens, Garal’s nephews.
This time supported by Josar and their men-at-arms, Esric dismounted and came up to the traitor baron.
‘I am glad you have given yourself up and prevented further bloodshed.’ Esric spoke authoritatively but with a certain reticence, too, as though he was not going to enjoy what was
about to unfold. ‘I hope you can see the irony here. You betrayed me and the Arshumans betrayed you by sending you poor, inexperienced troops.’
Garal grinned, his face twisted by bitterness. ‘I could see that as soon as they arrived, but what could I do? I had to fight you. Neither you nor Spalforth would accept my
surrender.’
‘I would have,’ said Esric. ‘And Spalforth is pragmatic. I am sure a redrawing of the boundaries between your lands would have satisfied him. It is too late now, though –
executing Andrean was a bad move.’
‘I had to do something to fire the boys up.’ Garal kept his voice even. ‘They all knew in their hearts it was a hopeless fight. Also, after what you did to Eburg, do you really
think I believe you when you say you would have forgiven me?’
Esric did not reply, so Garal continued. ‘So I assume you are going to kill me now?’
Esric looked around him. Just behind him, through the ditch surrounding the town, the Pendle chittered away in its narrow bed. He was getting cold.
‘Yes, I am, but I will give you a choice as to the way you die.’
Garal nodded slowly. ‘Go on.’
‘After what you did to Andrean, my men want the revenge I promised them. You can have a quick death, a beheading, but before that happens your family will be brought before you and killed
one by one.’
‘What? Even the little one?’
‘Maggots grow into flies, Garal.’
Garal’s grimace became even more pronounced. ‘You are enjoying this, I see. What is the alternative?’
Esric started to walk around the captured man. ‘If you think I am enjoying this, you are more deluded than I thought. You were a trusted ally, Garal, damn you. We drove the Arshumans back
further than ever before not a few months back. When I heard you were allied with Fenchard, it stung me more than you can imagine.’
Garal sneered at him. ‘Many of us thought you not up to the job. When we drove the Arshumans back, plans were already well in advance. I was to have the south and Fenchard the north.
Eburg’s mother was supposed to get her son to turn, but as far as I know she never mentioned the idea to him. Fenchard told me to declare for Arshuma anyway. They would send me men, I was
told. Instead, I got five hundred boys, most of whom will spend winter freezing to death in the wilderness here.’ He spat into the dirt. ‘Enough of this, daylight is going and I have no
desire to tarry any longer. What is the alternative?’