Authors: Poul Anderson
They thrust ahead, plowing through brush, panting up a long slope of forested hill. The woods ended on its crest and Ralph drew rein. A sunbeam speared through hurrying clouds to touch his armor with fire as he pointed. “The Lann!”
Carl’s eyes swept the ground. The ridge went down on a gentler grade here, a long grassy incline broken by clumps of young trees, ending in abroad, level field where the Lann were camped. Beyond that lay the river, a wide watery stretch gleaming like gray iron in the dull, shifting light, trees rising thick on its farther side. On either hand, a mile or less away, the forest marched down to the river on the near side, hemming in the open ground.
The Dalesmen looked first on the Lann warriors. Their tents were pitched on this bank—only a few, for most of those hardy warriors disdained such cover. They swarmed down by the river. It was indeed dark with men and horses, a whirling storm of movement as their horns shrilled command. Banners flying, lance heads hungrily aloft, hideously painted shields and breastplates glistening, bearded faces contorted with battle fury; they were a splendid and terrible sight, and Carl’s heart stumbled within him.
Ralph was looking keenly down on them. “Not so many as we,” he murmured. “Three or four thousand, I guess—but better trained and equipped, of course. And their Chief can’t be so very smart. He let us get this close without trying to stop us, and now we have the advantage of higher ground.”
“Why should Raymon fear you?” sneered Lenard. “The Lann can get ready as fast as you can.”
Ralph galloped his horse across the front of his army, shouting orders. He had rehearsed his men at Dalestown, and they fell into formation more quickly than Carl had thought they would. But his own eyes were on the man who rode down toward the northerners
with a white flag in his hand. Ralph was going to try one last parley…
The rider threw up his arms and tumbled under his suddenly plunging horse. A moment later, Carl heard the faint clang of the bow and the cruel barking laughter of men. The Lann didn’t parley—and now they themselves were ready and moving up against the Dalesmen!
R
ALPH
’
S
army was drawn up in the formation his people had always used, a double line in the shape of a blunt wedge, with himself and most of his guards at the point. Those in the first rank had axes and swords; behind them, the men slanted long pikes out between the leaders, with their own infighting weapons handy if they should have to step into the place of a fallen comrade. The banners of company commanders were planted at intervals along the lines, whipping and straining in the stiff, damp breeze. Horsemen waited on the flanks, lances lowered and swords loose in the scabbards. On higher ground, spread along the wedge in their own line, were the boys and the oldest warriors, armed with bows and slings. The arrangement was good, tight enough to withstand an attack without crumpling and then move forward against the enemy.
The Lann, Carl saw, were approaching in a compact square of foot soldiers, about half the number of the Dalesmen. Their cavalry, much larger than that of their opponents, waited in a line of restless, tightly held horses near the river. Briefly, Carl thought that his own side had an enormous advantage. A frontal assault of lancers would have shattered itself against pikes and hamstringing swords; in any case, he could not think that cavalry would be of much use on this crowded field. Since almost half the Lann were mounted, it seemed that Ralph had already put that many out of useful action. That was a cheering thought.
And Carl needed cheering. The sight of that approaching line of fiercely scowling strangers brought a cold, shaking thrill along his nerves and muscles. His tongue was thick and dry, his eyes blurred, and something beat in his ears. In moments, now, battle would be joined, his first real battle, and that sun, lowering westward behind windy clouds, might never see him alive again.
The Lann broke into a trot up the hill, keeping their lines as tight as before. A rapid metallic banging began within their square, a gong beating time for their steadily approaching feet, and pipes skirled to urge them on. The red flag of the north flapped on each corner of the formation, bloody against the restless gray heavens. Closer—closer—here they came!
Carl fitted an arrow to the string from the full quiver before him. Tom and Owl stood on either side, their own bows strained, waiting for the signal. The Lann were close, terribly close. Carl could see a scar zigzagging across one square, bronzed face—gods, would the horn never blow?
Hoo-oo-oo!
At the signal, Carl let his arrow fly. The heavy longbow throbbed in his hand. Over the Dale ranks that storm of whistling, feathered death rose, suddenly darkening the sky—down on the Lann! Carl saw men topple in the square, clawing at the shafts in their bodies, and yanked another arrow forth. Fear was suddenly gone. He felt a vast, chill clearness. He saw tiny things with an unnatural sharp vision, and it was as if everything were slowed to a nightmare’s dragging pace. He saw the wounded and slain Lann fall, saw their comrades behind them trample the bodies underfoot as they stepped into the front ranks—Zip, zip, zip, give it to them!
“Yaaaah!” Tom was howling as he let fly, his fiery hair blown wild as the lifted banners. Owl fired machine-like, one arrow after the next. Carl had time for a brief wondering as to how he looked, and then the Lann struck.
Swords and axes were aloft, banging against shields, a sudden clamor of outraged iron. Men yelled, roared, cursed as they struck, shields trembled under blows, pikes thrust out and daggers flashed. Carl saw the lines of Dalesmen reel back under the shock, planting feet in suddenly slippery ground, hammering at faces that rose out of whirling, racketing fury and were lost again in the press of armored bodies. He skipped backward, up the hill, seeking a vantage point from which to shoot.
Ralph towered above the battle, smiting from his horse at helmeted heads, lifted arms, snarling faces. The animal reared, hoofs striking out, smashing and driving back. A spear thrust against the Chief. He caught it in his left hand, wrenched it loose, and clubbed out savagely while his sword danced on the other side. A Lann soldier rose yelling under the belly of his horse, and Ralph’s spurred heel crashed into his face. Dropping the spear, the Dale chief lifted his horn and blew, long, defiant shrieks that raised answering shouts.
Backed against a thicket, Carl looked over the confusion that boiled below him. The Dalesmen were holding—the Dalesmen stood firm—oh, thank all gods! A sob caught in his throat. He took aim at a mounted piper in the square, and his bow sang and the man staggered in the saddle with an arrow through his shoulder. Mostly Carl was firing blindly into the thick of a mass that swayed and trampled and roared all along the hill.
A spear flew viciously close, plowing into the earth beside him. Arrows were dropping here and there, and stones were flying. The Lann had their own shooting men. Carl growled and planted his legs firm in the grass and shot.
Thunder burst in his head, light flared against a sudden, reeling darkness. He toppled to hands and knees, shaking a head that rang and ached, fighting clear of the night. “Carl! Carl!”
He looked up into Owl’s anxious face and climbed unsteadily erect, leaning on the younger boy. “Not much,” he mumbled. “Flung stone—my helmet took the blow—” His skull throbbed, but he stooped to pick up his weapons.
Back and forth the struggle swayed, edged metal whistling against armor and flesh, deep-throated shouts and hoarse gasps and pain-crazed screams, the air grown thick with arrows and rocks. Ralph was not in sight—Carl’s heart stumbled, then he glimpsed his father’s tall form on foot, hewing about him. His horse must have been killed—
Horse! Where were the Lann horses?
Carl grew chill as his eyes ranged past the fight, down the hill to the river. Only the empty tents and the empty trees to be seen. What were two thousand mounted devils doing?
A scream of horns and voices gave him the answer. He looked right and left, and a groan ripped from him. They had come from the woods into which they had slipped. They were charging up the hill
and from the side against the Dalesmen’s cavalry. He felt the rising thunder of galloping hoofs, saw lances drop low and riders bend in the saddle, and he yelled as the enemy struck.
The impact seemed to shiver in his own bones. Lances splintered against shields or went through living bodies. The inexperienced Dalesmen fell from the saddle, driven back against themselves in a sudden, wild whirlpool… Swords out, flashing, whistling, hacking, rising red!
The Dale foot soldiers had all they could do to stand off the unending Lann press. Meanwhile, their flanks were being driven in, crumpling, horses trampling their own people, warriors speared in the back by lances coming from the rear. Carl fumbled for an arrow, saw that he had used them all, and cursed as he drew his sword and slipped his left arm into the straps of his shield.
The Lann gongs crashed and the Lann pipes screamed in triumph, urging their men on against a wedge that was suddenly breaking up in confusion. Carl saw one of the guards fall, saw Ralph leap into the vacant saddle, and dimly he heard his father’s roar: “Stand fast! Stand fast!”
It was too late, groaned the boy’s mind. The Dalesmen’s host was broken at the wings, forced back against itself by Lann cavalry raging on the flanks and Lann footmen slipping through loosened lines. They were done, and now it was every man for himself.
A couple of enemy horsemen saw the little knot of archers at the thicket, laid lances in rest, and charged. Carl saw them swelling huge, heard the ground quivering under hoofs, caught a horribly clear glimpse of a stallion’s straining nostrils and the foam at its mouth and the rider’s eyes and teeth white in a darkened, blood-streaked face. He acted without thought, hardly heard himself shouting. “Tom, Owl, get that horse—the legs—”
His own sword dropped from his fingers. The lance head was aimed at his breast, he skipped aside, and it blazed past him. He sprang, clutching at the reins beyond as he had often done to stop runaways. The shock of his own weight slammed back against his muscles. He set his teeth and clung there, and the horse plunged to a halt. Tom’s knife gleamed by Carl’s feet, hamstringing. The horse screamed, and a dim corner of Carl’s mind had time to pity this innocent victim of human madness. Then the Lann warrior was springing lithely from the stirrups, to meet Owl’s spear thrust and
fall in a rush of blood. The other horse was running riderless, its master sprawled in the grass with a Dale arrow in him.
But the Dalesmen were encircled, trapped, fighting desperately in a tightening ring. Lann were among them, cutting, smiting, riding their foes down. Carl and his little band stood by the thicket looking at a scene of horror.
Light was dimming—gods, was the sun down already? Or… had the struggle lasted this long?
“To me, Dalesmen! To me!”
Ralph’s deep shout lifted over the clatter and scream of battle. He and the remnants of his guards were gathered around the last Dale banner not fallen to the reddened ground, hewing, driving off the Lann who rushed against them. The Chief winded his horn even as he engaged an enemy horseman, and men lifted weary heads and began to fight a way over to him.
“Come on!” snapped Carl. “All together! Stick close together! We’ve got to get there!”
They moved away from the thicket in a tight-packed square, perhaps thirty young archers and slingers with swords out. A detachment of Lann foot soldiers came against them. Carl bent low, holding his shield before his body, peering over the top and thrusting. A man attacked, using his own shield to defend himself. Even in the deepening murk, Carl saw the golden ring in the man’s nose.
The northern sword clashed against his own steel. He thrust back, hammering at the shield and the helmet, stabbing for the face that grinned at him. He hardly felt the shock of blows on his own metal. Probe—side-swipe—catch his blade on your own, twist it away, straighten your arm and stab for the golden ring—
The man was gone as the fight shifted. Carl was battling someone else. That was war, a huge confusion where men fought strangers that came out of nowhere and were as mysteriously gone. Now there was a shout on his left; another small group of Dalesmen was joining theirs and the Lann melted away.
Ralph’s standard flew before them. They came up to him and entered the growing ring of warriors rallying about their Chief. The Lann yelped against that wall of flying steel, dogs attacking a herd of wild bulls. And more Dalesmen made their way over to Ralph, and then more.
The darkness had grown thick. Carl could hardly see the men he
fought except as shadows and a gleam of wet metal. His breath was harsh and heavy in dry throat and laboring breast.
Ralph’s voice seemed to come from very far away: “All right—now we cut our way free!”
He rode out of the ring, laying about him from the saddle, and his men stumbled after him. They were drawn close together by instinct and the press of the foe, but in the raging gloom there was little need of skill. You struck and took blows yourself and threw your own weight into the mass that jammed against buckling enemy lines.
Ralph and a few guards rode up and down the tattered Dale ranks, smiting at the foe, shouting their own men on, holding together and leading them into the woods. When the trees closed about that great weary retreat, men stumbled and groped a way forward in the utter darkness. For an instant, wild panic beat in Carl. He wanted to run away, run and run and run forever from this place of slaughter, but he heard his father’s voice, and a tired steadiness came. He thought dully that without Ralph, there would simply have been a stampede, even if the Dalesmen had somehow managed to escape that trap; the Lann could have hunted them down as hounds hunt down a stag. But the Chief had saved them. He had held his beaten army together and—
Now the fighting had ceased. They fumbled a slow way through brush and trees, down the hill into darkness, but still no Lann confronted them.