Authors: Tony Shillitoe
‘Leader Blade said they’re for you,’ a voice said over her shoulder. Startled, she turned to find Nails’ familiar face in the lantern light. ‘Come on. We’re meant to be getting into ranks,’ he urged. ‘You can buckle up as we walk.’
Meg waited for Nails to withdraw, before she scooped up a handful of earth and smeared it across her face. Although she hadn’t washed for days, she was not taking any chances. She gathered the weapons and exited.
The entire camp was in motion. Torches flowed with streams of men moving through the darkness. Horses
snorted as they trotted past. Dogs padded silently beside their handlers, as if aware of the importance of the moment. Meg buckled her belt as she fell in line with Blade’s Group. ‘Hey,’ Nails whispered, and thrust something leathery into her hands. ‘Sword gloves, Red,’ he explained. ‘They’ll keep your hands warm.’
She nodded her appreciation, and slid on the gloves, noticing how the fingers were cut out. She knew the risk, but she tried to lower her voice and asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Looks like the final battle is happening this morning,’ Nails replied. ‘We’re going to set up.’
Her heart raced. Battle? She’d been scared the previous day by the attacks and melees, almost running away to escape the violence. Now she was being herded into the heart of it. If she was clever, she could slip into the rivers of men and swim against the tide until she was free. If she was challenged, all she had to do was proclaim her sex.
But then she wouldn’t be able to save Treasure.
That single thought held her in line beside Nails when commonsense told her to run.
W
armaster Kingsman moved along the front rank of the Queen’s soldiers facing The Whispering Forest, randomly patting shoulders and helmets, offering encouragement to pale or tired men. Occasionally, he looked across the open field at the forest shadows, and wondered if his Rebel counterpart was doing the same to rally his troops. He knew the man’s name—Keeneye Forthright, a former Warmaster in the Queen’s army, who’d defected to support Prince Future’s claim to the throne. They’d fought each other for more than two years, since Kingsman’s predecessor, Warmaster Queensguard, was slain by the Rebel Seers. There’d been assassination attempts and traps to send Kingsman to embrace his predecessor’s fate, but Kingsman cleverly avoided death. Today, either Forthright or he would perish. The outcome of the battle would decide. He had the superior numbers, and he had the Rebels trapped; Forthright had the magical support of the traitorous Seers, and Marchlord Overbrook, a young soldier with legendary fighting skills and magical blue armour that ordinary weapons could not pierce.
The sun had yet to rise over the distant Shield Mountains, the world still washed in soft pre-dawn grey. Brief white clouds escaped the soldiers’ chilled lips.
It is a brittle morning for a battle
, Kingsman decided, clapping his gloved hands.
Midway along the front rank, he faced the assembled troops. He patted down his black heraldic jerkin, and took a deep breath. ‘This morning will decide the outcome!’ he announced. ‘Future’s renegades do not have our strength! Or our numbers! Or our resilience! We are the better men! We are the Queen’s men! We outnumber the Rebels five to one! As Jarudha is my witness, today we will taste sweet victory!’ A ragged cheer from the closest soldiers was echoed deeper in the ranks, and Kingsman smiled grimly.
He recommenced his stroll along the front rank, the wet grass crushed under his boots, his mind tormented by the events of the past three days of pursuit and skirmish. Last night, as his army set up camp, he’d sent heralds with ultimatums to the Rebels. Future and his Seers had to surrender to face public execution for treason. Pardons would be offered to the remaining followers. If Future refused to surrender, the forest would be torched, and his treacherous supporters driven to slaughter like feral animals. Kingsman hoped that the Rebels would see sense in avoiding this battle, but, as he expected, Future’s reply was blunt. He informed Kingsman that he would sooner die, sword in hand, than choke to death, kicking like a common criminal on the gallows. The die was cast. The final battle would be to the death.
‘Have courage, lad,’ Kingsman said, as he patted the drooping shoulder of a skinny youth whose eyes were fixed on his feet. When the young soldier did not lift his chin, which disappointed the Warmaster, he gently
clapped the youth on the side of the helmet, saying, ‘It’ll be over soon enough, lad,’ and moved further down the line.
The young soldier waited until the Warmaster’s footsteps faded before looking up. In the dim grey light, a keen eye would recognise a girl’s face beneath the carefully smeared grime and dust. The soldiers either side of her were engaged in their thoughts. This morning they might die. Every fibre focussed on that instant, that breath, that heartbeat.
Meg’s dark green eyes searched the forest shadows, anticipating the flicker of movement, the glint of metal, the cry that would bring the enemy charging headlong into battle. In that darkness, the man destined to kill her lover was waiting. What was he thinking? Did he already anticipate the first blood, the sharp steel slicing through warm flesh? Was he already imagining his triumph? She shivered. Had he already dreamed of this morning, this field, just as she had? Did he already know what was coming?
A ghostly war horn echoed deep in the forest, answered by three more. Meg’s heart quickened. The young man to her left was nervously fingering the shaft of his spear, his eyes fixed dead ahead. His face, like her own, was dirty, but his eyes were fearful, full of uncertainty. She could almost taste his fear in the dryness of her own mouth. Only a fool would have ended here, on the front line, like she had. Foolishness. Utter stupidity. ‘It’s starting,’ said Nails on her right, but he stared straight ahead. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Red. I didn’t know we were going to be on the front rank this morning.’
Where’s Blade?
she wondered. She looked along the line for anyone who might be a Leader, and saw only patiently waiting soldiers. In her nervous state, she thought of Wombat.
He’d love to be standing
here
, she imagined. Instead he was somewhere behind the army, in the caravan, recuperating from his wounds.
A horn sang behind her, its mellow note frightening a flock of magpies into flight. The birds wheeled above the trees, where the first rays of the morning sun gilded their plumage. The sky was bleeding into soft blue, pocked with grey-white clouds. Further along the line, horses stamped and snorted as the Queen’s knights took position, preparing to charge into the enemy’s left flank when the full battle began. Over her right shoulder, she spied a host of black lances that waved as the knights’ horses shifted uneasily. They had the battle scent. Warmaster Kingsman was striding back along the ranks. She had to find Treasure—somehow—if he was still alive. The golden wash of sunlight was already staining the forest canopy.
‘There,’ whispered Nails.
Shadows stirred. Slowly, silently, like wraiths in the old ballads, Future’s Rebel army materialised between the tree trunks. Riders cantered back and forth, organising the front line. The renegade army was smaller than Meg expected. Just as Warmaster Kingsman had said, the odds heavily favoured the Queen’s army. She wondered why so many Rebels were willing to die for a lost cause?
‘Be bold and resolute!’ Kingsman shouted to the long line of warriors. ‘Breathe this morning’s sweet air! Smell the rich scent of victory! Today you are heroes of the realm!’ On cue, the mellow war horn bellowed a challenge to Future’s troops, and was swiftly answered by horns in the forest. Swords rattled, spears rustled around Meg. A horse whinnied. She undid the leather strap securing her sword, and placed her palm on the hilt. The metal pommel was bitterly cold. Why did she bother? She had no idea how to use the weapon. If she
was on the front line when the enemy reached her, she would run for her life, or fall and feign death, to avoid fighting.
‘They’re coming,’ someone announced, and the front rank of Future’s troops swayed into motion. Meg’s heart raced, but after a dozen paces the Rebels halted and closed ranks. They were too far away to see their faces, and she guessed that they were still well out of bowshot. She wondered how many were frightened young men like those she stood amongst. How many had a reason for being there? An invisible drum began marking time behind Future’s men, thumping out a steady rhythm. The mist was dissolving. The morning sun angled in as it climbed, glinting gold on helmets and shields. Leaders bellowed orders to sections of the Queen’s army.
‘We’ve been given the honour of the front line!’ a familiar voice yelled, as Blade pushed to the front to face his Group, his sword drawn. ‘We will draw first blood this morning!’ he yelled, grinning, as if the prospect of death was a joke. ‘And I will stand among you!’ He stepped between Nails and Meg, and clapped Nails on the shoulder, but to Meg he whispered, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘But I am,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Neither did I,’ he told her apologetically. ‘As soon as the battle heats up, I’ll cover your retreat. Get out the back as quickly as you can.’ He turned his attention to the others and bolstered their spirits with banter.
Warmaster Kingsman stood several paces ahead of the front rank, a single defiant figure, studying the Rebel force. A war horn bellowed from the ranks of Future’s army, and the drumbeat quickened into a march. The front line bulged. ‘They come!’ Kingsman yelled, and the Warmaster took his place proudly in the
front line as a dozen horns answered the Rebels’ challenge.
‘Jarudha protect us,’ murmured the young man on Meg’s left. She wriggled her aching shoulders, and twisted the sword awkwardly in her hand, fighting her rising desire to run. If she ran now, who would stop her? Blade was willing to cover her escape. If she stayed, she would die before she could warn Treasure. But her dream would be wrong then, wouldn’t it?
The Rebel army advanced at a steady pace. ‘Wait!’ Kingsman ordered, above the growing din. ‘Bowmen ready!’ The whisper of arrows being nocked rose and fell. The oncoming mass melted into individual figures carrying an assortment of weapons—pikes, spears, swords, pitchforks, spades. ‘Release!’ Kingsman yelled. Three thousand bowstrings thundered as arrows whooshed into flight. With morbid fascination, Meg watched the first volley rain on the enemy and decimate their foremost ranks. The Rebels baulked, but the drum broke into double-time, and with a rousing war cry they charged. A second volley of arrows cut another swathe, but the distance between the forces quickly narrowed.
Faces took shape—screaming, wild, murderous faces. Meg edged backwards. Men were charging at her, spears aimed, swords flailing. Another arrow strike cut down the men in front of her. Blade stepped into the space she left as the first Rebel wave broke on the front wall of the Queen’s army. The impact sent men stumbling and sprawling backwards. Nails crashed against her and they collapsed at the feet of the second rank. Limbs and weapons thrashed. She kicked and lashed out blindly with her sword, desperate to regain her feet, until arms grabbed her and helped her up. The skirmish became a frenzy of screaming men and clashing weapons. A horn bellowed, and the noise of
fighting rapidly diminished. Over the heads of the soldiers in front of her, Meg saw the enemy retreating. The first attack had disintegrated. Dead and wounded men littered the line.
Warmaster Kingsman reappeared at the head of the ranks. ‘Get the dead and wounded away!’ he yelled. The ranks shifted, and Meg was pushed aside as designated men quickly lifted the wounded and dragged the corpses back through the lines. Nails Carpenter was carried away, his left arm hanging loose and dripping blood. ‘Second line forward!’ Kingsman ordered. On that command, the front rank survivors stepped back to let the soldiers in the second row replace them. ‘Well done!’ Kingsman commended, as the shuffling ceased. ‘New rank ready.’ As he finished, the enemy drums commenced another steady rhythm, and a second line of Rebels began their march across the intervening field.
‘Are you all right?’ Blade asked, turning Meg to face him.
‘I’m fine,’ she whispered, conscious that others might be listening.
‘Now is the time to leave. Go along the third rank, towards the rise over there,’ he said, indicating a point where a small mallee-covered crest overlooked the battlefield. ‘The caravan is just over that hill. You’ll find Wombat there.’
‘What if I’m challenged?’
‘Tell them you’re a minstrel with a message from Leader Cutter for the caravan Group Leader. No one will query that.’ When he saw her hesitate, he said, ‘Bravery is for idiots. Smart people know when to get out,’ and he pushed her away.
Meg went quickly. She pushed through to the next rank and headed towards the distant hilltop. The Queen’s archers loosed a storm of arrows, and she
looked up as they whistled overhead towards the enemy. As the volley struck, the screams of the soldiers were drowned by the cry of a high-pitched trumpet. A collective gasp rippled through the army. Driven by curiosity, Meg peered over the shoulders and heads of the men and saw that new events were unfolding.
Riders emerged from the enemy’s main force at the foot of the forest, spurring their mounts into full gallop. A bass horn blasted behind Meg, and the Queen’s knights behind the foot soldiers lowered their helmet visors and their black lances. A second horn blast sent them charging along hastily created channels through the ranks into the meadow. The opposing cavalries crashed head-on in the midst of the Rebels’ advancing front line, and quickly became a chaotic jumble of men and horses, armour and lances. The clash of forces stopped the archers, whose arrows would fall among their own knights if they persisted.
A soldier on Meg’s left yelped and collapsed, clutching a crossbow bolt buried in his ribs, and a second bolt whistled past her shoulder. She instinctively crouched as the soldiers scrambled to repel the unexpected attack, but another young man staggered sideways, and pitched onto her. She wormed her way from beneath the dead weight, and barely dodged a stray axe swung by a Rebel. Her frantic attacker was overwhelmed by a pack of soldiers. As the horns blared emphatically, calling the Queen’s soldiers to defend their position, Meg scrambled deeper into the throng of soldiers to escape the fighting, but a wall of armoured men trapped her in their path and pushed her back towards the front ranks. Turning, as she was washed forward by the tide, she glimpsed Kingsman still at the forefront, gesticulating and shouting, but his voice no longer
carried above the wild clamour. She broke free of the advancing wall, and saw what the Warmaster was furiously indicating to a score of his archers.
A single rider was galloping on a grey horse at breakneck speed across the space separating the opposing armies, sweeping wide of the chaos where the cavalries were locked in combat, heading for the gap in the ranks of the Queen’s army created by the flanking attack. To the left of Future’s main force, where Kingsman was pointing, three blue-robed figures were facing the breakaway rider and weaving their hands majestically in a strange, ritualistic pattern. A strong tingling sensation rippled up Meg’s spine. They were casting a spell! The rider wore highly polished armour; armour with a strange blue hue to the metal. A cloud of arrows arched towards him, but they bounced harmlessly off his armour, and left his horse unscathed.
Kingsman, who lumbered across the battlefield as quickly as his heavy armour allowed while he dodged pockets of fighting that threatened to drag him in, motioned for the archers to target the Seers. The Queen’s archers loosed a storm of arrows and the three figures broke and ran. Two fell, riddled with arrows. The third miraculously escaped unhurt, and vanished into the forest verge. Seeing the Seers scatter, Kingsman raised his double-bladed battleaxe and stepped into the blue knight’s path.