The Maid's War(8)

Another storm of arrows came raining down. This was the basic tactic of the Ceredigion forces. Alensson knew if they could survive the deadly hail a bit longer, the arrows would no longer be effective. Shafts rained down on him, glancing off the sturdy armor of his mount, slamming against his shield but not piercing it. His arm grew weary from holding the shield in place but he dared not move it. The Atabyrions continued to march through the haze of pain and torture, faces twisted with grimaces of rage. They were not cowed yet.

“Charge!” Alensson shouted, kicking the flanks of his steed and closing the distance faster. The soldiers were jogging now, scrambling over their fallen comrades. The knights broke free of the men-at-arms, and the horses gained speed, filling the young duke’s heart with the thrill of impending combat.

The front ranks of archers came forward and began hammering the pointed ends of sharpened stakes into the earth. The stakes were intended to impale the charging horses, preventing the knights from breaking through the ranks of lightly armed archers.

Alensson watched in surprise as the archers struggled to fix the stakes into the earth. Summer was nearly at an end, and the fields had been baked by the sun. The archers struggled to get them into position. The wall of spikes would not be ready in time!

“Onward!” he screamed, swinging his sword over his head. The euphoria of battle raged inside him as he realized the fatal flaw in their enemy’s defenses. Whooping with glee, Alensson let his charger plunge ahead. He and the other knights struck the front lines of archers like a scythe, slicing and trampling the men who stood in their way. The Ceredigions scattered like ants from a destroyed mound.

The explosion of noise and violence filled Alensson’s eyes and ears. He was in the midst of the enemy, slashing on each side of his horse. The wall of archers had crumpled, and now the men-at-arms were rushing forward to save their weaker comrades. Alensson was ready for them. He met the enemy head-on, galloping into the ranks of the soldiers as he used the edge, hilt, and flat of his blade with every stroke. The battle cries of his men filled him with confidence. Exhaustion threatened to blunt his strength, but he would not succumb to it. No, he would set the example of courage for his men.

He and his men had plunged deep into the Ceredigic army. The sounds of battle raged around him, and he lost all sense of direction in the maelstrom of violence. Blood clung to his weapon; blood splattered across his armor. He drove forward, cutting and cleaving his way until suddenly there were no more soldiers left in front of him. He blinked rapidly, trying to see through the stinging sweat. It took him a moment to realize where he’d led his men—they’d completely crushed the right flank of the enemy and were now approaching the reserves and the baggage. The baggage was where they’d find all the treasure to pay the soldiers and where the food to feed them would be stored. There were horses hobbled there as well, defended by panicking men.

“Onward! Onward!” Alensson croaked with excitement. He had no idea what was happening in the field behind him, but he’d pushed all the way through to the rear of Deford’s army. If they could encircle the army, they’d be able to attack from all sides. Alensson had hoped he’d be able to face Deford himself. Where was the false duke?

Then arrows began to fly at them from the baggage. One caught Alensson’s horse in the leg and the beast screamed and went down. The weight of Alensson’s armor started to pull at him, but he’d trained for this—he knew how to disengage from his armor before it crushed him. An arrow caught him in the breastplate, hitting him with enough force to spin him around. Where was his shield? Archers were now scuttling out of the baggage like cockroaches. The sight of them caused a shock of surprise and worry. Fear chased into him next. Where had the archers hidden? He began to jog toward the baggage, weaving in his steps to make himself a more difficult target. More arrows lanced at him. It was foolhardy for these men to shoot arrows so close to their own army’s rear, but the archers kept up the withering fire and Alensson felt another bolt strike his helmet.

He spun and collapsed onto his back, the force of the landing knocking the wind out of him. His lungs heaved and twisted, struggling for air, but he couldn’t breathe, and the terror of being strangled made him buck and twist. He rolled over onto his stomach, sweat streaking down his face. Someone hit him from behind with a bowstave.

Still unable to breathe, Alensson twisted his sword, maneuvering it up and out from his own armpit, and caught his attacker in the middle. Air began to squeeze back into his lungs and he coughed violently. The cockroach archers were now jumping away from the baggage and running toward his men, using daggers and hand axes as their weapons.