An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 20

Wyvern’s Tail, Stormhaven, Iron Keep

Garris walked down the rocky beach, looking from the land and then back out to the sea, envisioning in his head where ships would come from and the best place to position his men.

Even in the height of summer, it was cold this close to the Icelands and Alchmara, the water pushing down out of the Frozen Sea keeping the Bleakwater Straits frigid year-round. Technically, The Wyvern’s Tail, the isthmus that projected off the western side of Iron Keep and into the straits, was north of Sheildhome, the capital of the duchy of Icelands, and was roughly on the same line as the frozen peaks to the far west.

Not that knowing that made the freezing winds coming off the straits any less biting. The land resembled the waters beyond it, the rugged coastline dominated by sharp rocky outcrops and the scattered scrub that managed to cling to life.

“Along here, from water line to water line,” Garris said.

“This is fairly far back, my lord,” Sir Odran said. “The archers will not be enough to push them back into the sea, and we will be too far to keep them from assembling.”

“The tail is a point. If we go too far forward, they’ll just sail past us, and then where will we be? We want them to land here, right at the end, and the only way to guarantee that is to make it an opportunity. Let them think we made a mistake and positioned too far to the rear.”

“Or we make a mistake and position too far to the rear,” Odran said, causing Garris to shake his head with a smile.

They weren’t as individualistic as the Icelanders, but there was an informality that wouldn’t be allowed by Kingshearters or River Markians. In Iron Keep, it was almost expected. They might follow their leaders, but they would complain the whole time they did it. Of course, they chafed at being kept from the thick of the battle, as well.

“That depression back there. Move all of your knights to it and split it into two groups until called upon. I don’t want the enemy to see you until I want you seen.”

“So we’re not even to join in the fighting. Do you want them ashore?”

“I do.”

“Are we even sure this is where they’ll be landing?”

“Yes. They were never going to take the Keep just landing down by the sisters. It’s not enough and would need too much to push all the way down to the Shatterstar Mountains. No, for this to work, they’ll want to land here and probably in Everwood, by the plains just north of the forests. There are too many crown ships in the Bay to keep tabs on ships sailing for Everwood, but we control the straits. Between the scouts following them on the shore and the boats we’ve had tailing them, they’re landing here. And they’re landing here today. Now, go get your men situated.”

Odran grimaced but went to do as he was told while the sergeants got the men-at-arms in place, backed by what conscripts he could get together on the march here. It was organized chaos for a time, but the men were seasoned, having spent their lives fighting off Alchmara raiders and pirates.

So he waited, checking the men, making sure people were where he needed them. He ended up backing his line up further, probably still visible, but seemingly out of position. He wanted to seal the idea that they were caught off guard, unprepared.

“Sir, a ship,” one of the men called out, pointing to the water.

Garris squinted, looking at the ship, but it wasn’t sailing to them. It was sailing past, not toward the tail. The closer it got, the easier it was to see, until finally, he could make out the symbol of a keep at the top of a mountain, the symbol of Iron Keep.

It was one of his scouts, sent to shadow the enemy. He’d had them watch the Iceland ports ever since the landings by the Darian Hills, knowing this day was coming. It had allowed him to get an army here in time and know what direction they were coming. The only reason they would be ahead of the fleet now was that the enemy was almost here.

“It’s time. Everyone up. Get ready,” he called out.

He’d let the men relax while they’d waited, but now it was showtime. Time to show these northern bastards what happened when you stepped foot on the keep without permission.

They didn’t need to wait for long. Fifteen minutes, the first ships were on the horizon, spread out in a line, to land across the tip of the tail. They would see his men by now too. It was hard to hide this many souls, even on land. Not in such a flat and desolate place as this.

“Sergeant, tell the men to advance to their positions. Quickly but in good order. We want the enemy to see us, to think us unprepared.”

As his troops moved forward, spreading out across the beach in a loose formation, Garris continued studying the approaching fleet. He counted at least thirty ships, a significant force, but not overwhelming. Although he’d learned over his many years not to ever underestimate an Icelander. They were bastards, but tough ones.

Garris was focused, watching the distance close as the ships neared the shore, measuring the distance in his head.

“Archers, on your targets. FIRE!”

A flag dropped, the sign for the captains of the separate sections of archers, one on the far left and one on the far right, to light their arrows and pull back. Even in the mid-afternoon sun, the sight of hundreds of flaming arrows arching through the sky was a sight to see.

The arrows were not spread across the whole fleet. They were flown to either side of the fleet, striking the ships on the flanks of the enemy formation. Icelanders had a problem with icing on their sails and freezing of planking, causing it to crack and shatter. They countered this by using a fair amount of pitch and tar to insulate the ships and the roping. It worked well but made their ships highly flammable.

A fact Garris was taking advantage of.

Flames caught in sail and timber as arrows began to strike their targets, the ships quickly catching light, the fire racing along its planks, following the path of the pitch and tar. The men threw buckets of water at it, trying to put it out, even as more arrows hit. It was a losing battle, and shortly had the boats on the wings sending warriors scrambling into the sea, hoping they could make it through the frozen waters to shore rather than burn to death.

Few would.

Another flight let loose. And then another. More ships burned and more men ended in the water. Not enough to change the tide of battle, but that was as expected. Garris couldn’t think of any time archers stopped an invading fleet.

It did cause the remaining ships to shift to the center from either side, bunching up. Ships ground to a halt on the beach, disgorging warriors over the sides of them, their war cries carried across the sand as they formed up, clearly confident in their superior numbers and reputation.

“Steady. Steady,” he called out as the line wavered, at seeing the growing force of screaming northmen.

They waited and watched as more men got off the ships, growing their forces by the moment. And then a horn sounded. The Icelanders were fully committed now, their warriors forming shield walls as they advanced up the beach. Their outer ships still burned, forcing late-arriving vessels to land in the center, stacking up with the others.

“Begin moving forward, but keep your spacing,” Garris ordered.

Their own horns sounded, flags waving to give them the orders to move forward. Sergeants shouted, yelling at their men to stay in line and together. They were good men, doing their jobs well. Starting this battle right was critical. If they attacked, screaming mass to screaming mass, they would lose, the enemy would overpower them and wipe them out.

Both sides accelerated as they ran into each other, the Icelanders spreading out to cover his whole line, but still bunching up in the center because of how they landed.

The Icelanders crashed into Garris’s line like a wave against rocks, his pike and shield men against axes and spears. The Northmen fought like demons, as was their reputation. They struck with savage efficiency, pressing and fighting, trying to force a gap in his line. His men were well-trained and prepared for this battle, the combination of pike and shield well-suited for keeping soldiers back, giving them reach and protection.

Men fell and died as the battle began to reach a fever pitch. Everything in Garris wanted to join his men in the line, to fight with them, maybe keep some of them from dying. But this required more focus and coordination, which he could not do and fight at the same time.

“Signal the center,” Garris said.

Flags went up. The commanders of his center units had been watching it, waiting, and they began to fall back, fighting every step of the way. It meant some of his men would be wounded and killed where they lay as the enemy passed over them, but it was what had to happen.

The Icelanders sensed weakness in his center. Their war chiefs redirected their warriors, concentrating their strength where they saw the Sidorians faltering. More and more Northmen poured into what they perceived as a growing gap in the defensive line.

His troops continued their controlled withdrawal, giving ground step by step. The Icelanders pressed forward eagerly, their formation becoming less organized as they pursued what they thought were routing enemies.

The beach had become a charnel house. Bodies littered the sand, and the incoming tide began to turn red with blood. It felt all the more like the depths as the wind shifted, blowing the smoke from the burning ships across the battlefield, lowering visibility and choking everyone with smoke.

Garris only hoped it didn’t get to the point, as this would require coordination.

“They’re fully committed now,” one of his aides said.

Garris smiled grimly. The Northmen had taken the bait, advancing deeper into the pocket created by the slow retreat of the center.

“Almost,” he said, watching the enemy advance. “Almost...”

The Icelanders pushed forward with increasing confidence, their men becoming less and less coordinated as they pushed in, men getting pressed by their own comrades, hoping to be part of the group who broke through.

A horn sounded from the enemy lines as the rest of the men from the boats charged forward, apparently the last of their reserves. They were fully committed now.

“Now,” Garris commanded, causing the horn next to him to blast, loud enough to be heard over the sound of battle.

The Icelanders, at least a few of them, stopped pushing forward, realizing that something was happening. Not that they had time to do anything about it. Two flanking banners shot up in unison from behind the depression where his knights had been hiding, sending the knights surging into view and toward either side of the line, which was already curling in, pressing hard against the few Icelanders left to hold against them.

What little resistance they put up ended when the knights crashed into them, causing them to break, some running to the ships, but most being forced in toward the mass of men in the center. His own center had stopped backing up and was now holding firm. More than firm, since the enemy, sensing trouble, had almost completely stopped pushing.

The knights pressed in as the box closed around them, now trapping them in a complete envelopment. Some of the knights broke off, sweeping the beach of anyone left alive, not caught in the trap, while others dismounted to join the fight on foot.

Now it was only a matter of time before they slaughtered each and every one of the Icelanders, teaching them what happened when they dared invite the Keep.

“No quarter,” Garris yelled at his men, not that they needed a reminder.

These men had come to pillage their homes and kill their families. They were out for blood. Not that the Icelanders were going to make it easy. The Northmen fought like cornered wolves, desperate to escape, but they were packed too tightly to properly swing their axes or maneuver.

Even the archers were getting involved, moving forward now that the line had collapsed, shooting into the mass of men, sure to get a kill no matter where they aimed.

“Keep the pressure!” Garris commanded. “Don’t let them…”

“My lord!” A rider appeared through the smoke, nearly falling from his horse in his haste to reach Garris. “One of the scout ships reports more vessels approaching from the south. They must have sailed around the tail and come back up. At least twenty vessels!”

“How far?”

“Less than an hour away, my lord. They’re moving fast with the wind.”

Garris cursed. The bastards had split their forces, letting his scouts follow the obvious threat while positioning reinforcements to catch him unaware. If those ships landed troops behind his position...

“Sound withdrawal,” he ordered. “Three long blasts.”

The horns rang out across the battlefield. His commanders knew the signal, fall back in stages, maintaining order.

“My lord,” Odran protested, riding up to him. “We have them trapped! They are ours!”

“The enemy is flanking us by sea, soon we’ll be the ones trapped if we don’t move. We can’t afford to throw men away.”

Odran frowned, but obeyed, beginning to pull his knights back. At least the withdrawal was well done. The Icelanders sensed their change and retreated. They were broken, and not a serious threat as long as his men kept their wits. Most ran for the ships, desperate to escape.

He would get his men out, although any wounded would have to be left behind. He had failed stopping this landing. This new force would be able to land successfully, and eventually the broken men of the first set would eventually rally and join them.

He was going to lose the tail.

“Send runners to Brigwyn,” Garris told his aide. “Tell them to prepare the defenses. We’ll need every sword when these bastards try again.”

Through the smoke, he could see the remaining Icelanders reforming their lines, their numbers severely depleted but not destroyed. Their dead littered the beach, and their burning ships would deny them easy retreat, but too many had survived for his comfort.

“Time to go, my lord,” Odran said as the last of the infantry cleared the battlefield.

Garris nodded. He’d failed, and now they would have to fight on two fronts.

***

***

Rendalia City, Rendalia

Isolde followed Pembroke and his soldiers toward the docks, which she had been through when she had first come to the city, but not since then. Mostly at Pembroke’s own request since he allowed her sojourns into the city. While she still chafed against the restrictions placed on her, she did understand. Ships were coming in and out of the port constantly as the Sidorians continued to pull back to the province and hand over control of the cities and villages they had taken during the fighting.

A lot of those ships were filled with wounded who had been held at aid stations and in forward hospitals in cities like Talabot and other places the Sidorians had taken, but had to come back to Sidorian territory now that the war was over.

The only word she could think of, now that she saw it in first person, was chaos. It also explained why Pembroke had brought so many guards. Yes, there was still the danger of her being attacked by someone who held her at fault for the war because of who her father was, but Pembroke was with her. So it had surprised her, since she had taken it to mean he thought he might be in trouble.

What he had brought them for was to clear the way so they could get to where they were going, which would have been difficult with just the two of them, pushing through the thick crowds of people without guards to clear the way.

It was even more surprising to see this crowd considering that today was Remembrance Day, the start of the new year and the day they were supposed to worship and reflect on what ended the time of magic and created the world as they knew it now. In normal times, the city streets would be empty, save the evening procession by the Acolytes.

Here, things seemed as busy as any place she had ever been, regardless of the holiday.

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” she asked the Baron. “With this much happening, and these many injured men coming in, won’t it cause problems? Maybe slow down the men getting to the disciples?”

“Most of the ships are supplies coming in to feed all the people being brought here. This will do the men good, and you, too.”

“Supplies? Looting areas as you leave them?” she asked angrily, already knowing that wasn’t fair, based on what she knew of William and what she’d learned of Pembroke.

“No. Only military supplies. William ordered that the stockpiled food supplies be turned over to civilian committees and local leaders to be distributed as we leave the area, so that your nobles don’t hoard the food and sell it off to make up for the money they’ve lost.”

As a Lynesian, she would have been offended by the implication if she had not seen her father’s nobles do that exact thing time and again. It was one of the things she always hated about her father’s empire. That it put the wealth of the nobles above the lives of the commoners. She warned him that one day those actions would come back to roost, the people rising up against him.

Her father had called her naive.

She didn’t say any of that to Pembroke, however. She might have disagreement with her father, but even with that she couldn’t bring herself to speak ill of her homeland.

Pembroke slowed as they got to a very large warehouse that looked as if it had been built to house fish and not wounded men. The only sign that it was a hospital at all was the large Order of Healing banner hung outside the doors.

“Today, of all days, it is important for someone to visit the injured, let them know they haven’t been abandoned now that the war is over.”

“I’m not so sure I’m what they have in mind.”

“Only because they don’t know you. I talked to enough of your injured to know how much the soldiers serving your father loved you, and from talking to William, I believe you loved them as well. I think you’ll be surprised with how quickly you’ll be taken with our men.”

“I find that doubtful,” Isolde said, looking to one of the guards near her.

On all of her trips out of the keep, she had been surrounded by guards, who still felt more like they were keeping control of her as a prisoner, rather than protecting her from danger.

They were as skeptical of her as she was of them.

At least the smell inside the warehouse was familiar, thick with herbs and the dull, metallic undertone of blood. Row after row of cots stretched down the massive building, each cot narrow and close together, with men lying motionless or shifting uncomfortably beneath thin sheets. Pale, drawn faces turned toward their small entourage.

Probably the first people they had seen that weren’t Disciples or other wounded. Isolde’s fingers gripped the edges of her sleeves, her usual confidence wavering as the moment was on her, and she was forced to face the men who had killed the Lynesians who had looked to her for the same comfort she was now supposed to offer them.

Isolde gathered herself, smoothing the edge of her gown as she moved between the rows of narrow cots. The men watched her move, some smiling weakly, while others gave her either confused or somewhat angry looks. She couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, the ones who smiled just didn’t know who she was.

Although the Baron and horde of guards should have been an indication.

She’d done this before, with her own people. She could manage this. She hesitated only a moment before reaching the bedside of a young man, his face pale and drawn. The men around her began to stir, those who could propping themselves up to see her.

“Please, rest,” Isolde said. “I’ve come to see how you fare.”

“Better now that a pretty girl has come to visit me,” the soldier said.

“Stupid, that’s the prince’s new wife,” a man near him said.

The first boy had a stricken expression as he turned back to Isolde, looking at her then to Pembroke standing behind her as if he might be beheaded for his insolence.

“It’s fine. He’s not a jealous man, I don’t think. If anything, I think he would agree with you.”

“Not surprising. The Cub would not have to worry about any man taking his girl.”

“The cub?”

“The men call William ‘The Warrior Cub.’ It’s something of a term of endearment,” Pembroke added behind her.

It did not surprise her. She had seen in every interaction he’d had with the soldiers that they loved him.

“I see,” Isolde said.

“Dotes on her, too,” another soldier with a bandage over the stump of his right arm said. “Saw them both at the docks when they carried me off, as he headed up onto his ship. The way he was looking at her, it was how I looked at my Bonnie in the early days of courting. Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”

It had been a bittersweet goodbye. Their one night together had been awkward and fumbling for both of them, but pleasant. She’d wished she’d gotten more time to spend with her new husband, but she already knew she liked him after her month as his prisoner.

“He is sweet,” she said, smiling at the memory. “You fought under his command?”

“Yes, Princess. I stormed the walls of Talabot with him. Fought next to him. Bravest man I ever served under. Led from the front, he did. Never asked us to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.”

Isolde wasn’t sure how to take that. In a way, she was proud of him, that the men would have such good things to say about him. But, that had been at the cost of her own countrymen. True, she knew her father was truly to blame for it, but that did not relieve all the feeling she had toward the men William had killed.

Thankfully, she was saved from having to confront those feelings more directly when the soldier sagged back down, tired from the conversation.

“Rest now,” she said, patting him on the arm. “All of you rest. You’ll be better soon, and headed home.”

She stepped away and walked through more cots, seeing another man watching her intently, not with anger. More with curiosity, his leg wrapped in a bandage.

“May I?” she gestured to the wooden stool beside him.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Where are you from?”

“The River Mark. Down the Cherwell River, not far from the Redwood.”

“The Baron has told me a lot about that land. It sounds beautiful. I can’t wait to see it for myself. Do you have a family there?”

“I do. Three little ones. Wife caught the fever two years back, so they are living with my sister and her husband while I’m here.”

“I bet you miss them.”

“I do at that.”

“Tell me about them,” Isolde said.

“Two boys and a girl. Eldest is twelve now …” the man said, getting a far off look as he spoke about the children he clearly loved so much.

Listening to him, she was struck by how right Pembroke had been. These men … boys mostly, weren’t unlike the Lynesians she had visited in similar hospitals in Valemonde. Or the men she’d visited out on their lines, trying to give a boost to their morale.

They were simple people, just like the Lynesians. They wanted to protect their families, to do right by them, and just live the best lives they could. It did change her perspective. Maybe she could find a way to care about them the same as she had her own people. They were all children of the ancients, after all.

Not that it would be an easy transition.

***

Darrion Hills, Northern Iron Keep

Baron Owen Kingsleigh shifted uncomfortably atop his horse, watching the ragged remnants of his force shambling through the ragged pass that led out to the plains and central Iron Keep. Force was a strong word for the men he had left, a mix of what knights and men-at-arms he could pull out of the capital after the Icelanders breached the walls, along with the conscripts they could put together on the retreat. They were dejected, having lost nearly every step along the way, outnumbered and isolated by the Icelanders.

“My lord,” a captain said, riding up beside him. “The scouts report the Icelanders approach. Perhaps two thousand strong.”

The narrow passage was as good a place as any for a stand, he knew. It was narrow with steep cliffs on either side, which would force the enemy into a bottleneck. They’d have to come at them in waves, unable to deploy their full strength. It was also the last place they could hold them. Beyond this last stretch of defensible ground lay the open flatlands and then, farther south, the heart of Iron Keep. If he faltered now, Sinclair would have no choice but to retreat all the way to the Shatterstone Mountains, giving up the bulk of the duchy to the advancing Icelanders.

“Then we hold here. Position the crossbowmen there and there,” Owen said, pointing to two rocky outcrops overlooking the narrowest part of the pass. “Unless they know the land well, they won’t know the ass up from the other side. We don’t have many left, but they’ll be able to slow them some.”

“About that, my lord,” the captain said hesitantly. “Wellard reports we’ve fewer than two hundred arrows remaining among all of the men. It won’t last long.”

“Well then, we shall simply have to make each shot count, won’t we? Form up the men-at-arms in the center, mixed with the conscripts, but hold the knights back as a reserve.”

“As you command, my lord,” the captain said, saluting and going to pass the word.”

Owen rode along the line, checking positions and offering encouragement to his men. The local peasants he’d conscripted looked terrified, but a little buoyed by the veterans next to them.

“Men,” he said, standing in front of his small force. “This pass is the key to all of Iron Keep. If we hold here, we deny the enemy access to the flatlands beyond. The entire duchy is counting on us. It’s up to us to keep them out.”

His speech was cut short when a scout galloped up. “My lord! Enemy vanguard is approaching!”

“Archers! Make ready!” Owen said, drawing his sword and taking his place among the front line.

He knew they were shaken after such a long retreat, even the hardest veterans among them. 

They did not have to wait long for the enemy to appear, coming around the last bend and into view, a sea of black with their dark leather and heavy furs. Too warm from this climate and yet seemingly universally unwilling to lose them in favor of more appropriate dress.

It was a loose formation, with a scattering of men on horseback. Scouts, not the main lines of the enemy. Owen lifted his arm and waited for the enemy to get into the right position before chopping down.

Arrows whistled down from the rocky outcrops above. The first wave of scouts stumbled and fell. Shouts of alarm came from further behind, out of sight, as the scouts retreated. They would not be long, and the small mound of fallen men and horses would not slow them down.

“My lord,” the captain said, looking up at a scout stationed with the archers, able to see them from above more easily. “They’re forming up for a proper charge.”

Kingsleigh only nodded. He was not eager for this fight. They had a good position and the high ground, but he still did not think his men would prevail. There were just too few of them.

A horn blasted from the enemy lines somewhere down the pass, its deep note bouncing off the stone walls. A few minutes later, the main Icelander force came into view. They came ten abreast, the narrow walls of the pass constraining their numbers.

“Stand fast!” Owen shouted. “Shield wall! Brace!”

His men-at-arms locked their shields together, creating a barrier of wood and steel. The conscripts stood behind them, spears extended through the gaps. Owen took his place in the center, just behind the shields, where the fighting would be thickest.

The Icelanders charged forward as they saw their prey, slamming into their line. Owen thrust his sword through a gap between the shields, feeling the resistance as steel met flesh. The man fell with a grunt, only to be replaced by another.

His remaining archers continued picking off targets, each precious arrow finding its mark in the packed mass of enemies. But their ammunition dwindled rapidly.

The Icelanders pressed forward, wave upon wave, each more aggressive than the last. Owen’s men strained against them, replacing the men they were losing from a much smaller pool of reserves. They were holding the enemy, but just barely, the line bending inward like a drawn bow, allowing them to slowly bring more men to bear and weaken his shields.

“Last arrows, m’lord!” came the cry from behind.

Owen pulled his blade from an Icelander’s throat. “Captain! Get the archers down from there. Have them fall back to the secondary position and bring up the knights.”

“They won’t last long without archers,” the captain next to him warned, deflecting a wild axe swing with his shield.

“Better that than having them trapped up there when we’re overwhelmed.”

A spear thrust through the shield wall, catching one of Owen’s men-at-arms in the shoulder. The man stumbled backward, creating a gap. Two conscripts rushed forward with their own spears to fill it, but their technique was clumsy. The Icelanders exploited the weakness, three of their warriors forcing themselves into the breach.

“Hold the line!” Owen shouted, stepping into the gap. His sword caught the first Icelander in the neck, but the second’s axe found Owen’s thigh, cutting deep. Pain flared through his leg as he staggered back.

“My lord!” The captain grabbed Owen’s arm, steadying him.

“It’s nothing,” Owen said through gritted teeth, though his leg burned with each movement.

Blood soaked his breeches, running down into his boot.

More Icelanders poured through the widening gap. The conscripts began backing away, their courage failing as the enemy pressed their advantage. Owen’s remaining men-at-arms fought desperately to contain the breach, but they were being pushed back step by step.

“My lord, please,” his captain pleaded. “Fall back with the archers. We can’t hold here.”

“If we retreat now, we lose the pass.” Owen forced himself forward, ignoring the agony in his leg. “Stand fast! For Iron Keep!”

His men rallied at his cry, pushing back against the Icelander advance. But fresh enemy troops were arriving, replacing their fallen comrades. Owen’s forces had no such reserves to draw upon.

A horn sounded from the enemy lines, three long blasts. The Icelanders redoubled their efforts, hammering against the weakening shield wall. Owen saw more of his men falling, the conscripts breaking formation as panic set in.

“Let me at least dress the wound,” the captain said, managing to pull Owen back, allowing another soldier to take his place, holding the line.

As the man finished pulling a bandage tight around his leg, Owen said, “Captain! Order the knights forward. Form a second line behind the shields.”

“My lord, with your injury…” the captain began.

“Do as I say,” Owen said, straightening despite the fire in his leg. “We must buy time for a proper retreat.”

Protest rose from the men nearby.

A grizzled man-at-arms turned toward him. “We’ll not abandon you here, m’lord.”

“You’ll do as commanded,” Owen snapped. “Baron Sinclair must know the enemy’s strength and movements and will need every man we can get to him.” He gestured to the captain. “Take command of the retreat. Get them to safety, whatever comes.”

Armored men pushed their way forward, slowly taking their place up near the front lines, around Kingsleigh. Owen directed them into position, creating a second defensive line.

“Fall back in groups of five. The knights will cover the withdrawal,” he said, pushing away from his captain’s supporting arm. “I’ll hold the center.”

“The bleeding, m’lord—”

“Will wait.” Owen raised his voice.

The front line began its careful withdrawal as Owen took position among the knights. An Icelander burst through the weakening shield wall, battle axe held high. Owen met the charge, blade finding the gap between leather and fur. The man fell, but two more replaced him.

“Send men to the ridge,” Owen called back to the retreating men between exchanges. “The loose stone, use it to slow their pursuit.”

More of his soldiers retreated while others scrambled up the rocky slopes. Owen’s sword arm grew heavier with each passing moment, his strikes slower, probably due to the blood he had lost. Still, he fought.

The knights formed an arc around him, allowing more men to withdraw. Above, rocks began tumbling down the cliff face behind him and his knights, partially blocking the pass. It wouldn’t hold them forever, but it would allow the captain and what forces got out to escape and head southeast, to rendezvous with the forces Baron Sinclair had begun gathering.

He’d lost concentration, looking back at the sudden barricade created by the falling rocks, something he knew better than to allow to happen in combat. An axe caught Owen’s sword arm, sending fire up his arm as his blade clattered to the blood-slicked ground. He staggered, vision blurring, as Icelanders surrounded him.

All around him, his knights fell, putting up as strong of a fight as possible. They all knew this was a losing battle, that they were only fighting to allow the others to escape, not to stop the Icelander advance.

“Take him,” a voice commanded in the thick accent of the northerners.

Rough hands seized Owen’s arms. Through dimming sight, he watched the enemy stop pushing and start clearing the blocked passage. One or two managed to get past, to chase his men, but this would take a few hours to get the actual force through. Enough time to give them a head start.

A man Owen took as the enemy commander from his bearing and the deference the men around him showed, stopped in front of him.

“Continue the pursuit. Don’t let them reach Sinclair,” he said before turning to Owen’s captors. “Get this one back to camp. He’ll have information we need.”

As they dragged him away, Owen heard the rumble of more rocks falling after his men made the entire ridge side unstable, buying precious time for his retreating forces. It would have to be enough.