In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 23

Sidorian Lines, South of Port Belmar, Northern Lynese

The Sidorian cavalry rode through the tightly packed streets of the village, infantry following behind. They had to move quickly, since this level of movement would be impossible for the Lynesians to miss, but they needed to keep their men together, ready to fight when they got through the other side.

William wasn’t overly concerned that they’d manage the task. They were good men, battle-hardened and understood the need to keep a good formation. The only moment that worried William was as they turned a corner, bringing into sight a row of houses marked with a grim symbol, a black handprint, put there by the Order of Healing to tell anyone that ventured near that the elder curse lay inside.

He’d warned the men to expect it, told them it was harmless and that the Disciples had confirmed that as long as no one went inside, they were safe. But telling men that was a far thing from them believing it, and part of William worried about the reaction he would encounter when the men actually saw the warnings for the first time.

Thankfully, his worry was for naught. The men definitely looked at it askance and even his line seemed to edge away from it as they passed, but his men didn’t slow or falter. They were set to their duty, and hopefully, trusted his leadership.

William spurred his horse onward, leading the way through the winding streets. The village seemed eerily quiet, with villagers who hadn’t fled hiding as an enemy army pushed through their streets.

Passing the last of the plagued houses, William pulled down his visor, a move copied by the other knights leading the charge.

“Here we go,” William muttered to himself before commanding, “Pick up the pace. At the double time. For Sidor.”

Kicking his horse as he turned the corner, launching the beast into a gallop, William could see enemy soldiers ahead of him. The terror on their faces was clear. They might have heard the commotion, the sound of men and horses, but they’d ignored their own senses, doubting anyone would ride through the cursed village. They hadn’t believed until they saw the first fist Sidorians.

The men with him and behind him echoed his yell as the knights all charged at a gallop, the infantry behind running flat out, screaming like the specters of ghost stories.

The Lynesian soldiers scrambled to form a defensive line, shields locking together as they braced for the Sidorian charge. Spears thrust forward, a bristling wall of steel points aimed at the oncoming cavalry. They were slow, however. Slow to react. Slow to move.

William led the charge, his sword raised high as he urged his mount forward. The distance closed rapidly, the ground shaking beneath the combined might of the Sidorian cavalry.

The Sidorians collided into the Lynesian with a resounding clash of steel and flesh. Horses slammed into the Lynesian line, their armored bulk shattering spears and sending men tumbling. William swung hard with his sword as they rode through, cleaving through a Lynesian shield and biting deep into the soldier behind it.

The rest of the Sidorian knights and cavalry followed with him, hacking and slashing from atop their mounts, while the Lynesian infantry desperately tried to drag them down. Men screamed in pain and fury, the sound mingling with the ring of steel on steel and the whinnying of wounded horses.

“Hold the line!” a Lynesian captain near William bellowed. “Drive them back!”

And then the Sidorian infantry hit, smashing into the gaps created by the cavalry. An entire section of the Lynesian line stumbled back as the Sidorians attacked, trying to defend the infantry in front and the knights in their midst.

Inch by bloody inch, the Lynesian line began to buckle. Men fell, trampled beneath the hooves of the cavalry or cut down by the onslaught of Sidorian spears. William spurred his horse forward, not allowing them to stop or slow down, where the enemy could pull them from their horses. He led a wedge of knights into the heart of the Lynesian formation. His sword rose and fell, each blow claiming another life.

“Push forward!” William yelled. “Break their line!”

The Lynesians had been caught on the back foot, and his men had the momentum. Slowly at first, with one man here or there running for their lives, the enemy’s line began to crumble, until the slow loss became a torrent. Once enough began to run, the rest followed as the enemy soldiers scattered, their formations scattering.

Only in one section, but that was all William needed. The Sidorian knights and infantry poured through the breach, spreading out to engage the disoriented Lynesians, the wedge growing with each moment.

“Well done,” William shouted. “Their line is broken! Push forward! Roll them up!”

William pulled back on his reins, his horse prancing as he looked up and down the line, as a pocket began to open in the heart of the Lynesian line. Reorienting himself, he could see that the Lynesian line had begun to break apart where the Sidorian wedge had cut into it. More and more infantry poured into that breach, pushing either side of the Lynesians apart with each moment.

“We have them on the run!” Baron Pembroke said, pulling his horse next to William’s and lifting the visor.

“We’re not done yet. Follow the plan. Take half our force and roll up their right flank. I’ll take the other half and do the same on the left. Push them back between yourself and the men holding our flanks. Smash them.

With a firm nod, Pembroke snapped his visor back in place and began shouting orders. William left him to it, focused on his own side of the battle.

“With me, men of Sidor!” William cried, raising his sword high. “Let’s finish this!”

A roar of approval went up from the Sidorian ranks as they fell in behind their young commander. William spurred his horse forward, leading the charge into the left half of the Lynesian army.

William’s cavalry smashed into the Lynesian left flank. The Lynesians, already reeling from the Sidorian breakthrough, scrambled. Swords clashed against spears, shields splintered, and men cried out in pain and defiance as the two forces collided.

William led the charge, his sword a blur of steel as he hacked and slashed at the enemy. His knights followed close behind, their lances finding gaps in the Lynesian armor and sending men tumbling from their saddles.

The Lynesians weren’t beaten, however. Not yet. They rallied around their own commanders, forming tight clusters of shields and spears to fend off the Sidorian assault. They fought with the desperate courage of men who knew they were all that stood between their comrades and annihilation.

William gritted his teeth as a Lynesian spear glanced off his shield, the impact jarring his arm. He knew he had to keep the pressure on, to drive the Lynesians back towards the waiting Sidorian right flank. But the enemy was making him pay for every inch of ground.

The Sidorians redoubled their efforts, the infantry surging forward to support the cavalry. Slowly, painfully, they forced the Lynesians to give ground, the enemy soldiers fighting tooth and nail every step of the way.

Sweat streamed down William’s face beneath his helm, mingling with the blood and grime of battle. His sword arm ached from the constant exertion, but he pushed the pain aside. There would be time to rest later.

More Sidorian infantry joined the fight, increasing the odds against the enemy, who was being pressed into their own reinforcements, giving William a wider front to fight on and compressing the enemy together, limiting how many swords they could get into the fray at any one time.

Slowly but surely, the Lynesian left flank began to buckle under the assault. The Lynesian line bent, then broke, the enemy soldiers falling back in increasing disorder. Seeing the enemy try to flee, pushing back into their own lines, not yet realizing they were trapped, the Sidorians surged forward. They crashed into the wavering Lynesian ranks like a tidal wave, scattering the enemy soldiers. 

The Lynesian left flank crumbled, trapped between the hammer of William’s force and the anvil of the Sidorian right flank under Sir Alistair and Commander Haverhill. It was only then that the enemy realized they were surrounded.

The reaction was mixed. A large group of the trapped men threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender, realizing the situation was hopeless and having no desire to throw their lives away on a lost battle.

A few officers tried to rally the men. William saw the Lynesian captain trying to get his men to fight on and spurred his horse forward, closing the distance between them. The captain turned to face him, sword raised in defiance.

“Yield, sir,” William called out, his voice firm but not unkind. “There’s no need for more bloodshed. Your men are beaten.”

The Lynesian captain hesitated, his sword wavering. For a moment, it seemed he might surrender. But then his face hardened, and he lunged at William with a cry of rage. William parried the blow easily, trading blows with the man as their two horses circled around each other. The man was already tired and beaten, however. With a final, desperate lunge, the captain overextended himself. William saw his chance and took it, his sword sliding past the captain’s guard and plunging into his chest. The captain’s eyes widened in shock and pain. His sword fell from nerveless fingers as he slumped forward in his saddle.

William felt little satisfaction as he pulled his sword free, letting the man topple from his horse. But, this was war. Men died.

A cheer went up from the Sidorian ranks as they redoubled their efforts. The Lynesian left had shattered, becoming more of a mob than anything resembling an army. With the Lynesians unable to bring their numbers to bear and divided in small pockets, it became a series of small melees instead of a battle. In each one, the Sidorians had the advantage of numbers and momentum.

Not all surrendered and William lost more than a few men, forced to fight already defeated soldiers who had no chance of escape. A waste on all sides.

Still, the battle was done. The enemy line had completely collapsed, with hundreds of soldiers being gathered up to be marched away while their comrades ran for the hills.

William only hoped Pembroke was doing as well on his half of the army.

***

Barony of Penleigh, Duchy of Kingsheart, Sidor

Aldric made his way down the Tradesway from Westborough back toward Havensport and the docks to Starhaven, having taken a very long about route for the last two days to circle his ultimate destination, part of multiple steps to ensure he wasn’t followed and his identity remained obscured.

A lot of trouble had been taken early that morning after going through Westborough to ensure no one saw him leave, even if they’d been following him, and gave him an opportunity to enter a wooded area unobserved, where he changed his clothes into simple woodsman clothing, covering his face and hair in the tradition of hunters in the region, another reason he’d chosen this as his meeting point.

It might have been overkill, but after his confrontation with both Edmund and Serwyn, he did not trust either of them not to have him under some sort of surveillance. It’s why he’d scheduled meetings in the region with barons and knights to start working on the forces available for Shadowhold that winter. While important, and something he did need to do, it afforded him reasons to be in baronies outside of his duchy, and traveling in effectively a large circle.

Arriving near the pre-arranged point on a small cart-trail, he dismounted and led the animal deep into the thicket, again on a circuitous route, listening for the sounds of armor or men. As he neared his destination, he heard the latter, but not the former. A positive sign. Tethering his horse, he made his way through the thick undergrowth, slowly, ensuring he didn’t disturb things enough to sound an alert, in order to get a clear view of the meeting point.

A group of men and four mules stood to one side of a small clearing where the trail opened up, used mostly for carts to turn around when they couldn’t in the tight confines of the path itself. The men were a nervous-looking bunch, clad in simple peasant garb, their faces weathered by hard labor and harder times. This was the problem with working through cutouts. He didn’t know them and they didn’t know him. They looked right, but Edmund was smart enough not to blow the game by picking obvious plants.

Still, there was nothing for it. If he’d had more time, he could have arranged for one of his more trusted men to make the drop, but the urgent note from Fletcher hadn’t given him enough warning to take proper precautions.

“Gentlemen,” Aldric said, stepping out of the brush, hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case.

“You the one sent by Fletcher?” One of the men, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a thick beard, said.

The group of them stepped back, hands going to knives on their belts. Aldric cursed himself. That was a giveaway. Commoners didn’t often go around with swords, at least not where bailiffs might see them. While not strictly outlawed, it was the first sign someone was a bandit. Besides, good steel was expensive, and not something most farmers would spend their money on.

He’d spent too much time at the front, around soldiers.

Aldric inclined his head. “I am. I believe I’m supposed to tell you Nightingale.”

The men relaxed at the code word set up by Fletcher. Foolish of them. If he was an agent of the king’s, it meant that someone along the chain had been captured and talked, which would have also meant the code word had been given up as well.

Oddly, that did bring Aldric a measure of comfort. They had a combination of overly trusting and jumpy that suggested they weren’t plants.

“Okay,” the guy said. “We brought the mules.”

“I see that. If you look about fifteen paces that way,” Aldric said, pointing into the trees opposite from where he’d come. “You’ll see two wagons. The supplies are in them, along with a chest of more portable funds to distribute.”

Aldric walked toward the wagons that his agents had left a few hours before, lest someone stumble upon them, and pulled the tarp off of one of them. Filling the inside of the wagon were sacks of grain, barrels of salted meat, and crates of vegetables filled them to the brim. It was simple fare, the quality much lower than Aldric would have found in the kitchens of his own keep, let alone in the Palace in Starhaven, but compared to what most villages had been living on these past seven months, it was a veritable cornucopia.

“The ancients be praised,” the bearded man breathed. “I ain’t seen this much food in months.”

“I know, and yet so much was available to purchase in the capital that enough rotted before it sold that it had to be fed to strays.”

“Damn the king and his taxes,” one of the men said. “Lords feast while people out here starve.”

“Which is why this shipment is so important. It isn’t much, but it’s what we could get on short notice. I will contact Fletcher when I have more, although I can’t promise it will be able to come here. People are starving across the kingdom and we have to be careful. Too much at one time will not go unnoticed.”

“We understand,” the bearded man said, all traces of suspicion and hostility now fully gone. “We know the risk Fletcher and the rest of you take, and we appreciate it. You’re doing the Disciples’ own work, and we won’t forget it. Let Fletcher know that when he needs us, we’ll be there.”

“I know he’ll appreciate it. You need to be careful with this. If a bailiff sees you, he will be suspicious and confiscate it, assuming it’s looted or withheld goods. Either could end you in a noose. For the same reason, try not to give too much to any one village. Spread it out. You know the people in the area who’ve been hit the hardest. The money isn’t much, but keep it secreted away, use it a little at a time when the winter comes and stores run low. Focus on those suffering the worst, where the need is greatest.”

“We’ll make sure it goes where it needs. You can count on us,” the bearded man says.

“But to bring all this... You must be someone important. Who are you?” one of the younger men in the group, a lean, wiry fellow, said.

“I’m no one important. Just a middleman willing to help out when asked. There are people out there willing to help our the common man and are willing to do what they can. I’m just someone who could get all of it from there to here.”

“Well, thank you. And please, convey our deepest gratitude to your masters. Tell them their kindness will not be forgotten. When the time comes, they’ll have our support.”

“I will pass along your gratitude,” Aldric said, stepping back as the men set about yoking the mules to the wagons.

Not the best draft animals, but quite likely all they could afford. Horses were much more expensive, both to purchase and in upkeep. The men bid their final farewells and pulled onto the track, making their way wherever they planned to stash the food until it was distributed.

Aldric hoped they had luck. More and more men roamed the kingdom these days, looking to take from people just like this, either in the name of the king or just for themselves. They were stout men, but it was obvious how ill-prepared for real fighting they were.

As Aldric watched them, a sense of unease settled in his gut. He wished there had been any other way to do this. He’d known Edmund would not listen, but he’d truly held out hope that Serwyn would. They’d left him little choice.

And so he’d done what he had to do. He knew that his actions here, in aiding the rebels, would only escalate things. They would have more food, the bailiffs would see less suffering and come to the right conclusion, and take more. Round and round the cycle of suffering and injustice would go, generating an ever-expanding amount of unrest, until things couldn’t stay contained any longer.

But what choice did he have? To stand by and do nothing while the people starved and the land bled?

Sadly, it was to the point that things boiling over was the only way change would come, that Edmund had the Barons happily assisting him would be forced to confront the consequences of their decisions.

Aldric shook the thought off. He’d made his decision months ago, with the first monies he’d sent to Fletcher’s supporters, and dug himself deeper each time as he became more and more involved.

There was no turning back now.