In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 13

Cresswell Hills, Barony of Langmere, Duchy of Kingsheart

Tom Fletcher lay on his stomach, peering through the tall grass at the narrow, winding pathway that sloped and curved between the steep grassy hillsides. The Cresswell Hills were notorious for their rugged terrain, with sharp, rocky cliffs interspaced among the grassy slopes, creating dips and valleys all along the chain of hills, making them the perfect place to hide.

A man named Ivor, who’d joined their group a few days before, whispered, “How can you be so certain they’ll come through here? There must be other ways for them to go.”

Nodding toward a man a few meters down, Tom said, “Godric there told us this was the only pass through these hills that wouldn’t add miles to their journey. We know where they’re heading, and we left a big enough trail of gossip that a blind man should be able to follow us in this direction. They think the ‘escapees’ are a half day’s ride down this trail. They haven’t shown a lot of imagination so far, so I don’t expect we’ll see a lot now.”

“But, this will be dangerous, right? This isn’t like scattering one or two bailiffs and stealing wagons. I heard there was a fair number of them,” Ivor said, looking nervously at the other men scattered along the hill with them.

“Yes, of course it’s dangerous, but these men have been hunting people who did nothing but travel to the closest market to their village to sell their wares. Now they’re being hunted like animals for sport. There’s a justice beyond the king’s justice, and these men deserve it. You don’t have to fight with us if you don’t want to. I don’t ask any man to fight against their will. I, however, am going to show these men what happens when you harass and kill people just trying to live free.”

“No, no. I’m not saying…” Ivor started to say, until Tom held up a hand silencing him.

Cocking his head, Fletcher listened hard to the wind and the rustling grass until he heard it again, the faint but unmistakable sound of hoofbeats and voices of men not trying to be silent. Another moment passed before he saw them, a small force of two knights and around twenty bailiffs, all on horseback rounding the bend in the path below. At the head of the column rode two knights in what looked like well-used armor.

Behind rode some twenty bailiffs, their gambesons and surcoats marked with the watchtower and hills of Langmere. The bailiffs were deadly, but not outside of their ability to deal with. The knights, however, would be a bigger problem, especially if their trap failed.

Tom waited, watching the men ride closer, before raising his hand in a silent signal to the men waiting on the opposite hill. A few of the men on the far ridge raised their hands in return, a silent acknowledgment of the message.

“Get everyone ready. As soon as those knights up front hit the trap, we move in,” he said to a man next to him, one of the first to join their band. “They’re so confident in their own superiority that they don’t even have scouts out.”

As if almost on cue, the lead horse stepped into a pit, concealed beneath a layer of leaves that covered this entire stretch of the pathway. The animal’s dappled front legs plunged through the camouflaged leaves and branches, sending the front half of it dropping into the hole. It wasn’t deep enough for the whole animal to disappear in, but it had just enough depth for its forward momentum to send the armored knight tumbling forward over the horse’s head into the pit.

The wounded animal’s front legs kicked and thrashed in confusion and pain, its hooves almost certainly further injuring the helpless knight trapped underneath. From within the pit came the sounds of snapping branches and crushing leaves as the horse continued to struggle, interspersed with the cries of the knight inside.

The second knight had better reactions, quickly reining in his nervous mount before it could stumble into the same trap.

“Now! Attack!” Tom yelled, rising swiftly to his feet.

At his command, fifty peasants sprang from their hiding places, raining a deadly barrage of arrows and stones upon the unsuspecting guardsmen below. The volley descended with deadly accuracy, piercing the lightly armored bailiffs or smashing against their unhelmeted heads with sickening cracks. Cries of panic and pain rose up from the men as they scrambled for cover, many toppling clumsily from their terrified mounts that whinnied and bucked wildly to escape the attack.

Attempting to form a protective line, the surviving bailiffs raised their shields against the unrelenting incoming fire. The remaining knight bellowed commands, urgently trying to rally his men, one of whom turned his horse to flee before being cut down a few steps away from the rest.

Tom’s men poured fire down the rocky slopes, loosing arrow after arrow from behind the sparse cover of boulders and stubborn bushes clinging to the hillside. Each volley drove deeper into their confused ranks.

The remaining bailiffs were falling quickly, but the knight still posed a serious threat. Their simple weapons were useless against his heavy plate armor, which turned away every shot sent his way.

“Concentrate fire on the men nearest the knight! Separate him from the others!” Tom shouted at the men closest to him.

At his command, a concentrated rain of arrows slammed into the panicking horses and men near the knight. The massive warhorses, trained for battle yet terrified by the onslaught, reared up and kicked out with iron-shod hooves, crushing one unfortunate man beneath its hooves. Amidst the chaos, a single lucky arrow found its mark in the knight’s mount, sending it toppling to the ground, spilling its mail-clad rider onto his back in a crash of steel.

“Now, while he’s down. Swarm them, now!” Tom shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of battle, waving his sword in a signal for the men on the opposite hill.

At his command, the peasants came pouring down the hillside, spilling into the narrow pathway. Tom let the bulk of his men finish off the few remaining bailiffs while he held back his best men—those who had seen some real combat when pressed into their lords’ armies. He had ordered them to stay near him for precisely this moment.

“With me,” he commanded.

Tom and the five men charged the knight, who was struggling to get off his back, his foot lodged under the heavy, lifeless body of his warhorse. Tom, who’d been leading the charge, arrived first, lunging with his sword, but was deflected by the knight’s sword, which he slashed wildly as he continued to try and pull his leg free.

One of his men stepped too close, missing his thrust, and paid dearly for his mistake as the knight’s sword slashed across the poor boy’s stomach, spilling his insides. The boy fell back with a gurgling scream, his hands clutching desperately at the bloody mess of his abdomen. Seizing the opportunity afforded by the boy’s sacrifice, a large farmer named Wilum swung with all his might at the distracted knight’s helm, his massive club smashing into the man’s helm, the thick wood splintering as it connected. Though strongly delivered, the crushing blow only slightly dented the finely worked steel, but the force of the impact was enough to momentarily rattle the man within. The knight’s swings slowed as he struggled to regain his senses.

Tom seized his opportunity, lunging forward with his sword aimed straight at the gap between the knight’s helm and breastplate. The blade sliced cleanly into the exposed flesh of the man’s neck, releasing a crimson torrent as the knight’s body went limp and collapsed to the blood-soaked ground.

Pulling his weapon free, Tom could see the bailiffs’ bodies scattered around the path. Sadly, among the fallen were two of his own men. They had all known the dangers that came with this uprising, but it still pained him deeply to see men who’d entrusted their lives to him fall.

A frantic noise from the pit drew Tom’s attention. The knight’s horse was still desperately struggling to break free, its coat now lathered with sweat from the exertion, its dark eyes wide with panic. Tom could also hear the injured knight groaning faintly from the bottom of the pit beneath the distressed animal.

Tom signaled to his men to finish the job. They quickly gathered heavy stones and dropped them onto the helpless knight, crushing him beneath their weight until all noise from the man ceased. While they were dealing with that grim task, Tom swiftly dispatched the suffering horse, sliding his sword across its throat in one clean motion to grant it a merciful end. Better to put it out of its misery than let it continue to suffer.

The battle over, Tom surveyed his losses. Three of his men lay dead and another handful had various injuries, although none life-threatening. Two would be laid up for a time, but should both recover. In return, the king and his baron had lost twenty-two of their own men, including two battle-hardened, experienced knights. A costly victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Get the bodies searched,” Tom ordered. “Take anything of value and give it to the families of the fallen. We’ll make sure they’re well compensated for their loss. Collect all the armor and weapons; we’ll need them for the coming fight. And gather up any living horses as well. Each dead man’s family gets a horse. We’ll take the rest with us.”

The men worked quickly, stripping the bodies of their armor and weapons, and leading the surviving horses away. The men were in high spirits, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they worked, flushed with pride. He didn’t fault them for their joy. If someone had told him a year ago a group of poorly armed peasants could do this, he would have scoffed at them. They had a right to their celebration, but he couldn’t share in it.

This would provoke a swift and brutal response from the king, probably against other peasants who had taken no part in the ambush. This was necessary to break the cycle of suffering, but he couldn’t feel joy knowing the price they were bound to pay for it.

***

The Chansol River, Lynese

The late spring had already begun to turn hot, the sun beating down on William and his patrol as they rode north, roughly following the path of the Chansol River as it flowed away from the main Sidorian army toward Rendalia Bay. They had been on horseback since before dawn, and William could already feel the knots and cramps forming in his lower back after so many hours in the saddle.

Ostensibly, they were there to patrol for bandits, which had started to become a problem after the local lords and officials retreated with their army across the river, in many cases, stripping villages dry as they’d done so. In need of food and seeing an opportunity, many locals had turned to banditry, plundering their neighbors to make up for their lack of supplies.

While important work, William knew that wasn’t the only reason his uncle had given him this assignment. The fact that he’d been sent alone, in charge of twenty seasoned men, was a sure sign this was another test by Aldric, a means to gauge his readiness for greater command. At sixteen, he was young for the position. However, he knew his uncle, Gavric, had commanded a significantly larger force when he was just a year older, so it wasn’t unreasonable.

William also couldn’t help but note that his uncle had not sent Eskild with him this time. The Thay sergeant might have been his uncle’s right-hand man, but since William had been assigned to his uncle, the seasoned warrior had been his more or less constant companion. William had started to take comfort in knowing the seasoned warrior was always there to help him and offer advice when he was unsure. Which was probably the exact reason his uncle had held the man back.

There was an even bigger reason for the patrol than to just test William’s mettle, however. One William himself was proud of. For the last several weeks, ever since the fake Disciples convoy, William had been working on a plan that, although unlikely to turn the tide of the current conflict, would greatly increase the chances of Sidorian forces successfully crossing the river when the bridge was finally finished and the assault to cross it began.

What’s more, his uncle had approved the plan, although conditionally. While searching for bandits and proving he could lead seasoned men, William was to scout the land still further north, looking for an area of the river free from Lynesian eyes. His uncle had even given William two of his better scouts, men who knew how to find the enemy, even when they didn’t want to be found.

William realized his mind had started to wander and pulled himself back into focus, reaching up under his helm to wipe away a bead of sweat from his forehead. As he settled the metal back in place, one of his scouts whistled, pointing at the horizon. There, above the treeline, was a thin wisp of smoke, the exact thing his patrol was supposed to inspect. Waving his men in that direction, he turned his horse to investigate.

Ten minutes later, they found the source of the smoke nestled against the edge of the dense forest, a settlement barely large enough to even be called a village. No more than a dozen thatch-roofed cottages clustered around a dusty central square, with a few small fields on the outskirts. The most notable thing about it was that it was populated—a far cry from the last two villages they’d encountered, both of which had been deserted by their inhabitants when the Lynesian army had fled across the river.

It wasn’t until they got nearer to the village that he realized the smoke he was seeing was too thick and dark to be from simple chimneys or cooking fires—some of the huts themselves were on fire. Quickening his horse’s pace, he closed the rest of the distance rapidly, his party forced to catch up to his sudden burst of speed as he passed the first few cottages on the outskirts and entered the village proper.

What he found in its center shocked him. Instead of the Lynesian bandits he’d been expecting, William saw Sidorian soldiers ransacking the village, arms laden with pilfered goods, driving terrorized villagers at sword point as their huts burned behind them.

One soldier was using an axe to hack apart a wooden door, splintering the planks as he forced his way inside. Another carried a large sack overflowing with grain and foodstuffs, the contents spilling out over the top as he lugged it along. Three more soldiers were in front of a small cottage, shouting threats as they used the pommels of their swords to smash the clay pots and woven baskets sitting outside.

In the village square, a group of five soldiers had gathered around one of their fellows, who knelt in the dusty village square, pinning a whimpering peasant woman beneath him, tearing at her clothing. Her face was twisted in fear and disgust, tears streaming down her cheeks as she struggled helplessly. His comrades stood nearby, shouting encouragement and crude jokes.

William dug his heels into the sides of his horse, urging it forward, anger surging through him.

“Halt!” he shouted, his voice ringing out across the square. “In the name of the Duke, stop this at once!”

The soldier on top of the woman looked up in surprise, then scowled in annoyance at the interruption.

“Piss off, boy,” he spat. “We’re taking what’s owed us. These Lynesian scum have food while we starve on wormy biscuits and moldy cheese.”

William hopped off his horse, charging at the man, whose expression changed to one of surprise as William’s heavy leather boot slammed into his ribcage, knocking him off of the crying young woman onto the dusty ground. The man let out a pained, guttural growl as he clutched his side, beginning to push himself up from the dirt only to freeze as William’s sword pressed against his throat.

Behind him, William could hear several of his men dismounting and coming to back him up, the sound of steel sliding out of leather scabbards audible even above the noise of burning huts and whimpering peasants.

“There is a standing order from the Duke himself that no Lynesian villages are to be pillaged or raided behind our lines. If you’re not getting enough to eat, we will see to that, but we will not do it this way. We are not barbarians,” William said, his sword still pressed against the man.

The soldier glared up at him defiantly in spite of the cold steel. “Easy for you to say! You get to ride about on your fancy horse, sleeping safe and warm in plush tents while we toil in the mud on empty bellies. We’ve had naught but moldy bread and bean stew for weeks! We deserve what’s ours.”

Murmurs of discontent rippled through the group of soldiers, and they began to close ranks around William’s patrol, hands drifting to axes and swords. There were about thirty in total, armed about as well as his own men. William noted several moving to cut off his patrol’s only exit route, the situation poised to turn bloody at any moment.

Just as it seemed everyone would move, a voice called out from the back of them, “Wait! Hold!”

A man stepped forward, pushing his way urgently through the throng of soldiers. He was tall and lean, with a rough weathered face and a scar above one eyebrow. William recognized him immediately as the man from the medical tent, the one he’d talked to while checking on Sir Drummond.

“Garr!” William exclaimed, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “What are you doing here?”

The man looked at him, his face apologetic, his eyes downcast. “It’s true, what he said. We haven’t been getting enough supplies from Sir Alistair, and our commanders haven’t been listening when we’ve complained. We’re hungry, my lord. We’re all desperately hungry.”

As Garr spoke, the men around him relaxed, ever so slightly, hands coming off weapons, the tension dissipating a little. William took a cautious step back, removing his sword from the throat of the man sprawled on the ground, willing to let things deescalate now that they’d moved away from the precipice of violence. The man on the ground reached a hand to his neck where fresh blood was trickling from the thin cut on his neck.

“You have my word as a Whitton, I will see to it that your situation is rectified, for you and any other I can find. But I cannot let this devastation stand. I have to place you under arrest in the name of Aldric Whitton, Duke of Rivermark, for theft, arson, and assault. You will accompany us back to the main encampment, where your fate will be decided.”

Angry shouts arose from some of the men, hands flying back to weapons. William raised a placating hand.

“However, if you come along willingly, without struggle or complaint, I will personally vouch for your character and petition the Duke for leniency. At most, you may have to make reparations to these villagers, but I’m confident I can persuade him to show mercy.”

The men looked uncertain, torn between defiance and self-preservation. Men looked from one to another, edging toward violence.

Finally, Garr stepped forward, again pushing his people back from the brink, his hands in the air. “I surrender, my lord. I’m sorry for what we’ve done. We were just trying to survive.”

One by one, the other soldiers followed suit, laying down their weapons and submitting to William and his men. William let out a sigh of relief, grateful that the situation had not escalated further.

“Take them into custody and see that they are treated fairly,” he ordered his men. “We will deal with them once we return to camp.”

As his men rounded up the soldiers, William couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness and frustration. He’d met Sir Alistair and knew him to be an honorable man who wouldn’t starve his own soldiers. This had to track back to his father cutting funding for the army, driving their own soldiers to desperation.

He wasn’t sure if his uncle could do anything to change their situation, but it should further help mitigate their circumstances. If only he had the ability to talk to his father as easily and convince him to change his foolish policy.