A Desperate Battle
They hadn't even stepped out of the longboats when the first arrows fell among them, causing the first line of rowers to buckle and scream and drop bleeding to the bottom of the boat. Bowmen lurched to take over for the downed sailors, but they too were shot at and fell in turn, pulling desperately at the oars in an attempt to beach themselves before the worst hit. Waldor watched one longboat alongside them tip over as panicked soldiers piled out of it, and of the twenty that went into the water, only nine came up again. Two in his own boat were dead, and there were already more injuries than he was comfortable with.
And then, with a crash and too-loud scrape of sand along the bottom of the hull, they were beached and he was first out of the boat, pulling the blind nobleman after him with a shout of encouragement to his men - though most were already charging up ahead to take up positions along the unprotected coast, trying futilely to string their damp bows and force the defenders back, thanks to his sergeants. His own leadership was a formality; those grizzled old men knew better than he did what to do in a situation like this.
An arrow whizzed past and he found himself pressed flat to the sand, sheltering behind an overturned boat one of the sergeants had seen fit to drag up onto the beach. The man's squad hunkered down there too, taking pot-shots from time to time, but it was obvious to the captain that the seawater had made a mess of their longbows. Too few of the men had back-up weapons of any value: a few daggers, a longknife, shortswords here and there and one lonely pike.
"Where's everyone?" The older man bawled at him, his face soaked in sweat, saltwater and blood, then jabbed a bare hand back savagely at the water behind them, and then at the coast to either side of them. "Where in the name of all that's good and right is everyone?"
Waldor chanced a look over his shoulder and felt his insides twist. Too few ships. There weren't enough ships. A few other units were off-loading further down the beach, but nowhere did the young captain see the numbers that suggested the army had landed in force. That wasn't something he could tell his men, though. That would seal their fate.
"They're coming! We need to clear some space, get these archers off our asses, then secure a portion of the beach for the main force to land along!" He shouted back at the sergeant, then peeked up over the bottom of the overturned boat. After a brief glance, he ducked low again, gesturing frantically with the tip of his shortsword, forgetting everything he had just said the moment before. "Brace! Cavalry incoming!"
Something heavy crashed against the side of the longboat, and a horse went down with a sickening crunch, throwing its rider. Arrows arced up from behind the squad of men and Waldor watched as they fell among the charging enemy. He let out a whoop and threw his own bow aside, useless as it was. "A round of drinks to the captain of the Harriers! Bless them -- Brace!" More horses came, leaping over the sprawled bodies of the first rank of the cavalry charge, bounding over or around their makeshift fortifications. Waldor twisted at the hip to watch the charge as it carried past them and into the bulk of his men, downing the first rank of startled, panicked archers with ease. Momentum left the horses as the wedge bogged down with the second and third ranks, however, and another horse went down, its rider impaled on the lone pike wielded by one of his men. The boy felt his heart swell with pride - and then horror.
Staggering blind among the carnage was Tarkus Graves, his sword still gripped in his remaining hand.
Everything slowed.
A horse and rider appeared as if out of nowhere, thundering down the beach, a lance couched and pointed at the hapless knight.
The lance tip punched into Tarkus's armor, splitting mail, and spun the man around as the horse galloped on past toward the longboats still arriving on the beach. The nobleman fell, and Waldor lost sight of him.
He had more pressing matters to worry about. The sergeant clasped his shoulder and pointed across at where another unit of men had bogged down, where heraldic banners still waved and bobbed uncertainly. Even as he watched, their side of the fight dissolved and the men turned and broke, running in vain back toward the boats - as if that could save them. A banner fell. The sergeant grunted, mouthed the word, "Rout."
More and more men were falling to the cavalry and the infantry that massed in their wake. Waldor drew his own shortsword and stabbed blindly at one riderless horse that wandered too close, watching helplessly as most of his men were cut to pieces as they tried to fight their way up out of the treacherous trap that the sand had become - soaked in blood and bile and gore, it was worse than mud.
"We can't hold here!" He shouted through the clamor at the sergeant, not realizing the man had taken an arrow to the face and was wheezing blood through both nostrils. "We have to push through them to the woods while their cavalry regroups. It's our only chance!"
He didn't wait for agreement. He leapt the splintered remains of their little barricade and was at a dead sprint through the startled enemy before he even really had time to second guess himself. Only the wheezing of the sergeant behind him reassured him that the squad had followed.
Time lost meaning and coherence. In one instant, he was ramming his shortsword into the face of a boy even younger than him, and in the next he was sitting back on the longboat, watching the surfers break. He fought for his life with every inch of his bruised, bleeding body, as did the men behind him. It was no longer men attacking him - only arms, legs, swords and horses. Sometimes arrows fell, and he would hear the agonized cry of someone dying behind him, or beside him.
Then, ahead of them, Waldor spotted another unit bearing the colours of Fissoa and felt an irrational surge of hope. He waved his men forward.
"They've got the same idea as us - to them! To the," his eyes searched out the banner held raggedly above those survivors, "Grand Duke! Our lives depend on it!"
---
Everything hurt. That was nothing new.
Tarkus Graves stared up at the night sky overhead and wondered distantly when he had fallen down, and where his sword had gone. Something wet fell across his face, and he tried to lift his hand to swat at it, but realized too late that he had no hand - only a scarred stump grazed his sand-gritty cheek.
Memories came flooding back - the sky overhead was no dark, cloudless sky at all but the blackness of blindness. He choked, coughing raggedly, and spat blood. It frothed on his lips, dribbled down his chin.
"He ain't dead," a voice above him noted in amusement, and Tarkus felt the tip of a sword probe harshly at his side. He screamed, a gagging noise, and writhed in agony as the tip dug in at the gory wound the broken lance had made. "Should we take him back to the Margrave?"
"Carmine?" Another voice broke in, and Tarkus felt his throat go dry. Tears started in the corners of his sockets, and he soiled himself. The nobleman, stripped of all dignity in the end, began to cry, making desperate, pleading noises with his ruined mouth - mewling, infantile sounds. He grasped weakly at the men above him, trying to beg for his life, or for death, or for anything but a return to that dungeon cell and that blood-stained slab.
A sword stabbed down through the meat and cartilage of his throat, choking off all attempts at words.
"Nah. Too much work."
One of the last sons of the House of Graves bled out onto the sand, and died.
---
Waldor slapped the flat of his sword against the hindquarters of a horse and watched as it spooked and lurched away from the fighting, carrying its rider with it. He felt a degree of satisfaction at denying that cavalryman his kill, but it was short-lived. A man-at-arms came at him from the side, and he had to twist away to avoid losing an arm to the better skilled swordsmen. His left arm was already numbed to uselessness by a clash with a shield earlier in the desperate fight, and he bled from half a dozen wounds. Most of the squad behind him were either dead or wounded, but those who could still fought on. Others hid among the dead, praying to whatever gods they had left for mercy.
He ducked another strike, then stumbled backwards over the prone body of the sergeant, snapping the arrow that still jutted from the man's blood-caked face. The sergeant groaned, and Waldor knew that for the time that man still lived --
-- and then suddenly he was lying face-first among the wounded and dying, something sharp and hot twisting in his shoulder. The pressure withdrew, but the pain remained, and he could distantly hear the sounds of new fighting as the defenders closed in on the Grand Duke's men. A booted foot slammed into his back, but the death blow never came.
He shut his eyes and let his weariness overtake him, and began to silently recite all the prayers his mother had taught him as a child, beseeching each and every god in turn to protect him.
And when he had run out of gods, he prayed to his dead mother.
The Grand Duke still fought, he thought. There was still some hope of rescue.
Waldor was not conscious to see the Grand Duke fall.
But nor was he dead.
