Travis Starnes
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An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 24
🕑 Added 2024-11-24 15:00:05 +0000 UTCThe battlefield at the Four Corners stretched out before Garris, wheat fields trampled by his army and retreating civilians to the northwest, tree-covered hills down the road to the northeast and southwest, and mountains down the road behind him.
He had lined his forces ahead of the road, stretching across it and into the fields on either side. The remnant of the Iron Keep men that had made it out of the fight up the peninsula, mostly conscripts bolstered by a scattering of men-at-arms and knights, had been combined with the Shalesport spearmen and archers from Lindenwood and the few knights both added to the fight.
It was still smaller than the force of Icelanders coming down, but there was at least a chance of standing up to them now that his battered men had been bolstered. Still, his men made up half the forces and, to any observer, it would seem the remnants of a broken army, scattered and vulnerable.
To bolster the point, only banners from the houses of Iron Keep were allowed to be displayed, forcing the men of Shalesport and Lindenwood to fight under another house’s sigil. Something of a slight, but they were good men and understood the strategy. They would do their duty.
It was not a position he would normally choose to fight in. Although significant from a trade perspective, as a battleground there was not much to be offered. Flat, soft farmland and cobblestone roads meant he had no high ground and no way to slow their advance or bottle them up. Worse, there had barely been time to put together a plan to make the best use of his reinforcements and get his men into position, which meant there were no defensive works in place that could help their numerical advantage.
While he wanted the Icelanders to feel strong and confident, he would prefer to actually be a little more confident himself. Much relied on his men here holding out long enough for the entire plan to come into action. Halbrok had been confident, but sitting here now, waiting for the enemy to appear, Garris was much less sure.
“Here they come,” Orlan said next to him.
The warning wasn’t necessary. The thick cloud of dust kicked up by thousands of boots had announced their arrival well before the first line of spears and banners came into view. Some horsemen, but the Icelanders had never been as heavy in cavalry as the southern duchies. Horses did not breed well in those conditions and the rugged terrain was better for footmen anyway.
“Go. And good luck,” he said to Ordan, clasping arms with the knight before he rode away to command the left wing of the forces.
While the plan wasn’t overly complicated, it needed a steady hand, and he needed it to go well. He was more concerned about his right wing, which he had been forced to give Newberry, as befitting his station. The man was more merchant than soldier, in spite of having squired for a time and being a regular participant in jousts.
He had sent a few seasoned men with the baron, just in case, but it was of concern.
He was proud of his men. They held up well seeing the horde moving toward them, a steady wall of shields and spears. As that line began to pick up speed, preparing their attack, Garris gave a nod to an aide near him. Flags went up down the line.
Moments later, the sky darkened with the flight of hundreds of arrows from Lindenwood’s archers. Icelander shields went up, but not all were fast enough. Bodies fell, and the line staggered. Another volley followed, quick and precise, cutting deeper into their ranks. For a heartbeat, the momentum of the Icelander wave slowed, but Garris knew this was just a momentary reaction to taking losses.
They returned fire, but less so. Again, their disposition was almost all heavy infantry. There was a belief among the Icelanders that archers never made a battle, and most of their men wanted the glory of victory with sword in hand, and saw being relegated to rear lines with a bow as something of an insult. It was why so many of the archers they had moved slow, made up of men too injured or unable to fight in the front lines, but still able to fight.
It was unorthodox from Garris’s mindset and training, but considering the success the Icelanders had, it was not something to discount.
As expected, they did not stop. The survivors pressed on, some tearing arrows from their shields or bodies, others stepping over their fallen comrades. The line reformed.
“Stand ready!” Garris bellowed as the first wave of Icelanders slammed into his line.
The impact knocked men off their feet, pushing the entire formation back several steps. Those in front found themselves crushed between their companions behind and the enemy before them.
The fighting devolved into desperate personal struggles. Men grappled in the press, too close to swing weapons properly. They resorted to knives, elbows, even teeth. Some died upright, held in place by the crush of bodies.
This was the dangerous moment, when lines had to hold. His men fought to maintain their spacing, but gaps appeared as soldiers fell. Each breach became its own savage battle as men fought to plug the holes before the enemy could exploit them.
“My lord!” A messenger galloped up. “The right flank wavers!”
Garris cursed. Newberry was struggling, as he’d feared.
“Tell him to give ground slowly. Make it look real.”
The messenger rode off as Garris turned back to the main line. The press of bodies had grown desperate. His men were being pushed back step by step, exactly as planned, but the cost was mounting.
“Begin a fighting retreat. Back three paces!” he ordered. “Maintain formation!”
His soldiers retreated in good order, shields still locked. The Icelanders surged forward. Garris watched as they committed part of their reserves, pressing into the center. Again, what he was hoping for. They were sensing weakness and committing.
The line bulged backward, beginning to bow.
A cry went up from Garris’s right flank as men began to flee. The panic spread quickly, soldiers throwing down weapons as they ran.
“Cowards!” Garris spurred his horse toward the breaking point. “Stand and fight!”
He cut down a fleeing man-at-arms. “Hold your ground or die by my hand!”
The sight of their commander’s fury steadied some men, but others continued to flee. The Icelanders pressed harder, sensing victory was near.
Garris fought his way through the press, sword rising and falling.
“To me!” he roared. “Rally to me!”
Garris sent his personal guard into the breach. Armored knights were enough to bolster the right flank.
“Garris,” Newberry said, riding up to him. “They’re pushing too hard.”
“That was the plan. Get your ass in there and hold your line or we’re all lost. Show spine, man.”
Newberry turned red-faced, but he did his duty, taking his own personal guard charging into the line. Between Garris’s men and Newberry, it was enough to bolster the line and keep it from falling. Garris was more concerned about the center.
His men were battle-tested and hardened, but the Icelanders had committed almost their entire force by now, and the pressure was more than bravery alone could hold.
Garris wheeled his horse away from the right flank, satisfied Newberry’s men would hold, and spurred toward his crumpling center. Blood and mud splattered as his mount charged through the churned earth. Everywhere he saw his men giving ground.
A breach had started at his center, men starting to cut their way through.
“Make way!” he shouted, cutting down an Icelander who had broken through.
The man’s blood added to the painting on the horse’s side. Two of his knights followed him into the breach, their swords taking Icelanders that tried to get through the breach. The sudden appearance of war horses with armored men on their backs was enough to slow the breach from tearing more, the men now more focused on the danger in their midst than breaking through.
Men were crushed under hoof and slashed apart as Garris plugged the hole. But for every enemy they struck down, two more pushed forward, stepping over their fallen comrades without hesitation.
A spear thrust caught Garris’s horse in the chest. The animal screamed, rearing up before collapsing sideways. Garris barely had time to kick free of the stirrups before he was thrown. He hit the ground hard, barely able to come up to his knees as an Icelander rushed him. Garris managed to deflect the man’s blow, just before the spear of one of his own men burst through the northerner’s chest.
Another enemy fell to Garris’s blade as he got to his feet before his knights could fight their way to his side.
“Hold fast!” Garris called out, his voice carrying over the clash of steel and screams of dying men. “Stand together!”
He fought on foot now, finding gaps in armor, opening throats, severing hands that reached for him. Two more of his knights, maybe extracted from their ride into the left flank, appeared, joining them. His men formed a protective wedge around him. Armored as they were, they were still not invulnerable, and one fell to a spear through a joint in his armor. The man’s screams were cut short as the enemy pulled him into their ranks.
“My lord!” A blood-covered sergeant fought his way to Garris’s side. “We can’t hold much longer!”
Garris knocked aside a thrown spear. “We hold as long as we must!”
Between the rest of the line retreating in order and his fight to hold the breach, it began to close. Enough that his remaining knights managed to pull Garris back as his spearmen and infantry closed the ranks.
Clear of the line, Garris could take in the entire battle again. Newberry was doing his job on the right and Ordan was doing as expected on the left. The line was holding, continuing its steady retreat backward. Better, the enemy had committed the rest of its reserve, desperately chasing the breach they’d had for a moment, their rear positions thinned as they pushed for victory.
“Signal,” he commanded the trumpeter beside him. “Now.”
The brass note cut through the din of battle. For a heartbeat, nothing changed.
Then horsemen erupted from the tree-covered hills to the southwest, charging down the Greenway road. Donnwick’s cavalry slammed into the exposed Icelander right flank like a hammer striking an anvil.
The enemy line buckled. Men turned to face the new threat, creating gaps in their formation. Confusion spread through their ranks as commands conflicted, some officers ordered them to hold against Garris’s center, others to wheel and face Donnwick’s charge.
On the heels of Donnwick’s cavalry was his spearmen, who would be the ones to truly press the flank.
As the enemy assault began to come apart in disarray and the pressure on them eased, his soldiers managed to seize on the opportunity, stopping their retreat and finally pushing themselves, getting payback for the losses they’d been forced to take.
“Second signal,” Garris ordered.
The brass notes rang out again, higher and longer this time. For a second time, a wave of steel-clad horsemen emerged, charging at the enemy flank. Their rear and left flank this time. Baron Halbrok’s cavalry thundered down the slope, his knights leading the charge.
The Icelanders’ rear formations dissolved into chaos. Those who tried to form a defense found themselves crushed between Halbrok’s charge and their own men pushing forward. Screams and the crack of splintering shields filled the air as heavy warhorses smashed through their lines.
“Press them!” Garris called out, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “Show these northern bastards how Iron Keep fights!”
His men responded with renewed vigor, pushing back against their attackers. The Icelanders, caught between three forces, began to break apart. Some tried to form circles of shields, while others attempted to retreat toward gaps in the enemy lines.
An Icelander captain attempted to rally his men and almost managed to get enough of a defense to break through and escape the trap Garris had laid for them, but was struck down as three arrows struck him in rapid succession, and he toppled from his horse.
“Forward!” Garris commanded, drawing his sword. “While they’re scattered!”
He led his knights and men-at-arms in a brutal push, driving deep into the enemy’s disorganized ranks. To his right, Newberry had finally found his courage, leading his men in a coordinated advance that prevented the enemy from reforming their lines. Garris had to give the merchant credit. Now that the fight wasn’t as desperate, he managed to keep his formation tight while exploiting gaps in the enemy’s defense.
Groups of Icelanders had begun throwing down their arms, raising their hands in surrender. Others tried to flee, but found themselves trapped between advancing forces on all sides.
“Take their surrender!” Garris ordered. “But cut down any who resist!”
He watched as more enemy soldiers realized the futility of their position. The field had become a bloody mess of mud, bodies, and discarded weapons. Here and there, pockets of resistance remained, but these were quickly overwhelmed by the combined forces.
The battle was over and the largest force of Icelanders on his land almost completely destroyed. Finally, he had a moment’s break from the desperation he’d felt for the past several months.
Perhaps they could win this after all.
***
***
Twyver, Barony of Greenwood, River Mark
William guided his horse along the worn stones of the East Road, neat columns of infantry stretched behind him. Of course, these ranks were made up of his veterans. As the lines got further back and became mostly conscripts, William knew the practiced marching would become more haphazard and chaotic.
Not that it changed their mission or how they would achieve it. The reason his men were up front was because no sane army would lead with their conscripts. Some, like his father, seemed to prefer to use them as fodder, to blunt an enemy and cause some bleeding, exchanging most of the lives of those conscripts for the minor advantage.
A cruel bargain and one that bled a kingdom dry. When those men weren’t pulled into service, they were the farmers and laborers the kingdom relied on to feed it and handle its commerce. Men like his father may look at them as expendable, but William had always seen that as foolish.
Yes, conscripts were at times needed and a valuable part of service. And yes, there were times, like when his uncle was pushed to the brink, with few troops to call upon, that they had to serve as the front line troops.
But they were not in that position now. As the bulk of his force, he would still have to use them, but he’d be smart about it. William would lead with his veterans and use the conscripts to push through weak points and reinforce as needed.
“Your men march well,” Aldric said, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You’ve done a good job, turning them into soldiers.”
William watched a column of spearmen pass. “They’ve bled enough to earn the title. Though I’d rather they were home with their families.”
“As would I, but we do what we must. When we make the attack, I want you to lead it.”
“No. No, that wouldn’t be right. You’re the Duke of River Mark, and these are your lands.”
“And you’re the man who led them to victory in Lynese. I’ve seen how they look at you - like seasoned veterans viewing a tested commander, not some green lordling. They trust you, and in battle, that is critical. Don’t worry, I’ll keep advising you.”
“Good, cause I might have their trust, but I don’t have your experience.”
“Well…” Aldric started to say when a rider approached.
One of their scouts, spurring his mount hard down the road. William raised his hand, halting the column as the scout reined up before them.
“My lords,” he said, “Crown forces have reinforced approaches to Twyver. Three thousand men at least, dug in behind earthworks and barricades. They’ve felled trees across the road.”
“Show me,” William asked, pulling out a map of the area.
The man quickly pointed out positions just by the gates of the unwalled city. It was clear they had been preparing this since their last loss, effectively walling the city in, at least to the south.
“Sergeant,” William said, turning to Eskild. “Bring up the heavy infantry and send our archers to the flanks. I know it puts them at the treeline, but do it anyway.”
Eskild gave him a look for a moment, but then shrugged and rode off to follow his orders.
“The fact that he didn’t try to correct you speaks volumes,” Aldric said.
“I know. How do you feel about taking the cavalry on the left flank?”
“A bit lopsided of an attack. It’ll let them concentrate.”
“The infantry will push against the entire line. They won’t have a choice but to defend anywhere. If you can punch through, it’ll get us in the city and past their defenses.”
“That it will,” Aldric said, slapping William on the shoulder before turning his horse to the rear where most of the knights were gathered.
They resumed their march, with the army restructuring itself to put his assault forces up front. Once they got to the city, they wouldn’t have the luxury of deciding what to do. The winding nature of the road and thick forest to either side meant that once he could see the enemy forces, he would be in the range of their defenses.
Which didn’t take long. The scout had done a good job in describing what they were facing. Enemy arrows darkened the sky as soon as they came into view. Clearly, the crown’s men had been waiting for this. The good thing about this fight was that there the trees blocked the bend to the south, giving less than a tenth of a mile between his frontline units in the sights of the enemy and their makeshift wall.
William raised his arm and horns blared across the line as his veterans began to rush forward at the double time. The sooner they engaged, the sooner they stopped the arrows from hitting them.
The front ranks reached the barricades in the center first, a crude affair of sharpened logs and stacked debris. Crown soldiers jabbed spears through gaps while William’s men worked to tear the obstacles apart. Blood sprayed as spears stabbed into the gaps, finding flesh in between armor, but the line held firm, stabbing back in return as they tore into the barricades.
“Push through!” A sergeant bellowed. “Heave together!”
The veterans worked together, some holding shields while others grabbed the logs or stabbed spears through them. With coordinated effort, they ripped a small section free, and then another, and then another. Crown soldiers stumbled back as the first of William’s men poured through the gap.
Things went less well on the right when several men on that front stumbled, crying out in alarm. A few were injured and even killed as they fell on the sharpened stakes hidden by loose dirt and branches, but most just fell and got back up. The logs were thick, meant for something heavy that it needed to be strong enough to pierce without breaking. Meant for horses and not men on foot. Veterans helped each other across and continued their assault on that section of the wall, the narrow ditches more nuisance than true obstacle to men on foot.
It was a much worse obstacle for other parts of his army.
“Sound retreat for the cavalry!” he commanded.
“My prin…” the signalman said, confused.
“Do it!” William shouted.
He didn’t have time to explain. Even now he could see Aldric leading the cavalry charge on the left flank, knights already thundering forward with lances leveled.
The man did as he was told, blowing the specific notes that told the mounted forces to pull back into defensive positions. The message was passed by other trumpeters down the line.
Thankfully, Aldric and the knights were not lost to the heat of battle. He managed to wheel his force around just short of the hidden pits, returning to the main line as Crown arrows pursued them.
William was grateful that he’d managed to keep his uncle out of danger, but it was not his focus. Infantry had connected across the line, as the road had been left without the wide berms causing problems on either side.
His men had been trying to fight around those, since any who tried to crest them got cut down quickly, and it was making it difficult to hold a cohesive line. The center, on the other hand, had been left open to allow for their men and commerce, as they’d taken one or two major cities to the south, to continue to pass through. The barricades there were less permanent and had clearly been put up in a hurry.
It was also where the crown had put the bulk of their men, knowing this weakness. As the fight began to progress, the battle at the center barricades had intensified the most.
William’s veterans were making progress, pushing forward step by bloody step, but not without cost. The defenders fought with desperate fury.
William’s attention was diverted when his uncle rode up, flush with anger. “Why did you call us back? We were nearly on them!”
William pointed to where his men had uncovered the spike-filled pits in the ground. “They copied the trap you set for them, turned it against you. Those pits would have broken your charge.”
“Depts,” Aldric cursed. “I apologize, lad. You did the right thing...”
Both were distracted by activity at the center. His men managed to cut through the main barricade and cut down several of the defenders around it, opening up a small gap.
His veterans saw it too and instantly took advantage of it. The hole was small, maybe four men abreast, but it was there, and the men at the barricade were fighting like hell to exploit it. The whole center surged forward, drawn to it like ships into the maw. William could see some of the crown’s less sturdy forces falling back from the breach in disarray.
William waved over a runner.
“Signal the second wave forward. Tell them to punch through that opening.”
Fresh infantry advanced toward the gap in the line. It was as much a pushing contest like the heavy spearmen formations of their ancestors shortly after the fall than more modern fighting of knight and pike.
The enemy saw it too and were pulling men from his right flank to reinforce and try to counter it. William looked to Aldric and then to another runner.
“Bring up some of the conscripts and have them use some of the bridging material we brought to cover those trenches.” The man saluted and ran off. “Once they’re covered, your cavalry can cross safely. They’ve weakened the right, and we should make them pay for it.”
Aldric smiled a much less pleasant smile than he normally gave and said, “I’ll see to it.”
He spurred his horse toward the rear lines, already calling out orders.
The battle wasn’t won yet, but William allowed himself a small moment of relief. The outer defenses were breaking, now they just needed to maintain momentum and push into the city itself.
He didn’t need to wait long. A broken line couldn’t hold long and this one was no different. The space of four men became eight, then ten as his reinforcements arrived, pushing more and more into the gap.
The rest of the line did not hold long to see what would happen when William’s men got in their rear. They retreated. Well, fled was more like it, running into the city, abandoning their prepared positions.
William’s veterans followed them, flooding into Twyver’s outskirts. It was not completely unopposed and here and there small groups tried to contest the assault and hold a section. It became a slow, bloody affair, pushing down the cobblestone streets as men fell on both sides.
The slow fight kept breaking of their lines from becoming a pure route, as their enemy regained its composition. The Crown forces began to fall back in stages, some units breaking while others fought stubbornly from doorways and behind overturned carts. His men had to clear buildings one by one before moving forward.
Progress was being made, but not enough. William was concerned with more than just this battle. Winning here just put things back to how it was, and did not end the fight. All of Kingsheart waited beyond the Thunderhorn. A daunting enemy even if he managed to get his entire army across the river unbloodied. An impossible one if he spent much of it here, retaking Twyver.
“My prince! My prince! The enemy has pulled men from the bridge and are reinforcing the center,” one of his officers said, riding back to William’s command group. “We are starting to grind to a halt.”
William cursed under his breath. A city was a hard place to fight. Especially the southern half of Twyver. Too many ways to get outmaneuvered and too slit up. He needed to punch through to the more open, where he could reform his line. He looked around, thinking. And then he spotted Sir Drummond directing men near a side street.
“Sir Drummond!” William called. “Take our remaining men-at-arms and knights not already engaged and push straight down the center. I want you to punch through and get to the city center. Then let the regular line reform and continue. Until then, you are in charge. Break through, Sir Drummond. Break through.”
Drummond frowned, his weathered face creasing with concern. “That will leave you with mostly conscripts to hold what we have taken and guard the flanks, my prince. The enemy could counter-attack.”
“The conscripts will have to be enough. We cannot afford to be bogged down now. Get it done.”
“As you command.” Drummond bowed slightly and began assembling men.
The knight was off. William passed word to the men given command of the conscripts, having them build barricades of their own, to hold the city as they could. He had a small group of conscripts left as a reinforcement, but Drummond had been right. If they hit these lines, it would break and their lines would be turned.
Aldric and Pembroke had both taught him battle always had an element of chance. A good commander knew how to turn that chance to their advantage. He was just going to check the right flank, where Aldric was making progress with the cavalry around the outskirts of the city, smart enough to not get them caught in the confines of street fighting that would eat up horsemen when horns blasted from the north. William sat up, trying to figure out the sounds he was hearing. Not the trumpet calls of his men, or the ones he had ever heard used by the crown or Aldric. Every army had its own calls, to keep confusion at a minimum. This one seemed familiar, but he could not put his finger on whose house it was.
“Send someone up that tower. It should be high enough to just see the north side of town. See if we can figure out what the hell is going on.”
Eskild nodded and sent two messengers running up the indicated building. Minutes later, after hearing more horn they could not identify, the messengers appeared at the top of the tower, leaning over and waving at them.
They waved down and used hand signals William had started to learn, but did not know well enough. These were men selected by Eskild, some who had been used in more … stealth focused missions. He seemed to know what they were saying, however.
“Fresh troops are crossing the Eastbridge carrying the banners of Penshaw and Deepford. They are in battle with the crown. They believe the defenders are sending men to counter it, pulling from the line facing us.”
“Then it worked. We have them now,” William said.
They had now caught the Crown forces between two armies, and the stiffening defense had started to weaken.
The city was doomed, that much was clear. Now it only mattered the cost.
The slowdown began to reverse itself, his men pushing faster toward the city center, faster and faster. According to the scouts he sent up numerous tall buildings, it seemed as if the forces attacking from the north were doing the same, starting to compress the crown forces down into the city center.
And then things turned again. To William’s surprise, Drummond came back, his knights, now bloodied and dirty but looking surprisingly upbeat.
“The battle isn’t over. What are you doing?” William demanded when the knights got to him.
“It will be momentarily. Their lines are in chaos. The Dunwic men in their ranks just started attacking their comrades. The entire line is in complete disarray and falling apart.”
“They did what?” William asked.
“I know how it sounds, but I saw it with my own two eyes, a group of men in Dunwic livery fell onto the backs of the men we were fighting wearing the signal of Stonvale. They slaughtered them and then joined us in the fight toward the center. From what I’m hearing, it’s starting to happen up and down the line.”
“What... never mind. I will not look darkly on a blessing from the ancients. Check with the other commanders, make sure they know what’s happening and can exploit it. Take Dunwic’s help, but not allow them into our rear, just in case it’s a double cross.”
“Good thinking, my prince,” Drummond said and turned, taking off back into the city.
He hadn’t needed to worry. It was a trap, but not one for his own men, and the trap had closed. Crown forces found themselves hemmed in on all sides, William’s veterans from the south, Aldric’s cavalry starting to push in from the east, Penshaw and Deepford from the north and sliding into the west, and Dunwic’s turncoats still partially among them.
All along the line, crown forces began surrendering. Not all at once. Some here and there tried to hold out, but the cause was lost.
Twyver was theirs.
