John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

He breathed deeply as the dawn rose, smelling the wood fires of many camps, and knowing that this would be a fateful day. Yet the gray Emir at his side remained restless and worried.

“I do not like this place,” he fretted. “We should fight on open ground, where our horsemen might shift and wheel about as they might, and strike upon the enemy flank and rear. And our men are too much burdened with the spoils of conquest. We should have left these far behind, well guarded, and not brought these things so near at hand where they might tempt our enemies. And the wives and families have no place here either. They are a great and troublesome distraction.”

“You fret like a woman,” said the Wali . “The camp is well hidden. I will leave the tribal militias there, and it will be well guarded.”

When messengers came with the news that the way ahead was now barred and strongly defended, Abdul Rahman rode himself to look upon his foe. There he saw where they had arrayed themselves in the same manner as before, right astride the road he must take to the city of Tours, with a long wall of shields on a low rise. One flank, he saw, was very near the river Clain on his left, where the steep wooded banks would prevent any turning movement by his more mobile horsemen. The other flank was anchored flush against the thick woodlands that screened his own encampment from enemy eyes. And he noted that, even if he drove them from their line of defense, there was yet another woodland to the rear where his scouts had seen old Roman ruins, and a small stone tower.

This man Charles had chosen good ground, he thought. He was a master of defense, a hard iron anvil, and waited with patience behind the tall shields of his soldiery. Perhaps he might compel him to come down off his hill, by pricking him all the long day with arrows. He would soon test the mettle of this new general, and see what he was made of.

His jaw set, eyes darkening under his thin black brows, Abdul Rahman vowed that no man would live to flee through that distant wood behind the Frankish lines. The Emir’s counsel may have been wise, for the lay of the land would not allow him to turn the flanks of the enemy here. Instead he would harass them with the archers and slingers of his vanguard, testing their strength, then, at a time of his choosing, he would unleash the three Khamis of his main body, the well armored professional soldiers that had come from Syria and even as far away as Arabia, and he would ride the heathens down. All this was clear in his mind now as he surveyed the scene before him.

It was written.

Abdul Rahmanwatched, all that morning, hearing the hoarse shouts of the Frankish chieftains as they exhorted their soldiers to stand firm while he rained one volley after another upon them. His light Berbers rushed in, stopping to fire and then dancing away, beyond the reach of the great broad swords and heavy battle axes of the enemy. On occasion he sent in mounted infantry to engage the Franks as well, but they were not able to make any impression on their heavy ranks, well protected as they were behind their shieldwall.

All day he bled them, punishing them for the insolence they showed him in barring his way forward. He worked it like a skilled blacksmith might beat upon the hard metal of a sword. Then, as the afternoon wore on, he judged it time for the final blow. He would take the sword and slay his foe.

Horn calls sounded as he summoned his heavy horse, leading them forward. He held them fast for a time, their long lances jabbing at the smoky sky; their armor and jeweled helms glinting in the waning sunlight. Then he set them loose. They would ride, like rolling thunder, into the narrowing gap between the river and the woods where Charles and his Franks stood stubbornly behind their shieldwall. Then they would fling their lighter javelins as one more hail of iron upon the enemy before the powerful charge of the lancers came crashing against the enemy line. Here at last the hammer of Islam would fall upon the anvil of fate, and the awful sound would ring down the hollows of Time itself, forever.

Charles stoodwith his chieftains and retainers when the main attack finally came, his deep voice shoring up the will of his soldiers, his heavy battle axe always at the ready. Odo had been right, he thought. All the day long they have been playing with me here, rushing and feinting, and pricking my lines with their arrows. Now comes the charge he warned me of. Now come the heavy horsemen of Islam in a mighty charge. But we will stand as a wall of ice, cold and impenetrable, and we will not give way.

When the enemy cavalry surged against his shieldwall, the long broadswords of his hardened infantry flashed and hewed, killing horse and man alike. Horses reared, nostrils flared and eyes wide with the terror of battle, their iron shod hooves beating upon the helmets of the Frankish soldiers. And down they crashed, when pierced with iron, yet others pressed behind them and leapt in the clash and din of battle. Many fell, on both sides in the chaos of those moments, but always Charles urged his men on, sending in reserves where he held them fast behind the front line. And when the enemy horsemen would fall back to reform and charge again, they would find new shields planted in the loamy soil of that bloodied hillock, and new hearts opposed.

Again and again the Saracen horsemen came, until Charles looked out, wide-eyed, and saw a greater mass of armored cavalry bearing down upon his shieldwall, a sea of lances, surging forward like a great wave. They smashed through the outer wall and forged a deep wedge in his lines, bearing down on the place where he stood with his chieftains. And in all the chaos of the battle he had given no thought to Odo, the sulking Duke of Aquitaine where he waited on the far left flank, his light horsemen well concealed by the thick woods and brush. But now, as the Saracen horde plunged its lance deep into the heart of the Frankish defense, with eyes glazed and chastening alarm pulsing in his chest, Charles waved his frantic order, and sounded horns to call in this last reserve.

His chieftains fought like demons, closing ranks around their captain and lord, and Charles himself was drawn into the fray, his heavy axe rising and falling as he struck down one dark warrior after another, but still they came, bent on taking his life and ending the battle with this final surge of arms.

Off in the woodlandsOdo had been chafing like a willful beast, brooding as he waited on the word of the Bastard Charles. He endured the long morning, held in check, watching with dismay as the Berbers harried Charles’ men with their archery. It was happening now as it had played out earlier this same year on the River Garonne. Charles the mighty, Charles the usurper, Charles the lord and master, who held him at bay, taking many daughters and children from his province of Aquitaine as hostages… Charles the coward.

We shall see, he thought. When hard pressed, in the thick of battle; when the day grows old with blood and smoke, Charles will summon me at long last… But I will not answer, he smiled, for I will not be here!

Odo listened to the sound of battle, the distant shouts of men at arms, the neigh of horses and the sharp clashing of iron on shields and helms. Three times, he had been tempted to take up his mount, the strong brown charger he had found at Tours when he arrived there, days ago. He still kept the old gray Arabian that had carried him here at hand, having forged an unaccountable bond with the beast. The Arabian was too old to carry the Duke into battle, but he tethered him near, walking over to him from time to time and stroking his mane and neck with soft words.