David Dalglish: Clash of Faiths

Jerico bit his lower lip in thought. It could work, though he doubted it would be as simple as the wizard hoped. Of course, there was one other major flaw.

“Promise me one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Adam and Griff don’t get to carry one.”

Bellok finally laughed.

“Perhaps there is some shred of intelligence hidden under that skull of yours.”

“Thanks,” Jerico muttered, following him back to camp.

Once there, the paladin found Kaide grabbing a drink of wine for his parched throat.

“How’d it go?” Jerico asked.

“Were you not there to listen?”

“Afraid not. Was getting lectured by the wizard.”

Kaide shrugged.

“I did my best. We’ll have surprise on our side. Won’t be able to ride our horses, though. Saddles aren’t right for it, and neither riders nor horses are trained. We’ll fight on foot, with knives, clubs, and a few stolen swords. To think this is what I wanted. Should Sebastian turn on us with any real amount of numbers, our line will break like water.”

“Not all of it,” Jerico said, lifting his shield so its light shone across Kaide’s face. “I will be at your side. Your line will not break, so long as we stand.”

Kaide smiled, and it lit his handsome face. It was the first true smile Jerico had seen from him.

“As you say, we’ll make it be. Thank you, Jerico.”

“My pleasure. Just don’t run on me. I’d hate for you to miss your own victory.”

*

Sir Gregane stared across the open field to the distant forest on the other side of the half-mile gap.

“A fair place for a battle,” Nicholls said, looking at the smooth terrain. “Arthur chose well.”

“They were here before us,” Gregane said as he glanced at his vanguard. “We must act carefully. There may be hidden ditches to break our horses’ legs, or tripwire laced between the trees.”

“All that seems a bit low for one such as Arthur.”

Gregane frowned.

“Arthur consorts with brigands and murderers. We cannot assume he has gone unchanged.”

He stared at the field, confident no ambushes lurked there. The grass was too short to conceal a man, and there were no hills tall enough to hide behind. He saw faint whiffs of smoke from the forest, and even at their distance, he could tell the entire army waited within.

“Fighting amid trees,” he muttered. “We’ll need to draw them out.”

“A minor advantage,” Nicholls argued.

“Not if they flee. But first, let’s see if Arthur is willing to submit before any blood is shed.”

Gregane’s vanguard, twenty knights and their mounts, all fully armored, rode with multiple banners waving the sigil of the Yellow Rose. From the forest Arthur rode out to meet them, with only five at his side. They too wore armor, and it shone in the afternoon light. When they were within a hundred yards, Gregane motioned for his vanguard to halt, and then he rode forward alone, as did Arthur.

“Greetings, Sir Gregane,” Arthur said, lifting the visor of his helmet. “Have you come to aid my rightful return as lord of the Yellow Rose?”

“You forfeited that claim,” Gregane said. “Please, Arthur, I ask you to throw down your sword and go home. You can see our numbers. There is no hope for you here, only death.”

“Are those your terms?” Arthur asked. “Disarm myself, and run like a frightened child to cower and hide for the next assassin to come? I will not live my life frightened of my drink and distrusting every shadow of my room. Sebastian tried to take my life. He failed. I will come for his, and I will succeed.”

Gregane shook his head.

“Very well. I have one last offer, this from Sebastian himself. Dismiss your army, and announce to the people of the North that Sebastian is still lord of the Yellow Rose. In return, milord will bear no grudge against you, ensure no assassins ever dare strike at you, and allow you the freedom to leave your Castle of Caves without fear. What say you?”

Arthur grinned, and the wolfish gleam in his eye told Gregane the answer before the lord ever spoke.

“His promises are nothing. One last chance, Gregane. The men will listen to you. Join my side. I am the eldest son, and I have come for my birthright.”

Sir Gregane saluted, even as he felt sadness pang in his heart.

“Ready your men,” he said. “It comes to bloodshed, then.”

Arthur saluted in return.

“I pray we do not meet in battle,” he said. “For no matter the victor, I will always offer my hand to you in friendship, should you ever choose to accept it.”

They rode back to their escorts.

“Well?” Nicholls asked.

“Prepare the archers,” Gregane said. “I want the whole damn woods buried with arrows.”

Nicholls shouted the order, and then the army began marching. As expected, Arthur vanished into the forest behind the many trunks and naked branches. No troops came out to meet them as they marched. It looked like they wished to fight amid the trees, but Gregane had no intention of doing so.

Once within two hundred yards, Gregane called a halt. Archers rushed to the front, forming three lines of a hundred each. Sir Gregane lifted his arm, and he looked through the trees at the line of soldiers. Somewhere in there, an honorable lord would die. Such a shame.

“Let loose,” he said.

Volley after volley sailed into the air, and in the silence following the twang of bowstrings, Gregane sighed.

The arrows hit the forest like rain. Even from their distance, Gregane could hear the sounds of pierced trunks, snapped shafts, and the screams of the wounded. Of all, it was the third that was the least. Frowning, he ordered another volley. Again the arrows fell, and Gregane struggled to see. The trees were too much cover, from what he could tell, and the men on the front lines bore heavy shields.

“What now?” Nicholls asked.

“Arrows are replaced easier than men,” Gregane said. “Empty every quiver.”

The twang of the bowstrings became a discordant chorus, the archers letting loose as fast as they were capable. Gregane did not even watch, instead turning to his troops and planning strategy. His knights would lose most advantages navigating their horses through the trees. If only he could draw Arthur’s men out somehow, and then send his knights crashing through their sides…

“Advance slowly,” Gregane said. “Tight formations, no charge. Let us see how disciplined our enemy is. And watch for traps.”

The archers fell to the back, and then the squads of footmen began their approach. Only a third were equipped with shields, and they would be the ones on the frontlines. The rest carried heavy swords and axes, the killing men that would break through once the initial clash was done. Gregane stayed back with his knights, watching for the perfect moment to send them crashing in.

The yards between them shrank, and Gregane found himself holding his breath waiting for the collision of bodies, the communal yell of a charge. It did not come, for behind him he heard the sound of an inferno unleashed.

“What in Karak’s name is that?” Nicholls shouted. Gregane spun his horse, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest at the sight.

The woods behind them were ablaze. Not just burning, not just smoking, but full ablaze, every tree consumed, every inch of the sky blotted out above it. As trees collapsed and branches fell, the grassland caught.

“The wind,” Gregane said, fighting off panic.

“It is with us,” Nicholls said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “The fire will not catch us. It’ll burn west instead.”

At such a sight, it was hard to believe. Swearing, he looked back to the fight. Most were unaware of the inferno, no doubt focused on the battle. His squads had reached the forest, which remained at a standstill. Shields locked against shields. Those with the longer swords stabbed over, and Gregane knew he was killing just as many, if not more, than Arthur. But that fire…