Bridge of Swords (46 page)

‘Here they come,’ Rhiannon said.

‘They? You are Forlish too.’ Huw tried to smile at her.

‘Don’t count me as one of them,’ Rhiannon sniffed, hefting her elven crossbow. ‘They are not my people.’

Huw laughed. ‘Then let’s hear you sing “Land of My Fathers”.’

She smiled, then threw back her head and began to sing. A moment later Huw joined in and then the dragons a breath behind them, then the Patchamers, until the whole village was singing together.

Huw felt the hair come up on the back of his neck. The song never ceased to amaze him, how they took strength from it. Even the men who had been ducking away to drop their trews and empty their bowels a moment earlier were standing tall and joining in. Let the Forlish come, he thought.

Broyle was sweating and breathing hard as they came to the outer wall. The slope had made the last few yards seem like miles and he could see he was not the only man struggling. The heavy shields were hard to keep moving and keep together — the only good thing was that storm of crossbow bolts had been blessedly brief and had now dried up. He did not care why. As a sergeant he was used to worrying only about what was in front of him, rather than the entire battle. That habit was hard to break and he had to force himself to think about his next move.

‘The ram!’ he called.

The Forlish lines paused, the men at the front leaning against the shields, everyone else holding shields high while the ram crew moved forwards. They were also sweating, having hauled the heavy ram across soft grass, and the ram did not quite race at the palisade with the pace Broyle had imagined. But it still struck home with a crash, sending logs flying in all directions. Sweating and swearing, the ram crew dragged it back and ran in again, widening the gap. This time the ram was caught on the wreckage of the palisade and they struggled to free it.

Now arrows came in, snapping in flat, making the ram crew duck and cower and spinning several of them round as they struck. Men screamed and bled and died or cursed and clutched at shafts sticking out of their arms and legs. One man had a shaft through his chest which pinned him to the ram itself and he gasped, blood bubbling out of his mouth, writhing helplessly against the thick trunk.

‘More shields!’ Broyle called angrily.

The heavy shields were dragged across, while other men tried to provide cover. The depleted ram crew was joined by fresh hands and the ram was dragged clear, then shoved forwards
again, the dying man pinned to the wood jerking and moaning, other men trying to ignore his painful death.

Again it crashed into the palisade, again more logs were knocked clear, giving them a view inside. The inner wall was also wrecked and all that waited for them was a crowd of Velsh peasants. They were singing something but Broyle had no interest in listening to that, any more than he would pleas for mercy.

‘Not long now,’ Broyle told those nearest to him. ‘Make ready!’

He decided everything was working well. He was used to battles going exactly to plan and saw no reason to question things now.

One more effort and the ram crashed home with force enough to dislodge the dying man pinned to the side, where his body was crushed by one of the heavy wheels.

‘That’s enough,’ Broyle judged. ‘Second and third lines — forwards!’

The men in the front rank leaned against the shields gratefully, their ordeal over, their effort made. All they had to do was tilt the shields around and let the next two ranks, the ones with the smaller shields, race inside. Or so they thought.

‘Wait! Wait for it!’ Huw shouted.

The temptation to start loosing bolts was almost too much. But he wanted the Forlish in the open, and away from their big shields. Loosing too early would have been a waste. He had let Cadel and his squad loose a few arrows each through the gaps now appearing in the outer wall but nothing more. He knew it was the right thing but it was still terrifying to watch the Forlish knock a hole in the wall and then swarm inside, shields held high. But by waiting the Velsh saw their chance. The Forlish could not hold their tight lines. At some places they had to climb over the broken stumps of the wall, at others they rushed straight in. In an instant there were gaps everywhere and the shields they carried, only big enough to cover the torso, were held low by arms tired of holding them high on the slow advance.

‘Loose!’ Huw shouted.

A cloud of bolts followed his order and he worked his own crossbow feverishly, pumping them out at the mass of Forlish. All around him the villagers used their crossbows, while Cadel and his group of dragons bent their longbows.

The Forlish covered up as best they could. While the sheer number of bolts meant some were striking home in legs and hands and arms, the Forlish clustered together, shields close, to protect anything vital. Only a handful were down, although far more were being wounded, especially in the legs. That did not slow the villagers, however, who worked their crossbows as if the Forlish could be turned back by the sheer number of bolts alone. Huw reloaded swiftly and guessed every Forlish shield had at least two bolts stuck in them, while many had far more — and not counting the ones that had hit and bounced off.

The advance was still coming, more and more Forlish creeping forwards past the first wall and inching towards their tormentors. Huw loosed one more bolt and cursed as he watched it sink harmlessly into a shield. He hesitated nervously. He could see the Forlish edging closer, worried they would get too close and could take waiting no longer. He turned and waved to Kelyn, atop the watchtower. He, in turn, waved a sheet of red linen.

Huw counted slowly to ten.

‘Stop! Hold!’ he bellowed, his voice cutting through the shouts and cries.

A few more bolts whistled out before the message was passed on but Huw was relieved to see almost all were listening to him and they were not lost in the fear and adrenalin.

The Forlish peered out from behind the shields, wary of a trap, but when they saw the villagers merely standing there quietly, weapons in hands, the Forlish straightened and began to run forwards, eager to take the fight to their tormentors.

And then Sendatsu struck.

Sendatsu and his dragons had waited, hidden by the curve of the inner wall, for the signal. He had more than eighty dragons, the best fighters bar the ones with Huw and Cadel. Almost all
had fought the Forlish outside Merthyr and while he would have preferred the same number of elves, he was proud to lead them. All were eager to follow, to show him how good they were — which was a fear in itself. He had told them many a time what had to be done — whether they could hold to that was another matter.

He could hear the noise of the Forlish attack, the shouts and screams, but he was fixed on Kelyn, in the watchtower above.

‘The red, we have the red!’ he shouted.

Instantly they kicked their horses into the charge — or as much of a charge as pit ponies could manage. Sendatsu and the leading riders all had spears — if not real hunting spears then at least long shafts of sharpened wood, while the rest would draw swords. Sendatsu’s fear was being caught up in the mass of Forlish, dragged down and his dragons killed by their superior numbers but, if the dragons could time this right, there was a chance to scour the area between the two walls clean of Forlish. If that worked, then Sendatsu would signal to Huw and the villagers could join the attack, turn the Forlish back then and there. If not, then it was on to the reserve plan.

‘Stay close, hold together!’ he bellowed as he spurred his horse on. ‘Keep to my left!’

The dragons tried to obey but few had ridden a horse before joining the dragons and gaps were already opening up between them as they went wide around the corner. Sendatsu could not spare the time to stop and reform, he just hoped and rode on, tearing around the angle of the wall to where the Forlish were rushing towards the villagers. He saw instantly they had timed their charge well — the Forlish were up and running, strung out more than they would have been, had the bolts still been flying. He aimed for the midpoint between the two walls, hoping his dragons stayed to his left, closer to the villagers than the heart of the Forlish, then forgot about that as he picked out one at the front, a bearded warrior with a long sword and a shield that bristled with crossbow bolts.

The Forlishman turned at the sound of the hooves but wasted precious moments staring in shock at the sudden appearance of
this strange cavalry. Sendatsu guided his horse with a touch of his heels, then leaned forwards, putting his weight behind a lunge of the spear. It was a boar-hunting spear, eight feet of solid wood topped with a heavy iron head, and only Sendatsu’s huge strength enabled him to hold the point steady and pick out his spot. As the Forlishman raised his shield in a despairing effort, Sendatsu thrust home, feeling the shock as the iron head punched into the Forlishman’s belly, bursting through his back in a spray of blood. He let go of the handle as the man screamed in agony, folding over the blade that was now trapped inside him, the weight of man and spear too much for even Sendatsu to try to hold. Instead he reached back and drew his sword from where it was hanging between his shoulder blades and brought it down in a vicious cut that sliced a man’s head almost from his shoulders, throwing blood across the horse’s side.

Now things got harder, for the ground was littered with rocks and broken timbers, each one with the potential to throw him out of the saddle — and once he was on the ground, the Forlish would pounce.

He swerved around a log, aimed at a third Forlishman, who ducked down low but Sendatsu nudged his horse and it dropped its shoulder into the warrior, knocking him backwards. Sendatsu leaned across his horse and slashed upwards, ripping open another Forlishman’s back, hearing the bubbling scream of his target as he regained the centre of the saddle in time to urge his horse to leap over a log lying in the grass. Then he was through to the other side and turning his horse, trying to see what was happening.

His dragons swept after him, the lead riders using spears to thrust down at the Forlish. These had some slight warning and a few were able to raise their shields, the wooden spears splintering in the impact, although the force was enough to hurl the Forlish backwards. Others were not so lucky. Spears found their targets in chests and stomachs, sending men flying in all directions. Other dragons hacked down with swords, opening up huge wounds in heads and shoulders as they rode through.

Yet several dragons had ridden out too close to the outer wall, to where the Forlish were a solid mass. These young Velshmen hacked and slashed furiously but their horses lost momentum in the press of bodies, the pit ponies not big enough or strong enough to carve their way through. Once they stopped, they were swiftly hamstrung by veteran warriors and the Velsh dragged down and cut to pieces by vengeful Forlish.

‘Around!’ Sendatsu gestured furiously, flinging blood from his blade, furious at the sight of his men dying. The dragons tried to obey but while they moved closer to the inner wall, it enabled Forlish to scamper to safety. Isolated Forlish were helpless; trying to block one blow, they opened themselves up to a second. But there were not enough of those and many of the dragons at the back rode clear through without even swinging their swords.

Sendatsu cleaned his blade on his horse’s mane and knew they had not done enough damage. Too many Forlish remained. He had let his concern for the dragons blind him to what needed to be done. He felt a pang at the thought but there was no time for regrets. He waved to his dragons, who were reforming again.

‘What now?’ one of his other squad leaders, Tadd, cried. Almost as good a swordsman as Cadel, he was another of Sendatsu’s favourites.

Sendatsu looked grimly at where the Forlish were locking shields. Those warriors had fought cavalry often enough to know how to counter them. More than two dozen Forlish were down, dead and hideously wounded from the first charge — but they would not be caught like that this time.

‘Off the horses!’ Sendatsu decided.

His dragons obeyed without question, turning the beasts and sending them running back, away from the Forlish.

‘Form up together,’ Sendatsu ordered.

‘And what then?’ Tadd asked.

‘Wait to see who they attack,’ Sendatsu stated, glancing towards where Huw and the others stood. He hoped the Forlish would advance towards them, opening up their flank to his attack. But he had the horrible feeling they would choose to
march towards Sendatsu and the dragons. What would Huw do then? Attack? Sendatsu hoped not.

Broyle cursed as the Velsh charge struck home, cutting down his lead men. If only he had spears, he could have turned that charge into a massacre. But there were many things he did not have and he ignored them, concentrating instead on what he did have. Plenty of men for a start. And shields as well.

‘Form up! Tight formation!’ he bellowed. He had to do two things — firstly stop another one of those charges and then make sure the two groups of Velsh did not join together.

Instantly the mass of Forlish shuffled together, linking shields.

He was about to order some of the big shields to be dragged in, to help break up another cavalry charge, when the mounted Velsh dismounted, forming up on foot instead.

Almost instantly, the bolts from the elven crossbows began to swamp his front rank, forcing them to duck and cover, the constant noise of the bolts thudding into shields making it hard to think.

‘They want to hit us in the flank when we go for the villagers,’ Ricbert said nervously. ‘What do we do?’

Broyle nearly hit him. Those damned bolts were driving him mad and the last thing he felt like doing was discussing tactics with anyone, let alone Ricbert. Grimly he forced himself to come up with something.

‘You take command of that flank. Keep a double line there. They’ll never be able to break that. Once we have set the villagers running, we’ll turn and deal with them properly,’ he growled.

Huw had cheered Sendatsu’s charge, delighted to see the leading Forlish ridden over — but swiftly realised they had not done enough. Instead of striking through the heart of the Forlish, they had merely taken out the front rank. He cursed the elf. His desire to save as many as possible might well have had the opposite effect.