The Beacon: Dragon's Teeth (4)
Episode 42: "The Battle of Blayne"
“Captain Haviland, display the advance flag,” King Lorens commanded in an even voice. He turned to a blond-haired, red-cheeked youth standing nearby with a bugle under his arm, ordering, “Corporal, sound the advance.”
Immediately, the two officers complied, and after a momentary delay, stentorian voices could be dimly heard down the line crying, “Advance!” Stretched nearly to the Highwater River, the divisions lurched into motion at an unhurried march straight west toward Blayne’s wall where the Leitan army waited, still unprepared to receive an assault. Many among the rebels, oblivious to their peril, stared dumbly as Azuri’s emanation flowed over them, missing Margonne’s professional soldiers by hundreds of yards. Lorens had not called his men back to their ranks until he knew they were completely safe from the evil wave.
While the emanation had no effect on the Leitani warriors, their assumed advantage—their hope for an easy victory over the king’s troops—receded as the wave rippled placidly south along the wall. Several minutes later, panic broke out when massed volleys of arrows began falling among them courtesy of Margonni bowmen in the army’s wings, slaying and wounding many of their comrades. All the rallying shouts and curses of their war leaders fell on heedless ears. Hundreds bolted south toward Highwater Bridge, and a similar number fled north, hoping to melt into the Bear Hills whence they came.
Above the rise in the north where the king sat on his horse watching the battle begin, a firework screamed into the sky and exploded a few hundred feet above the ground, spewing red smoke into the air. Seconds later, a light cavalry company swept from behind the short hill and swiftly closed the gap the terrified Leitani thought was an open path to escape. Once in position, forming a line, the horsemen walked their mounts slowly forward, lances lowered. On the North Road, Marshal Vast bellowed the advance, and Duke Borgond’s household troops and levies took the field, hitting the fleeing rebels on their flank and making quick work of the witless, leaderless, chaotic mass.
Even so, thousands of Leitani remained at their army’s center, held in place by their commander’s will. To the king, they appeared like hungry dogs straining against their leashes as they waited on their master’s command to hunt. He shook his head. A few of these rebels have some fighting spirit.
“Haviland, order the northern archery companies to shoot five more flights,” he ordered calmly, “and make sure they target the center to soften it up. That’s their strength. After the fourth volley, send in the First Division’s heavy horse. They are to punch in the enemy’s left flank and get them fleeing south. If we time it right, they’ll hit the rebels just as the infantry does.”
“Yes, lord,” the unruffled captain said. He quickly scribbled a note on a slip of paper, and a minute later, a rider galloped downhill toward the nearby archery companies. He and the king watched in silence for a few minutes as the messenger delivered the orders. Not long thereafter, the bowmen drew on their new target and began loosing their arrows.
After the fourth volley, the king yelled, “Light it now, captain!” and another firework streaked upward, this time releasing yellow smoke. As the archers’ fifth volley rose into the air, Marshal Mortimor’s heavy horse pounded behind it from the right, followed by the light cavalry company closing on the rebel lines to their right. As the king predicted, horse and infantry plunged into the Leitani’s front nearly simultaneously.
Despite their center’s eager bravery, the rebels had no defense for such tactics. Disorganized, untrained, and unarmored, they fell like wheat before a scythe to the swords of skilled men-at-arms and the deadly lances of Margonne’s knights. It took mere minutes to break them, and the most fearful soon had the whole rebel force edging then scrambling south, the only avenue open to them, following the emanation they had trusted in to turn the battle to their favor.
“Now the chase begins,” the king said, sighing. “Come, Captain Haviland! We must follow the army as we drive the rebels south into our trap! You know, I truly expected more resistance, a sharper battle, a surprise—something from the enemy, but they have simply folded at every turn! Except for the fact that such weakness is to our advantage, it is mildly disappointing.”
Haviland nodded, blinking as he thought. “Indeed, sire. My opinion, if you desire it, is that, in every way, this rebellion was premature. The rebels were too eager to engage and thus woefully unprepared. Also, lord, I believe, as we have seen today, that they depended too heavily on the emanations. Even when posing as gods, demons are hardly reliable creatures.”
“Indeed not!” Lorens said heartily, barking a laugh. “That reminds me of another thing Margonne wrote in his private memoir: Azuri’s only concern is himself, and he cares no more for his worshipers than he does his foes.”
“It makes one wonder why they worship him,” the captain observed. “I would think some would question the arrangement.”
“Many more have done so than you know!” Lorens answered. “You saw many Leitani cheering us as we rode through Palisade, and the Prophetess’ people forsook Azuri before Margonne’s conquest two centuries past. Perhaps this war will open more eyes to Azuri’s nature.”
“We can hope, lord,” Haviland said, mounting his horse, having packed his saddlebags and strapped his service kit behind the saddle as they talked. “I pray it doesn’t have the opposite effect, turning more Leitani to rebellion.”
“Have faith, my good captain!” the king said with a grin. “We will fight the peace with the same rigor, and win thousands to our banner!”
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A quarter-hour later, Marshal Vytor Vash rode at the head of Thorne’s regiment, Duke Borgond at his side. The force numbered less than a full regiment by Margonni standards, but it lacked only a few hundred men. For one that was composed mainly of untried levies, they had acquitted themselves well during their first engagement, suffering very few casualties. Many of the soldiers carried themselves with a swagger they had heretofore lacked.
Lifting a fist into the air, Vash reined his horse to a stop as they approached within a few hundred yards of Blayne’s gate, still firmly closed against the storm of fighting that had swept along the wall. A glance toward the short hill that the king had used to observe the battle told him that Lorens had left it to follow the army. Having no further orders, he assumed he was free to act independently as the situation demanded. The situation was an unmitigated rout, and the kingdom’s army had the pursuit well in hand.
Duke Thorne’s voice interrupted the marshal’s thoughts. “Why are we stopping, Marshal Vash? Aren’t we going to join the king?”
Vytor grinned, admiring the man’s resolve, but shook his head. “Green troops like ours tend to go a little crazy in a rout like this, my lord, so I don’t think it wise. Besides, Blayne is your town, is it not? It is still not secure. We don’t know how many Leitani rebels remain behind its walls, and they are now behind our battle line. We have a duty to stay right here and secure it—or at least bottle up any rebels looking to escape.”
Borgond looked south toward the fighting, and when he turned back to Vash, he nodded. “Your decision is prudent, Marshal,” he said, though his voice betrayed a hint of disappointment. He took a deep breath. “How shall we deploy our troops?”
Vash took a quick look around, arms crossed with one fist to his chin as he considered the question. The detritus of battle—bodies, blood, discarded weapons, crumpled tents, remnants of food, and still-smoking cookfires—littered the area in front of the gate. Carrion birds had already begun wheeling overhead and descending on the dead. He scanned the battlement, seeing many Leitan eyes watching them through the crenellations. Finally, he studied the darkening clouds rolling in from the west.
“Let’s get some work details clearing out the bodies and debris in front of the gate and fifty yards to either side,” he said at last. “We may have to camp here, so we should at least prepare for it. And remind the men to stay out of bowshot.” His aide wheeled away, shouting orders along the line to fulfill the marshal’s wishes.
The marshal turned to Duke Borgond. “My lord, keep your men-at-arms vigilant. We have no idea what might happen.”
Moving quickly, the regiment’s sergeants sent out platoon-sized teams, about a third of their strength, to clear the area, stacking the dead in large piles and removing as much debris as possible. Others led the supply wagons to a flat property about five hundred yards from the wall, ordering the drivers to scout for water and prepare to set up camp. Although few had suffered wounds in the fighting, the regiment’s doctor raised his tent and tended to those who needed care.
When many of the regiment’s soldiers had scattered, distracted by their work, the gates of Blayne swung open, and the portcullis rose at a rapid rate. One of the men-at-arms shouted, “Ware! Rebels sallying!” Others took up the cry.
“Archers!” Vash cried at once, roaring over the warnings. “We need archers! Slow them down! Fire at will!”
A moment later, he bellowed, “Infantry! Form a line! Shields ready to receive them!”
Then to his aide, he thundered, “Captain Callin! Get those men back into the ranks double-quick!”
Rebel warriors, painted for battle, poured from the gate by the score, filling the air with screams and battle cries. About a quarter of them rode horses, streaking up the road toward the regiment at full gallop, far outdistancing their running comrades shouting for Margonni blood. Some came only close enough to loose arrows at the Thorne levies as they passed by their front, most missing, but a few found targets. Daring to ride closer, others flung lances more accurately than the archers, killing or wounding several among the back rows of the regiment’s formation.
More Leitan warriors surged out of the gate. Fresh troops held in reserve, they numbered over fifteen hundred, many of them residents of Blayne who had vowed to protect their homes. Driven by the despondent spirit that had dwelt in Blayne for millennia, they pelted toward the flag of Thorne with nothing but death and vengeance on their minds.
A note:
Millennia before, Osegra became a refuge for discontented spirits when the “brethren”—the demon-gods Azuri, Oxis, Hakkon, Kartom (Ajmal), and Fazil—rebelled against their former master and fled to the distant continent to carve out their own domains. Later, they welcomed, or at least did not contend with, lesser demonic spirits seeking freedom as long as they acknowledged the dominance of the original five over Osegra. Thus, the gods of Tanjar and Haimar led their worshipers to inhabit the western coastlands, and minor spirits like the one in Blayne quietly held sway over smaller areas around the continent.
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