Dragongate I

“Sound the call to advance”, the King instructed his hornblower. A brave pure note rang out, followed by others in a rising call. An answering call came from the right flank, then another came from the left. With a jingle of bridles and a bobbing of banners and lances, the King saw the right-hand division of the cavalry on the move. Earl Strang came trotting along the line at their head, turning, as he drew level with the King, to salute him wordlessly by thudding a clenched gloved fist to his chest. He then turned, and as the gates were swung silently open, drew his sword and clattered through the archway into to the bright sunlit plain, a rising clatter of shod hooves on the cobbles echoed under the arch as the right-hand division trotted, three abreast, after the Earl. As soon as they had cleared the gate, the King raised his hand, pressed his heels to the flanks of his mount and moved off.

***

Eric, who had heard the distant horn calls, craned his head again anxiously toward the castle and saw the glint of arms as the Valour of Gryphonhold emerged from the shadow of the town gate and fanned out in front of its walls. The relief almost overwhelmed him; he had not realised the tension he had been under, He grabbed his hornblower, “Sound the withdrawal,” he half gasped and half shouted, “the withdrawal!”

The call was given and passed from the centre by repeat calls to each flank.

Eric turned to the reserve line, “Shieldwall!”

There was a clunk, as the front rank knelt with their shield points in the dirt, and the rank behind set their shields to overlap their comrades.’

The men at the ramparts ran. The seconds it would take the first Leopards, suddenly unopposed, to clamber of the breastwork was life to the defenders. They ran, as they had been told to do, straight for the intervals between the reserve squads, the gaps in the shieldwall. There sergeants paused to direct the bowmen to one side. The rest kept going towards the reserve earthworks.

“The signal! The signal!” cried Eric, and the bundle of cloth was jerked hurriedly up to the top of the makeshift pole where it broke out into a blood red flag. In answer, and with barely a pause, the engines on Gryphonhold’s walls, sited now on Eric’s first line, sent rocks crashing into the rear of the breastwork his men had just quitted, burying the bloody remains of the Leopards in the crumpled earth.

“Bowmen!” cried Eric, “Loose!”

As the surviving Leopards stumbled forward, they met a volley of arrows, shot over the heads of Eric’s shieldwall, and were cut down like wheat before the scythe.

“Withdraw!” cried Eric. His command was taken up by the horns. The bowmen turned and ran backwards. The shieldwall came neatly apart, the men turned to follow. Eric, now finding himself alone before the flagpole saw Leopards begin to emerge from the dust and wreck of the dyke, even as more missiles from the castle fell among them. He realised that this was no place to be. He turned to sprint after his men.

It was a straight race, now, for the second line, but one that Eric’s men would now win. They had too much of a head start and their Enemy was too depleted and disordered to follow immediately. As at the outer wall, the Leopards needed to amass in numbers and form up clear of the murderous volley of rocks hurled from the castle. Yet, they were disciplined and they organised quickly. Though they could not hope now to catch the withdrawing defenders in the open, they came on as fast as they could, their numbers increasing until they all but covered the plain. For, all this time, they had continued to pour through the breaches and the gateway in the outer wall. Included now in the growing host upon the plain, the first of their cavalry.

***

Lord Aldred had regarded the newcomer, “Greetings, Forrada. We have not, I think, met before?”

“No, my Lord,” the captain had replied, “I have not had the fortune to serve at Dragongate.”

“It takes more than mere fortune to earn a place at Dragongate,” was the reply, “it takes many qualities and makes many demands, not least of which is sacrifice.”

“Indeed, Lord,” the captain had said, tonelessly.

“Be that as it may, captain,” Lord Aldred had continued, “what think you of our position?”

“Perilous,” the captain had said.

Lord Aldred had not replied at once but had remained silent for a pause. He had looked forth across the war-ravaged Vale. It crawled with grey-clad enemies where its fields and meadows, gardens and homesteads had lain. Now, it appeared to him, all that had been fair was trampled to dust; its peace forever lost in the shrill clamour of war. He had next regarded the burnt and empty plain that lay between the outer wall and the lower town of Stowham. The plain was carved with two long gashes in the earth from eastern cliff to riverbank. Behind them men crouched still and silent to him. The town itself had seemed to him alive with men, or, rather, the with much movement in the shadows that still lay deep in the smoking ruins. Somewhere there, steeling himself for the fight, his son. At that moment his attention had been dragged back to milling masses of enemy troops in the distance. For, it was then that they had heard the harsh war horns of the Enemy, as the assault upon the outer walls had commenced.

“Come,” he had answered Forrada at last, “let us withdraw to yonder chamber so I may take counsel with you.”

“Indeed, Lord,” Forrada had answered, “I have gathered many staunch captains and men of renown who would speak with you at this juncture, and they await your summons.”

“Indeed?” Lord Aldred had replied, and he had let the Marcher captain lead him to gaping black entrance of the tower room beyond, the Lord’s squire trotting nervously behind.

Now, some half or three quarters of an hour later, he was once more upon the battlements. This time he leant upon them. He did so because he must; the shock he had lately suffered had robbed him of all bodily strength, just as it had robbed him of old certainties. Perhaps the stones would both support and strengthen him now at his time of most need. No, that time was not yet here, though was surely soon to come.

As he abided there, in the impassive stone of the embrasure, he felt his years as never before. He felt utterly enervated, too weak even to stand. He had just the strength to cleave to the battlements, as a mariner adrift might, with the last of his strength, cling to the wreckage of the wooden walls he thought would shelter him in the storm. Yet now beneath him all seemed weak and shifting, the bedrock of his certainty splitting along flaws unseen and unsuspected until now. This castle and his life of service, all, now, seemed to be built upon sand. He trembled and wept at the shock of it.

His squire, he was dimly aware, stood at a discrete distance. Aldred recalled the look of shock his squire had been unable to suppress when he had turned and stalked from the table over which he and Forrada had been bowed in conference, cloistered in the tower chamber. At the knights and captains who had come to him, it seemed at Forrada’s bidding, he had been disgusted and amazed. He tasted still the bile that had risen to his throat. He gasped and swallowed with difficulty, earning another start and a worried look from the squire. Many of this parade of fine fellows had been unknown to him. Vale Men and some seemingly new to the Vale and, he supposed, recruited by Nerian until the March Companies were plagued with them. Yet, some also of them he knew, and that tasted the most bitter of all the truths Forrada had obliged him to swallow. Yet, what exactly were they saying, and how much of it could be true?

Lord Aldred felt sick, dizzy and sick. He closed his eyes as he battled with his reeling thoughts. He must retain the semblance of calm, he told himself. He must command himself. He needed to clear his head.

Things were in motion below in the Vale, he saw, as things, he knew now, were in motion in the castle. He must act. Yet, for some minutes, he still could not move. Below, he saw the defenders of the first dyke making an orderly withdrawal towards their second line. The Enemy, in innumerable strength, was filling the plain behind them with men, but they were still at some distance from the defenders. An implacable tide of grey, the Enemy, lapping at the heels of little knots of men in blue, or in the red and green of the Vale. None had broken. All maintained discipline, and all were keeping at least a bow shot ahead of the grey wave that swept after them. Good. The Vale Men below remained stout. He then saw a glitter at the edge of his vision and glanced toward the Stowham gate; a line, both long and deep, of knights and men at arms emerged from the lee of the town wall into the low morning sun, which lighted their arms and armour like rippling silver and unveiled the bold colours of their chivalry to the day. He looked for the red of the king, then next for the pale yellow of his own house; Algar was somewhere in that host. Seeing him and his little party, Aldred prayed to the Mother that his son would remain safe and, more importantly, that he remained true.

‘There is hope yet,’ thought Lord Aldred, “hope in the King”, and he pushed himself up from the embrasure, and, slowly, and stiffly, stood fully erect. His tall, spare, wasted frame now stood taught. Pale and gaunt of face he seemed to his squire, but with the graven lines of care now set in resolution, his pale eyes no longer watery, but gleaming hard with cold anger.

“My Lord?” uttered his Squire, amazed at this further change in him.

“Come!”, Lord Aldred addressed his squire, “we have much work to do.”

And he strode off the battlements, his squire behind him.

***

“This will take careful timing, will it not, my Lord?” the King turned to Lord Warden Nerian.

“Yes, my Liege,” answered Nerian. He looked drawn and anxious, noted the King, and distinctly uncomfortable.

They were arrayed in line of battle before the walls of Stowham, awaiting the moment for action.

“Hmm, timing. That dagger in your hand, for instance,” continued the King equably, “it could not stab me before Sir Kendrick’s sword severed your arm.”

Nerian made a strangled noise in his throat, “My Liege, my Liege!” he began.

The king ignored him and continued, “I suspect Sir Kendrick will be disappointed if you don’t at least try. No? Oh well.”

Nerian stared wildly over his shoulder. The face of Sir Kendrick’s great helm stared impassively back at him. Then, through its dark slits, the Warden saw two narrowed eyes regarding him fixedly. He turned to the King, who was, the Powers curse him, now smiling at him. Under his cloak, Nerian slid the dagger back into its sheath.

“Well, my Lord Nerian,” said the King in a tone of frankness, “what will you do now? Will you ride with us and find what honour you may in the fray?”

***

Eric stood at bay, dusty, sweat stained and panting, waiting for the last bodies of men to reach the second dyke. Then he followed them. He spotted a file of men passing through one of the gaps in the ditch and dyke left for the purpose and went that way, scanning, as he did, for his father’s standard. A flight of arrows, then another, and another, passed over him and he turned to see the front ranks of the Leopards, still a furlong distant, thrown into disarray. The front ranks had been brought to a halt. Those behind them cannoned into them. A great confusion was spreading, and he heard the angry shouts of sergeants and captains and the frantic braying of brazen horns. ‘Good’, thought Eric, ‘that’s given them something to think about.’ A man clean and fresh in his father’s livery ran up to him.

“Lord”, the man addressed him, “your father bade me bring you to him ere he rides.”

At that point Eric was astonished to see a knight in full harness, appointed in livery of pale green, visor lowered and head down, cloak streaming behind him, galloping at full pelt through their lines towards them. He passed them in a blur and headed straight for the centre of that great, grey waiting mass of enemies. He did not pull up, or change rein, or slow. He continued to spur his mount for all he was worth and plunged into the ranks of the Enemy.

For a while he was visible above the crowd of footmen, deep in their ranks he was now, then Eric lost sight of him. He fancied the man had been unhorsed. At any rate, he did not come up into view again, and Eric saw no more of him.

Eric had no time to consider the fleeing apparition further. He saw his father mounting his great black destrier with the aid of his squire.

“Eric!” Lord Elding cried in greeting., “Hold the line. I go to join the King. Hold the line!”

“Father,” replied Eric in acknowledgement.

“Eric,” added his father as he swung into the saddle and grasped his reins, “you have done well and have brought honour to our House.” Lord Daw took his great helm from his squire, “Remember that. If the day goes ill, as yet it might, you have already won great honour. Do not fail!”

With that, Eric’s father donned his helm and turned away to canter at the head of his retinue toward where the Valour of the North stood waiting the call to advance.

The King hailed Lord Elding with raised hand in greeting, and the Lord of Trenisslia saluted him in return. The Earl’s retinue was numerous, liveried knights of his house, bravely apparelled knights of Trenisslia sworn to his service, with men-at-arms in support. Space was found for his party to wheel into line at the King’s right hand.

“Well,” said the King to Sir Kendrick, “it is surely time to follow where our Lord Warden has led”, and he closed his visor, touched his hornblower gently on the arm and nodded.