Dragongate I

Far up on the eastern flank of the western hills the Huntress and her party were lost to sight and sound to the defenders of the Vale. Far across the river and cut off by dense forest, neither from the plain nor from the embattled towers of the Gryphonhold, could they be seen. Yet, there were those who knew of their plight.

As Lord Eric the Elding had crouched behind his earthen rampart, awaiting the first onslaught, and as the King had led the mounted strength of the Gryphonhold through the silent, smouldering streets of Stowham, matters in the forest had reached the point of crisis.

Amora swung again at the Leopard, but he stepped back and evaded her blade. Then, without Amora understanding what was happening, he turned and ran from her. She looked about, confused. She swayed and stumbled. Her fatigue was overwhelming, but she forced herself to consider what was happening. Leopards were withdrawing all along the flank.

“Come,” said Trystan.

“Trystan, don’t fuss!” she insisted, but her sword-arm went limp and she let him take her arm and lead her gently back to the column.

Lead Man Fram and Conan exchanged looks and backed slowly, swords ready, to cover the others. Fram might fairly regard himself as a veteran, but he could not recall a harder fight. The Enemy had withdrawn but remained numerous and unbowed. He was not sure of his courage if, when, they attacked again. Conan looked grim, and even he showed signs of fatigue. Folk ran up to them. Not soldiers, but townsfolk.

“Come,” said a powerfully built tradesman with a belt of knives and a bloodied cleaver in his large fist, “you need to go, they’re attacking the front of the column in force. You’re needed there. Me and some of the lads will stand-to here.”

“Ah,” whispered Amora, her head still drooping and her auburn hair now hanging lose and obscuring her face, “everyone’s a general.” But she allowed herself to be led forward and she gratefully accepted a flask of water from a townswoman.

After a few sips, Amora handed back the flask with a nod of thanks, straightened up and tied back her hair.

“Right,” she said, “we go”. And the four of them ran forward along the dusty ragged column, summoning new strength, found simply because it needed to be found. From ahead came the clamour of spears on shields and a hideous chanting.

On the other side of the column, Sigird backed away from a circle of dead Leopards. She became aware of Sacrissa tugging insistently on her sleeve.

“Sigird! Sigird! We have to go!”

“What?” As the red haze receded she began to take stock.

“The Leopards are massed to the front, we have to go!”

“Right,” said Sigird, and she wiped her sword absently on a dead Leopard. “Right,” she said again, and then, suddenly alert, “let’s go!” With the remaining soldiers, they ran forward. Sacrissa, who had an eye for dodgy people (no, she corrected herself, for other dodgy people), saw the very dodgy potboy from the Stowham alehouse. He was gaily swinging a sword that was nearly as tall as he was. Chest puffed out, he was treating a line of armed townsfolk to what he evidently felt to be encouraging words. The townsfolk nervously fingered their staves and spear shafts, their faces looked either non-committal or, frankly in some cases, non-plussed. Sacrissa smiled, but then she saw the deep and wide gash on the boy’s right shoulder and the torn and bloodied tunic. She saw too that the sword was stained with fresh blood, at the tip and all the way along the fuller to the hilt.

Ahead of the column all their strength was now arrayed. The Leopards were stamping, clashing shields and chanting. It was a harsh and cruel chant. The words of it were obscure, but its meaning was clear.

“Shieldwall!” cried Elle, and the Men-at-Arms of Dragongate moved in unison. Only one man deep, with the bowmen making a second rank, these latter siting their arrows between the shoulders of the shieldmen. Armed townsfolk stood behind.

The chant grew louder and more insistent. Vile yellow Leopards danced and jeered, their mocking stare came from every clashing shield and waving banner. All the while the chanting built and built until it became almost hypnotic. It pushed a wave of incomprehensible dread ahead of the Leopards. It passed all shields and pierced all hauberks to grip men’s hearts with the icy talons of fear.

Elle saw Sigird, Sacrissa and their party run up and join the line to her left, Amora, with her companions, arrived on her right. Elyssa, beside Elle, was ready with her bowmen.

“Well, the gang’s all here,” muttered Sacrissa. Elle overhead and smiled to herself. Anything to break the tension.

Brazen horn calls blared and the chanting and stamping of feet and clashing of arms rose to a crescendo then, suddenly, it ceased. In that instant the Leopards levelled their spears and shields and charged.

“Bows!” cried Elyssa, shouting the warning order. Then everything seemed to slow down. The Leopards could be seen running, but slowly, so that the defenders had time to note them clearly, their pumping legs and arms, the rise and fall of their shields, the way their levelled spears quivered, the swinging of swords and scabbard from belts and baldricks, the snarling, shouting mouths, even the heaving of their chests at each breath. “Nock!” ordered Elyssa. The seconds stretched like ages, then, “Draw!” came Elyssa’s cry, and a moment later “Loose!” Sixteen arrows flew at the advancing grey mass. Sixteen Leopards fell. But there were many more.

Then they heard it, ahead of them, off to the right, but close; the clear, pure mountain notes of a Dragongate horn sounding the attack.

The leading Leopards smashed into the shieldwall. The Dragongate soldiers hacked them and with difficulty threw them back. The bowmen decimated the Leopard’s second line. Just then, that clear horn call sounded a second time. Following the sound, Elyssa’s keen sight saw men cresting the ridge behind the Leopards, a motley crew, revealed clearly and distinctly for brief seconds as the rising sun shone full upon them, picking out their colours and their detail. Clad as soldiers, in many colours from the drab of everyday clothing to the red of a livery coat that might signal Dragongate, others appeared more like woodsmen or rangers, one, she swore, was dressed after the fashion of a priest of Men. Outlandish as they seemed, capering over the rise like a rascally pack of players, all were heavily armed, as if they had sacked some ancient armoury of its treasures to find all manner of jacks and hauberks, helms and shields to their liking. Some carried bows, and these men stopped every few paces to nock, draw and bring down a Leopard. Most had either swords or a variety of wicked polearms. And then she perceived a further oddity. They were old! Grey beards and wrinkled faces, often as not weather-beaten or ruddy from ale, rheumy eyes and crooked gaits. They were hallooing loudly as they came skipping down the slope, swinging their vicious weaponry; delinquent grandfathers spoiling for a fight. Then, they were lost from view as they descended upon the rear of the Leopards. All this Elyssa had seen in a bare few seconds, perhaps just a second or two. She was not sure she trusted that she had seen what she thought she had seen. The Leopards were breaking their strength a second time upon the shieldwall, like the angry surf, foaming and seething with malice around a stubborn rock. The bowmen now shot individually, each as fast as they could; Elyssa, the Dragongate men, the rangers and, of course, the Huntress. They did not lack for targets. A third time the Leopards gathered themselves and charged. A third time they broke upon the shieldwall like a vengeful sea. Elyssa heard cries to her left; the shieldwall had collapsed or been driven in at the flank. Then, on the cusp of disaster, up sprang a lithe, slight figure, a girl in mail with red locks escaping from beneath a dinted helm. She vaulted over the fallen shieldmen into the ranks of the Enemy, slashing the leading man across the throat with an edged spear as she leapt. Quick as she could, Elyssa sped best wishes toward the rash girl and arrows toward her foes. The Leopards stumbled back, desperate to avoid the deadly arcs of the slashing Mail-piercer. Then Sacrissa came, dragged Sigird back and the shieldmen closed the gap. The shieldwall had held.

The Leopards did not form another attack. They hesitated, Elle saw, confused, milling and turning about. Some ran forward, some ran back. Their captains and sergeants berated them but did not seem themselves to know what to do. The pure mountain horn note was heard a third time, and the Leopards broke, scattering in every direction, shot down in their flight by Elyssa’s men, as well as by the unseen bowman behind them. Then hearty shouts and halloos were heard, and strange figures broke through the seething mass of Leopards, hewing left and right like men hacking through some dense grey undergrowth. They spread out, chasing down groups of unfortunates.

“Advance!” cried the Huntress, and without waiting for her men, ran to join the fray. The Dragongate men followed swiftly and many townsfolk joined them. Their exhaustion forgotten, the defenders turned upon their tormentors in fury. Soon, the only Leopards in the vicinity were the dead and dying. Many others had escaped into the forest where the trees soon concealed them. They were not followed far – that would have been unwise for such a small force of victorious defenders – but far enough to be satisfied that they had gone. Their cries were heard heading downhill through the forest to the riverbank, where, perhaps, the boats they came in remained.

A tall figure in mail hauberk and the long flowing red surcoat of Dragongate stood in the centre of the carnage. His was a frame trained to arms, if now a little saggy and run to fat. He was bent over calmly wiping a great two-handed sword clean on the bracken. He wore an old kettle helmet, still seen in the Vale, but no longer issued at Dragongate. The broad brim concealed his face in shadow. His men stood around him at a respectful distance. Clearly, he was their leader.

Elle strode forward and bowed to the man. He stood straight, and, as he lifted his head, he saw her and broke into a very nasty smile.

“My Lady,” he said, evenly.

“Hello Lug,” said the Huntress.

***

Just over the ridge they sat, on the mossy banks by the track down to the dale; Elle, Elyssa, Sacrissa, Sigird, Trum and Ebban. Sergeant Bartaland crouched in the roadway, leaning on his great-sword for support, facing them, with his back to the dale. The sun was now full across the Dimlicdale and opening up below them they saw a broad valley formed by shallow, rolling hills, stepping down from high moors. The green autumn grass still retained colour and vigour. Where the sun shone through the clouds, the hills were bathed bright in a golden light. In other places, the clouds cast deep shadows, and, so, a patchwork of warm light and cold shade was spread across the vale. The wind was fresh and brisk, plucking at their clothes and searching through the folds and layers of their garments to chill the skin and bones beneath. The road descended by turns, here disappearing in the folds of the gentle hills, there reappearing on a rise, but its course marked always by intermittent trees. A small grove of apple trees, sheltering in a dell, stood where the road first dipped and turned into dead ground, before a slight climb revealed it once more. Not a soul could be seen in all that fertile vale, nor game nor kine. But, above the stillness of the valley, a straggling, chuckling flock of birds roamed; fieldfares, most like, or redwings. Off to their right some half a league distance, now in the shadow of the clouds, lay a long, dark canopy of trees marking a deep fold in the valley where the Dimlicwater flowed from the hills into the vale. It was wooded throughout its course and the trees marked its widening descent and winding progress until the treetops were lost in the hazy distance. Several looping meanders seemed to be marked indistinctly by the trees, but mist hung over the little peninsulas of land they formed, obscuring them. To their left, the watch tower cast a long shadow down the hillside. Bartaland explained how they had found it abandoned. Bowls and tankards and uneaten food on the guardroom table, warmth still deep in ashes of the oven, shields and weapons in their racks, chests and trunks containing the men’s meagre comforts intact at the ends of their beds.

There had been wounded, townsfolk and a couple of soldiers. As soon as the fighting ceased, a formidable dame had appeared as if from nowhere, Mother Helend, of the Sisterhood of Small Mercies, with others of her order. She reminded Sigird, with a shiver, of Afor Housemother. The sisters had a sanctuary somewhere in the wood, Elle recalled, and they were known as healers. They helped to patch up the injuries. A cart was requisitioned for those who could not walk. It was understood that none could stay. The sisterhood expected to be treated as inviolate, but for anyone else it would be death at the hands of the prowling Leopards, whom, it was assumed, would soon steal back across the river. Everyone had moved with great urgency, yet time had been lost in the re-ordering of the column. It was now mid-morning, and the whole length of Dimlicdale still lay ahead of them. Now they were ready at last.

“My Lady,” said the Sergeant, “if you go now and do not stop, there is still more than enough time to reach safety.”

“I agree, but we must pray there are no further delays,” replied Elle, “we will be faster upon our return without the townsfolk.”

Bartaland looked surprise, “begging your pardon, my Lady, I thought the King would intend you to stay with the Stedinglas.”

“Well, Lug, the intentions of kings are not your concern,” was the curt response. There was something of an awkward silence. Then:

“Lug,” said Elle, “you will join our march?”

“Nay, my Lady,” replied Bartaland, “we will go to ground in the woods of the Circling Hills. The Leopards do not know the land as we do, and there is too much forest to search. We know the becks and springs and there is game aplenty. On the afternoon of the day after tomorrow, we will come back to the pass and ensure it is held open for your return.”

“So be it,” concluded Elle, suddenly very conscious of the danger Bartaland had, and, now, would, endure for their safety, “thank you, Lug,” she added softly.

“Now,” she said, standing, “lets us move and work some of the cold out of our bones.”

***