Wall of Spears (42 page)

‘He is my son. My last son. I have to go.’

‘Sire, if you want him rescued, then let me go. You are too valuable —’

Ward reached out and gripped Edmund’s shoulder. ‘You are in charge until I return.’

Edmund grabbed hold of Ward’s arm. ‘Sire, this is madness! You are throwing your life away!’

Ward looked down at Edmund’s hand, his eyes on fire, and Edmund opened it nervelessly.

‘I have to do this. I cannot explain it, but it must be done. And I am the king — you cannot stop me,’ he said harshly.

‘Sire, I beg you, don’t do this!’ Edmund pleaded.

‘I have always listened to your advice, Edmund. But not this time,’ Ward said.

‘Why? The battle is in the balance, anything could happen.’

‘Which means you are the perfect man to finish it for me. You were the son I always wanted but never had. Win this for me.’

Edmund opened his mouth but nothing would come out.

Ward smiled at him, then turned and rode away, signalling to the three hundred cavalrymen who waited as his reserve.

Edmund watched him go, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

Ward could feel Edmund’s eyes boring into his back as he rode away. He knew this was madness but he felt completely happy with the decision. It was beyond strange but it felt right.

Ever since he had been healed by the elves, there had been a thought in the back of his mind about his sons, a voice saying he had failed as a father. It had been like an itch he could never reach. The death of Uffa had turned that into a shout — and now it filled his mind, shut out everything else.

He knew this was madness, knew he should be putting Forland ahead of personal considerations, as he always had. What was his son against the fate of the whole country? But he could not ignore the feeling his son was still alive.

‘We shall go at the gallop, one company to drive at the heart of the elves, the other two to form a ring around our wounded and rescue my son,’ he said calmly.

The cavalry captain glanced over at the wreckage of the last charge and gulped. ‘Yes, sire,’ he said hoarsely.

‘He is coming!’ Oroku cried. ‘I see his standard moving!’

Sumiko sent circling birds to swoop down to make sure it was Ward.

By the time Ward’s cavalry company had ridden around the edge of the Forlish line, she had the proof she needed.

‘It has worked,’ she told Oroku with a broad smile. ‘Exactly as I hoped it would. The Forlish king is about to deliver himself into our hands. The battle will soon be ours.’

‘Shall I tell the archers to prepare their shafts, aiming for his standard again?’ Oroku asked eagerly.

‘No, I want him alive. Let the archers rest. I have another plan for proud King Ward.’

Mogosai backed away a few paces, careful of his footing. All around, wounded men and elves groaned and screamed and thrashed, their blood and guts churning the grass into a morass. One slip and you were easy meat for the other side, a technique he had taken advantage of more than a few times in the desperate battle. He had been sure the Forlish were about to break, had smelt the fear on them — and then the magic had surged through the ground, forcing them back and saving the Forlish.

He had been lost in the battle, concentrating only on the men in front and how to hurt them, kill them, make them pay for his father’s death and then make them run. But such an obvious use of magic brought all his old doubts back.

Humans could not use magic. All the Magic-weavers were on their side, except one traitress, Asami. That was what Sumiko said. Never mind that Mogosai had seen Asami fight the Forlish to a standstill with sword and magic outside Dokuzen. But even Asami could not stand against every Magic-weaver in the elven nation. Her grass barrier should have been swept aside like a fine cloth. But it still stood and, with every heartbeat it stayed there, more and more elves were asking why.

‘How is this possible?’ Mogosai said aloud, wiping blood off his face with his left sleeve, for the right one was even more soaked in Forlish gore.

Elves around him heard his words and looked at him. None had an answer.

‘Clan Chenjaku to the flank. Clan Munemori to replace you.’ The order came through the Magic-weavers and Mogosai turned and walked away.

‘Where in Aroaril’s name is Ward going?’ Sendatsu asked, watching the king ride around the end of the line.

Both sides had drawn back, leaving a few paces filled with heaving, weeping bodies. Ranks were rotating through on the Forlish side, fresh men moving to the front, tired front-rankers moving back, their shields splintered and hacked, their swords notched and their faces bloody. On the elven side the same thing was happening, archers drawing swords and moving forwards, warriors sheathing bloody blades and stringing bows. Every so often, a small group of elves would lunge at the Forlish line, swords swinging, and there would be a furious fight, leaving a handful of dead and wounded before the shield wall sealed itself and the elves pulled back again.

‘Does he think to restore his right wing, threaten again the elven left?’ Gaibun asked.

Sendatsu nodded his agreement. ‘That has to be it. Sumiko has shown she still has plenty of arrows. The real question is, how are we going to get to her?’

‘We can strike them at the side, while they are concentrating on the Forlish,’ Cadel suggested.

Sendatsu looked at the closest clan. From the colours of their armour, he could tell they were Kaneoki, the clan of Sumiko and Daichi, the one that had started all this by seizing power and slaughtering all humans with magic. It could not be a coincidence that they were there, as Sumiko would surely be close to her own clan. It would be apt to carve through them and make them pay before finishing her off. Then he looked at Asami, standing on wobbly legs, and Rhiannon, who was still sweating heavily, and he cursed Huw.

‘We need magic to protect us,’ Sendatsu said. ‘We can cut through the first few ranks of warriors but then Sumiko will see us and they will surround us and kill us. Swords and skill are not enough.’

‘Just give me a little time,’ Rhiannon said.

Sendatsu smiled at her, while inside he was raging. Bloody Huw!

‘Look on the bright side. Ward can’t come over here and complain we’re not doing enough if he’s acting the decoy out on the flank,’ Rhiannon said.

Sendatsu was finding it hard to see the bright side in any of this. But he forced another smile — one that was cut off when the trumpets sounded the charge once more.

‘What is Ward doing?’ he asked again.

‘How good is this, sarge?’ Ruttyn grinned as they waited in the fourth line again, the second-last line. Of the six ranks that had begun the battle, one was gone, torn to pieces, left bleeding on the ground in front of the rest. Any survivors were now in the last rank, their eyes haunted and their tunics drenched with the blood of their mates. Caelin hoped they would not be needed again.

Having found themselves in the second rank, they were allowed to move back when the elves retreated.

‘We’ve only had a taste of elven swords but we’re safe here again,’ Harald agreed. ‘A good day’s work.’

‘It’s not finished yet,’ Caelin said grimly. ‘We will be fighting again before long. Those elves were killing our right and only Velsh magic saved us. They’ll try it again, with magic and arrows as well this time.’

‘I don’t think we will be fighting again soon. I think we’ve got this won,’ Harald said.

‘Really? Do you want to tell me why, oh great general? Is this something we should be sharing with the king?’

‘No — it’s because the king’s riding out to charge the elves.’ Harald pointed.

Caelin turned his head and tried to peer over the massed ranks towards the right. He could see little from where he was, apart from the king’s standard, which was definitely moving out and around.

‘Now why’s he doing that?’

Ward settled himself into the second company of cavalry. The lead company would act as a distraction, buying time with their lives for him to get to Wilfrid. He could sense the fear of the men around him but it meant nothing to him. He wanted to see his son’s face when he brought him back; he wanted to see Mildrith when he told her how he had saved their last son.

He scarcely heard the trumpets blow the charge but was aware of the men and horses around him speeding up, of the gap as the first company went into a gallop, hooves throwing up clods of earth as they tore towards the elves, swords in hands. He was focused on where his son’s standard had fallen.

He vaguely registered the first arrows flying in, as well as the carnage they created.

‘Protect the king!’ someone roared and there was suddenly a wall of men between him and the elves.

Men and horses dropped as they were struck and Ward guided his charger around them.

He expected more than this, thought the elves would launch everything they had at him when they saw his standard. The arrows were deadly but they were not the storm that had wiped out Wilfrid’s attack.

They had to slow down to avoid Wilfrid’s men and horses, pick their way through the wreckage of what had been a proud cavalry regiment. And still the hail of arrows was more of a shower, taking men and horses but not slaughtering them. Ward pulled his horse to a halt and jumped down where Wilfrid’s standard lay across a dead horse. Heedless of men trying to form a ring around him, of the survivors of the slaughtered first company racing off in all directions in a desperate desire to stay alive, he strode towards his son’s horse and twitched the standard back, dreading what he might find.

Wilfrid burst out from underneath, sword in his hand, a battle cry on his lips, only to stagger to a stop when he recognised who was around him.

‘Father?’ he cried. ‘What happened? Have we won?’

Ward felt himself snap back into focus when he saw his son and he opened his arms and embraced him.

‘Not yet — but we will, never fear,’ he said.

Some of the men with them cheered to see the prince still alive — but not the ones watching the elven ranks nervously, still expecting arrows to claim them all at any moment.

‘Come, we’ll get you a horse, get you back to safety.’ Ward pointed at one of his men, ordering him out of his saddle so the prince could ride.

A handful of other men lifted themselves up from where they had been hiding, sheltering from the elven arrows, rushing over to men they knew, begging to be taken back to the safety of the Forlish lines. They and the man who had given up his horse for Wilfrid either clung on to a stirrup or sat behind other men.

‘Sire, should we check the others? There may be more men who can fight on,’ someone asked.

‘No time. We need to leave now. We have taken enough of a risk as it is,’ Ward said, hurrying over to his horse.

Now he had done it, he could barely believe he had ordered something as rash as this, putting himself within the elves’ hands. He was lucky to be given the chance to get away. No sense in stretching that luck to breaking point.

And then he saw how the elves had prepared a trap for him — and how he had ridden right into it.

Sumiko let her archers destroy the hopeless ride of a hundred cavalry. That did not even deserve her attention. Instead she focused purely on what was happening around the king’s standard. Birds overhead were circling carefully, ready to fly back to her hand — but the burst of cheering from the Forlish told her all she needed to know.

She took one last swallow of honeyed water before reaching into the magic — and out to the hundreds of horses. She eased into their minds, pulling up the primitive fears of the grass-eater for a hungry predator, then dumped it into their small brains.

The effect was startling. The war horses had been trained for years to stand their ground, even to fight themselves with hooves and teeth, no matter what came at them from in front or behind. But they could not defend themselves against an attack from inside their minds, the sudden primeval fear of sharp teeth in the night.

Almost as one, they fought and reared, bucking the men off their backs in many cases. Those who were able to hold on then had to cling, for every horse bolted for the open farmlands, galloping at breakneck speed, eyes wide and ears back. No matter what the remaining riders did, they could not slow or turn them. Even hauling back on the reins with all their strength did nothing, beyond unhorsing those who tried it. The horses had to get away and they could not be stopped by anyone or anything.

‘Clan Chenjaku. Bring me the Forlish king — alive. We shall finish this battle as soon as he is in my hands,’ she ordered.

More than a thousand elven warriors, from metal-clad nobles to esemono whose most valuable possession was the sword they had been given on Test day, sprinted at the stunned and helpless Forlish.

Ward watched the horses disappear, carrying dozens of his men — and all of his hopes.

‘What happened, Father?’ Wilfrid cried.

‘Magic,’ Ward spat. ‘So much for the bloody Velsh and their promise to protect us.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Get back any way we can,’ Ward said grimly, loosening his sword in its scabbard. ‘On your feet, men!’ he shouted.

A score of riders had been injured when they were unhorsed, arms, legs and ankles broken by the fall. But there were many more who were unhurt and, while none had shields, they all wore armour and carried long cavalry swords.

‘Back! Back to our lines. Quick as you can. Wait for nobody!’ Ward ordered.

The men with broken legs and ankles begged and pleaded to be taken along but a roar from the elven side told Ward they had no time for risking that. Hundreds of elves were racing towards them.

‘Sire, you lead the way. We’ll hold them off as long as we can,’ an officer said.

Ward looked back at his lines. They were more than two hundred paces away — and it might as well have been that many miles.

‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing Wilfrid’s sleeve. Despite the weight of leather and armour and sword he was carrying, he broke into a jog. ‘Save yourself, my son,’ he urged. ‘Drop your armour and run for it.’

‘I am not leaving you, Father,’ Wilfrid said stubbornly.