Darius Chapter 3

The chaos that followed was unlike anything Darius had experienced. Scores of men streamed from the trees nearby, shouting war cries and hurling clods of dirt and rocks whilst archers sent arrows whistling overhead.

The first arrow punctured through Messr’s ceremonial uniform and into his chest, killing him where he stood. More arrows flooded in, hitting unlucky soldiers and frightened horses. Some arrows, wrapped with cloth and covered in oil, were set alight, finding their marks on the various carriages carrying the defender’s supplies and people.

Marth reacted first, shoving Darius back towards their carriage. He shouted over the cacophony and confusion.

“Get back! Run low to the carriage and get inside, try to put out the fires!”

The pair sprinted; Marth well ahead. When Darius reached the shambles of their carriage, Marth came out with his spear in hand and sword at his side. The hail of arrows had paused, the archers not wanting to risk hitting their own men in the back. But the swordsmen had already closed in, and the hand-to-hand combat had begun. The wave of enemies that crashed into Marth’s procession broke out into smaller groups, targeting the soldiers that were still half-dressed or scrambling to get their weapons. Some had started to fight back, but they were taking heavy losses.

Marth, unarmored, charged into the fray, first throwing his spear at an enemy with their sword raised, ready to deal a killing blow to the wounded Grenfell. The spear hit them in the side and protruded out the other so far that to extricate it, Marth had to grab it from just below the spear tip and pull it clean through. He pulled Grenfell to his feet, recovering in time to receive a group of incoming attackers, his sword an arc of light as he parried incoming blows, and slashed at the enemies around him, taking advantage of a single misstep, a gap in formation, or a moment of hesitation. His men, slow at first, started to take form around him, building a formidable arrowhead shape and repelling the onslaught. With Marth at the tip, the group carved through masses of enemies, securing a small perimeter around the remnants of the main supply carriages. But they couldn’t be everywhere at once. For each section of the battlefield they conquered, Marth’s men were being slaughtered in as many other areas. The change into ceremonial uniform left them vulnerable, virtually defenseless against even a stray sword or glancing arrow. When the first wave of swordsmen retreated, and the archers nocked another deadly volley of arrows to their bowstrings, Marth’s forces were once again sitting ducks.

Darius was in as difficult of a position as Marth. Left with the burning remains of their carriage, he had abandoned the task of putting out the fires, and instead ran to the south side of the battlefield where a group of soldiers were making a valiant effort in the defense. They were still dressed in full armor, giving them the advantage against the shabby equipment of the attackers. He watched the soldiers pull arrows from their chainmail, and near him, an attacker’s sword snapped clean in two after the flat of the blade hit a heavily armored defender. Feeling the flow of the battle change, Darius worked up the courage to partake. He lifted his hammer out of the loop on his belt, and with adrenaline coursing through him, he charged at a group of retreating men. A couple of them glanced back, but seeing Darius dressed as he was – dirty and unkempt – they made the terrible mistake of assuming he was one of their own. Darius’s momentum carried him into their group like a bird hitting a glass window, and he wielded his hammer in sweeping blows, crushing ribs and forcing the would-be attackers to retreat not for tactical reasons, but in fear of their lives. Turning around, he ran back to the group of soldiers he had seen before. With their shields on their backs, they took the brunt of the arrows shot from the east and were slowly securing the south side of the battlefield.

In the center of the Road, Marth’s group had formed a shield wall on their west side, putting their backs to a smoldering food cart. The smell of charred meat and melted cheese filled the air, a stark contrast to the thick scent of sweat and blood that had arisen everywhere else. The shouts of Marth’s men echoed within the tight space, some pleading for orders, others pleading with various deities. Marth found himself next to Lord Grenfell, blood seeping from the left of his torso across to a wound on his left arm. It looked like he had caught the swing of a sword directly to the inside of his elbow, pure luck that the arm hadn’t been sliced clean through. Marth dropped his sword and grabbed Grenfell’s head in both hands, bringing his advisor’s ear to his mouth.

“We need to get as many of our men to the tree line as we can, then start taking out those archers.”

Grenfell nodded and cupped his hands around his mouth to reply.

“If we break the shield wall at both ends and the men switch the shields to their backs, we might be able to make a run at it!”

“OK, go!”

The pair pushed through the mass of bodies, most alive but some not so lucky, and reached the soldiers at the fringes. Marth hit the two men closest to him hard on their shoulders, grabbing their attention.

“When I say go, you huddle in close, put those shields on your backs and we move to the trees, okay?”

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The soldiers grimaced, knowing they would be weak from the sides, but nodded confirmation.

Marth glanced back to Grenfell; his head slightly higher than the rest. He caught his eye, then raised his hand, jerking a pointed finger at his advisor, then the mass of soldiers, then his mouth. Grenfell understood, sucked in a huge gulp of air, then bellowed the order.

“SOLDIERS, CHARGE THE TREES, NOW!”

Marth thumped his soldiers again and yelled at them to go. The group took its first step under the storm of arrows. Two more steps and they started to untangle, ready to run. The sudden maneuver put a moment of doubt in the enemy, and that was all it took for the shield wall to build up steam, charging towards the tree line like a human battering-ram. Once clear of the road, Marth’s division had finally become the hunters, not the hunted. The archers were useless in close quarters, hamstrung by the longbows they carried. Following the example given by their swordsmen, the archers began to run away.

Marth almost commanded his group to stay where they were, allowing the remainder of the enemy to escape, but he looked back to the Great Road, strewn with the bodies of his soldiers.

He gave no mercy.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Peskimir lay wrapped in her cloak, just outside the clearing where they had agreed to meet. At first, the lacquered cloak had repelled the moisture from the wet forest floor, but after a half hour of waiting, the mush and mud beneath her was starting to soak through and breathe its cold breath onto her back. It was uncomfortable, but she dared not move, not willing to give up her position until the person she was meeting came into view.

She was unsure what to expect from this meeting. Her contact at the Bark & Tooles Tavern said that a man had come in and asked for her by name, promising a hefty price to keep the job quiet. Peskimir accepted the request and found herself wandering the moggy darkness of the forest on an otherwise fine morning.

She heard someone coming before she saw them. Amongst the swearing, coughing, and general blundering, they weren’t trying to hide their presence. It sounded like half the forest was coming down around them, and they had clearly resorted to hacking away at branches rather than moving them aside. In the long run this never worked out. The sinewy vines were slick with dew and water and sap, and only a freshly sharpened blade would suffice throughout a reasonable hike. It had been, unfortunately, a reasonable hike to get to the clearing. If not for some clear landmarks in the otherwise maze-like forest, there was no chance both Peskimir and the newcomer would have come to the same place.

The person behind the clamor eventually came into view. Just one. He was mostly covered by a rugged green-grey cloak, which was hard to tell whether it was naturally that color, or it just happened to be covered with the ooze and slime of their surroundings. She could just make out the sheen of a small gold trim lining the cowl, which was standard among the more noble of her employers. Satisfied that there wasn’t a posse of soldiers or cronies in tow – one and the same in Peskimir’s mind – she unstuck herself from the bog of undergrowth she had lain in. Pins and needles shot through her feet as she stood, and she hobbled towards the figure as best as her sleeping limbs would allow. The figure shook off the cowl, and Peskimir recognized the face of Heldrus Avongold.

Heldrus stopped about two meters away, dropped his hand to the sword at his side, and spoke.

“Peskimir is a man’s name.” he said.

“Sorry to disappoint.” she replied.

Peskimir enjoyed the surprise it gave her clients when they found out she was a woman. She watched his eyes, looking for the usual stages of confusion, doubt, then acceptance. Surprisingly, he just looked nervous.

Heldrus realized he had never worked out what he would say when he met Peskimir. He knew what he wanted her to do, but he had never engaged in espionage before, so he wasn’t sure how much he should say.

“Okay, the thing is – I want you to- I've paid you extra to keep quiet. Can you do that?”

“Peskimir wouldn’t be a well-renowned name if I couldn’t. What am I doing that needs to be kept quiet?” Peskimir laughed at the awkward line of questioning. So far, Heldrus seemed far less impressive than the capable military captain he was made out to be.

“I have a letter here which I want you to conspicuously leave in the guards’ barracks in the Upper District. No one is to see you, and if they - “

“That’s a shit plan.”

Heldrus stood slack-jawed at her response. He felt the throbbing pain in his leg, reminding him of the struggle it took to make this meeting happen, only to be told it was a shit plan. Peskimir took the chance to explain.

“You are about the thousandth person to come up with that idea. You think that the guards will get curious, read whatever damning letter you’ve forged, then a responsible soldier will send word up the chain until the King and his advisors are shitting themselves with fear at whatever words you’ve written? Sorry, but that happens so much, the guards just scrape the wax off the letter and use it to seal their casks. No one gives a rat’s ass about reading.”

The shock caught up with Heldrus. Realizing that his plan was so unoriginal, he pushed on.

“Okay. Okay, well, I’ve paid you, so what do you suggest?”

“Depends what’s written in that letter.”

Heldrus felt that was coming. He had come into this with the sole fear that Peskimir would read the letter, which is why he had coughed up so much more coin than was necessary to ensure discretion. But standing there, cold, soaked through and in pain, he was not going to let this mishap run its course without getting something out of it.

“The letter doesn’t matter. What matters is this. I don’t want Lady Silfor to marry that swine from Barringvale.”

Peskimir guessed this as soon as she saw Heldrus walk into the clearing and remove his cowl. He had been set to marry Silfor – all Erinstone knew it – until a last-minute change of plans which was supposed to form a military alliance between Erinstone and Barringvale by marrying Silfor to King Tarth’s son, Marth Ranvost. Peskimir gave Heldrus a strange smile and continued.

“In that case, I have a solution. It’s going to cost you ten times the amount you already paid.”

Heldrus stepped back in shock, afraid that being near Peskimir any longer would cause the few coins in his pocket to evaporate.

“Absolutely not, that is absurd! What could possibly be worth that amount of money?”

The cloaked woman grinned and flicked back her cloak, revealing two shining damascus steel daggers at her waist.

“I’m going to kill Marth Ranvost.”