Darius Chapter 25
Yotur picked his way through the maze of sleeping soldiers, shaking them awake. Some woke up naturally, but Yotur still reached down and touched them, nodding to them and murmuring a few words. Ankor sat next to Marth on a large rock that was still warm from the heat of the previous day’s sun.
“He’s praying for them. Touching their shoulders is supposed to give them the strength of Tul-Sharang in battle.”
Marth laughed at the shocked faces of his men as they received their blessings. Some of them were bleary-eyed and confused by their surroundings, especially due to the painted man whispering a different language at them as they awoke.
The soldiers didn’t have much to prepare before leaving. Most had no bedroll to pack up, no armor to polish and buff, and no heavy packs to organize. Their swords were sharp, having not been used since their rapid departure from Erinstone. As there were more men than horses, a small number of Barringvale soldiers were left at the camp as security – in case raiders decided to flee the battle and exact retribution from the tribe. If all went well, the raiders wouldn’t have time to come to that conclusion.
Yotur led the army over dusty plateaus and sinking undulations. He wore a white garment that wrapped around his head, neck, and most of his face, just leaving room for his eyes. It was a wise choice. Even at this early hour the temperature was ramping up, and a hot wind came by with it, blowing sand and grit. There was not a dry eye in the whole army – everyone was blinking and half-crying to rid their vision of the pesky stuff. It only took a half-hour trot before Yotur turned his horse sideways and blocked the army. He motioned to Marth and Grenfell to come forward.
“Look. Over this hill.”
They got down on their stomachs and caterpillared their way to the peak of the hill until their three heads peeked over the crest. The first vestiges of light were shining from behind their backs onto the camp. The watering-hole – which indeed looked the size of a lake – spread out before them, and Marth could see scrappy huts and tents dotted around the shore and the bank further from the water. A long line of horses spread over the southern end of the lake, tethered to wooden beams. It wasn’t clear where the horses were getting food from, as the ground out here was as equally barren as Yotur’s camp, aside from a few patches of life around the lake and some trees sprouting from beneath the water.
Marth turned to Grenfell, looking to adjust their previous plan.
“I’m sure you’re already thinking it, but I imagine we should sweep in from the south? We don’t want them to get to the horses.”
“Aye, keep them on foot. And our spearmen should lead. They’ll have the range advantage.”
“And the archers?”
Grenfell considered the question for a moment, looking back over at the raider’s camp before settling on a decision.
“They could hold the north-eastern side and take care of any runaways? As long as they stay saddled, the raiders on foot won’t be an issue. Other archers will be the only threat.”
Marth approved. He considered the potential issue of his archers hitting his own men, but Grenfell had made a good decision by having them sit north-east of the fight. That way, they wouldn’t be shooting into oncoming soldiers – it would be more of a cross-section.
Grenfell confirmed their plans with Yotur then walked through the crowd of soldiers, relaying the plan. He could’ve just told the first soldiers and gotten them to pass the message along, but he was not ready to leave this battle up to chance. One wrong direction and their formation would fall apart, leading to some serious confusion.
Yotur stayed back behind the hill and Marth led his forces south, picking their way along without showing their faces over the top of the hill. When the hill suddenly took a steep drop, Marth stopped. They could not go any further without being seen. This was where the charge would begin. He turned his horse around to survey his men, who had organized themselves well. The spearmen were closest to him, followed by the archers, and finally the swordsmen. He held his right arm up and then crossed his left over it in an X. This was one of the signs the Barringvale military used to communicate when they had to be silent. It meant ready yourselves.
He spun his horse around again. The animal could feel the apprehension in the air, and she scraped her frontmost hoof along the ground, eager to run. Marth stood up in the stirrups, raised his left arm, and let it fall. The sign to charge.
A strange practice of the Barringvale military is that in offensive charges, the soldiers will not shout out war cries, they won’t yahoo and yee-hah as others do – they have been trained to be completely silent. The raiders heard only the thunder of horse hoofs and felt the shake of the earth. One raider, Voolak-Kar, had left his tent to fill his bota bag at the lake and relieve himself. He saw a cloud of riders coming towards him, and he reached for the sword that was usually at his side. He’d left it in the tent. He saw the silvery glint of a spear as the morning-light reflected off it, then it hit him in the chest, throwing him into the dirt.
The southern-most raiders were doomed from the start. By the time they awoke and grabbed their weapons, the storm of Barringvale soldiers had already swept through, devastating them. A pack of fifteen swordsmen broke off from Marth’s forces and dismounted, sweeping the tents. The true fight began further into the depths of the camp, where the raiders had time to shake themselves awake, see the threat, and respond in some sort of coordination. Marth’s spearman led the group, lashing out with their long range at the grounded enemy. Marth saw his first soldier go down, an arrow bristling from his chest. The raiders were fighting back.
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Marth slowed his horse when he saw a large clump of enemies near the center of the camp. They were backing up towards the hill to the west, using the Barringvale troops as a shield between themselves and the archers across the lake. He dismounted and sprinted towards them, beckoning a group of his soldiers to do the same. Six of his men caught his eye and followed. Two spears and four swords. The band of raiders steadied when they found themselves targeted, spreading out slightly to give each other room.
Marth let his spearmen go first. They approached in a ‘W’ formation with the spearmen and Marth as the front points. They were close enough that Marth could see the bags under the raiders’ eyes, and one was still yawning despite the dire circumstances. It was now or never.
“Push!”
Marth’s men reacted instantly to the order, darting forward in unison. The spears broke through the shaky shield wall and separated the group, allowing the swordsmen to crash in and hack at the raiders. Marth found himself split between two enemies, striking down at the first while keeping an eye on the second. It was a cat and mouse game of parrying one whilst the other recovered from his attacks.
Before long, they worked out that they had to go at him together if they wanted a chance. Both their blades sliced through the air, forcing Marth to deflect one and rush towards its owner, crashing into him and taking him to the ground. They both kicked and scrabbled at each other, their boots scraping in the dirt. Marth worked his way on top and delivered a salvo of quick punches to the raider’s jaw, knocking him out. He heard the remaining enemy rush him, and Marth threw himself to the side, again crashing into the dirt and rocks. Pain lanced up his side from jagged rocks digging into his side, but he didn’t have time to play medic – the raider was already swinging again.
He caught the second strike with the hilt of his sword, the strength of the blow bringing his opponent's blade within inches of his face. He heaved the sword away and got to his knees, then back to his feet, facing the man on equal ground. In a one-on-one, no ordinary soldier would be able to better Marth Ranvost. He delivered blow after blow with pristine accuracy, delicately placing his blade into the tiniest of gaps in his opponent’s defense. A loose stone was eventually the raider’s downfall, and he slipped forward into Marth’s oncoming strike, securing his fate. Finished with the group, Marth flung the blood from his blade to the ground and looked around him. One of his swordsmen was watching him in awe, shaking his head. Marth yelled at him over the din.
“Focus, Brandon! Follow the others!”
The young soldier jumped with adrenaline, not prepared to receive the angry order from his Prince.
Further up the camp, the spearmen dominated the battlefield, still astride their horses. They had minimal casualties, courtesy of the Barringvale archers picking off their enemy counterparts from across the lake. The raiders hadn’t yet given up, but they were close to it. They had been completely unprepared for an attack – so used to being the attacker. Marth couldn’t imagine Yotur’s glee as he watched from the lookout point. As the battle died out, he surveyed the battlefield. A few of his men sat in the dirt in varying levels of pain, but it didn’t seem like there were any dead – virtually a miracle in this kind of combat. Even the soldier he’d seen go down with an arrow in his chest was okay – he turned out to be one of the only Barringvale soldiers to hold onto their heavy armor when they had encountered the severe heat of the rocky plains.
A few injuries and two dead horses was a small price to pay for the precious water and supplies that Yotur would give them – and it felt good to help out the struggling tribe. Marth found Grenfell up with the spearmen and asked for his report. It wasn’t often that Grenfell participated in battles, but he was a valiant fighter when he needed to be.
“Somehow, all present and accounted for, my Prince. A few of the men have started looting, but I think it would be more correct of us to give all we can back to Yotur and his tribe.”
This was turning into an extremely charitable day for the Barringvale army – Yotur’s religious efforts that morning appeared to be rubbing off on the men.
Half an hour later, they gathered at the southern tip of the lake, where the raiders’ stolen horses lined the bank. A total of eighteen horses were taken back to the camp, two of which replaced the horses that fell in the fight. Yotur was bubbling with excitement when they returned to the look-out. The old man was shifting side to side like a parrot hopping along a branch.
“Well done, well done Prince Marth Ranvost!”
He used Marth’s full title as a sign of respect.
“I watched you! I thought that second rascal had you for sure but you boff boff whiiippp’d him into shape no problem! You cannot understand how grateful I am, and how grateful the tribe will be when we return.”
Marth patted him on the back and helped him up onto his horse before the waterworks began in earnest. It was hard to take too much credit when the fight went as smoothly as it did.
They returned to the camp around mid-morning. The sun was truly beating down on them now, and Yotur produced a batch of the white garments that he had been wearing earlier. In a mock ceremony, he presented one to each of the Barringvale Soldiers. They had some leftovers that he stuffed in their saddlebags, insisting they would find a use for them.
“It is an ernduhl.“ he said. “For the sun. You may have seen them in Erinstone – My wife, Naomi, sells them once or twice a year around harvesting time. Very popular.”
Yotur stocked them up with dried lizard – a gift that was met with stifled groans – and bota bags. These leather-skin bags held far more water than the flagons that the Barringvale soldiers carried, at the expense of the water tasting just a bit like animal skin. Compared to dehydration, it was well worth it.
In the afternoon Marth rallied his men, who gathered their gear and gifts and said goodbye to Yotur’s tribe. Yotur set them on a trail that would take them in the general direction of Barringvale, without straying too close to the forest or the Great Road where the Erinstone hunters would be patrolling. Stocked up and ready to continue their journey, Marth was energized.
Almost home. Hopefully I’m not too late.