Darius Chapter 15

Marth started by scouting the borders of their camp. He looked for something in their environment that they could use to their advantage, but he found all the benefits would lie with the attacking side. Their camp was surrounded by dense foliage that would hide the attackers until they were only meters from the clearing, and the matted leaves and rotten trees carpeting the ground would make their approach almost silent. Marth didn’t have enough men to station anyone too far beyond the clearing, so he had to turn to alternate methods. He came back to the center of the camp, where the men were cooking something vaguely edible over a fire.

“Alright listen up! I have intel saying we’re going to be attacked by bandits at some point while Heldrus is gone.”

The soldiers sniggered at Marth, following the footsteps of their captain in his disdain for the prince. Even Falsith gave a slight smile, one that said ‘look, you’re new here - we get it.’ Marth went on, unperturbed.

“I’m hoping to the gods that I’m wrong, cos we’ve got forty-six men by my counting, and only forty-two who can fight. If they come, they’ll be in large numbers – the forest will be teeming with them – so I want you all to treat this as though the threat is imminent. Is that clear?”

He got grunts of confirmation. Soldiers were soldiers after all, and an order was an order.

“I want sixteen of you to dig pit traps around the camp, above twenty meters from us – one for each of you. I don’t need them deep; they just need to be lined with something sharp. We want to hear these fuckers when they arrive. I know we don’t have shovels so go at it with your hands, the ground is soft. Anyone who has an axe as their weapon of choice, I want you to chop down enough trees to create a palisade on our western flank, we want to deter them from coming at us from the high ground. I don’t care how you get them in the ground, just make sure they don’t fall over when Falsith kicks them, or it’ll be your arse he kicks next.”

The jibe got a chuckle from the men, who were warming to the idea. Manual labor wasn’t generally a favorite, but the anticipation of a battle was a great motivator. Marth continued with his momentum.

“I want all the tents we brought back to be set up, spreading them throughout the camp except for a big area in the middle where I want two of you to set up a bonfire. Don’t light it until it starts to get dark, then get it roaring.”

It was an odd request, but once again, the men were programmed to act, and to leave the thinking to their captains. Marth noticed a couple of men get jumpy at the concept of the bonfire, clearly the firebugs of the group.

“And lastly, when it gets dark out, I want all of you to pick a spot in the forest to lie down and hide. Don’t go more than twenty meters or you’ll eat shit in one of our pit traps and we’ll be dead before we get off the ground. Make sure your weapons are out of their scabbards and have them next to you. If you fall asleep, I swear to all the gods that you will be scrubbing latrines for the rest of your life, and I’ll have Falsith whip you while you do it. We’re going to lure the bandits into the camp and then attack them from all sides, so make sure the place you pick won’t get you stepped on and if possible, cover yourself in a bit of mud and shrubs and what-not to give you some camouflage.

The men got a childish gleam in their eye, entertained by the concept that making mud pies and rolling around in them was going to help them defeat bandits. Falsith broke the men off into groups to go about their tasks while Marth checked his own gear, making sure his sword still had the razor-sharp edge that Darius had put on it. The bow wasn’t going to be as useful straight away as firing it required him to stand up and be out in the open. He stashed it in the corner of his tent with a small pile of arrows, making sure it was out of sight in case a bandit made his or her way in here first. He regretted not bringing his spear. Although not as useful in the tight confines of the forest, it could cause havoc if he was able to filter the bandits through the paths between the tents or along the palisade. But there was no use crying over spilt milk, so he went to work with the men felling trees, helping them to cut the branches off and lug the finished product over to the western side of the camp.

As night fell, the battlefield took shape. The palisade was somewhat shaky, and a few men were walking around with bruised behinds after Falsith managed to crash through their fence. The firebugs had done themselves proud, creating a towering bonfire that was ready to light at any moment. The logs were doused in a potent concoction that had been found at the bandit’s camp – a drink too strong for any of the Erinians – and wads of dry leaves and kindling were burrowed underneath. Marth wasn’t able to check the pit traps – once the men had come back to report to him on their completion, they couldn’t find the traps they’d created. Marth took it as a job well done. The tents had all been erected, making the clearing a nightmare to navigate. When Falsith called the men together, they ended up having to gather on the path created between their current camp and the former bandit camp.

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Marth stood on a tree stump and addressed the men.

“You’ve done well – there's just one more bump in the road until we’re out of this – we’re going to have to fight.”

The men gripped their weapons tighter, the anticipation clear on their faces.

“Again, I don’t know when we can expect the bludgers to come at us, so you’re gunna want to take a piss now – we could be in for a long night. Once you’re down, I don’t want to hear a peep out of any of you, alright? One movement and you might find yourself with a spear in your back, and we need every man we can get. Falsith?”

Falsith stepped forward.

“And with those lovely words, all you scoundrels get out of here. Pick a good spot to lie low, and I’ll see you all back here after we wipe the floor with these bandit dogs.”

There was no battle-cry, the importance of silence now hanging over the heads of the men. They spread out around the perimeter except for where the west palisade blocked the approach.

An hour passed, and the camp still lay in silence. The campfire in the center of the clearing burnt like a beacon. Marth heard the odd noise from a soldier shuffling, the links of their light chainmail piercing the serenity of the night. Each time, his ears pricked up and he tensed his muscles, expecting to see an army of bandits materialize in front of him. Even Marth was getting restless, fully aware that the attack could be coming in five minutes, five hours, or even further beyond that. Falsith lay on his back next to him. He had insisted that lying on his front would be too cumbersome to get up, so he had at least been able to spend the time stargazing through the small gaps in the treetops above them.

When Marth heard the first bandit, he thought it was a deer, or something smaller, like a polah. There was no sound for minutes at a time, and then he would hear the slightest crinkle of a leaf, or the sound of a stray blade on wood, which finally convinced him that the sound was human. Falsith hadn’t moved, and it was hard to tell if the sound he was making was just him breathing, or snoring. The sound of one bandit was soon replaced by a swarm of light footsteps patting through the forest. It felt as though the pressure in the air had increased tenfold.

A pit trap on the north-east side claimed the first victim. The wails of a man with an impaled foot screeched through the forest, and the battle began, like a kettle boiling over as water fizzed in the flame. The bandits interpreted the sound as though the fighting had broken out, and they abandoned their stealthy approach, launching toward the clearing. Along the way, pit traps claimed another eight victims, adding to the screams and confusion. Marth prayed that his men would stay still, fighting the urge to take down a stray bandit, or charge headlong into battle. Somehow, his prayers were answered.

When the first bandits entered the clearing, they went straight for the tents, beating the canvas with clubs in the hopes of catching their occupants unawares. Soon, more gathered in the clearing, sweeping through the tents, disappointed and confused by their vacancy.

Before they lost their edge, Marth nudged Falsith twice, their sign for him to give the order. Falsith sat up and bellowed his usual phrase:

“ALL SOLDIERS, CHAAARRRRGEE”

The forest came alive with the battle cries of forty-six bloodthirsty Erinians, the four injured men adding to the chorus for nothing but effect. Their shouts echoed around the clearing, sounding like an army was about to bulldoze through the camp. The bandits faced out at their attackers, and the skirmishes began.

Marth made it in first, wanting to boost the morale by leading his men into the fray. Within moments, he was enveloped by a staggering number of bandits – you couldn’t swing a cat without whacking at least ten of them. He spun in a low circle, slicing at the knees of his foes. Some jumped back, reaching for their spears, but others were not so fortunate, falling to the ground and becoming victims for the Erinian soldiers supporting Marth. He continued his pursuit while they were on the front foot. With the bandits facing away from the fire, their own shadows blotted out their attackers, whilst from the perspective of the Erinians, the light from the fire defined the exact shape of their enemies.

Falsith took the west side by storm, pushing up against the palisade and using his great broadsword to carve through the bandits. He was a one-man army, dominating the field with wide strokes. Each new opponent that arrived before him was subject to his crazed roars and wild fury, not standing a chance at blocking his deadly blade.

But the bandits were taking formation, some even scouting around the western palisade to hit the Erinians from behind. They lost a man to another pit trap, but as the group steadied itself, they began to beat back their attackers.

Marth was again by himself, the two men with him having gone down with sabers in their chests. He fought on the eastern flank, pushing around the side to destabilize the enemy. They were ready for him, and once again he found himself biting off more than he could chew. One of the bandits rushed forward with a dagger, slicing at him and leaving a cut down his left arm. He jumped back as the others pressed in, seizing their opportunity. In a desperate attempt, Marth leaned down, picking up a pole from a torn-down tent. He whipped it back and forth like a cane, deterring the attackers. When one pushed forward, determined to get to close quarters, Marth’s sword flashed out at him, taking him in the liver. The man sagged, his weight pulling Marth’s sword from his grip as he fell.

The remaining men charged him as he stood defenseless. Without a weapon, there was nothing Marth could do.

He was destined to die by these bandit’s hands.