Loose!
From the parapets of the Athenian fortifications, 100 men wielding strange crossbows, released a hundred arrows into the fog below. Screams of men and horses alike, louder that it had been all morning, filled Holda’s ears with sweet comfort. He, along with Inga and the tribes of Cognata and Fastarin, had attacked the fort under the cover of the fog from the East and the South. They had used the wooden ladders they prepared on the previous day as Inga’s crossbowmen covered the attackers. They were so swift that the Athenians at the front never realized that they were overrun. The twenty or so Athenians at the fort were either dead, dying, or subjugated, and the last of the garrison, at the battlefield below, were ripe to be slaughtered. In his trance, warchief Holda commanded yet again -
Loose!
The Athenian archers, who had gone below to support their cavalry, barely had time to turn about to try and reclaim the high ground while a lever on the crossbow contraption turned and not a moment later - another hail of arrows. The entire platoon of 20 Athenian bowmen lay dead or dying; pelted under the overwhelming barrage of arrows. With his dying breath, one of the Athenians blew the horn to retreat.
“These Jin machines, repeating crossbows they are called, are truly magnificent! A hundred men can loose five hundred arrows within a count of 20,” Inga claimed to the warchief who had his eyes closed, still in a trance, absorbing the sounds of war below and then yet again -
Loose!
The tribesmen joined the crossbowmen in the parapets and started throwing stones and whatever else they could find below. The Athenian horn blared in desperation and as if responding to the blare, a gust of wind slowly cleared the fog in the ground and revealed the battlefield below and the sight of the carnage stopped the hands of Inga’s crossbowmen.
Loose!
Carts of fire had crashed into the Ruk’s center and crushed men underneath who were screaming while being burnt alive. The horsemen were running down the routed men while some circled around to charge the few who still stayed in formation – or tried to hold their ground. The arrows had pelted many Athenian attackers but also their own – most of whom were alive and screaming but fatally pelted. The ground was red with the blood of both the Athenians and the Ruk. Beneath his flag, Balin, the chieftain of the Ruk, lay dead. Only a few men had the stomach to release their arrows.
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Loose!
“The men are out of arrows warchief,” Inga told Holda who now woke from his trance.
“Form up, men of Greisbach!,” Holda yelled suddenly and fifty of his horsemen gathered the horses they had abandoned to take the fort and formed up.
“I’m going to hunt them down. Manage here,” Holda said to Inga as his adjutant blared his horn and fifty horsemen of Holda’s own tribe rode downhill.
Upon the warning of their dying comrade, the Athenian horsemen, most winded and some exhausted, all turned east to try and escape. One by one they were consumed by the storm of Holda’s assault. It was a frightful sight, even for Holda’s own men, when the warchief, in his trance, swung his great glaive to cut men and horse alike in half one after another, running the Athenians down like frightened deer. The thirty Athenian horsemen were then twenty, then ten, then five, then one. Then, surprisingly, for last of them, Holda struck not to kill but to throw the Athenian off his horse and spoke, in a frightful voice which was yet calm and clear, “Run now to your lords and commanders and tell them of Holda of Greishbach and how I slaughtered your guards and now I come to burn your cities to the ground!”
The last Athenian rose to see him - the warchief; a giant of terrible bloodlust, caked in the blood of men and horses, his calm face amidst the terror and his muscular arms bulging while holding his glaive atop his shoulder which was dripping the blood of his enemies.
The Athenian, barely a man, felt wetness flowing down his trousers, and turned around limped away as fast as he could. Holda held for a moment and gestured at his adjutant to signal the men to clear up the battlefield. He then turned his horseback, breathed in the smell of morning dew mixed with blood and guts, while the screams and groans of the dying men filled the air. He took in the scene of his carnage for a few moments then rode his horse back into the new fort.
---Preview of Next Chapter---
Rodos Hill belongs to the Eastern Folk; but Holda lost his son and heir. Freja seems to have sinister intentions and Inga - is just trying to keep the warchief’s army together. What is next for Holda, Inga, and Freja? Meanwhile, Sylia is still trying to find safety for himself and the prince. Re-unite with Sylia’s tale on the next chapter of From Fire and Blood - Ch13 !