Dolwillen sat on a small throne built into the back of his war wagon, surrounded by his honour guard of one-hundred and fifty mounted knights in plate armour, with lances, heater shields and longswords.

It was mid-morning. Dolwillen was clad in thick plate armour, etched with three bushels of wheat and a sickle, and inset with gold. A miniature crown of sticky yellow flowers graced his bassinet. Two knights stood either side of his throne, and a third stood at the front, reins in hand.

The war wagon was built from thick planks, its edges reinforced with rawhide, and painted straw yellow with silver, grass-like streaks. A dark red banner, fixed to the back, rested against its long pole in a lacklustre fashion.

When I move, it will stream out behind me, revealing my crest, worked in gold and silver thread. Grand and imposing as is proper and necessary.

Guntard had nailed equidistant cast iron sigils around the entire body of the wagon and promised to ride with him to ensure they functioned.

Apparently, those sigils can stop anything short of a raging bull.

Just to make sure, Dolwillen had ordered his war wagon to be drawn by four, horned, black bulls so he would always be behind any bulls, rather than the other way around.

A stack of seventeen small wooden chests were secured with leather straps to the bottom of the wagon, labelled with shiny brass plates.

I can’t wait to open those chests. He reached for the largest one a couple of times then pulled back. Their contents really stretched my skills; I’d hate to ruin the surprise.

He swigged his flask. His troops were spread over a flat common, facing east towards Færtún and the King’s army.

A patch of woodland grew on each side of Færtún, where, according to Guntard, the local peasants collected fuel and grazed their pigs along the outskirts of the town's common pasture.

Dolwillen breathed into his hands. His breath frosted, bringing back pleasant memories of his hot house where he’d fed Cerddin’s body to the plants.

They’d thrived on the rich meat, their fleshy, digestive tubes turning a deep crimson, with bright orange steaks, over several weeks. One plant had even developed a flower bud, the first of its kind in all Rícewelig.

I hope I’m back in time to watch the flower bloom.

Duke Helȝas Engram and Earl Leofwin Vyvyan approached, riding black destriers and wearing full plate armour.

Helȝas’s destrier kept slipping as it struggled with its rider’s excessive weight.

Both lords bowed slightly from atop their horses and removed their visors.

“Greetings, your Grace, How would you like to proceed?” said Helȝas.

Dolwillen sneered at Helȝas, his brain must have more holes than a bubbling cheese, “We’re going to attack them.”

Helȝas ground his teeth and his skin flushed a remarkable shade of magenta. He spluttered. Spittle dribbled down his destrier’s mane.

“The scouts report some five-thousand Lindwígendas and five-hundred Húskarlar. While we have many more soldiers, it is a sizable force. The woods to either side look suspicious too. Do you simply wish to charge them?” said Helȝas.

“How is the enemy arrayed and equipped?”

Leofwin raised an eyebrow at Helȝas, then spoke, “The enemy Lindwígendas, warriors equipped with five foot spears, kite shields, gambesons, and kettle helms, surround a central core of Húskarlar.”

Dolwillen glared at Fatty’s distant banner. It flutters much better than mine. He sucked on his lower lip. If it weren’t so prominent I would burn it; it forces Helȝas to commit to me.

Dolwillen refocused on Leofwin’s irritating, high pitched voice.

“The Húskarlar are outfitted in mail and nasal helms. They wielded double-bladed axes with short handles and small round shields.”

“Anything else?” said Dolwillen. He was beginning to lose interest. He stroked one of the secret chests.

“Twenty companies of enemy Scéotend lurk behind mantlets at the top of the incline,” said Leofwin. “They are positioned in front of the Lindwígendas and Húskarlar. Many troops were spotted within Færtún. We assume the King has left his reserves within the town to protect it and secure his supplies.”

“Who guards the King?” said Dolwillen.

“A contingent of fifty knights surround the King at the back of the enemy army,” said Helȝas. He’d cooled to red.

Shame, Fatty looks better in purple, like an exotic aubergine stuffed with jiggling, jellied eels.

“How many Wígárberend have you assembled?” said Dolwillen.

Leofwin flicked his wavy, blond hair back with a thin finger, “I have eight companies, your Grace.”

“I recruited seven, your Grace,” said Helȝas. “I also have eight companies of Byrnwiggendas, warriors in rivet plate armour with poleaxes.”

“I suppose that will do,” said Dolwillen. “Spread the Wígárberend left and centre, and place the Byrnwiggendas on the right.” He rubbed his hands as he imagined the Byrnwiggendas, with their superior protection and training, facing the conscripted Lindwígendas and outdated Húskarlar. It would be a glorious massacre.

“Where should our Scéotend go?” said Leofwin. “We bought ten companies each.”

“Put them with those filthy irregulars, the ones with javelins, bucklers, and brigandines,” said Dolwillen.

“The Gárberendas, your Grace? Are you sure?”

“Would you rather the King shot at your vassals and your private army, or the mercenaries and conscripts?” said Dolwillen.

Helȝas grimaced, “Fine, at least they’ll be able to shoot each other.”

“I was beginning to think you had nothing but sotted, fat mice between your ears,” said Dolwillen. “You’ve finally said something useful.”

Leofwin giggled, “You’re losing your touch Helȝas. Where’s your fire?”

“Smouldering.”

“With so many fine men about, I’m hardly surprised,” said Leofwin. “Shall I whistle one over so you can stake out your revenge?”

Helȝas smacked Leofwin in the back of the head, almost knocking him from the saddle, “Will you quip or quit? Another insult and I’m pulling out.”

Leofwin scowled, then sniggered, “I’ll let you off that last one. Besides, if either of us quit now, we’ll end up in one of those creepy paintings. I’ve no desire to become a privy pin-up, although I imagine you’d be hammered onto the pantry door to discourage the rats.”

Helȝas and Leofwin continued to bicker as they rode back to camp. Dolwillen stopped paying attention and had a few of his knights spread the orders.

Guntard arrived, wearing foreign scale-mail. Each shining steel piece was stamped with an arcane sigil. A round, steel helm with a broad nose guard was strapped to his head and thick splint gauntlets with soft leather grips protected his hands.

His staff, a long hexagonal steel rod, was covered in mystifying symbols and set with red Feorhhord Gimcynn at the tip. It rested over his shoulder.

Guntard looks like an oversized fish.

Dolwillen winced, “Where did you find that?”

“This?” Guntard tapped his chest with a finger, “I've had my armour for years, your Grace. I made most of it myself. One can never be too careful when it comes to preserving your own skin. A sword thrust or arrow won't kill me anymore, but it would still hurt.”

Surrounded by his honour guard, Dolwillen drew Beceorfan and pointed it at the King's army. “Call the advance.”

Guntard pressed a few symbols and a bright yellow light shot into the air. A great cry spread among the soldiers.

The thunderous step of thousands of bodies filled the air as the irregulars surged forward in a loose formation, the heavier Byrnwiggendas, on the right flank, and Wígárberend, left and centre, followed at a slower pace. Gradually, the movement rippled backwards and, at last, Dolwillen's chariot was driven towards the impending melee.

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Black veins rippled up his right hand. Dolwillen saw them spread to his gums in the reflection of his sword. The veins wriggled and writhed. A shock of power suffused his body and cleared his vision. Dolwillen gripped the sides of his throne. In a few hours, he would be King.

As the irregular Gárberendas and Scéotend reached the four hundred yard mark, the first volley of arrows flew from the top of the ridge. The King was using the higher elevation to increase the range of his troops while simultaneously reducing the effectiveness of Dolwillen’s.

Most of the arrows missed the scattered irregulars. He giggled.

At the three hundred yard, Dolwillen’s soldiers slowed as they were forced to tackle the slope. The troops behind caught up, thickening the line. Each volley became more deadly. Dolwillen scowled.

“Tell the troops to advance while firing.”

“Yes, your Grace.” A yellow flare, followed by a green one, flew into the sky. The irregular Scéotend began a patchy barrage. The irregulars slowed even further, only firing one arrow for every two shot at them.

Dolwillen clawed his armour. The metal screeched.

The incline and the irregulars’ constant advance made range finding difficult. Thousands of arrows slammed into the King’s six foot mantlets.

I underestimated the incline. The King is having a good laugh at my expense. His body began to shake. He took a deep breath and exhaled his caustic humours before they could overwhelm him. Clarity returned. I needed to make my soldiers spread out and run faster, but how?

He tapped Beceorfan’s scabbard.

Provide an even greater threat. It works for everything else.

Dolwillen was about to order his bodyguard and wagon closer when a volley of arrows flew from the northern woodland.

Dolwillen’s left flank stalled under the new assault, twisting his line.

Another setback? Bloody cowards. That curved line is displeasing. It should be straight.

The Wígárberend caught up with the irregulars and began taking fire. Dolwillen took another swig from his flask.

“Orders, your Grace?” said Guntard.

“Neutralize the Scéotend in the northern wood.”

“How, your Grace? We don’t have any reserve forces.”

“The honour guard will advance through our lines to encourage the irregulars forward, then travel to the wood where they’ll engage the Scéotend. Driver, advance!”

The jangling armour of his honour guard deafened him. He tried to cover his ears, but his bassinet was in the way. The war wagon lurched and he was almost thrown from the wagon. Dolwillen clung to his throne.

He bit his tongue. He spat the blood from his mouth;

How could anyone drink their own blood?

A red speckled globule slid down the side of one of the wooden chests. As soon as the wagon was steady enough, he wiped it off with his yellow and pink handkerchief.

Dolwillen examined the mix of foot soldiers and horsemen as he was driven between the Wígárberend. There was a ridiculous variety of standards. Each small group seemed like an individual army, rather than a cohesive force.

The foot soldiers struggled to avoid Dolwillen’s chunky war wagon. Several angry shouts followed his advance, but they stopped mid-tirade once they realized who they were insulting.

Two minutes later, Dolwillen passed through the Wígárberend and was able to see what was happening again.

The centre and right flank of his irregulars were one-hundred yards from the enemy line. The Scéotend were, at last, consistently firing over the mantlets.

So many arrows. How do they not knock each other from the sky?

His Wígárberend and Byrnwiggendas advanced up the slope, the armoured Scéotend among them began to add their shots to the feathered chaos.

Arrows from the northern wood hammered onto Dolwillen and his honour guard. The wave of sound reminded him of teeth being dropped into a metal bowl.

Several horses screamed and reared as their unprotected legs were hit, leaving a dozen knights groaning in the dirt.

Every arrow that came close to the war wagon ignited. The shafts disintegrated and the arrowheads melted into tiny beads which bounced off Dolwillen's armour like hail.

The bulls, taking exception to the storm of hot metal beads stinging their naked hides, shook their heads and bellowed. Seconds later they rebelled and broke into a clumsy run.

The knights scattered, but the stalled irregulars on the left flank were not so lucky. Dolwillen’s wagon ploughed into the back of his own troops. His teeth clattered with each body dragged beneath the wheels and he was almost unseated from his throne. Within a minute his buttocks were numb.

Idiots.

Dolwillen’s honour guard reformed around the wagon, trampling even more soldiers into the ground. Caught between arrows from the front and left, and crazed bulls in the rear, the left flank crumbled and ran north east. The bulls turned and chased them, dragging the heavy wagon into an abrupt turn. The knight on Dolwillen’s right flew out the wagon with a short yelp and tumbled under the honour guards' steeds.

A loud rumble cut through the din. Dolwillen looked over his shoulder. The King’s mantlets had been set alight and were rolling down the hill while his Lindwígendas and Húskarlar created several gaps in their line, allowing his Scéotend to withdraw.

Dolwillen’s irregulars scattered, but couldn’t dodge the wooden walls hurtling down the hill. The mantlets drove into Dolwillen’s soldiers, toppling and crushing hundreds of troops, turning the terrain into a hazardous wreck of splintered wood and mashed flesh.

The Lindwígendas and Húskarlar began reforming as the last of the Scéotend streamed through their lines. The front three ranks braced their large round shields at an angle, like a buttress, and stuck their weapons between the gaps while the back ranks held their shields above their heads, forming an almost impenetrable wall of wood and metal spikes.

It had only been ten minutes and hundreds of Dolwillen’s Scéotend and Gárberendas were dead.

Where are the enemy’s dead?

Realizing how pointless shooting up the hill had been, and extremely keen to avoid being run down like the left flank, the irregulars attempted to scuttle south but Dolwillen’s Wígárberend and Byrnwiggendas pushed the irregulars closer towards the packed lines of the enemy soldiers.

The Wígárberend would need to charge to scatter the enemy formations before it was worth shooting at them again, but there was no way they’d be able to reach sufficient speed with all the flaming wreckage and mangled corpses littering the ground, let alone the slope.

The bouncing wagon forced Dolwillen to face forward or risk breaking his neck. I’ll worry about the Lindwígendas and Húskarlar later.

Dolwillen was two hundred yards from the wood, advancing inline with his knights.

He could finally see the lines of enemy Scéotend hiding in the bushes. There were hundreds of them. The twenty-seventh honour guard fell.

As long as my knights reach them, they’ll win.

One-hundred yards to go.

Why haven’t the Scéotend scattered?

Fifty yards.

The Scéotend’s faces were streaked with dirt. They were grinning.

Dolwillen and the driver saw the ditch at the same time.

The driver yelled a warning and hauled on the rampaging beasts. They finally slowed, but not before the war wagon hurtled into the ditch.

Dolwillen shot forward, barrelling into Guntard and the driver. Dolwillen groaned and raised his head.

Guntard’s neck was at a funny angle and the driver was on the floor of the chariot cursing. Water seeped into his armour and his kings-foot-trefoil crown was missing.

The knight on the left was sprawled over the chariot’s side. More arrows flew from the wood. The bulls resumed their frenzied pulling, but the wagon was stuck. The harnesses snapped and the bulls scattered.

Dolwillen blinked. Two hundred Rídwigan were bearing down on him.

Where’d they come from? They weren’t here at the start of the battle. Heat flushed through Dolwillen’s body. His vision swirled. It’s cheating to bring in extra troops like that.

He tried to reach for his stone, but couldn’t. His armour was dented and the stone was trapped against his chest. Blood trickled down his chest where the stone had broken his skin. Dolwillen squirmed.

Guntard sat up and yanked his head straight. It snapped into place with a bone grinding scrape, “Everything alright, your Grace?”

“The stone, I need the stone!”

“It’s fine, or I’d be dead. Please avoid any more crashes, your Grace. I am rather fond of my life.”

Dolwillen waved his hand, “Fix this! I’m losing. I do not want to lose.”

“What do you propose I do, your Grace? You’re the General.”

“Call down a plague, throw fire, whip up a storm. Anything, just kill them.”

“Easier said than done, your Grace. Do you wish me to remove the protection on the chariot so I can cast another spell?”

“No, of course not. Don’t waste my time with stupid suggestions.”

“Then perhaps you should use the boxes at your feet. I can assist you if you wish.”

“They are for later.”

“If you delay, there won’t be a later for you, your Grace. Hurry, Quillinane’s Rídwigan are almost upon us.”