Telling Time

A chronicle of great daring, from the time of the War of the Free Lords.

This short story was originally posted on Substack on February 7th 2023.

Just three moons past, one could find the great hall filled with laughter and song on a night like this. Hrodwyn felt like it was only yesterday that he had been sprawled out on a bench with a bellyful of goose and spiced wine, his arm around Gethen’s shoulder, bellowing a poor rendition of “Frost on the Holly” as they celebrated a naively hopeful Mykryasmorn. Now the long oak tables gathered dust, and only ghosts weeped bitter melodies from the rafters. Tonight, shadows nearly swallowed the room, kept at bay by a meagre fire spitting in the hearth and a sparse array of candles that peppered the giant dining tables.

Hrodwyn’s boots clapped against the flagstones as he approached the only table not coated with an inch of dirt and cobwebs. Instead, atop it lay a colossal map that covered the table’s entirety, scattered with carved wooden pieces as if someone were half way through a giant game of fox and geese. Rather than empty benches, this table was surrounded by a number of armour clad figures, each leaning over to peer at the map with looks of worried reflection.

At one end stood Sir Owain Ygwaredion, the Redeemed, and Sir Euric of Ardenhall, the Shining Knight. The two had fought nearly every battle side by side since the Liberation of Dalvik. There wasn’t a balladeer in the Allied North that wasn’t already singing of the Liberation. Sir Euric was instantly recognisable. It was sometimes said he was a man carved of stone, and his hard-edged face was one hard to forget. Owain, however, was nearly unrecognisable to Hrodwyn, despite them having now shared the field on a number of occasions. The boy was hardly past his twentieth name day, but his youthful face peered out from under a mask of exhaustion and affliction. His blue eyes were laced with strands of red, and patchy stubble trailed up from his jaw to his haggard cheekbones. He hid it as best he could, but the war had taken its toll on the young soldier. Hrodwyn wondered if anyone else could see it as plainly as he. At first glance, he thought the careworn boy might have been someone else, but the sword at his hip and the shield on his back were unmistakable. By his side hung Airgedarm, a slender steel blade bestowed upon the Shield Pact’s fearless prodigy by the same mentor that now stood beside him. From out the scabbard, the silvered crossguard curved upward in the shape of an angel’s wings. The shield he carried had not long been his either. Once Sir Balda Earthborn’s, he had donned it after her passing. It was said the items were enchanted, bestowing upon their wielder heavenly boons. At first, Hrodwyn had taken that for mere fancy. He’d believe such tall tales when he saw them with his own eyes, he had said. But after witnessing Owain take the field at the Storming of Lordsfall, he had learned that seeing things with one’s own eyes did not necessarily make them any easier to believe.

The gathered knights and captains were enraptured in their hushed discussion as Hrodwyn came to stand beside the table. The map displayed a small portion of the Moorvale, albeit in remarkably fine detail. Hrodwyn was a second son of humble birth, he’d spent little time learning letters as a youth, and found reading far more challenging than he cared to admit. All the same, he recognised a handful of names annotated across the map. On the corner most distant from him he spied the city of Dalvik, a confident fistful of swordsmen carved of dark walnut clustered around the illustration that marked the city’s centre. He traced the meandering road that trailed out from the cluster toward him, southwards. Stifling a shudder as he recognised their names, his eyes passed over the settlements of Lordsfall and Rynsbarrow. These two towns were similarly guarded by identical wooden soldiers, albeit in lesser numbers. He followed the road, until it was bisected by a line of royal blue. At their intersection, a small black circle had been marked with a name with which Hrodwyn was quite familiar. Whiterush. Home. Here sat the smallest smattering of the walnut figures thus far, a mere four of them, arranged in a line upon the bank of the blue line. Twice as many figurines of pale maple faced them from the opposite side, arranged in a crescent, their backs to a small illustrated tower. Beneath was printed a name that had been hovering in his attention for the past week, the same way it hung on the lips of all those gathered round that very map. Roilwatch Keep.

  A dark steel gauntlet reached down from the heavens and plucked one of the pale, wooden soldiers from its guard duty. “And how many foot is Enged fielding?” asked the owner of the gauntlet, a sharp featured man with a braided chestnut beard, a dark fur draped over his shoulders. Both beard and fur sat in stark contrast to skin so wan it was almost blue. Lord Arlem Greeth of Hochhaven. Even here, surrounded by only close allies, Lord Greeth still wore his gauntlets and cuirass. It was said the man even slept in his armour. His lordship’s angular cheekbones rose as he squinted at the figurine, before delicately placing it back. If Sir Euric Ardenhall was carved from stone, then Lord Arlem Greeth was carved from ice.

“Roughly two thousand, my lord, if my scouts tell me true,” answered Hrodwyn. A few heads turned at the sound of his voice, clearly so engrossed they had not noticed his arrival. Lord Greeth’s eyes widened for just an instant, and then his steely composure returned. 

“And mounted?” he inquired, his voice a single tone.

“Far less, fortunately. The stables within the walls of Roilwatch Keep have room only for a score, and we’ve spied no more than threescore warhorses within their camp. Perhaps even less.”

“Still more than we can field, I fear,” he growled. He grasped the small pendant that hung from his neck; an icon bearing the halo-wreathed blade of Fyortas, god of war, atop the crenellated tower of Vura, god of protection.The Lord of Hochhaven had been tasked with leading the campaign south from newly liberated Dalvik, winning back settlements from the grasp of Enged Bricio step by bloody step. No wonder he was relying on the guidance of his gods to steady his hand as he waged war in these lands so far from his home in the frigid north. If the high cost of their small victories had taken a toll on the young lord, he hid it well. Arlem was likely one of the youngest gathered there, save perhaps for Owain, but he possessed a shrewdness beyond his years, and there was something else, something ineffable about him, some sombre cloud that hung over him, an immovable air that would have better suited a reclusive sage than a young lord.

“So,” he continued, now addressing the entire group. “Tell me our numbers.”

“I bring just shy of two hundreds, my lord, no more than a score mounted,” spoke a short man with forearms as wide as a man’s thigh and red hair that draped to his shoulders. Marten of Lordsfall. Hrodwyn had known him well enough before the war, a talented smith worth making the journey for. The pair had come to know one another a fair deal better since sharing a field these past moons. Marten likely hadn’t hammered a blade in some time, but he’d certainly swung a few.

“More than I expected,” stated Arlem, shifting one of the darker wooden soldiers just north of the blue line of the Roil. “Good. Talda?”

“A single hundred,” replied Talda, a tall woman who wore her golden hair wound in a tight bundle atop her head. She kept a mournful gaze directed squarely at the map. She had raised the militia of Rynsbarrow, all of whom had fought valiantly at the Storming of Lordsfall, and then formed the van at the Battle of Falling Stars, eager to retake their hometown. They had of course succeeded, but the cost of victory had been woefully high for Talda’s fighters of Rynsbarrow.

Arlem gave a solemn nod. He turned his attention to the pair at the end of the table, the Spokesmen of the Shield Pact, clad in grey steel ornamented with the dents and scuffs of a hard fought campaign.

“The Shield Pact has spared onescore pairs of Spokespeople for this engagement, all mounted,” said Euric in his rumbling voice, enunciating each syllable. “Of them, I shall have the command.” Onescore pairs, thought Hrodwyn. Forty Spokespeople of the Shield Pact, all ahorse. With those numbers, the Spokespeople would form the smallest contingent represented, but the low count was nothing to be scoffed at. A single pair of Spokespeople of the Shield Pact were trained to hold their own against a multitude, and Hrodwyn had witnessed their effectiveness first hand at Lordsfall. Perhaps if there had been but a single pair of Spokespeople present at the Battle of Falling Stars, then he may not have lost so many of his own men in that fateful fight to retake Rynsbarrow. Forty mounted Shield Pact could be just enough to countervail their numerical disadvantage. Perhaps.

Owain addressed the group. He lacked the clipped, highborn accent of his shieldmate, but his words had no less gravity. “I am joined by Sadek Blackhammer of the Gessen Moors. No doubt those of you that fought alongside him at the Liberation of Dalvik and the Storming of Lordsfall will be grateful to have him at your shoulder again.” Nods and murmured approval rippled round the table. Sadek was a dauntless fighter with a fearsome reputation, a yova from the Gessen Moors, a storm of steel upon the field. “He brings a contingency of foot, some one hundred members of the Stonefists.” The wave of murmurs turned gruff, and simmered into muttered grievances. The Stonefists were a mercenary band of some renown, but with a reputation of being loyal only to the lord with the deepest pockets. They had pledged their swords to the cause of the Allied North, but quite clearly, there were many that still doubted the sellswords’ fealty. Heads had turned to Arlem, awaiting a judgement from the lord in command, but Greeth said nothing. Every single sword would count come the morrow, and Arlem marked that well. Likely he least of all could stomach fighting alongside sellswords, but he was wise enough not to turn away extra hands, especially those as seasoned as the Stonefists.

Hrodwyn moved one of the walnut men to the centre of Whiterush. “And of my men, we are but three hundred after Rynsbarrow. All afoot, save for about twoscore cavalry.” Hrodwyn had led his contingent north from Whiterush as soon as they’d heard of Dalvik’s liberation. It was there he and his host had sworn their swords to the Allied North. How many of those that had followed him had not returned to Whiterush? How many never saw home again? And how many others were like Gethen, he wondered, who had returned as mere ghosts of the people that left?

Arlem took a deep breath through gritted teeth. He regarded his wooden troops. “Including my company, we have little more than half the infantry that Enged could field.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But by my count we have more troops ahorse, which could prove decisive. Hrodwyn, how does the land lie?”

Clearing his throat, Hrodwyn prayed his scouts had their reports right. “As we know, their host is roughly two thousand swords strong. Roilwatch Keep is truly a keep only in name, my lord; it’s a large watchtower, surrounded by low battlements. We believe the entire host is camped outside, to the battlements’ south. They’ve been there some time, but they’ve built nothing in the way of defences.”

Arlem brought his gaze from the map, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. “They don’t mean to defend their position?”

“We don’t think so, we believe they may be waiting,” replied Hrodwyn.

Arlem’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“Reinforcements. Arriving from the south, we believe. We expect they’ll use the Roilwatch to assemble, and once they’ve mustered their numbers, they’ll attempt to cross the Roil and retake the settlements they’ve lost.”

Arlem scowled. “We can’t let that happen.” The gathered leaders gave solemn nods. Silence descended again. All eyes fell once more to Lord Greeth, awaiting his decision. “We strike now, before they arrive,” he declared. “Whiterush is not truly ours until they’re ousted. The Allied North needs complete control of the Swathlands before we marshall our strength and push south. If we let Enged’s forces regain a foothold, we’ve as good as added another year to this war.” He snatched up each of the dark wood figures. “If they were to cross the river, how might they do it?”

“There’s really only one way. Or rather, there was only one way.” Hrodwyn leaned forward to point at where the black line of the road crossed the blue line of the river. “The Steep Bridge. Destroyed in a storm two moons back. The town hasn’t had the strength nor coin to rebuild it since the war started.”

“Might they attempt to ford it instead?” asked Arlem.

“Ford the Roil, my lord? There’s as much chance of them flying over it.” Those among them hailing from the Swathlands murmured their agreement. Marten the smith of Lordsfall chanced a wry smirk. The Roil was as wild and as untamed as nature came, yet the town would be nothing without it.  Whiterush’s thriving wool trade relied on the row of fulling mills that hugged the river’s banks, spinning constantly thanks to the water’s breakneck pace. The town’s mills and the river enjoyed a delicate relationship; the water wheels were just as likely to be turned by the torrent as they were to be ripped apart by it. To call the river infamous would have been an understatement. The regulars of the Lamb’s Leg Inn morbidly styled it The Widowmaker, as it consumed at least one of their ilk a year; there wasn’t a child in town that hadn’t been warned since the day they could walk that they must never, ever, even think of walking along the bank; and it was rumoured that one in every ten gravestones behind the church sat above empty coffins, the folk they commemorated having met their end in the river’s churning, never to be found. Whiterush had even earned its very name for the river’s constantly pounding pale foam. “It’s one thing I can say with absolute certainty,” continued Hrodwyn. “They can’t ford it. No one can.”

Arlem seemed pleased with that. Hrodwyn had never seen the dour man smile, but at least for a moment his icy expression melted somewhat. “Good,” he mused. “And there’s no other bridges?”

“There is one,” answered Hrodwyn, trailing his finger left along the river, stopping a distance westward from the town. “Shearer’s Bridge. It’s an easy enough journey on horseback, but it’s a long march.”

Arlem stared at the map intently. For a moment Hrodwyn thought perhaps the lord had not heard him. After a silence that seemed to stretch forever, Arlem snapped back to life. He placed the walnut figures on the map in front of him, and slid them across the table with a wooden command stave, until they stopped at Shearer’s Bridge.

“Dusk tomorrow, we march for the surviving bridge as one,” he declared. “Once night falls, we’ll trace the bank back, until we’re opposite the town, by the collapsed crossing. No lamps, no torches.” He shifted the figures together, letting them rest on the bank of the Roil opposite Whiterush. The command stave pushed a single figure toward the defensive formation of its pale, inanimate opposition, committing it to an assault. “The Stonefists shall climb the bank to raid the keep. I’ll have them well spread out, and silent. I don’t intend to have Enged’s troops know that we are coming. I want wild bloody panic. Slay the watch, hamstring the horses, torch the tents.” He looked straight at Owain. “Tell them to use their imagination.”

Owain’s brow furrowed. “My lord, you mean to commit the Stonefists to an assault alone? They’re bold fighters all, and they don’t lack for courage, but… they haven’t a hope to stand against the White Rose nor the Shakelguards, especially with such ill-matched numbers.”

Arlem nodded. “Indeed. Hence why I do not intend for the Stonefists to stand against anyone.” The lone figurine slid back to the river bank to join his companions. “They will engage, and they shall flee. Not too swift, not too easy. Enged’s troops need to believe they have us routed.” The white maple soldiers slid towards the bank. “As our fleeing Stonefists are chased down, our awaiting, hidden reserves shall enclose the pursuers.” He moved the figures as he spoke, until the white figures formed a pillar that chased the single darkwood escapee. The chain of white soldiers was flanked by one walnut figurine on either side. Arlem tapped them with the stave in turn. “Myself and Talda’s contingents shall come from the west. Hrodwyn, Marten, your footmen shall emerge from the east. Then the Stonefists will turn. We’ll have the White Rose and the Shakelguards enclosed from three sides.”

Hrodwyn bit his lip. It could work. But even if they did entrap their opponents, besting them in combat would still prove a mighty challenge. Enged’s forces were composed of trained, disciplined professionals. Not only did he have the renowned Knights of the White Rose firmly in his pocket, but he also commanded the Shakelguard, an army of brutes sworn to their lord. Fighting them in a pitched-battle was suicide, and the Allied Northern Lords marked this well. The enemy were soldiers clad in plate, knights who had wielded swords before they could walk. The north drew their ranks from sellswords, town guard, and militia men. Of course, there were knights among them, and they had the backing of the Shield Pact, but they still constituted but a fraction of their force. At the Storming of Lordsfall Arlem had sent the first wave into the town hidden among a caravan of supplies. At the Battle of Falling Stars they had assaulted Rynsbarrow under the cover of darkness. It was even rumoured that at the Liberation of Dalvik, Owain had infiltrated the city disguised in the armour of a Knight of the White Rose, before opening the gates from within. This was a war fought by the light of the moon. There was little honour to it, but the Northern Lords knew they would win by cunning, or not at all.

No one had said a word.

“And our men ahorse?” asked Marten.

Arlem swept in the final darkwood piece. “All of our cavalry shall charge as one. Once Enged’s forces are enclosed, the Stonefists will move aside. Our mounted troops shall charge clear down the middle. We’ll have them. Gods willing, the day shall be ours.”

---

The plan received unanimous support. it was daring, it was shrewd, it was dangerous. The risk was high and the price would be steep, but there was no alternative. He was right; they had to seize the keep. And not one of them could think of a better way to do it.

Owain strode alongside Hrodwyn as they left the hall. “How fares your brother?” the young man asked.

“Fine,” lied Hrodwyn. “The apothecary claims he shall walk again, when the fatigue leaves him.”

“Good,” said Owain. “That’s good news.” They stopped at the door. Owain’s face glowed under the light of a torch. Gods, he looks tired, thought Hrodwyn. Up close, the knight seemed quite mortal. It was hard to believe this was the same man that seemed so otherworldly on the field.

“I’ll have an oath mage sent to him. They might improve his state,” pledged Owain with a weak smile. It was a kind offer; an oath mage’s prayers and incantations seldom came cheap. But Hrodwyn doubted even the most gifted oath mage could bring Gethen back.

The night was warm, and the moon hung like a giant dinner plate above them.

“He fought valiantly,” said Owain.

“I know. Thank you.”

“On the morrow then,” said the knight.

“On the morrow,” replied Hrodwyn.

---

The sun was teasing its first pink rays over the horizon when Hrodwyn crept into the attic, but he could tell the oath mage had already been before him. The peppery scent of anointing oils and the saccharine floral stench of burnt styrax hung in the air so thick he felt as if it were dripping down his throat. It was a welcome change though, far preferable to dried blood and stale piss. He noticed Gethen’s bandages had been replaced too; white linen was wound tightly around his knee and one side of his head, concealing his left eye beneath the fresh, crisp fabric.

He was sitting at the bedside when Gethen’s head turned to find him, the injured man’s one eye focussing upon him weakly, as if he were staring right through him. It took a moment for his confusion to wash away, before his mouth opened into a wide, childlike grin.

“Father,” he croaked, reaching to clasp clammy fingers around Hrodwyn’s palm. “You’re here.”

Hrodwyn smiled. His head shook gently. Some slim part of him had been hoping the oath mage’s appeals to the gods might have brought a miracle. A foolish hope. He squeezed his brother’s hand. He found his next words as if he was reciting them by heart, unsure how many times he’d repeated this conversation now. “No, Geth, it’s me, Hrodwyn.”

His brother’s eye twitched, the smile drooping, the look of loss and confusion returning. Just like last time, and the time before.

“They say you’ll live Geth, even walk again.” This part was new at least. He’d left his most recent visit expecting it would be his last. “The apothecary’s come most every day. And Owain sent an oath mage. You remember Owain. Sir Owain Ygwaredion, the knight.”

Slowly, Gethen’s smile crept up his face again. “I knew a knight, so heed these words, I’ll tell my tale to thee.”

Hrodwyn forced himself to smile back, squeezing his brother’s hand tighter. He felt his throat drying, and his eyes growing damp.

“Bowed by nothing was this proud man, yet he came to bend his knee,” continued Gethen, his hoarse voice finding a cadence. Hrodwyn opened his mouth, but he couldn’t summon the resolve to interrupt. He looked at the bandage around his brother’s head, at the slight dip it made where it covered the part of his skull that had been kissed by the mace. “He’s lucky he’s still breathing.” That’s what had been said when they heaved Gethen out from under a warhorse at Rynsbarrow, his badly dented half helm the only thing keeping his head in one piece. Is this luck? he wondered, as his brother obliviously continued his recital. 

“Kissed by angels, what bright a star, this man who feared no foe,” slurred Gethen, his uncovered eye now drifting up to the ceiling. “Yet for this soul, this silver knight, I have but songs of woe.”

The sun was climbing the pale sky now, bathing the attic in the morning’s glow. Other beds lay empty next to Gethen’s, their former occupants gone. Some had recovered, returned to their homes, others had not proved so fortunate. Hrodwyn let go of his brother’s hand. He’d be expected in the camp soon. They wouldn’t march to Shearer’s Bridge until the end of the day, but there was much that still needed to be done, not least, briefing his contingent of the plan.

Gethen continued muttering, rocking his head back and forth across his pillow. “For in his time, forgotten years, when good men stood alone.”

Hrodwyn smiled at his brother, and rose. “A time when each fist found a blade, and empty was the throne,” he replied.

Gethen’s head swayed over to his brother and his eye lit up again, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Do you know the words too, father? Have you heard this one before?”

Leaning down, Hrodwyn pressed his forehead against his brother’s and closed his eyes. “Aye, Geth. I have.”

---

The Roil roared angrily underneath Shearer’s Bridge, thrashing and leaping to lap the stones of the narrow crossing. At the assembly, when wooden men stood proxy for their forces, their force had sounded small and inadequate. But as the seemingly endless column crested the bridge, a bridge scarcely wide enough to allow them to cross three abreast, their host seemed excessively swollen. It was hard to believe that even in the dark of night, not one among Enged’s troops would spy their approach from the tower they meant to claim. And even with strict adherence to the demand for utter silence, there was surely no chance that the rattling of armour, the stomping of boots, and the whickering of their mounts wasn’t reaching the ear of a perceptive sentry. Hrodwyn could only hope that the rumbling of the river might veil the din of their approach. It had all seemed much simpler around the table.

Beside him, Tadglas the squire shuffled along, Hrodwyn’s battered wooden shield hanging from his back. Tadglas was as much a squire as Hrodwyn was a knight, but the title sounded grander than ‘shieldbearer’, and playing at being a knight’s attendant seemed to keep the boy’s spirits up. He certainly needed it. In only his fifteenth year the lad had seen greater terrors in the past three moons than an unfortunate man might be forced to witness in a lifetime. Their retinue was filled with striplings like Tadglas; naive, bright eyed youths who had expected the War of the Free Lords to bear more resemblance to the songs they’d heard of wars long past. Mere children who had eagerly volunteered to polish armour, haul shields, and even swing blades when it came to it, hoping that they might themselves be brave enough to catch a shred of the glory doled out to the victors. Had I thought so differently? wondered Hrodwyn, watching the boy stoop under the weight of the heater. He remembered standing in the market square at Dalvik, buildings battered and burnt, streets still strewn with bodies, Gethen’s shoulder pressed close to his in the packed crowd, standing tall on his toes and watching wide eyed as the Liberators burned Enged’s standard. He cheered as the flames devoured that baleful black eagle. A sea of steel had risen in the air. “Freedom!” they chanted, weapons skyward. “Victory!” 

The night’s gloom was total by the time they reached the crumbled remains of the Steep Bridge. Its consumption by the Roil had been almost total, and only a few lonely chunks of masonry remained on either side of the bank. Hrodwyn’s eyes rested on the sleeping town on the opposite side of the river. They’d been walking half the night, and had returned not more than a stone’s toss from where they’d started. He turned southward. From the river’s bank the ground rose sharply, and the very tip of Roilwatch Keep’s distant tower was just visible over the peak of the hill ahead, gleaming a dull grey in the moon’s light. He turned to face his detachment, and gesturing with his arms high above his head, began to signal his silent orders. Form up.

First to mount the slope were the Stonefists, crawling through the dry grass on their stomachs. In the darkness, individuals were hard to discern, and it seemed as if the hill itself was waving and bubbling, shadowy shapes squirming upward to its peak. Occasionally the moon’s light would reflect in dull patterns upon boiled leathers and mismatched plates, or glint upon a blade. The Stonefists armed themselves with an disparate array of weapons; some with axes, others with clubs, some with daggers clamped between their jaws whilst they wound up the hill on their elbows. They scurried slowly towards the tower like an army of leather clad insects. Hrdowyn and his cohort watched from the base of the hill, also prone in their grass. Off to the west, he thought he could spy Arlem Greeth, low in the dirt before his own troops, but half buried in the grass and darkness it was hard to tell two men apart. To the north, the Roil was deafening.

The first shadows were rippling to the hill’s apex now, sliding from view toward the keep. Hrodwyn chewed his lip until it was raw. It had been like this at Rynsbarrow, he thought with a shudder. There was nothing to do but wait.

At first he could not be sure it was not just the river they were hearing, if the ears were simply finding the shouts of men and clash of steel within the rumbling clangour of the Roil. But soon it was certain. Gentle orange began to flicker over the hill’s crest, and gaunt fingers of smoke wound up through the sky. War cries, wails and roars began to echo, only vaguely audible over the river’s thundering, but loud enough to fill the night with a low, persistent growl.

The first shadow returned, launching over the brow of the hill and tumbling down the grass. Then the trickle became a flood, and a torrent of the sellswords came rushing back into view, running, rolling and leaping down the hill, just as was planned. Just as was planned. Hrodwyn freed his lip from his jaw and allowed a tentative, hopeful smile. He nudged Tadglas the squire, checking the lad was alert and ready. Still prone, he drew his sword, shifting a knee under his stomach and rising slightly, preparing to launch upon the enemy once they made their pursuit. “Keep the shield for now lad, and follow me in. Remember what I told you about that spear of yours?,” he asked the boy, still whispering, despite the fact it’d be a sharp eared man that could hear him over the hooting of the Stonefists and the thrashing of the Roil. Tadglas nodded, clutching at a spear taller than he was, the wooden shield on his back covering him nearly as completely as a turtle’s shell.

The stream of Stonefists was reaching the foot of the hill now. The sellswords were stumbling in their efforts to stop themselves and turn to face their pursuers. Hrodwyn winced as a number staggered clear into the vicious river, some being launched by hapless allies careening into their backs, others merely losing their footing before being swallowed by the foam. Order slowly returned among the deluge of Stonefists, and the sellswords began to form up into jagged ranks at the hill’s base. A few latecomers tumbled down the hill to join them, and suddenly, the sounds of battle had faded. Hrodwyn’s watched the hill’s brow, unblinking. His sword hand twitched, the sound of his heartbeat boomed like a drum in his head. Soon. They waited. He could see the lines of soldiers opposite, Arlem and Talda’s troops, bristling in the gloom as they likewise prepared to fall upon the enemy that would soon come rushing into their trap.

Over the river’s growling, Hrodwyn thought he could hear the sound of hooves rumbling in the distance. He sank lower, awaiting the pursuing cavalry to come launching into view. But no enemy came. No figures crested the hill. Perhaps his ears had been playing tricks. The twitching became jostling as a few errant whispers were exchanged among the ranks. To either side, Hrodwyn could see the heads of his band turning, eyes looking to him for guidance, for clarity, for an order. He searched the darkness for Arlem, probed the gloom for any signal.

With hardly a warning, the night erupted. It was impossible to know what spark ignited the kindling. There was a shout, perhaps another, shapes rushing through the darkness to his right, shapes rushing ahead of him. He watched as a handful of Stonefists peeled off from their line, and began sprinting back up the hill. Some of his own men followed, racing behind them. “Hold!” he bellowed, but over the cacophony, only those right by his side seemed to hear. Figures were scrambling up the hill from the opposite ranks, breaking from the Arlem’s disciplined lines. In mere moments almost half the lord’s men were clambering up the incline. Did I miss the signal? Was there an order? Not one of the Stonefists had stayed at the river’s bank, and all were now joining the chaotic charge. Hrodwyn’s own ranks were breaking apart, more of his troops following the rush with every passing moment, those that remained hesitantly looking over their shoulders, unsure whether to follow or remain. Only a fraction of their host had not yet joined the race to the hill’s peak. Gods be damned.

“Up,” he yelled. “Up boy! Get up!” He rang his fist against the shield on Tadglas’ back, before grabbing the lad’s arm to help him to his feet. “Forward!” he yelled, straining his throat to be heard over the chaos. He ran, neither turning nor waiting to check if his command had been heeded. The shouts and rumbling of boots from behind told him he had his remaining troops at his back.

The wave of flesh and steel rushed up the hill, the whole mass taking on an animation of its own, heaving and roaring like some great tide. The keep’s tower was rising behind the peak, growing and looming as they approached. He could scarcely hear the Roil anymore over the din of the charge. The sound of boots against the dirt was absolute, but where was the sound of steel against steel? Where was the enemy? The peak drew closer, only a couple of hundred yards, yet still he could hear no fighting.

Then the whistling began, the high pitched, momentary hiss of arrows taking flight. The sky lit up, and the night was ablaze. Hrodwyn stopped dead in his tracks, wide, horrified eyes skyward. The charge rushed past him. The burning arrows soared upwards, and then froze in the sky, hanging like a constellation. We should have expected this, he thought. We should have known. These weapons had earned The Battle of Falling Stars its name, and had nearly cost the Allied North their victory that night. The pitch-coated arrows had some kind of fabric affixed to their fletching which burst open in the sky, allowing the missiles to somehow float through their descent like burning cankerwort seeds. At Rynsbarrow, Enged’s forces had doused the field with oil before. In the air, the arrows provided a glow the defending archers used to pick off the approaching insurgents. When they hit the dirt, the whole field had come alight. They could now only pray the grass here hid no such trap.

 With the torrent of passing elbows clattering into him, he hardly felt the tug at his arm.

“Sir!” shouted Tadglas, snapping Hrodwyn’s attention back to the ground. He nodded at the boy, and the pair continued to run. Then the sound of steel came. Shapes were pouring over the hill, coming down toward the charge. The mass crumpled, stopping like a ram against a door, and chaos rippled through the ranks. Hrodwyn kept the boy behind him, elbowing forward through the scrambling sea. The noise was so deafening and total that it consumed itself, its edges fraying and fading until Hrodwyn could hear nothing but his own breathing. Enemy after enemy burst from the carnage, swinging their weapon, screaming their threats, only to be put down moments later. The lines were shifting, the tower looming closer. Suddenly Hrodwyn was grinning. It seemed that for every one White Rose or Shakelguard that would come charging forth to oppose them, at least four attackers would fall upon them. It was unbelievable. It was a rout, an annihilation. They’re outnumbered, he realised, his grin widening. There can’t be a fraction as many as we predicted. The scouts got it wrong, he thought, elated. They got it so bloody wrong.

They pressed for what felt like half the night. Time and time again Hrodwyn mistook the glow of the hovering arrows for the light of an emerging dawn, but dawn refused to come. Their lines heaved, creeping ever upward. Hrodwyn could make out the outlines of the skirmish bubbling around the base of the battlements, glowing gently under the flames above. The assaulting lines pushed closer, trampling over burnt tents, the keep tantalisingly close. A shout went up from the battlements, and a barrage of javelins took flight from behind the defenders’ shield wall. They rained down around the forward lines. Hrodwyn watched as men collapsed, gored by the falling weapons. But the assault continued; their numbers seemed endless.Behind the shield wall, another forest of javelins were bristling, preparing to launch. He jutted his left arm out behind him. “Shield!” he bellowed, grasping at thin air, his eyes fixed on the torrent of wood and iron as it soared into the sky, and then came raining down upon them. He closed his fist to nothing. “Shield, boy, gods be damned!” he snapped. He flicked his gaze over his shoulder for just a moment. Tadglas was limply presenting the shield out at an angle. The boy stood reclined, like he had frozen midway through toppling over backward. Except instead of falling, he was propped upright, propped upright by a javelin that entered his shoulder and exited his opposite hip, digging into the floor and skewering him like a pig on a spit. Blood sputtered from his mouth in wet, red coughs as his eyes grew dim. Gods be damned.

A new rain of projectiles came whistling through the glowing sky. Hrodwyn yanked his shield from grip of his squire, and brought it up just in time to have a javelin glance off the dome. What shall I tell his mother? He glanced back briefly at Tadglas. Over the din of the battle Hrodwyn could hear the boy letting out a final few wheezes. His limp legs twitched. Hrodwyn wrenched his gaze away, and returned his attention to the fight.

The enemy’s shield line had crumbled, and frantic melees dotted the keep’s perimeter, White Rose and Shakelguard alike being set upon by raging foes, outnumbered by their assailants, who struck them with merciless rage. They left the keep as good as undefended. He spied the gleaming plate and crenellated helmets of Spokespeople of the Shield Pact, hurtling round the battlements on horseback, picking off enemies. Amidst the chaos, he hadn’t noticed they had joined the fray. Some fought on foot, pushing in their pairs, protecting one another with their giant steel shields, slashing through the enemy ranks with ruthless efficiency. 

“Form up! The tower is ours!” The scattered ranks warped, hardening into a spearhead. The voice that spoke the command stood behind Hrodbert; Owain Ygwaredion, leading a miscellaneous platoon of sellswords, militia men, and unhorsed Spokespeople, his motley troop heeding his orders as if they had trained alongside him their entire lives. He had the visor of his helmet raised. The mask of exhaustion that had clung to his face the night before was gone, replaced with one of assurance and determination. He looked younger, somehow. Clearer, sharper. Hrodwyn fell in beside him for the final push.

A band of remaining defenders were attempting to bar the main gate of the keep’s outer ramparts with a shieldwall three lines deep. The tower beckoned from within. Only one of the main gate’s doors was closed, a huge bar hanging out from behind it. Perhaps they had been attempting to close it when the Stonefists had taken them by surprise. Owain’s lance of fighters rammed against the shield wall. The two sides pushed against each other for an eternity. Spears and swords probed from behind the wall. Hrodwyn pushed his shoulder into his shield, heaving, searching for gaps with his blade. He’d find resistance, press, lunge, and a portion of the wall would groan and give way. Then the tide would turn, and they’d be on the back foot. And then they’d press again. Over and over. Before long they were stepping over bodies, and three lines of defenders had become one. With a final, frantic heave, the spearhead pressed, roars and wails swarming and echoing. The wall burst like a dam breaking, and the spearhead fell through, pressing within the opening. A tide of fresh men poured through the newly cleared gate.

The chaos on the field outside paled in comparison to the carnage within the walls. Another entrance had clearly been exploited, as men of the Northern Alliance were already fighting their way toward the tower from all directions. All their order within the walls had collapsed now, and the tower was surrounded by a multitude of reckless, frantic melees. They were nearly there.

Hrodwyn paused at the gate, looking back to find Owain. He felt a vice tighten around his stomach as he saw the battlefield they’d left behind. The black and gold plate of the enemy shimmered dully under the orange sky, but tangled between their fallen opponents were near as many bodies of the Allied North. Clad in their mismatched leathers and irons, the bodies of the men and women who had rallied to the call of freedom. Ardent youths with dreams of justice. Old grey-beards defending the towns they called home. Children, like Tadglas. Strewn across the hill, all the way down to the Roil. The embering arrows drifted down upon them. And just across the churning river, the town they’d fought to hold. Glowing. Burning.

Hrodwyn’s knees buckled at the sight. He steadied himself with a hand on the keep’s wall. A hand under his arm caught him, Owain’s. The young knight stared out at the town too, jaw clenched, eyes cold. Flames licked at the timbers of the buildings that girded Whiterush’s fringe. Cavalry were pouring into the town from the west, along the very same dirt road that the fighters of the Allied North had marched along earlier that night. That felt like days ago. Glowing specks of torchlight bounced beside the riders like a parade of fireflies. Even in the dark of night, there was no mistaking the armour as it flickered in the glow. The grim black iron of the Shakelguard, the glinting gold of the White Rose. Their cheers could be heard from across the roaring river, as could the screams.

How? Desperation weighing Hrodwyn down. Now it was clear why the enemy seemed so few. They had not intended to defend the keep. They had intended to take the town. How? The question hung in his mind. Enged’s cavalry must have crossed Shearer’s. But when? His exhausted wits couldn’t make the pieces of the puzzle fit together. One thing he understood with painful clarity; the Allied North had won no prize this night, they had simply traded an old one for a new. The town looked close. Cruelly close. You could practically reach out and grasp it. All that stood between Hrodwyn and his home was the hill, and the Roil. The violent churning water of the Roil.

He pressed himself on trembling legs, stumbled forward, away from the keep and toward the river. A hand gripped his shoulder. He turned to look back at Owain. The young soldier bore a frown. He asked his question wordlessly.

“I have to go back!” roared Hrodwyn. He could scarcely hear himself. It sounded as if he were underwater, and the battle were upon a distant shore.

“Go back?” bellowed Owain, gripping Hrodwyn by his cuirass and yanking him so close he could feel the heat of his breath as he yelled. “Go back? You can’t go back! Look around you. Look at everything we’ve lost. Everything you’ve sacrificed. How hard have you fought to get here now? How hard have you fought?”

Hrodwyn could feel the tears welling in his eyes, made only worse by the smoke settling upon the field. His legs were melting underneath him. “I have to,” he whispered, his voice scarcely a croak. “I can’t leave him.”

Owain’s face contorted. “Look!” he roared. His finger pointed to the town, dancing and twirling in the night as the flames swallowed it. The screams echoed across the Roil. “He’s gone!” he yelled, a hand on each of Hrodwyn’s shoulders. “He’s gone, Hrodwyn.” Suddenly he was shouting no longer. “There’s nothing we can do now. You couldn’t reach Whiterush in time if you had the Moorvale’s surest steed beneath you.” He released his grip on Hrodwyn, swung his sword up before him, and turned to scan the carnage within the keep. The skirmish continued to boil around the tower. He glanced back at his brother in arms. “If we don’t push and seize this prize, all you’ve done is for naught.” His tone was firm, final. “If you turn back now, everything you’ve fought for thus far is lost.” He flicked his visor down. “I won’t stop you,” came the muffled voice from within. “But we need you in the fray.” With that, he sprinted forth into the lambent night, his armour shimmering orange and red.

Hrodwyn planted the blade of his sword into the dirt, propping himself up by leaning on the hilt. Wails rang out from beyond the Roil. Roars rang out from within the keep. Ahead of him was everything he’d fought for. Behind him, everything he’d ever known.