22
Jan
I had hoped to have a little more writing done this morning, but I managed a little over 1700 words this morning, and that isn’t too bad. For those who are trying to be writers, always write at least 1000 words a day, otherwise the story will fade, and the touch and ease with which writing comes won’t be there either. It’s not something that can be done sporadically, not if you wish to be good at it. At least, that’s how I see it. And now for the story.
Arrows and javelins flew through the air, and Rhy and those around him lifted their shields to catch the incoming darts. Most skipped off of shields and armour, but some found their way around, and the screams and groans of the injured and the dying began to fill the air. Locsyn and Rhy both felt the old sensations again, the weight of all their previous battles come forward to claim this moment as their own, to add it to the tally that they each carried within. A sigh escaped Locsyn’s lips at the sadness of it all, but he lowered his shield and threw his momentum into the toss, sending the glass sphere flying to burst in a cloud of painful dust across the enemy line. Others from Glanhaol Fflamboethi had done the same, and up and down the Lianese line, soldiers cough and cursed and scratched at their throat and face, and some began coughing blood as the razor-edged clouds began to rip apart their breathing.
The Veryan army paused its headlong rush, bracing itself to take the impact of the disorganized Lianese charge, the order of the front ranks ripped apart by the salvo of spheres. A quiet descended on the field for a moment, a quiet as if all the sound had been pulled away, only to return with a mighty crash as the thundering attack crunched into the shieldwall of Glanhaol Fflamboethi. The shieldwall bent, pushed back by the momentum of the attackers, but soon righted itself, and slowly began driving into the more lightly armoured Lianese soldiers.
Slightly to the right of centre, Rhyfelwyr’s squad was set three in the front of the line, and three backing them up. Rhy, Locsyn, and Gwyth stood solid in the front, warding blows with their shields and striking back with short sword thrusts, no room for the extravagant motion of a cutting attack. Reaching over their shoulders or around where they could, the other three soldiers sought to strike and strike hard, making the Veryan wall a forest of stabbing swords.
Rhocas stood very pale, his face twisted as his arm rose and fell in the mechanical motions of the training ground. He was the youngest of them, had only seen the few brief moments of fighting in the skirmish the day before, and this cacophony of noises and sounds, overwhelming his senses, had in some ways turned off his conscious mind, and he stood wondering at the why of it all, for this battle was against those who had been friends mere seasons ago, and who would be considered so again, should Glanhaol Fflamboethi win. Rhocas could feel his youthful optimism about life being stripped away with each stroke of the sword blade, for how could this be some grand adventure, standing his ground and stabbing people when they weren’t looking? It was a sordid type of battle, and the groans and the shrieks of each sword blow made his stomach roil and churn, until he bent over and threw up on the battlefield. Another soldier stepped around Rhocas and into his place in line, and the war continued, not missing a beat.
Shaking his head, Taflen continued his slow, methodical strikes over the arms of Gwyth, waiting until he had a wide opening. The historian had seen many battles and read countless more, and not the sanitized reports that appeared in publications and histories, but rather the personal accounts of the soldiers who had been there, the heartfelt and gruesome stories of trying to survive. He used those now to build a wall about his mind, composing his tale of the battle as he swung, his eyes open, observing all that he could from where he stood. Later this night, he would venture around to the various campfires, asking the soldiers for their impressions of the day, before sleep robbed the ideas of reality and changed them into something else, the mind coping with the horrors of what it had seen.
Their blades hacking and slashing, stripped of any grace but brute efficiency, Rhy, Gwyth and Locsyn fought their enemies backwards, driving the Lianese soldiers, grinding them with the mass of the army behind. The shieldwall had begun to break, the organization lost as the battle became more muddied, a long spate of conflict where encirclements in miniature took place. The Lianese were getting the worst of that, and Llofruddiwr wondered at that, for their army had ever been better used for skirmishing, for the fast moving and withdrawing style that their open plains favoured. This stand and brawl combat was much more suited to Veryan temperaments, and it was showing on the field that day, as many of the Lianese soldiers began to lose heart, dropping their weapons to the ground and fleeing over the rise towards Miath Mhor. Llofruddiwr shrugged, for those who fled would likely be caught before they reached the city, and those who weren’t would just put an undue burden on the resources there. Either way, it was good for the soldiers of Glanhaol Fflamboethi.
Gwyth was breathing heavily now, his blade stained with the blood of many foes, and exhaustion was slowing his sword and shield, making each parry feel as if it took an age, each counter unbearable in its ages. It was a bad situation to be in, and the only reason he was still standing with no more than minor nicks and cuts was that those Lianese he faced were just as tired as he was, and for that Gwyth was thankful. He pressed forward all the same, letting his sword and his shield continue to do the work. For that was combat was to Gwyth, nothing more than work. Oh, perhaps if he had apprenticed himself to another, it might have gone differently, but at a young age, he had joined the army, and been there ever since, and so, this was a task to be completed. It involved killing, yes, but that was a minor part of all the marching and the practising and the rest, and so he moved forward behind each stroke, as unfeeling and unstoppable as an avalanche gathering speed down the hill. Rhy and Locsyn were dragged along in his wake, each standing to one flank, their weapons and shields protecting the mountain that stood between them. Rhy had seen Gwyth like this before, when he began bowling over and through enemies, and knew that if the squad was not careful, they would be pulled ahead and isolated, and then only luck and skill could rescue them. It had worked in the past, when the three men had been younger and more full of life, but now that they had grown older, the edge of their temperament, their invincibility, had slipped away. Well, slipped away from Locsyn and Rhyfelwyr. Locsyn didn’t think Gwyth would ever lose that, he wasn’t bright enough to realise he shouldn’t be able to do this.
As Rhy had feared, soon their attachment to the rest of the army became tenuous, as fighting began to spill around behind the squad, and the six of them, for Rhocas had recovered and rejoined, had to turn into a circle, moving as a slow unit through the Lianese forces. Thankfully, this close to the front line, most were already engaged, and so the fighting was no more hectic than it had been in the shieldwall, and so Rhy’s squad continued to drive their way through, although Locsyn had succeeded in altering the course of Gwyth’s path so that it now cut across the battlefield, instead of straight through it.
An arrow clipped off Taflen’s shield, and he turned to his left to peer, and saw a small band of archers and javelin throwers gathering themselves to strike the squad’s huddled mass. “Shields!” came the cry, and the initial volley skittered away across the armour, leaving scrapes and nothing more. Seeing them ready another volley, Rhyfelwyr called “Charge!”, and the six men thundered down on the skirmishers, their shields held out in front to ward any incoming projectiles. There was only time for one more volley before the charge was upon them, but the archers stood their ground, and Rhocas screamed and began to fall, an arrow piercing him through the calf. Llofruddiwr slowed his charge, grabbing the recruit by the arm, and dragged him into a hopping run, only capable of using one leg. Using his free arm, Llofruddiwr began to fling daggers at the archers, daggers that had been sequestered somewhere on his person. Two archers fell beneath the flying knives, while one of the javelin throwers countered by whipping his weapon towards the Veryan soldiers. Gwyth caught it on his shield, but the throw had been so hard that it slammed straight through, the bolt coming to rest with its tip touching the soldier’s arm. Growling, Gwyth tossed away his shield, and taking his sword in a two-handed grip, fell amongst the skirmishers, his blade rising and falling as one after another died to that onslaught.
Bereft of his shield, Gwyth took several countering blows, but shrugged them off and continued to kill as Rhy and Locsyn arrived, their matching styles working through the lightly armoured and armed foes with ease. Soon all who stood near the squad had fled or been killed, and Llofruddiwr began the process of retrieving his knives from where they stuck in various foes. Surveying the field of battle, and the state of his soldiers, Rhy nodded once, then gestured back towards the advancing lines of soldiers. “We’ll rest, and get Rhocas here to a medic. If they need a pursuit, well, we’ll be in for it. Otherwise, we’ve done our work for the day.” Llofruddiwr and Taflen between them took Rhocas’s weight, and the squad began limping through the shieldwall, although any such name was long since useless, for it was now mopping up the retreating and broken army of Lianese soldiers. Rhyfelwyr wondered how the battle had fared on a larger scale, but for now, he would take his soldiers back to where they could be treated, and then listen about, see what was being passed around the campfires tonight.
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