The Battle of Hackham Heath by John Flanagan
“That’s the river,” Halt said. Without discussing it, they both urged their horses forward, heading for the sound. After thirty meters, they saw the gleam of light on water through the trees. If the last of the day’s light was reaching the water’s surface, Halt thought, that meant there must be a sizable gap in the forest canopy. And that meant the river widened at this point.
And that usually indicated the presence of a ford.
They rode out of the trees onto a level, sandy bank. The river gurgled past them, widening to around fifty meters. To the left and right, it narrowed down to around fifteen, with the current flowing rapidly between the banks, and the water dark and deep. But at the wider part, they could see the sandy bottom. Gilan rode forward for ten meters. The water barely rose to his horse’s belly. He turned and grinned at Halt.
“I knew I could find it!” he said triumphantly.
Halt raised an eyebrow. “Of course you did.”
34
“READY?” ARALD SAID IN A LOW VOICE. THE MEN AROUND him all replied in hoarse whispers that they were and he gestured down the hill. “Then let’s go.”
He led the way out from behind the palisade, crossing the ditch on a temporary plank bridge that would be withdrawn as soon as he and his men were on their way. The moon had set half an hour ago and the land was dimly lit by starlight. Scudding clouds rode the wind across the sky, sending their shadows rippling over the ground and making it all the harder to pick out the movement of the small group as they headed downhill.
Behind him, a man slipped and fell on the long, smooth grass, hitting the ground with a slight rattle of his sword in its scabbard. The party froze, waiting to see if the enemy had heard the slight noise. But they were still a long way from the Wargal camp and it seemed to have gone unnoticed.
To his right, Arald heard a single owl hoot and glanced across the slope. At the far side of the palisade, he could just make out Crowley and his party of Rangers as they ghosted out of the armed camp and slipped away to the right. He shook his head in admiration. The Rangers were skilled movers, and even though he knew where they were and where they were heading, he was hard put to see any sign of them. Occasionally, a dim form might be fleetingly visible above the long grass. But then it was gone again, melting into the land, using the moving cloud shadows as cover.
He wished his own group could move with such skill. But then he realized they were a diversion. They were supposed to be seen by the enemy to draw their attention from the real threat—the Rangers intent on burning the wheeled barricades.
Still, he thought, it would be nice if his men didn’t bump into one another and utter muffled curses. And it would be better if they didn’t allow their weapons to clatter as they moved and their equipment to creak quite so loudly.
He led them obliquely down the hill, until they were hugging the tree line on their left. As they became more accustomed to the terrain and the lack of light, he was glad to hear that they moved more stealthily. From time to time, he halted them, gesturing for them to sink into the long grass while he studied the enemy camp, looking for any sign that they had been seen.
So far so good, he thought, as they stopped for the third time. There was no reaction from the Wargals. He could see their sentries patrolling, but none of them seemed to be alarmed. He looked across the hill again to where he knew the Rangers must be. He thought he saw a slight blur of movement. Perhaps it was one of Crowley’s men. Or perhaps, more likely, it was a cloud’s shadow moving across the grass or the grass itself rippling under the wind.
“Come on,” he whispered, and started off again, heading for the eastern end of the ford. On the far side, the bank was a vertical drop about half a meter high. It would give them better cover than the sloping beach that formed the main part of the ford.
They reached the river and he held up his hand once more for his men to stop. They sank to the ground, lying prone. Crowley had given them a briefing earlier in the evening.
“When you stop, resist the temptation to move. It’s movement that the eye notices first. So just lie still, even if you think you’ve been spotted. Chances are, you haven’t been. But chances are, if you move, you will be.”
The little band of raiders wore no armor or helmets to make noise or reflect the light. Each man had a war belt, with a sword and a heavy dagger in scabbards on their left and right sides. They were all dressed in dark clothing—overshirts and trousers—and had black scarves wound round their heads. Their faces were blackened in irregular patches—another of Crowley’s dictums, to prevent their faces showing as pale ovals or regular shapes under the starlight.
At the edge of the ford, a thick clump of bushes grew down to the water’s edge. They would use this as their entry point into the water. Arald belly-crawled toward it, grunting softly as he did so. It wasn’t the most comfortable way for him to move. His belly tended to get in the way.
Have to do something about that, he thought, then mentally shrugged. He’d been saying that for years—usually at the urging of his wife, Lady Sandra.
He reached down and unclipped his scabbard from the belt. Glancing back, he gestured for his men to do the same. He couldn’t wade across the river with the scabbard dangling around his legs. He’d hold it horizontally, above the river surface.
He heard the subdued clinks and rattles as his men released their own scabbards. Then, turning side on, he edged his way into the slow-flowing water of the ford, crawling on one hand and both knees until the water grew deeper, then rising into a crouch to continue. Finally, as the water reached its full depth, he stood erect and forced his way against the sluggish current as the river rose to his chest.
He glanced behind and saw other dark forms entering the river, gradually transforming into heads and shoulders as the men found their feet on the sandy bottom. He heard movement on the far bank and, looking up, could see the dark shape of a Wargal sentry shuffling along the bank in that rolling gait they all shared. He froze, standing still in the water, bending his knees until only the upper part of his head was above water, his nostrils just brushing the surface.
The beast went past, barely paying any attention to the river surface, uttering those small, almost percussive grunts that the Wargals seemed to make when they were moving. Arald waited until the sentry had reached the end of his beat and turned to go back the other way. Once it was past him again, he resumed his movement. He felt desperately exposed out here in the water. The bank was only twenty meters away now and he was tempted to cover the last of the distance in a rush. He suppressed the urge to do so. Speed meant noise, he knew. And noise was something he couldn’t afford.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, he continued to forge his way through the black water, even though every instinct was urging him to rise to full height and run. He glanced once to the west, looking for some sign of Crowley and his little force.
Of course, there was none.
• • •
Crowley and nine of his Rangers flowed down the hill like the wind that stirred the long grass. They were all experts at silent and unseen movement, and there was no need for Crowley to give them any instruction.
Like Arald, they resisted the temptation to move quickly. But in their case, it was second nature borne of long practice, not something they had to force upon themselves. They had discarded their cloaks—the long garments would be too cumbersome crossing the river, and once they were soaked, they would be too noisy, with water dripping out of them. Instead, they wore their dull gray-and-brown overshirts and woolen trousers, tucked into soft, calf-high boots. They had dark scarves wound round their faces, and like Arald and his men, their faces were streaked and smeared in irregular patterns with dark coloring.
Robert and Jurgen carried flint and steel and an assortment of combustibles, secured in waterproof wrapping. Each man had his bow and quiver, which they left on the bank of the ford as they entered the water. They wou
As he reached the water, Crowley took stock of the situation. There was a sentry at this end of the ford as well, with another patrolling the middle section. Crowley waited until the Wargal was shambling back toward the middle of the ford, then slid into the water, crawling initially, then rising to his hands and knees and finally to a crouch as the water rose. Behind him, the others entered the river. Only Leander remained behind, his bow in hand, waiting to take care of the sentry once they heard Arald’s diversion.
Keeping an eye on the sentry, Crowley slid through the water, stopping and sinking lower as the beast came back into view. He didn’t need to check that the others were doing the same. They’d all been trained in the same hard school.
• • •
Earlier that evening, Morgarath had summoned one of his lieutenants, a man who had served under him at Castle Gorlan for the past ten years. The Lord of Rain and Night sat outside his black pavilion, drinking deeply from a silver tankard filled with wine, staring up at the hill opposite them, where the campfires of the Araluen army twinkled in the dark night.
His subordinate approached carefully, wondering if he had done something to annoy his leader. You never knew with Lord Morgarath, he thought. The man was capable of flying into a tearing rage at the slightest provocation—or at none. It paid to make your way carefully until you ascertained his mood.
“You sent for me, my lord?” he said deferentially.
Morgarath didn’t reply for several seconds. When he did, he didn’t look at the man. Instead, he gestured with his tankard at the Araluen camp. “You see those men, Trask?”
For a moment, Trask thought Morgarath had actually seen someone on the hill. Then he realized he was referring to Duncan’s army in general. He nodded carefully, still unsure what Morgarath had in mind. The silky, low-pitched voice gave no hint.
“Yes, my lord,” he said.
Again, Morgarath paused before replying. Perhaps it was an intentional gambit, designed to keep his men off guard and uncertain. Or perhaps he was just thinking carefully. Trask realized he’d never know.
“I know those men,” Morgarath said at last. “Duncan. Arald. Crowley. And Halt—especially Halt.” There was a note of pure hatred in his voice as he repeated the Hibernian Ranger’s name.
Trask sensed that some kind of reply was necessary. “Yes, my lord,” he said. His reply was as noncommittal, as nonjudgmental as he could make it.
“They’re clever men,” Morgarath said. “Clever, clever men. And they’ll be making a clever, clever plan.”
Trask hesitated. A further Yes, my lord didn’t seem appropriate. He held his tongue and waited for Morgarath to continue.
“They’ll have seen our wheeled barriers. And they’ll have worked out what they’re for.”
“Do you think so, my lord?” Trask asked, with a note of surprise creeping into his voice. He had been puzzled by the strange wheeled contraptions until their purpose was explained to him.
Morgarath turned a basilisk stare on him. It didn’t do to question the former Baron of Gorlan. “Yes. I do,” he said carefully. But behind the simple words was a dire warning. Do not question me again.
Trask swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry and he found the action difficult. He dropped his gaze from his commander’s.
Morgarath noted the subservient action and nodded. It was all to the good to keep his followers in fear of him. “As I say, they are clever men and they’ll be up there, scheming, thinking of a way to try to destroy my machines. They’ll creep down the hill tonight, cross the river and try to destroy them. I can sense it.”
“Shall I double the sentries along the riverbank, my lord?” Trask asked.
Morgarath looked at him once more. It was the typical sort of nonthinking answer to a problem that he had come to expect from the men who served him. Extra sentries might drive any prospective raiders away. And he saw this as a chance to rid himself of some of the men who faced him. Particularly the Rangers. He expected that they would be the ones assigned to try to destroy the barriers. With any luck, Halt himself might be among them. Or Crowley. It would be a good night’s work if he could kill or capture one of them.
“No. I don’t want to stop them. I want to kill them. Let them cross the river, then kill them. Take thirty Wargals and form a perimeter around the machines. Stay hidden and, when the Rangers come, let them get close, then cut them off from the river. And kill them all.”
“Yes, my lord. Will thirty be enough? I could take fifty of the beasts.”
Morgarath shook his head. “No, no. It’ll be dark, and if you have too many you’ll be blundering around getting in each other’s way. I doubt they’ll send more than half a dozen men, so thirty will be plenty. Just stay hidden and be ready for them.”
Trask hesitated to ask the next question, but knew he had to. “My lord, how will I know they’re coming?”
Morgarath smiled. He’d wanted the question because it gave him a chance to show how he could outthink the enemy. It was important that he maintained a certain reputation for ingenuity.
“Because they’ll stage a diversion to draw us away from the machines,” he said. “Probably on the far side of the camp. It will be noisy and obvious and you will not respond to it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” There had been an unspoken threat in that last word of Morgarath’s. Unspoken but very clear.
“When you hear an uproar somewhere else in the camp, stand fast. Stay hidden and wait for the Rangers to come.”
Now those unblinking eyes bored into Trask’s once more. He wanted to drop his gaze but realized that, if he did, it would only fan Morgarath into a rage. He swallowed again. And Morgarath smiled. A thin smile that touched only his lips as he spoke.
“And when they come, kill them.”
35
THE WARGAL WAS COMING CLOSE AGAIN ON HIS REGULAR patrol. Arald crouched below the low step of the riverbank, listening as he heard the creature’s feet approaching, then stopping directly above him. His men crouched on either side of him, hard up against the bank so that the sentry couldn’t see them.
Arald felt for the heavy club that he carried on a leather thong around his neck. They had debated the best way to deal with the Wargal sentry, with the minimum of noise. A knife had been suggested, but they were all unfamiliar with the Wargals’ physical shape. It might be difficult to hit a vital spot with one thrust. One could always muffle the sentry’s cries with an arm around his face and mouth. But Wargals were equipped with powerful fangs, making that alternative an undesirable one. Nobody would want to put their arm or hand close to those massive yellow teeth.
All in all, a club seemed to be the best solution.
Now, as the sentry passed the point where Arald crouched beneath the bank, the baron thrust himself up and out of the water, the club drawn back and ready to strike.
His movement made noise, of course, as water cascaded off him, out of his soaked clothes and back into the river. The Wargal began to turn, but Arald knew speed was his ally. He may have been slightly overweight, but he was an expert warrior, trained to strike swiftly. The sentry’s head was only halfway round to him when the club thudded down onto its head, crushing the flat leather cap it wore and knocking it senseless. Arald was poised for a second strike if it was necessary, but the massive, shaggy beast uttered a low moan and collapsed on the soft ground of the riverbank with no more than a dull thud.
“Let’s go!” the Baron of Redmont said softly, and his men rose from the river, dripping water, and swarmed onto the bank.
Arald took a moment to get his bearings. They knew the supply wagons were on their left-hand side, set back behind the first of the tent
At first he was worried about the noise. But then he realized that the Wargals were anything but silent sleepers. The night around them was filled with groans, grunts and yips—as well as the occasional shattering fart. A little bit of dripping water would hardly cause any notice.
Moving in a crouch, they reached the far edge of the tent lines and started toward the wagons and supply dump. Arald picked his way carefully. The tents were pitched in haphazard lines—not neat, geometrical lines like those in the Araluen camp—and there was a constant danger of catching one’s feet in the guy ropes that stretched out in the darkness, difficult to see and to avoid. He turned to the men following him and whispered a warning.
“Watch out for the tent ropes.”
A few of them nodded. Then, inevitably, one of them caught his foot in a rope, windmilled his arms wildly, and fell onto the side of one of the black animal-hide tents, collapsing it and landing on a sleeping body inside.
The Wargal gave a startled grunt and thrashed around to free itself from the collapsed tent. One of the other men seized the fallen raider by the arm and hauled him off the half-collapsed pile of black leather. Then, with a flurry of movement, the Wargal who had been so rudely awoken scrambled out of the entrance, rising to its feet and glaring around, bewildered and still half asleep. It saw the dark forms of the men crouching close by and began to utter a challenging snarl.
Arald lunged and ran it through, and the creature staggered, clutching at the blade through its middle until Arald could withdraw it. Then it tumbled over, falling back onto the ruined tent and shrieking in pain.
All around, they heard the snarling cries of the other Wargals as they came awake, lumbering out into the open, and onto the swords of the small party who had infiltrated their camp. The supply tents were only a few meters away and Arald gestured toward them with his sword.