He saw the battlefield as an archer; imaginary lines on the scrubby, frost-tinged grass marking different ranges. The furthest line he saw was where the villagers of Harn had cut back Woodedge. Out of range of every bow in Harn and where some of the Rai stood, watching their troops advance. The next line was the old Woodedge, the extreme edge of his skill with a bow, and probably the Forestals’ too. The approaching army was well inside it.
The next line was where a good archer could confidently pick off single targets. As the army reached that point Ania raised her bow but Cahan put his hand out, a signal to wait. The look she gave him could have broken porcelain.
“I came here to kill Rai,” she said, “and their troops if I can’t get at the Rai.”
“And you will,” he said, “but let’s not scare them off too early. We need to kill as many as we can. We only get one first chance.” She did not look pleased, but lowered the bow. It was strangely quiet then, apart from the steps of the soldiers and the solemn beat of their drummer. It felt like it stabbed right through him every time it echoed across the clearing.
The army of Rai crossed into where a group of practised archers could drop arrows easily for hours without becoming tired. Every step the army made twisting something up inside him. He wondered what it was like for the villagers, if it was easier for them because they could not see the soldiers coming, or if it was harder because all they had was the ominous sound of the drum to warn of the Rai’s approach.
He had worried that when Ania had loosed her arrow it might have altered the Rai’s strategy. It had not. Their soldiers did not carry shields, only the spears they would use for the assault. Behind the spear carriers came scaling ladders and bridges to get over the pit before the gates. In the centre of their formation they had a battering ram. Behind the first ranks came eight Rai and their standard-bearers, screened by soldiers with shields.
“Had you not killed that Rai,” Cahan said quietly, “you would have easier targets now.”
“A few flags and shields will not save them,” said Ania.
They were not far from where he wanted them. The first row passing the shallow pit, spears dipping as they crossed. It marked the farthest edge of the villagers’ range. Nearer Harn than he liked. If the arrows did not stop them it was not far to the wall.
The muscles of his shoulders felt like they had been tied in knots.
The second line of troops entered the killing zone. He balled his fists. He wanted to tell the villagers of Harn to loose, but that was the adrenaline running through him not the warrior thinking. It would be a poor decision. If they retreated after the first volley his best opportunity would be wasted.
Let the Rai get closer.
He needed as many as possible in the killing zone, and if that risked the walls being assaulted then it was a risk he must take.
The beat of the drum.
The percussion of their steps.
Closer and closer.
“You should loose,” said Ania.
“Not yet.”
The beat of the drum.
“They are too near.”
“Not yet.”
The slow advance.
He could see the first line. Look into their faces. Grim and set, weapons down. Some smiled. Maybe they enjoyed the idea of taking the village. Hurting those within. Others looked resigned, as if this was simply another day. Some looked scared. Some were much younger than he thought a soldier should be. Some much older.
“I did not bring my people here for hand-to-hand fighting,” hissed the Forestal.
“You brought them here to kill Rai.”
“At a distance.”
The percussion of their steps.
“Well, get ready, Ania.” He lifted his hand, the signal for the villagers to nock their arrows. The reborn were down there among them but he had instructed them to stay hidden unless it was desperate.
The villagers readied their bows, a sound like snow falling from laden branches. He did not look back at them, did not want them to think that he needed to check they were doing it right, though he dearly wanted to.
Closer.
“Ready!” he shouted it, the approach of the soldiers did not falter. They did not know what was coming. “Draw!”
And closer.
The first rank were about to pass out of the killing zone. He could not allow that. The villagers were not skilled enough to shoot short, they had one zone of killing and he must use it.
“Loose!”
Over a hundred bows loosing at once, a noise like nothing he had ever heard before, one that he had no reference for. The hiss of arrows passing overhead. Some did not make it over the wall, bouncing off the wood around him, some dug in. But most soared. Lines of black drawn across the sky, rising and rising.
Falling.
Screaming. Soldiers staggering, falling. Arrows in arms, and legs. One soldier pierced through the top of the head and killed immediately. Many wounds. Not enough. The soldiers still coming. Beaten on by the shouting of the Rai behind them.
Behind him, the shiver of bows redrawing. He looked to the Forestals, stood with bows in hand. Ania’s eyes, like a predator’s, waiting for the Rai at the back to come close enough that she knew she could not miss a killing shot. Or maybe for some signal he did not yet understand.
“Will you not loose?”
“Not yet,” said Ania.
“You were keen before.”
Another shower of arrows.
“I have never seen a mass loosing like this before,” her eyes shone. “I am enjoying it.”
“It’s not stopping them,” He watched soldiers struggling through the storm of arrows. “They will be through the killing zone soon.” She nodded.
“Then we will loose,” she said.
Another rain of arrows. Coming more raggedly now, each villager loosing at their own speed. The soldiers staggered on. Bodies on the ground, but not enough. Soon it would be their turn.
“Ready,” said Ania. Her Forestals nodded. “Maytan and Borof with me on the Rai leading them. The rest of you,” she smiled to herself and nocked an arrow, drew the bow to tension, “thin their ranks.” She let fly. Her arrow powerful and strong. It cut down the standard-bearer of the centre Rai. As the soldier fell Ania was already loosing her second arrow. The air around the Rai exploded into fire. A shield that would burn her arrow to ash before it got near. She changed her aim, one of the other standard-bearers had fallen. Ania loosed past him, the arrow taking a Rai in the neck. Cahan’s hands itched for his bow, but for this first assault he would not use it. Once he had served under a trunk commander who stood during a battle, she did not move or attack or defend herself unless she was attacked. He had asked her why, and she had told him it showed belief in her troops, that her branches fought harder because they knew she trusted them.
So he trusted the villagers.
He would be the stalwart tree in the centre of the storm.
The Rai’s forces closed, he counted every shortfall, every arrow that hit dirt not a soldier. Gradually, the villagers’ arrows began to do their work, they instilled fear in those attacking.
The Forestals did the work better.
Not shooting often. Carefully picking their targets. A death with every arrow. Except Ania’s. She only loosed at the Rai, one had fallen, the others were protecting themselves with fire and she wasted her arrows on it. Soldiers were dying, groaning and screaming. A spear was thrown by the attackers, digging into the wood before him then, with a roar, the first rank of soldiers got near enough to attack.
“Ram!” he shouted to the Forestals, “concentrate on the ram!” The Forestals changed their aim. “Woolside spears!” he shouted. “To the wall!” Those villagers with military experience dropped their bows, took up spears and climbed onto the wall. The Forestals killed every soldier on the ram, their ten arrows dwindling.
It was not going to be enough.
More soldiers came on, driven to the ram through the hail of arrows by their trunks and their Rai. Soldiers with ladders ran across the drawbridge, pushed them up against the wall. The first to the top was killed with a spear thrust to the neck by Sark, only to be replaced by another. A face appeared before Cahan and he smashed it in the crown of the head with his bowstaff. Soldiers rushing to give their strength to the ram. Shouting and screaming. The smell of blood mixing with the stink of the tanning pits. Arrows falling. The Rai had moved out of range of the villagers’ arrows and all now had burning shields before them. The Forestals were down to one or two arrows each, and as each loosed their last arrow, killing soldiers holding the ram, they withdrew from the wall. Leaving only villagers with spears and Cahan and a stream of soldiers running towards Harn, eager for blood.
The ram was picked up once more.
“Last one,” said Ania, and she nocked the arrow, aimed and put down the soldier holding the front right of the ram. It fell, the carved crownhead end digging into the mud before the bridge. “I am done now,” she turned to jump from the wall. He grabbed her arm.
“You have more arrows in your quiver.” She stared into his eyes. “We have more arrows. Your skill could save a lot of lives here.”
“Ten arrows,” she said. “It was all I promised.”
“We haven’t stopped them yet.” For a moment she softened, the hard face the outlaw had always shown falling away.
“You cannot stop them,” she said quietly, though he heard her quite clearly, even above the roar of battle. “We both know that.” Then she pulled his hand from her arm and jumped from the wall.
A scream of rage behind him. He turned, knocked a soldier from a ladder with his bowstaff. Five ladders against the wall now. Soldiers coming up, villagers being forced back along the platform. The air thick with shouting, screaming, crying. He dropped his bow and took up his axes. Below another soldier took their place at the ram and the ram crew ran for the bridge before the Tiltgate. A trunk leader lifted his sword.
“Bring the gates down!” they shouted.
It seemed like every Rai soldier on the field roared. The ram mounted the bridge. He had told Sengui to cut through the supports. The ram came forward.
The bridge held.
A crash as the ram hit the gate.
The bridge held.
The ram backed up. A roar. The ram came forward and smashed into the gates with a huge crash. The entire wall shuddered. Some of the defenders losing their footing. The ram backed up again and the carved end came forward for the third time.
With a groan the bridge gave way under its weight. A whip crack retort of splintering timber. Soldiers pitched into the pit, the ram dragging those who held it down with it. Shocked faces as they fell. The lucky ones died immediately, impaled on spikes, the unlucky skewered through leg or gut or arm, held like creatures trapped in sap.
It is odd how such a thing can turn a battle.
Had they kept coming, even only using ladders, Cahan knew they would have overwhelmed the defenders. They had the numbers for it, the strength. The loss of the ram smashed their morale. One moment they were cheering, then they were screaming. Backing away. First slowly, then quickly, streaming back past their trunks, who screamed at them to continue. But there was nothing to be done, once morale was broken it was almost impossible to rebuild it. The Rai’s soldiers ran. Leaving a few troops trapped on the walls and with no choice but to fight, they were lost and they knew it. Some tried to jump over the pit, falling among the spikes. Others continued to climb the ladders to be cut down by the defenders. All along the wall the villagers were jumping onto the platform to shout and jeer at the retreating soldiers. He watched a villager draw a bow.
“Don’t waste the arrow,” said Cahan, “save it for when they come again.”
He found Furin, standing by him.
“A victory,” she said, but she did not smile or join in with the whooping and jeering that filled the air around them. “You promised us that.” He nodded. “Will they come again today?” He did not answer, he was counting the bodies before the wall.
There were many.
There were not enough.
He looked up at the light as it journeyed across the sky. A small tremor shook the walls.
“They will probably wait until it is dark.” Around him the celebrations continued and it made his head hurt. It was too joyous. “How many of ours died, Furin?”
“None,” she put a hand on his arm. “You do not look happy about that. Is it not another victory? Proof Ranya stands with us?” A villager picked a helmet off a corpse and threw it over the wall, laughing as they did.
“I wanted a victory, Furin, but I wanted it to cost. We will have a hard time getting them out of the village and to the forest now.” Villagers on the wall were stripping the corpses of enemy soldiers of anything valuable. “I wanted them to fight, Furin, but I did not want them to think they could win.”
The land rumbled, shaking the walls and no one but Cahan seemed to notice.
“Let them have this moment,” said Furin, “we will make them see sense later.” He nodded. Though he knew they were likely to pay for this victory, and the price would be high.