| |
Despite Oksar’s offer to house Godfrey, Walaric, and Turpin in the fortress keep, Godfrey decided to camp outside the walls with the crusaders from Bastogne. He did it not so much to slight Baron Oksar, but to please the common soldiers under his command. Godfrey managed to do both in the same stroke. Oksar did not bother to visit Godfrey in camp, and only paid minimal respect to Godfrey when he did venture into the fortress.
Contemplating Oksar’s behavior, Godfrey was beginning to doubt his choice. Having the loyalty of the soldiers was important, but having the support of the local aristocracy was more important. Besides, it seemed the only type of weather at Kalscony was a combination of cold, cloudy, and rainy. Godfrey was sure he had not seen the Sun once on the island yet. What he would give for a warm bed.
“Don’t let it bother you.” Varin stirred at his campfire with a long stick.
“Excuse me?” Godfrey turned to the ranger sitting by his tent.
Godfrey was unsure if Varin had actually spoken to him. He had been wandering through the crusader camp, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Varin still had the unsettling habit of not looking directly at the people he spoke with, and that further added to Godfrey’s confusion.
“Something is bothering you.” Varin’s eyes remained fixed on the flames consuming the wood in the fire pit. “Don’t let it.”
“I’m worried that there are going to be divisions between the crusaders and some of the lords we meet.” Godfrey sat on a log across from Varin.
“That’s likely.” Varin nodded in agreement. “But you have the loyalty of your father’s men. That makes you a force to be reckoned with.”
“Why can’t they just accept our help?” Godfrey threw out his hands in exasperation.
“The nobles leading this crusade have not agreed upon our ultimate goal yet,” the ranger pointed out. “We don’t really even know how we want to help yet.”
“High King Alvir seems to be the source of the problem,” Godfrey thought aloud. “If we defeat him at the head of his army in battle, he’ll lose support from the Nordsmen. Or if he were killed, the Clans would start fighting among themselves again. Azgald would not face a unified enemy then.”
“Sounds like that’s what you need to convince everyone else of.” Varin threw his stick in the flames, visibly reveling in its fiery demise.
***
Conrad the Wolf made no further contact with Godfrey over the next few days. The crusaders from Errans were encamped outside the fortress’ northern gate, and kept to themselves for the most part. The tension was soon forgotten, however, as more crusaders began to arrive.
First the Gothians came, who camped on the southern edge of the fortress wall. They were a somber, pale lot from what Godfrey had seen. Then Baldwin de Ghend and Phillip d’Artois, fellow Lortharainians, came, and set up their tents in between Godfrey’s and Conrad’s groups. Almost a week after Godfrey’s arrival at Kalscony, the crusaders from the two kingdoms of Cardigal disembarked from their transports with Morgan the Bloodied at their head.
“Rumor has it the only way either the Ogledd or Dyfred crusaders would actually come was if the Silver Suns ensured that both groups left at the same time,” Walaric commented as he and Godfrey watched the last group of crusaders coming up the road to the fortress. “Such is the jealousy between the two kingdoms.”
“Great,” Godfrey sighed. “Well, at least now we can get things moving.”
The council chamber in the keep of Kalscony’s lighthouse fortress was dark and damp. Oil lanterns burned, giving off a thick sweet scent. The cold humidity clung to Godfrey. He shivered. How did people live here? This was supposed to be spring.
Godfrey shook the thought. Now was the time to be focused. He was a crusader, and all the crusade’s leaders were here in this chamber. This was the first time Godfrey had seen all the crusade’s leadership together at once. Studying the others across the table they sat at, Godfrey quickly realized he was easily the youngest present aside from Walaric, who stood at his side. Even Baldwin de Ghend was at least a year or two older than Godfrey.
“So what are the total forces at our disposal?” Morgan the Bloodied asked after everyone had made their introductions.
“I have six thousand infantry and five hundred knights,” Godfrey eagerly answered.
The others nodded appreciatively. Phillip d’Artois cleared his throat. He was easily the oldest of all the crusaders. Wrinkles lined his face and his hair was thinning and white, but he was also easily the tallest of the crusaders, and his height gave him a commanding presence.
“The Duchy of Artois has brought seven thousand infantry and four hundred knights,” Phillip replied, barely containing a smile.
Walaric gave a low whistle. Turpin rounded on him, and Walaric instantly quieted down. Taking a sudden interest in his own feet, Walaric moved to the back of the room.
“Three thousand infantry and two hundred knights,” Baldwin said as he ran his fingers through his sandy blonde hair. “Sorry to disappoint all of you.”
A couple of the other crusaders laughed, while Conrad and his retinue snorted. Godfrey was not sure if Baldwin was joking or not, so he hedged his bets, giving a bemused smile in reply. Conrad slammed his flagon of ale on the table with a heavy clank of metal on wood.
“Five thousand infantry and three hundred knights,” Conrad sneered as all eyes turned to the young duke. “They are veterans all.”
Godfrey rolled his eyes at Conrad. Phillip had brought more men than either he or Conrad had, so Phillip would naturally lead the crusade from here. At least that was what Godfrey reasoned within himself. He did not know how many crusaders the Gothians or the Cardigalians had brought yet, but he guessed it would be fewer given how many transports they brought to port.
“I have brought four thousand infantry and two hundred knights,” Henry the Pilgrim, one of the two Gothian dukes, said.
Henry was almost as old as Phillip but had brought a little more than half of the forces the Duke of Artois had. Godfrey was sure Phillip would be elected to lead the crusade. Then again, Henry had gained his moniker from going on three previous crusades during his long life. Two of those crusades were to the Nordslands, too. That experience was more valuable than age alone.
“I have just over one thousand infantry and a hundred knights,” Raymond of Wrehst, the other Gothian Duke, replied as he scratched his brow.
“I have about two thousand infantry and three hundred knights,” Torcul of Cumbria hastily added in his thick melodious Ogleddish accent. “And my esteemed colleague here, Gunthar the Red, has brought almost as many as I have. That gives us a grand total of a little more than thirty-two thousand crusaders, if no one else but me was keeping track. Can we get on with this now?”
Glowering at Torcul, Gunthar the Red said nothing, but crossed his arms in agitation. Godfrey could not help but smile at the blunt, fiery-haired man from Ogledd. Discussing logistics was quickly growing tedious anyway.
“Very well.” Phillip d’Artois cleared his throat again. “Oksar, what is the situation in Azgald? Where might the crusade best be used?”
Henry the Pilgrim pursed his lips at Phillip’s immediate presumption of command. Conrad crossed his arms in contempt. The other crusaders did not seem to care or notice, aside from Godfrey.
“We have lost many of the fortresses in the northern marches in recent years,” Oksar said, deferring to Phillip. “I think it would be wise to take the crusade up to Azgald’s northern borders first. A surprise attack there could gain us a lot of ground very quickly.”
“Then you could conveniently restore your brother as marshal of the northern defenses,” Morgan said with a smirk. “The Silver Suns’ former holdings are just as important.”
“We need to retake lands we can defend after the crusaders leave, Grand Master.” Oksar scowled. “Retaking the Eastern Marches would be wasted effort.”
“The Silver Suns can hold the East,” Morgan reassured the crusaders as much as Oksar. “The Knights of Saint Pelegius now hold the island of Tisgy. Their Grand Master has promised his support. Things will be different this time.”
“Where is this Tisgy Island?” Torcul asked in an insolent tone.
“It’s on the eastern coast of the Nordslands,” Henry the Pilgrim explained, shaking his head. “But the Blighted Lands lie between Tisgy and the former Eastern Marches. There are too many undead...”
“The Pelegians have pledged to purge the undead,” Morgan started.
“They can do what two previous crusades could not?” Henry countered.
His chair scraped against the stone floor as Morgan got to his feet. Shouting filled the room all at once as several of the crusaders stood. Phillip and Oksar were demanding that the crusade push north. Henry was challenging Morgan’s strategy as Morgan countered Henry’s suggestions. Conrad was aligning his own arguments with Henry’s, though no one appeared to be paying him particular attention. Torcul and Gunthar were embroiled in some dispute that Godfrey did not think had anything to do with the crusade. Raymond of Wrehst simply sat back in his chair and watched the exchange unfold as Baldwin buried his face in his hands.
Godfrey ground his teeth at all this infighting. How petty all these lords seemed to him. None of them saw the bigger picture. It would have to be Godfrey to set things straight. They needed to defeat High King Alvir. He was sure that was the answer.
Yet every attempt Godfrey made to add his own thoughts or ask a question was drowned out by the others. He could not get a word in. No one was listening. Clenching his fists, Godfrey felt as if he were ready to explode.
“Excuse me.” Godfrey loudly cleared his throat.
The bickering died down. Everyone stared at Godfrey in silence. Surprised that his outburst had actually grabbed their attention, Godfrey almost forgot what he had wanted to say.
“This crusade was called because a new Nordsman king is uniting the Clans,” he said. “If High King Alvir were killed in battle, or even if he just lost enough battles to lose the Clans’ support, the threat to Azgald would be over. Shouldn’t we go wherever Alvir’s army is?”
“That is the first good suggestion I have heard come from this group,” a voice startlingly close to the back of Godfrey’s chair noted.
Swiveling his head around, Godfrey saw that another person had entered the room. It was not Godfrey but this stranger’s arrival that had grabbed everyone’s attention. The man was tall, in his mid-thirties, and wore a closely trimmed beard that was showing its first signs of grey amidst otherwise reddish brown hair. The man wore a white tabard with the red dragon rampant of the Azgaldian royal family emblazoned upon it. A golden crown was set atop the man’s spangenhelm.
“King Lothar.” Oksar immediately bowed.
The crusaders who were still sitting rose, and the whole room followed Oksar’s example. Closely examining each of the crusaders, the King made his way to the head of the table. Lothar gestured for them all to rise, and they complied.
“I apologize for not coming earlier,” Lothar explained in a mollifying tone. “After all, you have made great sacrifices already on Azgald’s behalf journeying here. But as you know, the Nordsmen attacks have grown far bolder in recent months, and I had to see to the defenses of my more vulnerable outposts.”
Lothar looked to Oksar then Morgan reprovingly. Godfrey sensed a more thorough chastisement being withheld by the King.
“Make no mistake.” The King pointed to the crusaders. “We will expand this realm back to its former glory, but first we must secure what we have. Biorkon. The Silver Sun fortress of Biorkon is under siege by the enemy right now. It is less than a day’s travel by sea, and as of this moment, the enemy is completely unaware of the crusade’s presence in Azgald. Start by relieving that siege.”
***
Varin stepped through the forest as silently as any human could through snow. Though his eyes darted to every shadow, tree, and rock where his prey might be hiding, the ranger’s movements were slow and deliberate. The snow on the ground gave a low soft crunch with each footfall, but Varin was sure the noise was far too quiet to warn anyone of his movements. He had done this many times before, back in Bastogne.
If the Nordsman scouts monitoring the woods discovered Varin and the other rangers hunting them, they would immediately alert their army besieging Biorkon. That could not be allowed. The crusaders had to catch the Nordsmen unawares so the enemy could not escape.
Varin had no doubts concerning his own abilities to move undetected, but he only had limited experience working with the other rangers of Bastogne, and none with the rest of the hunters in the crusade. Worse, the Nordsmen were an unknown foe to Varin.
Sneaking forward, Varin spotted a pair of Nordsman scouts. He froze in place. Did they see him? No. They were generally facing the trees to Varin’s left and were engaged in idle chatter. Perfect.
Slowly, Varin stalked around the Nordsmen to place himself directly behind them. He drew his short sword from its scabbard. He crept towards the Nordsmen until he could distinguish their words. He still understood little of their language, but the ranger was making efforts to correct that in his spare time. Careless sentries could give away all sorts of valuable secrets.
The Nordsmen were still talking to each other; as far as Varin could tell, they were completely oblivious to him inexorably slithering between the trees behind them. From what Varin understood of the Nordsmen’s conversation, they were discussing something about a girl. The ranger cared not for such distractions. Hearth, home, and the pleasures associated with them made men soft. His home was the wilderness. His home was a place where men either grew strong or died.
Clasping his hand around the mouth of one Nordsman with ferocious speed and dexterity, Varin tilted his head back and slit the man’s throat with the edge of his blade. His victim collapsed with a muffled cry before he even knew what was happening. The Nordsman’s companion stood dumbfounded for a moment. It was just long enough for Varin to strike again. As Varin plunged his short sword into the Nordsman’s chest, his victim let out an agonized scream before falling to the ground. The ranger cursed himself for getting sloppy.
Looking about, Varin spotted another pair of Nordsmen atop a nearby hill. One drew his bow while the second began to flee. Varin rolled out of the way as an arrow came flying down at him. He took cover behind a wide tree trunk as he drew his own bow and an arrow. Daring a glance from behind the trunk, Varin let the shaft loose at his target. The Nordsman dropped with the missile projecting from his face.
Varin nocked another arrow and scanned his surroundings for the remaining Nordsman. It was impossible to spot him through the trees from where he stood. Running hard, Varin chased the enemy scout the best he could. The pursuit proved easy enough as Varin quickly discovered his prey’s tracks in the snow. As long as the ranger could catch him before he could warn others...
Disappointed, Varin stopped as he spotted another cloaked figure removing a throwing-ax from the back of the prone Nordsman he had been running after. It was another crusader scout Varin recognized as Fargu. The other scout wiped the blood from his weapon with a coarse linen cloth, nodded at Varin, and vanished back into the woods. Varin was not the only ranger in the crusade who knew what he was doing after all.
***
There were thousands of Nordsmen and orcs surrounding Biorkon’s defenses. There were too many for Godfrey to venture even a rough estimate. They appeared to be a single dark mass crashing against the walls. Siege towers moved slowly towards the grey stone battlements. Catapults and trebuchets hurled boulders both in attack and defense. The walls held. Or they did for now at least.
Silver Sun archers desperately shot their longbows into the mass of foes from atop the crenelated parapet and towers. Some of the Nordsman siege ladders met the wall, and the enemy began ascending with surprising speed. As Nordsmen and orcs clambered over the parapet, the Silver Sun men-at-arms flung themselves at the attackers with their spears and swords, refusing to give any ground. Desperation yielded countless acts of bravery atop Biorkon’s walls.
Biorkon Castle sat on the edge of a narrow snowy promontory overlooking the sea to the south. The geography only allowed for one angle of attack by land, and the Nordsmen had brought no ships to blockade the fortress by sea. The newly arrived crusaders now blocked the Nordsmen’s only escape route.
Godfrey’s contingent formed the left flank of the crusaders’ army. Morgan the Bloodied and about two hundred Knights of the Silver Sun were with them, while Conrad the Wolf and the crusaders from Errans were on Godfrey’s right. The other crusaders from Lortharain formed the center of the army while the Gothians and Cardigalians held the right flank.
Eager to join the fray, Godfrey sat atop Baruch with lance gripped tightly in hand. Turpin was beside Godfrey, and the other knights of Bastogne were behind him. Turpin carried his sword in one hand and a banner depicting Godfrey’s heraldry in the other. Pride swelled in Godfrey’s heart at the sight of his banner held aloft as the battle was about to be joined.
The crusaders were separated from their foes by a wide stretch of snow-covered earth. Standing between the crusaders from Bastogne and the carnage before them, Walaric raised his hands in the air. Other clergymen made similar gestures to their respective groups of crusaders farther down the line. Godfrey and the others within earshot of Walaric bowed their heads as the acolyte began his prayer.
“O gods,” Walaric shouted towards the heavens over an eastern breeze that picked up from the sea. “The omens are good, and we shall join battle with these vile fiends. Grant us victory in this holy work. Reward us in life or in death for our efforts here today. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crusaders chorused in reply.
Walaric retreated through the midst of the cavalry to stand with Varin and the other Bastognian scouts, who now formed a contingent of archers in the rear. Though he carried a longsword on his belt just in case the need arose, Walaric had no experience in fighting. Godfrey did not fault him for this retreat. Some men were born to work, others to fight, and others to pray. That was the order of things.
The other clerics had finished their prayers at about the same time. Some followed suit with Walaric in their respective contingents, while others drew weapons and stood in the front ranks of the crusader infantry. A few mounted horses, and joined with some of the knights.
There are all types here, Godfrey mused. Some apparently can fight and pray.
“Now!” Godfrey shouted, spurring his mount forward.
Clods of wet dirt flew into the air as the massed cavalry churned the earth with their thundering hooves. Chainmail rattled to the rhythm of the moving horses. Whizzing over the knights’ heads, the crusaders’ crossbow bolts and arrows struck down hundreds of Nordsmen and orcs before the knights had even reached their foes. A second volley of the crusaders’ bolts and arrows struck down almost as many Nordsmen as the first.
Up until now, Godfrey realized, the Nordsmen and orcs had been ignorant of the crusaders’ approach, so focused were they upon attacking Biorkon’s walls. Varin and the crusade’s other scouts had been thorough in covertly silencing the Nordsmen’s own scouts prior to the main army reaching the siege. This meant surrendering precious time in relieving Biorkon, but gaining the element of surprise was enough to satisfy Godfrey.
Realizing another foe was upon them, some of the Nordsmen charged to counter the crusader assault. Screaming battle-cries, the knights lowered their lances just before colliding with the enemy. A sickening crunch accompanied each impact as the cavalry rode through the infantry.
Baruch trampled several enemies before Godfrey skewered one with his lance. Pulling his weapon free from the dead man, Godfrey plunged it into the ribs of another foe. The second Nordsman gripped Godfrey’s lance by the shaft, and took it to the ground with him as he fell. Immediately releasing the weapon, Godfrey drew his sword and began to hack at the foes around him.
The rest of the crusader cavalry and Knights of the Silver Sun smashed through the ranks of Nordsmen and orcs. The crusader footmen soon followed, and filled in the gaps left in the Nordsmen ranks by the cavalry. The grinding melee now began in earnest.
Panicking, some of the orcs began to scatter, but noticeably, some of their kin wearing heavier armor did not. Oath-warriors, Godfrey had been told these were called. There was nowhere for them to flee except down the cliffs of the promontory into the shoals below. That option was simply an ignominious death. The Nordsmen and the orcish oath-warriors, knowing they were trapped, preferred to make a last stand.
Plunging Uriel through the neck of an orc, Godfrey’s arm was drenched in the foul creature’s hot spewing blood. A Nordsman charged Godfrey, but Turpin cut him down with a slash of his sword. He nodded at Godfrey, who returned the gesture before spurring his horse on to his next victim. Turpin did not seek much praise for his work.
Godfrey continued slashing through as many foes as he could reach. Crusaders fell around him, but the orcs and Nordsmen had suffered far worse. Some of the crusaders had killed the crews of the stone-throwers, silencing the bombardment. The siege towers and ladders not already at Biorkon’s walls continued to press forward, but Godfrey supposed it would be in vain at this point.
A tremor rumbled through the air. No, it was a chant. The Nordsmen and orc warriors began to clear a path through their ranks. What vile trick did they have in store?
There was a large group of Nordsmen, Godfrey guessed a couple hundred, beating their bare chests with the shafts of large two-handed axes. They were chanting. They wore no armor or tunics, just trousers and bear pelts draped over their heads and shoulders.
“Berserkers,” Morgan warned as Godfrey looked to the Grand Master for an explanation.
With axes raised, the berserkers gave a bloodcurdling cry and charged at the crusaders. The crusader crossbowmen fired their weapons over the heads of the knights in reply. Dozens of the wild men were knocked off their feet from the force of the bolts striking them. Most of the berserkers kept running anyway, even with missiles protruding from deep wounds. The crossbowmen cranked the strings of their weapons back as fast as they could in preparation for another volley.
“Not enough time.” Godfrey shook his head at Turpin.
Turpin grinned humorlessly.
“Knights of Bastogne...” Godfrey pointed his sword at the berserkers. “Let them know your fury!”
Morgan looked as if he were about to protest, but Baruch was already galloping ahead. Turpin and Godfrey’s other knights followed him in the wedge formation they trained in. Signaling the Silver Suns forward, Morgan and his knights fell into their own wedge formation slightly behind and to the left of Godfrey’s.
Screaming wildly, the berserkers flung themselves at the charging cavalry. Some of the berserkers used their large axes to cleave through armor and barding with ease just as the knights tore through the mass of berserkers. Other berserkers braced the long shafts of their weapons against the ground, impaling any knight or horse unfortunate enough to cross the berserkers. Knights fell all around Godfrey. He slashed and slashed but this mad foe ignored all but the most serious wounds.
A grizzled berserker foamed at the mouth as he flew at Godfrey with a sword in each hand. Godfrey parried one of the blades with Uriel, and stuck the Nordsman through the chest, but the berserker’s other blade made its way past Godfrey’s shield, and its acutely tapered tip tore into his gut. The Nordsman berserker collapsed as Godfrey dropped his sword.
His vision blurring, Godfrey pulled the berserker’s sword out of his belly. Blood was spilling all over his tabard and Baruch’s saddle. Godfrey did not realize it was his own blood until he fell off his steed. He hit the ground face-first with a painful thud.
The moans and screams of the dying filled Godfrey’s ears. He tried to stand but his arms were too weak. He only managed to push himself onto his back before his arms gave out. His head was swimming in clouded thoughts.
“Mother,” Godfrey pleaded as he began to choke on his own blood. “Mother... Help. Please...”
Godfrey only saw blackness now. His limbs were numb. He knew no more.