A Grant of Arms

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Kendrick charged down the steep slope of the Highlands in the breaking dawn, into the thick mist, red sunlight of the first sun flooding the valley, Erec, Bronson, and Srog beside him, and thousands of men behind them, as they all charged for the division of Empire soldiers in the valley below. Thus far, their strategy of hit-and-run had been a success: they had attacked Highlandia, wiped out a small division of Andronicus’ men, and had taken shelter back in the mountains. They had been lucky, though, that Romulus had attacked when he had. Kendrick did not know if they could have won otherwise, especially with Thor fighting at Andronicus’ side.

It still rattled Kendrick to the core, the image of Thor riding out to greet him in battle. It left a pit in his stomach. How could Kendrick possibly face his comrade, his brother-in-arms, in battle? What would he have done if Thor had attacked him? What had they done to change Thor?

Kendrick did not imagine he’d be able to harm Thor. Clearly, Thor was under the spell of Andronicus, of some dark force, and he was not himself. Yet at the same time, Thor was still clearly more powerful than any of his men, and Kendrick winced at the thought that he might have to face him soon enough in battle—or else risk losing his men.

For now, at least, that would not be an issue: Kendrick’s men had identified a lone division of Empire troops camped on the other side of the valley, a few thousand warriors, isolated from the rest of the Empire camp. They rode now at sunrise with stealth and surprise, Kendrick’s thousands of men prepared to attack them quick and hard, then retreat back into the mountains. Kendrick and his men were still outnumbered, but they feared not for greater numbers, as long as the odds were close and as long as they weren’t fighting the entire Empire army at once.

Kendrick did not know how long this strategy could last. But if they could keep picking off one small division of Empire troops a time, eventually, he felt, they could win this war. When faced with an opponent greater in size and strength and numbers, sometimes stealth and cunning and retreating selectively were the most effective way to wage war, he figured.

The sound of horses’ hooves reverberated in Kendrick’s ears, along with the clang of armor, as they all rode, the cool morning wind in his hair and his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. The morning mist finally lifted, revealing his men and giving away the element of surprise. But at least they had made it this far.

Kendrick and his men let out a great battle cry as they bore down, hardly a hundred yards away. The Empire men, startled, all turned, and looked up with terror at the sight and sound of them charging down the mountain. Their first impulse was to flee, and several dozen Empire soldiers on the front lines turned and ran back, in panic.

But soon they gathered themselves, as hardened Empire commanders stepped forward and rallied their men. A fighting force was quickly assembled, and stood ready to meet them.

Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, Srog, and the others did not give them a chance. They charged faster, and, lances out, met them with a great clash of armor.

The sound of steel meeting steel filled the air. Cries rang out of men killing men, and bodies fell, mostly on the Empire side, the MacGil men charging down the slope of the Highlands like a sudden storm. Their momentum carried them right into the thick of the Empire camp, cutting a broad swath right through, killing men left and right as they all tried to put on their armor, to gather their weapons, to mount their horses.

Within moments, several hundred Empire troops were dead or wounded, and as Kendrick and his men continued to charge their way through, it seemed as if nothing could stop them. Kendrick felt sure they would take out this entire division and return to the mountains before the first morning sun even lifted in the sky.

Suddenly, Kendrick felt his horse’s legs go out from under him, and as his horse collapsed, Kendrick went diving, landing hard, face-first, on the ground. His armor clanked as he rolled and rolled.

Erec, Bronson, and Srog rolled on the ground beside him. Out of breath, Kendrick turned and looked back, wondering what had happened.

Kendrick found the culprit: unbeknownst to him, the Empire men had laid out a long, studded barbed chain, and had yanked it tight, cutting out his horse’s legs from under them and sending them all crashing to the ground. The Empire men employed expert discipline. Kendrick had grown too confident in battle, and had underestimated his opponent.

A sword came down for his head, and Kendrick raised his shield just in time, as dozens of Empire men swarmed down all around him. He blocked the blows, rolled, and swung out and slashed the soldiers’ legs, making them drop to the ground beside him.

Kendrick quickly gained his feet, dodging blows, using his shield as he fended off several Empire soldiers. They were closing in fast, and all around him, Erec, Bronson, Srog, and others were fighting hand-to-hand, too.

Kendrick stabbed a soldier, and as he slumped over, Kendrick snatched a flail from his waist. He raised it high and wielded it in a wide circle over his head, smashing many Empire soldiers in the chest and face, knocking them back, and creating a wide perimeter around he and the other men. He bought them some breathing room.

As Kendrick fought hard, he turned and searched for his men, for reinforcements, wondering what was taking them so long. But as he looked, he saw that his men had their hands full, too: the Empire division was receiving reinforcements and troops were flooding into the valley from all sides. His men were backlogged, unable to reach him. Now the momentum was turning the other way; the tide of battle, while it looked good before, was now beginning to sway against them.

Kendrick fought with both hands, already exhausted, the odds only getting worse. On the horizon, as the mist rose further, he saw even more Empire troops, thousands more, swelling in to reinforce the others. They were far more greatly outnumbered than he thought. This was not an isolated Empire division after all, but part of a much larger battalion.

Standing there, holding his ground, he and Erec and Bronson and Srog fought with all their hearts, killing off their attackers, fighting for each other, protecting one another. But Kendrick already knew in his heart that he had made a grave mistake in coming here. They were vastly outnumbered, and the odds were getting worse. In only a short matter of time, his army would suffer its final defeat.

Godfrey rode before his thousands of men, Akorth and Fulton beside him, his Silesian general behind them, and thousands of MacGils following. Godfrey had no idea why these men were following them, or why they had entrusted him at all—or why his sister Gwendolyn had, either. He was not a soldier. He was not a brave warrior, like the others. He used his wit to survive, and that was all he had.

Godfrey’s ploy had worked back there, had saved them from the initial Empire attack. It had been the best gold he’d ever spent. But his luck had come to an end, and eventually, he knew, he must face battle. He could only evade for so long. And he knew that in battle, real battle, eventually wit would only take him so far. He would also need skills in fighting. And these he sorely lacked.

Godfrey had heart, at least. He charged forward, despite his fears, leading these men, determined to find Kendrick and Erec and the others and do what he could to help them. He knew he would probably die in this cause. But he no longer cared. He felt it was past time for him to do something in his life that was not about himself. It was time to fight in the same ways that others fought—even if it meant losing.

As he rode, Godfrey marveled at how confident all the other soldiers seemed. He himself, he had to admit, felt overwhelmed with fear. But at least he continued riding anyway, riding through it.

Godfrey crested a hill, recognizing the spot described by his informant. His spies had paid off men in Tirus’ army, and these had told him about Kendrick’s men being set free. He had paid off informants every step of the way, to show him where Kendrick and Erec had gone. And he had been following their trail ever since. He dearly hoped his informants had been right.

Godfrey followed the tracks of a vast army up the hill and wondered where they were going, and why. All this work was exhausting. He would give anything for a pint of ale now, and a warm fire to lay his feet beside.

As Godfrey crested the hilltop in the breaking sun, he was out of breath. He had ridden all night to catch up to Kendrick and Erec, and now, finally, as they reached the peak, he stopped and looked down at the valley spread out below him. His stomach fell at the sight.

There, below, were Kendrick, Erec, Bronson, and Srog, with thousands of Silver and MacGils and Silesians and McClouds, all surrounded by the Empire and fighting for their lives. They were completely engulfed by Empire men, and thousands more poured in.

Godfrey sat there on his horse, breathing hard, paralyzed with fear. He was terrified. All the men he loved were about to be killed before his eyes, and what remained of their armies wiped out.

“Sire, now what?” his general asked. “We cannot attack. We are vastly outnumbered. It would be suicide.”

“Let’s retreat,” Akorth said.

Fulton nodded vigorously.

“I agree. Let’s save our own lives. We can’t help them anyway.”

But Godfrey would not be swayed; the old Godfrey might have cowered and slunk away. But not anymore. Now he was determined.

Godfrey looked around eagerly, desperate to figure out a way to help. He couldn’t let his brother die out there; yet he also didn’t want to charge into a certain death. He was desperate to find another solution.

Come on.

Godfrey summoned his wit, every ounce of his intelligence. He’d always had a knack for finding another way when others could not, for taking a step back and getting a bird’s-eye view of a situation, and coming up with a solution that no one else thought of. As he studied the peaks of the Highlands, up and down, suddenly, he spotted something.

His heart raced, as suddenly, he got an idea.

Godfrey pointed.

“There!” he yelled.

Akorth and Fulton followed his finger, baffled.

“There what?” Akorth asked.

“What are you pointing to?” Fulton asked. “A rock?”

Godfrey shook his head, annoyed.

“There!” he said more firmly, pointing. “On that ridge!”

Akorth and Fulton squinted.

“All I see is a ranch-hand, my lord,” his general said, “and a herd of bulls.”

Godfrey smiled.

“Exactly,” he replied.

Godfrey looked down the hillside to the battlefield, then looked back to the bulls at the peak.

“You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?” Akorth asked Godfrey.

“There must be at least a thousand bulls there,” Godfrey said. “A number of them look unhappy. They are anxious to be set free. And I intend to help them.”

Godfrey looked back down at the battlefield below, the steep slope, and figured if he could set loose these bulls, if he could get them to charge down, in a rage, into the mayhem, there was no limit to the damage and confusion they would cause. It would be an enormous distraction. And that was exactly what Kendrick and his men needed at this moment.

“Madness!” the general said. “A crazy scheme. One for dreaming boys—not for military commanders!”

Godfrey turned to his general.

“I would take a dreaming boy over a military commander any day. CHARGE!” he screamed to his men.

Godfrey drew his sword and screamed as he charged, racing for the herd of bulls, sword held high, prepared to send them as his emissaries into the field of battle.