Bk 2, Ch 5: Curtain Call

Chapter 5: Curtain Call

Two massive thumps sounded from west of the beach, followed by the horrific whistling sound as dozens of arrows took flight. Two massive wooden shafts impacted one of the akatus approaching the beach, sending splinters and body parts flying. A cloud of arrows struck the members of the fourth wave as they ran headlong towards the fighting. A lithe woman vomited blood across her bared breasts as she gripped the arrow sticking out of the side of her neck. A male warleader yelled in pain and went down as an arrow shattered his thigh. A proud Blade yelped in surprise as an arrow whipped past her face. She slipped in the sand and ran headlong onto one of the beach obstacles. Shit stained her thighs as she clutched desperately at the massive wooden stake impaling her belly.

“Loose” shouted Inger, and fifty more arrows sailed towards the running Arkadians. A twenty-year-old, her sandy bangs held back with a blue headband, tumbled into the sand as she was struck by two arrows. A rookie Wildcat skidded to a halt and turned towards where the first volley had come from. With dread, she registered the flight of the second volley a half-second before an arrow punched through her breastbone. A tanned teenager in a cotton bra and shorts screeched in agony, her heels digging furrows into the sand. An arrow was so deep in her left side that the white feathers nearly touched her flesh. A blooded veteran was on her knees, babbling feverishly and holding her hands to her mutilated breasts, a single arrow from the side piercing both golden orbs.

With a mighty roar, Viking warriors rose out of the long grass west of the beach and charged along the edge of the shore. Vidar was at their head, eager to prove himself as the rightful leader of his clan. Torstein, eager to regain his honor after the assault on Zavala, was close behind. Torstein alone appreciated the irony that not two weeks ago, he had charged along this same route as he assaulted Zavala. Now, he charged in its defense.

On the night of the thirteenth day, Noll had arrived with a welcome surprise. He’d ditched the majority of his carts and drove the bulk of his force through the night to arrive a day earlier than expected. With him were the last of my forty warriors, two ballista, and an additional sixty blood-thirsty allies. These men and women, under the command of Eberhard of Aaskor, had grown restless as the rest of the Clan armies regrouped and consolidated their hold on the coast. They had heard about my conquest of Zavala and now sought glory and riches under my banner.

In the night, the two ballista were set up and camouflaged at the edge of the beach. The reinforcements then retreated back into the forest to rest in the cover of the thick brush. The next day, as the battle began, they crawled on hands-and-knees through the long grass to reach their positions. They were joined later by the thirty warriors that had “fled” from the main defensive line. My archers, their usefulness in the main defensive line at an end, arrived shortly thereafter.

In order to preserve the element of surprise, I had given the enemy commander the exact performance that he had expected to see. He had expected a force of roughly two hundred men, so I showed him a force of roughly two hundred. He had expected my forces to be poorly armed and poorly trained, so I had my archers purposefully shoot poorly and hid my shields until the last possible second. He had expected my forces to cut and run like cowards, so I had a sizeable portion of my force run away like cowards. He had expected me to fight like an unsophisticated brigand, never expecting that I would hide another force behind the curtain.

One hundred screaming Clan warriors charged down the beach in a hammer’s blow. Abandoned canoes and bodies clogged the beach which forced many of the enemy warriors in the fourth wave to swim to shore, breaking up the cohesion of the landing force. The two hundred Arkadian warriors of the fourth wave were now spread out along the entire length of the beach, unable to mount an organized defense against the assault from their flank. Volleys of arrows cut down dozens, while charging berserkers swept the rest aside like chaff.

Vidar clotheslined a man and kept running, leaving him to be finished off by another man. Torstein dragged his sword across the toned belly of a young blonde woman and sprinted to catch up to Vidar. The woman stared in horror at the puce loops of intestines that bulged from her belly. Miraculously, she stayed on her feet until a passing Viking knocked her to the ground. Hrafn slashed the breasts of a terrified young woman who held her weapon out as if to ward away a demon. A stunning female warleader dropped her spear and turned to flee. Odur rammed his blade so far into her back that the point burst bloodily from her belly. Another fleeing Arkadian cried out and threw up her arms as a small hatchet caught her between her shoulder blades.

The ballistae boomed once more, sending two shafts of pure destruction out over the water. One splashed harmlessly into the water, but the other struck an akatus at the waterline. Packed tight with warriors and already sitting low in the water, the ship sank within seconds. The archers shifted their fire from the beach to the transports and canoes that were trying to land, utilizing their skills and their powerful compound bows to great effect. Packed tightly together in their landing craft, the Arkadians of the fifth and final wave were massacred, little more than target practice for seasoned marksmen. A punishing volley scattered across an akatus full of elite Arkadian warriors. Less than a dozen arrows missed their mark, leaving only a handful horrified oarsmen and warriors unscathed. Another volley reduced that number even further. The only uninjured survivors, two oarsmen who had been shielded by the bodies of their comrades, took the hint and leapt overboard.

Camille stared in horror as enemy warriors eviscerated the fourth wave and archers tore apart the fifth. These were men and women she’d known for years in the Falkirk Guard—had bled beside on numerous raids—and now they were dying before her very eyes. Enemy archers turned one akatus into a floating pincushion at a range that should have been impossible. The warriors and oarsmen on the vessel lay bleeding and writhing on top of one another; there wasn’t enough room on the deck for them all to fall. They enemy’s powerful superweapon boomed once more, flinging iron-tipped trees high into the air. Both struck a single galea, and the deck exploded in a shower of splinters and body parts. The ship’s hull cracked, split, and sank in mere seconds.

With despair, Camille finally understood what had been nagging at her confidence all day long. The enemy was not a disorganized, cowardly band of criminals; they were a disciplined, powerful army with superior weapons and a cunning commander. Her own warleaders had fatally underestimated the enemy—and the warriors like her were going to pay the price. For the first time in her life, Camille knew true fear. And as she watched a swarm of arrows whistle towards her akatus, she realized that that fear would be the last thing she ever felt.

The bulk of the Arkadian force was still engaged in combat up the beach. But as the screams of wounded and dying drifted up the beach from their rear, many of the Southerners in the back row turned around. The sight that befell them sent chills down many a spine. Ships out in the bay splintered and sank, their surviving oarsmen and warriors leaping into the water to avoid being sucked down to the bottom. Comrades from the fourth wave, their weapons abandoned, ran for their lives up the beach towards the main force. Behind them, a horde of rabid animals nipped at their heels, butchering anything they caught.

A redheaded warrioress yelped in fear as a blue-painted bandit grabbed her by the hair. Sadistically, he dragged a knife slowly across her throat from ear to ear. A gutted teen sobbed miserably as she tried to drag herself up the beach. A bare-breasted warrior cried out as she tripped over the leg of a fallen Arkadian archer. Before she could rise, she was swallowed up by her ravenous pursuers.

In war, there is no weapon more devastating than panic. Deadlier than any blade, more contagious than any disease, panic is the ultimate tool of destruction. Panic infects the body, sapping it of all strength; it infects the mind, overriding all logical thought. As the Arkadian warriors in the back ranks looked back over the beach, at the carnage being wrought in their rear, fear of being surrounded quickly turned into outright panic. The only avenue of escape was the boats. As the first warriors fled towards the water, they released the pressure on the backs of the warriors in front of them. Those warriors in turn looked back and saw their comrades retreating as well as the enemy in their rear. They too fled the fight, creating a chain reaction that would ultimately lead to a total enemy rout. Warleaders screamed obscenities at their warriors, exhorting them to hold the line. But it was futile, and it wasn’t long before the warleaders too were in full flight.

My remaining warriors cheered and rallied as they saw the enemy lose heart. The numbers quickly turned in our favor as more and more Arkadians retreated. Many of the soldiers in the second rank suddenly found themselves without an enemy in front. Confident that the shield wall would hold without them, many moved to wipe out the salient.

The Arkadians in the front rank and in the salient suddenly found themselves all alone and without backup. Those who turned back in fear or confusion paid for that mistake with their lives. Others gritted their teeth and fought to the bitter yet inevitable end. A tall, thin teenager in the front rank tried to run, but a spear pierced the meat of her thigh before she could fully turn. A young Pup with fiery shoulder-length hair fighting in the salient glanced back at the water and realized she would never make it. Jaw set in determination, she continued circling her opponent. She rammed her spear into his chest with a cry of triumph, but paid for it as a blade slid into her side. She fell on top of her victim and they writhed sensuously together, their blood staining each other’s body. A brave warleader stayed behind with his troops, urging them to fight on despite the overwhelming odds. An axe chopped into his neck, silencing him forever.

Salient crushed, my warriors cheered again and chased after the fleeing Arkadians. The trench in front of our lines, which had once slowed the Arkadian charge, now slowed their flight. A short young man snapped his ankle as he landed awkwardly in the trench. With all the adrenaline in his system, he barely felt it. But he did feel the coldness of death as a smelly female Viking grabbed him by the hair and slid her knife across his throat. An Arkadian Wildcat foolishly tried to leap the gap. She didn’t make it and slid down to the bottom. She squealed like a stuck pig as a heavy Clan spear crunched though the small of her back, pinning her to the ground. A girl with her hair tied in a ponytail with a red bow yelped in fear as a rough hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her to the bottom of the trench. The hand’s owner bashed her head with the pommel of his sword, knocking her out cold.

But such an obstacle worked both ways. Except for the unlucky and the slow, the trench would now help the Arkadian retreat. Exhausted Vikings struggled to climb out of the trench. Many were nursing minor wounds—not life-threatening, but painful nonetheless. They were the fortunate ones. Nearly half of my original one hundred fifty warriors writhed in the sand or lay with the stillness of death. The survivors that were honest with themselves felt little desire to give chase. Having barely escaped thus far, they were hesitant to risk their lives when the battle was already won. They’d stared at death long enough for one day.

In contrast, the warriors led by Torstein and Vidar had not yet had their fill of battle. But Torstein astutely realized that the battle was not in fact decided. Two hundred terrified Arkadians from the main battle scrambled back down towards the shore. Close to halfway, they encountered one hundred remnants of the fourth wave fleeing in the opposite direction. Those warriors now skidded to a stop and reversed direction, fleeing back towards the water as well. To make matters worse, a few dozen survivors from the fifth wave paddled or splashed their way onto land in their rear. The archers had trouble targeting the agile canoes as they darted for the shore, while many of the survivors from the sinking ships swam for land to escape the deluge of arrows.

“Shield wall!” yelled Torstein, “Get back here! Shield wall!”

“We’re too spread out; form a shield wall!” he yelled frantically at Vidar.

Now Vidar too recognized the danger. Three hundred warriors were charging at them from the front, another fifty and growing in their rear. The enemy would fight like cornered rats desperate to escape. Strung out up the beach in pursuit of the enemy, the wolves were in danger of being run over by their stampeding prey.

“Form up!” shouted Vidar, taking up Torstein’s call, “Shield wall, quickly! Shield wall!” Eighty warriors formed a line in the sand before the water, blocking all escape. Twenty faced the water, ready to cut down any Arkadians brave enough to attack from that way.

But the Arkadians were too exhausted to fight on. Many were without weapons. A few foolhardy and panicked souls ran headless into this second line of enemies and were slaughtered. The rest stopped short of the shield wall, terror evident in their faces. After dashing themselves to destruction at the top of the beach, most were unwilling to do so again by the water. The Arkadian warleaders stopped as well and were now finally able to exert some control over their forces. The remaining Arkadians huddled together in a spiky, circular hedgehog, fearfully awaiting their deaths. Those warriors that were just hitting the beach wisely skirted around Torstein’s shield wall. Encouraged by a few arrows and pursuing skirmishers, they were corralled into the center to join their comrades in the hedgehog.

Me and the warriors with me jogged down the beach and formed another shield wall opposite Vidar’s. Together, my two forces sandwiched the surviving Arkadians. A few hundred paces away, the ballistae boomed again, bolts blowing apart another troop barge. Volleys of arrows had decimated the crews of most of the enemy vessels. Radu’s flagship had retreated at the first sign of trouble. Two galeas, seven akatus, and a scattering of canoes limped after it. A final desultory volley chased after them, but landed well short.

The warriors on all sides waited with baited breath for whatever came next. Silence reigned, broken only by the cacophony of cries and screams from hundreds of wounded. I pushed my way forward through my shield wall to stand before the enemy formation.

“Warriors of Arkadia,” I boomed in the Arkadian trade language, “I am Lord Aurkyn, leader of this army and Baron in the service of King Hrothgar, Jarl of Jarls, Uniter of the Clans, and King of the Northmen. Where is your leader? Where is Commander Radu?”

A woman with a silver headband and a matching silk bra pushed out of the hedgehog and limped forward. I immediately recognized her as the woman that had accompanied Commander Radu. Her sandy bob-cut hair clung wetly to her face and neck. She was clutching her left arm below the shoulder. Blood trickled between her fingers. Blood speckled her belly and her short hide skirt—probably somebody else’s as opposed to her own. She stopped before me and straightened.

“I am Sub-Commander Kiersten Bernette of Falkirk, under the command of Duke Mazur, Lord of Falkirk and Protector of the Northern Lands of the Arkadian Empire. Commander Radu fled the battle aboard his flagship,” she said, nodding her chin in the direction of the fleeing ships.

I frowned in disgust. What kind of cowardly swine runs away and leaves his warriors to die?

“Sub-Commander Bernette, before this battle, you gave my forces an offer of surrender. You are a warrior with honor and I admire that, so I will make you an offer in return. Surrender your forces to me unconditionally. If you do not, you will all die.”

“I refuse,” she said defiantly, “My forces still out-number yours. We will destroy your ‘army’ here and now.

I smiled in amusement. She was just posturing of course, but I still admired her courage in the face of overwhelming odds.

“If you refuse, I will have my archers fill your bodies with arrows. You will not kill a single one of my warriors and your deaths will be for naught,” I said.

“If we surrender, what will happen to my warriors?” she asked, ignoring my own posturing.

“Most will be sold as slaves,” I answered matter-of-factly.

“We would rather die than become slaves!” she shouted in indignation.

“That can be arranged,” I responded darkly.

She glared at me, fire in her eyes, the air itself rippling in the heat of her gaze. Her pride made her defiant; as a warrior, she refused to accept the prospect of life as a slave. I was not in the mood for her insolence. The gaze I returned was pure ice, as cold as the grip of death. The slightest provocation, and I would have slaughtered her entire host.

But her pride soon gave way to reason, and she lowered her gaze in a sign of submission. It was a gesture that only I could see. Doubtless, she knew as much. When she spoke, loudly enough for all her warriors to hear, her words were defiant once more.

“We are prepared to die to defend our homeland.”

I took a few seconds to mull over my response. Sub-Commander Bernette clearly desired surrender, but still needed to satisfy her honor, still needed a way to make it palatable to her warriors. My whole battle plan had been an act of theatre. Now she too was putting on a show.

“Very well. Then here is my offer: if you lay down your arms, I will spare the lives of all of your warriors and allow you to treat your wounded. On one condition.”

I paused for dramatic effect.

“Before the battle, I demanded Commander Radu’s balls. Since he has fled, I will settle for your head,” I said, pointing at the Sub-Commander.

Apart from a slight slump in her shoulders, the Sub-Commander hid her reaction well. She had played out the surrender negotiations in her mind several times, and each time they had ended in her death—or worse. She nodded slowly.

“Do I have your word that you will treat my warriors well?” she asked.

“That is no longer your concern,” was my only response.

The Sub-Commander looked as if she wanted to say more in protest. But perhaps sensing my growing impatience, she held her tongue. She took a deep breath, drew herself up to her full height, and strode confidently towards her execution.

She knelt and offered me her sword. It was a fine blade—plain but razor sharp. I accepted, sticking the blade into my belt. Sub-Commander Bernette fell heavily to all fours. Stepping forward and to the side, I took a position perpendicular to her neck. She brushed her short bangs away from her neck to better facilitate a clean blow. With a metallic ring, my sword rasped from its sheath with deadly intent. She was quivering now, breathing heavily as I prepared to deliver a decapitating blow. No amount of mental preparation was enough to prepare her for her imminent death. Slowly and deliberately, I brought the heavy blade over my head. Taking one last breath, Sub-Commander Bernette steadied herself, steeling herself for her fate. With a mighty roar, I swung the blade down with a blow so heavy that it shook the ground, sending a great cloud of sand into the air.

Sub-Commander Bernette stared dumbstruck at the blade in front of her face. I let the blade rest there for a second before rocking it back and forth and pulling it out.

“Have your warriors drop your weapons in a pile. For every warrior that runs, I will kill five others,” I said as I brushed my sword clean with my hand before returning it to its sheath.

She didn’t react, still staring dumbly at where the sword had smacked in the dirt, confusion and relief warring for control on her face. Sigurd and Torstein broke ranks and strode in my direction

“Get up,” I barked before turning back towards my approaching lieutenants, “We have work to do.”

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