The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

A blazing fire raged inside Alensson’s heart. Was this what the Fountain felt like? He was fifteen years old and he was leading an army into battle. He felt confident that it was the Fountain’s will that he drive the usurpers out of his ancient homeland and restore it to its former name and its former glory.

“Do not fear!” the young duke shouted to the men of his army. “We will show these dogs from Ceredigion what men we are! Think of your homes. Think of your families. Think not on the shame of the past but on the glory we will achieve this day. I doubt not your courage. You are each one stronger than those camped yonder. They will fall before our steel! Courage, my brothers! Courage and strength!”

A cheer rose up from the soldiers, and battle cries rent the air. Alensson paused, straining to sense the Fountain. He longed for its reassurance that he was doing the right thing, that it would honor his efforts with success. If it did, he would be renowned in Occitania. He was the Fountain’s willing servant, and it if it brought him victory, he would give credit where it was due. Still, he heard nothing in his mind except his own thudding heartbeat. He turned his horse around and rode down the line, repeating his speech, sending another roar across the camp. Then he raised his sword, pointed at the enemy lines, and started toward the Ceredigion forces.

The knights on horseback did not charge at once. No, Alensson would learn from the mistakes of the past. The Atabyrions marched in step with the horses, bringing the bulk of the army across the field like thunderheads. The smell of sweat and metal stung Alensson’s nose. He was ready for this fight. This was the moment the tide would finally turn in his favor.

“Archers!”

The shouted command came from the throng of enemy ahead. The archers of Ceredigion marched a few steps forward, dropped to one knee, and then loosed the first volley of arrows at them. The swarm of black shafts hurtled into the sky and Alensson and his men raised their shields. The shafts came down like deadly rain. Some soldiers cried out and dropped to the ground, but the shields protected most of them. The bulk of the army moved closer, picking up speed, dodging the remains of the wounded and fallen.

Another storm of arrows came raining down. This was the basic tactic of the Ceredigion forces. Alensson knew if they could survive the deadly hail a bit longer, the arrows would no longer be effective. Shafts rained down on him, glancing off the sturdy armor of his mount, slamming against his shield but not piercing it. His arm grew weary from holding the shield in place but he dared not move it. The Atabyrions continued to march through the haze of pain and torture, faces twisted with grimaces of rage. They were not cowed yet.

“Charge!” Alensson shouted, kicking the flanks of his steed and closing the distance faster. The soldiers were jogging now, scrambling over their fallen comrades. The knights broke free of the men-at-arms, and the horses gained speed, filling the young duke’s heart with the thrill of impending combat.

The front ranks of archers came forward and began hammering the pointed ends of sharpened stakes into the earth. The stakes were intended to impale the charging horses, preventing the knights from breaking through the ranks of lightly armed archers.

Alensson watched in surprise as the archers struggled to fix the stakes into the earth. Summer was nearly at an end, and the fields had been baked by the sun. The archers struggled to get them into position. The wall of spikes would not be ready in time!

“Onward!” he screamed, swinging his sword over his head. The euphoria of battle raged inside him as he realized the fatal flaw in their enemy’s defenses. Whooping with glee, Alensson let his charger plunge ahead. He and the other knights struck the front lines of archers like a scythe, slicing and trampling the men who stood in their way. The Ceredigions scattered like ants from a destroyed mound.

The explosion of noise and violence filled Alensson’s eyes and ears. He was in the midst of the enemy, slashing on each side of his horse. The wall of archers had crumpled, and now the men-at-arms were rushing forward to save their weaker comrades. Alensson was ready for them. He met the enemy head-on, galloping into the ranks of the soldiers as he used the edge, hilt, and flat of his blade with every stroke. The battle cries of his men filled him with confidence. Exhaustion threatened to blunt his strength, but he would not succumb to it. No, he would set the example of courage for his men.

He and his men had plunged deep into the Ceredigic army. The sounds of battle raged around him, and he lost all sense of direction in the maelstrom of violence. Blood clung to his weapon; blood splattered across his armor. He drove forward, cutting and cleaving his way until suddenly there were no more soldiers left in front of him. He blinked rapidly, trying to see through the stinging sweat. It took him a moment to realize where he’d led his men—they’d completely crushed the right flank of the enemy and were now approaching the reserves and the baggage. The baggage was where they’d find all the treasure to pay the soldiers and where the food to feed them would be stored. There were horses hobbled there as well, defended by panicking men.

“Onward! Onward!” Alensson croaked with excitement. He had no idea what was happening in the field behind him, but he’d pushed all the way through to the rear of Deford’s army. If they could encircle the army, they’d be able to attack from all sides. Alensson had hoped he’d be able to face Deford himself. Where was the false duke?

Then arrows began to fly at them from the baggage. One caught Alensson’s horse in the leg and the beast screamed and went down. The weight of Alensson’s armor started to pull at him, but he’d trained for this—he knew how to disengage from his armor before it crushed him. An arrow caught him in the breastplate, hitting him with enough force to spin him around. Where was his shield? Archers were now scuttling out of the baggage like cockroaches. The sight of them caused a shock of surprise and worry. Fear chased into him next. Where had the archers hidden? He began to jog toward the baggage, weaving in his steps to make himself a more difficult target. More arrows lanced at him. It was foolhardy for these men to shoot arrows so close to their own army’s rear, but the archers kept up the withering fire and Alensson felt another bolt strike his helmet.

He spun and collapsed onto his back, the force of the landing knocking the wind out of him. His lungs heaved and twisted, struggling for air, but he couldn’t breathe, and the terror of being strangled made him buck and twist. He rolled over onto his stomach, sweat streaking down his face. Someone hit him from behind with a bowstave.