The
Song of Steel
Book
One - Chapter 17
By W.R. Logan
Copyright 2004 W.R. Logan
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War Rider Claymen
The time had come for war. Most of his men, including him,
already looked as if they had been at war. The back of his head throbbed with
each painful step he took. His left eye had been of no use to him since the
hailstones battered them. So many of his men had died in the attack that Gregor
had no idea how many were left.
The loss of his eye would make his own sword useless in the
upcoming battle. The attempts at practice had ended in him losing his grip on
his sword or catching the flat of his opponent’s blade. He had put his sword
away as a crowd formed around him. It would do him no good to show the rest of
the men how feeble their leader had become.
The druids had been a more formidable foe than the queen
had expected. All she had known of druids was learned from Tucker, the king’s
gardener. It looks like she should have spoken more to the half-haifoot before
she had beheaded him.
Gregor had known Tucker for years. The little man was the
worst gardener in all the land. In fact, the War Rider had no idea how he came
about the title of druid. The man had never studied in Solaced, not for healing
or farming. None of the half-hairfoot’s spells worked. But he did have a kind
heart and was well liked by the king’s younger brother. He had been loyal to
his king to the very end, giving all the information that he knew about the
druid city. Gregor was sure that the information had come from books but was
given as accurate as the little one could deliver it. All the Queen of Whores
had given him for his loyalty was a swift death.
Pike walked to the War Rider’s right side. His mouth was
grossly swollen around the jagged remains of his teeth. Small dents in his once
fine armor shone clearly in the sun. No repairs would be done to armor or
weapons with the smith long dead in the last attack and the injured would be on
their own as well. All of the healers had been killed in the lightning strike.
The men marched in loose unorganized formations. The
realization of their imminent death was written across every face. The sight of
festering wounds was a common one in the ranks of the army and a dead man marked
every mile of their journey from the river camp. Even if they were able to
defeat the druids, most of the men would not make the passage back through the
wood. The quest for this circle the king wanted so badly was going to cost all
of them their lives.
“Think we are getting close,” Pike asked. The man’s speech
was terribly slurred from his injuries.
“I think so,” Gregor lied.
Gregor had no idea where the city was or how to get there.
The only plan that the king had given them was to capture a druid and make him
tell them. They had done the first part. Before the attack, they had taken a
brownie ranger. The questioning had not gone as planned and the detention had
even gone worse. The brownie had somehow escaped in the confusion.
The men were saying that the tree the ranger had been tied
to had reached down and set him free. And then, the brownie had shot a
lightning bolt from his finger to kill all the healers of the camp before he
started the hailstorm. When a mage was found with his neck shredded, it had
been whispered that the great white wolf stalking the camp was actually another
brownie. No matter how hard Gregor tried to stop the tales, they just kept
growing. The War Rider had decided that it was best to get the few men he had
left moving before either the druids finished them or their fears made them run.
It had been a full night and two days of hard walking with
nothing more to show for them than a few blistered feet. They had seen no
druids or roads or even a goat path. Everywhere they turned in this forsaken
wood looked the same as the way they had just come. Gregor was so unsure of the
direction of their travels, he instructed one of the men to chop an X into a
tree every few yards. If they were walking in circles he wanted to know.
Gregor looked down the lanes of men with a strange mixture
of pride and sorrow. The pride was because he had trained most of these men
when he was just a Weapons Master. He had taken the majority of them from foil
to knighthood. And these were the ones that trusted him most. The War Rider
had become their teacher and then their friend. Every man that had fallen and
would fall on this injudicious quest did so not in the king’s name but in his.
That is where the sorrow came.
If this had been a war that deserved the lives of these
noble men, Gregor would have sent them to their death with a free mind. If his
company had been chasing some devious enemy into the wild knowing they would not
see home again, he would march off with a song in his heart. The bards may sing
of this battle in time, but the Steel Tide would not be the heroes. It just
wasn’t a fitting end for such good men. There was no honor to be found in what
they were doing.
Gregor would not turn on his king. The War Rider had sworn
his solemn oath that could not be broken. The man that the oath was made may
have changed but the words held Gregor to his honor just the same. A War Rider
would do his king’s bidding trusting in the wisdom of his lord.
The man that Gregor had bid to mark the trees hacked
another X in a large tree. He examined his work and gave a nod of approval
before he sheathed the sword. This man had trained with Gregor for many years.
In the man’s first month in training, Gregor had gone to King Geiger to request
the man’s release. But the king rejected the idea.
“Does this man have no loyalty,” the king asked.
“He has loyalty, my king,” answered Gregor truthfully.
“Then is it courage he lacks,” furthered the king.
“No, he is a brave soul,” said the Weapons Master.
“Ah,” the king said in revelation, “he has no desire then.”
“No m’lord, he does desire to be a knight,” Gregor
explained. “What he lacks is any skill with a sword.”
The king’s face grew serious as he looked down on his
Weapons Master.
“If a warrior with desire, loyalty and courage asks to join
your cause, Weapons Master Claymen, you take him. If he cannot use a sword you
teach him. If he fails to learn the sword, give him a spear. If he is not
suited for a spear, teach him the bow. A true leader finds those three
qualities in men and surrounds himself with them.”
Gregor longed for the wisdom of that king again. The
kingdom needed the man that heard his people over the ramblings of that
disgusting church and the questionable morals of his queen. The question was,
did that man still exist?
A volley of arrows left that question to linger. A score
of his depleted force fell to the cruel shafts. The Steel Tide formed their
ranks and soon their own archers were returning wood with the group of rangers.
The rangers had chosen their ambush well and were protected by both a dense
coverage of branches and the higher ground. For every one ranger that fell, two
of the Steel Tide followed.
It would be unwise to battle rangers in a war of arrows.
This was common knowledge to even the lowest of knights, but the Steel Tide had
no mounts to charge the line. On foot, his force would be riddled with arrows
to the last man before they engaged steel with the enemy. This was a different
type of battle than the War Rider had ever fought. It was kind of like trying
to siege a castle that was as large as a forest.
“Come here,” Gregor called to one of the three mage’s that
still lived. The frail looking man scurried over to him.
“I want you to place a grease slick over the area the
rangers hold,” he commanded.
“But the trees will catch all the oil,” the mage objected,
“It would be a waste.”
“Do what I said,” Gregor shouted at him angered at being
questioned.
The mage began his chant. The golden sigils on his skin
lit up as his power began to grow. His song rang out into the wood beyond.
Before his chant could produce the desired spell, a green shaft plunged into his
chest. The song turned to gasps and then to silence.
“Two left,” Pike commented checking the neck of the fallen
mage for any signs of life.
“Come,” Gregor called to one of the mages that still
lived.
The remaining mages had taken the first’s death as their
queue to take better cover. The one that was summoned crawled slowly from the
safety he had found.
“Oh,” laughed Pike, “Trying to give them a bigger target.”
Gregor ignored the comment even after seeing the size of
the mage. The man out weigh the War Rider by no less than a hundred pounds. On
the sides of his red robes had been sown an extra strip of material to allow
them to cover his ample middle. All of the man’s chins wiggled as he made his
way to Gregor’s side.
“I need a grease slick over the area where the rangers
are,” he repeated to the new mage.
To his delight, this mage gave no argument. He began his
chant as quickly as he could. The large man’s voice carried with it a more
commanding aura than that of the dead mage. More of his sigils lit up as he
cast the spell. The hilltop was inundated with the black grease.
This was like a siege, a siege where the Steel Tide could
not hold all access to the castle. In that situation, there was only one option
that could lead to victory. Burn your enemy from their hiding places.
“Light your arrows,” Gregor called.
A fresh volley of flaming arrows hit the saturated limbs of
the trees. A thick black smoke began a dance on the summer breeze accompanying
the frantic shouts of the rangers. The only way out of the inferno was straight
into the lines of the Steel Tide.
“Leave one alive,” Gregor yelled to his men.
“Try not to make it a brownie,” add Pike.
Gregor did not believe the tales that the men had been
telling. There was an explanation for how the brownie had escaped the bonds and
fled the camp unnoticed. Still, he had to agree with Pike.
“Anything but a brownie,” he confirmed.
The spell must have been a new experience for the ranger
and druids for they made a grave error. When the blaze had started to spread, a
song rose from beneath the branches of the trees. The men of the Steel Tide
braced themselves for the wrath of what was to come and were relived when they
saw the spell was not directed at them. It caused a drizzle of rain to fall on
the blaze. This allowed the burning oil to begin raining down on all that took
shelter underneath.
More shouts of pain followed the folly. The shapes of men
running from the trees covered in flame decorated the skyline. The Steel Tide
lines moved to surround the hill fully and prevent any retreat.
There were fewer of the rangers than the War Rider had
expected. Their number was no more than thirty but for every ranger came an
animal as well. The men of the Steel Tide found themselves locked in battle
with bears, wolves, badgers and hawks as well as the rangers. If this had been
a game of numbers, the rangers would have come out the victors. But this was
war not a game.
When the final ranger fell dead on the ground, the Steel
Tides losses numbered seventy. Others had new wounds that would receive no
tending that would lead to their deaths as well. The victory had chased all
those thoughts far from their minds. They just wanted to savor the win for what
life was left.
Gregor searched franticly through the bodies of the
rangers, hoping beyond hope to find one with some life. Battle lust had taken
hold of his men. They had forgotten his commands and went for the kill on each
foe. Each ranger met his search with a death stare. It looked like the search
for Solaced would go on the hard way.
“Lookin for something,” Pike asked pushing a man to the
ground at Gregor’s feet.
The War Rider was too taken by Pike’s appearance to examine
his prisoner. The man had red flowers blooming from his beard and all along his
head. They looked as if they grew right out of the man’s skin.
“I caught this one at the top of the hill castin a spell,”
Pike continued ignoring the stare.
Gregor tore his gaze from the flowered man. The large man
on the ground wore the robes of a druid. They were still smoking from numerous
areas that had caught fire. The War Rider flipped the man to his back and
looked down on him. The druid’s dark green beard showed the same signs of fire
as his robes.
“We must have you to thank for the rain,” Gregor said to
the druid.
The druid did not answer. He sat with his eyes fixed on
the sky above.
“Well for that I thank you,” Gregor continued, “ And I
guess the flowers were yours too.”
The War Rider plucked one of the red flowers from the top
of Pike’s head.
“Ouch,” Pike protested rubbing the spot.
Gregor turned and put a foot solidly into the druid’s
middle.
“That’s for the bugs,” he told him.
The man doubled over in pain only to meet another foot to
his face. Blood dripped from his lip and nose. Even after several blows the
druid did not give the satisfaction of his cries.
Exhausted and with all his frustrations spent, Gregor
stopped the beating short of knocking the druid unconscious. The man was
spitting blood and pieces of his newly broken teeth but did not cry out once
during the thrashing.
“I want him bound and ready for interrogation,” the War
Rider said. He paused as he realized that the flower that he had picked from
Pike’s head had already grown back and bloomed. “Pike, use chains and don’t tie
him to any trees.”
He would have his answers from this druid and they would
take Solaced. The Steel Tide would hold the Great Circle for the Queen of
Whores and her church. If they must be the villains in the songs to come, then
they would be the villains who won.
Continued
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