icedkocha

Double brackets will indicate dialogue that is spoken in a different language. I will also probably be going back and editing out the faux language in previous chapters.

Sorry this took so long to get out, it took several drafts before I was happy with it.

Chapter 5

Grace Lyonwright waited. Now that she had gone over the details of her plan with Erislethe and the two Dokalfr leaders they had met, and the necessary preparations had been made there was very little left for her do but wait.   

Try as she might to remain still, her feet shifted uneasily beneath her, and before she knew it she had already scraped the grass clean off the ground under the heels of her boots.

“It’s your first battle, isn’t it?” a nearby voice uttered.

Grace glanced over her shoulder to see Nacona, once again sitting astride his horse, watching her with a slightly bemused expression; his head cocked to the left, right eyebrow raised. There was now a quiver of arrows mounted on his saddle and bow in his hands. It was a composite recurve bow better suited for hunting, unlike the warbow that Orlan carried.

Nacona was busying himself with pulling on the bowstring without any arrows nocked, seemingly to test its pulling weight. “Don’t worry, I felt the same way when I was in your shoes. Restless, anxious about what was about to come. I remember Orlan telling me ‘you’re just shaking with anticipation’.”

“I’m not anxious,” Grace said, forcing a smile. “I’m just hoping we can finish this in time for tea.”

“Right, I remember making quips like that too.” Nacona smirked. “To alleviate tension. Your mistress, on the other hand, seems rather calm doesn’t she? ” He nodded in the direction of Erislethe, who was standing with her back turned to them several meters away, speaking to Lacryma.  

“S-she’s not my-” Grace began to snap back but caught herself and shook her head wearily, feeling her shoulders sag. What was her relationship to Erislethe, anyway? She had agreed to her proposal in the spur of the moment, but for whose sake had it been? Had it been for Lacryma, or was it for her own sense of justice? Did she even have any reason to be here?

Although she couldn’t understand the words Lacryma spoke, she recognized the sound of desperation and hopelessness in her voice when she made her plea to Erislethe. She had understood that if they had stood by and done nothing, many innocent people would have most likely be slaughtered.

But all the same, was there really a compelling reason for Grace, herself, to have accompanied them? She recalled the words Erislethe had said about their contract giving her some kind of power. Disregarding the dubious nature of those words, she hadn’t even been aware about that effect at the time.   

“That…” A look of realization slowly dawned on Nacona’s face at how his words might have been interpreted. His eyes grew as wide as plates as he stumbled over his words, cutting a sharp contrast to the image of confidence he had been cultivating before. Finally, he released the bowstring he had been holding taut.

“That... was obviously not the way I meant it!” Nacona sputtered, covering his face with the palm of his hand, quietly snickering before finally breaking out in barely restrained laughter, attracting the attention of several of his men who watched with confusion as well as Erislethe, who slowly strode toward them with a look of curiosity.

“Sorry, I’m afraid I haven’t had much to laugh about recently.” Nacona said, wiping tears from his eyes, and upon seeing Erislethe he hastily recovered his composure and crossed his arms over his chest. The cold reception was not lost on Erislethe, who responded with an innocent smile.

“Thou art not speaking ill of me, art thee?” Erislethe spoke coyly as she sidled up beside Grace and draped her left arm over her shoulder, leaning forward to flash her a sly grin.

“Why is she not moving ahead with the rest of the civilians?” Nacona asked, casting a pointed glance at Lacryma, who was currently taking refuge behind the cover of Erislethe’s right wing.

“Because she is with me.” Erislethe replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I couldst not make her leave if I wished it, but allow me to assure thee there is no safer place for her than at my side.” Saying this she draped her right arm over Lacryma’s shoulder and beamed with pride while the girl tried to hide her bright red cheeks.

“I see.” Nacona said, narrowing his eyes at the dragon woman, who maintained her innocent expression. He opened his mouth as if to offer a rebuttal but was interrupted by the arrival of Orlan, who acknowledged Grace with a nod before raising an eyebrow at Erislethe who, to the casual observer, probably looked like a libertine.

“The scouts have just returned, the foe is almost upon us.” The old Dolkalfr said. “It seems your prediction was correct about the angle of their approach.”

The smile evaporated from Nanona’s face as he closed his eyes and nodded. “Well, everyone get to your positions. I know not if we will succeed, but if nothing else we finally have a chance to fight them on our own terms.” He stopped for a moment as he passed Grace and gave her a sidelong look. “Let me say this clearly, I don’t like the idea of using underhanded tactics like this, even against an enemy as savage as these,  but if this strategy of yours works I suppose I will owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Once Nacona was gone, Grace was left with Erislethe standing next to her still with her arm draped over her shoulder, looking immensely pleased with herself. Grace glanced at Lacryma, shaded under Erislethe’s right wing, and felt the sudden urge to grab her by the hand and run from that place, even knowing she wouldn’t get far.

“You were lying to him, weren’t you?” Grace said, unable to meet Erislethe’s gaze. “You need her with you because she made some kind of pact with you... like I did.”

There was a long silence before Erislethe tilted her head to the side as though thinking, made a hmm sound, and laughed to herself. “It appears Nacona doth not like me very much.” She said finally, turning her gaze to Grace. “The less he knoweth about me the better, I think. A sentiment I feel may be shared by thee?”

“What do you mean by that?” Grace asked. Erislethe’s face was uncomfortably close and being held by the shoulder she had no means of putting any distance between them aside from turning her face away. Doing so had the additional effect of hiding her look of apprehension   

“It is patently clear thou art no simple traveler.” Erislethe said still smiling. “I have a feeling a great boon hath fallen into my lap.”

***      

It was nearing midday when the Fluchjaeger made their arrival, approaching from the south in a loose line formation, their hoofbeats sounding like the steadily approaching roll of thunder.

There were twenty riders in total, formed into four divisions of five; two vanguards followed by two rearguards. What awaited them was not the unsuspecting caravan of Dokalfr refugees that they were expecting, but the defensive line that Grace Lyonwright had devised and the Dokalfr had hastily assembled with whatever materials they had on hand.   

To the east of the river many of the wagons had been left in the open, unhitched with their wheels chocked in place. There had also been an assortment of boxes and barrels left in the field as obstructions.  It was not a perfect barrier, as there was space enough between the wagons for the attackers to ride between them, but the field of debris extended far to the east so it would be easier to simply pass through.

Behind the barrier of wagons stood what remained of the army under Nacona’s command: twenty spearmen standing in a tight square formation, many of whom were fresh recruits who had only recently been mustered to fill in the ranks, some of them even wielded repurposed hoes, pitchforks, and other farming implements in place of actual spears. Behind them was a line of ten archers armed with hunting bows.  

Grace had been given a good opportunity to survey the terrain while in the air during their approach. The Dokalfr stood on higher ground, looking down upon the approaching cavalry, as the elevation of the valley sloped downwards from the highlands in the north to flatlands in the south as one drew nearer to the sea, and the land was uneven and interspersed with rock formations that needed to be maneuvered around.   

“Light cavalry like this depend on speed and the element of surprise to spread confusion,” Grace had told the others earlier while relating the details of her plan. “Their primary role is harassing supply lines and picking off stragglers not charging a defended position. Denied the element of surprise, they have already lost the advantage.”

“[[Steady]]...”

Nacona’s voice called out in Alferic across the line of men who watched the oncoming riders with unease.

“[[Steady]]...”

As expected, when the “wagon wall,” as Grace had dubbed it, came into the view of Fluchjaeger, they had little choice but to ride through it. One of the riders in the vanguard made a signal and the formation slowed their advance, making them easier targets for the archers.  

“[[Archers, nock arrows]]…”

 On Nanoca’s command the archers readied their arrows. The riders were still a good forty meters away, still out of many of the archer’s range, but steadily closing the distance, brandishing their sabers threateningly.

“[[Archers, ready]]…”

The archers pulled back their drawstrings.

It was at that moment that the trap was sprung. The front leg of one of the horses fell into a deep hole that had been dug out in the spaces between the debris and covered with a layer of camouflage, breaking its leg, causing it to fall forward. The rider was sent rider flying out of the saddle and collapsed impotently onto the ground. Around him his comrades were falling into similar traps

“[[Fire]]!”

There was a loud thunk as multiple bowstrings were released sending arrows flying in an arc above the spearmen to rain down on the now immobilized cavalry.   

The leader of the rearguard, seeing that half of their force had been wiped out in almost an instant, raised a hand and signaled his men to give the wagon wall a wide berth, veering off to the east away from the river and into more uneven terrain, but what waited for them was no less lethal than the pit traps.   

Standing directly in the path of the Fluchjaeger, flanked on both sides by Grace and Lacryma, Erislethe flashed a defiant grin at the riders before spinning a spear with a flourish, hefted it back holding her thumb in front of her as an aiming guide, then hurled it forward like a javelin. The spear caught the leading rider in the gut and the force of it lifted him from the saddle, carrying him some ten meters before he landed on his back, the shaft of the spear still wobbling in the air above him.

Now that they were close enough that she could see their faces, Grace saw that beneath their hoods, the riders all wore helmets with iron masks over their faces fashioned in the shape of skulls. She imagined that under those masks the riders faces must have all been registering shock at that moment.

The following riders charged onward, riding around their fallen comrade, and Erislethe kicked up another spear from the ground and caught it out of the air, before stepping forward to meet the next rider. With a powerful flap of her wings she launched herself forward into the air,  thrusting the spear out, and grabbed one of the Fluchjaeger by the side, plucking him out of his seat before slamming him into the ground and plunging the spear through his heart to finish him. She looked up to find another two riders bearing down on her, one on each side. Lifting her spear she caught the one on the right with the spearhead but Grace could see that she wouldn’t be able to turn in time.

Erislethe quickly withdrew the spear and turned to face her new foe but the rider passed her by, and charged straight forward to where Grace and Lacryma stood. Grace watched in horror as the Fluchjaeger bore down upon them, his upraised sword glinting in the sunlight ready to come down upon her, the mask over his face looking like the very visage of Death itself. She thought about at least trying to duck out of the way, but her legs felt as though they were anchored to the ground and refused to respond to her mind’s frantic commands.

Grace felt a hand grip her side, and Lacryma’s small, fearful voice whispered a single word into her ear.

“Grace…”     

Without thinking, Grace felt as her hand reached for the pistol in its holster - still loaded with the paper cartridge she had prepared earlier - aimed it toward the rider and pulled the trigger.    

An ear-shattering bang pierced the air as a lead round plunged through cloth and chainmail, sending the man tumbling out of his saddle as the ground in front of them was painted fresh crimson from the new crater that Grace had just put in the man’s chest. Grace heard and felt the thunder of hooves as the horse rushed harmlessly past but found she could not move from that spot.

Erislethe barely had time to look back at Grace, whose trembling hands still held the smoking pistol, before she turned back to face their remaining foes.

The right flank of the rearguard charged towards Erislethe while the left flank turned to the left, now that they had ridden past the debris and pit traps, in an attempt to break through the Dokalf’s defenses. The spearmen, emboldened by their previous victory, stood firm.  

“[[Charge]]!”

A second Dokalfr voice roared, and this time a reserve force of cavalry led by Orlan and a group of hand-picked veterans rode forward. Nacona urged his beast forward to joined the counterattack and the two Dokalfr’s skill with the bow was put on full display at last as they took the enemy rearguard by surprise, striking their foes with arrows where they were most vulnerable while cutting a line between the two enemy cavalry flanks. With their escape route cut off, the left flank of the Fluchjaeger, whose numbers could now be counted on one hand had no option left but to ride into the awaiting spears. The Dokalfr defenders, with the numbers now on their side, had no trouble ending the fight.  

In the end the battle, which would have been better described as a skirmish, was over in less than ten minutes. The entirety of the enemy force was vanquished, and there were only a handful of injured among the Dokalfr spearmen.  

When it had become clear that the day had been won the defenders whooped and cheered, lifting their weapons into the sky while Nacona looked to the the trap that Grace had set with a somber expression. Men and horses lay in that killing field either dead or dying. The rational part of his mind knew that the would have slaughtered the lot of them without hesitation had they been given the opportunity but at the same time the victory felt almost unearned.