Kalac

If ye bleed for it

Part II

 

 

 

 

“LET THEM FIRE FIRST!” Kalac cried out, his eyes on the parapets, just as the first volley of arrows whistled above the line of soldiers, aimed at them. The moment they were on the air he kicked his legs and Kind Eyes charged again. It wasn’t much more than a hundred meters to the yellow-brick walls, another thirty after the turn to reach the opening, but still too bloody distant.

All ten of his men escaped that first volley, and charged in an oblique line towards the soldiers forming up to block their path. No cavalry, but shield carrying spearmen. Kalac was worried about the archers on the parapets more, but he had to trust Belec and Nimra to deliver. Make the distraction count.

Unless there was cavalry coming.

The distance loomed large, when he dashed forward, the archers reloading and firing an arrow every other second and the soldiers, while slow to react to their charge, expecting them to flee given their numbers, they did start pushing the butts of their spears into the soft ground. An arrow grazed his face, peeling the skin off his left cheek, as he crossed the field in a breath.

He veered right putting the line of spears, between him and the archers above, aiming for the last soldier in the single file formation, every rider behind him following his lead, aligned behind him now. The spearheads turned, people scrabbling to adjust and move to block them, the soldier everyone was going for, ogling his eyes in panic.

FLEE!

Kalac screamed inside, the whole charge lasting mere seconds, from start to finish.

If ye stay firm in a charge, ye’ll win it.

It’s that first time that’s difficult.

The soldier dropped his weapons to dive out of the way, as Kalac, teeth clenched so hard he felt them cracking in his mouth, jumped his horse as if he was in the Circus, man and animal launching in the air, ground and dust clouds covering everything, the man stooping to avoid the horse’s hooves screaming over his head. Tarn following right behind him, separated the head from his shoulders, with a brutal downward cut. The rest of their formation turned oblique again and pivoted, a well-drilled maneuver this, to hit the soldiers from the sides.

 

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Kalac slashed a man’s face away, got a spear thrust in his thigh, grabbed it with his left hand, as it retreated and pulled hard, weapon and soldier stumbling forward, the latter trying to block his blade, with his neck.

The blade won.

Kind Eyes twisted and turned almost throwing him, neighed maddened and deathly scared, blood on his snout and raised on two hind legs, taking an arrow intent for him in the belly. Kalac jumped from the saddle, landed on two feet and yelped almost going down, the pain on his leg immense, the blood painting his pants dark.

A tall Cofol charged him with a spear and he parried it away with his saber, then jumped to the side, cursing and groaning in the same breath. The soldier made to rush him again, got his left hand chopped clean off by one of his men thundering by, the horse knocking him on his back.

It was chaos.

People screaming panicked, or horribly maimed, others cursing the gods and praying at the same time, animals neighing blind and deaf with fear. Death a salvation. The clanging of weapons and the whistle of arrows a constant clamor.

The soldiers broke and run, the five of the dozen that were still alive and four of his ten riders, charged their exhausted horses after them. Another one of his men was standing three meters from Kalac and that was it. The other four were lying dead and ruined, somewhere on the ground.

Moving as fast as he could on a bad leg, grinding his teeth, he rushed towards the opening.

 

 

Kalac reached it just in time to witness the man standing next to Tarn probably Dulen, but he could have been mistaken, get skewered through the chest, the two meter heavy bolt nailing him on his saddle and killing his horse in the process.

Tarn turned his head one way eyes wild, saw Belec busy killing the archers, then the other and spotted Kalac limping his way, all the while the man before the entrance of the tower, reloaded one of the two Scorpion artillery pieces there. More heavy-crossbow, than artillery piece, but that wasn’t a detail Kalac was interested in at the moment.

Tarn tossed him his own bow and an arrow, then turned and charged his horse on the frantically working the lever soldier, saber in hand. Kalac caught the bow in the air with one hand, arrow with the other. Nocked it, as a bellowing Tarn was stopped short of his target, a bolt ripping through his horse’s chest and disappearing inside, the man flying off the saddle and crashing down four meters away.

Kalac aimed, blocking everything out, but his target. The soldier was already in the process of putting another bolt in, when he saw him and turned the lethal machine his way. He released true before him and put an arrow in his brain, through his right eye.

The next moment the flat of a blade, turned mid-air due to his opponent rushing his slash, in a desperate attempt to save his colleague, got a solid hit on the side of his helmet, mashing his right ear and threw him dazed on the ground.

“MOVE!” Tarn yelled from where he’d fallen and Kalac rolled away on instinct and pure adrenalin, dust in his eyes, trying to avoid his opponent’s killing blow. He got a kick in the stomach next that knocked the air out of his lungs, managed to get his saber out, only to lose it, when his opponent swatted it away, with a curse.

Kalac half-dodged half-leapt for his blade, but the man beat him to it and kicked his right hand away. He missed his head in turn, the blade striking the ground, not even an inch away. Kalac, muscles screaming, blood in his mouth, tried to get to it with his left, managed to touch the handle, before his opponent’s sword came down, got him below the wrist and went clean through flesh and bone.

He screamed something fierce and pulled his maimed left arm away, the wide arc spraying blood everywhere, even on his opponent’s face. He took his chance and kicked him as hard he could, rage turned to strength, with no skill involved, right at the knee. Kalac felt it snap under his boot, the knee-bones splintering, the man howling desperate and doubling down, just as the Horselord lost his consciousness and collapsed on his own knees.

 

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“Kalac!” Tarn screamed in his face, a moment later, or a thousand, deathly worried. “Thank the Gods!”

“Where’s my horse!” He snapped at him.

“He’ll live! It’s ye I’m worried about. You’ve lost too much blood!”

He looked at the ruin of his left hand, wrapped up, but still bleeding, then at a frowning Belec holding the red hot iron and nodded.

Kalac did break two of his teeth biting on the piece of hard leather, Tarn pushed in his mouth. He didn’t remember much after that.

 

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He woke up later in the day and almost went down, when he tried to stand. Kalac didn’t recognize the room he was in, but it didn’t take him long to realize he was inside the tower. Grinding his teeth, chipped ones hurting his tongue, he started walking towards the heavy door. Mouth bitter, as if poisoned and head heavy, but nothing hurting as much as the wound on his hand. The men had cleaned and dressed it, but this wasn’t an injury that would heal anytime soon. Or ever. He was maimed, never to hold a bow again. The thought fueling his resolve, as he slowly descended down the narrow stairs, until he reached the first floor. One of his riders guarding the entrance, recoiled as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Open the bloody door!” Kalac ordered him, rage in his voice.

 

 

They had captured the fort in the end. Six of the Khan’s soldiers had surrendered, alongside nine slaves. The soldiers were still in their armour, but for one who was wearing a blacksmith’s apron. Belec had them standing in a straight line.

“Where is he?” Kalac asked a grim faced Tarn.

“He’s dead. Belec got him from the parapet,” The man replied. “But you had him hurt badly. You saved my life, Kalac, son of Duham. The fort is yours.”

Kalac wiped his mouth grimacing, the pain gnawing at him, impossible to ignore. Decision made, he grabbed Tarn’s saber and unsheathed it before the man had a chance to react. Walked up to the first soldier and slashed his neck open. The others recoiled and tried to get away, but his men stopped them, using their own spears as deterrent.

He watched the first soldier slowly bleed away and then walked towards the next in line.

“Kalac,” Tarn said, standing behind him. “You have to arm them, to make challenge. This is not the way.”

Kalac raised his maimed hand.

“Who wants to fight me?” He growled, but no one seemed eager to try. “They are rats,” Kalac said turning to face Tarn again. “We don’t have to feed them and I don’t want them as slaves. We have aplenty.”

“I can help,” A man said.

Kalac turned to see, who it was.

“I can help, with your hand,” It was the man with the apron.

“Are you a dottore?” Kalac asked, steel in his voice.

“I am not. I’m a blacksmith. A very good one. I can make you a new one.”

“Make what? Speak clear you fool!” Kalac roared, the pain driving him insane. “Or I’ll cut ye next!”

The Cofol bravely, took a step forward. He wasn’t very tall and his head was too round for a Cofol, the eyes standing too far apart, but he was solidly built, his arms heavy with muscle and his voice showed his conviction.

“I can make you a new hand,” The man said, adding when he saw Kalac thinking it through. “Even make it, so you can use it. Hold a sword, or use the bow.”

“If you’re lying, I’ll take both your hands, as punishment,” Kalac warned him.

The man nodded, losing some of his color.

“If you spare the men, I’ll make it out of iron, or bronze.”

The Horselord, glanced towards his men listening to their exchange.

“You heard the man!” He roared and tossed the saber to Tarn, who snatched it deftly out of the air, visibly relieved. “He makes me a hand I can use and I will spare them. On my word, as Kalac, son of Duham!”

The men roared back their agreement, praising him for their recent success and his bravery. When the sun set over the horizon, they lamented for those lost. Feasted and rejoiced on their plunder, food, wine and slave flesh alike. The fires burned bright into the night, the skies black above their heads and the large lake near them, eerie quiet. Neither birds, nor animals disturbing its still surface. Everything growing around its jade colored waters withered and sickly.

As if nature itself was dying.