In the High Pass

by Alcuin Fromm

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

part 6

The camp became a blur of motion and activity as the men of the Second Ducal Army of House Ælliri prepared for battle. True to his word, Pavill had mustered together a garrison of over two hundred troops to hold the camp under Doustian’s command. Doustian met with the men to divide their tasks. He did his best to hide his sorrow and anxiety.

Long after sunset, Pavill finally decided that everything had been prepared. He told the men to eat heartily, forbade them ale until after their victorious return, and ordered the lights to be put out immediately after the evening meal. While the refectory tent echoed with raucous conversation and stories of war, Doustian privately recited the Evening Praises and retired to pass a torturous, sleepless night.

* * *

Though yet pale and weak, the light of the rising sun streamed into Pavill’s otherwise darkened tent when Doustian entered the next morning. He lowered the flap behind himm, and darkness returned, save for the solitary flicker of a candle on the far side of the tent where Pavill was adjusting the straps of his armor. His shadow twisted and writhed on the ground. Pavill had his back turned to him, but Doustian knew that his brother was aware of his presence.

“I have recited the Morning Praises for you and our army, Brother,” said Doustian.

“You need not have. Another thirty minute’s rest would have served you better.”

Pavill finished by strapping on his soldier’s sword. He turned around and strode over to Doustian. They stood in silence.

“Let no enmity remain between us, Pavill,” said Doustian in a soft voice.

“I agree. But if you speak of remaining, then remember that I do not remain. You remain. Here. With your beliefs and your hopes and your heartfelt wishes. I go into battle.”

Pavill furrowed his brow and he started to open his mouth, but stopped, snapping it shut. A resolute determination settled on his face and he stepped around Doustian, whipping open the tent flap.

“Pavill,” said Doustian over his shoulder, “I pray you are right, Brother.”

Pavill hesitated a moment, then left without saying a word.

Three hours later, a deathly quiet had settled over the camp. Squinting his eyes, Doustian could barely make out the blurry, undulating mass that was an army of nearly four full cohorts. The sound of marching feet and clanking armor had long since faded and soon the sight of the men, with Pavill riding fearlessly at the head, would vanish.

Along the palisade wall, facing the opposite direction, three soldiers stood guard, vigilantly scanning the downward sloping eastern side of the Pass. Other soldiers went about their daily duties and chores. Even a search group, though reduced in size, had been sent out as usual. But nothing was as usual. A silent, electric tension coursed through the camp. No one spoke about it, no one dared to articulate it, but everyone sensed that some fateful hammer blow prepared to fall upon them. Doustian felt it more than anyone else.

But it dawned on him, as he finally turned his back on the western slope of the Pass, that he conspicuously lacked one emotion. A storm of anxiety, fear, and doubt raged in his heart, but he did not feel guilty. Doustian knew that he had made the right choice, no matter how tragic. If he had abandoned his father’s wishes, if he had not honored Cenn’s sacrifice, Doustian knew he would never be able to live with himself. He was not choosing against Pavill, his brother, he was choosing for Duke Rikkon of Ælliri, his father, their father. Walking back through the western palisade gate, a small amount of tension lifted from Doustian’s weary heart.

* * *

Whether from sheer exhaustion or from his clear conscience, Doustian slept well that night. The afternoon had passed uneventfully, and after a small meal with some of the soldiers, he had recited the Evening Praises and retired shortly after sunset.

The sound of a deep, blaring horn woke him the next morning. He had heard the sound before, but only in drills and practices, never on active duty. The tranquility he had won the night before evaporated in an instant. The horn was sounding the alarm for an attack.

Within minutes, Doustian had finished suiting-up in his light, flexible armor that favored his fighting style of lithe maneuvering and quick movement. He strode out of his tent and into the dimly lit camp.

The sun still hid behind the mountain peaks, but orange light crept slowly up their backs. Men were running in every direction. Their movements were orderly and not panicked. A surge of pride and battle lust welled up in Doustian. Not in vain had Duke Rikkon insisted on the best possible military training for his sons and his armies. Doustian mounted the wooden ramp in leaping strides to the top of the palisade wall and peered down the eastern slope.

Before him, a sea of armed men trudged up the valley. Ælliri archers began lining the palisade wall, testing their bows, and auxiliaries scurried from man to man distributing arrows. A corporal of the Second Cohort, the highest-ranking remaining officer after Doustian, saw the Margrave and came to stand beside him. The face of the corporal bore the seriousness of a trained officer and the conviction of a man about to die.

“My lord, we estimate somewhere between one thousand and twelve hundred foot soldiers. No cavalry. Seems a hastily mobilized lot.”

“But still outnumbers us four to one,” said Doustian.

“Aye, my lord. At least that.”

“I see Viscount Myronokor’s banner. This is an act of war that will bring him into a direct conflict not only with House Ælliri, but with the King.”

“And that means the whole Empire will be affected,” said the corporal.

Doustian nodded. “Why here? Why now? I wonder at it all,” he said almost wistfully, resting his elbows on the wall. “There’s something else going on with all this.” He wished he could sit down over ales and argue with Pavill about military tactics and political intrigue.

“If they keep their pace,” said the corporal, “the viscount’s front line should be within bowshot in a few minutes, my lord.”

Doustian nodded. Just enough time to address the men, he thought. Feeling at once sorrowful and elated, he turned around to face the soldiers gathering in phalanxes inside the barricaded gate.

“Men of House Ælliri,” he began in a booming voice. “The enemy is upon us, thus I shall be brief. I do not know why you are here. Perhaps you were forced by circumstances into military life. Perhaps you have always wanted to serve your duke, your king, and your emperor. Perhaps you do not know yourself what brought you to the top of this mountain. But today there is only one reason to be here. Life! Not your own, make no mistake. Nor mine. The enemy outnumbers us and these wooden doors shall splinter open before the sun sets this day. But let us die that others may live! Let us die for those we love, for those who cannot defend themselves. Let us die so that our sacrifice may send our souls flying to the Realm of the Hallowed Dead.”

Doustian drew his sword and held it high above his head, the sunlight glinting off the griffon hilt.

“Men of House Ælliri, for life!”

The soldiers cheered and clashed their swords against their shields. Doustian turned back to see that the approaching onslaught was nearly upon them. The archers notched their bows and prepared to fire.

“Ready...” The corporal raised his arm, paused, then whipped it back down. “FIRE!”

A volley of arrows ripped through the air and decimated the enemy’s front line. Soldiers from deeper ranks immediately replaced the fallen men. Arrows rained down from the palisade wall, but the movement of the oncoming army continued inexorably forward. Long siege ladders floated towards the front line like driftwood about to be thrust to shore by the crashing waves of an angry sea.

The Battle of the High Pass had begun.

* * *

Pavill raised a hand for silence. He sat mounted in the front line of the Third Cohort, less than half a league away from a line of trees that formed the eastern edge of the Gastonoth Forest. Behind him, nearly eight hundred soldiers passed the signal for quiet down the ranks, becoming as hushed as possible. Everyone was in position in the wide plain, waiting tensely for the order to begin marching into the woods.

But something was not right.

Pavill cocked his head to one side, listening intently. Stillness reigned. White, bulbous clouds littered the sky above him, and a cool breeze brushed the land. He watched a cloud glide silently past the sun, uncovering it, then he squinted in the bright light. Fifty paces to his right, the shallow Yanga River flowed noiselessly westward over its rocky bed. He looked at the bubbling water, the air above it shimmering in a strange way. A large snapping-fish leaped from under the surface and flopped back down with a spray of water.

Pavill could not hear the splash.

He shook his head in disbelief and opened his mouth to shout a warning to the soldiers on the right flank, but it was too late. Arrows seemed to spring into existence along the river bank, blanketing the unsuspecting troops. Wave after wave continued as dozens of Ælliri fell screaming, never having seen their adversary.

“Foul devilry!” Pavill shouted.

In the rear of the troops, the same nightmare unfolded. Arrows from invisible archers located somewhere behind the back lines began cutting down the soldiers. Turning to face the enemy, none could be seen, only the lethal arrows were visible. Panic spread through the troops and the lines broke. Soldiers ran in every direction. One brave man made a rush at the unseen assailants. Ten paces out of the disorganized main body of troops, an arrow pierced his neck and felled him.

Suddenly, a battle cry roared from the forest and swarms of armor-clad warriors, some on foot and some mounted, streamed out of the trees. Pavill almost rejoiced to finally see an enemy.

“Pikes, men, pikes!” he shouted.

Despite the continuing onslaught of arrows, Pavill could muster enough pikemen to form a line. He then looked back at the riverbank and examined it more carefully. The sight of the arrows was all too clear, but dim, shimmering outlines of figures were starting to become visible as well. He waved to a nearby soldier and shouted at him, “Find the captain. Tell him the black magic is fading. Have his men charge the archers!”

The fearful soldier nodded resolutely and disappeared into the throng. The riders bore down on them. Pavill drew his sword. If I’m going to die, he thought, then my life will cost these swine dearly. He bared his teeth and bellowed a vulgar greeting to the charging enemies.

* * *

Doustian leaned heavily on his sword and panted. He had come down from the palisade wall and retreated a short distance into the camp to rest for a moment. Above him, the narrow platform along the wall teemed with movement. The enemy kept throwing up ladders and ropes topped with grappling hooks, trying to clamber up and swarm into the camp, but the Ælliri line of defenders had not yet broken. Meanwhile, a battering ram pounded on the reinforced gate. It still held, but only through the soldiers’ constantly renewed bracing, which eventually would not keep up with the thunderous impacts of the ram.

The enemy had taken enormous losses, but in a battle of attrition, Doustian knew that the Ælliri could not prevail. He had lost count of how many men he had slain or wounded, and yet fresh attackers kept coming. All the while, the remaining Ælliri grew fewer and more exhausted.

Doustian closed his eyes to block out the horrible sight of everything. As if in response, he heard a mighty cracking sound. The battering ram had pierced the gate. Axes began hacking at the breach even as Ælliri archers shot blindly into the newly opened gap. The gate shuttered as the ram struck again and the crossbar snapped. The enemy threw itself against the gate and began shoving it open. In a moment they would be through.

A smile, neither vicious nor ironic, crept across Doustian’s lips. He felt thankful for the gift of knowing the hour of his death, a death in battle for the just defense of family and countrymen. Calm and prepared, he recited a final prayer and offered himself to Providence. Then, standing straight, he mustered the last scraps of his strength and strode towards the gate, brandishing his ancestral Ælliri blade. He joined a line of nearly forty soldiers, the only remaining men not fighting on the wall. No one said a word.

With a final effort, the gate budged forward enough to allow access to the camp’s interior. Enemy soldiers poured in, leaping over or trampling those fallen to Ælliri arrows. Doustian shouted a battle cry and charged, his sword held high with both hands. The end had arrived.

Somewhere among the mountain peaks, a horn blew.

* * *

With the invisibility enchantment slowly but steadily fading, the Ælliri captains succeeded in reforming their lines to create a concerted defense. But the enemy remained difficult to see. The vague form of one attacker blurred into another. The barrage of arrows had stopped and the adversary archers switched to short swords and daggers. The Ælliri tried to advance, but the enemy still had the advantage, and the massacre continued.

Pavill heard someone call out his name over the tumult of battle. He looked around until he found one of the lieutenants of the Fourth Cohort wildly waving to him some sixty paces away.

Having lost his horse, Pavill trotted over to him on foot, deftly weaving between hand-to-hand clashes and over the bodies of the fallen. While still a few paces away, he saw a shimmer behind the lieutenant creeping towards the unwary man. Pavill shouted and charged forward, thrusting his sword in front of himself. The lieutenant whirled to the side just in time for the skewered attacker’s wild swing to miss him.

Pavill withdrew his sword and pierced the blurry mass twice more to ensure it would not get back up.

“Thank you, my lord,” said the lieutenant, out of breath.

“What of your captain?”

“Dead, sir. I have command of the Fourth. My lord, they have us surrounded on all sides and many of them are still damn near invisible, but a gap in their lines has opened up.”

The lieutenant pointed to an area near the rear lines behind which lay the rising land of an open field.

“If we move quickly, we can begin an organized retreat and fall back in this direction, keeping the enemy in front of us.”

Pavill recoiled at the idea. He looked around at the chaos, not wanting to believe it, not wanting to accept it, but realizing that the only remaining goal he could hope for was the prevention of a total rout. He sighed heavily and opened his mouth to call the retreat, when something caught his eye. He saw a solitary rider galloping back and forth along a line of attackers close to the forest edge, shouting and waving his right arm. A garish, ostentatious bundle of black feathers erupted from the top of the rider’s helm. It was Emter Noon.

Pavill strode towards the rider. “Hold the lines,” he said over his shoulder to the lieutenant.

“My lord—” pleaded the lieutenant.

“Hold the lines, dammit!”

Pavill found a discarded pike on the battle field, picked up the weapon, and doubled his pace. With both hands gripping the pike tightly, he charged towards the rider.

* * *

Proceed to part 7...

Copyright © 2022 by Alcuin Fromm

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