I've been appearing at book stores across Newcastle, the Central Coast and Sydney to sell and promote The Wounded Guardian over the last few months - and one topic that keeps coming up, as I chat about books in general and fantasy in particular, is Twilight.
Time and again mothers and grandmothers have asked me if The Wounded Guardian has strong female characters in it, because they are concerned about the portrayal of women in Twilight. The final straw, so to speak, came when I spoke to a high school principal, who said she loved the way Twilight has her girls reading but was worried about some of the messages within. She purchased a copy of my book to see if there were other options to get girls reading.
Although I have not read Twilight, it was obvious to me that there was a story here. That much community concern, across so many different areas, was too big to ignore.
Wearing my other hat, that of The Sunday Telegraph, I spoke to a variety of people and came up with an article that was published on Sunday November 15.
With thanks to The Sunday Telegraph, here is that article, with some added quotes that were edited out of the finished article for space reasons:
It is both a love story celebrated by millions and a textbook abusive relationship, a light-hearted fantasy aimed at teens and tweens that has disturbing messages about sex. Welcome to Twilight.
The best-selling book series and now blockbuster movies have captured imaginations across the world and inspired devotion in its fans.
Twilight also has many lining up to attack it, with accusations of everything from bad writing to betraying the vampire genre to Mormon brainwashing.
But leaving aside the mud-slinging, the literary world and schools are warning parents not to simply go along with the marketing hype and peer pressure, but to first understand exactly what it is their children are reading.
While they sing Twilight's praises for encouraging people to read and inspiring debate about reading, the concern is the way the book portrays women - its key readership - and their relationship with men.
While older readers should be able to distinguish fantasy from reality, and put the story in context, along the lines of Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, the concern is what effect it will have on younger readers, particularly those who are using Twilight as their entry point to reading. Twilight centres on Bella, a human girl, and her relationship with Edward, a vampire and Jacob, a werewolf. This love triangle is resolved when Bella has a child with Edward that begins to rip its way out of her, breaking her ribs and pelvis, forcing Edward to tear open her stomach with his vampire teeth to deliver it in an emergency caesarean - and so Jacob falls in love with this child.
While this is a disturbing end to the tale in many ways, critics say the problems begin much, much earlier.
Literary agent Sophie Hamley, of Cameron's Management, likes vampire stories but says fans should get into Buffy, not Twilight.
``Basically the books, especially the fourth, detail a textbook abusive relationship,'' she said.``The message seems to be that you can't live without a man, particularly an idealised one.
``In many respects Edward is constructed as a classic romantic hero - brooding and handsome, and even Mr Darcy was withholding. But the constant threat of violence, while possibly exhilarating for readers, is unnerving. If I were convinced that Twi-hards were reading other books to balance it out, fine, but for a lot of people this will be their first plunge into reading a series so there will be no context. ''
Abigail Nathan runs Bothersome Words, a book editing agency used by publishers such as HarperCollins. She enjoyed the books but does have concerns.
``Adults are frequently disturbed by the nature of Bella and Edward's relationship, describing Edward as a stalker and Bella as a victim,' she said. ``Although Bella and Edward do not sleep together until they are married, it's hardly a delicate affair, with Bella waking up covered in bruises.``It's an interesting selection of messages, with Bella constantly pushing Edward to sleep with her, and ultimately ending up bruised and battered.'
``One message that is clear is once Bella has Edward she forgets about her other friends and is all too willing to leave her family to have her "forever" with Edward. The message to women that they don't need anyone else if they have their man, or their true love - that they can be happy that way, is a little disturbing.''
Fantasy author Glenda Larke is also concerned by the way Bella never finds strength within herself and must instead be always saved by Edward.``It harks back to a different age. Women my age had to fight to escape that kind of thinking. To present a heroine who never stands on her own two feet is to present a ghastly role model for today's youth.
''But no matter the criticism, it is clear the books have struck a massive chord with young readers.Fantasy author Kim Falconer said this cannot be ignored.
``How do we get past the fact that they want it? They're eating it alive _ what is it fulfilling in them?''
She finds it concerning and wonders whether it is a symptom of a wider problem: Can women tell the difference between abuse and love?
Nevertheless, simply banning teens from reading it would make the problem worse and, anyway, Falconer is a ferocious supporter of free speech.``We can criticise it but we cutting off the lines of communication. You must talk about it, be there for dialogue.''
She applauds the way the series has women and girls reading but laments: `What a missed opportunity to inspire women.''
Mount St Benedict College is an independent girls' high school at Pennant Hills. Principal Maria Pearson said it is very important for girls to develop the ``skills, resourcefulness and resilience'' to find ways themselves to get out of difficulty situations, rather than ``expect to be rescued''.``We have it in the library and it does engage our girls,'' Ms Pearson said.
``But it is important to deconstruct some of the themes. They need to have a conversation with concerned adults in their lives (about the issues it raises).''
So read Twilight - but it needs be accompanied by discussion of the issues raised, as well as a selection of books with strong female characters. Virtually any of the Voyager list, including the likes of Karen Miller, Glenda Larke, Kylie Chan and Kim Falconer would be suitable.
Duncan Lay is the author of The Wounded Guardian (HarperCollins) and the soon-to-be-released The Risen Queen, neither of which contain vampires but do have strong female characters.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Compared to David Gemmell in a review
The late, great British fantasy author David Gemmell has been a huge inspiration for me - in fact, as I have written before, without his seminal work, Legend, I may never have read any fantasy beyond The Hobbit and The Lord Of The Rings.
As well as being a fan of his work, I felt a certain affinity for Gemmell's work.
He was a long-time resident of Hastings, in Sussex, while I lived in both Eastbourne and Brighton, both towns in Sussex, less than 50 kilometres from Hastings.
Gemmell was an editor of local newspapers in Sussex, I was an editor of local newspapers (albeit in Australia!)
The thought of one day meeting David Gemmell as a published author myself was a secret ambition of mine - although no doubt shared by many other would-be authors.
Sadly he died in July 2006, more than a year before I received my contract for The Dragon Sword Histories, robbing the fantasy world of one of its greatest writers.
Naturally he left many thousands of devoted fans wondering where the next Gemmell-esque book was going to come from.
No doubt there are quite a few authors jostling for this position.
I have to say, while I loved his work, I would hate to be thought of as 'the next David Gemmell' - for a wide variety of reasons. I would rather be thought of as the first Duncan Lay!
But to be compared to him is still, in my opinion, praise of the highest order.
Certainly his work had some flaws, such as his (self-confessed) problems with writing female characters - but his books had a marvellous depth, making them an experience to read both as a teenager and then something different as an adult.
Anyway, the point of all this is a review in the upcoming edition of Australian Bookseller And Publisher of my second book, The Risen Queen, which will be out in the shops from December 15.
The key passage, for me is: "Fast paced and dramatic, Lay writes the kind of battle scenes that I have not seen since the late David Gemmell, and booksellers should definitely be recommending this to his fans."
I've been absolutely pumped since reading this!
To be in the same sentence, particularly one recommending me to David Gemmell fans, is fantastic. This whole experience is a dream come true but let's just say that being compared to David Gemmell is something of a fantasy realised!
As well as being a fan of his work, I felt a certain affinity for Gemmell's work.
He was a long-time resident of Hastings, in Sussex, while I lived in both Eastbourne and Brighton, both towns in Sussex, less than 50 kilometres from Hastings.
Gemmell was an editor of local newspapers in Sussex, I was an editor of local newspapers (albeit in Australia!)
The thought of one day meeting David Gemmell as a published author myself was a secret ambition of mine - although no doubt shared by many other would-be authors.
Sadly he died in July 2006, more than a year before I received my contract for The Dragon Sword Histories, robbing the fantasy world of one of its greatest writers.
Naturally he left many thousands of devoted fans wondering where the next Gemmell-esque book was going to come from.
No doubt there are quite a few authors jostling for this position.
I have to say, while I loved his work, I would hate to be thought of as 'the next David Gemmell' - for a wide variety of reasons. I would rather be thought of as the first Duncan Lay!
But to be compared to him is still, in my opinion, praise of the highest order.
Certainly his work had some flaws, such as his (self-confessed) problems with writing female characters - but his books had a marvellous depth, making them an experience to read both as a teenager and then something different as an adult.
Anyway, the point of all this is a review in the upcoming edition of Australian Bookseller And Publisher of my second book, The Risen Queen, which will be out in the shops from December 15.
The key passage, for me is: "Fast paced and dramatic, Lay writes the kind of battle scenes that I have not seen since the late David Gemmell, and booksellers should definitely be recommending this to his fans."
I've been absolutely pumped since reading this!
To be in the same sentence, particularly one recommending me to David Gemmell fans, is fantastic. This whole experience is a dream come true but let's just say that being compared to David Gemmell is something of a fantasy realised!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Cover designs
Book two, The Risen Queen, will be out in shops from December 15 but, because its official release date is January 1, you might have to ask (nicely) your friendly bookstore people to unpack it from the back, as they will be busy, busy with the Christmas rush...
Book three, The Radiant Child, is out next June 28(ish) but the cover is already moving ahead.
I have posted pictures up on Facebook but, for those who aren't on Facebook, here's a couple of links that allow you to see the covers as they progress...
Risen Queen: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2028278
Radiant Child: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2014130
Book three, The Radiant Child, is out next June 28(ish) but the cover is already moving ahead.
I have posted pictures up on Facebook but, for those who aren't on Facebook, here's a couple of links that allow you to see the covers as they progress...
Risen Queen: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2028278
Radiant Child: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2014130
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
DVD Extras part four
Last one ... this is a sequence when Martil and Karia almost meet an arrogant wizard, who actually takes a more important part in book three - but I digress!
I was trying to show how wizards operated in that world and how much Martil disliked them ... but one scene with Barrett seemed to do that!
By the time they had made all their purchases, and Karia had eaten her packed lunch - and all the interesting bits from Martil’s - it was almost noon, so Martil steered Tomon to Menner’s shop.
The shop was crowded this time, and there was obviously no point in trying to squeeze inside, so they walked down the street, looking at the other shops. Nothing appeared interesting, until they walked past one that was three doors down from Menner’s. Unlike the other shops, its window was boarded over, with the words ``Fernal, wizard of the Fourth Circle, by appointment only’’ painted in large letters. A few crude stars had also been added, for effect.
Karia was fascinated when she heard it was a wizard‘s shop. `Can we look inside? Can we pleeease?’ she begged.
With time to waste, Martil could not think of a good reason to refuse her, so pushed open the heavy wooden door and led her inside. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the room. Two walls were taken up by large, plump chairs, thickly upholstered in some golden fabric. The third wall was dominated by a huge bookcase, filled with both books and scrolls. In the fourth wall there was just a door. Nobody else was in the room.
Karia wanted to go and look at the books but just as Martil stopped her, the door opened and a woman in a bright red robe walked out.
`Who seeks the Great Fernal? What is your concern?‘ she intoned, flinging her arms out theatrically.
Martil wondered if the ``Great Fernal’’ knew any way to keep small children quiet but decided not to ask that.
`We’re just looking,‘ he said instead.
`Looking? The Great Fernal does not haggle like some common stallholder! The charge is two silver pieces for a meeting, then between one and five gold pieces for magic, depending on the degree of difficulty. Those are the Great Fernal’s prices. If you can’t or won’t pay those, we suggest you go and see the wizards Stratt or Donald. Their prices are far cheaper, but considering they are both Second Circle incompetents who couldn’t magic up a customer at a decent price, they would have to be.’
`Are you the Great Fernal?‘ Martil asked, wondering how many people could afford this magic and put up with this overblown act.
`No! I am his assistant. Now I suggest you either show me some money, or I shall show you the door!‘
At another time, Martil might have decided to stay, but he did not feel like an argument at the moment. `Oh, we were just leaving,‘ he agreed. Bloody wizards! Thought they knew everything. He had no intention of paying them any money, so he ushered a disappointed Karia out of the shop.
Back at Menner’s he was delighted to find the shop had emptied, and doubly delighted to discover the clothes were ready - but not as delighted as Karia, who enjoyed trying everything on. Except for the shoes. She complained they made her feet itch, and it took all of Menner’s persuasion, as well as Martil’s determination, to make her keep them on. Even then, she went into a sulk that only some almond-honey sweets and the last - and best - dress managed to get her out of.
I was trying to show how wizards operated in that world and how much Martil disliked them ... but one scene with Barrett seemed to do that!
By the time they had made all their purchases, and Karia had eaten her packed lunch - and all the interesting bits from Martil’s - it was almost noon, so Martil steered Tomon to Menner’s shop.
The shop was crowded this time, and there was obviously no point in trying to squeeze inside, so they walked down the street, looking at the other shops. Nothing appeared interesting, until they walked past one that was three doors down from Menner’s. Unlike the other shops, its window was boarded over, with the words ``Fernal, wizard of the Fourth Circle, by appointment only’’ painted in large letters. A few crude stars had also been added, for effect.
Karia was fascinated when she heard it was a wizard‘s shop. `Can we look inside? Can we pleeease?’ she begged.
With time to waste, Martil could not think of a good reason to refuse her, so pushed open the heavy wooden door and led her inside. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the room. Two walls were taken up by large, plump chairs, thickly upholstered in some golden fabric. The third wall was dominated by a huge bookcase, filled with both books and scrolls. In the fourth wall there was just a door. Nobody else was in the room.
Karia wanted to go and look at the books but just as Martil stopped her, the door opened and a woman in a bright red robe walked out.
`Who seeks the Great Fernal? What is your concern?‘ she intoned, flinging her arms out theatrically.
Martil wondered if the ``Great Fernal’’ knew any way to keep small children quiet but decided not to ask that.
`We’re just looking,‘ he said instead.
`Looking? The Great Fernal does not haggle like some common stallholder! The charge is two silver pieces for a meeting, then between one and five gold pieces for magic, depending on the degree of difficulty. Those are the Great Fernal’s prices. If you can’t or won’t pay those, we suggest you go and see the wizards Stratt or Donald. Their prices are far cheaper, but considering they are both Second Circle incompetents who couldn’t magic up a customer at a decent price, they would have to be.’
`Are you the Great Fernal?‘ Martil asked, wondering how many people could afford this magic and put up with this overblown act.
`No! I am his assistant. Now I suggest you either show me some money, or I shall show you the door!‘
At another time, Martil might have decided to stay, but he did not feel like an argument at the moment. `Oh, we were just leaving,‘ he agreed. Bloody wizards! Thought they knew everything. He had no intention of paying them any money, so he ushered a disappointed Karia out of the shop.
Back at Menner’s he was delighted to find the shop had emptied, and doubly delighted to discover the clothes were ready - but not as delighted as Karia, who enjoyed trying everything on. Except for the shoes. She complained they made her feet itch, and it took all of Menner’s persuasion, as well as Martil’s determination, to make her keep them on. Even then, she went into a sulk that only some almond-honey sweets and the last - and best - dress managed to get her out of.
DV extras part three
This section is when Martil trains the Norstalines ... sequences that survived only in much shorter form! The first one is the initial training and then, further down, it goes into shield wall training. I was trying to make the point that you can't just wave a magic sword and expect to have an army appear ... but I hope that was made anyway!
As to the men, training them was the most important thing. They were in three groups, and Martil made these into squads, trying to use the rivalry between them to spur each other on.
First came Sendric’s guards. There were two 10-man squads, as well as two sergeants and a lieutenant called Rocus. They were all well armed, with mail shirts, shiny helmets, shields with the Count’s crest and long swords. They had been drilled to perfection - to carry out ceremonial duties. However, the manual of arms was not the best teaching device for the skills necessary to fight your way through a shield wall. And if their swordsmanship was clumsy, their fitness was abysmal. Too much time standing post, and not enough time running, had them exhausted after only a few minutes of Martil’s training.
The hunters numbered 11, as well as a chief hunter called Tarik. These were fit men, used to running all day and night, brilliant archers to boot, but unused to working with others. They operated in small groups of two or three usually, they were unable to take orders and were just as likely to chase after a deer as they were to follow Martil’s instructions.
Then there were the militia. Sendric had tried to choose those men with at least 10 years service, but not so many years that they were too old for this sort of venture. He had selected a dozen men, as well as a lieutenant called Wime. They were tough men, who were all veterans of tavern brawls and street fights. Martil knew this type of experience could not be beaten, it was the sort of thing you needed to survive a battle. They were crafty, could take orders, and knew all about operating as a team and protecting your mate’s back in a fight. But they were only armed with thick wooden sticks, and wore only boiled leather coats for protection.
Each group had its own abilities, and its own weaknesses. Using each to the greatest benefit would be the real challenge.
The first day they looked a strange sight. The guardsmen were lined up immaculately, two ranks, sergeants at the ends, Rocus at the front, all in their polished armour and all standing to attention. The hunters stood in a group, chatting among themselves, while the militia had formed into a rough line but stood relaxed, waiting to see what he would do.
Martil had no intention of giving them a big speech, or impressing them with his war stories. It was more important to win their respect. Besides, he planned to let Conil tell them a few things and let that spread among them. For now, he would keep things simple.
`I am War Captain Martil, the wielder of the Dragon Sword. You have sworn to obey this Sword. Now I want to see how far you are prepared to go. Follow me now!’
He formed them up and then took them on a run. He knew he was not in great shape, but it was not so long ago that he had run two miles each morning over rough ground, in armour. He was able to set a pace that made the hunters stop talking after the first mile, and left the militia and the guardsmen in particular gasping.
He was pleased to see none dropped out, all three groups were determined they should finish the run as a whole, so as not to lose face in front of the other two. But the guardsmen were plainly exhausted at the end. If they had been asked to fight at this point, they would have been slaughtered. With a bunch of recruits, he would have told them this, as part of the process of breaking their independence, to the point where they would obey him in battle without question. But that process took time, time he did not have. For a start, Queen Merren was demanding they begin attacks as soon as possible. So instead he tried to work more subtly.
`You did well. For the first time. Fighting all day in armour that feels as though you are carrying a child on your back will leave you exhausted. Now drink water, rest and we shall try a few more tests.’
He took his own advice, changing his tunic to hide the sweat stains, then returned to hand out shields and wooden swords to train with.
He set them against each other in pairs, trying to ensure each fought against a man from a different group. It made for some spirited exchanges, as guardsmen accused militiamen of cheating when they used moves they had learned in street fights.
Martil tried to show them all how to handle their swords better, persuade the guardsmen that nobody was ever sent from the field of battle for cheating and explain it was no good complaining when your guts were hanging out.
The militia responded well, but the proud guardsmen insisted on fighting as if their opponent was a stuffed dummy. Finally, he decided to prove how bad they were.
`Pick your three best bladesmen. They will take me on, and if they win, you get the afternoon off. If I win, you run another two miles. And all they have to do to win is touch me with a wooden sword,’ he offered.
The other two groups watched with interest as Rocus selected himself and his two sergeants, both massive guardsmen. A circle was formed and Martil stepped in, loosening his muscles and using two wooden swords, rather than the Dragon Sword.
`Any time you are ready,’ he grinned.
Rocus rushed in, sword held high, and it was easy to spin away, delivering a thrust to the belly as he did so. The guards lieutenant folded over, blocking one of his own men, so Martil swarmed in on the third, both swords working furiously. The guardsman managed to block the first few cuts but they were arriving so fast, and from so many different directions, that he received a whack on the ribs, another on the shoulder and a third across the head before reeling away. The last guardsman circled away from Martil nervously, who had no intention of letting him run. A feeble thrust was blocked, then Martil rammed both swords into the man’s stomach.
He let the wooden swords drop and turned away to see the rest of the men gazing at the three big men rolling around on the ground. The hunters and militia were grinning, while the rest of the guardsmen just looked shocked.
`We’ll let those three recover a little before they go on their run,’ he announced. `But I hope a lesson has been learned by you guardsmen. The three men you have been listening to could not even lay a sword on one man. If they fight like that against Gello’s men, they would all be dead now. Something to think about next time I advise you how to stay alive.’
And after that, they did listen, even Rocus.
Martil worked them hard, trying to get their fitness up first. The hunters excelled here, making the other two groups look foolish on the runs, while the guardsmen were left floundering even on the forced marches.
The guardsmen had initially laughed at the militia when they had been introduced to sword use. The militiamen were more inclined to use their swords like clubs, and Martil had to instruct them in basic sword use. But when it came to combat exercises, the militia took great delight in beating the guardsmen, their experience in fighting obvious compared to their ponderous opponents, who seemed to be in slow motion most of the time.
But although they were the group that finished last most often, the guardsmen had a stubborn pride, and held themselves to be above the others. This was of particular concern to Martil. Not only did he expect the guardsmen to be his main strike force, but their attitude threatened to fragment the small army. He had to work doubly hard to make them see how they all had to rely on each other. The Queen and the Dragon Sword, as well as the presence of Count Sendric, these were enough to secure their loyalty. All these men knew what was at stake - they had been told to bring their families along, in case of reprisals. But Martil felt they were not truly behind the cause. He was a Ralloran, and they were not ready to die for him. Not yet.
Of course there were other problems.
Meanwhile he had the time to not just work on Sirron and his farm boys, but also the other men. They had performed well from ambush and had stood their ground as the archers destroyed a small band of cavalry but Martil knew the next time they fought, it would be against a full squadron of cavalry, enough men so it would come down to a stand-up fight.
The men were ordered to wear hauberks, the heavy chain mail shirts of small, inter-connected rings over a thick leather coat. Some were second-hand, most of these had arrow holes in them, crudely patched, while naturally the guardsmen’s ones looked impeccable. Martil could see how the farm boys were struggling in the heavy coats. While a hauberk did not restrict your movement initially, the weight would grow progressively heavier. Even the fittest of men, after an hour of fighting in one, would be exhausted. Then he made them take up shields, and spears. Every man looked unfamiliar with these but Martil knew this was the weaponry that would keep them alive when fighting cavalry.
He drilled them hard, teaching them the basics of spear fighting, keeping them at it until their right arms were too tired to even lift the heavy spears any more and they were heartily sick of practising the same strokes, up at a cavalryman, down at an infantryman, and the thrust from the second row of a shield wall into your enemy‘s front line. He fretted that the training was nowhere near enough but knew he did not have much time so, as quickly as he dared, he went to the next stage.
`A shield wall only succeeds while the men in it have courage and heart,’ Martil told them. `But if you do not have trust in each other, if you fear for your own safety, it will crack like an egg. Stay together and live. Try to run and you die. Understand?’
They nodded at him but Martil was not convinced. They would have to see it to feel how effective it could be.
He formed them into three ranks, the guardsmen at the front and sides, the farm boys at the back and the militia in the middle. The guardsmen dropped to one knee, shields rammed into the ground, spears pointing upwards. The militia stood close behind them, shields held high to protect both themselves and the guardsmen, spears also held high. The farm boys were close behind them, bracing the militia and supporting the spears. He rode along the front of the wall then, showing them how no horse would charge home into a tightly packed wall of spears.
He took one of the captured heavy cavalry horses, a huge beast, and spurred it at the line. He knew that, to the men in the front row, it was a daunting sight. But even the trained warhorse would not press home the charge and veered away from the massed iron points.
`A man on a horse needs four feet of room to ride and swing his sword. A man with a shield and spear needs only two feet! So each trooper is riding down a corridor that ends in three ranks of two spears - that’s six spears to each horseman!‘
He saw they were gradually getting the idea, so he let them feel confident, then moved onto the next stage.
`I need three volunteers!’
He ignored Sirron and the other farm boys, instead selecting three guardsmen. These were ordered to put down their spears and link shields instead.
`Look impressive, don’t they?” Martil said, pointing to the three big men, standing tall in their hauberks, shields held confidently, overlapping each other on the left-hand side to present an impenetrable wall.
He bent down and picked up a shield himself.
`Lads, all you have to do is hold your line,’ he told them, then broke into a run.
The three men tensed, the man in the middle crouching slightly to try and take the expected impact, but at the last second Martil turned and smashed into the man to his left. The guardsman took a step backwards to keep his footing and Martil spun, using both his speed and the momentum of the turn to crash into the man on his right, who was unable to brace himself properly. The force jolted him back into the last man and the two of them stumbled backwards, the man on the right going down.
Martil threw down the shield he was carrying. `This shield wall is dead. Every man who was within it is dead,’ he said conversationally. `Now, let Sirron and his boys come forward.’
The farm boys walked out awkwardly, looking uncomfortable in their armour. One of the younger ones stumbled over another‘s spear, drawing a jeer from the guardsmen.
`Your lives depend on these men,’ Martil snapped. `Doubtless they would find the sight of you trying to milk a cow equally amusing.’
Abashed, the guardsmen fell silent. It was a start but Martil decided he had to make the farm boys win the respect of the others.
`For the next exercise, I will need three guardsmen. If they can break open a shield wall, they get a bottle of brandy to share.’
A howl of protest rose up from the ranks of the men.
`Don’t think that’s fair? Well, how about this. If they can break the shield wall, you all get a barrel of wine to share. But if they can’t, you have to cook dinner for the farm boys tonight. Agreed?’
Martil looked over to where Wime was talking quickly to Rocus, but the tall guardsman waved him away and shouted his agreement.
Grinning, Martil formed the eight farm boys into three ranks, with himself in the very centre. Quickly he showed the others how to brace the rank in front of them by putting their shoulder in the middle of the man’s back, and the feet behind the man’s heels. He showed them how to overlap their shields, to make an unbroken wall. He also instructed the front row to crouch down as the guardsmen approached, then push upwards with the shield at the last moment, so they had some momentum when the two sides met.
`A shield wall is a fearsome thing. You are closer to the men you are killing than you are to the woman in your bed. But stand firm. It is the side that blinks first who dies,’ he told them. `The front row just needs good nerves and strong arms. The second row is where the shield wall is won.‘
Meanwhile Rocus had selected his three biggest men and was telling them to charge in hard.
`Remember to push back hard, and we’ll dine well tonight,’ Martil told them.
The three guardsmen raced in, not at full speed but at a good pace, sensibly sacrificing speed so they could stay together.
`Crouch now, push up when I tell you. The rest of you, get ready to hold hard,’ Martil snapped. `Brace them!’
The guardsmen yelled as they ran the last few yards and Martil bellowed at Sirron and his two brothers to rise. The three farm boys crouched, then pushed themselves up as hard as they could, just as the guardsmen arrived. Shields clashed on shields but the force of the guardsmen’s charge would have bowled the farm boys over, except it was transferred into Martil and the men beside him, and to the ones behind them. The second rank held the first, and the third held them, absorbing the force of the charge. The line bowed but stayed as one.
`Push!’ Martil yelled, shoving Sirron as hard as he could so the farm boy straightened and began heaving back at the guardsmen.
Even in the second row, Martil could smell the breath of the guardsman pushing hard at Sirron. The two were shield to shield, hard against each other. In a real battle, they would be too close to use even a short sword, which was where the second row came in. They had room to swing a blade, attacking the head of the enemy’s front line. Of course your enemy’s second line would be doing the same thing, so you also needed to protect the man in front of you with your shield. It was brutal, fearsome work. Made more so when your enemy used tricks like giant axemen to break your line before their shield wall struck.
`Heave!’ Martil roared, and felt the farm boy behind him force him forwards. He used that momentum to propel Sirron forwards. But the guardsman facing him had nobody behind him to prop him up. The three guardsmen stood for a few moments more before the transfer of momentum saw them pushed backwards, to stumble and fall.
Stunned silence greeted the sight of the three men on the floor, then the farm boys cheered each other, and were quickly joined by the militia, who always enjoyed seeing guardsmen humbled.
Martil dropped his shield and wiped his face. His left shoulder and arm ached, while his back was also tender from having a shoulder stuck in it, but thanks to the armour and the padding underneath, he doubted he would have much more than a small bruise.
`I hope you were all paying attention,’ he told them. `You just saw a bunch of farm boys, who are only just learning how to use their swords, defeat three of your best men. That is the power of the shield wall. It will help you survive in battle as long as you are prepared to stand strong. But if it is broken, you are all dead. Remember that.’
He formed them into a shield wall, and had men take turns standing in each row, as well as joining him in running at the shield wall and forcing it to stand firm to repel them. By the end of the day, the men were exhausted, but Martil felt they all had a better idea of what they would need to do. He had been pleased to see men, not just Wime and Rocus, calling out encouragement to each other, and telling each other to hold hard, or push back. They were not ready to take on a rival shield wall, but he felt they could probably stand up to one charge of cavalry.
Martil made sure the farm boys were to receive their reward - being waited on by the militia as the guardsmen peeled vegetables and roasted meat. One advantage of having farmers in camp was they had brought bags of seeds with them. But the biggest advantage, of course, was having Karia and Barrett, who could make vegetables grow overnight. Martil had the guardsmen clean the armour, just to reinforce the punishment for losing.
`I told you he never makes offers like that unless he is sure he’s going to win,‘ he overheard Wime tell Rocus, which brought a smile to his face. He then washed quickly in the cold stream and went to find Karia.
As to the men, training them was the most important thing. They were in three groups, and Martil made these into squads, trying to use the rivalry between them to spur each other on.
First came Sendric’s guards. There were two 10-man squads, as well as two sergeants and a lieutenant called Rocus. They were all well armed, with mail shirts, shiny helmets, shields with the Count’s crest and long swords. They had been drilled to perfection - to carry out ceremonial duties. However, the manual of arms was not the best teaching device for the skills necessary to fight your way through a shield wall. And if their swordsmanship was clumsy, their fitness was abysmal. Too much time standing post, and not enough time running, had them exhausted after only a few minutes of Martil’s training.
The hunters numbered 11, as well as a chief hunter called Tarik. These were fit men, used to running all day and night, brilliant archers to boot, but unused to working with others. They operated in small groups of two or three usually, they were unable to take orders and were just as likely to chase after a deer as they were to follow Martil’s instructions.
Then there were the militia. Sendric had tried to choose those men with at least 10 years service, but not so many years that they were too old for this sort of venture. He had selected a dozen men, as well as a lieutenant called Wime. They were tough men, who were all veterans of tavern brawls and street fights. Martil knew this type of experience could not be beaten, it was the sort of thing you needed to survive a battle. They were crafty, could take orders, and knew all about operating as a team and protecting your mate’s back in a fight. But they were only armed with thick wooden sticks, and wore only boiled leather coats for protection.
Each group had its own abilities, and its own weaknesses. Using each to the greatest benefit would be the real challenge.
The first day they looked a strange sight. The guardsmen were lined up immaculately, two ranks, sergeants at the ends, Rocus at the front, all in their polished armour and all standing to attention. The hunters stood in a group, chatting among themselves, while the militia had formed into a rough line but stood relaxed, waiting to see what he would do.
Martil had no intention of giving them a big speech, or impressing them with his war stories. It was more important to win their respect. Besides, he planned to let Conil tell them a few things and let that spread among them. For now, he would keep things simple.
`I am War Captain Martil, the wielder of the Dragon Sword. You have sworn to obey this Sword. Now I want to see how far you are prepared to go. Follow me now!’
He formed them up and then took them on a run. He knew he was not in great shape, but it was not so long ago that he had run two miles each morning over rough ground, in armour. He was able to set a pace that made the hunters stop talking after the first mile, and left the militia and the guardsmen in particular gasping.
He was pleased to see none dropped out, all three groups were determined they should finish the run as a whole, so as not to lose face in front of the other two. But the guardsmen were plainly exhausted at the end. If they had been asked to fight at this point, they would have been slaughtered. With a bunch of recruits, he would have told them this, as part of the process of breaking their independence, to the point where they would obey him in battle without question. But that process took time, time he did not have. For a start, Queen Merren was demanding they begin attacks as soon as possible. So instead he tried to work more subtly.
`You did well. For the first time. Fighting all day in armour that feels as though you are carrying a child on your back will leave you exhausted. Now drink water, rest and we shall try a few more tests.’
He took his own advice, changing his tunic to hide the sweat stains, then returned to hand out shields and wooden swords to train with.
He set them against each other in pairs, trying to ensure each fought against a man from a different group. It made for some spirited exchanges, as guardsmen accused militiamen of cheating when they used moves they had learned in street fights.
Martil tried to show them all how to handle their swords better, persuade the guardsmen that nobody was ever sent from the field of battle for cheating and explain it was no good complaining when your guts were hanging out.
The militia responded well, but the proud guardsmen insisted on fighting as if their opponent was a stuffed dummy. Finally, he decided to prove how bad they were.
`Pick your three best bladesmen. They will take me on, and if they win, you get the afternoon off. If I win, you run another two miles. And all they have to do to win is touch me with a wooden sword,’ he offered.
The other two groups watched with interest as Rocus selected himself and his two sergeants, both massive guardsmen. A circle was formed and Martil stepped in, loosening his muscles and using two wooden swords, rather than the Dragon Sword.
`Any time you are ready,’ he grinned.
Rocus rushed in, sword held high, and it was easy to spin away, delivering a thrust to the belly as he did so. The guards lieutenant folded over, blocking one of his own men, so Martil swarmed in on the third, both swords working furiously. The guardsman managed to block the first few cuts but they were arriving so fast, and from so many different directions, that he received a whack on the ribs, another on the shoulder and a third across the head before reeling away. The last guardsman circled away from Martil nervously, who had no intention of letting him run. A feeble thrust was blocked, then Martil rammed both swords into the man’s stomach.
He let the wooden swords drop and turned away to see the rest of the men gazing at the three big men rolling around on the ground. The hunters and militia were grinning, while the rest of the guardsmen just looked shocked.
`We’ll let those three recover a little before they go on their run,’ he announced. `But I hope a lesson has been learned by you guardsmen. The three men you have been listening to could not even lay a sword on one man. If they fight like that against Gello’s men, they would all be dead now. Something to think about next time I advise you how to stay alive.’
And after that, they did listen, even Rocus.
Martil worked them hard, trying to get their fitness up first. The hunters excelled here, making the other two groups look foolish on the runs, while the guardsmen were left floundering even on the forced marches.
The guardsmen had initially laughed at the militia when they had been introduced to sword use. The militiamen were more inclined to use their swords like clubs, and Martil had to instruct them in basic sword use. But when it came to combat exercises, the militia took great delight in beating the guardsmen, their experience in fighting obvious compared to their ponderous opponents, who seemed to be in slow motion most of the time.
But although they were the group that finished last most often, the guardsmen had a stubborn pride, and held themselves to be above the others. This was of particular concern to Martil. Not only did he expect the guardsmen to be his main strike force, but their attitude threatened to fragment the small army. He had to work doubly hard to make them see how they all had to rely on each other. The Queen and the Dragon Sword, as well as the presence of Count Sendric, these were enough to secure their loyalty. All these men knew what was at stake - they had been told to bring their families along, in case of reprisals. But Martil felt they were not truly behind the cause. He was a Ralloran, and they were not ready to die for him. Not yet.
Of course there were other problems.
Meanwhile he had the time to not just work on Sirron and his farm boys, but also the other men. They had performed well from ambush and had stood their ground as the archers destroyed a small band of cavalry but Martil knew the next time they fought, it would be against a full squadron of cavalry, enough men so it would come down to a stand-up fight.
The men were ordered to wear hauberks, the heavy chain mail shirts of small, inter-connected rings over a thick leather coat. Some were second-hand, most of these had arrow holes in them, crudely patched, while naturally the guardsmen’s ones looked impeccable. Martil could see how the farm boys were struggling in the heavy coats. While a hauberk did not restrict your movement initially, the weight would grow progressively heavier. Even the fittest of men, after an hour of fighting in one, would be exhausted. Then he made them take up shields, and spears. Every man looked unfamiliar with these but Martil knew this was the weaponry that would keep them alive when fighting cavalry.
He drilled them hard, teaching them the basics of spear fighting, keeping them at it until their right arms were too tired to even lift the heavy spears any more and they were heartily sick of practising the same strokes, up at a cavalryman, down at an infantryman, and the thrust from the second row of a shield wall into your enemy‘s front line. He fretted that the training was nowhere near enough but knew he did not have much time so, as quickly as he dared, he went to the next stage.
`A shield wall only succeeds while the men in it have courage and heart,’ Martil told them. `But if you do not have trust in each other, if you fear for your own safety, it will crack like an egg. Stay together and live. Try to run and you die. Understand?’
They nodded at him but Martil was not convinced. They would have to see it to feel how effective it could be.
He formed them into three ranks, the guardsmen at the front and sides, the farm boys at the back and the militia in the middle. The guardsmen dropped to one knee, shields rammed into the ground, spears pointing upwards. The militia stood close behind them, shields held high to protect both themselves and the guardsmen, spears also held high. The farm boys were close behind them, bracing the militia and supporting the spears. He rode along the front of the wall then, showing them how no horse would charge home into a tightly packed wall of spears.
He took one of the captured heavy cavalry horses, a huge beast, and spurred it at the line. He knew that, to the men in the front row, it was a daunting sight. But even the trained warhorse would not press home the charge and veered away from the massed iron points.
`A man on a horse needs four feet of room to ride and swing his sword. A man with a shield and spear needs only two feet! So each trooper is riding down a corridor that ends in three ranks of two spears - that’s six spears to each horseman!‘
He saw they were gradually getting the idea, so he let them feel confident, then moved onto the next stage.
`I need three volunteers!’
He ignored Sirron and the other farm boys, instead selecting three guardsmen. These were ordered to put down their spears and link shields instead.
`Look impressive, don’t they?” Martil said, pointing to the three big men, standing tall in their hauberks, shields held confidently, overlapping each other on the left-hand side to present an impenetrable wall.
He bent down and picked up a shield himself.
`Lads, all you have to do is hold your line,’ he told them, then broke into a run.
The three men tensed, the man in the middle crouching slightly to try and take the expected impact, but at the last second Martil turned and smashed into the man to his left. The guardsman took a step backwards to keep his footing and Martil spun, using both his speed and the momentum of the turn to crash into the man on his right, who was unable to brace himself properly. The force jolted him back into the last man and the two of them stumbled backwards, the man on the right going down.
Martil threw down the shield he was carrying. `This shield wall is dead. Every man who was within it is dead,’ he said conversationally. `Now, let Sirron and his boys come forward.’
The farm boys walked out awkwardly, looking uncomfortable in their armour. One of the younger ones stumbled over another‘s spear, drawing a jeer from the guardsmen.
`Your lives depend on these men,’ Martil snapped. `Doubtless they would find the sight of you trying to milk a cow equally amusing.’
Abashed, the guardsmen fell silent. It was a start but Martil decided he had to make the farm boys win the respect of the others.
`For the next exercise, I will need three guardsmen. If they can break open a shield wall, they get a bottle of brandy to share.’
A howl of protest rose up from the ranks of the men.
`Don’t think that’s fair? Well, how about this. If they can break the shield wall, you all get a barrel of wine to share. But if they can’t, you have to cook dinner for the farm boys tonight. Agreed?’
Martil looked over to where Wime was talking quickly to Rocus, but the tall guardsman waved him away and shouted his agreement.
Grinning, Martil formed the eight farm boys into three ranks, with himself in the very centre. Quickly he showed the others how to brace the rank in front of them by putting their shoulder in the middle of the man’s back, and the feet behind the man’s heels. He showed them how to overlap their shields, to make an unbroken wall. He also instructed the front row to crouch down as the guardsmen approached, then push upwards with the shield at the last moment, so they had some momentum when the two sides met.
`A shield wall is a fearsome thing. You are closer to the men you are killing than you are to the woman in your bed. But stand firm. It is the side that blinks first who dies,’ he told them. `The front row just needs good nerves and strong arms. The second row is where the shield wall is won.‘
Meanwhile Rocus had selected his three biggest men and was telling them to charge in hard.
`Remember to push back hard, and we’ll dine well tonight,’ Martil told them.
The three guardsmen raced in, not at full speed but at a good pace, sensibly sacrificing speed so they could stay together.
`Crouch now, push up when I tell you. The rest of you, get ready to hold hard,’ Martil snapped. `Brace them!’
The guardsmen yelled as they ran the last few yards and Martil bellowed at Sirron and his two brothers to rise. The three farm boys crouched, then pushed themselves up as hard as they could, just as the guardsmen arrived. Shields clashed on shields but the force of the guardsmen’s charge would have bowled the farm boys over, except it was transferred into Martil and the men beside him, and to the ones behind them. The second rank held the first, and the third held them, absorbing the force of the charge. The line bowed but stayed as one.
`Push!’ Martil yelled, shoving Sirron as hard as he could so the farm boy straightened and began heaving back at the guardsmen.
Even in the second row, Martil could smell the breath of the guardsman pushing hard at Sirron. The two were shield to shield, hard against each other. In a real battle, they would be too close to use even a short sword, which was where the second row came in. They had room to swing a blade, attacking the head of the enemy’s front line. Of course your enemy’s second line would be doing the same thing, so you also needed to protect the man in front of you with your shield. It was brutal, fearsome work. Made more so when your enemy used tricks like giant axemen to break your line before their shield wall struck.
`Heave!’ Martil roared, and felt the farm boy behind him force him forwards. He used that momentum to propel Sirron forwards. But the guardsman facing him had nobody behind him to prop him up. The three guardsmen stood for a few moments more before the transfer of momentum saw them pushed backwards, to stumble and fall.
Stunned silence greeted the sight of the three men on the floor, then the farm boys cheered each other, and were quickly joined by the militia, who always enjoyed seeing guardsmen humbled.
Martil dropped his shield and wiped his face. His left shoulder and arm ached, while his back was also tender from having a shoulder stuck in it, but thanks to the armour and the padding underneath, he doubted he would have much more than a small bruise.
`I hope you were all paying attention,’ he told them. `You just saw a bunch of farm boys, who are only just learning how to use their swords, defeat three of your best men. That is the power of the shield wall. It will help you survive in battle as long as you are prepared to stand strong. But if it is broken, you are all dead. Remember that.’
He formed them into a shield wall, and had men take turns standing in each row, as well as joining him in running at the shield wall and forcing it to stand firm to repel them. By the end of the day, the men were exhausted, but Martil felt they all had a better idea of what they would need to do. He had been pleased to see men, not just Wime and Rocus, calling out encouragement to each other, and telling each other to hold hard, or push back. They were not ready to take on a rival shield wall, but he felt they could probably stand up to one charge of cavalry.
Martil made sure the farm boys were to receive their reward - being waited on by the militia as the guardsmen peeled vegetables and roasted meat. One advantage of having farmers in camp was they had brought bags of seeds with them. But the biggest advantage, of course, was having Karia and Barrett, who could make vegetables grow overnight. Martil had the guardsmen clean the armour, just to reinforce the punishment for losing.
`I told you he never makes offers like that unless he is sure he’s going to win,‘ he overheard Wime tell Rocus, which brought a smile to his face. He then washed quickly in the cold stream and went to find Karia.
More DVD extras
For those who have read the earlier posts, there was a fair bit of The Wounded Guardian that ended up on the (metaphorically speaking) cutting room floor. Sometimes this was for the best, sometimes things just had to go because there was plenty of ambushes/fighting already and I have a word count deadline to meet!
Anyway, here's another sequence that appeared only in a truncated form...
MARTIL looked down on the approaching convoy and prepared to give the signal to attack. Until now everything had gone perfectly. The men, hardened by Martil’s training, had performed well on the march. Not that it had been as tough as a normal march. Thanks to Barrett, their progress was swift, with the woods opening up into a trail for them. They had reached Conil’s ambush position easily and Barrett had prepared the trap by spreading sticks across the road and using the same magic technique on them he had employed to guard his house. Anyone who walked over the sticks would be instantly entangled. Martil was a little hesitant about entrusting such an important element of the ambush to some flimsy sticks, but he had seen enough of Barrett’s work not to challenge him on this.
Then the three groups had taken up their positions and it was just a matter of waiting for Havrick’s supply convoy to arrive. Even that proved ridiculously easy. Barrett used birds to report back to him regularly, so they knew roughly how long to wait, and could eat a hot meal and have the fires doused long before they could be seen.
The convoy was impressively large, more than a score of heavily-laden wagons, with a corresponding number of light cavalry as the escort. Martil had been hoping for just a dozen men, but with the advantage of surprise, he was confident they could handle the few extra. He had decided to wait with Rocus’s men. Partly because if the charge was not broken by Tarik’s archers, the Dragon Sword would be of most use there. But mostly because he did not trust Rocus to follow the plan. The man might just do something foolish, like charging in and demanding a fair fight. Barrett was with Tarik, where he could best use his magic. And because it would be better for him to save his powers. As Martil had reminded them all, just taking the convoy was not enough. They had to get the supplies back to the caves as well.
`Almost there,’ he said to himself, as the lead riders of the escort rode up to the first of the sticks.
The cavalry, as Martil had hoped, were talking amongst themselves, looking around and generally behaving as if they were out for a gentle ride. No doubt they were thoroughly bored by the slow trip north but Martil found himself hoping their officer was killed in the attack. Gello would no doubt exact a dreadful punishment if the man returned alive to tell of a looted convoy.
For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Two riders were sent flying as Barrett’s sticks worked their magic, and the officer woke up enough to start yelling at the others to stay back. In a moment the convoy had ground to a halt.
`Forward!’ Martil raised his arm and led the guardsmen up and onto the road, where they swiftly formed two ranks.
The cavalry officer saw the armoured men blocking the road and screamed at his troopers to form up for the charge. But in the confusion, more men fell as Barrett’s traps struck, and while two of them were able to remount, there were three horses left writhing on the ground with broken legs.
`Steady, lads,’ Martil told the guardsmen, as they shifted nervously. They did not have spears, and infantry without spears was always vulnerable to cavalry. `Hold your line!’
It seemed to take a long while, but finally the cavalry escort was past the traps and moving into the canter.
`Charge!’ their officer screamed.
`Now, Tarik,’ Martil muttered.
It was essential he wait until the horses worked up some speed, because that would mean even one horse falling would disrupt the charge.
Almost as soon as Martil said it, Tarik and his archers stood and began loosing arrows as fast as they could down on the cavalry. For expert archers, men who expected to put nine arrows out of ten into a bullseye at 80 paces, a man on a horse at half that distance was too easy. Each arrow was the length of a man’s arm, tipped by a needle-like steel head the length of a man’s finger. They hissed as they flew, and the sound as they drove through armour and flesh reminded Martil of the time he had dropped a full winesack from a battlement onto the stones below.
Men and horses screamed and fell, as the charge dissolved into chaos. Tarik’s men had deliberately aimed at the front rank of the cavalry; as they fell, they brought down the men behind. As the riders at the rear desperately tried to avoid being thrown, they were picked off as well.
Now Wime led his militia in among the wagons, dragging the shocked wagoners down and clubbing any that tried to fight back.
`Forward!‘ Martil led the guardsmen down the road but he could see there was almost no need to draw his sword. Each archer had loosed perhaps 10 arrows, and every one of those had been aimed. That meant every trooper had had more than six aimed arrows sent at him, at a range where the hunters did not miss.
It was almost a miracle the lot were not dead, Martil reflected.
`I want one of your squads to put those horses out of their misery, then round up any that can be ridden,‘ he ordered Rocus. `We need this road open so we can use it. I want the other squad to gather up the cavalry’s wounded. Strip them of any weapons and armour we can use. Remember, we are going be arming farmers and merchants, so any armour is better than none.‘
Every man who had charged was dead or wounded; the only unharmed survivors from the escort were the three men whose horses had been brought down by Barrett’s traps. They stood, dazed by the brutal slaughter of their fellows, until Wime took their weapons and made them lie on the ground.
`Quickly now! We must get as far away as possible today,’ Martil urged the men on.
There was much to do. Some of the draught horses were used to drag dead cavalry horses out of the way, while Wime and Martil went through the wagons, deciding what they would keep, and what they would destroy.
The convoy had everything Martil had hoped for - and more. There were thousands of arrows in sheaves, scores of shields and swords, as well as barrels of spears and racks of axes. There were two wagons alone filled with thick, boiled leather jerkins, nowhere as good as mail hauberks but still solid enough to stop most sword strokes.
Then there was the food. Wagon upon wagon piled high with bags of corn for the horses, as well as twice-baked bread and dried meat for the men. Enough to keep a force in the field for months.
`We’ll take the five wagons filled with weapons and one filled with food, then burn the rest. Tarik, you’ll stay behind with half your men. Give us until nightfall - or until you see someone - then burn the wagons and follow us as fast as you can,’ Martil decided.
`Shouldn‘t we take more food, sir?’ Rocus asked.
`Arms and armour are more important. We can always get food from farms, if we need. But we can’t get weapons anywhere else. We’ll also take every horse we can to help us.’
It was hard work, but they were able to roll out of the ambush site only a couple of hours after the first arrows had flown. Thanks to Barrett‘s magical abilities, where he made the trees shuffle aside to form a trail, they took the wagons deep into the woods, until they reached slopes that could take horses, but not wagons. Here they unhitched the draught horses and loaded them up with as much as they could carry, then loaded every other horse they had brought along. The men took as much as they could, then the remaining items were just left. There was not much, just a handful of leather jerkins, a few bags of the bread and some sheaves of arrows. Each wagon had had four horses, and another five cavalry horses had been lightly wounded, and were able to be pressed into service.
Even so, it was going to be a slow walk back to the caves. And so it proved. Tarik and his men caught up with them after dark, sweating, smelling faintly of smoke and all wearing a jerkin of the leather armour and carrying sheaves of arrows.
`We waited as long as could, but saw the dust of some travellers behind. So we torched the wagons and ran to catch up. Havrick’s trackers are going to get a shock,‘ Tarik smiled.
Martil found the breath to laugh, although he was wearing two of the jerkins and carrying four spears over his shoulder. Barrett’s trail, which he had forced through the woods, was closing behind them, so Havrick’s men would find five wagons in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees, with no possible way in or out.
It was a hard walk, and a long walk, but the easy victory had them all laughing. And the reaction when they arrived back was even better.
Anyway, here's another sequence that appeared only in a truncated form...
MARTIL looked down on the approaching convoy and prepared to give the signal to attack. Until now everything had gone perfectly. The men, hardened by Martil’s training, had performed well on the march. Not that it had been as tough as a normal march. Thanks to Barrett, their progress was swift, with the woods opening up into a trail for them. They had reached Conil’s ambush position easily and Barrett had prepared the trap by spreading sticks across the road and using the same magic technique on them he had employed to guard his house. Anyone who walked over the sticks would be instantly entangled. Martil was a little hesitant about entrusting such an important element of the ambush to some flimsy sticks, but he had seen enough of Barrett’s work not to challenge him on this.
Then the three groups had taken up their positions and it was just a matter of waiting for Havrick’s supply convoy to arrive. Even that proved ridiculously easy. Barrett used birds to report back to him regularly, so they knew roughly how long to wait, and could eat a hot meal and have the fires doused long before they could be seen.
The convoy was impressively large, more than a score of heavily-laden wagons, with a corresponding number of light cavalry as the escort. Martil had been hoping for just a dozen men, but with the advantage of surprise, he was confident they could handle the few extra. He had decided to wait with Rocus’s men. Partly because if the charge was not broken by Tarik’s archers, the Dragon Sword would be of most use there. But mostly because he did not trust Rocus to follow the plan. The man might just do something foolish, like charging in and demanding a fair fight. Barrett was with Tarik, where he could best use his magic. And because it would be better for him to save his powers. As Martil had reminded them all, just taking the convoy was not enough. They had to get the supplies back to the caves as well.
`Almost there,’ he said to himself, as the lead riders of the escort rode up to the first of the sticks.
The cavalry, as Martil had hoped, were talking amongst themselves, looking around and generally behaving as if they were out for a gentle ride. No doubt they were thoroughly bored by the slow trip north but Martil found himself hoping their officer was killed in the attack. Gello would no doubt exact a dreadful punishment if the man returned alive to tell of a looted convoy.
For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Two riders were sent flying as Barrett’s sticks worked their magic, and the officer woke up enough to start yelling at the others to stay back. In a moment the convoy had ground to a halt.
`Forward!’ Martil raised his arm and led the guardsmen up and onto the road, where they swiftly formed two ranks.
The cavalry officer saw the armoured men blocking the road and screamed at his troopers to form up for the charge. But in the confusion, more men fell as Barrett’s traps struck, and while two of them were able to remount, there were three horses left writhing on the ground with broken legs.
`Steady, lads,’ Martil told the guardsmen, as they shifted nervously. They did not have spears, and infantry without spears was always vulnerable to cavalry. `Hold your line!’
It seemed to take a long while, but finally the cavalry escort was past the traps and moving into the canter.
`Charge!’ their officer screamed.
`Now, Tarik,’ Martil muttered.
It was essential he wait until the horses worked up some speed, because that would mean even one horse falling would disrupt the charge.
Almost as soon as Martil said it, Tarik and his archers stood and began loosing arrows as fast as they could down on the cavalry. For expert archers, men who expected to put nine arrows out of ten into a bullseye at 80 paces, a man on a horse at half that distance was too easy. Each arrow was the length of a man’s arm, tipped by a needle-like steel head the length of a man’s finger. They hissed as they flew, and the sound as they drove through armour and flesh reminded Martil of the time he had dropped a full winesack from a battlement onto the stones below.
Men and horses screamed and fell, as the charge dissolved into chaos. Tarik’s men had deliberately aimed at the front rank of the cavalry; as they fell, they brought down the men behind. As the riders at the rear desperately tried to avoid being thrown, they were picked off as well.
Now Wime led his militia in among the wagons, dragging the shocked wagoners down and clubbing any that tried to fight back.
`Forward!‘ Martil led the guardsmen down the road but he could see there was almost no need to draw his sword. Each archer had loosed perhaps 10 arrows, and every one of those had been aimed. That meant every trooper had had more than six aimed arrows sent at him, at a range where the hunters did not miss.
It was almost a miracle the lot were not dead, Martil reflected.
`I want one of your squads to put those horses out of their misery, then round up any that can be ridden,‘ he ordered Rocus. `We need this road open so we can use it. I want the other squad to gather up the cavalry’s wounded. Strip them of any weapons and armour we can use. Remember, we are going be arming farmers and merchants, so any armour is better than none.‘
Every man who had charged was dead or wounded; the only unharmed survivors from the escort were the three men whose horses had been brought down by Barrett’s traps. They stood, dazed by the brutal slaughter of their fellows, until Wime took their weapons and made them lie on the ground.
`Quickly now! We must get as far away as possible today,’ Martil urged the men on.
There was much to do. Some of the draught horses were used to drag dead cavalry horses out of the way, while Wime and Martil went through the wagons, deciding what they would keep, and what they would destroy.
The convoy had everything Martil had hoped for - and more. There were thousands of arrows in sheaves, scores of shields and swords, as well as barrels of spears and racks of axes. There were two wagons alone filled with thick, boiled leather jerkins, nowhere as good as mail hauberks but still solid enough to stop most sword strokes.
Then there was the food. Wagon upon wagon piled high with bags of corn for the horses, as well as twice-baked bread and dried meat for the men. Enough to keep a force in the field for months.
`We’ll take the five wagons filled with weapons and one filled with food, then burn the rest. Tarik, you’ll stay behind with half your men. Give us until nightfall - or until you see someone - then burn the wagons and follow us as fast as you can,’ Martil decided.
`Shouldn‘t we take more food, sir?’ Rocus asked.
`Arms and armour are more important. We can always get food from farms, if we need. But we can’t get weapons anywhere else. We’ll also take every horse we can to help us.’
It was hard work, but they were able to roll out of the ambush site only a couple of hours after the first arrows had flown. Thanks to Barrett‘s magical abilities, where he made the trees shuffle aside to form a trail, they took the wagons deep into the woods, until they reached slopes that could take horses, but not wagons. Here they unhitched the draught horses and loaded them up with as much as they could carry, then loaded every other horse they had brought along. The men took as much as they could, then the remaining items were just left. There was not much, just a handful of leather jerkins, a few bags of the bread and some sheaves of arrows. Each wagon had had four horses, and another five cavalry horses had been lightly wounded, and were able to be pressed into service.
Even so, it was going to be a slow walk back to the caves. And so it proved. Tarik and his men caught up with them after dark, sweating, smelling faintly of smoke and all wearing a jerkin of the leather armour and carrying sheaves of arrows.
`We waited as long as could, but saw the dust of some travellers behind. So we torched the wagons and ran to catch up. Havrick’s trackers are going to get a shock,‘ Tarik smiled.
Martil found the breath to laugh, although he was wearing two of the jerkins and carrying four spears over his shoulder. Barrett’s trail, which he had forced through the woods, was closing behind them, so Havrick’s men would find five wagons in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees, with no possible way in or out.
It was a hard walk, and a long walk, but the easy victory had them all laughing. And the reaction when they arrived back was even better.
Final blurb for The Risen Queen!
Here it is, the final blurb for The Risen Queen.
And I have had it confirmed that it will be in the shops on December 15, although bookstores will be flat out around that time, so you may have to ask them nicely to unpack it for you!
Martil and his Rallorans are trying to gain control of the north for Queen Merren but winning the hearts of the people is proving impossible when the bards have painted them as murderous barbarians.
King Gello the usurper is planning to lead a massive army to crush the budding rebellion but, even if a way can be found to defeat him, the Fearpriests stand ready to come to his aid…
Karia is trying to persuade Martil that she has all the answers, while Merren is considering desperate solutions to the problems facing her and Norstalos. Perhaps the vilified and despised primitive race of men to the north, that the Norstalines call ‘goblins’, might be the answer.
But on Dragonara Isle, the dragons have their own plans for Martil and particularly for the Dragon Sword…
And I have had it confirmed that it will be in the shops on December 15, although bookstores will be flat out around that time, so you may have to ask them nicely to unpack it for you!
Martil and his Rallorans are trying to gain control of the north for Queen Merren but winning the hearts of the people is proving impossible when the bards have painted them as murderous barbarians.
King Gello the usurper is planning to lead a massive army to crush the budding rebellion but, even if a way can be found to defeat him, the Fearpriests stand ready to come to his aid…
Karia is trying to persuade Martil that she has all the answers, while Merren is considering desperate solutions to the problems facing her and Norstalos. Perhaps the vilified and despised primitive race of men to the north, that the Norstalines call ‘goblins’, might be the answer.
But on Dragonara Isle, the dragons have their own plans for Martil and particularly for the Dragon Sword…
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