The Boy From The Forest

Eric was afraid. More afraid than he had ever been in his life. In a day or so, they would be going to war. More specifically, he would be going to war. All the grizzled old veterans were standing around talking in low tones. They seemed to be talking about old comrades who had fallen in some engagement or the other.

Eric’s father, The King, was consulting with the other kings. They formed a circle in a big open space. No one was allowed within earshot.

High King Cynth Pahdeur from the Forest was waving his hand, making a point. King Beauford stood with his arms folded, looking dour. King Cumberland was angry and agitated, shifting from foot to foot. Now, King Gracias was marking on the ground with his finger. Deciding on troop placements, no doubt.

Chief Bodunk was not in the circle of kings. He waited for orders, like everyone else.

All waited. It looked like the Kings were getting things decided. It would not be long now.

General Quisling watched his army dig ditches. He’d had no warning when the monstrosity from the shining mountain told him to prepare defenses. On the spur of the moment, he decided to have them dig ditches. He was supervising to make sure there were still walkways between ditches. Now he was giving directions about staggering the walkways, so the enemy would not have a straight path to the shining mountain.

He had been a handyman at a run-down tavern. His Mother was from one tribe, and who knew about his father. He had absolutely no prospects in life. When he heard about the great shining mountain of metal, he started toward it immediately. When he got to the place he had been told, it was not there. You could tell that the grass and bushes had been squashed flat by a great force, but the mountain was gone. A passerby told him it had flown off toward the Cultivated Lands, sort of that way.

Quisling started that way. When he saw the great shining mountain, he was awed to tears. He found what looked like a door and waited there. Presently, a nightmare came out of the door. Surprisingly, it spoke his language, and Quisling offered his services. So now it was General Quisling. It mattered not to him that he was leading an army of the dregs of humanity against all the kings of the world, against all that was bright and beautiful. He was a General, that was what mattered.

“Kingdoms, report!!” The King bellowed his order from the back of Albion, his snow-white stallion. The command was relayed by heralds stationed at various points.

First, his own banner was lifted higher. The emblem of a castle with a crown above it waved in the breeze for all to see. The army of The King was ready.

Now he saw the purple and gold unicorn of King Beauford raised high. And so on for all the rest of them. They were ready.

The King drew Cumberfordtte and pointed it in the direction of the shining mountain. “Forward!” he bellowed, and started Albion off at an easy trot. The command was relayed, and the huge, unwieldy army started toward its destiny.

“General Quisling, they’re coming.” The messenger was gone as soon as he had blurted out his message.

General Quisling stepped out of his tent. It was nice to have a tent of his very own. He looked around. The messenger was running through the camp shouting, “The enemy is coming. Everybody to battle.”

Every man jack of them rose up and ran toward the dust plume marking the approach of the combined army. General Quisling had seen cattle stampedes with more organization. All the work of digging defensive trenches was for naught. After a moment, he went back to his tent and collected his weapons. He trotted after his army. They had quite a lead on him.

Eric’s mind was racing. He was riding just to the right of the King’s Guard on their cream-white stallions. It was a place of honor, but his brown horse contrasted sharply with the cream-white stallions. Eric’s father, The King was in front of everyone. His sword, Cumberfordtte, was a weapon equal to none. It would slice through absolutely anything like a hot knife through butter. Come to think of it; his shield, Ygsdryyl, would stop any blow struck against it. What if you struck Ygsdryyl with Cumberfordtte? So many questions. Eric had a nagging feeling that he had left something undone back at the Castle. But he could not remember what it was.

The Peoples’ Free Army ran toward their enemies, every man as fast as he could. At the front were young men who could run fast. They were scattered in ones and twos in front of the rest.

After that came groups of men moving at a trot. They were saving some of their strength for when they reached the enemy. They also knew the advantage of staying together.

And after these there were some fat men, waddling as fast as they could. It was said that a fat man could be slow but still very effective in battle. And last of all was a man with his right leg missing. He was moving along on crutches.

General Quisling saw all this as he came atop a small hill. He had almost caught up with the man on crutches. All of them had their backs to him, and for sure nobody was paying him any attention. When the battle started, he could catch up with his army and then he could start giving orders and lead them to victory.

The swift young men in front were the first to die. The mounted knights just ran over them. Seeing this, the larger groups moving at a trot started grouping together into larger units. They slowed to a walk, then they halted altogether and tried to form a defensive line.

General Quisling had passed the man with one leg. Now he was closing in on the fat men.

The two armies came together with a tremendous Crash!! The mounted knights formed an impenetrable wall of steel and horseflesh. The Peoples’ Free Army was poorly organized, but there were a LOT of them. They clawed at the wall of knights with spears, slings and all manner of antique swords. The noise and dust were unimaginable.

The King was in front, all by himself, wielding the great sword Cumberfordtte. A weapon like that needs to be used to the fullest extent. He was not killing as many woodlanders as he might have thought since they were running around pretty much at random. A real army would form a shield wall, which would be much easier for Cumberfordtte to cut down.

Suddenly, a wretch sprang at The King. The foul creature somehow was sitting on Albion in front of The King.

The man pulled out a dagger. It had a wavy blade, which made it look all the more wicked. With all his strength he stabbed the dagger at The King’s chest.

High Marshal Maurice deConquerer rode his black horse Sable just in back of the wall of mounted knights. As second in command, it was his place to give advice and encouragement. Lots of encouragement. None dared say that he was not actually doing any fighting. With his black horse and even blacker look on his face, he was not a man to be trifled with. The battle raged on.

The dagger stabbed at the cloak of The King. It was a very ornate expensive cloak, but I digress. Funny, the dagger did not even disturb the folds of The King’s cloak.

The man stabbed again. And again. The wavy blade bent to one side. The disheveled man grasped the handle of the dagger with both hands and stabbed down as hard as he could. The dagger crumbled to dust, and the dust blew away in a little puff of wind.

All this time, The King had been watching with a kind of bemused contempt. Maybe something like the way you would look at an annoying small dog. Now The King made a fist with his armored right hand and punched the now-daggerless man in the face. The Woodlander landed on the ground like a sack of ripe codfish. He did not get up.

Four hundred yards away, King Beauford was swinging a heavy mace at the enraged mob before him. Every time the heavy spiked ball came down, it mashed two or three of the wretches. No quarter was given. Quarter was something between civilized gentlemen meeting under the banner of chivalry. This was war, red with rage and blood.

Uh oh. The left flank was falling back under the sheer weight of numbers from the mob. Kind Beauford trotted his horse over and began to swing his mace into the mob on the left flank. After a minute or two, they were trying to get away from him. People are funny like that. With an attack from another direction, the woodlander mob began to lose its great weight of numbers. Soon, the left flank had regained its place even with the right flank.

“Grab arrow.”

“Nock.”

“Pull.”

“Release.”

“Twang!! Twang!! Twang!! Twang!!” The arrows from Mark, Ron, Casey, Brett and all the other archers soared over the line of knights and struck somewhere in the mass of humanity in front of them. The enemy was so numerous in front of the shield wall of knights that it would have been hard not to hit somebody. As long as the shield wall held, the archers were perfectly safe.

The Peoples’ Free Army did have some archers. One of their archers pulled out an arrow. With trembling hands, he fitted it to his bow and shot the arrow.

It came kind of close to Sir David. Sir David reached out and snatched the arrow from the air. Then he broke it in two and dropped the pieces on the ground. “Kind of cute.” Sir David observed.

The King held his position a few feet in front of the mounted shield wall. He was swinging Cumberfordtte with an even and steady motion. Albion kept his head down so The King could swing Cumberfordtte from one side to the other without fear of hurting his horse.

Chief Bodunk led his tribe in battle. At least he tried to. He was used to battles where there were maybe a couple dozen men involved. The noise and dust and screaming here were incomprehensible. As loud as he shouted, he could not make himself heard. On top of everything else, the men in his tribe could not hear very well.

Vincent and Norman were in the Woodland army of the High King, far on the right flank. Even that far from the center, they were getting plenty of action. Norman stuck close to Vincent. Vincent was too worked up to stay close to Norman, so Norman stayed close to him.

Randy looked up from the chaos around him. There was Vincent and his putrid little friend Norman! This was going to be fun.

“Ehyahh!!! Randy raised his rusty old sword and ran toward Vincent. He wanted Vincent so bad.

“Die!!” Randy brought his sword down as hard as he could. Norman stepped in and parried the blow. He hit Randy’s sword just hard enough to deflect the blow into the dirt. Then Vincent belatedly swung his weapon, taking off the top of Randy’s head. It was not until a few days later that Vincent realized that was his old friend Randy.

Norman felt a cold hard rage settle inside him. He hated the world and everyone in it. It felt very right. The Second Son was born to the sword. His portion was blood and destruction, where every day might be his last. Norman had never felt so alive.

Slowly but inevitably, the Peoples’ Free Army was falling back. Their main problem was that when a man saw somebody beside him die horribly, he kind of drew back so that would not happen to him. Military men would call this a lack of discipline. Others would call it survival. They were being pushed back to the defensive trenches they had dug.

General Quisling was trying to establish control over his army. There were two big warriors on the verge of panic.

“Steady men. Get up there and fight.” He sort of suggested. The bigger of the two pushed General Quisling into one of the defensive trenches. It was too deep for a man to climb out of it unaided. General Quisling sat there and fumed.

The Peoples’ Free Army fled toward the Forest, at least those that had a way clear. The Kings held their armies in a cohesive unit, not allowing them to pursue stragglers.

The Peoples’ Free Army was finished.