*
The hiss of arrows and bolts thinned, before finally ebbing into silence. The burst of malignant rain had claimed few additional lives, as the bulk of the Saxan defenders were over the top of the ridge, and those in the front had steadfastly kept their shields overlapped. Though only a handful had been killed or wounded, the stillness beyond the line of Avanoran archers and crossbowmen below was discomforting, filled with dire omen.
The expected resumption of the enemy’s frontal assault was then unleashed. Several faint cries cascaded down from the skies far above the Saxans. Looking up with an expression of helpless frustration, Aethelstan watched the Harrak-mounted scouts circling lower, their movements imbued with venomous purpose.
The cries were followed by several horn signals, a portion coming from the ground level, and others coming from the skyward riders above. Aethelstan could do nothing to stop the aerial scouts, though he knew fully well that they were conveying word of his force’s disposition, and their arrangement along the ridge-top.
“Ready yourselves!” Aethelstan shouted out at the top of his lungs.
The higher-ranking thanes up and down the lines cried out to their men in turn, from the more veteran and hardened warriors in the front, to the slingers, archers, and more lightly-armed, general levy members massed at the rear.
A clamorous, challenging roar broke out from the Avanorans as they emerged into view, marching in a broad, deep line that reached the base of the hill and started up its slope. Well-equipped foot soldiers strode alongside dismounted knights, in a mass of fighters that as a whole was larger, more skilled, and much better-equipped than were the Saxan defenders awaiting them.
Aethelstan knew that the enemy was throwing the full weight of their numbers against the defenders, who were bereft of surprises of their own. It was going to be a contest of sheer force, in which the enemy would seek to bludgeon and pound the defenders with overwhelming strength.
When the assaulting ranks had proceeded a third of the way up the slope, the order to loose missiles was given to the Saxan ranks. Stones, arrows, and javelins were sent streaking towards the enemy, over the shield wall. Arcing downward, the missiles riddled the dense, oncoming ranks. Many Avanorans fell, but the stalwart knights spurred the infantry around them onwards, with fiery, harsh shouts.
The short-lived torrent of missiles quickly slowed to a trickle, as quivers were emptied, and the sorely depleted stocks of javelins and other throwing weapons were drained to the last drop. The gap between the two lines shrank, until it was closed with the ear-splitting din of clashing steel, throaty cries, and cracking timber, as the two sides slammed together once again. Aethelstan, with a sword in his right hand, and a shield in his left, cried out words of encouragement to his men.
The thick mass of spears, slashing swords, and whipping axes mixed with the yells and screams of men, as they fought with fury and died in agony. Aethelstan braced himself as an Avanoran knight brought his sword crashing down upon his shield. The heavy blow reverberated throughout his body, spraying wood shards and splinters out from the area of impact. Reacting, Aethelstan lunged forward with his shield, putting his entire body weight into the movement, and smashing the iron shield boss directly into his opponent’s face.
The stunned, bloodied knight did not even see the sword slashing down from above, the broad, heavy blade as much a crushing weapon as a cutting one. The enemy fighter fell to the ground, slain instantly by the sundering blow.
Frenzied horn calls erupted from the bottom of the slope, and the attacking line began to pull backwards. Aethelstan was caught up in the surge, as the Saxan line pressed forward to seize the momentum, hacking and stabbing at the retreating Avanoran force. A vigorous cry erupted from the Saxans up and down the line.
“Hold! Hold!” Aethelstan shouted with all of the energy he could muster, seeing the Avanorans trying to employ yet another feigned flight. “Hold the line!”
Though in the blistering heat of battle, the greater thanes were not so consumed as to ignore Aethelstan’s order. They saw an enemy that was turning back, exposed and vulnerable, but they also remembered the last feints attempted by the Avanorans. Many of them did not need Aethelstan’s warning, recognizing the tactic themselves.
As expected, the enemy warriors did not go very far, reforming their lines at the bottom of the slope, as a new volley of arrows arched overhead. A flock of crossbow bolts then sped up the slope towards the front of the Saxan ranks.
The Saxan archers had almost nothing left to answer with, and the thanes had to command the defenders to absorb the volley without a response. A tense pause ensued, followed by a few energetic horn blasts, and then the ground rumbled.
A line of mounted warriors cantered up behind the Avanoran infantry, and immediately began to ascend the ridge. Knights and sergeants alike proceeded towards the Saxans, lances lowered with points extended well in front. With so very few arrows or other missiles left to the Saxans, Aethelstan then understood that the broad assault by the men on foot had not been a feint as before. It had been conducted to exhaust the Saxans’ diminished supply of missiles, for the moment now at hand.
The mounted Avanorans brought their lances to bear upon the Saxan shields, as their horses dug their hooves in, pressing their power and weight forward. The Saxans were already worn down, and many were thrown back in the ensuing moments, stumbling or falling haphazardly as they were overpowered by the robust stallions. The mounted knights and sergeants were not yet striking at the Saxans, but instead using the considerable strength of the horses to shove and jostle the men of the shield wall back, creating gaps in the defensive line.
The effort did not come without cost, as some of the Saxan household guards wielded their long, deadly broad axes against the enemy’s steeds. The axes were swung with such force that one blow could decapitate a warhorse, and the grisly reality of that capability was demonstrated more than once, as the Avanorans prodded their way into the Saxan lines.
Aethelstan agilely stepped down the line, quickly working his way down to where one such breach was being opened. He rushed in to strike at an Avanoran rider who was delving deeper into the Saxan ranks. With a blurring, slashing stroke, Aethelstan slew the warrior before he even was aware of the thane’s presence.
Ducking, Aethelstan avoided the blow of a cleaving axe, before reflexively driving his sword upward, skewering a second horseman with a vicious thrust into the exposed part of his face that was left unprotected by his nasal guard. To his dismay, several more of the Avanorans had pushed through the widening opening, and were now fighting just behind him.
The thick scents of horses, and the sounds of their neighs and snorts, filled the air. The former mixed with the noxious odors of grievously wounded men, such as a young Saxan who had been disemboweled right by Aethelstan’s side. The progress of the mounted fighters forged a larger path for others to follow, like rivulets of water breaking through a weakening dam.
With a brief glance, Aethelstan saw that several foot soldiers were pouring through the breach, as well as a few other horsemen that had been able to maneuver their steeds down the shield wall to reach the gap. Other enemy fighters were now turning to the sides, to vigorously beset the defenders from inside the gaps, protecting the flanks of those pushing forward.
It did not take long for him to see that the fate of the defenders was being written in stone. The war of numbers and attrition was not going to end in the Saxans’ favor, no matter how hard they fought. The sheer weight of numbers was a specter far greater than they were able to handle. It was a debilitating, but undeniable, reality. Even so, Aethelstan was determined to fight on, as were all of the Saxan fighters.
“Together!” Aethelstan shouted. “Stay together!”
Many Saxans hastened to his call, forming large pockets of defense that were not so easily overwhelmed, as the shield wall fractured, and began to collapse. Archers and slingers, wherever possible, found their way to the centers of the defensive pockets. Out of arrows and stones, they looked around for anything that they could take up and wield, beyond the single-edged seaxes that a few of them carried.
The weight of the enemy attack rapidly increased, and the spirits of the attackers were buoyed by the stark shift in momentum. Many of the pockets were completely encircled, as the battle transformed into a chaotic melee. Some Avanorans raced onward, as nothing stood between the battle lines and the non-combatants with the Saxan baggage train.
Aethelstan looked on in horror, as an Avanoran knight brutally struck down a priest in the heat of his bloodlust, felling the clergyman even as he labored to assist a wounded Saxan. As if the knight’s battle-rage was not satiated by the vicious slaying, the Avanoran brought his mace up again, bringing it crashing down upon the head of the injured, defenseless Saxan. The impact emitted a sickening crunch that made Aethelstan’s blood run cold.
As he struck down yet another enemy warrior, Aethelstan felt as if he was in the midst of a dark, terrible nightmare. It seemed as if time itself had come to a complete standstill. His eyes blazing with righteous fire, his sword flashed in the air, hewing down still another enemy fighter. Yet for every one brought down, it seemed as if two or three more rose to take their place.
Another exuberant roar filled the air of the forest, and a quick look from the edge of the ridge showed another broad mass of enemy infantry charging up the slope. Aethelstan’s heart sank even lower. The enemy commander had seen that no surprises were forthcoming, and was now committing all of his reserves to finish off the Saxans in a decisive, pulverizing blow.
It seemed as if there was no end to the swarming enemy force, and finally Aethelstan began to feel the drain of fatigue, as his body gradually wore down from the relentless fighting. His mind mercifully blocked out the situation, keeping a narrow vision focused towards the now-hopeless task at hand.
He cried out in pain as the tip of an enemy sword glanced off his tiring defenses, opening a wide gash in his arm. The searing agony and loss of blood from the wound only compounded Aethelstan’s difficulties.
His sword felt as if it grew heavier with each moment that passed, but a wellspring of resolve, bolstered by desperation and outrage, remained within him. Crying out with all of the fury that he could muster, he returned the blow with one of his own. A moment later, the Avanoran that had drawn his blood toppled to the ground lifeless.
*