It was hard for the prince to stay calm, but he managed it. He wanted nothing more than to be in the middle of the shield wall, fighting shoulder to shoulder with men he trusted, but he couldn’t fight on the front lines and direct the army. He waited, watching the mounted cavalry far across the plain. Suddenly a large group of horsemen turned their horses and rode back into their camp. Prince Wilam could only hope it was to stop the troops who were harrying the supply train and reserve troops. He doubted that King Zorlan could lead effectively while being attacked from the front and the rear.
“Archers,” Wilam said.
An aide beside him began waving colored flags to signal the appropriate group. Wilam had 200 longbow men. They were not marksmen in the traditional sense-instead they were trained to fire at specific distances. By firing large volleys they could rain down death on an enemy while staying out of reach at the same time.
“Two hundred yards,” Wilam ordered. “Fire away.”
The aide waved more flags, and Wilam watched as a volley of arrows whistled into the air. Marching troops used shields to keep the arrows from falling on them, but unless they stopped and knelt down, they would be at least partially exposed. The arrows were costly, and firing volleys of 200 arrows at once used up great numbers of them in a short amount of time. Still, it caused the invading troops to huddle together, their officers barking at them to maintain their ranks and pace. The invaders inevitably slowed, and they were forced to carry their heavy shields over their heads. As the arrows rained down a few men were wounded. The casualties were negligible but the Ortisan soldiers cheered anyway.
Zollin saw that the cavalry troops returned to their position, but he knew his men would keep moving, keep hitting the enemy in different locations before retreating again. He hoped it would keep King Zorlan and his generals occupied.
“One hundred yards,” he ordered the aide, who signaled the command.
When the latest volley of arrows went up, a horn blew and the invaders charged. They screamed their battle cry as they dashed forward. The volley of arrows caught a few, but most flew over the heads of the invaders. They were no longer in straight, even rows. It was another tactic intended to save the invaders from the threat of the arrows and also give them a chance at using the force of their charge to break Wilam’s shield wall.
As a commander on the field, Wilam had always welcomed the test of his shield wall. He trained his men relentlessly and knew without a doubt what they could withstand. Now, leading an army of foreigners, he stood at the rail of his platform, leaning forward eagerly to see how his troops would hold up.
The clash of the two armies was like thunder at first, the crack of shield against shield, then swords against shields, and finally the cries of rage, fear, and pain. The sounds rolled across the plain and made Wilam’s blood run hot. For a brief moment he had no regard for anything else, not even his queen. But then his line staggered back and the shield wall became a mass all its own, straining and heaving as the two armies pushed against each other.
Wilam frowned. He didn’t have the resources to sway the conflict-success now rested on the soldiers who were fighting on the ground. For several minutes the line swayed, like water sloshing in a bucket, first one way, then another, but soon it was obvious the two forces were deadlocked. It would take hours, perhaps days for the foot soldiers to gain an advantage. And then King Zorlan did something Wilam had expected, but couldn’t adequately counter. The Falxisian king sent his cavalry to both ends of the Ortisian lines. Zollin had already positioned his own mounted troops on either end of the battle line, but his cavalry were outnumbered four to one.
Wilam had hoped that his small force attacking King Zorlan’s forces from the rear would force the invaders to keep a larger number of troops in reserve, but it hadn’t worked. Either Zorlan had more nerve than Wilam had thought, or the invading king had anticipated Wilam’s tactics. By dividing his forces, Wilam was now at a disadvantage, with no foreseeable way to counter the invader’s tactics.
“Sir, the enemy cavalry are moving to attack,” Wilam’s aide said.
“I see that, fool. Don’t speak unless you are ordered to do so.”
“Yes, sir,” said the aide, rigidly.
“Order one century of archers to each flank. I want them moving at a run!”
The aide didn’t answer-he just turned and waved his flags again. Wilam was tense as he watched the archers move. He knew the bowmen stood no chance once the cavalry reached them-they would be cut down like winter wheat before a farmer’s scythe-but if they could get to the edge of the battle in time, they could fire at the enemy’s horses.
“Order them to fire at will once they reach the edge of the line,” Wilam said, his voice loud.
It took almost a full minute for the bowmen to get into position and fire. By that time, the enemy cavalry were at full gallop. The archers fired sporadically, many missing their targets. It took a direct hit to bring down the warhorses; the others would carry their riders until they dropped dead. Wilam saw a few of the riders stumble and fall, but most continued through the fray. The Ortisan officers leading the cavalry on the right side of the line moved forward and engaged the enemy. They were outnumbered and their chances for success were slim, but they spared the archers from the brunt of the enemy’s attack and allowed the bowmen time to pull back and offer support from a position of safety.
The officer on the left end of the shield wall was not so wise. He ordered his force to wheel, turning away from the action, which spared his cavalry from the brunt of the invader’s charge but left the archers exposed. The officer must have expected the enemy to follow his mounted troops away from the battle, but instead they cut down the archers and turned to flank the line of foot soldiers. The cavalry tried to re-engage, but the damage was done. The shield wall broke on the left side of the line-men were cut down or deserted their comrades in order to retreat. Wilam cursed as he watched his line falter and break. It moved down the line of soldiers from left to right, like a wave, until there was only a jumbled mass of humanity.
“Sound the retreat,” Wilam said bitterly.
The aide waved his flags and trumpets blew. It was a sickening sound to Wilam. His plans had been thwarted, and now his hopes for winning Gwendolyn’s affections were lost. His only hope would be to retreat back to the Grand City and take cover behind the city’s massive walls.
He didn’t wait to see the final outcome, but climbed down from his platform and mounted his horse. Men were beginning to run past him, terror on their faces. He despised them. They should have stayed and fought for their queen, he thought. They should have given their lives, to the last man, but instead they had deserted the field of battle, and many would not fall back to their camp but would instead flee. His force, defeated in battle, would be reduced further by their cowardice, and King Zorlan’s army would now be bolstered by success on the battlefield.
“Fall back,” he shouted. “Fall back to the camp.”
It was almost dark by the time they began their retreat in earnest. They had lost over half their force, including all but a handful of the archers and cavalry. They abandoned their supplies, carrying only their weapons as they marched through the night. The camp, Wilam hoped, would be enough of a distraction to the invaders to buy them some time to distance themselves. The invaders would loot the camp and celebrate their victory while Prince Wilam limped home.