* * *
Deep within the billowing fog, Lord Sevrin was holding council with his Lord Marshal, Orteka. “We can not wait for this infernal fog to lift,” reasoned Lord Sevrin. “Lord Zawbry was to have started his attack yesterday. If we fail to move forward and attack the rear of the Fardale forces, we will lose too many of our Woodville soldiers.”
“I understand the need to move forward,” retorted Lord Marshal Orteka, “but we can not see where we are going. Surely the fog will lift within an hour and that small amount of time will have no bearing on the outcome of the battle.”
“And if it doesn’t lift on schedule?” queried Lord Sevrin. “Will you then request another hour? The battle is taking place quite a distance from here. I am just suggesting that we move forward slowly. Maybe we can get out of the fog and regroup.”
“Very well,” replied Lord Marshal Orteka. “I will lead the men forward myself. I don’t want to get so close to the Fardale forces that we will be noticed before we regroup.”
“Do it whichever way you want,” agreed Lord Sevrin, “just get us out of this fog.”
“As you command, My Lord,” saluted Lord Marshal Orteka.
Lord Marshal Orteka left the tent and strode over to the gathering of his Marshals. “Lord Sevrin has ordered us to proceed,” he stated. “Each of us is going to lead our own forces until we regroup outside the fog. I do not want anyone getting within sight of the Fardale Army. If this fog stretches all of the way to Woodville, we will avoid contact with the enemy until we regroup. Is that understood?”
Lord Marshal Orteka waited until each of the Marshals indicated his acknowledgement of the orders before continuing. “We will break into four units for the move forward,” he continued. “Move slowly and carefully. I do not want to hear any shouts because a man has fallen and broken his leg. Remember that sound travels far in a fog such as this. The first group to find air clear of this fog is to stop and report back to me so the rest of us can head in that direction. Do remember that this is supposed to be a surprise attack.”
The Marshals nodded and headed toward their respective units. Lord Marshal Orteka shook his head as he related the plan to his Lectains and waited patiently while they informed their Cortains. Within five minutes the Ragatha Army was on the move, creeping forward at a cautious pace. Each footstep was carefully placed and each man tried to maintain a constant distance from his neighbor. Had the fog not existed, one would have been impressed with the line of advancing men that stretched across a broad front from one side of the valley to the other.
Lord Marshal Orteka was not the type of officer who would ask his men to do something that he would not do, so he marched near the head of his troops. Only the forward scouts preceded him.
The fog appeared to be endless and the march dragged on. Lord Marshal Orteka was grateful that the Situ from Lituk Valley were not going to be involved in this battle. If he had not received assurances of their neutrality, he would have been extremely nervous with his back exposed in the thick fog. With a sigh of relief, Lord Marshal Orteka quickened his step as the brightness increased before him. Knowing he would be out of this infernal fog brightened his spirits.
Lord Marshal Orteka saw his forward scouts halt and he hurried to move toward them. As he stepped out of the fog he realized why his scouts had stopped. Arrayed before him was the entire Fardale Army with their shields reflecting the rising sun directly into his face. Lord Marshal Orteka glanced left and right to view the units of the other Marshals under his command. The fog appeared to cut off in a straight line and he saw the long line of troops extending from both his right and left sides.
For a long moment, nobody moved. Not a sound was heard from the two massed Armies facing each other. Lord Marshal Orteka’s plan of regrouping after the fog was hopeless but, still, he wielded a potent army and he had clear, numerical superiority over his enemy. Lord Marshal Orteka shouted as loud as he could. His command to charge echoed in the stillness of the valley as his men surged forward.
Lord Marshal Orteka stood his ground as his men raced past him, raced into the dazzling blindness of the sun-reflecting shields. At first, Lord Marshal Orteka mistook the screams for the cries of clashing soldiers, but he soon noticed that the Fardale Army was just standing there and not fighting. He also recognized with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that his men were not reaching the Fardale enemy. They were simply disappearing.
Lord Marshal Orteka shouted for his men to stop, but his shouts were drowned out by the mounting roar of men screaming their last breath. He finally succeeded in getting his surging troops to halt. He stopped those rushing past him and had them stop their neighbors until the rush ceased.
The Fardale soldiers remained passive and held their reflecting shields securely. Lord Marshal Orteka slowly walked forward, pushing his way through the knot of Ragatha soldiers ahead of him. When he reached the front line of his troops, he stared in horror at the wide trench before him. Extending up from the base of the trench were sharpened sticks and the bodies of his Ragatha soldiers were impaled upon those sticks. He surveyed the moat of destruction with a mixture of disgust and fear. Looking to his right and his left, Lord Marshal Orteka saw that the trench extended to the limits of his sight. Far off to his left, he continued to hear the screams of soldiers falling into the trench and silently cursed the Marshal in charge of those men for allowing his men to continue forward.
The voice Lord Marshal Orteka heard could have come from someone standing next to him. “This is Lord Marak of Fardale speaking,” the voice stated simply. “I demand the surrender of your forces. I have no wish to inflict more carnage upon your men. Surrender now and your men will be accepted into our fold.”
Lord Marshal Orteka straightened and peered into the opposing forces. A tall, muscular, black clad man stood defiantly on the other side of the trench staring back at him. Cocking his head, Lord Marshal Orteka wondered if the black specter was the origin of the voice. The man did not wear the green and yellow of the Situ Clan like the rest of the soldiers across from him. He watched the black nightmare across from him and saw his lips move as the voice continued.
“Why subject your men to a needless death?” whispered the voice. “Woodville will not be coming to your aid. Lord Zawbry has already submitted and Woodville is mine. Throw down your weapons and surrender.”
Lord Marshal Orteka scowled at the enemy and shouted an order for his archers to kill the man in black. Scores of arrows arched into the air towards the enemy line. Lord Marshal Orteka watched with a wicked grin upon his face. If the black clad fool thought his army was defeated because there was a trench between him and his enemy, he was sadly mistaken. The Ragatha Army had some of the finest archers in Khadora.
An expression of shock and disbelief illuminated Lord Marshal Orteka’s face as the arrows halted in the air and dropped into the trench. He ordered another volley and another, as the arrows continued to fall into the trench, piercing the bodies of the men who had the misfortune to lead the charge against the Fardale Army. It was not until the third volley failed to reach its target that Lord Marshal Orteka realized his hair was blowing in the stiff head wind. Cursing his luck, Lord Marshal Orteka ordered a retreat.
Before Lord Marshal Orteka reached Lord Sevrin and his personal guards, he heard the Lord’s shouting. If Lord Sevrin thought he was going to order his men forward across the trench, Lord Marshal Orteka would straighten him out. He was not going to throw away the lives of his men filling a trench for others to walk across.
“There you are,” shouted Lord Sevrin. “What is going on? Why are your men retreating?”