The Chronicle Of Eboracum IV...

Part Four – The Field of Firrs.

Men had continued arriving throughout the night to add their strength to the allied forces. Now, as Benedik surveyed the field he had chosen as their place to stand and fight, he felt a surge of pride. The rising sun burnished the soldiers below him in heroic streaks of gold and bronze. The dazzling light bounced off their polished armour, fracturing into thousands of tiny new suns.

The Council had ultimately accepted his audacious plan of attack. The western kingdoms simply did not have the luxury of time. He had been granted the captaincy of the army, yet he was fully aware of the weight of assessment that remained in the gazes of the Lords. At least now he looked more like the western prince he claimed to be. Cleanly shaven, hair cropped short and clothed in an opulent robe, the only lingering evidence of the Nomad’s previous existence was the giant’s sword strapped to his back.

The Lords were arranged across the peak of the cliff. From there they had an unbroken view of the battlefield before them. Each Lord was mounted and adjacent to a bannerman who carried their kingdom’s sigil. These beckoned in the light breeze to the forces below, a clear visual reminder of what the men fought for and what they stood to lose. Benedik tugged uncomfortably at the gold-braided neck of his robe. He understood the necessity of the spectacle but he did not feel like he belonged within it. With firm, impatient fingers he unfastened the laces of his robe. Shrugging the heavy purple cloth from his shoulders it carelessly folded itself on the ground.

“Right. Give me that.” He ordered tersely to his startled bannerman. He lifted his father’s sigil easily, controlling the restlessness of his horse with a single capable hand on the reins. As they turned about he caught the shrewd glance of Lord Tobin. There was both consent and respect in the old man’s swift nod. Benedik would never be content to be a mere symbol. Men were going to spill their blood today because he had ordered that it ought to be so. The least he could do was go down there and spill his own beside them.

By the time he had descended from the rocky outcrop to reach the Field of Firrs, the battle had begun in earnest. He found himself trapped in the midst of intense fighting. Drawing his sword he hacked at the infantry that swarmed around him. From the benefit of his higher angle he could cut down at their exposed necks, but equally they could strike out at his more vulnerable mount. Spurring his horse forward he used the momentum to knock aside the remaining men and force a path toward the front line.

When he finally reached the vanguard of the allied army he punched his father’s sigil into the soil and dismounted to stand beside it. He handed the reins to the first injured man who crossed his path, his focus never shifting from the attacking Wallachians. He could feel the stares of men from both sides upon him. Taking advantage of their awareness he made a rousing call.

“For my father! For Eboracum!” It was as much an introduction as it was a battle-cry. Benedik was satisfied that he had made his point through the conspicuous placement of banner and choice of words. In proclaiming his identity he had bolstered the morale of his army, whilst encouraging a confrontation from the enemy. He had seen how evenly matched the two sides were and recognised that a more personal combat was required if the battle was to be ended efficiently.

Benedik quickly lost track of time as he was forced to parry and thrust. He felt almost disconnected, both from the inhumanity of the casual slaughter, and from the soldiers who fought around him. Each man was engaged in their own private war, exerting and driving themselves to extraordinary feats for their own individual ends. The sky had gradually darkened during the course of the fighting. Thunder fractured like pieces of broken pottery, whilst the gods shrouded the battlefield in dense, heavy clouds which wept with their tears.

Blinking fiercely at the rain that ran across his face and burned his eyes, Benedik sensed the change before he saw it. A knight entirely protected by black armour walked directly through the clashing pairs of soldiers towards him. Instinctively he knew that this was the pivotal confrontation for which he had hoped. The chest plate was etched with the Wallachian royal arms and there were obscenely large jewels encrusted in the pommel of the knight’s sword. This was the leader of the enemy army and the single hope for decisively ending the battle.

The black knight circled Benedik, his sword sounding like a snarl as it came free from its sheath. There was little time for evaluation as his first blow came fast and was powerfully crushing. Benedik was surprised by the formidable strength of the knight. Their blades sparked dangerously as they clashed, Benedik raising his in order to relieve the pressure on his armour. He was clad only in the lightest of mail, preferring its easy suppleness of movement. However against the brute strength of the knight’s plate armour, it was as useless as gossamer silk.

As they sparred Benedik found himself losing ground against the unrelenting force of the black knight. His sword-arm had been nicked by the knight’s blade as it buried beneath the iron rivets of his armour. Though only a superficial wound it weakened the power with which he was able to swing the giant’s sword. His swipes became ever more desperate and off-centre as he tried to regain the upper hand. It was perhaps arrogance or overconfidence that eventually led the black knight to pause for an instant before taking his final killing blow.

An instant was all that Benedik needed.

As the sword came slashing across he threw his weight forward, sliding in the rain-dampened earth, and taking advantage of the inflexibility of the black knight’s heavy armour. On his knees he withdrew the knife concealed in his boot and stabbed it through the knight’s foot. Momentarily disabled, it gave Benedik enough time to come up behind the knight and slide his sword through the gap in the black armour. It was a small blemish in an otherwise faultless piece of artistry. He had only seen it as the rain gathered and collected to drip and slide down the polished plates. Keening in pain the black knight attempted to wrench the sword from his shoulder. Benedik exerted enough steady pressure, however, to force the knight to his knees. Yanking at the crested helm he unveiled his opponent.

“End this.” The older man’s voice was slurred and almost unintelligible. Blood bubbled from his lips, choking his words. Benedik struck quickly, slicing through nerves so as to render a fast and painless death. He gazed down at the knight who had been the general of the Wallachian army and had won countless battles alongside Aefon. The boy-child might have been Aefon’s heir, but it was the general who the army had really followed. The black knight had been right – it was time to end this.

Striding forward Benedik plunged his sword into the ground beside his father’s banner and raised the severed head of the black knight up high.

“Listen to me!” He called over the clamour of battle. The men nearest him stopped, confused and startled by the intrusion into their blood lust. The sudden cease in the fighting spread like ripples in a lake until all was quiet apart from the distant clanging and yells in the background. “Wallachian’s your leader is dead.” His hand and arm were stained red from the blood that seeped from his gruesome prize. “Your general fought with great courage, but the boy who sits on your throne is incapable of taking his place. You cannot win this battle and you will not win this war.” Benedik remained unarmed and open to attack, yet nobody moved to intercept him. “I’m offering you your lives today. Choose peace now and you can return to your homes. If you continue to fight, however, I promise you no mercy.” His face was implacable and his hand steady, only his heart beat wildly as he awaited their decision. He could at first sense only suspicion and distrust, yet as the sky began to clear above them he could feel the delicate and tentative growth of new hope.

The battle had been won. It was finally over.