Chapter 16

Twyver, Barony of Greenwood, River Mark

Baron Inworth rode through the crowded city streets as more of his people took what little belongings they had to run south, before the inevitable invasion began. Inworth wished he could tell his people he could protect them. Keep them safe.

But that would be a lie. He’d seen the enemy forces from the top of the keep himself and knew that today was the day. There was little comfort he would be able to bring them.

The sun had barely risen, casting a pale light over the Greenwood behind him and the Thunderhorn River ahead. Across the Eastbridge was a sea of banners: Langmere, Ambleton, Penleigh, among the dozen from Kingsheart. Even a scattering of banners from the distant Icelands. It was a grim sight.

“Is this it, my lord?” One of his knights asked as he rode up to his forces.

“It is. They were waiting on that last group, the one that came in overnight under Stonehill’s banner. They’re ready now. We have maybe thirty minutes before they attempt the bridge.”

The knight looked at the men assembled at this end of the bridge, and then across at the sea of invaders, waiting to begin their march across the long stone bridge. Inworth could see his thoughts but let him speak them.

“It’s a strong position, but ... if they press hard, we won’t have the numbers to hold.”

“I know, but we will make them pay for it. Greenwood’s men don’t run from a fight, and today will be no different. We make our stand here, on the bridge. They’ll try to break us, but this river will run red before they push us off.”

“Yes, my lord,” the knight said, ducking his head in a slight bow.

They were good men who’d served Inworth well, but he could feel their fear. Their anxiety.

His men were as prepared as they could be, so they waited. Waited and watched the enemy assemble. And then the horns sounded on the other end of the bridge.

The thunderous march of the king’s forces was heard as they came into view, a wall of steel and banners advancing from the north. The green and gold banners of Langmere fluttered next to the crimson of Tansley and the stark black of Penleigh.

“Archers ready!” Inworth commanded as they stepped onto the bridge, spreading out to cover it like a sea of insects.

Archers, who’d been standing ready for hours, pulled back arrows that had been nocked, waiting to be used. Inworth drew his sword, holding it high above his head before bringing it slashing down, causing the release of hundreds of arrows, arching high into the air, crossing the span of the river and the bridge over it, falling on the advancing troops.

Shields were raised hastily, and the first volley claimed few victims, with the front ranks made up of knights and well-armored men-at-arms, steel protecting the men from the falling missiles. But it slowed their advance, bunching them up at the bridge’s entrance.

“Again!” Inworth called. “Aim for the next line, for the conscripts! Let them feel our steel!”

Another wave of arrows flew. This time, their trajectory was further back, focused on the next mass of men, the bulk of the troops wearing padded jerkins or light leather for protection. Men fell screaming, clutching at feathered shafts protruding from arms, legs, and faces.

Disorder spread through the enemy ranks as the conscripts tried to pull back, hampering the advance of the bulk of the knights behind them. Inworth allowed himself a grim smile. They had drawn first blood, but the real test was yet to come.

“Hold steady!” he shouted to his men. “Make every arrow count!”

The enemy commanders rallied their troops, forcing the advance to continue. Knights pushed forward, their heavy armor turning aside most of the arrows that reached them. Behind their shield wall, the conscripts followed, driven forward by the press of bodies behind them and the lashes of their officers.

As the vanguard of the enemy host reached the midpoint of the bridge, Inworth felt a trickle of sweat run down his back, borne by worry and not the stifling armor he wore. The real battle was about to begin, and the fate of Greenwood, perhaps of all River Mark, would be decided in the next few hours.

“Swords! Shields!” he called. “Stand ready!”

Inworth’s men formed a shield wall partway up the narrow bridge, stacked deep for when the first line fell. Toward them came the dismounted knights of Swanstock and Tansley, armored and well-trained. Inworth had some knights among his ranks, but most had traveled west to Lynese. Most of the men in his ranks were men-at-arms and even farmers, hastily taking up the sword for the defense of their land and homes.

They were brave men but outmatched. Inworth held little hope that his people would survive this day.

“Hold!” Inworth shouted as the screaming men coming at them closed the distance.

The impact sent shockwaves through the defenders’ line. Men grunted and cursed as they struggled to hold their ground. Swords slashed and hammers swung, the men hemmed in by the confines of the bridge, unable to dodge or move more than a step.

Sir Donnel, one of the few Greenwood knights still in River Mark, cleaved through an enemy soldier’s helmet with a mighty blow, sending the man’s body back into his fellows.

“For Greenwood!” he cried, lifting his mighty sword.

But for every foe they felled, two more seemed to take their place. The press of bodies was suffocating, the din of battle deafening. Inworth fought beside his men, cutting down a Tansley man-at-arms.

“My lord!” a young squire shouted. “There’s pushing...”

The boy didn’t finish his sentence, a sword exploding through his chest as he was stabbed clean through, a look of shock and pain etched on his face. Inworth saw what the poor young man was warning of. The line on the left side of the bridge was starting to be pushed back, causing his line to become unbalanced. Too far forward on the right, too far back on the left, allowing more of the attackers to come in contact with his own line.

“Shore up that line! Archers, focus fire on their left!”

A hail of arrows rained down into the rear of the enemy line, trying to create a gap in it, buying precious moments for Inworth’s men to close ranks. It worked to some degree, but the reprieve was short-lived. Arrows were not going to stop the horde facing them. The knights of Swanstock, led by a hulking brute in black armor, smashed into their center with renewed fury.

“Hold, damn you!” Inworth snarled, parrying a vicious sword thrust. “Hold the line!”

The stone bridge was becoming slick with spilled blood. Men slipped and fell, only to be trampled by friend and foe alike. As the battle raged on, Inworth could feel his men’s resolve wavering. They were outnumbered and outmatched, facing some of the finest knights in the kingdom. With a sinking heart, he realized they couldn’t hold much longer.

“My lord!” Sir Donnel shouted, his face streaked with blood and grime, a large gash in one cheek and red seeping between the plates of his armor. “We can’t hold them! We need to fall back!”

Inworth gritted his teeth, loath to give ground but knowing the cold truth of it.

“Signal the men to move to their second positions,” Inworth ordered one of the squires behind him.

The second position was the city itself, and if they were fighting in the streets the battle was all but done. The enemy could spread out throughout the city, use their numbers to overwhelm him. But he had no choice. His line was failing, and to continue here would be to have his men swarmed, unable to take any of the enemy with them.

Horns blared, and his men began to fall back. Many made it to pre-barricaded positions, ready to keep the fight going. Inworth and his knights began their retreat to the central keep. The Gallows March men and the men from Rothpale may be able to fight south of the city, from the forest that lined either side of the East Road, but he would go no further. He would hold in his city and make the enemy take it from him, paying the blood price for their victory.

Inworth and his men fell back into the city, as Sir Donnel and a selection of knights tried to hold the bridge for as long as they could. Paying for the time with their lives.

“Harwin, take your men down to Tanners’ Row, man the barricades there as long as you can. If you must abandon the city, go to the Greenwood. You have several of our woodsmen with you who can direct you. Finnian, take your men to Church Lane.”

“And retreat to the Thameholt Woods if we must?” Sir Finnian asked.

“Yes. Most of it is in Rothpale, after all. Guard your barony and confound them as much as you can.”

“Good luck, my lord,” the man said, clasping forearms with him for a moment.

Inworth didn’t know him well, but the man had led the Rothpale forces for Baron Throckmorton, who had never been a man of arms himself.

“To both of us.”

And with that, he was gone. Inworth hoped both men did as best as they could. He had his own difficulties to focus on. The keep was built on the East Road as it passed through Twyver, with the locals calling it High Street, as it headed up a small hill to the rise at the center of town.

Fires had started to burn, buildings set alight close to the bridge. The enemy had broken through, and was destroying as they came, as armies were want to do. The air was becoming thick with the screams of the few people who remained behind, the shouts of men who continued to retreat.

Inworth was holding the keep gates open, hoping he could retrieve some of his men before he shut them out and they became surrounded by the invaders. The first men that came through the street, however, were not his own. It was a group of Swanstock men, their armor dented and bloodied, who came charging up High Street.