An Ending of Oaths
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 24
The battlefield at the Four Corners stretched out before Garris, wheat fields trampled by his army and retreating civilians to the northwest, tree-covered hills down the road to the northeast and southwest, and mountains down the road behind him.
He had lined his forces along the road, stretching across it and into the fields on either side. The remnant of the Iron Keep men that had made it out of the fight up the peninsula, mostly conscripts bolstered by a scattering of men-at-arms and knights, had been combined with the Shalesport spearmen, the archers from Lindenwood and the few knights that both added to the fight.
His force was still smaller than that of the Icelanders coming for them, but there was at least a chance of standing up to them now that his battered men had been bolstered. Still, his men made up half the forces and, to any observer, it would seem that they were the remnants of a broken army, scattered and vulnerable.
To bolster the point, only banners from the houses of Iron Keep were allowed to be displayed, forcing the men of Shalesport and Lindenwood to fight under another house’s sigil. Something of a slight, but they were good men and understood the strategy. They would do their duty.
This location was not a position he would normally choose to fight in. Although significant from a trade perspective, as a battleground, there was not much to be offered. Flat, soft farmland and cobblestone roads meant he had no high ground and no way to slow their advance or bottle up the oncoming force. Worse, there had barely been time to put together a plan to make the best use of his reinforcements and get his men into position, which meant there were no defensive works in place that could offset their numerical disadvantage.
While he wanted the Icelanders to feel strong and confident, he would prefer to actually be a little more confident himself. Much relied on his men holding out long enough for the entire plan to come into action. Halbrok had been confident, but sitting here now, waiting for the enemy to appear, Garris was much less sure.
“Here they come,” Odran said from next to him.
The warning wasn’t necessary. The thick cloud of dust kicked up by thousands of boots had announced their arrival well before the first line of spears and banners came into view. There were some horsemen, but the Icelanders had never been as heavy in cavalry as the southern duchies. Horses did not breed well in those conditions and the rugged terrain was better for footmen anyway.
“Go. And good luck,” he said to Odran, clasping arms with the knight before he rode away to command the left wing of the forces.
While the plan wasn’t overly complicated, it needed a steady hand, and he needed it to go well. He was more concerned about his right wing, which he had been forced to give Newberry, as befitted his station. The man was more merchant than soldier, in spite of having squired for a time and being a regular participant in jousts.
He had sent a few seasoned men with the baron, just in case, but it was still a concern.
He was proud of his men. They held up well seeing the horde moving toward them, a steady wall of shields and spears. As that line began to pick up speed, preparing their attack, Garris gave a nod to an aide near him. Flags went up down the line.
Moments later, the sky darkened with the flight of hundreds of arrows from Lindenwood’s archers. Icelander shields went up, but not all were fast enough. Bodies fell, and the line staggered. Another volley followed, quick and precise, cutting deeper into their ranks. For a heartbeat, the momentum of the Icelander wave slowed, but Garris knew this was just a momentary reaction to taking losses.
They returned fire, but less so. Again, their disposition was almost all heavy infantry. There was a belief among the Icelanders that archers never made a battle, and most of their men wanted the glory of victory with a sword in hand and saw being relegated to rear lines with a bow as something of an insult. It was why so many of the archers they had moved slowly; they were made up of men too injured or unable to fight in the front lines, but still able to fight.
It was unorthodox from Garris’s mindset and training, but considering the success of the Icelanders, it was not something to discount.
As expected, they did not stop. The survivors pressed on, some tearing arrows from their shields or bodies, others stepping over their fallen comrades. The line reformed.
“Stand ready!” Garris bellowed as the first wave of Icelanders slammed into his line.
The impact knocked men off their feet, pushing the entire formation back several steps. Those in front found themselves crushed between their companions behind them and the enemy before them.
The fighting devolved into desperate personal struggles. Men grappled in the press, too close to swing weapons properly. They resorted to knives, elbows, even teeth. Some died upright, held in place by the crush of bodies.
This was the dangerous moment, when his lines had to hold. His men fought to maintain their spacing, but gaps appeared as soldiers fell. Each breach became its own savage battle as men fought to plug the holes before the enemy could exploit them.
“My lord!” A messenger galloped up. “The right flank wavers!”
Garris cursed. Newberry was struggling, as he’d feared.
“Tell him to give ground slowly. Make it look real.”
The messenger rode off as Garris turned back to the main line. The press of bodies had grown desperate. His men were being pushed back step by step, exactly as planned, but the cost was mounting.
“Begin a fighting retreat. Back three paces!” he ordered. “Maintain formation!”
His soldiers retreated in good order, shields still locked. The Icelanders surged forward. Garris watched as they committed part of their reserves, pressing into the center. Again, what he was hoping for. They were sensing weakness and committing.
The line bulged backward, beginning to bow.
A cry went up from Garris’s right flank as men began to flee. The panic spread quickly, soldiers throwing down weapons as they ran.
“Cowards!” Garris spurred his horse toward the breaking point. “Stand and fight!”
He cut down a fleeing man-at-arms. “Hold your ground or die by my hand!”
The sight of their commander’s fury steadied some men, but others continued to flee. The Icelanders pressed harder, sensing victory was near.
Garris fought his way through the press, sword rising and falling.
“To me!” he roared. “Rally to me!”
Garris sent his personal guard into the breach. Armored knights were enough to bolster the right flank.
“Garris,” Newberry said, riding up to him. “They’re pushing too hard.”
“That was the plan. Get your ass in there and hold your line or we’re all lost. Show some spine, man.”
Newberry turned red-faced, but he did his duty, taking his own personal guard charging into the line. Between Garris’s men and Newberry’s, it was enough to bolster the line and keep it from falling. Garris was more concerned about the center.
His men were battle-tested and hardened, but the Icelanders had now committed almost their entire force, and the pressure was more than bravery alone could hold.
Garris wheeled his horse away from the right flank, satisfied Newberry’s men would hold and spurred toward his crumpling center. Blood and mud splattered as his mount charged through the churned earth. Everywhere, he saw his men giving ground.
A breach had started at his center, men starting to cut their way through.
“Make way!” he shouted, cutting down an Icelander who had broken through.
The man’s blood added to the painting on Garris’s horse’s side. Two of his knights followed him into the breach, their swords taking down Icelanders who tried to get through the breach. The sudden appearance of war horses with armored men on their backs was enough to slow the breach from tearing more; the men were now more focused on the danger in their midst than breaking through.
Men were crushed under hoof, and slashed apart as Garris plugged the hole. But for every enemy they struck down, two more pushed forward, stepping over their fallen comrades without hesitation.
A spear thrust caught Garris’s horse in the chest. The animal screamed, rearing up before collapsing sideways. Garris barely had time to kick free of the stirrups before he was thrown. He hit the ground hard, barely able to come up to his knees as an Icelander rushed him. Garris managed to deflect the man’s blow, just before the spear of one of his own men burst through the Northerner’s chest.
Another enemy fell to Garris’s blade as he got to his feet before his knights could fight their way to his side.
“Hold fast!” Garris called out, his voice carrying over the clash of steel and screams of dying men. “Stand together!”
He fought on foot now, finding gaps in armor, opening throats, severing hands that reached for him. Two more of his knights, maybe extracted from their ride into the left flank, appeared, joining them. His men formed a protective wedge around him. Armored as they were, they were still not invulnerable, and one fell to a spear through a joint in his armor. The man’s screams were cut short as the enemy pulled him into their ranks.
“My lord!” A blood-covered sergeant fought his way to Garris’s side. “We can’t hold much longer!”
Garris knocked aside a thrown spear. “We hold as long as we must!”
Between the rest of the line retreating in order and his fight to hold the breach, it began to close. Enough that his remaining knights managed to pull Garris back as his spearmen and infantry closed the ranks.
Clear of the line, Garris could take in the entire battle again. Newberry was doing his job on the right and Odran was doing as expected on the left. The line was holding, continuing its steady retreat. Even better, the enemy had committed the rest of its reserve, desperately chasing the breach they’d had for a moment, their rear positions thinned as they pushed for victory.
“Signal,” he commanded the trumpeter beside him. “Now.”
The brass note cut through the din of battle. For a heartbeat, nothing changed.
Then horsemen erupted from the tree-covered hills to the southwest, charging down the Greenway Road. Dunwic’s cavalry slammed into the Icelander’s exposed right flank like a hammer striking an anvil.
The enemy line buckled. Men turned to face the new threat, creating gaps in their formation. Confusion spread through their ranks as commands conflicted, some officers ordered them to hold against Garris’s center, others to wheel and face Dunwic’s charge.
On the heels of Dunwic’s cavalry were his spearmen, who would be the ones to truly press the flank.
As the enemy assault began to come apart in disarray and the pressure on them eased, his soldiers managed to seize the opportunity, stopping their retreat and finally pushing themselves forward, getting payback for the losses they’d been forced to take.
“Second signal,” Garris ordered.
The brass notes rang out again, higher and longer this time. For a second time, a wave of steel-clad horsemen emerged, charging at the enemy flank. Their rear and left flank this time. Baron Halbrok’s cavalry thundered down the slope, his knights leading the charge.
The Icelanders’ rear formations dissolved into chaos. Those who tried to form a defense found themselves crushed between Halbrok’s charge and their own men pushing forward. Screams and the crack of splintering shields filled the air as heavy warhorses smashed through their lines.
“Press them!” Garris called out, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “Show these northern bastards how Iron Keep fights!”
His men responded with renewed vigor, pushing back against their attackers. The Icelanders, caught between three forces, began to break apart. Some tried to form circles of shields, while others attempted to retreat toward gaps in the enemy lines.
An Icelander captain attempted to rally his men and almost managed to get enough of a defense to break through and escape the trap Garris had laid for them but was struck down as three arrows hit him in rapid succession, and he toppled from his horse.
“Forward!” Garris commanded, drawing his sword. “While they’re in disarray!”
He led his knights and men-at-arms in a brutal push, driving deep into the enemy’s disorganized ranks. To his right, Newberry had finally found his courage, leading his men in a coordinated advance that prevented the enemy from reforming their lines. Garris had to give the merchant credit. Now that the fight wasn’t as desperate, he managed to keep his formation tight while exploiting gaps in the enemy’s defense.
Groups of Icelanders had begun throwing down their arms, raising their hands in surrender. Others tried to flee but found themselves trapped between advancing forces on all sides.
“Take their surrender!” Garris ordered. “But cut down any who resist!”
He watched as more enemy soldiers realized the futility of their position. The field had become a bloody mess of mud, bodies, and discarded weapons. Here and there, pockets of resistance remained, but these were quickly overwhelmed by the combined forces.
The battle was over, and the largest force of Icelanders on his land was almost completely destroyed. Finally, he had a moment’s break from the desperation he’d felt for the past several months.
Perhaps they could win this after all.
Twyver, Barony of Greenwood, River Mark
William guided his horse across the worn stones of the East Road, neat columns of infantry stretched behind him. Of course, these ranks were made up of his veterans. As the lines got further back, they became mostly conscripts, and William knew the practiced marching would become more haphazard and chaotic.
Not that it changed their mission or how they would achieve it. The reason his men were up front was because no sane army would lead with their conscripts. Some, like his father, seemed to prefer to use them as fodder, to blunt an enemy and cause some bleeding, exchanging most of the lives of those conscripts for a minor advantage.
A cruel bargain and one that bled a kingdom dry. When those men weren’t pulled into service, they were the farmers and laborers the kingdom relied on to feed it and handle its commerce. Men like his father may look at them as expendable, but William had always seen that belief as foolish.
Yes, conscripts were, at times, needed, and a valuable part of service. And yes, there were times, like when his uncle was pushed to the brink, with few troops to call upon, that they had to serve as the front-line troops.
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