Iron rings made gelid by the relentless winter wind gnawed like shattered fangs against a livid wound on Maelgrim’s shield arm. Sweeping sweat-dampened hair from his eyes, the knight cursed listlessly. The spasmodic shriek of steel and splintering oak echoed against the stark silhouette of the trees bordering snow-spattered field.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

Maelgrim forced his injured arm up, flinging the battered remains of his great black shield into the path of a hordesman’s massive axe. The oak shuddered, transmitting the jar of the strike though Maelgrim’s shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he countered with a desperate back-hand slash. The notched blade of his sword scored a bloody mark across the axeman’s shoulders: painful, but not lethal. He had scant chance to appreciate this small victory, however.

The rapid, repetitive crunch of snow underfoot adumbrated the approach of somebody at Maelgrim’s back.

An ally, come to aid me? he wondered. No. There are too few of us. He spun, sword raised.

Only his armor saved him. Not one, but two hordesmen raced towards him. The first bore a glaive, aimed with vindictive accuracy at Maelgrim’s gut. The second was armed with a sword of curious design, its quillions sloping far down the blade like arms. While the knight batted away the glaive with his shield and struck his opponent’s sword down, he felt the dull concussion of an axe blade pound the pauldron of his left shoulder; evidently, his first opponent had not been as immobilized as Maelgrim had hoped.

The world swam for a dangerous moment, and Maelgrim swayed on his feet. He heard the scraping sound of iron against his greaves more than he felt the strikes of the glaive—luckily, his opponent seemed as exhausted as Maelgrim himself was, and his opportunity had been wasted on weak, slapping attacks.

Time stretched, moving at the languid pace of the pine-sap that scented the surrounding forest. The Welshman took a shuddering breath, and executed a sloppy turn, striking with all his might into the haft of his foe’s axe. While the hordesman won free without further injury, his weapon had been shivered in twain. Maelgrim twisted back and struck a crippling blow to the enemy swordsman’s shins. The man with the glaive took a few cautious steps back and turned to find an opponent with less armor.

Maelgrim sank to a knee and gulped the frozen air.

How has it come to this?

When first he and his sword-kindred had arrived, all had seemed well. Their standards snapped crisply in the wind, a riot of color and darkness against the bone-colored field. His comrades’ armor glittered in the sun, and their weapons’ keen edges threw the light back from razored blades as if in challenge to the sun itself.

Though they had been few, Ser Maelgrim had judged them doughty.

Even when the assembled hordes of Sanctus Azathoth had arrived, the knight had felt no fear. A masterless rabble they had seemed to him—their armaments a motley collection more suited to clown-fencers’ performances than to the baneful dance of battle.

Maelgrim had marked a few of them as possible trouble—chief amongst them was a man swart of skin and dark of hair, armored in mail and leather. His broad black shield was emblazoned with a crimson horned death’s-head and he waved a short sword above his hooded head, rallying his troops.

“That must be Hohenstaufen,” Ser Owen had remarked. Maelgrim had recognized the name.  The Italian mercenary, once a feared assassin, had turned his hand to statecraft, rising to the position of Chancellor of Reeves amongst the people of Sanctus Azathoth. A man of no mean skill, Maelgrim had recked him to be a troublesome opponent.

“Griffyth is here, too,” Maelgrim had observed. “I saw his shield earlier.”

“Andrew Griffyth? Scitte. I thought the Band of the Hawk was fighting in Calais this season!” Owen had seemed more outraged than concerned.

As his kith had identified the chief officers of the opposing force, Maelgrim had felt his heart quicken with anticipation—as it had before every battle he had ever fought. The names his kith spoke did little to deter him. By the end of the day, he vowed, Rain and the Gypsy Ferko would have cause to rue the taste of his steel.

Even when the two companies arrayed themselves for battle and began to move towards one another, the Welsh knight had not felt the slightest twinge of uncertainty. Had not his troops drilled endlessly in their formations? Surely, the unorganized attack of the hordesmen would break like waves upon the rock of the mercenaries’ stalwart valor.

Then everything had gone wrong.

Maelgrim was snapped from his reverie by an angry shout nearby. Kicking up clouds of snow, Ser Owen had stricken down a man carrying the black and white Band of the Hawk shield with his own war-board, and was well on his way to dispatching a second foe. However, a group of enemies approached his flank and spread in a rough circle to encompass the big man.

A stone’s throw away, Sir Trian Gaeth and Sims fought back-to-back, fending off the sniping blades of their foemen. The burnished steel of Sims’ scalloped armor had been dulled by the travail of the battle, and Trian Gaeth’s proud emerald and sable tabard had been rent in many places by axe and sword. Though they fought valiantly, defeat seemed inevitable against the flood of adversaries.

Further away, Herr Lantz strove like the golden lion on his surcoat against his enemies. His falchion clove shields and spear shafts wheresoever it fell, but rarely found purchase upon flesh and bone. He himself seemed to trickle blood from a dozen lesser wounds, though he fought on as if they were less than an inconvenience.

A flash of bronze and the bright colors of Georgia and Madoc’s’ shields were barely visible behind a writhing knot of Azathoth warriors across the blood-sprinkled field. The white wolf’s head of Lady Faelan’s shield bobbed in and out of Maelgrim’s peripheral vision—he assumed that the metallic slither of mail in that direction came from her husband Sir Gengulphus.

Where were Lady Cynara, and Sir Ralamean? Maelgrim could not see them; they had been lost to his sight in that first, ill-starred charge.

*          *          *          *          *

Folly, thought Owen. Pure Folly. A wedge can not smash a shield wall that is not there.

Owen stood in the testudo formation between Herr Lantz and Sir Ralamean shaking his head in disbelief. "We must take the fight to them, they seek out opportunities and have no desire to stand toe-to-toe."

Ralamean nodded in agreement, "At your command, Ser." He gripped his spear and could hear the ash creak as his sweat soaked skin stretched across the ash. All had become silent in the chaos of battle, he could feel his heart beating in his chest and his breathing slowed. Owen was right, of course, but Ralamean was hesitant to leave the relative security of knowing his back was guarded by one of his sword kindred. 

He was jerked back into the moment as a spear thrust thudded into Owen's shield and Lantz snapped out his falchion, lopping off the head of the steel tongued viper.

"NOW," shouted Owen, and the white lion sprung forward with Lantz at his shoulder.

"Schitte!" exclaimed Ralemean as he hurried at their heels, his own spear lashing out bitterly at the faces of the nearest foes.

Owen's plan was working, their band of three was able to roam freely and seek out engagements with small groups of the enemy; a group of four fell here, two or three individual warriors there and no strong resistance formed to meet them as they took apart the enemy one small group at a time.

They soon found themselves between the main force of Sanctus Azathoth and Rain, who had been prowling the outskirts and attacking the backs of unwary Mercenaries. The three stalked after him, and watched as his companions, five of whom could have come to his aid, abandoned him to his fate. Knowing he stood no chance in a frontal encounter against three men, Rain took to his heels and vanished into the trees.

"Let him go," said Owen. "We'll not overtake that one. Besides, there are many more foes yet on the field."

The trio turned to take the enemy in the back, but the weight of his armor slowed him and Ralamean and Lantz outdistanced Owen in their advance. The two reached a clutch of fighters and Ralamean thrust out his spear, its keep point driving deep into the abdomen of an enemy who had turned to meet them. Herr Lantz's falchion was flashing death as if dropped down bitter blows upon a bewildered enemy.

Lantz was a man possessed, he waded into the enemy with reckless abandon. He was here, now there, and everywhere laying waste to those he encountered. As his falchion detached the sword hand of a slower foe, Ralamean's spear slashed across the cheek of an enemy who was about to bring down a blow from his glaive upon Lantz.

Owen was still catching up when, to his left, he saw a lone fighter, stalking him like a wolf who had happened upon a sheep gone astray. Finally, one that wants to fight . . .  thought Owen as he turned to face him . . . but you shall find a lion where you sought a lamb.

The enemy charged, his shield angled out in front of him and his sword raised high to strike. Owen swung up his shield arm in unison with his sword. In one motion he caught the stopped the blow, opened the enemy's shield and allowed him to run into his outstretched sword-tip. The warrior's own weight made the blow a lethal one as the bright tip of Owen's sword opened the rings of this hauberk and found purchase deep within his chest. The look on the face of the dying man gave Owen a sense of satisfaction, They have no idea what they are doing, they just flail around without a thought to the strokes.

Then there were more coming, a crooked line of foes. As the first reached him, Owen thrust out his shield arm, catching the jaw of his opponent with a satisfying crack and sending him falling to the ground as his blood spattered the next of his companions. That man did not do the foolish thing and rush in, he took stock of the situation and held his shield in a good defense and began to circle.

This foe had some skill, for the two exchanged several blows, neither finding flesh until Owen saw the ranks of Sanctus Azathoth forming around him; where were Lantz and Ralamean? With a quick stroke, Owen moved to his left and struck a round over the top of his own shield, catching the man in the side of the head at eye level and the edge bit deep, tearing flesh and crushing bone. As the man fell screaming to the snow, Owen felt his own sword twist free of his grip, embedded in his victim's skull.

The others saw their opportunity and fell upon Owen, five at once. Owen grasped for the dagger at his belt and lashed out at arms and faces as they came upon him, all the while catching blows upon his deeply scarred war-board while his stout coat of plates turned away the strokes that passed his defense. He managed to keep them at bay but was unable to dispatch any of them with his dagger. As they beat on him, Owen's shield was rent by a mighty axe blow that caused it to fall from his arm in pieces and Owen dropped to a knee.

This is it, he thought. Well, if it is my day to die, I'll at least take this bastard with me to hell. He flung the remaining piece of his shield at an enemy to his left and prepared to leap at the man who had cleft his shield. As the Azathoth warrior raised his great axe above his head to finish him, Owen shifted his grip on his dagger. Not yet, he thought waiting for the exact right moment to spring and plunge his dagger into the man's chest.

As Owen was about to spring, a spear caught the attacker in the armpit and pushed him to the ground in a gush of blood. It was Ralamean, and as quickly as he had dispatched the one, he was threatening the others. To his left, Lantz had stricken down two more foes. In the confusion, Owen took the opportunity to grab the nearest enemy around the leg and thrust his dagger deep up into his groin. The man screamed as a shower of warm blood covered Owens hand, soaking into the padding of his gambeson beneath his splinted bracer.

The rest of them were fleeing from Ralamean and Lantz. "We pull back into the woods," said Lantz as he helped Owen to his feet. "The archers need us to cover their retreat. Come."

As they hurried from the field, Owen picked up the halberd of a fallen comrade to replace his lost weaponry and re-sheathed his dagger.

The three of them met up with Lady Cynara and escorted her as she and her archers withdrew from the field.

*          *          *          *          *

Fools, Maelgrim thought bitterly. We were fools. I was a fool.

The forces of Sanctus Azathoth had not fought in formation. Rather, as the mercenaries charged in their tight wedges under the twinned command of Maelgrim and Gengulphus, the hordesmen had split and scattered like a grains of wheat in an autumn wind.

Where the mercenaries and knights expected to stand and fight, the hordesmen refused to engage for more than a few moments’ worth of quick, sniping shots before withdrawing again and seeking less attentive foes. It had been like trying to fight shadows. Maelgrim had quickly called for testudo as a defensive measure.

But as soon as his shieldmen had turned outward, the Azathoth forces fell in like wolves, unremittingly seeking out the weakest spots of the formation and striking at it like a wind buffeting a ramshackle lean-to. Though their blows had been lacking in puissance, their sheer multitude and ferocity in attack soon combined to wear down the mercenaries’ defense.

Too late had Maelgrim realized the limits of his strategy. I’ve been training us to fight other knights—not bandits.

The knight rubbed his aching shoulder and twisted on the balls of his feet at the sound of approaching footsteps. A youth in layered green leather armor bearing a bloodied partisan stumbled through the etiolated landscape, and Maelgrim relaxed. The young man was one of his own—a recent recruit nicknamed “Pickles,” by the other mercenaries.

“Captain,” the youth gasped, “it’s no good. It’s like we’ve been chasing ghosts all morning! They won’t stand and fight, and whenever we corner one, three more leap upon our backs!”

Maelgrim grimaced. “I know. The fault is mine, not yours.” Breath burning in lungs alongside the shame burning in his heart, he growled, “Make ready to sound the retreat. We will regroup in the forest to see what can be salvaged of this debacle.”

Pickles nodded in grim assent and set off at a slow jog towards Sims and Trian Gaeth.

Maelgrim began limping towards the supply wagon at the forest’s edge, keeping a wary eye out for skirmishers. His shield was nearly useless, and Bitterthorn would need to be sharpened for a week after this—if he lived.

Before he led his troops into the woods, he would fetch his two-handed greatsword.

As he approached the edge of the field, he heard a cry of triumph. There, in the middle of the field, a figure swathed in umbral shades under his mail and leather raised a bloodied sword above his head and shouted encouragement to his warriors.

He’s right—it’s like fighting ghosts. And Maelgrim recalled with a rueful twist of his lips that his enemy had been an establishing member in the band of cutthroats who named themselves the Legion of Phantos. An apt name.

Sir Ralamean appeared near the trees, his partisan darting back and forth with vicious efficiency while he covered the archers’ retreat. Maelgrim breathed a sigh of relief as Lady Cynara limped into view in her ring jerkin and conical helm—bruised but alive. Her ash bow sported a few notches along its spine, and her quiver was empty. A trickle of blood ran down her temple and splashed on the linen on her shirt.

“Well,” she ground out through the pain, “I believe this is Hohenstaufen’s field this day. What shall we do?”

Maelgrim cast a last molten glare over his shoulder at his adversary.

“We’re not finished yet. To the forest.”

Continue to Interlude: Desperation