“What happened to our food?”
Targus threw my shield at me, and snarled his non-answer.
“We’ve almost caught them – they’re just over that hill.”
A cold dawn, colder as we had camped late and made no fires, was now much worse: the food had still not managed to catch up with us.
We had been chasing the Pretender for days now, and with every day the supply train had fallen farther behind.
I was starving.Â
All around me was the noise of war: horses snickered as they were mounted; swords rattled in scabbards and armour creaked, clattered and jangled; spears knocked against shields; and my stomach rumbled. I checked to see if I was observed, and pulled a black and green lump from its hiding place in the boss of my shield.
Ignoring the insects on it, I broke off a small piece and placed it in my mouth. The bread softened slowly as my spit soaked in, and after just a few minutes I was able to chew it enough to extract a little flavour. Then I swallowed it, and treated myself to a second piece.
By now, I was in place among my comrades. We were the shield line, defence against a cavalry charge or foot assault. Ahead of us was the cavalry, ready to make a quick sortie against the enemy or a quick retreat behind our lines. Ahead of them were the skirmishers, sword bearers eager to prove their insanity against the foe.
Behind us, of course, were the commanders. Our main task was to defend them.
We were moving forward in the half dark, into a ravine that was making the commanders nervous. There appeared to be no path to the top of the ravine, but there may be one ahead of us – so the enemy could have men above us, even now.
The commanders stopped. Word was passed forward that their position gave them a perfect viewpoint, and that they would move forward when the enemy was no longer in sight.
The shield line stopped, too. We were not allowed to move too far from the command post.Â
I looked around. Where I was standing, the path was at its highest, having risen over the last league or so. From here, it slowly dropped as it narrowed, to the point where I could see the enemy. Ignoring all the rules of etiquette, I took a look behind me at the commanders. I had to look downhill to see them, too. For a moment, I wondered how they could have a perfect viewpoint from there, then realised that being on horseback gave them a higher position: obviously, they could see over our heads.
I looked to the front again, just in time to see the last horses disappear from view, and a small cluster of swordsmen embracing each other before they entered the narrow gap, too.
Wait… not all of them. One remained. One lone swordsman stood in the gap, his sword unsheathed, the point of the blade resting on the stony ground before him.
Our advance ground to a halt, as cavalry and skirmishers both waited for the other to move forward, then a cavalry officer spurred his horse back through our shield wall to confer with the commanders, followed by a skirmisher who was gasping for breath before he even reached us.Â
By the time the skirmisher reached the commanders, the cavalry officer had returned to his unit, and the cavalry withdrew, leaving the field open for the skirmishers.Â
I heard the skirmisher returning, moving slowly, every inhale a desperate wheeze for oxygen – every exhale a curse against cavalry officers. My comrades patted his back as he passed, and I took the opportunity to slip another piece of bread into my mouth.
The sun hit me in the face, warming me a little, as the skirmishers prepared to attack.
The gap in the ravine was so narrow that the cavalry would have to approach single file, and even the skirmishers would be in each other’s way if they attacked by twos – so they sent their best man in first. He approached slowly, cautiously, and paused when he was just outside sword range – challenging the lone swordsman to attack.
I wasn’t close enough to witness what happened then, but the story is well-known, and I feel free to report it here as if I saw it in person. I did see it, but at a distance.
The swordsman lifted his sword just as the sun poured through the gap, outlining him in golden light. He closed his eyes for just a second, and spoke:
“What a beautiful place to die.”
Then he swung his sword, parrying the attack from the skirmisher who had thought to take advantage of his opponents closed eyes.
One by one the skirmishers attacked. One by one the skirmishers fell. The bodies piled up before the swordsman, creating an obstacle the skirmishers had to cross to attack – but one that also blocked the swordsman view. He was forced to move back with every kill. Just one step, but a retreat all the same.Â
Eventually, he had retreated so far through the gap that it was no longer a gap: the skirmishers could attack by twos. He held out a little longer, but finally he fell, and the road ahead was clear. We could resume our chase of the pretender to the throne. Or did we serve the pretender? I forget.
As we cleared the bodies from the path, and lit our campfires for the night, I felt an overwhelming gratitude to that lone swordsman: not only had his sacrifice given his friends time to escape – it had also given the supplies time to catch up.
Food! At last!
