19: Bear-Heads

Prince Boter wheeled his horse, calling to his men to rally around him for one last press to wipe out the creatures that were attacking the Smelters. His helmet was mirror-polished, his mail and sword of the highest quality. Over his armour he wore a white surcoat, now bloodstained.

The creatures he was fighting were not so well-clad. Furs and skins, most of them, though it was hard to tell whether some of them were wearing the skins of beasts, or just their own hides.

He spurred his horse forward and buried his lance in the hairy chest of a bear-headed man. He dropped the point of the lance as he rode past, and the body fell off its point. He raised it again. The banner at its tip had long since been ruined and torn to pieces, but there were a few scraps still attached.

He looked to his left and watched as a group of three men-at-arms engaged with several dog-heads. They seemed to be faring well, so he turned his attention to his right, where a few moments ago a group of elk-heads had trued to charge a pike unit. They had of course not got very far. Boter’s men were too well-trained for that. Even though they were trained to fight against people, not these half-human beasts that had come out of no-where.

They were untrained and undisciplined, but there were a great many of them, and several watch and guard towers had been overwhelmed before Boter had mustered to meet them in a field on the other side of the copper furnaces. Even after crushing the main force, Boter knew that there would likely still be dozens of rat-headed skulkers causing havoc in the town. He had seen them sneak off before the main engagement started, and though he had sent a unit of skirmishers after them, he was certain they would not all have been caught.

Boter wheeled his horse again and rode to where his cavaliers had gathered.

“We have them near-broken!” he cried. “One last push into their main force and this battle will be over!”

There were fewer cavaliers than there had been when the battle had begun, he noticed. A number of good men had fallen to the crude wood and stone weapons of the beast-men. But he had a company of archers and an-other of swordsmen at his disposal in addition to the cavaliers. Halberdiers and pikemen were still engaged on the flanks.

“One last push!” he cried. “For Boras!”

“For Boras!” replied his troops, their cry almost drowned out by a crack of thunder as the rain began, a gen-tle shower quickly building to a torrential downpour.

A wedge of lancers crashed into the centre of the line of beast-men. The rain turned the field into a sea of mud, and Boter was quickly unhorsed. Discarding his broken lance, he laid about himself with sword and shield, slaying goat-heads and ram-heads, forcing his way to the commander, if any in this rabble could be said to be such. Several of his cavaliers, similarly unhorsed, joined him in the melee, protecting his flanks as he pressed onwards.

A massive bear-head blocked his way, a huge maul clutched in its muscular hands.

Oh Master, Boter thought, preserve me.

He ducked under the beast-man’s first strike. As it was recovering its heavy weapon for another blow, Boter made two quick diagonal slashes, then retreated as the great maul swung again. It missed him by mere inches, and Boter struck two more blows.

It was hard not to notice that his strikes appeared to be barely penetrating the beast’s armour, or hide, or whatever it was. The creatures’ attacks were slow and easy to avoid, but if any of them hit home, he would cer-tainly be badly injured. Mail was very effective against sword cuts, but against heavy blows from a maul swung by an eight-foot tall bipedal bear, it would provide very little protection. Plus, it was heavy, so Boter wouldn’t be able to keep up the strike-and-retreat tactic for very long before tiring.

He did have friends, though. If not for the cavaliers on his flanks, he might have been overwhelmed by the goat-heads that surrounded this monster.

He avoided two more blows, making inconsequential hits of his own, when the creature clipped him across the helmet with the butt end of its maul. Though the helmet protected him from any real damage, he was sent stumbling by the sheer force of the blow, and his foot slipped in the mud. He crashed to the ground and looked up as the beast-man raised its maul above its head for a devastating killing blow. At that moment, however, sev-eral arrows appeared in its chest. It fell back, giving Boter time to rise to his feet. He would need to end this quickly.

When the bear-head raised its maul again, Boter rushed, pressing his shield against the creatures upraised arms and driving the sharp point of his arming sword into its throat. It penetrated the tough hide and slid deep, almost all the way to the cross.

The thing had been leaning forward to strike, so it fell toward him. He managed to sidestep, slipping a little, and it crashed to the ground, the blade of his sword sticking out the back of its head.

Breathing heavily, he looked at the monster, now laying face-first in the mud. He noticed that the hilt of his sword would now be buried, with this huge heavy beast on top of it. He would not be retrieving it until after the battle, if even then.

“Damn,” he said. “I liked that sword.”