Melhed History/Chapter 1

Aemon

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Aemon Targaryen woke to the sound of a warhorn. He threw off his sheets and crawled from his bedroll, listening for the noise of battle. He yanked on his breeches and tunic, relief washing over him. No cries of pain, and no ringing of sword on steel- at least, not yet. He stumbled barefoot from his tent, surveying the scene around him. Everywhere men were fastening helms to gorgets, strapping shields to their arms, buckling on swordbelts, climbing onto horses.

An unarmored man galloped past, the hooves of his horse sending clods of dirt into the air. "Wights on the bridge!" he shouted as he rode off, "Prepare for battle!"

Aemon's squire appeared from behind his tent, leading his horse, already bridled and saddled. "Good work," Aemon snapped, "Now get me my armor." As the boy helped him into his heavy platemail, he glanced at the sky. A new moon, and the stars hidden by cloud. The camp was lit with torches staked into the ground, but outside in battle it would be difficult to see. This will go hard for us, he thought. They had set off from Agyr days ago, the main strength of the army of Melhed, led by King Argos himself. They had followed the river, sending detachments sweeping through the deep forests of Rengo and Bil Havil, wiping out bands of undead and searching for the vast horde that had been rampaging across the land. Finally they had made camp less than a mile from the Bridge of Bil Havil, the only way to cross the river after it flows down from the mountains. They had meant to send outriders across the bridge at daybreak to search for the wights.. That won't be necessary now, Aemon thought grimly as he buckled his swordbelt. He climbed onto his horse and accepted his simple black shield from his squire. The sigil of his House was a red dragon on a black field, but he refused to display it until he had earned it. He surveyed his men's section of the camp from atop his horse, nodding approval. Most of the thirty infantry under his command had plainly awoken before him; they were already forming up north of him, only a few stragglers still pulling on gauntlets or grabbing for their swordbelts. He left them to it, riding east for the center of camp to speak to the general, Rubeus.

Rubeus was already ahorse, bellowing commands to those around him and gesticulating with his sword, a fearsome serrated blade of red steel. Aemon's twin sister Rhaella carried Rubeus' flag atop a tall lance; a skinless man on a pink field. Rhaella had none of Aemon's qualms about wearing the sigil of their House- her shield prominently displayed it, and her black armor had the dragon wrought in crimson enamel on the chest. Her visor was down, so Aemon could not see her smile at him, but she saluted with her shield arm as he reined up beside Rubeus, who finally noticed him. "There you are," Rubeus barked, "the wights are approaching from across the river, the king will be wroth if they reach the south bank. We'll meet them on the bridge, their numbers will be less useful there. I need you in the front, but no fits of gallantry. Let them come to us, the archers will thin their numbers. The king rides beside you, try to see that he comes to no harm."

Aemon saluted with his sword. "As you say, m'lord." Rubeus nodded and turned to another noble who had just ridden up, a man in fine yellow steel with a red sun on his shield. Aemon yanked his horse around and galloped back to his camp, to find it empty. He turned his horse right and rode for the bridge. The army was assembling at the south end, the infantry tightly packed in front of the archers, the cavalry milling about to the east along the riverbank. They would be of little use in this battle. Aemon squinted though the slit in his helm and could faintly make out movement near the far end of the bridge, but no more. A pity the undead have no use for torches, he thought. Aemon spied his men gathered at the west end of the infantry. He eased his horse through the press of bodies until he reached them. "The front!" he yelled, pointing with his sword, "Alongside the king!" He led them through the lines of armored men until they broke through, and organized them into a neat box beside the king's troops. They were easy to recognize- all of them sported helms topped with a ring of golden spikes, to represent the crown. As his men settled into position, he rode farther out onto the bridge, surveying what lay before him. It wasn't as bad as he had feared, from what the scout had shouted as he rode through the camp. The wights were only now reaching the bridge; there were still a few minutes before they would be within bowshot. Aemon could only see part of their host- much of it was shrouded in darkness, or still within the trees- but their numbers were vast. They were not disciplined, however- where the army of Melhed was a steel hammer, the undead were simply a disorganized horde. Whatever unnatural force directed them, it did not bother with trivial matters like formations or battle lines. They relied on their numbers, their terrifying ferocity in battle, and their implacable fortitude. Aemon knew from personal experience that arrows did little against them, whatever Rubeus said. A few lucky shots would sometimes fell a handful of the wights, but most of them would fight on with a dozen arrows sticking out of them.

At the snort of a horse, Aemon turned. King Argos reined up beside him, his magnificent armor shining in the light from the torches. Bronze, with silver scrollwork and bands of gold criscrossing the arms, legs, and chest. The crown that sat atop his helm was an impressive affair of bright gold fashioned with nine spikes, the torchlight glinting off the points. He stared along the length of the bridge, watching the slow march of the dead. "They see we are ready for them, and still they attack," he observed, "surely they meant to take us by surprise in our tents, not expecting to be seen." King Argos turned in his saddle to look at Aemon. His eyes caught the torchlight and shined from the darkness of his helm. "Or not. Who can fathom the minds of dead men?" Not waiting for an answer, he turned his horse to the side and faced the army at Aemon's back. Standing in his stirrups, King Argos drew his sword and pointed to the undead at the far end of the bridge. "You see that pitiful host?!" he shouted, "That is the last of their strength! Every step the dark forces have taken on our land, we have fought them! And we've beaten them! We've chased them a hundred and fifty miles, and now it ends!" He stabbed his sword into the sky, and shouted, "FOR MELHED!"

A thousand voices cheered back at him, "ARGOS! ARGOS!" A great clangor went up, as the infantry smashed shield and spear together and warhorns blew throughout the army. And suddenly the undead were there, pouring down the bridge toward them. Aemon jerked his horse around and kicked it back toward his men. He saw the king doing the same. A gap opened in the spears to let him through, and closed behind him. There was a soft sighing sound, as hundreds of archers loosed as one. Aemon twisted his horse back around. He could not see the arrows fall, but he saw a few scattered wights stumble and be crushed underfoot. Another flight of arrows went up, and Aemon saw torchlight glimmering off steel among the undead. Armor, and swords, and axes. They send our own fallen comrades against us, he realized. His men held firm, on one knee with spears pointed ahead, waiting for the moment. A hundred feet, eighty, fifty, thirty.. "CHARGE!" Aemon howled, as the other commanders in the front did the same. The first line launched itself into a run and drove into the undead, spitting the leading wights on their spears. They dropped them to yank swords from scabbards or brandish axes, and all at once the first line descended into a melee. Aemon saw a gap in the fighting and charged forward, swinging his sword in a vicious sidecut that took the heads off a pair of wights. He spun his horse, slashing down at the wights crowding around him. A strong hand grabbed his leg and he smashed downward with his shield, heard bone crunch. He saw an axe raised in a dead white hand and brought his sword around. Axe and hand fell, not a drop of blood flying from the upraised forearm. Suddenly his horse reared screaming and he saw blood gushing from a terrible wound in its chest. Something seized his shield and yanked him to the side, spilling him from his collapsing horse. He landed on his shoulders, the impact knocking the wind from him as his helm rang against the cobblestones of the bridge. His sword went clattering away. His eyes flicked open and he briefly saw a man in armor standing over him, sword raised two-handed over his shoulder, skull visible where half his face was missing. Then a shadow leapt over Aemon and crashed through the wight. Aemon saw a flash of yellow armor atop a crimson horse, and then he was up again, shortsword drawn. Something struck him from behind, he spun and slashed at it. The corpse raised its sword for another blow and he smashed its head with the hilt of his blade, cracking its neck at a sickening angle. Out of nowhere a vicious hit to the face sent him reeling, and when he steadied himself he discovered he was blind in his left eye. Dropping his blade, he touched his face in terror and thanked the gods- the punch had twisted his helm to the side. He lifted his gaze and saw his attacker, a bony ghoul in rotted clothing, fist raised for another punch. Aemon bulled into him, shield first. They crashed to the ground together, bone rattling against armor; Aemon gripped the wight's skeletal neck and drew his armored fist back. "GO TO HELL!" Aemon cried, and brought his fist down, again and again.

A shout cut through the noise of battle, "The king! Follow Argos!" Aemon snapped back to reality, leaping to his feet and looking around frantically. There, off to the northeast; the king must have seen a gap in their lines, he was leading his men into their flank. All of a sudden the gap closed and the undead enveloped them. Another shout, "NO! With me, hew to the king!"

Aemon was running. He leapt over a fallen horse, pulled a sword from the ribs of someone's corpse, crashed shield-first into a wight with a mace. He turned to run and a hammer blow fell on the back of his knee, throwing him to the ground. He rolled, bringing his sword up to block another blow, his arm going numb at the impact. He caught the next one on his shield, the top half finally giving in to its punishment and breaking off. Cursing, Aemon Targaryen brought his feet to his chest and kicked, sending the wight sprawling. He shoved himself back up and ran, limping on his hobbled knee. The king's men were fighting valiantly, but they were quickly being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the undead. Their backs were to the edge of the bridge, they had nowhere to go but the river.. and as he ran, he saw one of them lifted into the air and thrown over the side.

Argos was within a space in the middle of his men, shouting commands and cursing at the undead. Why does no one help them?! Then Argos was wheeling his horse. He cried, "To me!" and kicked his horse into a gallop. His men turned with him, running alongside. A soldier cringed before him, and his horse leapt.. and landed among the wights, knocking them down with its charge and crushing them underfoot. Yes, he's free, he's almost to our lines. Relief washed over Aemon in a flood. Suddenly Argos' horse was screaming, blood spraying from the sword lodged in its neck. The animal crashed to its knees at a full run. Somehow Argos remained in the saddle, hacking all around himself madly. A flood of undead closed on him, and then he was gone.

Aemon had stopped running. He swayed, almost falling to his knees, and then saw the horse pounding toward him. He dodged, narrowly avoiding its hooves, and only then did he see what was happening. Gods be good, we're losing, he realized, the lines are breaking, we're done. A hundred footsoldiers were running in terror toward him, dropping their weapons in their haste to flee. The wights were right on their heels, cutting the slower men down from behind. Aemon spun, let go of his sword and ran as fast as his knee allowed. The archers were following suit, he saw. He didn't know where they would run to, but it was the from that really concerned him. He limped left, vaulting over the low side wall of the bridge. With a tremendous splash he landed in the water, his feet throwing up a cloud of mud as they hit the bottom of the river. The pain in his knee was tremendous, but he exulted. He had judged right, he was only a few feet from the riverbank, he would not drown; he clawed madly at the mud with hands and feet, dragging himself up toward the water's edge. His head burst through the surface, and he ripped his helm off, sucking in air. Tossing his helm aside, he scrabbled up the steep embankment. There was a succession of splashes behind him; clearly some others had the same idea, or else had been thrown by the wights. Aemon lay prone and peeked over the edge of the rise. The last of the infantry were crossing the lip of the bridge, and then came the undead. They poured forth from the bridge, a black wave, deathly silent. Surprised, Aemon saw the archers suddenly stop in their tracks and turn, nocking arrows and drawing back their bowstrings. A thunderous noise caused him to turn his head left- there they were, the useless cavalry. They flew along the riverbank, Rubeus at their head, Rhaella at his side with her lance couched against her shoulder. The wights never saw them. The wedge of two hundred mounted lancers cut through the undead flank like a hot knife through butter. Aemon lay on the bank, head on the cool wet grass, and watched the victory unfold.