The Wald by Jason Born Page A

unshod hooves.  They were all simple hunting or farm animals mere days ago, but each had learned by the fire of battle to obey the tugs at their reins by their masters while ignoring the terrific screams of death around their shoulders.
    The moon, which had trailed the sun most of the day, was covered by a patch of grey-black clouds that had drifted in from the west long ago.  The weak light of dusk was short-lived and the black of night seemed to settle in quickly.  Even so, Adalbern had his horsemen, sitting twenty abreast and ten deep, nestled against the forest’s edge to hide within its dark shadows.
    Berengar sat on a strong horse directly behind him.  The child looked like he was going to be sick ahead of each and every run they took at the fleeing enemy, but he went nonetheless.  He was strong-willed like his mother.  Sometimes the boy thought a little too highly of his abilities in the way only a child who has not experienced the results of his own folly can.  But he was a good boy, liked, and more importantly respected, by the men.  The source of their respect for Berengar no longer came by way of the seed from whom he sprang, but came instead from the boy’s actions in the field.
    Adalbern wanted to send a message to the Roman commander.  The nobleman hoped to kill as many of the Roman flowers as he could as quickly as he could.  Maybe, Adalbern knowingly fooled himself, the legions could become satisfied with all of their conquests west of the Rhenus and south of the Danuvius, leaving Adalbern alone.  The man’s plan was barbaric and simple.  He would drive his mass of horsemen into the trailing gaggle of Roman soldiers, crushing and slicing as many as he could.  This valley allowed for a sweeping return of his men so that they could ride a second pass over the next batch of soldiers they hadn’t cut down.  Adalbern didn’t think they would be afforded such an opportunity since the cohort had formed up for battle rapidly each and every time they attacked, but he was hopeful.
    The lead elements of the retreat were now past Adalbern’s anxious men.  The marching soldiers could not hear the occasional snort from the Sugambrian mounts because of the racket made by their own feet and animals.  Adalbern had personally killed another Roman scout earlier in the evening so he was confident the cohort marched blindly, hoping only for one night of peace.  He would not allow it.
    Adalbern kissed the air sweetly while nudging his horse’s belly with his boots.  The animal took two quick steps forward before his men noticed that the attack was on and tensed their own legs around what would shortly become two thousand pounds of an intelligent projectile.  In four horse lengths, the beasts, all two hundred, were up to full speed and the exhausted Romans were just becoming aware of another attack.
    Even over the noise of his cavalry, Adalbern heard shouts of command from all along the Roman line.  The dark echoing valley would disorient them, he knew, so that they would have to set themselves in squares to prepare for the usually fleeting attacks from all sides.  As Adalbern drew closer he could see the familiar form settling into place.  The half-cylinder-shaped shields of the Romans locked orderly one next to the other to face their unseen attackers.  The silhouettes of spears showed above and in front of the wall of wood and leather shields.
    Adalbern knew that some of his men and horses would be killed running against the sharp wall.  He may even be among the dead when they were counted.  But he would not have the invaders in his wald without sending them a message.  It was the same wald where his father’s father led his village.  It would be the same wald where his son’s son led his people.  If Adalbern’s death could protect the forest from these interlopers, he would go with honor.
    Directly in front of him one of the Roman army’s beloved centurions stood out from his men.  He would