Gaise took a deep breath. He wanted to argue, to rail at his father. His emotions were in turmoil. Instead he rose to his feet and began to pace the room. “They are solid but unimaginative.”
“Do you need dashing and reckless in the east?”
“No,” said Gaise. “The east cannot be held for long.”
“Then what do you need?”
“I need a man who can maintain an organized and spirited withdrawal, keeping the men in good order while holding up the enemy advance.”
“Someone who will not panic.”
“Of course.” Gaise suddenly relaxed. “I need Beck for the east,” he said.
“Good choice.”
“Why, then, did you agree when I said I would keep Beck in Eldacre?”
“You are the leader, Gaise. Men always tend to agree with the leader. It is the nature of things.”
“This is not a game, Father.”
“Of course it is: the oldest game in the world. You have proved yourself in battle, leading men in cavalry charges. This game is different. This game is unlikely to be won by a single heroic charge. This will be like the wolf pack hunting the stag. This will be about planning, movement, wearing down the enemy, bringing him to bay at exactly the point where he is at his weakest. This will be about subtlety and deception. Winter Kay is an excellent strategist. He thinks he is the wolf. He is right. We are the stag. To win you must make him the stag.”
Gaise walked to the window and stared out at the moonlit mountains. “You realize this is the longest conversation we have ever had?”
“I am not much of a talker. This is no time to be maudlin.”
Gaise laughed. “Maudlin? Oh, Father. You have no idea. You talk brilliantly of strategies and leadership. You understand men and what motivates them. Do you have the remotest idea of what motivates me?”
“No, and nor do I care to,” snapped the Moidart, rising.
“Why did you risk yourself for me that night?” asked Gaise.
The Moidart stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“The manor was ablaze. Those who could had escaped into the night. You were one of them. When you heard no one had brought me out, you ran back into that blazing building. You found me in my crib. You covered me with a blanket, and you ran through the flames and smoke. When you leaped from that upper window, your clothes were on fire. The only wound I received was this small burn on my face. You almost died. Why did you do that for me when you so obviously despised me?”
The Moidart walked to the door and opened it. He glanced back. “I am the Hawk in the Willow,” he said.
Then he was gone.
Three days south of Eldacre Kaelin Ring and seven hundred Rigante made camp on a high ridge overlooking a long wooded valley. No fires were lit, and Kaelin gathered his senior men together. Among them were Rayster, Korrin Talis, and Potter Highstone.
Earlier that day they had seen the advance columns of Varlish cavalry and their outriding scouts. The Rigante, as ordered by Gaise Macon, kept out of sight, fading back into the woods and allowing the enemy to pass unhindered.
A force of several thousand men was heading north, complete with supply wagons and twenty cannon, almost exactly as Aran Powdermill had predicted. They were not, Kaelin was encouraged to know, reinforced by knights of the Sacrifice but were made up from elements of the King’s Fourth Army and Fifth Army. Many of the foot soldiers of the Fourth had been recruited from prisons. They were known as hardy, brutal fighters. Some of the atrocities committed upon covenant towns had been laid at their door. The cavalry was a mixture: some battle-hardened veterans, some recruits from the south. The force was led by a Redeemer knight named Sperring Dale. Gaise Macon’s generals all knew the man. He had ridden into Eldacre with the Pinance but had fled swiftly after the Pinance had been slain. None liked him, and none knew whether he was a talented officer. All they knew was that his conversation generally revolved around punishment and death for the enemies of the cause. It was said he had supervised the massacre at Barstead, when women and children had been burned alive. However no one asked him, and it was just as likely to be mere rumor.
Kaelin Ring had been unusually tense for two days now. He did not doubt that the Rigante could stand against the enemy. What concerned him was whether the enemy could still see into the lands of the north. Gaise Macon had assured him that a mighty ward spell had been cast, that they were safe from observation. “How do we know?” asked Kaelin.
“Aran Powdermill says it is so. I believe him.”
“I do not even know him. We could march out from here and be massacred before we realized the error.”
“True,” Gaise said with a smile. “There is, as they say, only one way to find out.”
So here they were, upon a ridge to the south of the invaders. Kaelin’s orders were to follow hard on the heels of the advance force until they reached the abandoned settlement at Three Streams thirty miles to the north. It was there that Gaise intended to fall upon them. The Rigante would then surprise them by attacking from the rear.
“They seem to have passed us by without incident,” said Korrin Talis. “And look, they are making camp.”
“Aye, but we’ll stay wary. Let’s move back off this ridge and find two campsites. Rayster, I want you to scout to the south. Potter, you stay here and keep an eye on their camp.”
“They’ve already passed us by, Kaelin,” said Rayster. “What am I to watch for?”
“As best I could, I counted the men moving north. I reckon they have around four thousand. This Powdermill the Stormrider believes in said there were six thousand. So where are the other two?”
“This would not be a good place to be caught between two armies,” said Korrin. “Not with just seven hundred of us.”
As the night wore on, the Rigante lay on the cold earth, sleeping lightly. Kaelin dozed for a while but could not relax into sleep. Just before dawn he roused Korrin Talis and ordered the men to get ready to march.
As the Rigante roused themselves, Kaelin saw Rayster come running into the camp. “Fifteen hundred men are moving toward us, Kaelin. They are no more than half a mile south.”
“Order all weapons loaded,” Kaelin told Korrin Talis. “And send someone to relieve Potter.” Then, followed by Rayster, he ran back through the trees.
Just before they reached the ridge, Rayster ran alongside him. “Look!” he said, pointing ahead through the gloom. Moving across the valley below were three lines of armed men. Dressed in the gray tunics of the King’s Fourth, they held their muskets ready, bayonets fixed to the barrels. They were advancing in attack formation and heading for the trees.
In that moment something moved to Kaelin’s left.
The trap was well sprung, the four dark-garbed knifemen moving in swiftly. The victims should have been stunned into inaction by the speed of it. Most men would have been, even most Rigante men. Rayster ducked to his right, Kaelin to his left. One knifeman went down as Rayster’s fist slammed into his jaw. Kaelin grabbed another man’s knife arm and swung him into one of his comrades. Rayster managed to draw his saber, which plunged through a man’s chest, causing a grunt of pain. Kaelin, with no space to draw his sword, pulled his hunting knife clear, slashing it across the face of a charging man. The blade sliced down over his jawbone, cutting deep into the jugular. As the attacker fell, the man behind him sprinted for the safety of open ground. Rayster dropped his saber, drew his hunting knife, and hurled it. The blade took the man at the base of the skull. He stumbled and fell. Rayster ran to him, driving the knife deeper before ripping it clear.
The first man Rayster had punched tried to struggle to his feet. Kaelin moved in and cut his throat.
The advancing men below had reached the foot of the ridge.
“Let’s move,” said Kaelin.
Rayster gathered up his saber and followed Kaelin back through the trees.
There was little time for elaborate battle plans, and Kaelin’s mind was racing as he sped back
to the main body of the Rigante. Calling Korrin Talis to him, he swiftly outlined what he had seen. Fifteen hundred men were marching up the ridge to the south.
Four Rigante emerged from the trees to the south and loped to where Kaelin, Rayster, and Korrin were talking. One of them was Korrin’s brother, Fada.
“Potter is dead,” he said. “Throat cut. They sent assassins into the woods. The whole of their army is marching on us from the north.”
They were caught in a vise.
“We need to head east,” said Korrin. “There’s open ground there. We could make it around them and scatter. Meet up later with Macon at Wishing Tree.”
“Did you see any cavalry?” Kaelin asked Fada.
“No, Kaelin. Just infantry.”
“The cavalry will be east of us, waiting for just such a move. They’ll hammer into us as we make the break. West is no option. That will take us down onto the valley floor, with nowhere to escape to. No. We have to fight.”
“Then fight it is,” said Korrin.
“Take half the men north and hold the slope,” said Kaelin. “I’ll deal with those in the south, then come to your aid.”
“Three hundred fifty against four thousand. Well, don’t take your time, Cousin. Those odds are steep—even for the Rigante.”
Kaelin ran back among the clansmen. “Every second man follow me!” he shouted, then headed back toward the south. By the time the Rigante reached the crest of the ridge, the enemy musketeers were halfway up.
“Volley line!” yelled Kaelin. The Rigante instantly spread out along the crest and, kneeling, brought their muskets to bear. “Fire!” A murderous volley tore into the advancing ranks. The front line was scythed down, but the second returned fire, then charged up the slope. Coolly the Rigante reloaded, then sent a second volley into them. “Down muskets!” yelled Kaelin. “Charge!”
With a terrifying battle cry the Rigante drew their sabers and pistols and hurled themselves down the slope into the startled musketeers. They had been told they outnumbered the enemy, and they had expected their attack to be a surprise. Now they themselves were being attacked. At point-blank range the Rigante fired their pistols into the enemy. Then they tore into them with sabers and knives. The Varlish musketeers were tough men, but they had never faced a foe as savage and remorseless as the Rigante.
Even so they tried to hold to their formation and fight back. They had the advantage of superior numbers, and they were armed with bayoneted muskets.
But they had advanced in skirmish lines and were not closely ordered. The Rigante tore into them. Even those clansmen stabbed by the bayonets lashed out, killing the wielders. Bleeding heavily, they rushed forward to kill again and again until they were cut down.
Kaelin Ring, with sword and hunting knife, cut his way through the first line. Sidestepping a bayonet lunge, he stabbed the musketeer in the chest with his knife, then spun to slice his saber across the throat of another. Rayster was close by, hacking and slashing with two sabers.
Panic spread through the musketeers like windblown flames through dry brush. They turned and fled, throwing aside their muskets. The Rigante surged after them, cutting them down in scores.
Kaelin Ring lifted the horn at his side and blew it three times. The Rigante halted and loped back to where he stood. “Our comrades need us,” he said. “Let the rest go. Reload your weapons.”
As they ran back up to the crest of the ridge, Kaelin looked back. Of the fifteen hundred musketeers who had made the charge fewer than two hundred had escaped. The slope was littered with the dead and the dying. Many Rigante were among them.
Back at the north end of the woods Korrin Talis had fallen back, and the enemy was into the trees and pursuing the clansmen. Kaelin’s men swarmed into the fray. For a while the battle ebbed and flowed, but the sheer ferocity of the Rigante began to tell. They drove the enemy back from the trees and out onto open ground. The fighting was fierce, hand to hand, toe to toe. On the valley floor below the enemy cavalry rode in from the east and began to advance up the slope. The foot soldiers fell back, streaming through the lines of advancing lancers.
Then came the sound of trumpets.
A column of green-clad musketeers emerged from the northern woods and spread out in a fighting line before charging into the unprotected enemy camp.
The lancers reined in their mounts and gazed back. Then they swung their mounts and galloped to face the new enemy. As they did so, Gaise Macon and two thousand cavalry came hurtling into sight. The Eldacre musketeers sent a volley into the lancers. Gaise Macon’s cavalry ripped into their flank. The lancers’ formation broke, and they were soon engulfed.
At first Kaelin felt a wave of exultation flow through him. Then his expression darkened. Rayster came alongside him. There was blood all over his shirt. “Are you hurt?” asked Kaelin.
“It’s not my blood,” Rayster said coldly.
“Get some men together to gather the wounded and prepare the dead for burial.”
“Mighty strange that they should show up,” said Rayster. “They should have been thirty miles away.”
“Aye, I was thinking the same thing.”
Down below the Varlish tried to break and run, but they did not get far. Kaelin watched Gaise gallop in among them, his bright saber flashing in the morning sunlight. Within minutes the battle had become a rout, the rout a massacre.
Kaelin swung away from it and walked back into the trees. Korrin Talis had two shallow wounds: one to his left arm and a second in his right thigh. He was sitting on a fallen tree.
Kaelin sat down beside him. Korrin swore softly. “Fada is dead, Kaelin. He was a good lad. Mother’s favorite. It will hit her hard. He was beside me. A ball took him in the temple. And I shall miss Badger. He taught me to fish when I was a youngster. Lake salmon. He’d catch them with his hands.”
“We lost many today, my friend.”
Kaelin moved back among the wounded. For an hour he wandered among the Rigante. They had lost 182 men, with another 237 wounded. Most of the wounded would recover, but perhaps another twenty would die. Two hundred Rigante had virtually given their lives this day. Kaelin fought to control his anger.
Toward midday Gaise Macon came riding up to the ridge. He stepped down from his gray gelding and approached Kaelin. “You were right, Kaelin,” he said with a bright smile. “Your men are the best of the best. By heaven, you damn near cut them to pieces without our help.”
“I lost two hundred. Would you care to tell me why?” Kaelin replied.
Gaise Macon’s smile faded. “This is war. Men die. But we won a great victory.”
“There was no ward spell. They knew where we were. You let me lead my people into a trap.”
“There is a ward spell, but it does not extend far beyond Wishing Tree. And yes, I let you walk into the trap. I took you at your word, Kaelin. You said to use the Rigante wisely. I did that. No one else could have held this position as you did. As a result we have all but wiped out their advance force. We have a victory, and that will give backbone to the men.”
“You could have told me.”
“No. Think on it. Had I done so, you would have acted differently. You would have deployed your men in a stronger defensive perimeter. The reason they fell for my trap was that they believed, as you did, in my stated strategy. You understand?”
“Oh, yes, Stormrider, I understand. You tricked the enemy and tricked me, and you won. Now you understand this: If you ever seek to trick the Rigante again, I will kill you, and then I will take my men back to the north.”
“You have my word that it will not happen again,” said Gaise Macon.
“Your word, Varlish, is dog shit on my boot heel.”
With that he strode away to supervise the burial of the Rigante dead. Toward the afternoon Kaelin stretched himself out on the ground and slept for a while. He was awoken by Rayster. “What is it?” he asked sleepily.
“Something you should see,” answered the clansman.
Kaelin rolled to his feet and followed Rayster to the top of the crest slope. Many of the Rigante had gathered there and were watching something below. Kaelin eased his way through the mass of men.
Long stakes had been hammered into the earth of the valley floor, hundreds of them. The heads of dead Varlish soldiers had been rammed atop them. And the bloody work was continuing.
“Like a forest of death,” said Korrin Talis. “Why are they doing it?”
“To frighten the soldiers who are following,” said Kaelin. “They will come here with their huge army, and they will see the rotting heads of their comrades. It will tell them that this is going to be a fierce and deadly war, with no quarter.”
“It is appalling,” said Rayster. “Makes me ashamed to be part of it.”
“There’s no humanity in these Varlish,” said Korrin Talis.
They watched as a wagon trundled along the trail below, carrying more stakes and more heads. Kaelin turned away. “Let’s bury our dead and head back for Eldacre,” he said.
17
* * *
By dusk Gaise Macon had sent out orders for the hunting parties to cease looking for Varlish stragglers and return to the captured enemy camp. He should have been exultant, for the victory had been nothing short of spectacular. Four thousand eight hundred enemy dead and the acquisition of four thousand muskets, fifteen supply wagons, and twenty unused cannon. There were also tents, tools, sabers, knives, pistols—all of which would be helpful to the cause.
The only small note of annoyance had come with the escape of Sperring Dale and a group of his officers. They had not taken part in the attack, and had galloped from the camp at the first sight of the Eldacre counterattack. But this was not what sat heavy upon the heart of Gaise Macon.
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