The five glanced at each other. One, clearly in charge, said, “Our plan was to repel the enemy, if he was stupid enough to appear.”
Blake barely grinned and sipped his coffee. “The enemy was stupid enough to kill half your men and capture the rest.”
“It won’t do you any good. There are thousands of us. We are prepared to die in defense of our homeland.”
Blah, blah, blah…
The officer, Blake noted, was very young. “This your first engagement?” Blake asked.
The officer sniffed, at which Blake smiled. “What is your name?” Blake asked.
“Troy Montgomery.”
“Third son? Fourth?”
Troy Montgomery stared at him. “Third,” he said.
“Seeking glory, I suppose, or at least seeking to make a living, since third sons don’t inherit much of anything.”
Troy Montgomery glared.
Bretagne had last been conquered three hundred years ago. The invaders, from Trebizond, had confiscated half of the nobility’s land, declared independence from the king of Trebizond, built castles of their own or simply occupied the ones already in place and proceeded to interbreed with their new subjects. Nothing had changed, except that the natives of Bretagne had a different tyrant.
The peasantry, needed to work the land and therefore valuable, had been left alone.
What was the point of all this fighting and dying? Nothing ever changed other than the name of the man in charge.
Fomaut had grown rich over the past century—that, he supposed, was the point—and now had twice as many men under arms as Bretagne. Little doubt that Fomaut would prevail. Once they had done so, the King of Bretagne would be executed, his direct heirs given a choice of death or castration. The nobility of Fomaut would have larger holdings, and those of Bretagne would have somewhat smaller. A few, those on the border closest to Fomaut, might be dispossessed completely, depending upon whatever deals and arrangements the Primate felt like making. In the end, they would all swear loyalty to the new regime or join their monarch in death.
Oh, well. Sucks to be them…
And Blake Pierce, mercenary, soon to be mercenary captain, would be somewhat richer as well. One step closer, he sourly thought, to achieving his ambitions.
Troy Montgomery and his fellow officers would be held for ransom. They were kept under guard but otherwise treated with courtesy. The company bedded down for the night and in the morning, went on. Thankfully, the rain stopped before dawn and when the sun rose, it shone fitfully through the clouds.
Blake’s men moved through the woods almost silently. They encountered no more opposition. Still, Blake was thankful to find the forest thinning, and before mid-day, they reached the last stand of trees. The grasslands spread out before them. Far in the distance, across the plain, an army was encamped. Looking at their banners through a spyglass, Blake could make out the standard of Thierry Jorge Garcia, surrounded on either side by tents, horses, wagons, men and the pennons of all the nobility of Fomaut. It was an army, more than forty-thousand strong, and beyond the army, stood the walls of Lorraine.
Within the city, food would soon be growing scarce, if it hadn’t already. Lorraine sat at the confluence of two rivers, the Tergan and the Mear, so water wouldn’t be a problem for them, but drinkable water might be, depending on how much wood they had to boil it with. The citizens would be growing restive, their rulers feeling the pressure to do something, anything. No doubt, Bretagnian ships would be trying to get in and out of the city, bringing food and supplies, and some would succeed, but neither river was wide enough for incoming ships to escape flaming arrows. It would be a risk.
Pity Fomaut had no ships of its own. A solid blockade would speed things along, but Fomaut had no access to the sea, only one of the reasons that Bretagne represented such a prize. A deep harbor, and the trade that it afforded, would add considerably to Fomaut’s riches.
Blake smiled to himself. There wasn’t much the defenders could do. Sit tight, hope the walls would hold, wait for an ally to send rescue (if they had any allies willing to risk their own lives and treasure), hope that Fomaut would get tired of the whole enterprise and simply give up (not going to happen, thought Blake), fight back when the enemy got close enough to fight, or surrender.
The army of Fomaut, on the other hand, could range across the countryside, taking what it needed. Bretagne was a fertile land and it was early Summer, the best time to invade one’s neighbors. There would be plenty of food, unless the populace had burned it. That happened sometimes. They would have to see. Not likely, though. The peasants lived close to the land and had a keen sense of their own survival. They cared less about who levied taxes than they did about surviving the next Winter.
Men, and occasionally women called out greetings as they strode into the enormous camp. Thierry Jorge Garcia was a capable commander. The place was orderly, with stores neatly laid out, campfires well-spaced, privies dug downwind, where the smells would assault the city and not the invading army. Every man had a sleeping bag and an assigned tent. Pack horses were contained in a makeshift corral, prized war horses tied to posts outside their owner’s tent.
Siege engines stood in two lines at the edge of the encampment nearest the city. More were under construction. As a sub-commander, Blake had been informed of the general plan before leaving Fomaut. The easiest thing to do was to starve the enemy out, but starving an enemy out would take time, possibly even years.
No, the Primate had no intention of waiting for years to claim his prize. Another two days, Blake estimated, and the attack would begin.
He yawned. It had been a stressful few days and now he was here, initial objective successfully completed. Eat when you can, sleep when you can. It was the soldier’s creed, and possibly take advantage of one or two camp followers, if any were about, but first, he was looking forward to a hot meal and then getting some sleep.
The walls were smooth and high. A direct assault would lose a lot of men and avail them nothing. Thierry Jorge Garcia was not a fool. The siege engines were wheeled up and began throwing rocks. Each rock weighed over a thousand kilograms, and each one did damage. The walls were thick, however, and the damage caused by a single rock, even the largest, was minor, but that was just fine; they had plenty of rocks.
More worrisome was the fact that Bretagne also had siege engines, a lot of them, fixed in place, built years before and never used until now. Their targets were limited, however, as the army of Fomaut stayed comfortably out of range. The only thing Bretagne could throw at were the invaders’ siege engines, and the siege engines, pulled by teams of draft horses, changed position every few minutes. They were hard to hit.
Three siege engines suffered sufficient damage to knock them temporarily out of commission. A fourth simply collapsed into shards of rope and wood as a particularly large boulder hit it near the base. Two of the siege engines’ operators and four horses were killed.
No problem. A minor setback. Fomaut had plenty of time and rocks were everywhere and cost nothing. The loss of the men was unfortunate, the horses even more so, but no war was conducted without casualties. So far, the casualties were light.
They all knew that wouldn’t last.
The next few days were tedious, but none of them minded. The siege engines continued to throw rocks. Cracks appeared in the city’s walls. Bits of stone and concrete rained down where their missiles hit.
They ate, slept and waited. They played games with dice and cards, some of them foolish enough to wager the plunder that they only hoped to win, once the city fell. A few fights broke out. These were quickly quelled and the abusers punished.
Blake, and the rest of the sub-commanders drilled their men, as much to dissipate extra energy as improve their skills. Every other day, Thierry Jorge Garcia inspected the encampment, riding with four guards at his side. The inspection was largely an excuse to show himself, calm, well-dressed, unruffled and unconcerned, his mere presence among them a reassurance th
at all was well and proceeding according to plan.
Once, Thierry stopped his horse as Blake instructed his men in group tactics, two on one, three on two, four on three, on foot and on horse, first with knife and sword, then with the long guarded spears designed to be used by men on foot against a man charging on horseback. Thierry watched as Devin and Graham, standing back to back, held off the unified charge of three of their comrades.
Thierry’s intent gaze sent a chill down Blake’s spine. The drills were common, practiced by every commander and sub-commander in the army. Nothing set Blake’s men apart, except that under Blake’s critical eye, they had long since become more competent than most.
He did not like the way Irina Archer had looked at him, after the dinner at the Primate’s palace. He did not like the way Thierry Jorge Garcia looked at him now.
Nothing to be done for it, however, and no apparent reason for concern. He was Blake Pierce, native of Cathay, a cobbler’s son, and if he bore a resemblance to a young man that Irina and Thierry Garcia used to know, a young man long since deceased and buried, well, that was merely a coincidence.
Thierry frowned, shrugged and turned his horse away. Blake breathed a sigh of relief.
Chapter 22
After three days, a second army of thirty-thousand men arrived, headed by Alejandro Garcia. This army established camp a kilometer away, set up more siege engines and proceeded to assist in bombarding the city walls.
After six days, they had broken through in three sections. Word was sent out. Tomorrow, at first light, the attack on Lorraine would begin.
Nelly giggled. She was a bubbly little blonde, plump, pretty, young and very good at her job. Blake found her blithe unconcern for the uncertainties of life to be oddly soothing. Aside from the requisite high-pitched squeals and moans (which might even have been sincere, though Blake doubted it), Nelly felt no need to fill the air with aimless chatter. Blake appreciated that. He might have found Nelly to be boring at another time and place, but for here and now, conversation was the last thing he wanted. She was nearly perfect, in a limited sort of way.
He couldn’t help comparing her, though, to Davida Montoya. Davida had been in his thoughts a lot, lately. He found her creeping into his mind at odd moments, unbidden. Nellie was a lot of fun but nothing like Davida Montoya.
Still…Nelly was here and Davida was probably in bed with Stephanie Valandraud.
Nelly ran her hand down his chest, then lower, played with him for a few moments, a questioning frown on her face, trying to coax him back to life. Blake was perhaps even more interested than Nelly to see if she could succeed.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Blake finally said. “Three times is it for me.” He might have been able to manage a fourth, with enough effort, but tomorrow was going to be a long day. Better to call it a night and get some sleep.
“Are you sure?” Nelly said with a giggle. He found himself, somewhat to his own surprise, beginning to come back to life. She smiled, moved her hand faster, scrunched down on the bed and placed a little kiss on the tip. “Are you very, very sure?”
Was he? Hmm… “Sadly, yes,” he decided. Reluctantly, Blake removed her hand. He yawned.
“Well, then. If you’re sure.” Nelly hopped out of bed, pulled her dress over her head and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals. They were the only things she wore, and they were easily removed. “I’ll be moving along. I have other appointments, you know.”
“Yes, Nelly, I do. May you have a long and profitable night.” He counted out three silver coins, hesitated and added a fourth.
“Oh, I will,” she said. She took the coins from his hand and giggled. “You’re fun,” she said. “We’ll have to do this again.”
He never slept well before a battle, but he managed a fitful few hours and rose as the sun crept over the horizon. It looked to be a fine day, which seemed neither here nor there, considering what lay before him, but nobody enjoyed fighting in the rain. Might as well have good weather when dealing out death and hopefully avoiding it yourself.
He ate a light breakfast, used the chamber pot, donned his leather armor and strode out. Around him, the camp was stirring, soldiers emerging from their tents, already dressed, camp followers sleeping in, their work done. Blake was not quite the first to arrive at the designated site across the plain from the city. A few minutes later, his men had straggled in and arranged themselves in four orderly rows, armed and armored. Around them, on either side, stood company after company of the Primate’s troops, thirty thousand strong. Ahead of them and to the sides, was the mounted cavalry, their horses restive, knowing from experience what was soon to happen.
A few minutes later, Thierry Jorge Garcia rode up on a grey charger, a gnarled horn spiraling from its forehead, accompanied by his guard. Thierry halted near the middle of the line, stood in his stirrups and drew his sword, which shone brightly in the sun.
A fine and inspiring sight, Blake thought, if you were a rookie or an idiot.
Thierry was not one to waste words, for which Blake was thankful. “You all know what we are here to do,” Thierry said. He grinned. “For the glory of Fomaut!” He turned, his guard forming a wedge around him, and raced toward the cavalry unit to the left of the assembled troops.
A drum began to beat. The army began to march, the horses trotting a few meters in front. As they grew closer, they could see a line of men facing them, a line similar to their own, but smaller, flanked by cavalry, lined up near the breaches in the city walls.
The army stopped. For a moment, a strange silence, marred only by the restless pawing of a horse’s hoof reigned. Then, “Fire!” Thierry called. A hail of arrows shot toward the assembled troops, who dropped to one knee and raised their shields. The arrows rained down, most thudding into the shields, only a few finding flesh.
Their own troops advanced, until only a few meters separated the two lines.
“Shields and Pikemen!” Thierry called.
The first few rows dropped to one knee, crouched behind their shields and aimed their pikes forward, presenting an almost impenetrable barrier. Those behind the front rows threw spears. The rows behind them shot arrows. Such a formation was vulnerable to the sides, Blake knew. It was the cavalry’s job to protect the army’s flanks and at the same time engage the enemy horsemen. Once the horsemen were defeated or slain, the two armies would fully engage.
Blake’s company stood happily in the middle. Arrows could reach them, but unless the Primate’s army was decimated, opposing troops could not penetrate the sea of forward pointing pikes without suffering enormous casualties.
The drums began to beat, and with each beat, the army took a step forward. Finally, when they were only a few meters away, the men in front threw their pikes at the enemy line and charged. Within seconds, the cries of men in battle and the screams of the wounded filled their ears.
It was a slaughter. Within an hour, the troops of Lorraine, greatly outnumbered, were gone, almost half of them dead, the rest retreated into the city.
“Stand and re-form!” Thierry cried.
Perhaps ten percent of their number was down, dead or incapacitated. The remainder consolidated into ragged lines. “Advance,” Thierry ordered.
They charged the gaps in the walls and within seconds, swords were clanging against swords. Blake’s men had drilled together for weeks. They kept formation, fighting side by side, sometimes back to back, as chaos reigned. They advanced slowly but steadily through the gaps in the walls, climbing over fallen pieces of masonry. They were neither the first troops through nor the last.
A trio of Bretagnians, unarmored and armed only with short swords, charged snarling toward Blake. His men cut them down before they could take more than a few steps. An arrow hurtled toward him, thudding against his shield, then another. The air filled with dust. The sun was still low in the sky, the heat of the day still hours ahead, but they were already sweating inside their armor. More troops crowded in behind, pushing them fo
rward.
Inside, a narrow passageway wound around the walls, allowing for defending troops to maneuver and reach any point of the city defenses. Narrow stairs led upward to the top of the wall. The first troops inside swarmed up the stairs and engaged the Bretagnians who had not yet retreated.
Beyond the passageway, buildings crowded together, effectively forming a second, inner wall, interspersed every few hundred meters with streets leading inward, toward the city center, like the spokes of a wheel. Defenders clustered at the mouth of every street. No help for it. Blake, his men and a thousand of their fellows charged and engaged.
The defenders exchanged a few blows, then melted away into alleys, cross streets and open doorways. Blake and his company made their way between two rows of flat roofed houses. Arrows rained down from the roofs and upper windows. One man cried out and fell, an arrow in his eye, then two more.
“Deal with this,” Blake ordered. His troops peeled off and swarmed into the buildings, followed by a hundred more of the Primate’s army. A few seconds later, the body of a man, tall, thin and balding, was ejected from a window, screaming, then five more, then ten, to lie broken and bloodied, at their feet.
They went on, inching their way, while the clang of swords and the screams of horses and men came from all around. Blake could only assume that they were winning, since they were still moving forward.
The buildings, he was thankful to note, were mostly made of stone and brick, not wood. If they were wood, he would not have put it past the defenders to set them on fire, cooking them all within the mazes of the city.
An hour later, they emerged from a crooked alleyway into a cobbled square, with a fountain at its center. Most of the fighting had by now passed them by. They halted for a few moments, sat along the fountain’s edge, ate a few bites of jerky and hardtack and drank from their canteens. His men eyed the fountain, uncertain. “Jump in, if you want,” Blake said.
The Towering Flame Page 16
