‘For Tanaren!’ roared Felmere and along with the other knights he slammed into the rear of Fenchard’s men, in a frantic attempt to stop their inexorable progress through the remnants of Vinoyen’s forces and into his own soldiers’ unprotected flank.
It worked to a degree – blood and confusion reigned. Felmere ran his spear through the innards of one man before he could ready his shield. His horse crunched into the men immediately behind, hooves snapping bone and raking flesh. Felmere swept out his sword, cleanly parting another man’s head from his shoulders. As he killed, though, he couldn’t help thinking, ‘By all the Gods, these are my own men.’
Dominic and the Silver Lances to his left and right were doing similar grisly work. A wedge had been carved into Fenchard’s men, leaving many dead and dying, but they were prepared now. The impetus of the charge had gone and the danger now was that they would be surrounded. The knights, visors down, blood spattered over their shining plate mail and soaked into the barding of the horses, faced the enemy, who had backed away, leaving a space of some yards between the two of them. The Baron looked at these men carefully for the first time – many had brands, the mark of a criminal, and there were some swarthy-faced men, skin burnished by the sun almost as if they were born and raised in sunnier climes than here. Before they could counter-charge, though, Felmere sounded the retreat and the knights pulled free of their treacherous foes.
Reynard’s men were engaging the mercenaries along with Lasgaart’s infantry and were holding their own despite being outnumbered. Unlike the regimented appearance of the Arshuman regulars, no two of the mercenaries looked the same. Some had shields; others eschewed them in favour of colossal double-headed axes or giant six-foot swords needing two hands to wield. Others carried little more than brutal-looking cudgels; some were clad in leather armour, others in chain with enclosing helmets, and yet more wore little more than brigandine. They held a much looser formation, though, and would charge. ferociously grabbing their opponents’ spears and cleaving through their shields. The fighting degenerated quickly into brutal close hand-to-hand combat – maces pounding into skulls and crushing bone and brain; short swords hammered into ribs or through the mouths of the screaming enemy, shattering teeth and punching clean through to the other side, causing blood to spray like rain; and long swords, the ultimate slashing weapon, slicing through scapula to coccyx, spilling pale intestines and other scarlet, pulpy organs like some demonic butcher’s yard. The agonised high-pitch screaming of the wounded mixed with the concentrated grunting of the hard-pressed defenders and the battle cries of warriors sensing victory. Black blood and faeces covered the churned-up mud underfoot, and the relentless rain, washing everything into soggy shallow pools, caused the stink to rise. The true stench of death.
Elsewhere in the field, Felmere noted that his archers had nearly all been run down and scattered and that the light cavalry, though fighting gamely against a more numerous foe, were no match for their Arshuman equivalent. They had fragmented and had not even the loosest formation to speak of. His army consisted of two poorly protected units of infantry and a small number of brave, but outmanned, knights. And still not all of the opposing troops had been committed.
Then Maynard’s men, alone and tormented by arrows, broke and started to run back towards the ridge and the camp. The true slaughter in a battle comes not from determined men facing each other sword against shield; it comes through fear and panic. As Maynard’s men turned to flee, their backs were turned to the enemy horse and any semblance of a disciplined formation was lost. The enemy trumpets sounded and their small unit of heavy cavalry advanced ready to mow down and slaughter those whose courage had failed them. Men tried desperately to dive out of the way of the thundering hooves bearing down on them, falling to the earth covering their heads with their hands, only to be pounded, pummelled or run through with lances or spears.
Seeing this, Felmere called Dominic over. ‘I need to get to Reynard!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Take your knights and get among their cavalry. Try to save some of those poor bastards and stop them attacking our rear. I need to change things here.’
As the Silver Lances galloped off to do what they could, Felmere galloped around the rear lines of his forces to where Reynard had disengaged and was trying to gain some respite, regain his breath. About a quarter of his men were missing.
‘We cannot stand up to them; we need to withdraw, but slowly and in formation. When Lasgaart’s forces separate from the enemy, get them into a circle; I will do the same with my men. Our job then is to get everyone out of here without them getting surrounded and destroyed.’
Reynard nodded. ‘Baron Ulgar is dead. I saw Trask pull him down myself, though Fenchard landed the killing blow.’
Felmere whistled through gritted teeth. ‘Maynard, too; his men broke when an arrow caught him. We need to pull back over the river and destroy the bridges to buy some time. There are not enough of us to defend Grest. I want you to evacuate the city; you know what Arshuman retribution is like.’
‘As you wish,’ said Reynard, ‘though I would sooner try and put Trask’s eyes on a stick and roast them over a fire.’
‘His bollocks, you mean. And Fenchard’s, too, if he has any. Go and see Lasgaart; we have little time.’
The battle had been raging for under an hour, but the next phase of it lasted much, much longer and was infinitely more gruelling. As Felmere ordered, the two remaining units of infantry reordered themselves into circles, spears facing outwards. In this way they could not be flanked, though they could no longer muster a decisive charge. Fresher men could replace tired ones easily and both units could be much more durable. Marching in coherent formation was difficult, however, and the retreat was painfully slow. Time and time again Arshuman arrows fell among them, the wounded stumbling and falling, their comrades trying to lift them and keep them moving. Anyone who could not move would have to be left behind – and no mercy was shown to stragglers, who would be clubbed to death, or have their throats opened with dagger thrusts, blood spraying on to the face of their killer.
The Arshuman infantry was relentless in their pursuit, attempting to encircle the men of Tanaren entirely, a circle they could then close slowly, crushing the surrounded units in a vice of steel. Felmere remembered his tutor as a child, telling him stories of the great battles of the past; he thought of the Battle of Oro-Califan when a Kozean army, though outnumbering their enemy greatly, was destroyed in a similar manner. Men were pressed so closely together in that terrible conflict that they could not draw or swing their weapons, or breathe properly, or control their bladders. To stop this from happening here, he, Dominic and Reynard led their exhausted cavalry in charges to drive back the foe. It worked, too – no encirclement was made and the will and strength of the Arshuman footmen and their quislings was slowly drained.
After three exhausting hours they made the ridge bounding Wolf Plain, and Felmere heard with relief the brass trumpets of his enemy sounding the withdrawal. The Arshuman army, and their gold-clad “king”, too, needed some time to rest up before pressing onwards. It was a window of time Felmere had to use to his advantage.
He looked at his exhausted men. An army of nearly six thousand had marched from camp earlier that day and now they would be returning with little more than a third of that amount; granted a thousand of the starter force had turned traitor and many men had fled and scattered, but it was still a terrible reverse. Every face he looked at was pale, tired and bloodied; many were badly wounded. The auxiliaries with stretchers who would normally ferry the injured back to the healer’s tent had been attacked themselves, so Felmere had dismissed them for their own protection. It was a battle with few prisoners taken; the Arshumans’ thirst for vengeance after the Battle of Grest had been more than sated.
After clearing the tree-lined ridge, though, they could now see the river and the tented camp this side of it. Heartened, their pace picked up a little and they closed the distance quite quickly. All kept looking b
ack, though, expecting at any minute ranks of grim mailed warriors, grouped under banners of yellow, to appear atop the ridge, bent on revenge.
The rain stopped and it started to get cold again, numbing fingers and toes and causing spirits to drop even further. It was a thoroughly demoralised army that limped back into the camp, a place of refuge, but they had no time to rest their tired muscles. Immediately Felmere called the remaining generals and nobles to his tent.
He had had no time to dwell on the ruin of his hopes and dreams. The despair he was gamely fighting back into the darker recesses of his mind would get full vent over a bottle of vinegary wine later; now, however, he had to pick up the shattered pieces of this debacle.
‘We can discuss what happened today later,’ he said, his voice thick with disappointment. ‘But now we have to get everyone out of this camp and destroy the bridges. It will buy us time and give us a chance to get everyone out of Grest who wants to leave.’
‘Fair comment, my Lord,’ said Tomak, a veteran general of his own House. ‘But what happens after that? If we are abandoning Grest, how far back do we retreat?’
‘Winter is coming. There will be little more campaigning this year,’ said Felmere. ‘With Ulgar dead and Haslan Falls betraying us, the entire region is threatening to break up into a patchwork of separate strongholds with Tanaren controlling little of it. We need to get word to Esric and secure Tetha Vinoyen, though I am sure Fenchard has already stolen a march on us there. We retreat to our fortified camp in the plain; thereafter, I don’t know – we will have to see. Right now, though, Reynard, take your knights up to Grest and start getting the people out of there. Tomak, Mirik, I want a hundred volunteers to be last over the bridges and to destroy them as they cross. Get the civvies over the bridge first. Now, all of you, move – we have little time as it is!’
Everyone beat a hasty exit except for Dominic Hartfield. Felmere didn’t seem to notice him at first, lost as he was in a reverie. Dominic had to call him by name before Felmere responded.
‘The Silver Lances. What do you wish of them? Shall we escort the civilians to the camp?’
‘Yes, by all means,’ the Baron replied absently. ‘And take this with you.’
He handed Dominic a small chest, about the right size to store documents. It was locked, so Felmere handed him the key. Both men knew of its contents.
‘Ulgar and Maynard are dead,’ he said. ‘Their wills are in there, along with those of all the other nobles. Once your escort duties are done, take it to my city; it needs to be kept safe. I would have gone if the battle had gone well, but now I will be staying on the front lines until this mess is sorted.’
Dominic bowed. ‘Of course, Baron, but once that has been arranged I will fight alongside you.’
‘As you wish. I am grateful.’ Felmere watched him leave, his face blank and expressionless. Dominic ducked out of the tent, leaving Felmere alone for a second.
He cursed softly to himself and strode through to that part of the tent partitioned off for his sleeping quarters. A servant was there packing a trunk; everything else there had been already moved out. He could smell the river, swollen with the rain. It was only a matter of yards away, concealed by high rushes. The light had almost gone and the lanterns had been lit, their soft red light suffusing the confined space with its warmth.
‘Have you nearly finished?’ he asked the sweating man.
‘Yes, my Lord, I will only be a few minutes then I can load it on to the wagon.’
‘Good. Get yourself over the bridge as soon as you can. The enemy could be here at any time and I don’t want you caught up in that.’
‘Thank you, my Lord, but I will be done here very quickly.’
Felmere left him and strolled back to the main part of the tent. Wearily, he unstrapped his breastplate and lowered it to the ground, all the better for his slightly overweight frame to breathe properly for five minutes. It felt strange being on his own; it happened so rarely. Being alone with his thoughts was something he wasn’t used to and after the disasters of the day he wasn’t sure it was something he wanted either. The Gods had truly forsaken them. Not having the morning devotions had obviously been a terrible mistake. He would have to see the Artoran priest, to ask what public penance he should undergo to gain their forgiveness in the eyes of his men. When would he see his family again?
He could hear the servant packing the trunk, heavy footsteps along with the muffled sounds of clothes, scrolls or other bric-a-brac being stowed hastily with scant regard for order or tidiness. He was about to leave the man, to check whether the Arshumans had been sighted when he heard a heavier thump. Had the man dropped something? No matter, given the haste required, mistakes could be forgiven. He waited to hear him start work again but there was only silence. Strange, he thought. He called out the man’s name. There was no response. He called again with the same result. Damn the man to the furnace, what was he up to? With an exasperated sigh he barged back into the sleeping quarters, his face reddening slightly.
‘By the furnace and the saints, my man, what exactly is going on he...?’ He stopped dead in his tracks.
Slumped over the trunk, limp and lifeless, was the servant’s body. For a second he entertained the notion that the man had collapsed drunk; something he dismissed just as quickly. He put his hand to his sword ready to draw it, an occurrence that was never to happen.
He felt it, of course, if only for less than a second, a sliver of cold icy metal, both freezing and searing hot, thrust with a calculated precision into his back just left of his spine. There was no time to feel pain – the blade entered his heart much too quickly for that. And then ...nothing. Was he now seated at the great table of the Gods, supping with divine Artorus and Camille, talking freely with Elissa and Mytha? Was he joined again with the spirit of his first wife, a lady for whom he had more affection than he had ever let show? Unfortunately, these were things that humble mortals would never know. Felmere was dead long before his body slumped to the ground.
The only person left alive in the room, cloaked and hooded in midnight black, wiped the blade on the grass before slipping it back into her belt. Fortune had smiled on Syalin these last couple of days – the camp moving, Felmere pitching his tent right next to the river, things couldn’t had fallen easier. She knelt over the fallen body and gently prised the man’s signet ring from his middle finger. She was glad she didn’t have to cut the finger off; carrying such a thing round with her was always mildly irritating. Ducking down low, she looked under the tent flap. It was dark now and the coast was clear. Noiselessly, like a spirit of air, she left the tent and headed for the river. She stopped for a second, looking and tasting the breeze. Then she slipped down the bank and into the reeds where she disappeared from view completely.
Shortly afterwards she emerged again, in a small round boat of the kind so beloved of the Marsh Men. It had been expertly concealed in the reeds for a couple of days as had she. The rain had been troubling; as the river rose, her hiding place had been compromised, but fortunately no one was minded to be vigilant in these terrible conditions and the darkness had come early, shrouding her from view again.
She did not use the oar; rather she let the river take her. She left the camp behind just as she heard the panicked shouts of men and the subsequent hue and cry, indicating her handiwork had been discovered. She continued to drift downriver; the temperature on a river was always so much colder than the land surrounding it, she thought. She drew her cloak around her, annoyed at the weakness she showed in feeling the damp chill. Eventually, after travelling a mile or more she came to a knot of trees on the eastern bank. Steering the little boat patiently, at long last she pulled it over among a clump of reeds and tied it up against a tree root. Now it was just a case of waiting till the morning.
She looked up at the early-evening stars, the beautiful, beautiful stars. For a fleeting second she thought of her home. Her first home before her rebirth as a Strekha. On the foothills of the mountains could be se
en stars like no others. Why did man crave diamonds when the bejewelled majesty of the night sky was there for all to see? Her fellow species, as always, remained a mystery to her; their priorities were not her priorities. As a child among her barbarous people, all that mattered was a good hunt and food on the table. Then, as a servant of the Emperor, want was not a concept that ever arose – how strange it was, then, to see the merchant class of Koze, fat men spending their lives acquiring coin they could not spend. All it made as far as she could see was enemies and she had killed enough of them to know that to be the truth.
She left the boat and sat on a tump of thick grass next to the bole of a tree. From a small pack at her waist she pulled a hard circular biscuit, which she nibbled fastidiously. That eaten, she took a bare sip of water from a small hip flask and swallowed a tiny sliver of blackroot. Sitting cross-legged, her hands in her lap, she entered a light trance. In such a state she could not feel cold, or damp and pain, and discomfort could be ignored. Her mind went back to her home, the swaying palms sighing over a languid river, the orange groves within the white walls of the palace of the sages with the sharp tang of citrus in the air. The high alabaster towers topped with gold shimmering in the midday heat haze and the small monkeys bold enough to steal dates from the harvest baskets of the nut-brown villagers. She knew those people saw her pale skin and white hair as something of a marvel, but none would dare approach her to ask about it.
Other memories came to her then, unbidden ones, the type she could usually shut out; she did not know why they flashed through her mind now. She was about twelve. Her wrists were secured with manacles attached to a chain that was pulling her nearly off the floor. She was nearly naked, bathed in sweat; fear, such a rare feeling these days, was coursing through her, causing tears to drip heavily on to the stone floor over which the rats scurried. A hulk of a man stood over her brandishing a many-thonged whip. She remembered to this day the noise it made, the swish as he swung it left and right, and even now she flinched at the memory. Of course, she knew now that he had no intention of using it on her – her skin was to remain as unblemished as possible in case the Emperor wanted her to satisfy himself – but back then she was terrified of it. Something else she was to learn was that there were ways of inflicting the most intensely cruel pain imaginable without breaking the skin.
The Forgotten War Page 78
