‘No they weren’t,’ said Brunick, ‘one of them was shirtless.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I saw when those guys tried to tackle you… one of them lost his shirt in the scuffle… and fell on his own teammate and then…’
Cid revved up a chuckle of his own and Brunick burst in a raucous cascade of laughter.
‘Nothing like the military or team sports to dumb down the population,’ said Cid amidst Brunick and Alex’s incoherent amusement.
Chapter 8
A View from the Top
Tomorrow the march would commence. 3800 men from Lanston were nearly accounted for, the last still to come a slow trickle of caravans from the south west. The wilderness surrounding the barracks was now swept away under a massive war camp, a mobile home of many dozens of tents presented in precise rows and columns. This town of fabric had only taken its full size yesterday when the bulk of the army had arrived.
Stelinger, atop the barracks tower, stared into the far. The sight was glorious. The morning sun’s mellow shine blended well with the manila of the tents, the forest green standards hoisted high and decorating the premises in numbers, standing prideful watch over the camp. In and among the tents were several hundred restless men; sharpening weapons, playing Bajural, or simply lounging non-coincidently near the food supplies.
The rest of the army however - Stelinger turned and walked to the other side of the tower - was busy training.
It was Stelinger himself who called for a refresh course on tactics, assigning his officers to segments of the infantry to drill and practice while preparing for the march. Within a few moments of observation Stelinger could discern exactly where each of his Colonels or Captains were, albeit they only were but far-off battle clad figures in the field.
Even more than what was expected of him Stelinger had an intimate idea of his senior personnel, knowing them much better than the men truly realized. He was, as he knew Cid to be, a keen observer of people and he never failed to note their characteristics. For that is why Stelinger won through on so many occasions; he too was considered a military mastermind, but it was his preying on men’s personalities that gave him an edge.
Ignorant of this other men were at a loss at his ability to anticipate, some of them worshipping his boldness even above Cid’s well-ordered approach.
Searching for the man Stelinger found Cid easy to distinguish, mostly because the Colonel was constantly guiding his men by voice. There was also an efficiency about him that was hard to miss, an efficiency that Stelinger admired.
His gaze fixed on Cid’s company of men and he studied them. Cid was with a group of men he never even worked with before now, and yet their basic training was enough to become a lethal force under his command.
Flag, Feline, Fire and Flux. Stelinger recognized these names as the Colonel spoke them in the far, familiar with the titles Cid gave his infantry segments. Cid’s style required him to give swift and recurrent commands to his men and he used these names to make sure the right men knew what was expected of them. There was a bit of a verbal code to these names as well, so that the enemy could not pick up on Cid’s patterns or intentions.
The exercise waiting to start was a traditional war drill involving two teams:
Twelve archers stood off against a team of sixteen infantry with four archers of their own. All the archers used arrows topped with a soft rubber rather than a steel point. The rules of the exercise stated that whenever a man was struck by an arrow he was to go down and simulate death or incapacitation. The advantage was inherently on the side of the twelve archers and thus the drill was designed to gauge how well an infantry segment could manoeuvre and protect their own small group of archers.
For tactical ends the base infantry of Lanston were divided in two types; those bearing heavy oval shields and armed with spears, or those with smaller light round shields, armed with short stabbing swords. For the purpose of the exercise the infantry only needed shields and thus did not have weapons on them. Their only function was to give their own four archers the opportunity to shoot at the company of twelve. The company of twelve had no cover, but had advantage in firepower and an initial gap of a rough fifty yards.
Stelinger watched with interest. From the very start Cid subdivided his men, his voice clear and commanding. Two segments of the infantry moved slowly forward, the other two staying behind. The large oval shields, held together by a line of foot soldiers, could protect any man behind it from arrow fire, especially if they conceded to crouching a little.
The archers would hide slyly behind what was called a “turtle” of men, the name for a collection of mobile soldiers using their shields in tight ranks to protect the unit. The number of men in a turtle was dependent on the situation, Cid assigning four men to a turtle for now; three oval shields and one round shield. The twelve archers had already fired half a dozen volleys, but as expected the arrows bounced harmlessly from the slowly progressing golden shields.
To Stelinger, Cid’s plan was rather predictable, but marked it as a nevertheless effective one. The four turtles would move with varying speeds and positioned themselves at different ranges and depts. This tended to confuse the archers, but more importantly destined any volley the archers mustered to hit only one of the turtles at best. Every now and then the company of archers would try to loop their shots and it was by this that the round shield-bearers would use their lighter shields to cover any exposure overhead.
One turtle in particular was moving quite fast. From his view Stelinger could see Cid crouching behind this turtle, constantly shouting orders. Inevitably the archers focused fire on this group, their training to remain vigilant overridden by the most salient and accessible threat. If they shot the Colonel down the infantry would automatically lose and Stelinger knew well Cid was going to use the archer team’s eagerness to target him to his advantage.
He then made his move as the turtle broke up; Cid, an oval shield and the round shield moved rapidly to their left, entrenching themselves again five yards from the original turtle. This movement ensured an onslaught of harmless arrows focused on their shields and it was just then that Cid’s voice announced, ‘fire!’
Two of the four turtles had positioned themselves on the very boundaries of the allocated training ground. Three archers jumped up at the right turtle and another jumped at the far left. As one they made a direct shot at the centre line of archers. All four arrows hit and one man was shot twice as the archers’ team lost three men.
Stelinger applauded Cid silently; his misdirection was perfect and had created a slight panic. Already the archer team had lost their edge, yet now they were firing at the two turtles protecting the archers, seeking to eliminate the infantry team’s only way to victory.
Cid’s voice rang clear and the most latent turtle started moving from the back. It angled itself, squeezing narrowly past the right turtle and Stelinger saw two of the three archers slip in behind the adjacent turtle. The newly manned turtle kept moving and unsurprisingly became the new favourite target.
Cid announced fire. The two archers who had remained separately at the right and left turtles each made a quick shot before ducking again. Another arrow hit and the archer team was down to eight. Cid in the meanwhile rejoined with his original turtle and soon they were linking up with the turtle escorting the two archers.
In a sudden change of pace the eight shield bearers along with Cid and the two archers wove intricately and it was during this that one of the shield bearers was shot while being exposed. The impact was clear and the man went down dutifully on the spot as a corpse.
Yet even with their casualty the seven shields scattered themselves into a multi-depth pattern and the archers remained invisible. Cid launched another string of commands.
At this the turtles on the flanks reorganized. A round shield and an oval shield at both groups moved in behind the two centre shields and lifted their own so that they rested on the grounded shields. Now, the round and oval shields suspended in
a slant left a small gap between them; a difficult target to hit, yet it was a fine hole for the turtle’s archers to shoot from, a bunker effect as it was.
Almost at the same moment the right and the left archer commenced fire from their new form of protection and continued to do so unperturbed. The archer team quickly returned focused fire and Cid saw his opportunity, announcing shots from his own cluster of men. The two archers in the centre formation had close distance clear targets and made periodical perfect shots before ducking away again.
Stelinger knew it was all over now; between the continuous shooting of the flanking turtles and the selective precise fire from those at the centre it was only a matter of time. Stelinger smiled as eventually the last remaining member of the archer team kept shooting in mock defiance, yelling insults as his arrows bounced harmlessly.
Inevitably he was shot and made a great long spectacle of dying. The exercise ended and the men laughed, helping up their slain comrades who kept playing dead right until the end.
A little bit of luck and Cid would have completed the exercise without losing a single man, thought Stelinger.
‘He is gifted,’ came a voice from behind. Stelinger turned to find Piatil with several sheets of paper in his hands.
‘And so are you, I can never tell when you’re sneaking up on me,’ said Stelinger.
‘Ha, don’t feel bad about it Commander, no one ever does.’
Stelinger nodded stiffly. ‘Are those the satellite drafts?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Piatil, quickly handing them over to Stelinger. While he read them, Piatil stood quietly aside, awaiting response. Stelinger immediately skipped over to Cid’s draft and read through the names of his selected 200. Stelinger was not surprised by the choices.
‘Hmm, it looks good,’ murmured Stelinger.
‘Commander, was it really wise to let Cid choose his own men? With him at the lead of two-hundred quality soldiers, don’t you think he’ll survive?’ pressed Piatil.
‘No, he won’t, I’ve made sure of that. Besides, he’ll take along all those who think like him, including that loud mouth Brunick,’ said Stelinger.
‘And what of Bennam, now that I no longer watch over him he is a loose end, and…’
‘You see too many ghosts Piatil, and that dagger of yours is much too hungry. Bennam will get what’s coming to him the moment he gets whiff. It’s all arranged,’ said Stelinger, still looking at the names on the list of Cid’s company.
Chapter 9
Beyond the Border
There was something about looking at the northern territories that unsettled each and every Lanston soldier who had ever been deployed at the border. Those who did not feel the forlorn did not know of better, for it was from the unchanging north that the Fallen came so readily marching on days of war. A straight line of travel from Taverka would see one put twelve miles behind before reaching the beginnings of the canyon, where the Kingdom’s sovereignty ended.
There the walk or ride would talk to a man, calling attention to old remnants of weapons and wagons, rusted and broken, and then pointed out stone obelisks, solitary signs that civilization passed by here, acting as a salute of honour to those claimed by this site of battle. It is here that the Kingdom built crude stone walls and ramparts in the gaps, leaving their mark upon the soil year after year.
Past it laid a land collectively known as Alparack valley, a land claimed by no one, not even by the Terituan highlanders. Even before the birth of the Kingdom, men battled on these lands as though the soil itself whispered its lust for blood for all to hear and answer to. Seductively Alparack held a vast variety of untouched resources within its borders, only just hinting of it beneath its rugged landscape. Even greed though could not make the Kingdom fight here willingly, rather protecting the border where they kept the upper hand against the Fallen. Things always change however…
Alparack blanketed itself with Biridian woods laying over vast horizons, and all along its spine was a great trademark scar; Fafriv Canyon. It was a chasm matched by no other on Angaria, stretching miles upon miles right into the Fallen lands. For either Lanston or Fallen armies the canyon would be the only viable road for regiments numbering in the thousands.
The mistake to make was to think that down in the canyon matters could be much better. It would be a perilous march, rough on men and even worse for horses and equipment. The Fallen also would not be the only living enemy to look out for. Fafriv was well known for its abandoned mines and in all likelihood Lanston would have to prepare themselves to encounter rogues and bandits ravaging the land and those who’d get in the way.
In so forgiven was the Lanston man who felt estranged from his lifelong conservatism, leaving behind his role as protector, exchanging the havens for a land whose mercy favoured the merciless.
They marched, the infantry forming large squares of columns and rows, the cavalry on the flanks and the teamsters with their wagons bringing the rear.
Every seasoned soldier had his way to deal with boredom, whether stationary or mobile, you needed to adapt to the strain of monotony. In the evenings or midday breaks before meals and rest men would often take up crafts, those who could doing woodwork or playing instruments. Although it was taxing, there was a collective solution while moving; the rhythm, the ride, and the march.
It was hypnotic, the pulse of thousands of men and hundreds of beasts; the sound of clanking armour and groaning wagons and also the whinnies of horses. It was like some kind of exodus. There were scents as well, albeit not pleasant. Then of course the sight itself of nearly five thousand men marching in unison heralded undeniably that Lanston was on the warpath.
There was an unacknowledged conditioning in all of this, a trained mindset that allowed men to get past the mundane with a certain tolerance and still be ready to summon up their fiery spirit for battle when the hour called for it. The setup was helpful, but far from flawless. Brunick was but one of many men who could not contain his impatience even when they had only been marching for two days.
Cid and his chosen satellite company already marched on the western flank, destined to break away and proceed to Alparack’s veil, the woods that is, by day’s end.
‘Have ta admit, I’m glad you’re dragging me into the forest with you, things might be a bit slow for my taste down in the canyon,’ said Brunick to a mounted Cid.
‘Don’t thank me just yet. It will be dangerous and I chose you to come along for purely selfish reasons,’ said Cid from atop Cilverhoof.
‘What about Alex then?’ said Brunick.
‘Alex knows the outline of the land and is a forester, making him a natural choice for the expedition,’ said Cid.
‘What, so you just brought me along for moral support?’ jested Brunick.
‘Well that and your axe of course, who else is going to chop our firewood?’ replied Cid mockingly.
‘Ha, I’ll set up a few of the rookies to take care of that. No, my axe is reserved for some Fallen scum,’ said Brunick.
‘Hmm, you should get yourself a proper mount. We’ll be riding by sundown and you know how finicky horses are around you. Better you get acquainted with one while we’re still on going slow,’ said Cid.
‘Right…’
Brunick disappeared to the back of the march, on his way to see the cavalry master, Colonel Drissil.
Alone for the moment Cid pondered. He did not favour leaving Cilverhoof with the march, but it would be much safer for the animal he knew. Should the worst happen in the forest they would abandon as much as necessary to escape, and that often meant horses first. Cid suddenly smiled painfully at a new thought; for if the war was to go his way then in some form or another the worst would need to happen. He did not even feel guilty for thinking this, because where the Fallen were involved, death sometimes was a thing for the fortunate ones.
Chapter 10
Sacrifice
Bennam’s entourage was already three days ride east of Lanston. They were to take a ship at Fortreal an
d make way for Asheva where he and Rebecca were to live out their retirement at their second estate at the coast.
Bennam knew in his heart they would never make it, or at least, he wouldn’t. Everything has been prepared, his life’s work was at stake. His greatest frustration and regret was not being able to confide in Cid.
I hope you make it lad, thought Bennam.
Today would be no accident; Bennam knew exactly what was coming and what to do. He was at the point of no return.
Sitting in his large pavilion tent he fiddled with the curious syringe apparatus so cleverly put together from brass and glass. It was all the rage these new devices, used mainly for healers to quickly inject patients with a substance. In the syringe Bennam was cradling was a substance no respectable healer would even carry on himself. It appeared timid and translucent, like water, but was in fact a deadly poison.
In his mind he constantly thought of the army, reckoning that the march would have breached into Alparack by now. He could not describe to himself how much he wanted to be with them in the canyon.
A much better place to die…
Bennam could see the shadows of his guards outside on the tent fabric.
At least they will survive, thought Bennam. But then one of these new guards was likely to be an informant and turncoat, this much Bennam knew.
Such is the way of the enemy, find a bad seed and corrupt it, albeit with coin rather than magic. I’m just glad I sent Rebecca’s guard on another course. Boy was she angry. I’ll never get to say goodbye. O Rebecca love, if only I could tell you. If only I could tell anyone!
But then there was; there was this one man who knew exactly what was at stake. It saddened Bennam to think that only other person who knew the truth was in exile, a man with no ties to the Kingdom, not anymore anyway.
Remnant Pages Spearhead Page 8
