book1

by Fire

  Igelko found Terin north of the Ox Tongue, keen to be off. “Rendle is stopping for the night. His riders are very tired, especially the Haxus regulars.”

  Terin nodded. “Well, they’ll have their reward soon. Maybe tomorrow.” He looked down at the ground. “Look at this grass, Igelko. Have you ever seen such rich spring pasture?”

  Igelko shook his head. “Certainly not in our territory. It explains why we have a thousand cattle and the White Wolf clan has four thousand.”

  “Indeed. It is good to be allied with such a clan.”

  “Certainly better than being their enemy. It is interesting; watching the enemy riders, I saw none of them take the time to actually look around and see the land itself. Not one of them understands what it means to ride on the Oceans of Grass.”

  “They will learn,” Terin said grimly.

  It had been hard for Gudon to keep the reserve of strength he knew he was going to need. He had to block away the pain of his bruises, his slit ear, and the broken cheek bone and cracked rib. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, on closing his eyes and relying on his other senses, particularly his sense of smell. In fact, it was his hearing that told him he was close to where Lynan wanted Prado to be: the horses were making less sound, which meant the grass under hoof was greener, more supple. Then, almost immediately, he could smell the scent of crushed spring grass as well.

  He opened his eyes. Prado’s force was moving into the narrowing valley that marked the entrance to the Ox Tongue. The sun was down and the air was getting cooler. Prado called a halt and came along side Gudon.

  “Well, my little barge pilot?”

  “We are very close. Maybe another day’s ride.”

  “Which way?”

  “I will guide you.”

  Prado grunted and grabbed Gudon’s jaw. Gudon could not help his cry of pain and was ashamed of it. “You could just say—‘Ride north’ or ‘Ride east.’ Then you could rest.”

  “I will guide you,” Gudon said around Prado’s hand with some difficulty.

  “I could find it by myself if I am within a day’s ride.”

  “And Korigan could find you,” Gudon countered.

  “She is still weeks away.” Prado released the Chett with a sneer. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned to his captains. “We camp here. I want sentries doubled tonight, two hundred paces from the nearest fires.”

  One of the sentries disturbed Rendle’s rest. “Campfires! Campfires to the south!”

  Rendle tugged on pants and rushed out of his tent, following the sentry to a knoll some three hundred paces from the camp. There, in the far distance, he could see the night sky shimmering slightly.

  “We have them at last,” he said, and grinned. “I had begun to think we would never catch them.” He thought furiously, then slapped his thigh. “We cannot risk losing them again.”

  He strode back into camp, shouting for all to arise. He would march them through the night and surprise the enemy just as dawn touched the sky.

  * * *

  Gudon waited until two hours before sunrise. He stood up carefully, quietly. His guard, sitting ten paces from him, was dozing quietly, his chin on his chest, just as he had for the last five nights. Gudon tugged gently, insistently, on the stake to which he was tethered, stopping whenever the guard snored or snuffled. At last it came free, and he was able to slip his bonds over its end and then use his teeth to loosen them from his wrists. He crept up to the guard and with one swift movement put one hand over the man’s mouth and with the other took the guard’s own knife and slipped it between his ribs. The guard jerked once, then slumped. Gudon laid him out gently, took his sword as well, and started to make his way out of Prado’s camp, trying not to wince as his cracked rib dug into his side.

  He had watched where the sentries were posted and knew he would have to take care of one of them. This was the difficult part. The sentries were relieved on the hour, so they were always fresh. He found a hollow and waited for the next turnaround, afraid that the dead guard would be discovered at any moment and the alarm raised. At last he saw a man coming his way, yawning and stretching his arms. He wore a simple cloak over his riding breeches and shirt, had a pot helmet on his head and carried a spear. Gudon waited until he had passed, then crept up behind him and killed him the same way he had killed the guard. He brought the body back to the hollow, took the helmet, cloak and spear, and took his place. Five minutes later he was approaching the sentry.

  “What happened to Garulth?” the sentry asked.

  “I lost a bet to him,” Gudon said gruffly. “I have his watch tonight.”

  The sentry was not convinced. “You know what Freyma says about the roster. It cannot be changed. Who are you?”

  Gudon swore silently and changed the grip on the spear so he could throw it, but even as he did so knew it was too late. The sentry had his own spear held out and was half-crouching, only a breath away from calling out to the camp.

  The sentry stiffened suddenly, seemed to teeter for a moment, then fell forward onto his face. Gudon could only barely see the outline of an arrow sticking from his back. Relief flooded him, and he ran forward as fast he could with his injuries, throwing away the helmet and spear. He had gone fifty paces when two figures sprang out of the darkness, one of them hissing his name. He stopped, turned, and saw a Chett woman.

  “I’ll bet my mother’s fortune you have a red hand,” he said quietly, and although he could see no color, she obligingly held up her hand so it was silhouetted against the paling sky.

  Prado learned three things within minutes of each other. He learned the first when he heard a cry from within the camp that the barge pilot’s guard had been slain, and that the barge pilot himself had escaped. Before he could investigate, he learned the second when one of the sentries in the west called out that he had discovered the bodies of two of his fellows, and that one of them had been killed by a black Chett arrow. This time he managed to reach the scene of the deaths before he learned the third: sentries in the north calling out what they could feel through their feet: the approach of many, many riders.

  Freyma and Sal rushed up to him, their expressions grim. Prado could see fear in their eyes, but they were professionals and would not panic. “Set our archers in front, their line placed one hundred paces north of our camp,” he snapped to them. “Put our recruits directly behind them. Veterans on the flanks except for a small reserve that will stay with me behind the recruits.”

  His two captains nodded and ran off to carry out his instructions. All around him men still stirring from sleep were beginning to feel that something had gone terribly wrong. They looked at Prado, saw him striding by purposefully but without hurry, and felt reassured. He reached his own tent, hurriedly finished dressing, left the tent, and got on his horse being held for him by a nervous-looking recruit. Prado patted the boy on the shoulder, then stayed where he was, making sure everyone knew he was there and was not afraid.

  The veteran mercenaries grouped themselves without much fuss, but Freyma and Sal had more trouble settling down the recruits and organizing them into two companies behind the archers; their mounts could feel their owners’ fear and were stamping and nipping at their neighbors. Prado wished he had had the time he needed to give them some training in Hume, but the threat of invasion from Haxus had forestalled that. The archers themselves were quite green, but supremely confident of their ability with bow and arrow. In front of their line they planted sharpened stakes they had carried with them all the way from the Arran Valley, then they strung their bows, carefully checked the flights of their arrows—placing each of them point first in the ground near their right or left hand, depending on which they used to draw the bow—and finally tested the wind with licked fingers and tufts of grass thrown into the air. The steady professionalism of the archers helped settle down the recruits behind, which in turn helped them settle their horses.

  When all that could be done was done, the mercenaries waited. Some fidgeted, some
slumped in their saddles and closed their eyes to pray to their god, some checked and then rechecked their weapons and—if they had them—the straps on their shields and helmets. Most just sat in their saddles or stood straight, gazing as far as they could into the distance for the first sign of the enemy.

  Freyma and Sal reported to Prado for their final instructions. “Freyma, you stay with the recruits. Keep them together. When the enemy is within fifty paces, make sure they let the archers come through. If the Chetts dismount to get through the stakes, dismount the recruits and counterattack, but make sure they do not pursue the Chetts if they break and flee. Sal, stay on the right wing. Wait to see if the Chetts are trying a flank attack. If they are, keep the attack away from the center. If not, wait until the enemy’s first assault has wavered, then move out, taking them from the rear. Drive them onto the stakes if you can. Put Lieutenant Owel in charge of the left wing. She is to copy you, and not to act independently unless I give her an order in person. Any questions so far?”

  Freyma and Sal shook their heads.

  “If I think the Chetts are retreating from the battle, I will give the order for a general advance. If that happens, stay in sight of each other, then break off the pursuit at midday and return promptly to this camp. Good luck.”

  His captains saluted and left. Prado breathed deeply, wondering if there was anything else he should do or take care of, but without knowing who was attacking or in what strength, his choices were limited. Still, he had some idea. Korigan’s clan had been close, and the barge pilot had led them here knowing that. He had heard stories about the White Wolf clan and knew it was one of the larger ones, but his two-and-a-half thousand mercenaries, mostly veterans, would be able to handle them. The important thing to remember was not to break the line and chase the Chetts if they looked like retreating—as often as not it was a Chett ruse to lure their enemies out of formation. Prado knew the Chetts well enough to know when they really panicked and started to flee.

  The outer sentries appeared, running as fast as their legs could carry them. “Half a league!” they called. “Half a league!” One of them came straight to Prado and breathlessly said: “Three thousand! Maybe more!”

  Prado nodded. That sounded about right for one of the larger clans, and even allowed for another thousand left behind to protect the herd or sent on a long flanking maneuver; he would have to be wary of the last.

  “Haxus cavalry,” the sentry said then.

  Prado looked at him in surprise. “What?”

  “Haxus cavalry ... uniforms ... Haxus pennants ...”

  “Three thousand Haxus cavalry here ?” He could not believe what he was hearing.

  “Yes, but many in no uniform... not Chetts.” Prado waved off the sentry, who scurried away, and stared northward disbelievingly. He could not see the enemy yet, but he could hear them.

  Prado knew instinctively who it was. Three thousand or more, most Haxus, but some not in any uniform. Mercenaries. Rendle. There was a moment, the briefest of .moments, when he knew everything had gone wrong, but then realized he was in the perfect position. Rendle could not possibly know he was not attacking Chetts. In fact, he was almost certainly on the Oceans of Grass for the same reason as Prado— to secure Lynan. Maybe Rendle even thought Prado’s force was the White Wolf clan and that he would find Lynan here.

  And if he thinks he is attacking Chetts, he will drive straight up the center, hoping to scatter us, Prado thought. And he will have another column out wide to drive in one flank. But which one?

  Rendle always did things a little differently, Prado remembered. Nothing revolutionary, just unconventional. Rendle’s flying column would be sent from his left wing. That meant it would come in on Prado’s right flank. How much time did he have?

  He called over one of his veterans. “You will find Captain Solway with the right wing,” he told him. “Tell her that the enemy is not the Chetts, but Rendle. Tell her to move out wide and ambush a flank attack Rendle will be sending against our right.”

  The veteran spurred his horse and galloped away. Prado heard sounds from the front and looked up. There, in the distance, a straight line of cavalry. Little dust. It was too far to be sure, but the enemy were riding close together, too close for Chetts.

  “Rendle,” Prado said quietly, smiling slightly. “I knew we would meet again.”

  Rendle knew he was close to the time when he would lose control over the attack. His cavalry was advancing at a steady canter, the line mostly holding, but he could now see the enemy ahead. He was worried they were not panicking. He was worried they seemed to be dressed in formations far too tight for Chetts. But there weren’t many, and he had another thousand riders behind the line of hills on his left moving to hit the enemy in the flank at the same time he hit them in the front.

  A thousand paces. He swung his sword over his head. Just as he brought the sword down to point it straight at the enemy, just as he spurred his horse from a canter into a gallop, just at the moment he finally lost control of the assault, he saw the foot archers.

  On receiving Prado’s surprising instructions, Sal had formed her cavalry into a wedge and galloped it east for three hundred paces and then turned them north. As they surmounted a small rise, they saw before them at least a thousand cavalry running in front of them, the heads of their mounts starting to droop, and she cried in surprised delight. She did not need to give any command—her whole force shouted with her and charged.

  * * *

  Prado had half expected the enemy to wheel to either side of his front line, risking their horses on the slopes on either side of the valley to enfilade him, but when he saw them break into a gallop, he knew they had left it too late for anything fancy. His archers loosed their first salvo. The arrows whistled as they rose and then fell about midway among the charging cavalry. Horses and men fell to the ground, tripping those behind them. A few seconds later the second volley fell, and the enemy ranks started to peel away, the formation losing cohesion. A third volley, and this time Prado could see individual arrows striking riders in the head and chest and thighs, and horses in the neck and shoulders. He could see some riderless horses canter and buck from the fray with arrows sticking from their haunches.

  The Arran archers picked up their unused shafts and retreated. For the most part they got through, but some of the younger recruits could not control their mounts properly and one or two of the infantry were trampled. The enemy charge reached the stakes. Horses reared, throwing their riders, some of whom ended up skewered, most of whom ended up in heaps on the ground—dazed, broken, or dead. The following ranks of enemy cavalry split, some going left, some right, most trying to retreat. Many riders jumped off, drawing their swords and advancing through the stakes, chopping at them, forcing their way through, desperate to actually land a blow on an opponent. Freyma ordered the first rank of recruits to dismount and counterattack. A confusing melee started just behind the line of stakes, swinging one way and then the next. As more of the enemy got through the stakes, the line was pushed closer and closer to Freyma’s position. Rather than send more of his recruits in, Freyma ordered his rear ranks to ride between those fighting on foot and the stakes. They hewed into the enemy from behind, mercilessly cutting them down.

  Prado meanwhile was searching for Rendle, finally catching sight of him on the left flank, leading the battle between his mercenaries and Haxus regulars against Owel’s troops. Owel had not had time to charge, and the impact of Rendle’s assault had forced back her formation. Prado checked one more time to make sure Freyma had things under control in the center, then raised his sword and spurred his horse into a canter. His veterans formed a line on his left. As soon as it was straight, he lowered his sword and they charged, hitting the enemy just as Owel’s force was on the verge of fleeing.

  Prado swung at any head that came within reach, but concentrated on bringing his line right behind Rendle’s force. He saw Rendle realize what was happening and trying to wheel his cavalry around to m
eet the new threat. Prado screamed his name, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and charged again.

  Even though Sal’s force was outnumbered two to one, the charge of her troops had sent the enemy reeling in shock. In a few minutes they had cut down a quarter of them and divided their force in two. The rear half turned and fled the field while the vanguard, knowing they had no hope of regaining the initiative here, spurred their horses to even greater effort and desperately tried to reach the main battle in the hope they could find reinforcements. Sal quickly ordered a company to chase the fleeing riders to make sure they did not double back and take her force in the rear, then reformed her line and pursued the vanguard.

  They had almost caught the enemy’s tail when both groups burst into the valley. There were dead horses and riders everywhere. Sal quickly saw the battle had developed into two main struggles—one on the far flank and one in the center. The enemy she was chasing saw that the only hope they had was to get involved in one of the larger actions, and charged straight into the flank of the recruits in the center.

  The recruits, who had just gained the upper hand, fell back in confusion. Freyma desperately tried to steady the line, but there were too many gaps. The archers tried to flee, but many were cut down.