The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  ‘You will forgive me, Master Pinch,’ said Oricien, ‘but I was mindful of your lessons on thaumaturgy and misdirection. I half-suspected that the dimonetto did not exist.’

  ‘Then Arren has, unwittingly at least, worked to my credit, since no one can now doubt its veracity. Nonetheless, I do not wish to have my integrity questioned or my stout-coach violated, and the lad must be punished.’

  Arren looked quizzically at Oricien. He had shown none of his doubts last night. Events might have gone better if they had investigated the dimonetto together.

  ‘I have already instructed Serjeant Fleuraume in Arren’s punishment,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Arren, it was always my intention that you should provide an intelligent counsellor for Oricien when he comes to rule, but you must develop greater judgement in when to exercise your spirit of inquiry.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, bowing as Lord Thaume turned on his heel and went about his business.

  ‘Arren!’ called Fleuraume, ‘there are many pots requiring washing. Lord Thaume tells me Pinch has salved your hands, and you will be experiencing domestic duties for a while. My own jerkin has popped a seam; once the pots are clean you will turn your attention to its repair.’

  Arren’s head drooped but he said nothing. The sooner the breakfast pots were begun, the sooner they were finished.

  8

  A dimonetto summoned for obscure purposes, flying high before the moon, would perhaps have seen little difference between the two hosts encamped below it. The press of human affairs would have interested it not at all, and it would have seen in the huddled postures around the camp-fires none of the fears so ineptly concealed by the men of the North and South. On Jehan’s Steppe they camped; on the morrow they would meet.

  Lord Thaume carried out the traditional general’s task of wandering among his men throughout the night, assessing their mood and heartening them where necessary. When he returned to his tent dawn was only a couple of hours away. On impulse he got up and walked across to Serjeant Fleu-raume’s squadron, where there was little sleep. He sat down by the fire between Fleuraume and Oricien, where Arren and Guigot were also warming themselves.

  ‘I remember my first battle,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘My father Lord Gaucelis had answered King Arren’s call to chastise King Gundovald in Gammerling. We fought on the shores of Lake Vasi and we were beaten in two hours.’

  ‘That is scarcely a promising portent, my lord,’ said Fleuraume, poking at the embers. ‘Should you not be telling us of your victories?’

  ‘The outcome of the battle is only indirectly relevant. King Arren was ill-advised to fight, and his defeat prevented a lengthy and unnecessary war. He has learned wisdom since, including the important precept “Only fight when you must.” I still remember my feelings the night before the battle: like you, lads, I could not sleep. But once the battle came I was not afraid: I did not have time to be. I killed my first man, then another and another. By the end I was not counting. Our wing, which my father commanded, was not beaten. Indeed, we had almost broken through when Arren called for terms. Lord Gaucelis was a fine commander.’

  ‘Are you telling us we should not be afraid?’ asked Guigot, the fire reflecting in his eyes.

  ‘The very opposite,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘I am telling you that fear is natural, and that come tomorrow morning you will find courage and not know where it has come from.’

  ‘I am not afraid to start with,’ said Guigot. ‘I only anticipate the chance to show my prowess. My own father was at the Battle of Lake Vasi, and King Arren knighted him on the field.’

  ‘If you have no fear, I envy you, Guigot, although perhaps I pity you as well. And yes, I remember Lord Borel’s valour that day. His helm was dinted in the first pass, and he had a sore cut to the scalp, but no one fought better.’

  ‘He fought better than you, my lord?’ asked Guigot with a queer smile.

  Lord Thaume looked at him. ‘Of course, for the King knighted him.’

  ‘I am surprised you admit it so freely, my lord.’

  ‘My valour is my own, and I fought well that day. I do not diminish my own achievements by acknowledging Lord Borel’s. Do not forget he was my brother as well as your father.’

  ‘I never forget it for a moment, my lord,’ said Guigot with a smile that had nothing agreeable in it. He poked a stick into the fire, provoking a flurry of sparks.

  ‘He has been dead these past thirteen years, Guigot, as has my own father. Much has happened since, and we must concentrate on our own deeds on the morrow.’

  ‘Perhaps such a sentiment comes more easily when you have known your father, my lord.’

  ‘Nothing can bring Lord Borel back, Guigot. Tomorrow you become a man in your own right.’

  Guigot pursed his lips and nodded. ‘As you say, my lord.’

  ‘Oricien, you are quiet,’ said Lord Thaume.

  ‘I am thinking of what must come,’ Oricien said, pulling his gaze away from the fire. ‘Sir Langlan encourages a period of calm reflection at this time, since there is no more preparation to be done.’

  ‘You, too, are allowed fear. Do not be fooled by Guigot’s assurance. None of us has repose tonight.’

  ‘I am not afraid, Father. How could the heir of Croad fear to defend his city?’

  ‘The same as any other man,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘We all advance along the Way, and the path is dark.’

  Guigot interjected: ‘You will tell us Viator Sleech’s homily of the Humble Tailor and the Proud Knight next.’

  ‘Guigot, I allow you a degree of latitude tonight because we fight tomorrow, and whatever you say, no man is himself before his first battle,’ said Lord Thaume softly. ‘Nonetheless—’ this with a touch of steel ‘—I am your lord and your uncle. I will not tolerate disrespect.’

  Guigot said nothing.

  ‘I myself do not attend the Viatory as much as I should, and perhaps do not give due weight to Sleech’s sermons. There are those who draw comfort from the Way at such times, and for a fact Viator Sleech’s stout-coach is busy tonight. And of course there are those who would sooner hang themselves than take counsel from the viators, is that not so, Fleuraume?’

  Fleuraume grinned. ‘Indeed it is, my lord. I am not the only man to follow the Wheel here – I reckon fully one man in four of your army has seen the light.’

  ‘That may be an exaggeration,’ said Lord Thaume, ‘but a man may choose his path along the Way as he sees fit, for he has but one life. Do not tell Viator Sleech I said so!’

  Fleuraume chuckled.

  ‘I have something to ask of you, Serjeant,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Oricien, Guigot, Arren: all are well-drilled and valiant, but they cannot imagine what tomorrow will be like. I would regard it as a personal favour were you to keep an eye on them.’

  ‘I would do the same for any new recruit, my lord.’

  ‘And lads, the three of you must look out for each other. A man alone in battle dies in minutes, no matter how many comrades he has around him.’ Lord Thaume stood. ‘Arren, would you care to step aside with me a moment?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Arren, puzzled. They made their way to a secluded part of camp.

  ‘You are not the only man whose father will be fighting alongside him tomorrow. You will not have time to worry about him, and he will not have time to worry about you.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘I must tell you that I have given Darrien the most dangerous assignment tomorrow. Tardolio’s men clearly outnumber us, but we have a slight advantage in cavalry. I wish to make that advantage larger. Darrien will command the right wing, which will be made up mostly of pikemen. I must make that wing the weakest part of our line, because I wish Tardolio to try to break it. If he smashes the right wing, he can attack our centre from the side. So I am tempting him to throw his cavalry against Darrien.’

  Arren swallowed. It had never occurred to him that a soldier as experienced as Darrien could be endangered.

  ‘Darrien is the man I trust t
he most to hold the pikemen together. If he can scatter the cavalry that Tardolio throws at him, Sir Langlan will have a clear advantage in deploying my cavalry. If the pikemen are routed, the flanks of the centre will be unprotected.’

  Lord Thaume did not need to say that the centre was where Arren’s squadron would be fighting.

  ‘Sometimes a commander must give an order which puts valued comrades in grave danger. I have had to give such an order to your father. I do so because I would rather entrust our safety to Darrien than to any other man in Croad, including Sir Artingaume. Whatever happens tomorrow, remember that.’

  ‘You think he will be killed, my lord.’

  ‘Do not misunderstand me, Arren. Our victory tomorrow depends on the pikemen holding, and I hope Darrien will be there to lead them throughout. What I am saying is that, even if I knew he would be killed, I would still give him the order.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Sometimes the fighting is the easy part, Arren. Fight well tomorrow.’

  9

  By the time the sun came up, both Thaume and Tardolio were busy deploying their forces. The steppe was flat and featureless: there was no terrain to give advantage. Thaume’s men were arrayed behind a series of ditches intended to slow Tardolio’s cavalry, but the ditches were few, since Thaume did not wish to impede the free play of his own superior riders.

  Thaume had deployed his infantry in the centre of his line, under the command of Sir Artingaume. Serjeant Fleuraume’s squadron, including Oricien, Guigot and Arren, was towards the front of the ‘arrowhead’ formation. To the right was the small group of pikemen commanded by Darrien, positioned both to tempt and to destroy Tardolio’s cavalry. To the left, under Sir Langlan, was Lord Thaume’s own cavalry, although Thaume himself commanded the rearguard, made up of both cavalry and infantry: these troops Lord Thaume could commit to the battle where they were most needed.

  Tardolio’s army comprised a sizeable block of infantry in the centre with two smaller blocks on either wing. He had split his cavalry into two squadrons separating the infantry blocks. He took a risk by splitting his cavalry, the price he paid for being able to bring at least some of his riders to bear quickly at any point on the field.

  Arren’s view in the infantry arrowhead was limited by the press of bodies around him. He could see the lilac and gold sunburst banners of Tardolio’s forces snapping in the strong steppe winds, and the huge mass of his infantry in front of them. He was no longer conscious of the weight of his mail armour, his helmet, his longsword or his shield: he felt distanced from physical sensation altogether. It was scarcely possible to believe that battle was about to begin. He could be dead in minutes, although the thought did not seem real. Beside him Guigot stared into the distance, a grim smile on his face. Oricien, taller than either of them, peered ahead over the infantrymen in front.

  Ba-da-ba-da! The sound of the horn from Tardolio’s herald. Away to his right he saw infantry marching, cavalry under a pink banner trotting forward on gallumphers of enormous dimension. They were heading for Darrien’s pike-men.

  Ahead of him was Sir Artingaume, perched high on his own gallumpher. ‘Steady now, lads!’ he called. ‘Patience – they’ll be here soon enough.’

  Arren could see the infantry breaking into a run ahead of them, charging straight for their position. One moment they seemed infinitely distant, the size of the toy soldiers he had once played with; the next they were on top of the Croad infantry, howling with possessed fury.

  A man in front of him fell. Instinctively Arren raised his shield with his left arm, hacked with his right. The attacker fell to the ground; Oricien next to him put his sword through the man’s neck. Another came, with no armour. Arren drove his sword through the leather jerkin and out of the man’s back.

  He glanced across at Guigot, who seemed paralysed, whether by indecision, fear or simple incomprehension of the scene unfolding. ‘Guigot!’ called Fleuraume. ‘Guigot!’

  Guigot seemed uncomprehending as a huge Northman surged towards him with a mace raised. Fleuraume leaped forward, flung himself and his sword under the killing stroke, and drove the sword up under the ribcage. With a grunt the Northman coughed blood, and slumped. Fleuraume withdrew his sword, smacked Guigot hard on the helmet with the hilt. ‘Fight, you fool!’

  Guigot shook his head to clear the blow and seemed to come alive. He charged forward into the melee, pushing Northmen away with his shield, hacking them with his sword. Arren could hear his great cries of rage even as he held off his own adversaries.

  Arren could not tell how long this phase of the battle lasted. Men fell around him – Northmen and Croadasque – but still they kept coming. Shield – parry – slash. So it went, time after time. Shield – parry – slash. Shield – parry – slash. The more Northmen fell, the more came on. Arren’s yellow surcoat was soaked with blood; his eyes stung with it. Some of the blood was his, dripping from his forehead, but he could not tell how he had come by the injury.

  He saw Sir Artingaume on his gallumpher charge over to the right of the infantry line. ‘Cavalry! Cavalry!’ he called. ‘Look to the right!’

  Even as Arren clattered his sword into an opponent’s shield, he knew that cavalry attacking from the right was the worst outcome. Not only did it mean that the infantry was attacked on two fronts – including by cavalry, which it was not equipped to resist – but that Darrien’s pikemen must have been defeated.

  He heard the sound behind him of the herald’s horn. ‘Lord Thaume!’ went up the cry. He had committed his reserve to protect the infantry’s flank and fight off Tardolio’s cavalry.

  Sir Artingaume raised his sword above his head. ‘To me! To me!’ he cried as a cluster of foot soldiers gathered around him. Fleuraume beckoned his own squadron, and, tripping over the corpses and wounded, Arren made his way across the field with the Serjeant. He did not understand why they were all but turning their backs on Tardolio’s infantry which had been occupying them for so long.

  Thaume’s cavalry met Tardolio’s with a crash. Arren realized that Tardolio’s was outnumbered – had Darrien inflicted heavy casualties on it? From somewhere – Arren could not tell where – went up the cry ‘Sir Langlan! Sir Langlan!’ The main force of the Croadasque cavalry was in action, perhaps scattering the very infantry Arren’s squadron had been fighting.

  Tardolio’s cavalry was now in great difficulty. Thaume was attacking it from the flank, and Artingaume’s infantry was barring its way. The gallumphers could not deploy properly because of the press of infantry around them. This was a true melee.

  Arren saw Sir Artingaume pulled from his gallumpher, or perhaps the beast had been killed under him. He struggled to his feet, flung himself into the press of Tardolio’s infantry, then he was lost from view. A few feet away Oricien and Guigot were fighting side by side, Guigot swinging his sword with muscular relish, Oricien employing the careful footwork and swordplay Sir Langlan had drilled into them.

  Arren felt a clang on his helmet. He fell stunned to the ground, but the soldier next to him drove off his assailant as he moved in for the kill. In that curious battlefield dynamic Arren had already noticed, the fighting surged away from him for no discernible reason and he was left lying alone on the ground. As he pulled himself erect he saw Oricien charging after a fleeing foe: he tripped on the boot of a wounded Croadasque and fell sprawling to the ground. The impact knocked the helmet from his head and he lay exposed. Guigot moved across instinctively. A Northman saw Oricien struggling to get up, and dashed at him, sword upraised. Guigot had ample time to interpose himself and fight the man off, but he simply stared ahead.

  ‘No!’ cried Arren, although no one could hear and he was too far away to intervene. But from nowhere Fleuraume appeared and brought the Northman crashing to the ground. Oricien pulled himself to his feet and set his helmet back on his head.

  Arren looked around to see where he was most needed. Then the cry went up: ‘Rout!’

  Tardolio’s army was fleeing.
The infantry had turned tail and was running with no discipline at all back to its own lines – only to meet the wall of Sir Langlan’s cavalry. By the time Arren had caught up with the fighting, it was all over. Tar-dolio’s herald had sounded the mournful note of surrender. His army – what was left of it – sat on the ground, its weapons lying where they fell.

  Lord Thaume had won the Battle of Jehan’s Steppe.

  10

  That evening Arren learned the full story of the battle, which, immersed as he had been in a single portion of it, he had not comprehended at the time. Tardolio had thrown a large force of cavalry and infantry against Darrien’s pikemen, and although Darrien’s wing was eventually forced from the field, it had inflicted merciless losses on Tardolio’s men. By the time they turned their attention to Sir Artingaume’s infantry in the centre, they were all but fatally weakened. Once Lord Thaume chose to lead his cavalry reserve against them, the issue was decided: Tardolio’s advance force was destroyed.

  At the same time Tardolio had led the main force of his infantry and the remainder of his cavalry against Sir Artingaume’s centre. This was the assault in which Arren had been engaged. Sir Langlan had waited until the last moment to commit the main Croadasque cavalry, but when he did, Tardolio paid the price for splitting his own riders, for Sir Langlan annihilated the remainder of Tardolio’s cavalry. Sir Langlan was then in position to attack the flanks of Tardolio’s advancing infantry. This was the point at which the battle became a rout.

  Tardolio himself escaped in no very gallant fashion, slipping away with his personal guard after the surrender had been sounded. Lord Thaume kept a number of high-ranking prisoners for ransom, and sent others back to Tardolio with his demands.