When he entered the hall of the inn on the main square, the established headquarters for the mercenary army, he saw that he was late. The other two Coronels of the Black Rose were present as was Malvolio, and seated across the long oak trestle were the three Coronels and the commander of the Scarlet Ring, Giacomo Bartholomew, along with one or two squadron captains.
“Coronel Strykar, you have deigned to favour us with your presence at last.” Malvolio pointed to a vacant place on the benches and Strykar gave him a court bow before taking his place. “Messere Giacomo,” continued the count, “you were saying that your scouts had located the enemy?”
Bartholomew nodded and leaned forward, knitting his fingers together. “Aye. They avoided contact but clearly saw an advance column heading west, about twenty miles from here. The standard was that of the Blue Boar.”
“Our scouts have not made any contact past the river,” replied Malvolio. “At least that is what Calandra tells me.”
Coronel Calandra’s drooping head popped up. “That is correct, my lord. No sightings. But I understand the Scarlets’ scouts arrived back only this morning. Their reports are the fresher.”
Strykar hunched over, elbows settling onto the sticky trestle top. He liked the other officers; on the whole they were a good lot. Even the Scarlets were tolerable if one had to work together with them in the field. Most of these commanders were second or third sons of noblemen while one or two others had advanced up through the ranks. But all were hardened to the fight and grown successful upon the fruits of battle. Yet for two weeks they had all been sitting with their thumbs up their backsides outside Istriana, waiting and adding further useless refinements to the encampments much to the pleasure of the quartermasters and the whores. Strykar began to absently tap his thumb on the table. The five Coronels looked bored to a man, eyelids drooping, fingers looped through the handles of their wine goblets and probably dreaming of their evening meal. Malvolio was somewhat more animated but then he was leading the conference, which was the third in the last fortnight.
“So, good my lords,” said the Count. “Is it your council to stay and accept the battle on the Maresto side of the river or venture out and take them on the Torinian side? What says the Ring?”
Bartholomew smiled and inclined his head politely. “So long as we toss for who leads the van, I do not mind one way or the other. If we deploy here, we can choose the ground. Surely they know they won’t be marching further unopposed. They are ready for battle, as are we.”
“True,” replied Malvolio. “But that option lets them dictate the attack. The when is as important as the where, no?”
Strykar sat up slowly and spread his fingers flat. “Well, my lords, our palisades are sprouting roots we have sat here so long. I for one say we get into harness and move east now.”
There was a ripple of laughter which Strykar acknowledged with a smile, even if Malvolio returned it with a scowl.
“Looks like Strykar’s been eating horseshoe nails again,” said Calandra, grinning. “Always up and ready for a scrap.”
“So you think we are possessed of enough intelligence of the enemy, Coronel Strykar?” Malvolio fixed him with a harsh stare but Strykar knew very well that the Count valued his advice more than most. “How many cavalry come against us? How many bowmen? You would have us cross the frontier like blind men, holding onto a long rope?”
“My lord,” said Strykar, his voice taking on a tone of insincere pique, “I am counselling that we ride straight into them and shatter their host such that they ride naked and two-up back to Torinia city to tell the sad tale. If I were in the Blue Boar I would be thinking that the enemy would hold their ground—defend this town—choose the ground as Messere Giacomo suggests. Wait and draw in an attack. And that is precisely why we should not. Because they are expecting it.”
Bartholomew laughed. “He is an iron-eater, your Strykar! I’ll give you that, my lord!”
Malvolio’s eyes scanned the faces around the table. He reached into his belt pouch and drew out a ducat. “The win is for the vanguard, my lords. Messere Giacomo, do you call heads or tails?”
The commander of the Scarlet Ring shrugged. “Discussion over it seems. Aye then. Tails for me.”
Malvolio flipped the coin, snatched it on the way down and slapped it on the top of his opposite hand.
He lifted his palm away. “It is heads. The Black Rose will lead the force.” He turned to Strykar. “And Coronel Strykar’s not inconsiderable nose will be out in front of us all.”
LESS THAN TWO days later, the combined mercenary armies had crossed the wide but shallow Taro where a ford had reduced the flow to an invigorated trickle over glass-smooth white pebbles. That morning, priests had held prayers and a blessing for the company, a large banner floating over the proceedings. It bore the sun in splendour with ten golden rays, not seven. A ripple of protest soon thereafter spread out among the more religious of the soldiery and Strykar had laughed to see the scrambling priests hastily unfurl a second flag next to the first: the old seven-ray sun blaze of the One Faith. A brawl averted, the prayers had recommenced with mutual nods and grudging acceptance of the two confessions.
The gently undulating plain made the march into Torinia easy, the infantry laughing and swearing as they made their slow progress eastwards, passing between the small stands of oak and beech that were scattered across the frontier. The Black Rose marched in three columns, each twenty men across. The mounted men-at-arms, lances raised skywards and butts resting on stirrup cups, covered both flanks while crossbowmen were burrowed in among the ranks of the spearmen, their weapons slung over shoulders. Groups of free-floating rondelieri, round shields on their backs and swords on their hips, roamed across the vanguard between the main infantry and the cavalry.
Strykar kicked his courser as he cantered between two of the columns, making for Malvolio’s battle wagon which trundled behind the rear guard. Arrayed from head to toe in polished white harness, his bevor lowered to give him welcome air, he squeezed his knees in tight against his mount as he pounded forward, eager to make his report. One of the company’s trumpeters followed in his wake, grimacing as he ducked to dodge flying clumps of sod. The great flat-topped carroccio, a massive cart on four oversized wheels, creaked and rattled as it made its way, drawn by four horses. The huge battle standard of the Black Rose was lashed to a pole at one end: a white field upon which the heraldic flower was drawn, sable petals surrounding a stamen of gold. Malvolio stood as if on the prow of a vessel, his baton in one hand and the other resting on the rails of the shaking and wobbling vehicle. He and his personal guard were dressed, like Strykar, in full plate armour over which they had draped their white emblazoned tabards. A complement of crossbowmen were aboard and even two gunners for the cast-iron falconets that were mounted either side and loaded with nails—last ditch defences should they be needed.
Strykar reined in and raised his visor. “My lord, scouts have sighted the enemy. They are dead ahead, one mile distant. Still on the march.”
Count Malvolio smiled. “The weather holds fair and the ground is hard. Looks as if you will get your battle this day, Strykar.” He motioned to one of his retinue at his side. They moved to unfurl a red signal flag mounted on a glaive. This was waved at the back of the carrachio towards where the Scarlet Ring followed the Black Rose at a distance of 500 yards. Moments later, Strykar could see a red flag sprout up in reply.
“Double up your column, Coronel, and deploy the divisions. Here is as good a field as any we could hope for.” Malvolio turned to a steel-encased nobleman who stood nearby. “Messere Lucan, if you would mount up and prepare your men for a charge on the right flank. The Scarlets say they will hold their lances in reserve on our left.”
Strykar twisted around in his high-backed saddle to give the order to his trumpeter, remembering too late that this was not an easy task in full plate armour with bevor and sallet. He cursed and tugged on his reins and spun his mount around instead. “Relay the order
to deploy to the other columns and then rejoin me on the left with the rondelieri!”
The sweating trumpeter saluted, reached for the long silver horn slung about his back, and kicked his horse forward. Strykar wheeled again to face the Count. “My lord, may Elded and God be with you! This night it will be boar’s head on the table!”
“God be with you, sir! And a feast in Istriana on the morrow!”
Soon after the trumpet blasts reverberated across the plain, the long and fraught manoeuvres began. Slowly, Strykar’s column of infantry broadened to two hundred men across, several ranks deep, as the files redoubled again and again into battle lines urged on by shouting sergeants. Across the front, the columns of the Black Rose did the same, forming three divisions. Deep in the rear, Malvolio’s cavalry, over a thousand strong, were jostling into position waiting for the enemy to come into view through the scattered trees a mile distant. Strykar moved among the rondelieri skirmishers, sword drawn, and sought out Captain Cortese, also mounted and yelling encouragement to the men as the vast caterpillar turned onto itself, tall spears glinting in the hazy sun.
“Cortese! Need you in with the spears and bowmen. I will play with the rondelieri!”
The Captain smiled as his horse drew alongside, lightly armoured swordsmen streaming around them where they stood. “Should have expected that, I suppose. You know them well and they know you even better! No matter. I am sure of finding a Blue Boar no matter which ground I hold.”
“Fear not, Cortese. I will pay your ransom so long as it is no more than fifty soldieri.”
The captain swore and laughed. “And I shall return the favour.”
Strykar looked up as the doom-doom of kettle drums reached him, floating across from the east and followed by the distant blast of trumpets. He could just make out the enemy as it approached across a front as wide as their own. The men of the Blue Boar were deploying into battle divisions. Two huge silk standards became visible as the lines cleared the trees.
Cortese followed Strykar’s gaze and saw for himself the force arrayed against them. “Big,” he said, adjusting the chinstrap of his barbute helm. “Maybe bigger than we thought?”
“Depends how many of the White Company are with them. Don’t worry, Cortese. You won’t have time to lose sleep over it.”
Cortese nodded and brought up his slender cruciform-hilted sword in a salute. “I wish you luck, Coronel. God be with you this day!” And he turned his mount and picked his way through the sword and shield men as he called out to the soldiers who turned their faces up to him. “Have a care, lads! It’s a blade. Likely to hurt someone! You there! Wrong way. They’re coming from that direction.”
Strykar sought out his old sergeant, Gillani, and found him as he was tongue-lashing a group of fifty rondelieri into a semblance of formation, shield edge to shield edge, armoured spearmen at their backs to afford them some protection from an enemy charge. “You are damnable lazy bastards, every a one! The first wave will be the arrows so get those shields up!” The men exchanged worried glances but complied, jostling each other into position even as they saw the specks beyond coalesce into lines of armoured spearmen, moving at a slow walking pace towards them.
“How goes it, Gillani? Are we ready to take them?”
The sergeant turned and saluted, a gloved hand to his sallet. “Aye, that we are, Coronel!”
Strykar raised his voice, deep and booming, that the swordsmen men around him could hear. “You are the fastest runners, the strongest blades of the Black Rose. We’ll have to take a few salvoes from their crossbows before we can let you off your leashes. But hold fast! The sergeant will give the word for you to break ranks and flank them.”
Strykar looked at the faces around him. Some he knew from years gone by, others not. Some were smiling, others eyes-wide in nervous apprehension. In his heart, he worried. The Black Rose had not seen an engagement this size in years. This was no scrap against a roving band of brigands on the frontier. For many it would be their first great battle. And he knew well, that mad dash across the gap between the armies—full pelt and your armour draining the strength from your muscles—was always the most terrifying. But once you were stuck into the enemy, sword and shield constantly moving and striking, there was no time to feel fear.
The first volley of crossbow bolts sounded like the whispers of dark angels as they arced in low, a black cloud emanating from within the lines of the Blue Boar. The quarrels pinged off shields and armour, some ricocheting and others biting through leather or striking unguarded faces. Instinctively, the rondelieri bent knees and leaned in, huddling closer. From within the centre division of the Black Rose, a storm of iron bolts was launched in reply from crossbowmen rising up among the rows of spearmen who had lowered their shafts towards the enemy. Strykar flinched as a spent bolt bounced from his pauldron and tumbled away. He heard a deep thud —Malvolio’s small detachment of field serpentines had come into play from deep in the rear, firing over their heads. He pushed his bevor up into place, the spring lock finding its hole with a click. With the pommel of his sword he slammed the visor of his sallet shut, his vision now restricted to a thin slit. It was a most peculiar way to see the world but one he was now long accustomed to.
A second volley of crossbow bolts came raining in and he heard a lamentable scream from in front of him, a rondelieri falling and clutching a leg. The sharp sound of iron bolt heads striking steel shields lasted but a few seconds as the attack came and went. The enemy were closer now: rank upon rank of spear and glaive, banners flying in the stiffening breeze. Strykar could also see ranks of cavalry forming in front of him, on their right flank; heavy men-at-arms, lances couched, their horses nervously bucked and started, anxious to break into a trot. The ranks of spearmen among the rondelieri lowered their long shafts of stout ash ten feet in front of the shields, forming a hedgehog of blades to throw back the impending charge of armoured horses and riders.
Another gun sounded, a deep chest-thudding boom, but Strykar saw nothing of its result. By the time the gunners had ranged the enemy they would already be locked into the clash of pole weapons. Bloody useless in a field battle, he mused as his horse skitted sideways at the sound. His mouth had dried up, his tongue thick. He swallowed and scanned the enemy centre. There was a ripple among the spears and upraised glaives and halberds. Something was coming to the front. He watched as a gap appeared and a shield wall of rondelieri, perhaps a dozen men, came out. Behind them, he saw a tall wooden pole with a platform at the top rise up skyward. Something metallic glistened upon this high perch, too far away for him to see. But a banner was draped also: the seven-rays of the One Faith, unsullied by the new commandments of Elded, those rejected by Torinia. A loud cry rose up among the Company of the Blue Boar. Indistinct at first, Strykar soon recognized the words that rolled across to them, a hundred yards away now.
“The Hand! The Hand!” came the cry.
The volleys had now stopped on both sides—a strange tactic in itself, he thought. He raised his sallet’s visor up to get a better look at whatever the Blue Boar was taunting them with. Below him, a rondelieri (obviously an ardent follower of the Faith) cried out: “It is the Hand of Ursula! They have the Hand!” And like a saltpetre fuse, the news travelled in fits and starts, sparking its way across the front lines and making its way back into the ranks. Strykar had never been an overly religious man but even he had heard of the sacred hand. And he knew it was kept at the Ara, to be delivered up only to the king of Valdur when he went to war. If he knew this, then most of the men of the Black Rose would probably know it too. Was the boy prince with the Torinians? An instant later he felt a tingle run down his neck and spine as he realized the only possibility: Ursino was claiming the throne, and he was there, somewhere in the enemy ranks. How he had thieved the Hand was not important. Ursino possessed it now and Strykar could see doubt moving across his company like a dark cloud covering the face of the sun. Who were they fighting now?
“We must engage!” he shoute
d. There was no way to signal Lucan to launch his cavalry as he was clear over on the right flank. But as if in an answered prayer, he heard the pounding of earth behind him on his left. He yanked the reins of his horse and looked behind. Hundreds of heavy lances of the Scarlet Ring were thundering across the fields, headed straight for the right flank of the Blue Boar.
Strykar laughed and turned to find his trumpeter. “Those impetuous bastards! Those beautiful impetuous bastards! God love them!” He urged his mount through the throng of spears, sighting his mounted trumpeter three ranks back. “Blow damn you! Blow and sound the advance!” The trumpeter fumbled with his cord and managed to bring the long horn to his lips. The blast sounded out and was soon relayed by the trumpeters of the other divisions.
“Come on, you bastards! Forward!” cried Strykar, waving his sword and urging his horse through the ranks of spearmen and rondelieri. In front of them, there was a tremendous crash of steel and the frantic neighing of horses as the Scarlet Ring drove into the serried spears of the Blue Boar. Strykar could see the enemy absorb the charge, falling back yet holding their lines. All across the three divisions—left, vanguard, and right—his men walked briskly forward, ten foot spears levelled and shields raised up to deflect the unlucky arrow shaft or short quarrel. Fifty yards from contact, another volley flew at them, answered immediately by the crossbowmen in their own ranks. Death, fickle as always, sprinkled his reward sparsely all around as men screamed and fell with quarrels in their faces, necks and arms. The Black Rose kept moving, stepping over and around the fallen, whether dead or wounded.
The Witch of Torinia Page 16
