His staff, walking alongside the regiment, joined him as he rerolled the small map and bent to pick a stone out of his sandal. Cogern, the Twenty-First's Master of Pikes and responsible for the order of the regiment, stopped beside him. Tregaron saw backs stiffen and pikes straighten. They might respect him, but they feared Cogern.
It was well they did. The sergeant had a truly horrible , visage. The Pikemaster had been lucky his helmet's gorget and bar nasal had deflected the Rethwellan's blow, or he'd have received more than a maiming and a harelip. Tregaron, then a green lieutenant, had fully expected the Master to feed the sacrificial Fires. He remembered his quiet amazement when the old soldier had not only recovered, he'd returned to duty.
He shook his head. That fight had been almost twenty years ago. He would never see the south side of forty again. Cogern had fifteen years on him, yet the older man did his daily twenty miles, hit the pells, and led the charges with more energy than men half his age. Tregaron had no doubt that twenty years after he was worm-food, Cogern would still be offering tithes to Vkandis Sunlord and defeating Karse's enemies.
The Commander and the Pikemaster stood silently together a long moment, while the staff waited patiently. Their horses, led by cadets, shifted and fidgeted in the hot, dry air.
"They look good," Tregaron ventured.
Cogern spat and grinned. "They'd better," he lisped, "if they know what's good for 'em." He took off his helmet and ran his hand over his scarred head. Runnels of sweat, trapped by the helm's padding, ran down his face, cutting tracks in the caked dust. Drops fell from his chin to stain his rich scarlet sash. "What idiot moves a regiment across the northlands in summer?" he asked scornfully.
Tregaron smiled. "When the Son of the Sun says 'March,'" he started.
Cogern snapped his fingers. "Bugger the Son of the Sun," he snorted. "The fat bastard's lapping up chilled wine and making doe eyes at the acolytes while we grunt along out here."
Tregaron laughed at the aptness of the blasphemy. "You'd best lose that notion before a priest hears you."
"Bugger them, too," Cogern repeated, but softly and with a quick look around.
"How are the recruits holding up?" Tregaron asked, moving the conversation back onto safe ground.
Cogern rubbed his forehead. "This stroll's melted the city fat offa'em faster than drill and pells." He paused, weighing his words. "Their weapons drill ain't upta' par, but it ain't bad either. Not for pressed troops, anyway."
Tregaron didn't envy the "recruits" who filled out the Twenty-First's ranks. They'd used their victory parade through Sunhame to "volunteer" some of the capital's less wary citizens into Vkandis Sunlord's service. Many of the newest lambs had lost their stunned expressions and had settled into the regiment's training routine, which for them included fighting drills and weapons practice after marching a full day and after building the night's camp and surrounding fortifications.
Two lambs had keeled over dead so far, and Cogern had reported they'd probably lose another before they got to the border. The press-gangs were supposed to only draft hale men and a few women, but were also given quotas and limited time. Occasionally, they cut corners, placing the burden on the trainer. The training process usually weeded out the hopeless cases before the
fracas started. It pained him to lose troops for any reason, but having them die due to sloppy recruiting rankled him.
One cadet holding the horses mumbled to another. They laughed together. Tregaron stared at him a moment before he remembered the lad's name. The boy, Dormion, was the son of a southlands freeholder sent to the army to avoid the Tithe and, very possibly, the Flames.
"Eh?" Cogern snapped, "what was that?"
"Urn, I said," said the lad, visibly unhappy to have drawn the Pikemaster's undivided attention, "that they don't, uhh, have press-gangs in Valdemar." He paused uncertainly. "Sir," he concluded lamely, after the silence lengthened.
Cogern feigned a look of utter surprise. "How would you know anything about Valdemar?" He stared at Dormion with the horrified intensity of a man watching a large and potentially deadly insect crawling up his arm.
The other cadets sidled away, leaving Dormion, gulp- , ing and pale, alone. "I read it, Pikemaster, in the Chronicles."
"In Val-de-mar," Cogern said, drawing out each syllable sarcastically, "they don't have to fight. That gives them certain luxuries we can't afford." He looked disgusted. "A reading cadet. What will they think of next?" The old sergeant glared at the boy with an expression fierce enough to cow the bravest veteran. "This ain't Valdemar, boy, and you'd best get that through your head! Now get back in your place."
Dormion, pleased to have escaped with little more • than a tongue lashing, scuttled away to rejoin the other cadets.
"I'm surprised you let him off so easily," Tregaron said softly. "Usually you just cuff them flat."
Cogern scratched his nose with one ragged nail. "Most of 'em 'are fish. Not real bright, and just waitin' for hooks in their mouths and knives in their guts. Once't a while you get one who sees beneath things. Them's worth keepin' an eye on." He sighed. "I just wish't I
could keep him out of the damned books. He's got too much to learn in too little time for that folderol."
He met Tregaron's eye. "I saw the same thing in another lad some years back. Even took a sword for 'im, just to give 'im a chance't grow up."
Tregaron, embarrassed, took the worn rope reins from the cadet and led the gelding toward the standards that followed the lead battle. The regiment's flags marked both the commander's location in the formation and the relics that were the unit's pride.
The lacquered ivory boxes contained the femur of the regiment's first commander, a lock of hair from Torlois the Prophet, and a finger bone from Vkorion, who, before he had become Son of the Sun three centuries before, had struck off his own hand as a tithe for Vkandis. Each relic box also contained a certificate of authenticity signed by a senior priest. Tregaron suspected one pedigree was more the result of bribery than accuracy; Vkorion would have to have had at least a dozen fingers on the severed hand alone to accommodate all of the "verified" relic bones.
Pride stirred in his chest when he saw the regiment's stained and tattered banner. The standard, a gold sun bursting on a scarlet background with the number 21 in blue thread stitched across the center, was flanked by the smaller gold, scarlet, and blue guidons of the regiment's three battles. A fifth bearer carried the pole to which the tokens and names of the Twenty-First's thirty-odd victories had been affixed.
Behind that, by itself, came the Oriflamme, the cloth-of-gold standard that was the mark of His Holiness' favor. The regiment had paid hi blood for the right to carry the 'Flamme, but it was a distinction that Tregaron would just as soon have forgone.
Beneath Vkandis' Stainless Banner clustered three flint-eyed Sun-priests, the Oriflamme's guardians when it went into the field and the source of Tregaron's worries. Two were from the capital, sent as much to counter Hardorn's magic as they were to protect the flag from dishonor. They wore full priestly regalia, their golden
Sun-in-Glory medallions glinting against their black court robes.
The third was a woman, a fact itself of some note in Vkandis' patriarchal priesthood. She wore the simple red cassock that marked her a common parish-tender, even though she was alleged to be at least as powerful a mage as the Black-robes.
Tregaron knew little about her—only that she had been a provincial prefect drafted when the third member of the capital's troika had died of apoplexy. Darker campfire rumors suggested he had died while demon-summoning, a common enough practice among the Black-robes, even if Tregaron didn't believe the story. The Black-robe Priests had warded the northern borders with summoned creatures until Ancar's magi had driven them back.
The tension between the woman and the Black-robes from Sunhame was thick enough to slice and serve on flatbread. He knew the church hierarchy was rife with factional strife, but seeing it made him nervous. All three were above his au
thority, and he had no doubt that each , had the clout to forward a report that, if bad, could cost him his regiment, if not his life.
His worst nightmare was that if the woman reported well of him, the others might speak poorly, to spite her, or vice versa. In either case there would be a black mark against him with His Holiness, and no amount of military skill or booty would erase the stain. He hoped they would judge him only by how he did his duty, but he couldn't be certain their acrimony wouldn't affect their judgment where he was concerned.
He nodded to the three. The woman pleasantly returned his greeting, making a small gesture of blessing. He found her handsome, though with a mannishly square jaw and sharp features. Her eyes, though not as soft as liked, were warm and friendly, and her generous mouth seemed more given to smiles than frowns.
The Black-robes, by contrast, looked stonily forward, their expressions set in harsh disapproval. Tregaron kept his face expressionless. In small things could big things be judged. The provincial had been arguing with her
counterparts. Again. Great, he thought dryly, and I thought the army would keep me OUT of politics. Fool. He felt like the man in the proverb who, when caught between fire and flood, ran back and forth, unable to decide whether to bum or drown.
"I still don't see how all of this skulking and sneaking benefits Karse," the woman said waspishly, continuing what Tregaron was certain was a long-running argument. "Ancar's troops raid us at will, and we do nothing!"
The Fighting Twenty-First isn't "nothing," lady, Tregaron thought, even though generally he agreed with her. Hardorn had been testing them, and their response so far had been tepid. It seemed a bit inconsistent that a raid from Rethwellan merited a six-month campaign by a dozen regiments while Hardorn earned-—one footsore command.
The older Black-robe made a rude face. "His Holiness predicted peace, Solaris," he said to her, as though addressing a small child. "So peace there shall be!"
"You know as well as I that Lastern couldn't scry for a sunny day, much less Ancar's intent," Solaris replied, her voice dripping scorn. "It's a meaningless augury and a meaningless peace. Ancar's eventually going to conclude we're too timid to fight—and then you'll have a full scale war. Try to hide that under a proclamation!"
"You go too far!" Havern hissed. "Continue your blasphemy and I'll have you before an Ecumenical Court."
Tregaron, overhearing more of the exchange than he wanted, blanched. She had spoken treason, and his life might very well stand forfeit for it. She could have him killed to cover her lapse, or Havern might order him executed to snuff the chance he'd repeat what he'd heard. Fire and flood indeed, he thought grimly, flaying and the rack is nearer the mark. Cogern turned away, mumbling something about adjusting the trumpeters. Tregaron followed, but wasn't quite quick enough to miss Solaris' quiet laugh.
"I'm sorry, Havern," she said, her voice quiet in what might charitably be called contrition had her voice not
dripped scorn. "I overstepped myself." Her speech changed, becoming singsong as she recited the liturgy of the Word and Will of Vkandis. "His Holiness is His Holiness, anointed by the hand of Vkandis, and is the Son of the Sun, and His avatar on earth." Tregaron guessed her retreat to the liturgy had more to do with survival than religion. Still, the very effusiveness of her recitation argued that even in this, she was poking fun.
Havern appeared unconvinced. He peered at her a long moment, as though trying to see inside her soul. "You country priests have had it too much your own way for too long. I see that certain, ah ... distortions and baseless rumors have taken root in the provinces. Come to my tent this evening and I will instruct you in the methods by which you might return to orthodoxy."
Solaris shook her head ruefully. "I'm sorry, Havern. I've already promised to minister to the Third Battle this night. I gave my word to the Colonel."
Tregaron wasn't happy she had brought up his name, especially as she had promised to do no such thing. He sighed to himself. No matter how hard he tried to remain neutral, it seemed they were determined to draw him into their feud.
Havern shrugged. "Well," he said easily, as if the matter were of no importance, "I'd like to be reassured of your orthodoxy before I make my report to His Holiness. Perhaps we can work something out." Tregaron backed away, trying to put distance between himself and the three priests. Vkandis' servants were under no obligation of celibacy, but hearing what amounted to extortion embarrassed him.
Solaris flushed, two spots of color forming high on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak when a distant shout and pounding hooves drew their attention.
Tregaron, relieved at the distraction, trotted toward the regiment's standards. The mounted scout galloped down the line and reined in his horse with such savagery that stones and grit sprayed from beneath its hooves and flecks of foam flew from its lathered sides.
"Report!" Tregaron snapped, pleased to turn his attention to a problem he could handle.
"Cavalry, soir!" the scout replied, his upcountry accent emphasized by his stress. "Two full regiments, soir, less'n half an hour north of here, 'an movin' toward us."
Tregaron took a single deep breath, calming himself and giving him a moment to order his thoughts. "Do they know we're here?"
The scout looked chagrined. "Aye, more likely than not. We tripped over three o' their outriders while we was on our way back. We got two. The third gave us the slip."
Tregaron sucked air though his teeth, a southlands expression of disapproval. "Well," he said, "what's done is done." He ignored the excited chatter as word of the approaching enemy made its way along infantry column. His staff clustered close, eager to hear the report. "Did you see who they were?"
"One regiment had a boar's head mounted on a pole, soir, with ribbons hanging from its tushes. I din't see the second."
"That would be Reglauf's lot," Cogern said. "He led a regiment under Ancar when they made their try against Valdemar. Word has it he didn't do much except plunder farms."
It didn't occur to Tregaron to question Cogern. The sergeant was supposed to know such things. "Word also has it," the old man lisped, "that he cut out early, before they'd properly lost."
"How many troops?" Tregaron asked the scout.
The man pulled a string out of his tunic and counted the knots. "Five battles, soir, about three hundred riders each. I'd guess about the same in the t'other regiment."
"Three thousand cavalry," Cogern spat, "two-to-one, or thereabouts."
"Just like Selenay in Valdemar," Dormion chirped, earning a black look from Cogern. "From the Battle of Border, in the Chronicles. Ancar had them two-to-one as well, and they whipped him."
Cogern sighed, the air of man beset by fools.
The brat doesn't know when to shut up, Tregaron thought
Cogern growled something obscene and crooked his finger at Dormion. "Come here, child. It's high time I took a personal interest in your education."
Dormion swallowed heavily, his mobile features still. "Um, Pikemaster ..." he began. He looked at Tregaron.
"You tickled the bear, Ensign," Tregaron laughed. "Now you dance with him."
"Selenay," Cogern said with heavy dignity as he ticked off points on his fingers, "had the advantages of Mindspeaking Demon horses, superior terrain, time to pick her battlefield, better-trained troops, and Ancar for an opponent. Not to mention her troops were defending their homes and were backed by a substantial number of defectors, including Hardorn's best Guardsmen."
He paused to switch hands, having long since run out of fingers. "Ancar only had numbers. He needed at least three to one to beat her on open ground, and probably six to one to best them on that turf. He had, maybe, three to two, and most of them were rabble, not real soldiers a'tall. Hell, only about half his force even had the gumption to attack."
He closed his fist an stuck it in Dormion's face. "Ancar," he finished, "didn't have a prayer. So don't draw false comparisons, especially ones gleaned from books written by the winning side." He exhaled he
avily. "Here endeth the sermon. Now get back to your units. All of you."
The cadets scattered.
Tregaron looked at Cogern. "Do you think he heard you?"
"Damn that Bard-written tripe," the Pikemaster replied, "Selenay could have held that hilltop with a company of recruits and a detachment of washerwomen. Demon horses, magic, and good writing don't make up for sound tactics and superior strategy."
"I don't know," Tregaron said, "Selenay's done all right for herself, by all accounts."
"Not you, too!" Cogern snapped, his expression torn
between shock and betrayal. He crossed his arms across his chest, muttering about tyros who read more books than was good for them. Tregaron, laughing, mounted his horse and scanned the field for a good place to make his stand.
"There's a shallow stream up ahead, soir," the scout said, pointing. He had wisely kept his mouth shut while Cogern ranted. "It's about five-hundred paces from here."
"Do you want to form behind the water course?" Cogern asked, his voice and manner now all business.
Tregaron considered a moment before answering. "No, I don't want to give them any excuse to go toward our flanks. A nice long feature like that might encourage them to get creative."
"You're expecting them to come right for us?" Cogern asked in a neutral voice.
"Yes," Tregaron answered. "When Ancar assassinated his father, he put Alessander's generals to the sword as well He lost anybody he had with troop-handling skills, and the rabble he recruits aren't much for the discipline that goes with good tactics." He smiled sourly. "Not that they've needed it. They've been riding right over the local militia for a while now. I'm betting it's been a while since they've faced regulars. They'll go straight for our throats."
He straightened his shoulders. "We'll put the stream hard by our right and use it to anchor our flank on that side. We'll assume an open field defense and meet them in that high grass over there." He pointed to the open area beside the streambed.
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