Rhillian paused her mount on some open grass, and stood in the stirrups to take stock. Elissian cavalry were retreating in scattered bunches, pursued by Rhodaani horsemen, or serrin with bows. The Steel infantry were emerging from the river, like a dripping, moving wall. Fallen cavalrymen yielded before them, threw aside weapons, and were trampled over if they did not seek a gap between the advancing squares.
A great roar filled the air, and a rattling thunder. Rhillian turned to see, past the scattered remnants of retreating Elissian cavalry, the infantry were charging downslope. She wheeled, signalled those riders still around her, and rode hard for a gap between the Rhodaani squares. Past the first rank, then the second as they emerged from the river, she turned left and cantered, splashing through the shallows toward the right flank once more. Upon her left, the Steel’s front rank were shifting, the squares unfolding into a series of unbroken lines, with no gaps between. Ahead of them, a mass charge was descending, thousands of screaming Elissians with mail, shield and sword.
The second and third Rhodaani ranks threw light spears into that charging mass—some of the attackers fell, others slowed to dodge, others took a spear through the shield, narrow points punching deep, the spear shaft then entangling as they ran. The first wave that crashed onto the Rhodaani shield line was uneven, yelin broke with the fury of a great wave upon a cliff.
The cliff held firm. Soldiers leaned into the force of it, like sailors into a howling gale, the men behind pressing on their armoured backs. Shields tilted aside just enough to admit the Rhodaani’s short, stabbing swords through the gaps, and men across the attacking wave collapsed, shrieking and clutching their abdomens.
Rhillian finally galloped clear on the right flank, and found a milling confusion of her own cavalry and some Rhodaanis already there. A lieutenant was forming them up, and her talmaad were spotting her own snow-white hair, and galloping across at speed. Rhillian waited for the Rhodaanis to move first, and watched that the infantry on this side were not outflanked. The extreme-right flank formation were unengaged, and instead moved forward, swinging around to press on the Elissian flank. Lieutenants yelled, dressing the line, and men shouted encouragement over the roar of clashing steel. Mostly, they coordinated by reflex, as though moved by a single, steel will.
Flames continued to erupt further upslope, decimating the later ranks. Elissian archer fire was so sporadic, Rhillian was uncertain if they had any archers. But Bacosh lords always employed archers. These must have been in the middle ranks, so positioned to be at good range against the advancing infantry, whatever good it would do. Those archers were now squarely in Rhodaani artillery range.
The Steel line advanced. Men yelled and heaved, pushing onto their shields, stabbing then covering, push, stab, cover. Push, stab, cover. Elissian soldiers hammered desperately at that impenetrable wall, and fended the lightning thrusts with their smaller shields, but with so little space to move, their defences were limited. Inevitably, flashing Rhodaani blades found the gaps and they fell, as did the next behind them, as did the next. At a whistle, the front rank of Rhodaani soldiers abruptly faded back between the shields of those behind, who became the new front wall, while the front rank took a rest in the rear. The Steel pressed on, trampling over the bloodied corpses of enemies, the second rank finishing those wounded who resisted from underfoot, pushing that huge sea of foes inexorably back up the slope. Occasionally a Rhodaani man would fall, to be replaced immediately by the man behind.
Ahead, the re-formed Rhodaani cavalry gave a yell and charged once more, this time into the flank of the Elissian infantry…of Elissian cavalry there was nothing to be seen. It seemed they had fled, or regrouped in the far, far rear. Several hundred cavalry ploughed into the Elissian flank, hacking and wheeling as men began scattering before them. The scattering gathered pace, and within the blink of an eye, the entire Elissian flank was falling back in terrified confusion.
Rhillian found Arendelle, eyes alive like he wanted to go after them. Rhillian put a hand on his arm. “It’s over,” she told him. “Let them run. I want Lord Arendt.”
Here on the right flank, a wide expanse of hillside, paddocks, farmhouses and small woods were all that stood between the talmaad and the hilltop castle. That, and several thousand panicking, milling, retreating cavalry and infantry.
Rhillian galloped to the head of her re-forming cavalry, at least two hundred, with the remainder gathering fast, sprinting from the river, or from entanglements further up the slope. Most had bows, a few like Rhillian only swords, and some alternated, as only serrin cavalry would. Once in position, Rhillian wheeled her mare, waved her sword, and cut the r.
Again the thunder of hooves, and a headlong sprint up the gentle incline. Rhillian could not see her friends around her, and could only trust that they were well, somewhere in the pursuing crowd. She leapt a low wall, skirted a small dam and watercourse, and saw arrows whip past from behind, smacking retreating cavalrymen squarely in the back. Two tumbled, and a third rode on, slumped and dying.
There were running, panicked infantry, serrin riders weaving amongst them like wolves through so many terrified sheep, putting arrows into any who looked likely to swing a weapon. Ballista fire fell near, random streaks thumping the turf with force audible even above the thunder of hooves. To the left, retreating infantry were hit, smashed into the ground like piglets beneath a charging boar spear. Rhillian signalled her riders further to the right, hoping the artillery captains retained their usual vigil, and saw her move up the flank.
More flashes of artillery to the left, level with their position…less devastating now, with Elissian formations spread out and running, but horrifying to see so close all the same. Rhillian galloped past burning circles of blackened grass, littered with scores of charred, skeletal corpses in armour. About their perimeters, some men still writhed and screamed, faces half burned away, an arm blackened and peeling, or trying to run on blistering feet. Rhillian tore past running, cowering men, ignoring those who had dropped or sheathed weapons, but now leaning from the saddle to slash one running man who still carried a large polearm. Arrowfire dropped others, murderously accurate, serrin bows having little trouble with chain mail from this close range.
She rounded a blackened oak, its branches burning, smouldering corpses scattered on the upslope, another man pinned to its trunk by a ballista bolt that had gone through shield, mail, flesh and wood. Infantry lines were forming ahead—militia, she saw with disbelief, small folk with poorer weapons and little armour, while the mass of Elissian footsoldiers, comprised of wealthier men and village folk, possessed many. They were standing, while others were running. In the battle of Tirone, in the early days of invasion, southern Lord Horase had thrown the militia in first, to soften up the Steel for heavier assaults to follow. The slaughter had been so horrible, and for so little result, that demoralised infantry and cavalry had been reluctant to attack. Here, Lord Arendt had wisely held the militia in reserve, but had made the folly of committing his main force too close to the Rhodaani artillery. The battle had been over from the moment the first catapult had fired. If not well before.
Serrin cavalry opened fire on the forming lines from range—less use against more well-armoured footsoldiers, but felling numerous militia. Still they held. Rhillian saw men running up and down the line, screaming at their fellows not to run. There were scythes, poles, spears and axes, only the occasional sword. Half had small wooden shields. Rhillian leaped the last small wall, rode over some running infantry who fell flat before her, and picked her spot in the line. Arrowfire felled more, a murderous buzz, serrin now aiming sideways across the line to take shields out of play. Perhaps fifty fell, the lines thinning dramatically as bodies tumbled and hands flailed.
A few archers were firing back, but without serrin longbows or serrin accuracy…. Rhillian stayed low as shafts whistled overhead, and the last serrin volleys cut past ahead, whipping left and right across her path. More carnage, Rhillian’s intended target falling wi
th a shaft through the face, and her second target, and the third. She plunged through the firs rank, and took the head off an axeman in the second rank.
Ahead was the castle, and she galloped on, finding enough clear ground to glance behind. The militia lines were gone, like saplings before a spring flood, and all she could see were serrin on galloping horses. Most had blades in one hand, bows in the other, but were resheathing those blades even now to nock another arrow. The horrid totality of it took her breath away. She couldn’t believe a bunch of peasants had stood and died for their feudal oppressors while their better-armed and armoured comrades fled shrieking all around them. Sometimes humans were simply beyond her comprehension.
Ahead to the left, Elissian artillery made a line across the crest of the hill. Another poor strategic choice—catapults were nearly impossible to fire on sloping ground, and despite the hill adding to their range, they were still out of range of the advancing Steel infantry. Far too much depth to the Elissian formation, not enough width, artillery deployed too far back…but no choice really, given the hill. It was a disaster, and Rhillian wondered if she’d find Lord Arendt before his own men killed him.
She signalled to her talmaad to take care of the artillery, and cavalry behind her swung that way, intent on doing that. Already artillerymen were running, leaving their weapons loaded but unfired, the Steel lines still perhaps a hundred paces from range downhill. These artillery held in their slings only stones, not hellfire, and only the Steel used ballistas. Their construction looked poor, crudely hacked from recently felled trees. Everyone tried to copy the Steel, but no one knew how.
Rhillian galloped toward the castle. Its dark stone walls were more a tribute to noble vanity than any serious attempt at defence. It was small, with a single tower, a moat that was little more than a dry ditch, and a portcullis facing onto some small buildings that one might have called a village, if one were generous. She rode over cultivated lands, weaving past farmhouses and jumping stone walls.
She searched the castle’s battlements for archers, but saw none. The portcullis was open, and a group of knights and armoured horsemen clustered about the bridge across the moat, banners flying. Even now, squires were handing lances up to knights, and other armoured men were mounting with assistance. Some now stared, halting to point in her direction. Everyone else turned to look.
Rhillian charged, and now there were other horsemen emerging from the town, and crossbowmen running to form a firing line. But already there were serrin cavalry overtaking her, hooves flying, riders raising themselves a little from their lurching saddles to steady their balance as they hauled back on their bowstrings. Arrows flew, then a grasp at the reins to leap a low wall. Landing, to gallop on open grass, and more arrows were nocked.
A few Elissian horses had been hit with those opening shots from range. A crossbowman fell. Return fire came, a shot fizzed past Rhillian’s ear, a serrin horse fell with a horrid crash. Armoured knights were charging, straight into the attack, seven, eight, nine…twelve of them, Rhillian counted fast, with another twelve cavalrymen behind.
Arrows peppered the knights’ charging horses, bringing down several in crashing rolls of long legs and armoured limbs. Survivors ploughed through the serrin lines, but found no opponents, serrin simply pulling wide of their charge to shoot them as they passed. Several more crossbow bolts streaked past, but then the bowmen were running back into the village, knowing they could not reload before the talmaad were on them.
Perhaps twenty serrin were ahead of Rhillian now, and galloped hard after the departing foursome. Weighed down with armoured riders, and lacking the endurance of sleeker, smaller Saalshen horses, those four would not get far. Rhillian waved some riders into the village to clear it, and peered through the open castle portcullis as she rode past. She glimpsed movement.
She reined up fast, diverting into the shallow, dry moat so as not to cause a pile-up with charging riders behind. But many others were also pulling up, sensing that the four escaping riders did not need more than thirty pursuers, however high their rank. More rode about to cover the far side of town, while others turned to head back down the slope and assist in the final effort to clear the battlefield. Another twenty rode across the small bridge to the portcullis, and Rhillian went in their midst.
The first two riders to reach the entrance dismounted, and ran into the gate towers on either side. The others waited, fanning off the bridge into the dry moat, and close to the base of the walls, arrows nocked and pointing up at the battlements. It was the simplest trick, to lure enemy riders into open castle yards just bristling with bowmen, and stick them full of arrows. Rhillian waited on the bridge, watching fleeing infantry and militia scattering past, and galloping horsemen, some escaping Elissians, others Rhodaani or serrin.
A cry came down from one tower, then the other. Serrin riders urged their mounts into the castle courtyard, watching warily at the surrounding walls, hooves clattering on the pavings. There was bundled straw, scattered manure and abandoned carts, some empty buckets about a well, a mule tied by the forge beneath the wall…but no people. The guardhouse was shut, as were mainhold doors, and the wide stable doors also. But the doors were barred shut on the outside.
Two more serrin dismounted and heaved the heavy bar off the door, dragged it aside, then pulled them open. Rusty hinges squealed, and twenty serrin pulled back their bowstrings, aiming to the dark interior. Rhillian put a hand to her brow and squinted…one thing serrin eyes did not do well was contrast, light against dark. Within, shapes became clear. Men on horses, in heavy plate armour. Knights. She could not see their faces, but their manner showed dismay.
“Lord Arendt, I presume?” Rhillian called. “Your decoy might have worked, if there were fewer of us.” But your lines collapsed rather faster than even we anticipated, she might have added.
An armoured figure on horseback clopped forward several strides. This horse wore metal barding, covering sides, chest and flanks. Rhillian blinked. That would have been interesting, if all the other horses had been so armoured. Arrows would be as little use against that as all the rest of a knight’s armour, even serrin bows firing arrows tipped with serrin steel were as useful for piercing armourplate as hurled acorns. But it would have slowed the horses, and exhausted them fast. On open ground, against heavier cavalry, serrin could just evade until the opposing horses collapsed of exhaustion, and archers could shoot for the legs. Which was, of course, why serrin hated to fight in fixed formation. It suited none of their fighting styles, on horse or on foot. And against any fixed, weakly armoured formation, this man before her was death on four legs.
“I am Lord Arendt,” said the man in fluent Larosan, his voice muffled behind the armoured visor. He did not raise it. No doubt he’d heard stories, ofeav archers and marksmanship. A pity Errollyn was not here, Rhillian thought sourly. From this range, that visor slit was probably not beyond him. “You have the appearance of the one they call Rhillian.”
It was the hair, Rhillian knew. It gave her away every time. “I might be,” she conceded.
“I wish to grant terms,” said Arendt.
“You’ve been defeated,” Rhillian replied, faintly incredulous. “Those of your army not slaughtered are running like frightened deer. Why would I need your terms?”
“Not you,” Arendt replied. His big horse looked so weighed down, the poor thing barely twitched. “I will give terms to General Zulmaher.” Rhillian had thought as much. “I am the Regent of the North. Not all the northern lords have committed full forces, yet I can grant terms on their behalf. Otherwise, it could take you months to finish them all.”
“Weeks,” Rhillian said. “Less, if their castles are all as pitiful as this.”
“This castle is Lord Herol’s,” Arendt replied. “He’s little more than a hedge knight, it was chosen merely for its strategic location. The greatest castles of Elisse are to the north, thrice in size than any you have so far conquered, and commanded by lords far more stubborn.”
Lord Arendt might have nodded, but the armour hid the gesture. He touched great, roundel spurs to his beast’s sides, and clomped forward from the stable gloom. Rhillian rode to meet him halfway. Within the stable, perhaps ten mounted knights watched, swords clasped in gauntleted hands. Arendt and Rhillian paused with their horses nose to nose. Rhillian’s mare sniffed at the warhorse, warily, but the warhorse barely responded. Rhillian gave the northern lord her best gleaming smile. It frightened some human men, that smile, even as it stirred their lust. Most found the effect disconcerting.
It seemed to have some effect on Lord Arendt, for he flipped up his visor to regard her face to face. Rhillian’s right hand went to her belt, produced a knife, and threw. It struck Lord Arendt in the eye, and he lurched in the saddle, then toppled to the pavings with an almighty metal crash. His warhorse danced aside, as though with relief. Rhillian had not even seen what Arendt looked like. Within the stable, his knights sat stunned.
“Finish the rest!” Rhillian announced. Arrows flew, and horses shrieked, flailing and wheeling. These wore no barding. The necessity always saddened Rhillian, but with the riders so invulnerable, there was no other choice. It would take a while to finish the knights, once dismounted, but they were painfully slow against unarmoured talmaad, and soon enough the serrin blades would find armour joints, draw blood, and slow the man enough for someone to knock him down and leave him flailing like a tortoise on its back. From there, it was simple knife work.
Once it was done, Rhillian remounted, rode back to the castle bridge, and waited. Soon enough, the first line of Steel infantry crested the hill—the rear rank, as they had begun the day, saved the initial fighting and left fresh to charge into what rained of the Elissian infantry, to prevent any chance of the enemy line re-forming. The green shields of the men were spattered red, as were their short, razor-tipped swords. They showed little emotion as they formed new positions about the town and castle, too well disciplined, and too accustomed to overwhelming victories for that. Most seemed barely out of breath, having run up that slope in full armour and shields.
Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 3 Page 14
