It was a smart move, in his position. Unfortunately for him, it exposed his chaotic column to a sudden charge from the three hundred cavalrymen hidden nearby.
It had taken a lot of preparation to secure three hundred heavy cavalrymen in a grove for two days. Tyndal did a great job of leading the volunteers and keeping them undetected and enthusiastic about an attack they might not get to make. But the gurvani followed Mavone’s subtle guidance as obediently as if he were their commander. Perhaps more so.
Tyndal’s moonlight charge was unexpected and terribly effective. Three hundred lances and the thunder of hoofbeats tore through the disorganized center and turned it into a tangled mess.
Every knight and mount had a Cat’s Eye spell upon them, and they had two days of pent-up boredom to release in the cool of the night. It was a ragged charge, with individual knights slashing at the infantry with swords when their lances broke or were abandoned. The knights magi in the attack launched bright lights and punishing offensive spells that left scores of goblins dead, wounded, or disabled by magic, or simply too demoralized to defend themselves against the disturbing attack.
The gurvani commander hurriedly recalled the Fell Hound cavalry to counter and screen the infantry, but it was too late. Tyndal withdrew his forces, just as suddenly and decisively as he’d attacked. They flew away at a gallop, along a preconceived route, daring the gurvani to follow. A few of them did . . . and were picked off by the regrouped archers.
The goblins leading the vanguard had had enough. They retreated a half-mile to join their fellows and halted. The accumulated paranoia and sudden losses convinced them that a much, much larger force was waiting for them ahead. Their commanders were convinced that they were doomed to grind them away at the cost of their own lives. Bitter, resentful, and confused, fights broke out among the command staff and quickly spread to the ranks. Meanwhile, messengers departed with word of contact with the enemy, as well as their position and disposition.
Once again, Mavone’s men did their work. The messengers were captured at dawn, where warmagi placed them under compulsions to change their messages, and let them go. When word arrived at the center, the enthralled gurvani messengers reported the vanguard was already six miles ahead and four miles south of the expected route . . . not nine miles ahead and five miles north.
Any deviation from the battle plan would have angered a normal commander. Gaja Katar was not a normal commander. The Nemovort was more than angry, he slaughtered the messengers on the spot . . . and then altered the course of the column to the south, to catch up with the reported progress of the vanguard . . . with the growing fear that their fellows had deserted, or worse, turned their cloaks and were preparing to betray them.
When the center column entered the wilderness, proper, that’s when Terleman stepped in. He had the rest of our meager heavy cavalry, nearly a thousand of them, in place and prepared. They attacked in rolling raids, in companies of thirty, along a three-mile stretch of the column as it snaked its way through the Wilderlands. The night-time assault by thousands of charging horses left hundreds of goblins dead. A running battle ensued, with the knights retreating and attacking in turns by unit, carefully coordinated by Terl’s mounted warmagi. Occasionally, the gurvani would surprise us and manage a credible defense, but without concentrated numbers the men on horseback prevailed more often than not. It was a bloody night.
The center of the column finally coalesced in an overgrown wheat field three miles south of its original route just before dawn, the forces staggered from the long night of attacks. The vanguard that was supposed to be clearing the route was nowhere to be seen, and the field seemed thick with our forces. Looking at their positions on the map, there was an eight-mile gap between the two forces . . . and a growing gulf of mistrust.
The surviving cavalrymen regrouped at a protected encampment prepared by the Kasari to sleep through the day, celebrate their victories and tend their wounds. As confused and irritated as the center of the column was, it was time to shift tactics to keep them off-balance. The third night Terleman and Mavone prepared a combined assault, using our horsemen and hundreds of Kasari and warmagi against the ten thousand goblins of the artillery train just starting to follow the center into the wilderness.
Traditionally, the best troops and most able commanders are used for the vanguard and main body of an army; the officers who get stuck with the artillery train are third-rate, or specialists unused to standard battle. When the first massive wains departed the enemy stronghold to follow two superior divisions, they were not prepared for attack. When it came, they were poorly equipped to contend with it.
Terl used a masterful combination of misdirection, special forces, and surprise attacks to decimate the artillery train. His emphasis was on the great wagons which carried the fodder, fuel, and other supplies Gaja Katar planned on using to storm Spellgate. While his cavalry forces occupied the lackluster guards of the column, Terl’s warmagi and rangers infiltrated and destroyed as many axels and wheels as possible. All it took was one of the great wagons to fail to hold up the entire column. That night nearly a dozen were damaged to the point of needing extensive repair.
By the third night, alas, communication had been re-established betwixt vanguard, center, and baggage train, and their true positions were revealed to each other. None of the three units were in support distance of each other anymore. The two forward units weren’t even close to where they were supposed to be. Indeed, their commanders were nearly ready to fight each other.
The slower-moving artillery train and baggage caravan was far behind, limping along as they feared another attack. They lacked the infantry support and fell hound cavalry of the forward units. They were vulnerable, and we wanted to attack their vulnerability before it could be turned into a strength. To make matters worse, Mavone contrived to have competing orders arrive to the artillery train commander, one from the vanguard and one from the center, both directing him to move his forces in different directions.
It was an eventful three days. And it was enough to delay the beginning of the attack for several more. As Terleman withdrew his forces for the second phase of the defense, and Mavone’s men moved to their fortified positions in the wilderness, Gaja Katar’s grand army was an unholy mess spread out over miles of rough countryside.
Military plans almost never survive contact with an actual foe, as everyone who has attended War College or who has actually fought knows. It was a pleasure to inflict that fundamental on someone else for a change.
“Once the battle was engaged, all of Vanador devoted itself to its prosecution. The magi had well-prepared the people and the lands as best as they were able, and deployed their forces with cunning and insight. More, they sped tales of victory quickly to the populace to encourage them in their many labors, and encouraged all to pursue their tasks cheerfully and with good humor. As the dark legions approached, dread and hope fought in all of our hearts as the wizards of Vanador rose to protect us.”
From the Scrolls of Lawbrother Bryte
Chapter Thirty
Vanador At War
While our brave warriors dueled with the foul goblin horde miles to the west, preparations in Vanador proceeded at a hectic pace, but the fear that would have made it frantic was being kept at bay. Militia units were continuing to form up and march into town from all over the plateau. Levies from the southern fiefs were arriving through the long, convoluted passes in the east, avoiding exposure to raids from the Penumbra while marching. It took them a little longer to get to Vanador, that way, but it also kept them intact.
They still weren’t arriving quickly enough to suit Carmella. She had nearly emptied her own fief of Salik Tower already. Hundreds of her skilled technicians and Hesian Order warmagi had disassembled the great war machines they’d built there and brought them to Spellgate for the defense. Each of the giant artillery pieces already had a crew to run it, of course, but Carmella still needed hundreds of workers to tend and feed the machines. Thou
sands more were needed to extend the great ditchworks around the causeway or help fortify the massive berm Carmella had erected at the height of the pass.
But those artillery pieces were her main focus. They were installed in four great batteries at the top of the pass, overlooking the causeway and the lands below. There were several ingenious designs – experiments her students and colleagues had created at Salik – all constructed to hurl as much screaming death on the heads of the goblins as science could contrive. Chief among them were four massive trebuchets, one in each battery. Those were Hesia’s designs, copies of the great engine we’d used at Timberwatch . . . but with seven years of refinements added. A fifth was even larger, and still under construction. One of Carmella’s special pieces, I guessed.
Those engines would be deadly to Gaja Katar’s legions, I knew . . . but only if they had adequate support and sufficient protection. Half of the militia units being deployed to Spellgate were being used to supply and support the artillery. The other half were given shovels and picks. The men of Vanador dug with especial enthusiasm, too, when word of the army approaching reached us.
I spent much of my time during that busy period ensuring that my commanders had what they needed and sorting out personnel issues that threatened the war effort. That included everything from taking over leadership of the field hospital at the refugee camp temporarily, to settling a dispute between rival factions, to ensuring that the sudden influx of peasants seeking safety in town were properly encamped. While none of that seems like the proper role of a count during an active campaign, that’s where I was needed the most. So that’s where I went.
Morale was likely my biggest contribution. Everyone loved seeing the Spellmonger riding around the city in my dragonscale armor or touring their encampment. Just the sight of me gave people hope, and a few calm words from my lips could turn a churning mob into a docile population, if I did it right. I used Ruderal as my aide-de-camp during that period, and the lad was constantly riding next to me, dutifully carrying Vanador’s new Anvil banner. I was gratified at how useful he was, in those situations. His Talent allowed him to see how worried and concerned the people were, and that gave him the insights to know just what to say to them when they got him alone.
It was a lot for the lad to handle. Grown men beseeched him to send aid or to intervene with me on their behalf for some request or plea. Everyone figured that Ruderal had some influence over me and my decisions, despite what he assured them, and they persisted in pestering him for his aid.
“Why do they think I have any influence on you?” he asked, accusingly, while we were riding from the field hospital – which had eaten up two days my time and attention – toward Spellgarden. “I’m just your apprentice.”
“And in a normal feudal environment, that would mean that your access and, presumably, your counsel would be influential,” I agreed. “I’ve seen commanders bribed in such ways before,” I pointed out. “Often a junior officer will serve as a conduit for such favors. But managing your army that way is foolish and self-defeating.”
“It’s just rude,” Ruderal declared. “Especially when I know they’re lying to me!”
“Did someone promise you rich reward if you got me to do something?”
Ruderal fumed a few moments in silence, then admitted as much. “Twenty ounces of silver, if I could convince you to deploy more archers and infantry at the hospital,” he finally said. “That yeoman, Dalger? He said he’d pay me ten now, and ten when it was done. And he . . . he offered me his youngest daughter,” Ruderal added, with a shiver.
“He . . . what?” I asked, surprised.
“He said I could spend some time with his daughter,” Ruderal repeated, his face turning red. “His own daughter, Master!”
I studied the lad and his discomfort. He was a far, far different person than Tyndal or Rondal. “Was she pretty?” I asked.
“Yes, she was pretty!” Ruderal exploded. “But that’s not the point! He acted like all I had to do was mention it to you and it would happen. I could have lied and taken his money, I guess, but I knew he was lying about it. Just the money, not his daughter,” he added, sullenly. “Why would he do that to his own daughter?”
“Desperate times lead to desperate measures,” I consoled him. “A man who thinks he might lose everything is often convinced he can save most if he sacrifices some. Try not to hold it against him, Ruderal. Believe me, I’ve seen far worse happen in wartime.”
That inspired a shudder in my apprentice. “He didn’t even ask her!” he accused. “He just assumed she would do it. For me!”
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, sensing some deeper issue at play.
“I’m just . . . I have a job to do,” he said, resolutely. “I don’t need to get entangled in that sort of thing.”
“You’re the handsome young apprentice to the Spellmonger,” I reasoned. “And, technically, you’re the esquire of a Count. You’re going to have to come to terms with that sort of thing, now. People are going to seek you out to get to me. They’ll use money, girls, power, or whatever they think you want to do it, too. That, unfortunately, is just the natural consequence of power. You’re actually quite fortunate,” I considered. “You can see when people are trying to trick you, or use you to their own purpose.”
“It just means that most people disappoint me,” Ruderal sighed. “Even the ones who think they mean well. I try not to hold it against them,” he reasoned. “They usually don’t even realize that they’re doing it. Children are usually the best. Their rationalizations are usually entertaining, at least.”
It occurred to me, not for the first time nor the last, how complicated my apprentice’s life must be. It inspired a mixture of envy and pity.
We passed two units of militia infantry on the road back to Spellgate, peasants hastily outfitted with bulky coats-of-plates, plain iron helmets, and, in some cases, boots. Each carried a spear and an axe. Most had simple wooden shields. Some had swords. And a great many carried a Wilderlands longbow on their backs. Of all the weapons at our disposal, those mighty bows gave me hope in the coming fight. Alas, most trudged, rather than marched, holding their spears more like hoes than weapons.
“Hail, Count Minalan!” called their mounted commander, who proved to be Magelord Emeren of Anstryg. He almost looked at home in the serviceable mail he wore, and he was a decent horseman, I could tell. But a look at his face and I could also tell the man had never been to war before. He had that mixture of enthusiasm and dread that most raw recruits have.
“Hail, Magelord Emeren!” I answered, as I rode to the head of the march to join him, Ruderal following behind. “You’ve received your posting?”
“Lord Sandoval has seen fit to place us along the southern road,” he reported. “We’re to serve as reserves to the front lines.”
“Then you’ll be guarding the approach to my new castle,” I observed. “Try not to let anything happen to it.”
“You think that likely, Excellency?” he asked, suddenly troubled.
“Not particularly,” I admitted. “But it needed to be said. Even if the foe should break Spellgate, no doubt his first concern would be to lay siege to Vanador, not molest my estate. But Ifnia rarely considers such matters when she oversees a battle.”
“I will do my duty, my lord,” Emeren promised. “My men are not well-experienced, but they trained diligently. And they fight to defend their homes. We will not fail,” he pledged.
“Gods willing, none of us will. You’ll do fine, Emeren. Just act like you know what you’re doing, follow orders and maintain discipline. Don’t neglect your wards, make sure that you’re protected from enemy scrying and psychomantics, and watch out for disease.”
“I will attend to all of it, my lord,” he said, resolutely. “It’s not exactly thaumaturgy, but . . .”
“It will take some getting used to, being responsible for your men,” I agreed. “I’ll stop by on my way home, after you’ve encamped, and look over your defe
nses, if it makes you feel better.”
“That would be a relief, my lord,” he agreed. “The men would be heartened by that.”
“He’s terrified,” Ruderal pronounced, when we’d passed beyond Emeren’s earshot. “His men are even more so. But everyone’s trying to pretend that they know what they’re doing.”
“I could have told you that without seeing their enneagrams,” I agreed. “You’ll see much of that sort of thing, Ruderal. He’s a good man, leading good men. That doesn’t mean he will be a good commander. I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promised.
“Oh, I wasn’t worried, Master,” he assured me. “He just doesn’t think he’s going to be very important.”
I had no good answer to that.
Throughout the plateau the bells of war rung, and the people hurried through their tasks with especial purpose. The familiar route between Vanador and Spellgate was filled with troops, wagons, horsemen and plenty of foot traffic. The villagers were heading toward safety, while the militias were headed back out again toward danger. The faces moving in both directions were anxious and determined, but not yet fearful. That was good, I reasoned. People weren’t panicking, yet.
I expected that to change, once Gaja Katar was in sight of Spellgate. I stopped at the Headquarters tent to check that progress, before I headed south to Spellgarden. Ruderal waited patiently on the bench provided for messengers and pages while I checked in.
The map on the table was updated directly from the big diorama in Mavone’s tower, and the one I had at Spellgarden. It lacked the fancy features of those, but it was just as helpful. So was Rustallo, who I was surprised to see was the officer-on-duty.
“They had to get someone to do it,” he yawned. “I got in three days ago with my men, and Sandoval said I could be of use here.”
“How are we doing?” I inquired, after accepting a cup of wine.
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