Authors: Miles Cameron
‘Yield,’ said the Red Knight, panting with pain and trying his level best to hide it.
‘I yield,’ spat the Morean.
Ser Alcaeus took charge of the Morean prisoners while the archers brutally and efficiently looted the Morean camp. The Captain said they had one hour and none of them intended to leave a single silver solidi behind. Trunks were dumped, clothes slit, tents thrown down.
Ser Alcaeus had the forethought to inform the Captain that the women in the camp were probably the wives of stradiotes and not trulls. The men-at-arms, under Sauce’s command, rounded them up and penned them where the Moreans’ spare horses had, until a few minutes before, been kept. If the women saw this as a merciful release from the threat of rape and violent death, they didn’t show any thanks. Rather they screamed, heckled, and cursed. Luckily, very few of the men-at-arms spoke any Archaic.
The company took all of the carts and animals.
The Captain was almost the only man who was injured. He tried to bite down on the pain, and he soaked up the strong sunlight and filtered through his newfound medical workings, trying to use it to heal the injury, but either he was doing something wrong or it was getting worse.
‘Trust you to find a good fight in the middle of a wasted day,’ said Bad Tom. ‘That was
pitiful.
I want to go back to fighting the Wild.’
‘Tom, we were outnumbered three to one. What do you want? We surprised them. I doubt we’ll be so lucky again.’ The Captain winced.
‘He put a lance in your horse, eh? Smart.’ Tom grinned. ‘Nasty fall. You weren’t ready for that.’
‘Clean against the laws of chivalry,’ Michael said. ‘Here, I just looted some really good white wine.’
‘I don’t think yon have quite the same laws,’ Tom said.
‘Did you have to break his arm?’ asked Michael.
‘He was trying to kill me,’ said the Captain.
Tom laughed.
When the hour was up, the company marched west around the walls accompanied by a hundred prisoners and twenty new carts, chased by nothing but the imprecations of a thousand unexpectedly destitute women.
The road was excellent, but it was still late afternoon when the company came in sight of the Duke of Thrake’s main army, drawn up in battle order facing the Gate of Ares. The Moreans weren’t taken completely unaware, and even as the Red Knight’s battle line, formed up a mile away on the move, came over the low ridge that faced the ancient field, the Morean army was wheeling back, giving ground to avoid being outflanked.
The Morean line was three times the length of the company’s line, and deeper. The Duke of Thrake had four good companies of infantry, with armour, long spears, and archers in the fifth and sixth rank, and they filled the centre of his line. He had heavy Alban-style men-at-arms on his left, and stradiotes flanked by Easterners on his right.
The Despot’s company of Easterners flowed further and further to the right, out on to the apparently limitless grass of the Field of Ares, galloping around the company’s flank. In response, the company formed a shallow box with the baggage in the centre.
‘I can feel their magister,’ the Captain said to no one in particular.
Ser Jehan trotted over. ‘We need to retire and secure one of our flanks,’ he said.
‘We should give them some ash shafts and then charge ’em,’ said Ser Thomas.
The Captain rose in his stirrups and his hip screamed in protest. His ugly, borrowed horse assumed that he was at liberty to rid himself of an unwelcome rider and did a four-footed bound, which the Captain reined in savagely.
Ser Jehan coughed. ‘Captain, the men are tired, we have already faced one action today, and the enemy is both more numerous and well armed and trained. I would like to respectifully suggest—’
Tom spat. ‘Fuck that. We can take them.’
Jehan narrowed his eyes. ‘Tom, you ain’t as smart as you think you are. This is foolery. Mayhap we can win. Put a lot of our boys in the dust – and what for?’
‘The Vardariotes will come into his flank and just like that, the campaign is won,’ the Captain said.
‘Or they don’t and we get gutted. Who cares? We’re paid the same either way. Christ on the cross – we’re mercenaries. What got into you two? Retire now and tomorrow we’ll drive him off with these whatever-you-call-them on our flanks.’
The Captain looked through him. ‘We’ll use the wagons to cover our flanks. Advance.’
‘You just want to say you’ve won two battles in a day, you arrogant pup. And men will die for your – your—’ Jehan was splutting with professioanl rage.
Tom laughed. ‘He’s a loon, right enough. Save your breath to cool your porridge, boyo. We’re going to fight.’
‘Look!’ shouted the Despot. He leaned out over the neck of his horse and pointed at the enemy. ‘He has both of our icons! Tzoukes has betrayed us!’
The Duke had not won every battle of his career, and he smelled a rat. He rose in his stirrups. ‘That’s crap. And saying such things aloud does you no credit.’ He looked under his hand at the glittering, steel-clad ranks of his new adversaries. The Vardariotes had thus far remained safely inside the gates of the city.
The magister began to raise power. The
ops
was rippled and strained. He was not the only workman in this brickyard, and the wound he’d taken from the Emperor’s spymaster and bodyguard was a distraction that weakened his casting. ‘They have a powerful mage with them,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘By the crucified Christ, my lord – they have two.’ He breathed, and then spoke as if he’d run a race. ‘No, four. Perhaps five— Parthenos, my lord!’
‘He beat Tzoukes and he has another force. He’s not showing me all his spears,’ the Duke said. ‘Nonetheless, he’s a barbarian and we are not. Let’s push him.’ He waved to his banner bearers. The trumpeters had horns made of wild aurochs, and they raised them, and the horns echoed like the cries of Wild creatures.
The Morean army marched. Their dressing was impressive – their own mercenary knights on the left, the five big blocks of infantry in the centre, and the Duke and his stradiotes on the right, with a thin second line a few hundred yards behind – mostly ill-mounted men and camp guards, but a second line nonetheless.
The army was small enough for a short speech so he rode to the centre of his line, tilted his steel cap back on his head, and stood in his stirrups.
‘Companions!’ he roared. ‘These foreigners are more of the same – barbarians who come to take our wealth and our daughters and leave us with nothing but the right to be slaves when our fathers were lords. This mercenary has nothing but his arrogance to sustain him. We have God on our side. Go with God!’
His men roared. The spearmen in the centre – his veterans from his first days – raised gilded helmets on their spearheads and bellowed his name, calling him Imperator.
Duke Andronicus cantered back to his small command group and gestured to his son. ‘We overlap him on both flanks. See to it that your Easterners turn his left so my Hetaeroi can finish him.’
Golden-haired Demetrius saluted smartly. ‘As you say, Pater!’ he shouted cheerily and cantered away to the right.
Kronmir sat comfortably on his horse’s back, watching the distant city gate. ‘It seems to me he is expecting help,’ he said.
‘He is merely arrogant. Galles and Albans – I’ve beaten them both.’ The Duke smiled soberly. ‘That sounds too much like hubris. But with God’s help—’ He looked west, towards his enemies.
The enemy baggage train was rolling forward.
As the Duke watched, walking his horse at the same pace that his marching spearmen were crushing the long grass, he saw the enemy baggage train split into two. There was confusion somewhere in the middle, and he smiled.
The enemy was in the process of dismounting. But their trumpet calls sounded tuneless, and the men at either end of the line were obviously unclear as to what to do. They were still three hundred paces distant, and Duke Andronicus watched his textbook attack roll into the barbarians. He looked to his left – the mercenary knights were drifting to the left, intentionally improving their flanking position and cutting the enemy off from the gate. Ser Bescanon knew his business.
On the right, his son was carefully maintaining the line. He wouldn’t swing wide until the fighting had started. Barbarians never saw anything beyond immediate threat.
Two hundred and seventy-five paces. The capture of his most faithful vicar and two battle icons was annoying, but Andronicus intended to rescue all three before the sun set. The sun was beginning to set now, so if the contest ran longer than an hour the rays would fall in the eyes of his men. A small thing, but the sort of detail that Imperial commanders were careful about.
The last of the barbarians were dismounted. He had to admire the discipline of their horse holders, and he cursed that the barbarians were rich enough to mount every man while the Empire scrabbled to afford a few hundred professional cavalry of their own.
The enemy infantry were archers. He’d known it – but he was still a little surprised by the density of their first volley, especially considering the range.
Men went down.
As his men stolidly marched forward, Andronicus strove to understand what had happened. Men in the armoured infantry had gone down.
The second, third, and fourth volley struck so close together that he lost track. The centre was staggered – it slowed, and the line bowed.
Ser Christos, one of his best officers and the Count of the Infantry, spurred out of the centre, took two arrows on his heavy shield, and still managed to raise his sword. ‘Forward, companions!’ he called, his high-pitched voice carrying like song, and the infantry surged forward, any momentary hesitation forgotten.
‘Now
that’s
an army,’ said Bad Tom with satisfaction. ‘Good thing irks don’t react like that, eh?’
Three horse lengths in front of Tom, the company archers were grunting and releasing their shafts as fast as they could, and the Imperial infantry were soaking up the volleys on their shields. There were men down, but their huge round shields were three boards thick and formed of leather and bronze as well, and the men behind them were big, tough louts wearing heavy mail or scale, and they were still coming – close enough now that the archers could see their faces.
The Captain looked to the right, where, instead of covering his flank with a wagon wall, he had a snarl of panicked wagoners.
Even as he watched, Mag the seamstress leaped up on a wagon and began to yell at the men around her. She did something hermetical – he felt the odd hollowness that practioners could always sense before another cast – and he saw a wagon freeze in place, horses vibrating like lute strings.
He wished her well, but whatever she did was going to be too late, because five hundred enemy knights were intending to turn that flank.
She’s using a great deal of power, and she’s attracting the enemy magister’s attention.
Shut up, Harmodius!
The Captain put a hand to his head.
If you make me sick now, we’re lost.
He turned. ‘Tom – there.’ He pointed with his lance.
Bad Tom grinned his mad grin. ‘With me, boys!’ he shouted. He must have seen Sauce, because he said, ‘And girls! Hah! Wedge, now – on me.’
The Captain had a third of the company’s men-at-arms gathered around him – Ser Gavin, Ser Michael, Ser Alcaeus, Ranald and all the Hillmen, and others.
‘Go!’ shouted the Captain.
In a moment he was alone behind the line of archers, and Tom’s wedge was forming, and Mag was still screaming at the men and women of the baggage train.
His hip hurt.
To no one in particular, he said, ‘I’ve fucked this up.’
He backed his horse and turned the plug’s head to look off to his left. There, the wagons had formed better, and Bent already had the end of the line covered by wagon bodies while the wagoners unhitched horses and hitched chains. They’d practised this, but it was obvious they hadn’t practised it enough.
He looked at the oncoming wall of Morean infantry. There were holes in their line, and it looked a little like a waving flag. If he had another hundred men-at-arms, he could—
‘Gelfred!’ he called. ‘Go all the way past Tom’s wedge and do what you can.’
Gelfred’s scouts, well behind his command, were all he had of a reserve. The rest of the men-at-arms and squires were dismounted with the archers.
Off to their front left,
ops
swelled. He could feel the working emanating from someone very powerful indeed—
Harmodius . . .
I knew you’d need me.
Whatever the enemy cast, it
sliced the grass
on its way to the archers’ line. Men flinched, and then the great scythe was lifted as if it had never been there. A few men on the left felt an icy cold at their knees, and then they nocked and loosed.
Harmodius gathered power. Harmodius and the Red Knight had a shared problem – they seemed to have tangled whatever matrix of habit and
aethereal
training allowed them to access
ops
, so that instead of being two mages with two sets of power, they were two mages at the mercy of one another’s expenditures.
The Captain watched most of his
ops
crackle off across the scythe-cut grass and crash into the centre block of enemy infantrymen. Men burst into flame. One man stumbled clear, screaming, a horrible parody of a person.
Another flight of arrows hissed into the enemy charge.
They kept coming.
Duke Andronicus could see his line flanking the enemy’s, but he could also see the wagon wall the mercenaries had formed. He turned to Ser Stefanos, his personal champion. ‘To my son. Tell him to ride further around the enemy flank.’
Ser Stefanos saluted and galloped away.
Far off towards the city, Ser Bescanon’s men were starting to trot.
Andronicus began to look for the spot to place his killing blow. ‘Close up, Hetaeroi!’ he called.
The Captain dismounted next to Ser Milus with the standard and Ser Jehan, in the centre of the line. Ser Jehan still had his visor open, although the enemy was only fifty paces away.