‘How much did you offer for the King’s head?’ Dominic Hartfield asked him. As with the last battle, Felmere stayed with the Silver Lances, leaving Reynard a little further
forward ready to charge in if something went amiss.
‘Fifty crowns if we win the battle; ten if we don’t. I will obviously still need the money then.’
‘Mytha’s spear, that is a fortune! More than many of these fellows see in a lifetime!’
‘It is supposed to be an incentive.’ Felmere reminded him.
‘It is their king, I suppose; his death would probably end this war in a trice. Why would he show himself in battle at this hour, I wonder?’
‘Desperation, hopefully; maybe an attempt to shore up the morale of his men – that is, if they haven’t got some poor soul desperate for coin to run around in it while the real
king sits in Roshythe surrounded by all the serving girls his appetites can handle.’
‘I had thought that, too.’ Dominic’s face was grim, not that Felmere could see it; conditions were getting wetter by the minute. ‘What do you think the chances of it
being the case are?’
‘Evens I daresay. Still, we have to treat him as though he is the King; it is important we take him here, alive or dead. Just getting his armour would be worth it; we can send it to
Leontius. The new Tanaren high fashion. When you return there you will see everyone wearing a suit.’ Felmere chuckled at his poor joke, not realising how accurate their conjecture was, for
King Aganosticlan was many miles away, at Tantala, secure from the predations of his enemies.
Dominic did not reply; he was staring at the advancing row of men.
‘Our line is getting a bit ragged – it must be the weather – we need to signal them to tighten things up a bit.’
Felmere sheltered his eyes with his hand. What the knight had said was true – the right flank in particular was looking pretty uneven with Fenchard’s men dropping rapidly behind
Vinoyen’s, and Maynard’s men, unsure who to align themselves with, just drifting between the two.
Felmere cursed and passed a message to the flag-bearers and musicians to get them to order Fenchard and Maynard to speed up a little. That done, he grabbed some bread off one of the foot
messengers; he hadn’t eaten that morning as his stomach was playing up and he suddenly felt desperately hungry.
There was about a quarter of a mile between the opposing forces. Arrows were flying between them but were having a negligible effect in this weather; cavalry sorties were also going on but they
seemed equally half-hearted. And still Haslan Falls were behind the line. If anything the gap had increased, their front rank now being behind Ulgar Vinoyen’s final rank. Maynard’s men
had pushed on and were holding the correct position again, so if Baron Fenchard’s men fell back any further then the opposing cavalry could fill the gap and fire arrows at the exposed flanks
to their left and right.
‘What by Artorus’s bollocks is he playing at?’ Felmere shouted in frustration.
‘I will send a man up to them,’ Dominic replied.
He did so and within the minute a knight of the Silver Lances was barrelling towards the Haslan Falls banner with all the speed he could manage over the soft ground.
The gap increased still further. There was clear daylight between Haslan Falls and Vinoyen. The men of Ulgar’s Company were turning to them, though whether they were exhorting them to push
on or just shouting obscenities, Felmere could not tell. Ahead of them Reynard broke rank and started spurring his horse towards Felmere, who waited for him with curiosity. The storm was nearing
its full fury now; it was not long after noon but the land was steeped in a grey murk, enlivened only by a coruscating flash of lightning that illuminated the toiling soldiers for less than a
second, freezing them in Felmere’s memory, and still Haslan Falls were behind the others.
Reynard pulled his visor back, his eyes looked slightly panicked, something Felmere was not used to seeing.
‘Baron,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if this is important but Trask vanished for a couple of days in the last week, only returning yesterday. When I asked him where he had
been he made up some story about visiting a prostitute. I didn’t believe him then and...’
‘By all the Gods,’ said Dominic softly, his voice reflecting Reynard’s concern, ‘you don’t think...’
Felmere wasn’t sure what the two men were trying to say, but the problem with the advance needed resolving immediately. He called over to the musicians at the top of his lungs.
‘Sound the halt ... now!’
The response was instant. The signal sounded, clear as crystal through the rain, yet again Felmere felt proud of the iron discipline of his men as they stopped their march almost in unison.
All except one.
Haslan Falls men continued forward. At first Felmere was pleased, thinking they would plug the gap in the line. Instead they started to veer to the left, putting them on a collision course with
Ulgar Vinoyen’s men. From the Arshuman line cornets blasted a single piercing note, the signal for them to start their march.
‘The mages aren’t coming back,’ said Dominic ominously.
‘What do you mean?,’ said Felmere. His patience with the two knights’ evasiveness seemed to be running out.
Reynard looked at Dominic and they both understood each other. Dominic spoke again: ‘Baron, we need to withdraw.’
‘Withdraw?’ roared Felmere with some anger. ‘Battle is about to be joined; we have the advantage. What milky-livered womanish cowardice is this? The battle is ours to
win.’
‘Because we are being betrayed.’
Felmere’s jaw dropped like a stone.
Up ahead, Dominic’s knight reached the Haslan Falls banner. They saw him speaking to Trask, with Fenchard now alongside him. Dominic looked on in anguish because he now knew exactly what
was coming next and could not do a thing to stop it.
As the knight leaned forward on his horse, neck craned to listen to the man on foot, Trask swung his arm around the man’s throat and dragged him off his horse. They could not see the
denouement of this act but didn’t need to. The horse ran off as it no longer had a master to serve.
And then came the next stage in the proceedings. To Felmere, it seemed to take an eternity, as though every protagonist was wading through bone glue. As he watched, already aware of the horror
about to be enacted, the men of Haslan Falls lowered their spears, broke into a well-coordinated run, and charged Ulgar Vinoyen’s unit in its unprotected rear.
Chaos would be the only word to describe what ensued over the next hour. Immediately, Felmere saw that this was not a battle to sit back and direct calmly. Spurring his horse, he and the other
knights charged towards the turncoats of Haslan Falls.
It was patently clear to all concerned that this was going to be a disaster of some scale. Fenchard’s men outnumbered Vinoyen’s by two to one and had already scattered most of the
surprised and panicked troops. Baron Maynard on the far right was left isolated and the Arshumans had sent all their light cavalry to surround him and pepper his men with arrows. So effectively,
after a matter of minutes, the army of Tanaren was reduced to two units. Baron Lasgaart was engaging the mercenary force on the left and Felmere’s own men, along with the men of Athkaril,
were fending off two units of the enemy who had just crashed into them, spear against shield. The shock of the impact could even be heard above the thunder.
‘For Tanaren!’ roared Felmere and along with the other knights he slammed into the rear of Fenchard’s men, in a frantic attempt to stop their inexorable progress through the
remnants of Vinoyen’s forces and into his own soldiers’ unprotected flank.
It worked to a degree – blood and confusion reigned. Felmere ran his spear through the innards of one man before he could ready his shield. His horse crunched into the men immediately
behind, hooves snapping bone and raking flesh. Felmere swept out his sword, cleanly parting another man’s head from his shoulders. As he killed, though, he couldn’t help thinking,
‘By all the Gods, these are my own men.’
Dominic and the Silver Lances to his left and right were doing similar grisly work. A wedge had been carved into Fenchard’s men, leaving many dead and dying, but they were prepared now.
The impetus of the charge had gone and the danger now was that they would be surrounded. The knights, visors down, blood spattered over their shining plate mail and soaked into the barding of the
horses, faced the enemy, who had backed away, leaving a space of some yards between the two of them. The Baron looked at these men carefully for the first time – many had brands, the mark of
a criminal, and there were some swarthy-faced men, skin burnished by the sun almost as if they were born and raised in sunnier climes than here. Before they could counter-charge, though, Felmere
sounded the retreat and the knights pulled free of their treacherous foes.
Reynard’s men were engaging the mercenaries along with Lasgaart’s infantry and were holding their own despite being outnumbered. Unlike the regimented appearance of the Arshuman
regulars, no two of the mercenaries looked the same. Some had shields; others eschewed them in favour of colossal double-headed axes or giant six-foot swords needing two hands to wield. Others
carried little more than brutal-looking cudgels; some were clad in leather armour, others in chain with enclosing helmets, and yet more wore little more than brigandine. They held a much looser
formation, though, and would charge. ferociously grabbing their opponents’ spears and cleaving through their shields. The fighting degenerated quickly into brutal close hand-to-hand combat
– maces pounding into skulls and crushing bone and brain; short swords hammered into ribs or through the mouths of the screaming enemy, shattering teeth and punching clean through to the
other side, causing blood to spray like rain; and long swords, the ultimate slashing weapon, slicing through scapula to coccyx, spilling pale intestines and other scarlet, pulpy organs like some
demonic butcher’s yard. The agonised high-pitch screaming of the wounded mixed with the concentrated grunting of the hard-pressed defenders and the battle cries of warriors sensing victory.
Black blood and faeces covered the churned-up mud underfoot, and the relentless rain, washing everything into soggy shallow pools, caused the stink to rise. The true stench of death.
Elsewhere in the field, Felmere noted that his archers had nearly all been run down and scattered and that the light cavalry, though fighting gamely against a more numerous foe, were no match
for their Arshuman equivalent. They had fragmented and had not even the loosest formation to speak of. His army consisted of two poorly protected units of infantry and a small number of brave, but
outmanned, knights. And still not all of the opposing troops had been committed.
Then Maynard’s men, alone and tormented by arrows, broke and started to run back towards the ridge and the camp. The true slaughter in a battle comes not from determined men facing each
other sword against shield; it comes through fear and panic. As Maynard’s men turned to flee, their backs were turned to the enemy horse and any semblance of a disciplined formation was lost.
The enemy trumpets sounded and their small unit of heavy cavalry advanced ready to mow down and slaughter those whose courage had failed them. Men tried desperately to dive out of the way of the
thundering hooves bearing down on them, falling to the earth covering their heads with their hands, only to be pounded, pummelled or run through with lances or spears.
Seeing this, Felmere called Dominic over. ‘I need to get to Reynard!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Take your knights and get among their cavalry. Try to save some of those poor
bastards and stop them attacking our rear. I need to change things here.’
As the Silver Lances galloped off to do what they could, Felmere galloped around the rear lines of his forces to where Reynard had disengaged and was trying to gain some respite, regain his
breath. About a quarter of his men were missing.
‘We cannot stand up to them; we need to withdraw, but slowly and in formation. When Lasgaart’s forces separate from the enemy, get them into a circle; I will do the same with my men.
Our job then is to get everyone out of here without them getting surrounded and destroyed.’
Reynard nodded. ‘Baron Ulgar is dead. I saw Trask pull him down myself, though Fenchard landed the killing blow.’
Felmere whistled through gritted teeth. ‘Maynard, too; his men broke when an arrow caught him. We need to pull back over the river and destroy the bridges to buy some time. There are not
enough of us to defend Grest. I want you to evacuate the city; you know what Arshuman retribution is like.’
‘As you wish,’ said Reynard, ‘though I would sooner try and put Trask’s eyes on a stick and roast them over a fire.’
‘His bollocks, you mean. And Fenchard’s, too, if he has any. Go and see Lasgaart; we have little time.’
The battle had been raging for under an hour, but the next phase of it lasted much, much longer and was infinitely more gruelling. As Felmere ordered, the two remaining units of infantry
reordered themselves into circles, spears facing outwards. In this way they could not be flanked, though they could no longer muster a decisive charge. Fresher men could replace tired ones easily
and both units could be much more durable. Marching in coherent formation was difficult, however, and the retreat was painfully slow. Time and time again Arshuman arrows fell among them, the
wounded stumbling and falling, their comrades trying to lift them and keep them moving. Anyone who could not move would have to be left behind – and no mercy was shown to stragglers, who
would be clubbed to death, or have their throats opened with dagger thrusts, blood spraying on to the face of their killer.
The Arshuman infantry was relentless in their pursuit, attempting to encircle the men of Tanaren entirely, a circle they could then close slowly, crushing the surrounded units in a vice of
steel. Felmere remembered his tutor as a child, telling him stories of the great battles of the past; he thought of the Battle of Oro-Califan when a Kozean army, though outnumbering their enemy
greatly, was destroyed in a similar manner. Men were pressed so closely together in that terrible conflict that they could not draw or swing their weapons, or breathe properly, or control their
bladders. To stop this from happening here, he, Dominic and Reynard led their exhausted cavalry in charges to drive back the foe. It worked, too – no encirclement was made and the will and
strength of the Arshuman footmen and their quislings was slowly drained.