“My foot’s much better, thank you, Countess, and to be in the abundance of your gracious company is, as ever, beyond my humble ability to express.”
She giggled, and looked at him expectantly. He groaned inwardly and offered her his arm. She seized it with the enthusiasm of a hungry buzzard, and marched him off to the pavillion.
While tucking into the lavish feast, Duvessi regaled Jamie with the account of the harrowing, two mile journey that she and her companions had endured to get there. Despite her constant assurances that her appetite had quite abandoned her, she devoured a platter of sweet meats, two entire capons, and a bottle of Suvian Ruby as she recounted her harrowing tale. Eventually, Jamie managed to coax the weary travellers from the table by assuring them that the honey-glazed lamb wouldn’t spoil in the heat. It didn’t matter a damn; they’d soon lose their appetites when the killing started.
Under Jamie’s direction the servants erected a silk canopy on the edge of the hill, and set a dozen gilt chairs beneath it.
The Countess flounced onto a chair, and sighed. “Can you smell that, Jamie dear? Suvian lavender is the finest in the world, its scent is incomparable. ‘Tis heartbreaking to see it trampled, and yet, it releases the most magnificent perfume when crushed. Perverse is it not? the pleasure one can derive from destruction.”
Jamie’s attention was focused on the battlefield and he only remembered his manners when she gave a tactful cough. “Forgive me, Countess. Indeed, ‘tis a mortal tragedy.”
Her full, red lips puckered into a sullen pout. “You seem terribly distracted today, Jamie dear. Is it the heat? Redheads suffer dreadfully under our sun, and
you’re
forced to wear all that heavy armour, you poor darling. I shall speak to Captain Stenna about it. You look like a lobster, boiling in the pot. Have a drink dear, you’ll feel better for it, I know I do.” She giggled and held out her glass for a refill.
She was right about one thing; he couldn’t maintain his usual mask of attentiveness or feign interest in her trivial conversation. His heart and thoughts were with his comrades.
“So who’s in charge of our lot?” One of the noble sycophants demanded. He was tall, and wearing an outfit so festooned with ribbons that he reminded Jamie of a maypole.
“Captains Stenna and Vorbek have field command,” he replied.
Maypole scowled. “I thought Calvigneri was in charge? This won’t do at all. I’m sure you understand, Lord Turlowe.”
Jamie stiffened. “As I’ve already mentioned, several times,
my father
is Lord Turlowe. Unless he and my two older brothers all suddenly drop dead, Twins forbid, it would be somewhat presumptuous, not to mention rude for me to assume the title.”
Maypole sniffed. “What rank are ye then?”
“I’m currently a squire in the First Company of the Royal Guards. I hope one day to be a knight, but as yet I have not attained that singular honour.”
“You Antians are a strange breed. I cannot imagine a noble Suvian of even the lowest rank submitting to such humiliation. You fraternise with peasants and…” Maypole flourished his kerchief towards the battlefield. “What are they doing,
Squire
Turlowe?”
“The Fox’s left flank is turning to face Trenham’s archers.” Jamie tried not to sound like he was talking to an idiot, even though that was clearly the case.
“I’m not a dolt, sir. I can see they’re moving, but to what purpose? Those mercenary dogs are far too cowardly to engage. Look at them; charging about like their arses are on fire, it’s pathetic. Ranulfi should have them all flogged.”
The Countess and her guests immediately set about debating the finer points of military tactics, of which they knew vastly more than any mere general, judging by the sureness of their pronouncements.
Flustered and irate, the Countess dragged Jamie into the argument. “Jamie my sweet, please explain why Trevisa has turned to face the mercenaries. Does he feel threatened by them? Can a few little arrows really scare those brave soldiers?”
“They can do a great deal of damage, Countess. Have you noticed that they’ve been creeping ever closer to Trevisa’s flank?”
She nodded uncertainly. Jamie grinned. “My Lady knows full well, I’ll wager, what happens when some varlet is left to get behind. Unchecked, the mercenaries would wreak all shades of havoc upon Trevisa’s rear.”
The Countess giggled, and gave his arm a playful squeeze. “Really, Squire Jamie, how bold you are.”
“And wrong. Look—the cowards are running. Typical mercenary scum.” Maypole gave a smug grin.
He was right; the Irregulars turned tail and began to flee the field in disarray. The Fox’s left flank howled in triumph, and set off in pursuit; hounds that had the scent of blood. Jamie saw the Suvian officers frantically signalling for them to hold the line, but few heeded the command. The bait was taken.
To their credit, Trevisa’s archers saw the danger, and let fly a blizzard of arrows when the 2nd began to rumble towards them. The sky darkened with shafts, but either through nerves, or lack of judgement, they loosed far too early. At the extreme limit of their range, most of the arrows fell short, or bounced harmlessly off the heavily armoured knights and horses. Meanwhile, the Irregulars raced erratically about the field, scattering rolling waves of dust in their wake.
Jamie held his breath as the 2nd charged the Suvian line, gaining speed with every thunderous step. Even over the distance he could hear Althus Vorbek, Captain of the 2nd, roar an order. Sunlight flashed from a hundred gleaming lance points as his knights levelled their weapons.
Trevisa’s centre set their pikes and braced to receive the charge. Jamie fought the urge to cheer when the 2nd’s herald gave a sharp blast on his horn, and the knights changed formation. About 200 yards from the centre, they doubled their line into two ranks, wheeled away from the wall of pikes, and charged at the disorderly left flank. Trevisa’s reserve cavalry reacted quickly, but they were out on the far right flank. They would have to ride wide of their own lines before they could countercharge the 2nd—wasting time that the left flank didn’t have.
Several of the Countess’s companions were unable to watch the slaughter and fled to the pavilion. Those who stayed gasped as the Antians tore into the left.
“This is horrible,” the Countess breathed.
“This is war,” said Jamie.
“They may have mauled the flank, but it was a mistake to charge; your comrades will be surrounded,” Maypole slurred. “They’ve made a fatal error, Squire
Turlowe.”
“Tell me,
sirrah, do you know the cognomen of the Second Company?” said Jamie.
Maypole held out his glass and waved it impatiently until a servant refilled it. “I cannot say that I do.”
“It’s called, the Anvil.”
“Is that because it gets beat upon often?” The nobleman laughed.
Down on the field, the centre of Trevisa’s line turned to engage the Antian cavalry.
“Ha! D’you see?” said the Suvian almost gleefully. “Wait until the Fox’s cavalry charge them in the side. See how they like the taste of Suvian steel.”
That was enough. Jamie rounded on the drunkard. “Damn it, man, whose side are you on?”
Maypole fixed him with a bloodshot glare. “The side of Suvian honour, sir! Not low,
foreign
tactics.”
Blood sang in Jamie’s ears, his hand strayed to his sword hilt.
Easy, Jamie; he’s not worth it.
Heeding his own council, Jamie took a breath. He was a Royal Guard and wouldn’t dishonour himself or the Company by spilling the blood of an imbecile.
He fixed the drunkard with a stare as hard as coffin nails. “You’re not worth the rust on my blade, and you know nothing of honour.”
Maypole had a sudden attack of sobriety. His bleary eyes focused on the sword and the blood drained from his ruddy cheeks. Mumbling empty curses, he staggered back to the pavilion. The rest of the group sat locked in silence; frozen by the horror unfolding before them. A hot breeze rolled over the hill, bringing with it the sweet smell of lavender infused with the stench of blood.
Anxiety chewed Jamie’s guts as he tried to follow the battle through the shifting veil of dust. Now that they had destroyed the flank, the 2nd closed with Trevisa’s centre. The Suvians were well armed, and supported by archers, but they were no match for the Anvil and were being steadily beaten back towards the farmhouse that shone like a pearl amid the carnage. Jamie thought their cause was lost, but the embattled Suvians weren’t finished yet. They raised a ragged cheer when their Cavalry were finally in position to charge the 2nd.
“I think perhaps your comrades were rash, Squire Turlowe,” another of the guests suggested. “The Anvil is about to be struck a resounding blow by the flower of Suvian knighthood.”
Jamie didn’t miss the note of smugness in her voice.
Blood will out.
It didn’t matter that Trevisa was their sworn enemy, he was Suvian, and the Royal Guards were foreigners who meant nothing to them.
The puling sots don’t mind that we bleed for their cause.
Their hypocrisy didn’t surprise Jamie; it disgusted him. He turned his attention to what was happening on the field.
Even without their garish battle standard, there was no danger of confusing the Suvian knights with the Anvil. Their horses were decked in flowing silk caparisons of every conceivable colour. The knights all wore mirror-bright mail and flamboyant helms crowned with gilded crests and rampant heraldic beasts.
The Anvil were head to toe in unadorned steel plate over which they wore quartered surcoats in their company colours of black and green emblazoned with King Daris’s Griffin. When the Suvians were close, Vorbek bellowed a command, and half of the 2nd reined their destriers about to face them.
“Your horses are nimble…for such heavy set beasts,” another of the courtiers remarked.
“The Guards destriers are the finest horses in the world,” said Jamie.
“Our horses are bigger.”
“They are indeed rangy beasts, but as I’m sure you know: size isn’t everything. It takes years to train a destrier. They are, quite literally, worth their weight in gold.”
Just like their riders.
The Suvians rode well, but they lacked discipline. Jamie could see that they were coming in too fast, and their line was ragged. This would not end well for them.
He loathed the long hours Captain Stenna made them drill, but the reason why was about to be made painfully clear. The Suvians hit the Anvil piecemeal, and instead of smashing through, they broke against them.
Suvian horses careened into each other and crashed to the ground in horrific tangles of broken limbs. Riders were catapulted from their saddles and crushed beneath the trampling hooves of their terrified mounts. When the dust settled it was plain for all to see that the Anvil had lived up to its name.
The slaughter had captivated the Suvian nobles’ attention, but Jamie caught a glimpse of something else, moving at speed to the right of the hill. He squinted through the dust towards the wide swathe of trees that hemmed the fields on that side. When he realised what he was looking at, it took all the self-control he possessed not to whoop with joy.
The Countess fluttered her fan. “Tell me, Jamie dear, does the First Company of the Royal Guards have a…
eke namerinaria
…a cognomen
?
”
Jamie grinned broadly. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the late arrivals. “Indeed, Countess. The First are also called,
the Hammer
.”
The Captain of the Hammer never felt the heat of battle. When she fought, she was always cold.
As the 1st cantered around the edge of the wood and onto the battlefield, Captain Stenna calculated the distance to the enemy. She checked her horse, flexed her plate sheathed hand, and drew her sword. The Company manoeuvred into formation, gathering pace with every stride. Alyda raised her sword aloft and roared the order to charge.
The Suvians didn’t see their approach thanks to the dust storm that the Irregulars had raised. Although the haze provided excellent cover, it was like riding through a blizzard of burning ash. Choked and half blind, the Hammer’s destriers braved the stinging hail without hesitation, and in moments they were on the unsuspecting Suvians.
Alyda roared a warcry as the 1st smashed into the rear of Trevisa’s cavalry. The air was ripped from her lungs by the bone-jarring impact. The high cantle of her saddle groaned, but she kept her seat and drove her horse,—a huge, ill-tempered black called Lyco—into the flank of an orange caparisoned mount and its rider. The Suvian horse crashed to the ground screaming. Lyco trampled the fallen beast with uncommon fury and crushed its skull into the dirt with his massive hooves. An arm reached up from beneath the dead horse and clawed the air. Alyda brought her sword down in a slicing arc. The arm fell away.
All sound merged in the roaring tumult of battle. It was a terrible song, composed of screams and the clash of steel. The Hammer played the tune well. Alyda glanced to her right. Her second, Kieran Lorhine, was hacking a path through the Suvians with controlled savagery. On her left, Nev Vysten, one of the Company heralds, was smashing in the side of a knight’s head.
Just as it should be,
thought Alyda, as the Hammer and the Anvil schooled the Suvians in the brutal art of war.