It had been a very satisfying moment, and it had changed his opinion of the darkcloaks. Iss was right: Even though he was uneasy with their services, he could not afford to waive them.
Since then Marafice had learned other useful things. Greenslade had provided a headcount of the forces in the Ganmiddich roundhouse, and also disclosed information about messengers sent to Blackhail for reinforcements. By Marafice's calculation the reinforcements were at least five days away: more than enough time for him to gain possession of the house.
Today he rode to break the Crab Gate, and it was a strange feeling to know the darkcloaks were in place and ready. Their aid made him less of a man and more of a surlord, and that was probably the way it had to be.
"Quick march," he commanded Tat Mackelroy. It was time they started the dance.
As the order was relayed down the ranks, Marafice looked over his left shoulder toward the center. The line was good, you had to give the Whitehog that: he knew how to marshal men. Hog Company formed a solid column, a hundred wide and seven deep. A dozen in the fore carried pennants of snow-white silk embroidered with the likenesses of fat, mean-looking pigs. There was white silk also on the men's backs, short half-circle dress capes that were attached to the plate armor by spiky little horns. They were a fair and deadly sight, impossibly proud, splendidly accoutered. Every clansman's nightmare.
Hews himself forwent the pleasures of the cloak, creating an island of steely sparseness amongst the white. Aware that he was being inspected, Hews turned to look Marafice in the eye. Over the heads of seventy-five men they appraised each other. Just as Marafice thought he would be the first to look away, the Whitehog bowed his head. "Helmets!" he commanded, and Marafice watched with amazement as seven hundred men donned their helmets in perfect synchronization.
It was a chilling sight. And a lesson. Any confusion regarding whisk] company had superior training had just been cleared up.
Now, of course, Marafice could not give a similar command himself. Of his crew of three hundred and fifty, he reckoned at least flour of them would fall off their horses attempting to place the nine-pound closed-visored birdhelms correctly on their heads. Even putting on his own helmet at that moment would have made it look as if the Eye was taking orders from the Whitehog. Still, it had to be done, damn it. At this distance a shot from the roundhouse would fall well short of the line, but there was no telling how a shot from the top of the tower might fare.
Clansmen were watching. Marafice could feel their attention in the hollow of his dead eye. The curved walls of the roundhouse might look as blank as stone, but peer closer and you'd see the crude arrow slits, the embrasures, the murder holes above the door. Smoke rising from vents, not chimneys, gave the impression the entire dome was steaming. River water lapped on the empty beach, and Marafice marked the drag lines of boats hauled up the hill to the roundhouse for safekeep.
This house had been taken twice in half a year. First by Bludd and then Blackhail. It was not easy to secure. It looked it—with its implacable stone walls and defensible position above the river—but it was a crab, and once its shell was broken there was soft meat inside.
As the line accelerated to full battle march Marafice put on the birdhelm. It was like wearing a lead coffin on your head. Snowflakes had found their way inside and Marafice felt their icy sting against his cheeks. Once the neck cinch had been tightened his head movements were severely restrained and he had to twist at the waist to check on the column he commanded. Good, most helms were in place.
Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. The kettledrums boomed and the line advanced, fanning out as the land opened up. Protected by a twelve-deep rank of cavalry and foot soldiers, the archers and boltmen readied their bows. It had been Andrew Perish who had advised Marafice of the one-in-seven rule. "Every company, no matter their numbers or purpose, needs to assign one man in seven to a bow. The grangelords will fight you on this, but ignore them. Range weapons may not get the high-and-might-ies excited—too humble, no glory, little chance to deck out the body in fine and expensive plate—but a good bowmen is worth his weight in gold on the field."
It had been surprising advice coming from a former master-at-arms whose specialties were the sword and pike, but that was Perish for you: hard, practical, inclusive.
As long as you believed in God. From his position at the the head of the east flank, Marafice could not see Andrew Perish back down the ranks. The master-at-arms was ahorse, picking up the rear and keeping a watchful eye on the two hundred mercenaries directly behind him and the Lord of the Salt Mine Granges' hideclads. Marafice reckoned it was a good fit. High and low. Perish could handle them all.
Suddenly a cry went out to Marafice's right. Cursing his birdhelm he swung wildly in the saddle, searching out the source of noise. A brother-in-the-watch, one of his own men, was slumped over the neck of his horse, a perfectly placed arrow stuck deep into the strip of vulnerable flesh circling his neck where his birdhelm and backplate failed to meet. Should have had mail collars, Marafice thought angrily. The Surlord should have ponied up the cash.
"Easy," Marafice roared down the line. "Break rank at your peril." The poor sod with the arrow in his neck would just have to lie there and die.
As he spun to face forward, he glanced at the tower. Someone within its black granite walls knew how to shoot.
Snow blew against his horse's flank as the wind quickened. The fancy silk pennants snapped against their poles and the even fancier cloaks fanned out like bells.
The Whitehog commands the charge," came the call from the center. "We move on his say."
Marafice didn't like this one bit, but if you gave a man the center you didn't have much choice but to let him lead. As a reluctant nod of acquiescence was relayed back up the line, Marafice studied the sky. It had to be midday by now, and by the look of things it would get no lighter. Now was not a good time to wonder why he was here, yet he could not seem to help himself. What did Iss want from the clanholds? It barely made any sense for Spire Vanis to claim land here. True enough the border clans were well stocked and wealthy, but if Spire Vanis occupied Ganmiddich it would be a sitting duck. There was a lot of angry clansmen out there, not to mention the lake men from Ille Glaive. All were closer to the Crab Gate and had better access to supplies.
Was it just a glorified raid then? Eleven thousand men chasing spoils? Marafice did not think that was the whole answer. It did not fully explain why the grangelords were here. Yes, they liked livestock and plundered swords as much as anyone, but they were also using this campaign as a chance for self-promotion. Returning to Spire Vanis with the glow of victory would raise a grangelord's status amongst his peers. For ambitious grangelords like Garric Hews, Alistair Sperling and Tranter Lennix, grandnephew to the old surlord Borhis Horgo, it was a convenient field of play. For his own part Marafice knew what he was getting out of today—the sponsorship of his claim for surlord—but what Iss sought to gain was a mystery. Perhaps he hoped each and every one of his rivals would die.
That made Marafice crack a smile. Glancing again at the tower, he decided to steal a little of the Whitehog's thunder. "Sound the horns!"
Tat Mackelroy relayed the order and within seconds the first blasts of trumpets could be heard. The battle for the Crab Gate had been engaged.
You could not hear the horns and not be stirred. Marafice felt it. His men felt it and pushed against the line. Garric Hews was no fool and knew better than to fight the moment.