The veteran mercenaries grouped themselves without much fuss, but Freyma and Sal had more trouble settling down the recruits and organizing them into two companies behind the archers; their mounts could feel their owners’ fear and were stamping and nipping at their neighbors. Prado wished he had had the time he needed to give them some training in Hume, but the threat of invasion from Haxus had forestalled that. The archers themselves were quite green, but supremely confident of their ability with bow and arrow. In front of their line they planted sharpened stakes they had carried with them all the way from the Arran Valley, then they strung their bows, carefully checked the flights of their arrows—placing each of them point first in the ground near their right or left hand, depending on which they used to draw the bow—and finally tested the wind with licked fingers and tufts of grass thrown into the air. The steady professionalism of the archers helped settle down the recruits behind, which in turn helped them settle their horses.
When all that could be done was done, the mercenaries waited. Some fidgeted, some slumped in their saddles and closed their eyes to pray to their god, some checked and then rechecked their weapons and—if they had them—the straps on their shields and helmets. Most just sat in their saddles or stood straight, gazing as far as they could into the distance for the first sign of the enemy.
Freyma and Sal reported to Prado for their final instructions. “Freyma, you stay with the recruits. Keep them together. When the enemy is within fifty paces, make sure they let the archers come through. If the Chetts dismount to get through the stakes, dismount the recruits and counterattack, but make sure they do not pursue the Chetts if they break and flee. Sal, stay on the right wing. Wait to see if the Chetts are trying a flank attack. If they are, keep the attack away from the center. If not, wait until the enemy’s first assault has wavered, then move out, taking them from the rear. Drive them onto the stakes if you can. Put Lieutenant Owel in charge of the left wing. She is to copy you, and not to act independently unless I give her an order in person. Any questions so far?”
Freyma and Sal shook their heads.
“If I think the Chetts are retreating from the battle, I will give the order for a general advance. If that happens, stay in sight of each other, then break off the pursuit at midday and return promptly to this camp. Good luck.”
His captains saluted and left. Prado breathed deeply, wondering if there was anything else he should do or take care of, but without knowing who was attacking or in what strength, his choices were limited. Still, he had some idea. Korigan’s clan had been close, and the barge pilot had led them here knowing that. He had heard stories about the White Wolf clan and knew it was one of the larger ones, but his two-and-a-half thousand mercenaries, mostly veterans, would be able to handle them. The important thing to remember was not to break the line and chase the Chetts if they looked like retreating—as often as not it was a Chett ruse to lure their enemies out of formation. Prado knew the Chetts well enough to know when they really panicked and started to flee.
The outer sentries appeared, running as fast as their legs could carry them. “Half a league!” they called. “Half a league!” One of them came straight to Prado and breathlessly said: “Three thousand! Maybe more!”
Prado nodded. That sounded about right for one of the larger clans, and even allowed for another thousand left behind to protect the herd or sent on a long flanking maneuver; he would have to be wary of the last.
“Haxus cavalry,” the sentry said then.
Prado looked at him in surprise. “What?”
“Haxus cavalry ... uniforms ... Haxus pennants ...”
“Three thousand Haxus cavalry here ?” He could not believe what he was hearing.
“Yes, but many in no uniform... not Chetts.” Prado waved off the sentry, who scurried away, and stared northward disbelievingly. He could not see the enemy yet, but he could hear them.
Prado knew instinctively who it was. Three thousand or more, most Haxus, but some not in any uniform. Mercenaries. Rendle. There was a moment, the briefest of .moments, when he knew everything had gone wrong, but then realized he was in the perfect position. Rendle could not possibly know he was not attacking Chetts. In fact, he was almost certainly on the Oceans of Grass for the same reason as Prado— to secure Lynan. Maybe Rendle even thought Prado’s force was the White Wolf clan and that he would find Lynan here.
And if he thinks he is attacking Chetts, he will drive straight up the center, hoping to scatter us, Prado thought. And he will have another column out wide to drive in one flank. But which one?
Rendle always did things a little differently, Prado remembered. Nothing revolutionary, just unconventional. Rendle’s flying column would be sent from his left wing. That meant it would come in on Prado’s right flank. How much time did he have?
He called over one of his veterans. “You will find Captain Solway with the right wing,” he told him. “Tell her that the enemy is not the Chetts, but Rendle. Tell her to move out wide and ambush a flank attack Rendle will be sending against our right.”
The veteran spurred his horse and galloped away. Prado heard sounds from the front and looked up. There, in the distance, a straight line of cavalry. Little dust. It was too far to be sure, but the enemy were riding close together, too close for Chetts.
“Rendle,” Prado said quietly, smiling slightly. “I knew we would meet again.”
Rendle knew he was close to the time when he would lose control over the attack. His cavalry was advancing at a steady canter, the line mostly holding, but he could now see the enemy ahead. He was worried they were not panicking. He was worried they seemed to be dressed in formations far too tight for Chetts. But there weren’t many, and he had another thousand riders behind the line of hills on his left moving to hit the enemy in the flank at the same time he hit them in the front.
A thousand paces. He swung his sword over his head. Just as he brought the sword down to point it straight at the enemy, just as he spurred his horse from a canter into a gallop, just at the moment he finally lost control of the assault, he saw the foot archers.
On receiving Prado’s surprising instructions, Sal had formed her cavalry into a wedge and galloped it east for three hundred paces and then turned them north. As they surmounted a small rise, they saw before them at least a thousand cavalry running in front of them, the heads of their mounts starting to droop, and she cried in surprised delight. She did not need to give any command—her whole force shouted with her and charged.
* * *
Prado had half expected the enemy to wheel to either side of his front line, risking their horses on the slopes on either side of the valley to enfilade him, but when he saw them break into a gallop, he knew they had left it too late for anything fancy. His archers loosed their first salvo. The arrows whistled as they rose and then fell about midway among the charging cavalry. Horses and men fell to the ground, tripping those behind them. A few seconds later the second volley fell, and the enemy ranks started to peel away, the formation losing cohesion. A third volley, and this time Prado could see individual arrows striking riders in the head and chest and thighs, and horses in the neck and shoulders. He could see some riderless horses canter and buck from the fray with arrows sticking from their haunches.
The Arran archers picked up their unused shafts and retreated. For the most part they got through, but some of the younger recruits could not control their mounts properly and one or two of the infantry were trampled. The enemy charge reached the stakes. Horses reared, throwing their riders, some of whom ended up skewered, most of whom ended up in heaps on the ground—dazed, broken, or dead. The following ranks of enemy cavalry split, some going left, some right, most trying to retreat. Many riders jumped off, drawing their swords and advancing through the stakes, chopping at them, forcing their way through, desperate to actually land a blow on an opponent. Freyma ordered the first rank of recruits to dismount and counterattack. A confusing melee started just behind the line of stakes, swinging one way and then the next. As more of the enemy got through the stakes, the line was pushed closer and closer to Freyma’s position. Rather than send more of his recruits in, Freyma ordered his rear ranks to ride between those fighting on foot and the stakes. They hewed into the enemy from behind, mercilessly cutting them down.