‘Thanks.’
Leah was waiting outside the tent, glaring. ‘Where have you two been? Get your gear. Marching orders.’
Haraj sagged. ‘Not more marching.’
Leah snapped up a spear. ‘Marching to battle this time. Let’s go.’
Gregar’s regiment was formally the Second Yellows; he and Haraj were assigned to the Fourth Company, Seventh Lights. While Baron Ordren of Yellows formally commanded, the noble considered such duties to be beneath him as they would take him away from his beloved cavalry, so direct command fell to a veteran soldier, a commoner, Captain Rialla of Bloor. Sergeant Teigan ran the Fourth Company, and the colours Gregar carried were those of the Fourth.
Once column was formed, Teigan handed Gregar the tall pike with its limp yellow banner secured just behind its iron dagger-like head. Then the sergeant marched them to their field position, which proved to be a hillock in a broad meadow between two steeper forested hills. He had the company spread in lines four deep to block any path across the clearing.
Down-slope before them lay the agreed upon field of battle proper – a wide stretch of pasture and meadow with a meagre stream winding between. Only a few small copses and a couple of wretched crofters’ thatched hovels looked to impede the nobles’ charges. Early morning mist pooled in the lowlands and lay like banners across fields. Regiments raised by other Bloorian nobles, such as those of Larent and Netor, marched in column to their positions. The early slanting morning light flashed from spearheads and helmets, while the nobles trotted their mounts to marshalling grounds. Gregar had to admit they were a pretty lot in their mail coats and leggings, and long flowing tabards. Far away, close to a distant treeline, the Grisian forces arranged themselves into lines and massed cavalry as well.
On the left flank a swift column of cavalry caught his eye. Long pennants of a dark red flowed above them as they charged to a new position, and from those rippling banners flashed silver as well – the colours of the Crimson Guard.
Too far off, and moving too fast anyway.
In the Fourth’s lines, Gregar was standing front and centre with his pike and he considered their position far too exposed. When Teigan paced by, inspecting the lines, he called to the sergeant, ‘Shouldn’t we form square?’
The sergeant swung round, his thick black brows rising. ‘Oho – got us a regular military scientist amongst us.’ He halted, hands on hips, just in front of Gregar. ‘Graduated from the officer academy, did you? Years of soldiering experience, have you?’ Several in the lines sniggered at the suggestion.
Gregar just gave him a look. He motioned to the lines. ‘What are we supposed to be doing here? Watching?’
‘Our orders are to deny this particular staging area to the enemy and cover our betters should they rally here.’ He looked Gregar up and down. ‘Is that acceptable or would you like more honey on that?’
‘So what do we do if the Grisians try to take the hill?’
Teigan motioned to the pike’s top. ‘You poke them with that pointy end until they fall down.’
Several in the lines nearby laughed. Gregar gave them all a sneering smile. Very funny.
Teigan moved on, saying, ‘Just stand your ground and they’ll veer off – trust me.’
Gregar watched him go, glowering, teeth clenched against what he’d like to say.
‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ Leah murmured from behind. ‘We’re just a sideshow. The nobles’ll decide things among themselves. They’re not gonna risk wounding their warhorses. Them beasts are worth way more than us.’
‘I thought you said the knights enjoyed riding us down.’
‘Ah. Well, only when they’ve got nothing better to do.’
Gregar turned to her; she looked too unhappy to be mocking. Wonderful.
Though possessing something of a privileged position from which to watch the proceedings, Gregar didn’t have the training or experience to really know what he was seeing. Massed cavalry of mailed knights and petty nobles shifted about, perhaps seeking some sort of advantage. Lightly armoured skirmishers from both sides flowed about the field, harassing one another. At one point a column of archers came hurrying through the Fourth’s lines on their way to a new position. Green cloth strips tied to their arms or round their necks identified them as Bloorians. They were a poor and scruffy lot indeed, in ragged shirts and pants – some were even barefoot.
In his outfit at least everyone had some sort of footgear, be it plain sandals, like his and Haraj’s. Thinking about it though, and peering round, Gregar had to admit that few possessed even one item of armour; most wore quilted cloth jackets stuffed with straw. A few, such as Leah, wore a soft leather hauberk, plain, or sewn with bronze rings. So he supposed those poor Bloorian archers were only a touch scruffier than they.
A distant rumbling of hooves announced two larger masses of mounted knights and nobles closing upon each other. These two misshapen groups milled about one another in a moving savage scrum. This free-for-all scrimmage then overran a nearby regiment of infantry and the poor sods who failed to scatter like geese went down beneath the horses’ hooves. Gregar was beginning to comprehend Leah’s dire warnings.
This mounted boiling melee roiled on randomly across the field, leaving behind in the churned mud fallen and trampled bodies. Infantry from both sides harried its edges, and each other.
Watching the maces and axes rising and falling freely, the mounts crashing into one another, Gregar allowed that at least these nobles knew their one and only trade – fighting.
Hooves crashing the ground behind their position brought Gregar and everyone round. A small group of knights was bearing down upon them from the rear. The Fourth scrambled to reverse, spears and pikes clattered into one another, a few panicked soldiers even tripped and fell. Teigan was bellowing non-stop, taking troopers by their shoulders and yanking them into position.
As the cavalry closed, the sergeant threw up his hands and ordered, ‘Make way! Make way for our lords!’ The Yellows troopers hesitantly parted and the ten knights reined in. ‘Guard the perimeter!’ Teigan then bellowed, and he took hold of the jesses of one mount, soothing the horse. ‘How goes the day, Lord Gareth?’ he asked.
This knight had seen fighting. His mount was steaming with sweat and was dappled in blood. His jupon was torn to rags about his mail coat; it might have once been a bright festive orange. The flanged mace hanging at his side was wet with blood and gore, even what looked like a tuft of human hair. He drew off his helmet and set it on the saddle’s pommel. He was an older fellow, his long sweat-matted hair shot with grey, his beard tied off in two long braided rat-tails. ‘The day goes well – so far. Damned thirsty work, sergeant. Have you any drink among you?’
‘Drink!’ Teigan barked. ‘Drink for Lord Gareth!’ A water skin was handed up to the fellow, who took a long pull then tossed it back to Teigan.
All this time the other knights constantly eyed the surroundings, their war-axes, picks and maces readied in their mailed hands. Gregar realized that these knights were a bodyguard, or the personal household troop of this Lord Gareth.
‘May Togg and Fanderay watch over you today, m’lord,’ Teigan said, releasing the mount.
Gareth put his open-faced helmet back on, chuckling. ‘And Fener too, hey?’ He heeled his mount and took off down the hillside, his troop chasing behind.
Leaning on his pike, Gregar turned to Leah. ‘Who in Burn’s name was that?’
The woman was staring after the lord, a strange expression on her face. ‘That? That was King Gareth of Vor. One of the three kings of the Bloorian League.’
‘Didn’t see any fancy bird plumes on his helmet.’
The young corporal almost blushed. ‘No. Not him. He’s one of the real warhorses. Him’n’the king of Rath, they go way back. Hret of Bloor is young, but he’s the third. Some say there’s a fourth as well – of the Crimson Guard.’