When Leah next passed by inspecting the troops, he caught her eye and gestured her over. ‘What are we doing way out here?’ he whispered. ‘We’re infantry.’
Their newly promoted sergeant peered round to make certain none nearby were listening, and answered, low and fierce, ‘What we are is unimportant, okay? Nobodies. The lords choose pride of place, right?’
‘But that’s not effective.’
‘Says who? That’s the way it’s done. Remember your place.’
Gregar clenched his lips against saying any more – it wouldn’t get him anywhere. After one last warning glare Leah continued on her tour.
‘These kings and knights, they have a lot of experience at this sort of thing,’ Haraj assured him.
He nodded, rather sullenly. ‘Yeah. At fighting on and on just for the fun of it. And nothing ever gets settled – sounds like great job security to me.’
Haraj cast him a quizzical look. But he’d returned to waiting, leaning on his tall spear with its limp colours. It was a chilly winter’s morning; a mist was burning off and everything glistened with a melting overnight frost. Gregar stamped his feet for warmth; cloth covered them up to his knees and over this went leather wraps. A thick padded leather haubergeon hung down below his waist, belted, its leather sleeves laced with iron lozenges down to leather-backed gloves. As colour-sergeant this was his promotion in armour – making him one of the most well-accoutred members of his company. Which said a lot about Baron Ordren of Yellows’ resources. To make things even worse, he’d not yet managed to scrounge any sort of cap or helmet.
Haraj, for his part, wore only a plain leather jerkin. But then he could prance naked through both lines and no one could touch him, so that didn’t matter.
Across a lightly rolling field of dry stalks, fallow fields, and pasture, lay a treeline where the Grisian forces were making final deployments. This field of battle had been mutually settled upon after some degree of jostling and skirmishing between the forces’ scouts and advance light cavalry.
No ambush or surprise attack by either side was even a possibility, as both forces knew this region well. In fact, lords on both sides pressed long-standing claims to this border area, and several earlier wars had been fought over it.
Though distant, the Grisian lines appeared thin to Gregar. He imagined they must be quite spread out over there, both to disguise their poor numbers and to match the wider front the League could muster. That would only invite a cavalry charge from Vor or Bloor, he was certain. And there across the fields they must know that as well, and have planned for it. At least that’s what he’d have done.
Drums rolled then, announcing an advance, and Gregar straightened.
Light skirmishers and crossbow units advanced to harass. These would be met by similar forces from the Grisian allies and they would probe and press one another for some time while the lords watched and searched for weaknesses in the opposing lines.
Squinting into the gathering light, he made out the pale blue favours of Gris, the green of Bloor, the burnt orange of Vor, and the dark blue of Rath. These favours were sometimes nothing more than armbands, or ribbons on chests. Some knights wore no discernible heraldry at all – usually the hireswords – and he understood this often led to a great deal of confusion as to just who was on what side.
It all seemed too much of a free-for-all to Gregar – but again, he was no expert. The lords and knights obviously preferred this system, or lack of system, as each no doubt considered her or himself the equal of any other lord present, and aimed to prove it by bashing their heads in.
After a few hours of skirmishes and light contact, the manoeuvring began. Troops of cavalry came thundering back and forth as lords sought advantageous positions, or angled to match up against a perceived soft target, or long-standing enemy. The lords of Nita and Athrans, for example, were great rivals, and each asserted ancient family claims to Jurda – however tenuous. These two troops now faced off.
Gregar caught sight of the flowing red cloaks of the Crimson Guard as they went cantering towards the extreme left flank and again he was frankly rather puzzled. Why send them so far from the main action? Perhaps the lords Vor or Rath were loath to share any of the glory of victory with mere mercenaries.
The ground shook then as a massive charge suddenly broke from the Bloorian League lines. It looked like a collection of the lesser barons and knights hoping to win some distinction before the total chaos began.
It was premature, as it was met with a withering fusillade of arrows and crossbow bolts from the opposing lines, and they reined aside before being completely decimated.
Gregar was then surprised as the entire Crimson Guard contingent, which had been trotting parallel to the lines for the left flank, now dived in straight for the Grisian front – a feint! They made contact with the opposing position, an unlucky contingent of medium infantry from Fools, and appeared to be delivering ferocious punishment.
Down the distant treeline, Gregar noted columns of crossbowers running double-time in support. One such large unit wore black tabards, which surprised him mightily; no one had dared wear black since the hated Talian hegemony.
Seeing a possible opening, the Rath heavy cavalry – including King Styvell of Rath and his personal troop of sworn bodyguards – went thundering for the opposing lines.
At that commitment of forces, the Abyss itself seemed to open up across the entire valley as every unit now surged into sudden movement. Gregar lost track of who was going where and he gave up any hope of knowing who was winning or losing. Orders came down the Yellows lines to double up and that at least made good sense to him. He levered his spear outwards to signal that he was expecting a charge any time through the flying mud and churning ground mists.
Complete disorder only increased as broken bands of cavalry now came charging back and forth, all but destroying any idea of set lines – it was now a milling melee of massed cavalry circling and shouldering one another. And to Gregar’s gathering horror the main bulk of the press was now heaving their way.
Yellows infantry peered about in a panic for instructions as the wall of horseflesh came lurching towards them. ‘Lower spears!’ Gregar bellowed, but the command was lost under the cacophony of clashing weapons and screaming wounded horses.
The melee was so disordered that knights actually unintentionally backed over the Yellows line, presenting their mounts rump-first to the flinching infantry who frankly did not know what to do, as the chaos included lords and knights from both sides all milling together and bashing away at each other.
Gregar was not so discriminating as he jabbed at any horse that came close. The Yellows lines were effectively cut in two as the melee rolled over them, and Gregar wanted to throw down his spear in impotent frustration. Once the main scrum passed, he called in the surviving Yellows troopers to form a small defensive circle. From here, colours still raised high, he watched in growing confusion as through the chaos he perceived Gris cavalry pursuing Nitan forces across the field – though they were supposed to be allies.
This left the rest of the opposing allies in utter and complete disarray. Even to Gregar’s inexperienced eye the immense gap it opened among the enemy forces was glaring. The largest remaining cohesive body of knights and nobles, the main Vorian contingent including King Gareth, now commanded the centre of the field. But instead of pressing the advantage and scattering the disordered Grisian allies once and for all, to Gregar’s complete disbelief horns sounded a recall and the entire mounted force curved round and charged in the opposite direction, abandoning the field.
He watched them go with his mouth hanging open, completely stunned.
Next to him, even Haraj grasped the significance of this betrayal. ‘We are so fucked,’ he announced.