Burek nodded; they carried their supper back to Arcolin’s tent and ate by candlelight. The glass emptied before they were through; Arcolin turned it and marked the turn in the log. Burek took the dishes back to the fire. Arcolin went outside again to regain his night vision. Stammel had gathered a few men near the fire to sing for a while.
It was two turns of the glass, and the singing had dwindled to nothing, when the first warning came, a rhythmic tap on the tent. Burek looked up; Arcolin nodded, and snuffed the candle. In moments, their eyes adjusted. Over the way, the “sick tent” still glowed faintly with the candle inside it. Arcolin had planned for attack from either the stream side—which offered attackers the best cover on approach—or the road side, which offered attackers better ground position. “Or both,” he’d told Burek and Stammel. “It’ll tell us something about their training.” True brigands, in his experience, were more likely to come up from the stream—easier navigating from their usual route of travel. Trained troops able to navigate in the dark would cross upstream of them and take the road itself … a longer march, and technically difficult, but they would not be attacking uphill. A clever commander might try both. Rain and a little wind would cover the sound of either. The rain drummed lightly on the tents, made its hissing and pattering sounds on the grass and trees. It should cover the sounds of their movements from the attackers just as well.
A stifled yelp came from the downhill slope … someone had staked himself, Arcolin thought with satisfaction. Unless it was meant to lower their guard, direct their attention to the stream side of camp. He moved to the road side, peered into the wet dark. A veteran grabbed his arm, fingers working in the Company finger-talk. Someone at the inner barricade had heard noise on the road.
Arcolin pulled the man closer and whispered in his ear. “Torches on my signal.”
The double tap of understanding; he knew the signal would be passed to those with the flints. Moments crept by. Was that a squelching in the mud ahead? Breathing? That was certainly a human grunt, as someone stumbled or stubbed a toe. Now he could just sense movement, darker shades in the dark. He clapped his hands, once. Movement he had not been certain of seeing stopped.
In that moment of stillness, the torch bearers pulled oiled leather covers off the oil-soaked torches, snapped sparks onto them from flint and steel, and more than half the torches caught light, just as a yell from the stream side jerked his attention that way. But he was not fooled, nor were the veterans: as the torches flared, the enemy in front of them, eyes gleaming in the light, were clear to see. They wore dark cloaks, but glints through them suggested mail underneath. They wavered a moment, but a sharp command from the rear sent them forward, yelling. The front rank tore off their dark cloaks, threw them onto the bramble barrier and tried to run across it; Arcolin’s troops made short work of them, but those following did not stop. The penetration was narrow; Arcolin peered into the rainsparkled darkness to estimate how many there were.
Behind him, he heard more fighting, across the camp. Burek’s voice, Devlin’s—apparently there the enemy had hit a wider front. In front, Stammel and the first two files were engaged at that one penetration, holding it back with ease. Arcolin signaled the torchbearers, who leaned their torchpoles out beyond the barrier—there he was, the enemy commander.
“I’m going out,” he said to Stammel. “Follow me!”
“Captain, are you—?” But that was as far as Stammel got before Arcolin was moving, catching the first two standing on the much-flattened bramble barrier by surprise with his longer sword. Behind, he heard the files coming, as he raced toward the gleam of the enemy commander’s helmet. The torchbearers almost caught up with him, so the light gave him just enough reflection to follow as the enemy commander turned and tried to slip away into the darkness.
“Look—!” came a shout from behind, just as someone rose from the darkness and lunged at him. Arcolin felt a blade scrape against the mail over his ribs and struck out with the buckler on his left hand. Nothing; the fellow had rolled aside. Arcolin whirled, searching in the uncertain light as Stammel and the others came up beside him.
“Got him!” someone said with satisfaction.
“I saw their commander,” Arcolin said to Stammel, half-ashamed now of the impulse that had sent him to chase the man. “I thought he was close enough to catch.”
“He might have been,” Stammel said. Neither of them mentioned the other possibility, that it was a planned ambush. They looked at the dead man in the torchlight. Arcolin took the narrow, wave-curved blade from his hand.
“Southern work. And those other two blades we found were south-coast. Could have been sailors’ blades.”
“Indeed, sir. Alured never got this far north and west, did he?”
“Not that I know. Siniava, maybe. These could be escapees from his army … but I think not.”
“Back to camp,” Arcolin said. They were scarce three hundred paces from it, and on the way back found no more enemy until they reached the barricade, with the bodies of those who’d attacked it. By then the hubbub on the far side had ended as well.
“Thirteen,” Burek said when he came to report. “They came up the slope pretty quietly, and laid cloaks over the brambles, then thought to scramble over, but we were ready.”
“Any guesses how many more?”
“About that many ran away downhill as soon as the torches lit. Might have been more behind them; I couldn’t see that far.”
“We killed ten on our side—they chose a narrow front and a column attack, just what this cohort knows how to handle. They fought competently, though it was the wrong formation for them. More than ten got away, when we went after them. Their commander, to my sorrow. None of our people killed or wounded—what about you?”
“One dead, two wounded, all first-years,” Burek said. “Gan ran out over the barrier—young idiot.”
“There’s always one,” Arcolin said, and caught a look from Stammel. Well, he deserved it.
“The wounded are Peli and Aris. Surgeon says Peli will be back on duty in two days; Aris will be out at least three.”
Arcolin winced. Novices were most at risk in their first battles; that’s why the cohorts went to war ten percent or more over strength, but it always hurt. And this was the first time he had been in complete command—he had chosen the contract, he had chosen the route and the camp and its defense. He pushed that away—commanders who could not accept risk were as dangerous to their people as those who ignored it. What his troops needed now was his approval.
“We came through this very well.” Arcolin cocked his head at Burek. “So—how do you like the way your command fights?”
“Very well. I’d heard, of course, but seeing it—it’s no wonder you were—are—considered one of the best companies in Aarenis.”
“Good. I’ll need a report from you—talk to Devlin if you’re uncertain—on the demeanor of each of the recruits on that side. Our tradition is that recruits may be promoted after their first battle; if they aren’t promoted after their second, we dismiss them. This wasn’t a full battle, but we’ll be promoting some of them anyway. I saw three on my side, for instance, who did extremely well.”
“Were the enemy as many as you were expecting?” Burek asked.
“Within the range, but enough to suggest outside aid,” Arcolin said. “An attack force of about forty—they probably left some behind—the nearest villages would be not only under their control but stripped bare if they lived only on the land. And a competent commander.”
“So—now we look for the supply route?”
“Exactly.”
The rest of the night passed quietly; Arcolin checked with the surgeon and saw that both the wounded were sleeping under the influence of numbweed. The rain stopped sometime before dawn, though the clouds and ground mist impeded visibility almost as much. Arcolin looked at the obvious track the enemy had made going up and down the slope to the stream.