“I understand,” Carenjo said. “Your mount was fed and watered while you ate. I hope the gods see fit that we shall not meet on the battlefield.”
“I do also,” Gill said, with a grim smile, knowing now that it was likely. “With your leave?” Gill gave dal Dorado a traditional banneret’s salute—a click of the heels and nod of the head—then left to find his horse.
CHAPTER 43
Gill had always enjoyed riding on a clear night, beneath a star-filled sky. Setting aside the obvious dangers of his horse stumbling on an unseen obstacle and throwing him, he reckoned it was one of his favourite things. The fact that he didn’t have two fire-spewing dragons chasing him, as he had on his previous nighttime ride, was an added bonus.
There was a hunter’s moon—the usual spectral white and grey taking on a red hue. There was something foreboding about it, as though the moon were mirroring the wounds of the land beneath it. Gill tried to ignore the thought and focus on the fresh, bracing air … and the bad news he was bringing to his king. Boudain was a clever young man. He must have realised that this was the likely answer.
It took a little while for Gill to realise that the night was unusually quiet. Deathly so. The racket he was making as his horse ambled along would have been enough to frighten off anything but the most determined of predators, but even still, it felt unnatural to hear nothing. When he rode over the next rise, he realised what had kept all the nocturnal life quiet.
Glimmering red under the hunter’s moon was a host of heavy cavalry. He brought his horse to a stop and tried to make sense of it. Should he flee before he was spotted? A gentle whistle told him it was too late for that.
“Banneret dal Villerauvais.” The voice came from behind him.
Gill grimaced when he realised he’d been followed. Probably ever since leaving the mercenary camp.
“I’m to bring you straight to the king,” the man said. “This way, if you please.” A horseman loomed out of the darkness in a way that gave Gill pause. Was Amaury the only person training up people skilled in the magical arts?
As Gill rode along beside the whisperer, he thought about asking how long the man had been following, but realised he didn’t actually want to know. The bigger question was how the king had managed to put together such a large body of horsemen in such a short time. True, men had been coming into the village steadily, and the king had retained most of the cavalry his cousins had brought, who had not played a role in that first battle. Even so, it was impressive. In the darkness it was impossible to make anything approaching an accurate estimate, but it was formidable. That they were in full battle array was telling.
The king was dismounted but fully armoured, and in discussion with several of the men Gill recognised as having become his general staff.
“Gill, they said no?” Boudain said.
“They did, your Highness.”
“To be expected. Still, it was worth a try.”
“Where did all these men come from?”
Boudain smiled, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Impressive, isn’t it? Every horseman we could cobble together. Less than half the royal heavy host, but all things considered, I’m delighted. Some were donated by my cousins, but a remarkable number have been deserting their regiments. The rest are the feudal hosts who answered my call to raise their banners. I’m sure we left many behind by setting off ahead of the infantry when we did, but I’m hopeful this will be enough to do what needs to be done. Tell me, how many are they?”
“Nigh on ten thousand. I’d say at least seven of that fighting men, perhaps as many as eight. Looked to be about two thousand horse. Two large companies and several smaller ones. The two main captains don’t seem to get along, particularly when it comes to who’s giving the orders.” Gill smiled. He’d been wondering why the king had sent him on what was nothing more than a message run, but now he knew. Boudain had wanted an experienced, trusted eye to appraise the enemy force. Why he hadn’t just said that to begin with was beyond Gill. Still, he knew only too well that it was never worth the effort, trying to understand why kings behaved as they did.
“If we catch them by surprise, Highness,” one of the officers said, “I think we’ll have the measure of them. There’s not a mercenary company in the world that will stand before a charge of Mirabayan heavy horse.”
Gill did his best not to let out an incredulous laugh. Not only was that statement a load of nonsense, Gill had seen the proof that it was with his own eyes. More than once. Still, if the mercenaries were caught unawares and before they broke camp, it wouldn’t go well for them.
“We will proceed with the attack as planned,” the king said. “Villerauvais, we brought your armour. A destrier and a lance too, if you wish to join us.”
With all the reputation he had for swordsmanship, Gill had never been a cavalryman, although he had trained in fighting from horseback extensively while at the Academy—everyone did. Charging with the lance wasn’t his preferred method of fighting, but a well-executed charge could be devastating and was their best chance to get rid of the mercenaries with minimal losses to their own forces.
Gill had to admit that Boudain was impressing him. He had known of the king’s reputation when he was still a prince, and there had been general concern about him in court circles. The swordplay Boudain had enjoyed most was not the type taught at the Academy, but he seemed to have been able to navigate the web of potential scandals he had created without being caught.
A squire appeared, leading a horse, with what looked like Gill’s armour bundled up on the saddle.
“When you’re ready,” the king said, “we’ll advance.”
The squire went about fitting Gill into Valdamar’s armour. The lad was clearly expert in what he was doing, and made far faster work of it than Gill would have on his own. After a moment of trying to help, he realised things would go quicker if he simply stood there and let the squire do his job. This was the job poor Val would have done with his eternal enthusiasm, and Gill felt a pang of regret that the lad hadn’t achieved his dream of becoming a banneret. So many dead who didn’t deserve it, yet Gill remained. He wondered if his continued life was some bizarre divine punishment, if he was damned to watch those he cared about die before their time, or if that was simply the way of the world, as the wheel of fate turned and thinned out the herd.
“You’re set to go, my Lord,” the squire said. “Does everything feel as it should?”
“Yes. You’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.”
Gill eschewed the lad’s offer of help to mount. He was in the best shape he’d been in years and intended to take full advantage of it.
“I’m at your convenience, your Highness,” Gill said, once firmly established in the saddle.
Boudain nodded, looking every part the warrior king in his finely polished armour. Gill wondered where he’d gotten it and what unfortunate nobleman was now wearing whatever he had cobbled together from the scraps in the village. It would be a shame to own so lovely a suit, yet be killed while wearing rusty, mismatched plate. Gill was thankful Pharadon had retrieved Valdamar’s suit. Not only would it have been a terrible shame to lose it, Gill had come to place quite a bit of stock in the protection it offered. It had proved itself where a suit of Jauré’s—as fine a suit of armour as money could buy—had failed. Compared to all the smooth, shining plate around him, his suit was dated-looking, but he had long since realised that substance was much more important than style.