“The regiment will advance at the trot!” the king said.
Boudain’s force lacked the cohesive unity of motion Gill was accustomed to, but considering this regiment had been cobbled together over the past couple of days, their advance wasn’t too bad. If they had been planning on charging a prepared line of infantry, Gill wouldn’t have been happy, but an unexpecting mercenary camp was an entirely different proposition.
The noise they made was jarring in the otherwise peaceful night, but by the time the enemy heard them, it would be too late. Gill reckoned it would take them an hour to reach the mercenaries. By then, men would be in deep sleep, and sentries would be getting bored.
There was little talk as they rode. Some of the horsemen, Gill knew, were riding to their first battle. A number of them would have witnessed the slaughter during the battle at Castandres, where the king’s cousins had held their cavalry in reserve. Gill wondered if having seen battle but not participated was worse than being completely new to it. Those men knew the horrors of war but didn’t realise that it was possible to survive, if you fought as hard as you could. And were lucky.
The moon had dropped and lost its red hue by the time the mercenary camp drew into sight. There would be plenty of red on display by the time the sun rose. It saddened Gill that Carenjo and Teloza hadn’t taken the opportunity to turn around. They had made their choice and would have to live with it. That was the lot of soldiers, and Gill wasn’t going to lose any sleep over what had to be done. He had learned the hard way that honour counted for little when you were in a fight for your life.
When the king raised his hand and swiped it forward quickly, Gill didn’t think twice. He urged his horse forward, as did the men to his left and right and those in the three ranks behind him. They increased speed to a canter that took them across the open farmland.
The first cry of alarm sounded, and in response, there was a call from the king’s side.
“Chaarrrrge!”
Blood pounded through Gill’s ears, syncopating to the beat of his horse’s hooves. He pulled the visor down on his helmet, allowed his horse to surge forward, and lowered his lance.
The line had grown ragged—to be expected in an undrilled body of horsemen—but it wouldn’t matter. The charging wall of man and horse mowed down the few sentries, and the first screams rose. Gill could see some movement amongst the fires in the camp. This was not a sight any man wanted to wake to.
The weight and momentum of the horses was as much a weapon as any sword or lance. They smashed through tents and men like living battering rams. Gill’s lance caught a man stepping out of his tent square in the chest and punched straight through him, pulling the shaft from Gill’s hand. Gill drew his sword as he rode on, trampling and cutting through row after row of tents.
It felt like it took forever before he was through the camp and galloping into the darkness on the other side. He had lost count of the number of men he had ridden over or cut down by the time he got clear. If the others had performed half so lethally, then the mercenaries would not be able to recover from that first shock assault. Nonetheless, the fight was not simply about winning—they needed to do it with as little loss on their side as possible.
The attackers’ line was well and truly broken now. Some had, like Gill, charged through and out the other side, while others, in the heat of the moment, had forgotten the purpose of a cavalry charge and had stopped to cut down whatever came within reach. Gill looked about, trying to spot the king, but there was no sign of him.
Gill hoped the man was well-protected. If Boudain were to be killed that night, everything they had done would be for naught. Still, there were times when a king had to stand with his men and show he could get his hands dirty, if he hoped to earn their loyalty and respect. This was definitely one of those times—the only tricky part was surviving it.
Seeing that the other horsemen who had come through the camp with him were idling around, he shouted, “Form up!”
There was a risk in charging through the camp for a second time, since so many of their comrades had stopped midway and were now obstacles. But leaving their force disorganised increased the possibility that they might be picked off piecemeal and routed.
Seeming eager to have some direction, the men gathered around him. The inexperience of both the king and his advisors was showing. It didn’t look like Boudain had appointed any lower-level officers, so as soon as men were out of contact with the king’s party, they were beyond his command.
That might be fine for now—the devastation they had caused on their first pass through the camp virtually guaranteed their victory—but facing the well-drilled army that Amaury would bring to the field, they’d be annihilated.
The men looked expectantly at Gill. He surveyed the mercenary camp, and realised there was no need for another charge. The mercenaries had been caught utterly wrong-footed; Gill wondered how many men lay dead beneath the shrouds of their collapsed tents. Small groups of horsemen wheeled back and forth, armour and swords flashing red in the light of the campfires. The air was filled with screams and cries of anger. For a moment, it occurred to Gill that the three hells must look similar to what was going on before him. There was no fighting anymore, only slaughter. That was something Gill would have nothing to do with.
CHAPTER 44
By the time dawn greeted them, the king’s retinue had restored one of the larger tents for his use. While the rest of the force breakfasted and picked over the spoils, Boudain entertained his senior officers at a liberated mercenary campaign table. A preliminary count indicated they had lost no more than a couple of dozen men—an extraordinary result considering how many people must have died during the hours of darkness.
There was not a trace of a living mercenary. Gill wondered how many had gotten away under cover of darkness, and he was glad that the king hadn’t ordered a pursuit. There was nothing to be gained by cutting them down, and it showed that Boudain hadn’t let bloodlust overwhelm him.
Once they’d broken their fast, and completed the task of disposing of the corpses either by mass burial or burning—the better choice was an unappetising topic of breakfast conversation—the plan was to move to a campsite that didn’t reek of death. There, they would get some well-earned rest before continuing on to join the main army, which was marching toward the city.
Gill sat quietly and ate ravenously. Even though his involvement in the fight had been limited to a single charge, he was starving, and thankful for his second meal from the mercenaries’ larder. There were going to be more hard days ahead. The king was still untested against an experienced and seasoned foe, and after the chaos of the previous night, it was clear none of his retinue had much more command experience than Boudain himself.
“As soon as we’ve finished breakfast,” the king said, “I want a fast inventory to be made of what is salvageable from this camp. My army is perilously under-resourced, so we will take as much as we can. Food, tents, weapons, armour. I believe the baggage train is largely intact from last night, so we shall make full use of it.”
Gill nodded. It was a sensible idea and showed forethought, another hopeful sign. If some of Boudain’s new officers showed similar aptitude, Gill might be able to go home all the sooner. Wherever that might be, now.
The pile of reports on Amaury’s desk all said the same thing—there was no more trouble on the city streets. The problem was, there was nobody out on the city streets. Indoors, they could be up to anything—plotting, hiding, obeying. He had no idea. The voice of worry in the back of his mind said it wasn’t the latter.