Sulwen would have teased Gershon mercilessly about their conversations. “You’re like little boys playing at war and ogling fancy blades,” she would have said. “How can you not find it tiresome talking about the same thing day after day?”
The fact was, Gershon didn’t find it the least bit tiresome. The march from the royal city to Tremain, which the swordmaster had expected to be endless, went by all too quickly. After spending the last several turns consumed by talk of war and the conspiracy and the archminister’s attempt to draw the Weaver’s attention, Gershon could not help but enjoy himself, even as he marched toward battle.
After reaching Tremain and adding Lathrop’s army to their force, Gershon and the duke of Labruinn grew more sober. And with every league they covered, drawing ever nearer to Kentigern Tor, the swordmaster’s apprehension grew. His scouts had informed him of the siege and its progress; from all they had told him it seemed that the Aneirans were exacting a toll, but that Kentigern Castle was not in imminent danger of falling to the enemy. They couldn’t tell him, however-they had no way of knowing-how Aindreas and his men would receive them. Would he and the dukes reach the tor only to find themselves under attack from both Kentigern and the Aneirans?
Lathrop, it seemed, harbored similar fears. “Forgive me for asking, swordmaster,” he said, as they rode in the shade of Kentigern Wood, less than a full day’s ride from the castle. “But are you and His Majesty certain that Aindreas will accept aid from the King’s Guard, or, for that matter, from the armies of His Majesty’s allies?”
“He’s fighting the Aneirans, Lord Tremain,” Caius answered before Gershon could say anything. “Of course he’ll accept our aid.” He glanced at Gershon. “Don’t you agree?”
“I wish I did.”
“But all the realm is at risk. Surely Aindreas can see that as clearly as we can.”
Lathrop gave a small shrug. “I don’t know if Aindreas cares about the realm anymore. He’ll do all he can to save the tor, but if it comes to keeping the Aneiran army from advancing beyond Kentigern, I doubt very much that he’ll try to stop them.”
“Then why should we bother with him at all?” Caius demanded. He passed a hand over his yellow beard, rage in his dark eyes. “I hope you won’t think me disrespectful for saying so, Sir Trasker, but I wonder sometimes if our king isn’t too kindhearted for his own good.”
“We’re not here to defend Aindreas,” Gershon said. “We’ve come to keep the Aneirans from taking Kentigern and striking deeper into the heart of Eibithar.”
Caius said nothing, his lips pressed thin, but after a moment he nodded.
Not long after, they began to smell smoke. They were getting close. An uneasy silence fell over the army, the dense wood muffling the sound of the soldiers’ steps and the jangling of their swords. Gershon would never have thought that over three thousand men could make so little noise.
Even after they first smelled the fires, which the swordmaster assumed had to be burning at Kentigern, it was several hours more before Gershon and his army emerged from Kentigern Wood.
“Damn,” Gershon muttered gazing toward the tor. Smoke rose from Kentigern Castle, which he had expected. No doubt the Aneirans had used hurling arms to assail the fortress with burning oil and fiery projectiles. However, he hadn’t thought to see the smoldering remains of farmhouses and crop fields.
“Do you think Kentigern has fallen already?” Caius asked.
Gershon shook his head, staring up at the castle. They were a long way off, but he could see banners of blue, silver, and white flying atop the castle’s-towers. “No, Aindreas still holds the tor.”
Lathrop glanced at the swordmaster. “Has he made a pact with the Aneirans, then? Did he let them pass?”
Gershon was wondering this as well. But even as he opened his mouth to answer, he saw a flaming ball rise from the south side of the tor and arc across the sky toward the battlements.
“It seems they’re still under attack.”
“Then what happened to those farmhouses?”
“I don’t know,” Gershon said. “But that can wait. His Majesty sent us to break the siege, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
At the swordmaster’s signal, the army started forward again, advancing on the tor.
“When we reach the city walls, we’ll turn to the south and follow them to the Aneiran camp. I want your archers ready as quickly as possible.”
“Shall we divide the army?” Lathrop asked. “Half of us could cut toward the river and flank them if they try to withdraw.”
Gershon shook his head. “No. I want them to withdraw. Our force is a good deal larger than theirs. I’m hoping that when they see this, they’ll retreat across the Tarbin without much of a fight. Our aim should be to lose as few men as possible, so that we’ll be near full strength when we join the king on the Moorlands.”
“And if Aindreas turns his bowmen on us?”
The swordmaster glanced at Lathrop. “I’m hoping he won’t.”
The duke nodded. If he thought Gershon a fool, he had the good grace not to say so.
They soon reached the city walls, and encountering no resistance from the men of Kentigern, they turned southward, advancing on the Aneiran army. It even seemed to Gershon that he heard cheers from the castle, though he wasn’t certain, and he wasn’t about to place any faith in Kentigern’s goodwill. As they drew nearer to the Aneirans, the captains brought the archers forward, instructing them to be ready to loose their arrows as soon as they were within range of the enemy camp.
Before the bowmen could fire, however, cries reached them from the castle and Gershon shouted a warning to his men. The Aneirans had turned one of their hurling arms so that it faced his army, and they had launched a huge vat of flaming oil in his direction. Men scattered in all directions. Gershon and the dukes spurred their mounts trying to escape the fiery mass plummeting toward them.
By sheer good fortune, much of the oil fell short of the king’s army, and most of Gershon’s men were able to avoid the rest. A few soldiers fell, writhing in the flames, but losses were minor.
“Archers!” the swordmaster called. “Quickly! Before they can ready another attack!”
The bowmen surged forward, arrows nocked, and when they were close enough, they fired. Screams rose from the Aneiran side.
“Again!”
The bowmen let loose with a second volley.
“Swordsmen!” Gershon called. “Attack!”
With a deafening cry and the ringing of three thousand blades, his army rushed the Aneiran lines. And raising his own blade, the swordmaster kicked at his horse’s flanks, plunging into the fray with his men.
He saw flames jump to life in the distance, and for a moment Gershon feared that the soldiers of Mertesse would manage to send another mass of flaming oil at his army. But his warriors closed the distance too quickly. In only a few seconds they had crashed into the Aneiran army, the ground seeming to tremble with the impact. It appeared briefly that the enemy would hold their ground, but Gershon’s force was simply too vast. The men of Mertesse began to give way, slowly at first, then more quickly. When a large raiding party emerged from the castle and swept down the tor in their direction, the Aneirans broke formation and fled toward the river. Those who remained, including the soldiers manning the hurling arms, were overrun. Many of the rest perished under a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts.