“My lord?” Geder said.
“You’re with the charge on the west. The scouts report it as the mercenary forces Vanai’s bought, so it should be the easiest fighting.”
Geder frowned. That seemed wrong, but fatigue made it hard to think through. Mercenaries were professional fighters and veterans to a man. And that was where the fighting would be easy? Klin read his expression, leaned to the side, and spat.
“They aren’t protecting their homes and wives,” Klin said. “Just follow where Kalliam goes and try not to knock your horse into anyone. Knees get broken that way.”
“I know that.”
Klin’s pale eyebrows rose.
“I mean… I mean I’ll be careful, my lord.”
Klin made a clicking sound, and his beautiful charger shook its head and turned. Geder’s squire looked up at him. If there was any amusement in the Dartinae’s glowing eyes, it was well hidden.
“Come on,” Geder said. “Let’s get in place.”
The hell of it was, what Klin said might be true. Perhaps he was sending Geder and the youngest Sir Kalliam into the easiest part of the coming battle. A charge, a few sword strokes to one side and another, and the paid forces call surrender before anyone got too badly hurt. It would be a mark of Klin’s ability if he could have all his knights alive, and increase his own glory by keeping the fiercest fights for himself. Anything to impress Lord Ternigan and stand out from the marshal’s other captains. Or perhaps Klin wanted Geder to die in the battle. Geder thought he might be ready to die if it meant not riding anymore.
Jorey Kalliam sat high on his saddle, speaking to his bannerman. His plate was simple steel, unadorned and elegant. Six other knights were with him, their squires all close and ready. Kalliam nodded solemnly to Geder and he returned the salute.
“Come close,” he called. “All of you. To me.”
The knights shifted their mounts in. Sir Makiyos of Ainsbaugh. Sozlu Veren and his twin brother Sesil. Darius Sokak, the Count of Hiren. Fallon Broot, Baron of Suderling Heights, and his son Daved. All in all, a pretty sad bunch. He could see from their own expressions that they’d drawn similar conclusions from his arrival.
“The valley narrows about half a league from here,” Kalliam said. “The Vanai are there, and they’re entrenched. The scouts are saying the banners here on the western edge belong to a mercenary company under a Captain Karol Dannian.”
“How many men’s he got?”
“Two hundred, but mostly sword-and-bows,” Kalliam said.
“Brilliant,” Fallon Broot said, stroking the mustache that drooped down past his weak chin. “That should leave enough for all of us to have our turn.”
Geder couldn’t tell if it was meant as a joke.
“Our work,” Kalliam said, “is to hold tight to the edge of the valley. The main thrust will be on the eastern end where Vanai’s forces are thickest. Lord Ternigan has all his own knights and half of ours. All we need is to be sure no one flanks them. Sir Klin is giving us three dozen bows and twice as many swords. I’ve sent the bows ahead. At the signal, they’ll start the attack and try to draw out their cavalry. When we hear the charge, we’ll go in with the swords following.”
“Why are they here?” Geder asked. “I mean, if I were them, I’d try to be behind a wall someplace. Make it a siege.”
“Can’t hire mercenaries for a siege,” one of the Sir Verens said, contempt for the question dripping from his words. “They take contract for a season, and Vanai can’t raise money to renew.”
“The city’s less than an hour’s ride from here,” Kalliam said, “and there’s no place more defensible until you reach it. If they hope to keep us from reaching Vanai, this is the first defense and the last.”
A distant horn sang. Two rising notes and one falling. Geder’s heart started beating a little faster. Kalliam smiled, but his eyes were cold.
“My lords,” Kalliam said. “I believe that’s the first call. If you have any last business, it’s too late for it now.”
The mist hadn’t vanished, but enough had burned off that the landscape was clear before them. To Geder’s unpracticed eye, it looked like any of the other small valleys they’d passed on their way through the low, rolling hills north of the Free Cities. The enemy was a dark, crawling line like ants from a hill. The other knights’ squires began the final preparation, strapping shield to arms, handing up the steel-tipped lances. Geder suffered the same. The Dartinae finished with him, then nodded and prepared his own arms for the battle; light leather and a long, wicked knife. And not half a league away, some other squire or low soldier was cleaning another knife just as wicked to push through Geder’s throat if the chance came. The horn sang again. Not the charge, but the warning of it.
“Good luck, my lord,” his squire said. Geder nodded awkwardly in his helm, turned his mount to follow the others, and started down toward the battle. His little gelding whickered nervously. The ants grew larger, and the enemy banners grew clear. He saw where Kalliam’s archers were set, hiding behind blinds of wood and leather. Kalliam raised his shield, and the knights stopped. Geder tried to twist back, to see the swordsmen behind them, but his armor forbade it. He squeezed his eyes closed. It was just like a tourney. Joust first, then a little melee. Even a rich mercenary company wasn’t likely to have many heavy cavalry. He’d be fine. He needed to piss.
The horns blew the martial doubled note of the charge. Kalliam and the other men shouted and spurred their mounts. Geder did the same, and the tired old gelding that had carried him for days and weeks became a beast made of wind. He felt himself shouting, but the world was a single roar. The archers’ blinds flickered by him and were gone, and then the enemy was there; not knights or heavy cavalry, but pikemen bringing their great spears to bear. Sir Makiyos barreled into the line, smashing it, and Geder angled his own attack to take advantage of the chaos.
A horse was screaming. Geder’s lance struck a pikeman, the blow wrenching his shoulder, and then he was past the line and into the melee. He dropped his lance, drew his sword, and started hewing away at whatever came close. To his right, one of the Veren twins was being pulled from his horse by half a dozen mercenary swordsmen. Geder yanked his mount toward the falling knight, but then his own swordsmen appeared, pouring through the broken line. He saw his squire loping along, head low and knife at the ready, but there were no men in plate to knock over and let his Dartinae finish. The mass of fighting men pushed to the south. Geder turned again, ready to find someone, but the mercenaries seemed reluctant to press the attack.
He didn’t see where the bolt came from. One moment, he was scanning the battle for a likely target, the next a small tree had taken root in his leg, the thick black wood punching through the plate and into the meat of his thigh. Geder dropped his sword and screamed, scrabbling at the bolt in agony. Something hit his shield hard enough to push him back. A drumbeat rolled from the south, low and deep as thunder. The gelding shifted unexpectedly, and Geder felt himself starting to slide out of his saddle. The hand that steadied him was Jorey Kalliam’s.
“Where did you come from?” Geder asked.
Kalliam didn’t answer. There was blood on the man’s face and spattered across his sheild, but he didn’t seem injured. His eyes were fixed on the battle, or something beyond it, and his expression was carved from ice. Trying to put aside his pain, Geder followed the boy’s gaze. There, dancing above the fray, new banners were flying. The five blue circles of Maccia.
“Never mind you,” Geder squeaked. “Where did they come from?”
“Can you ride?”
Geder looked down. His gelding’s pale side was red with blood, and the flow coming from the bolt in his leg looked wide as a river. A wave of dizziness made him clutch at his saddle. Men could die of leg wounds like that. He was sure he’d heard of men dying from leg wounds. Was he about to die, then?