Men killing and dying in rapid succession.
There was no grace to their movements, none of the poetic swordplay as regaled in songs and stories. They attacked with the ferocity of animals, killer instinct replacing reason, the only thought occupying the mind being the need to live by slaying the next foe.
"Not quite what I expected," Jaslin Le Feuvre said.
Like Marcellus, Jaslin was garbed in the blue and white surcoat of the Kaerleon knight. His polished mail and armor gleamed, as did the white-plumed helmet resting on the pommel of his saddle. The wind tugged at his golden hair. Tall with broad shoulders and deep blue eyes, Jaslin appeared better suited to playing the gentleman at court than living the rugged life of a soldier. Yet Marcellus had found no better swordsman or friend.
Marcellus scratched his beard, which had grown thicker on the road. Good for cushioning the sharp winds, but it itched more. "Nor I. The black-armored soldiers are the Bruallians. They've been fighting the Komurans for control of the border for as long as anyone can remember. But times have changed. The Komurans are no longer equal in military strength. They're being slaughtered."
Jaslin squinted at the carnage below. "I hear Valdemar Basilis leads his Bruallians into battle himself."
"He is his father's son. Darroth Basilis was a savage before he was a king, often leading the charge against his enemies. That's not our concern. There." Marcellus pointed to the far edge of the battleground, where the Komurans had rallied and still held somewhat of a stand in a semicircle perimeter around a train of wagons. From his lens, the Golden Lion of Kaerleon emblazoned on the canvas covering was barely registerable.
"The information I gathered indicated those wagons safeguard the prince. We are not to try to aid the Komurans. We cut through the lines, secure the prince, and head back to Kaerleon."
"Only you can say that and make it seem easy." Jaslin's smile was mirthless. "The Companions amount to only a century. Those token soldiers that guided us here cannot be trusted to do anything but scatter at the first charge. They do not know any lord, nor have any allegiances. This is a losing hand no matter how well we play it, Marcellus. You know this."
Marcellus sighed. "I do. But I swore an oath to the king, and I will not dishonor my word."
"For the glory of Kaerleon?" Jaslin's voice was uncharacteristically dry.
"Always."
Jaslin looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "Then you shouldn't be here. Nothing is glorious about this."
Marcellus gave Jaslin a sidelong glance. The man had been unusually subdued the entire trip. Any attempt to find out what was behind his dark mood was firmly rebutted.
Perhaps he leaves something precious behind as well. He thought he knew Jaslin well, but every man kept some things deep inside the well of his heart. Marcellus knew that all too well. He stared at the western horizon. Leagues beyond the Dragonspine Mountains lay Leodia, and his soul. Forgive me, Evelina. I had not the heart to truly say farewell.
"Was it ever, Jaslin?" He turned from the chaos and guided Shadowdancer back to where the other men waited. None were decked in heraldry or as knights, but all were hard and lean, wearing boiled leather and scraps of mail. Their leader turned and spat to the side when Marcellus approached.
"Have you located the wagon train, m'lord?"
Gile Noman stared insolently through the one good eye he had left. The other was just pale jelly in the socket. Only stubble decorated his head; the rest of him was garbed in fur and mismatched armor. The large roan he rode on looked nearly as disheveled as he.
He was the captain of the ragged band of warriors Jaslin had encountered while scouting the passage. When Lucretius called back the Patrol, Borderlanders sore for coin had stepped up to take their places. Token soldiers, they were called. They were not knights to be sure, as Jaslin had pointed out, but they numbered around twice as many as the Companions. The more swords the better, as far as Marcellus was concerned. It would not be the first time he relied on mercenary aid.
"I have. It is on the far side of the battlefield, and we won't have long to reach it. Needless to say, the losses may be vast."
Gile barked a rough laugh and fingered the shaft of the mace that jutted over his shoulder. "My mates and I have seen worse. This we'll look forward to." He actually sounded sincere.
"Get your men ready then. I must have a word with my own."
"Have all the words you need. M'lord." Gile turned his roan and rode toward where his ragged bunch waited a few spans away.
Marcellus turned to his own men. He met the gaze of his most loyal knights, those who had bonded to him in a brotherhood of loyalty and trust through trials and triumph, blood and fire.
The Companions.
Jolgeirr Arnmoor nodded at Marcellus. The burly Norlander's fiery red hair was pulled back into a fat braid that ran down the length of his broad back. His customary scowl was practically hidden behind his hefty beard. In the last clash between their nations, Jolgeirr had spared Marcellus' life after defeating him in combat high in the snow-driven Alpens of Norland.
Clivel Tonalle, on the other hand, had proven himself in a skirmish with the Jaferians. Since that time, Marcellus had learned to lean on the uncanny skills of Clivel's marksmanship. No one was more deadly with a bow.
Next to Clivel was Owin Weeks, a horse trader that lost his livelihood one time too many by Bruallian raids along the border of Runet. His horned helmet was a token from a slain Bruallian. It was a bit too large, so only his long nose and mustaches were visible more often than not.
Then there was Hansen Longshanks, who once ran for two days without rest to arrive at a battle where he slew twoscore men; Virgel Lloyl, exiled from his House for calling his liege lord a fool to his face, and so on. Men from Runet, from the Great Steppes, from Gaelion, and of course from Leodia. Unique men, one and all with a story behind their blades and armor. Men who had sworn to follow him to death, glory, or both.
Marcellus placed his hands on the pommel of his saddle and faced them. "You all know me. We're looking at a raven feast, and we're probably the main course. Anyone who has words to say can say them. I will not hold it against you."
Not a man stirred in the ranks. The only sound was the wind as it swept through the pass and stirred the banners. The first banner was the Golden Lion of Kaerleon. Another was the Three Shields, the standard of the Companions. The last was the Silver Horn, Marcellus' personal standard. He touched the horn strapped to his saddle. He sounded it at the end of every battle, the Companion's sweet notes of victory. The song that carried him and his men back to their homes.
He did not think they would hear it on this day.
Finally, Jolgeirr spoke. "Have you gone bleedin' daft, man?" Chuckles reverberated through the lines. "We've wrapped you in swaddling clothes all this time, and you think you can walk on your own now? Who else is going to look after your noble noggin?"
Jaslin brought his horse closer. "You've led us to victory more times than any of us can count. So we'll ride with you again and let the Fates decide if we shall find victory, or death and glory."
Jolgeirr swung his great ax around his head. "Aye, death and bloody glory!" The rest of the men took up the cry. "Death and glory!"
The sound washed over Marcellus as he closed his eyes. Evelina, how I wish to see you and Alexia one last time. But he knew it was too late for wishes. The moment was at hand.
His eyes opened as he drew his sword in salute. "So be it!"