He crossed into the rally point, well behind the lines . . . at least until the lines had moved and brought heavy fighting. The low mounded hill and its sparse trees stank of blood and loosened bowels, thick with the stench of death. Nearby wounded had been gathered here, at least until the Tedrels had swept the Valdemaran forces back. Now, the injured felt no pain.
He thought Adreal lay dead, propped against a tree with a bloody blanket pressed to his middle. The Herald Master opened his eyes and reached for his notched sword, bringing it up in defense before he recognized Gonwyn.
Gonwyn slid out of the saddle and moved closer. Claris, Adreal’s Companion, came into sight, lamed by a gashing wound in her left rear leg. The skin lay open, exposing the muscle beneath. Blood slicked the Companion’s side, running from haunch to hock.
“Where the hell was our support?” Gonwyn asked. “It was raining anvils on us over there.”
Adreal half-smiled at him. “You sound like you have a mouth full of marbles.”
Gonwyn made an apologetic gesture toward his blood-crusted face. “Got hit by a spent arrow. Lost most of the afternoon asleep in a warm pile of dead other people. Was missed by the Tedrel looters.”
“There’s your answer.” Adreal shook his head. “Tedrel happened. Their cavalry never showed. The Lord Marshal took all the reserves and our horse to go deal with something clever the Tedrels thought up. They took all the Heralds who were controlling movement on this side. They went out of play just as they would have been useful.”
Adreal coughed as he shifted his weight against the tree. “You do know that King Sendar was killed?’
Gonwyn winced as he brushed his tongue over the damage. “Yes.” It came out as “yeth.” “I heard he was down but was back up. Rath told me he was killed when I came to. What happened?”
Adreal shrugged and coughed again. A thin spittle line of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His tone remained dry and normal. “Don’t know the full of it. He took what body of troops was near and charged into the center. Cracked it. Most of the Tedrel forces fell on that wedge. Just about everyone in that charge was killed, but it took the pressure off the flanks.”
“What about the Heir?” Gonwyn asked.
“Alive.” Adreal wiped his hand across his face. Gonwyn could see the sweat even in the cool air. “Selenay is alive. I heard Alberich got her out before that part of the line got swamped. There was some kind of assault or raid. He got her out.”
Gonwyn spat again and reached into Rath’s saddlebags for sour field wine. He rinsed his mouth, winced at the astringent bite, then offered the bladder to Adreal. The Herald refused with a shake of his head.
“He didn’t turn on us?” Gonwyn asked. “I always thought he was too good to be true.”
“Nope. Mr. ‘Hide in Haven’ was all over the map today, bad cess to the Tedrels. He got Selenay out after Sendar died, kept the attack going in the face of the King’s fall, and led the regrouping in the absence of the Lord Marshal.”
“Where’s Talamir, then? Where’s the King’s Own?”
“He was near Sendar when he went down. They got Tavar.” Both men shared a glance, first at Adreal’s Claris, then at Gonwyn’s Rath. The ultimate horror for a Herald, the loss of bond and blood, of a Companion’s fall. Gonwyn knew both that he would take his own life if Rath fell, and that they talked about a dead man.
They both glanced as the fighting on the left side of the Valdemaran line grew more intense. Distant horns followed by a giant crash as two forces came together.
That took Gonwyn by surprise. “Lord Maybe got off his ass?”
Adreal laughed without mirth. “No. Once Sendar fell, the center went mad with fury, and most of the inner parts of the line bent inward. Commanders farther out on the flanks held back. Either they had farther to go, or there were local problems.” He didn’t say what Gonwyn had heard again and again through camp rumor . . . that the less reliable commanders were to be put the farthest on the flanks.
Adreal ignored his expression and continued. “Sorcha went to Lord Maybe to press home on that side and avenge the King. The rage was on them, too. Sorcha was arguing with him, and Maybe was saying “maybe,” when something the size of a crow came and took his head off.” He smiled grimly. “Sorcha’s Elissa was impressed, and Companions don’t impress easy.” Adreal coughed again. “That Eastholder Sergeant . . . Split-Face . . . took over, and two candlemarks later rolled up their right side like a carpet. This was midafternoon. You can still hear that part of the fight.”
Gonwyn was surprised. “Not one of Maybe’s officers? They brought enough.”
Adreal smiled. “Have you seen that bastard? Looks like he got his mug cut in half with an ax? Would you tell him no?”
Gonwyn shook his head. “I saw him once, when I was running messages for Colonel Perfect Boots. You’d need stones the size of catapult shot to go up against him. ”
Adreal shrugged then, though it cost him. “I think the Lord Marshal put him there deliberately. You should have heard Maybe squawking about command interference. Threatened to take the matter to the King.”
“Anyway . . .” Adreal picked up a broken arrow and drew in the dirt. “Split-Face broke through their right side and is driving into their center and rear. Their entire right side collapsed, with many routing into the center. Most of that was thrown over by Sendar’s charge. What’s left of the Tedrel right wing folded back like a gate, but Split-Face ripped right through that. He’s now somewhere back in there, cheerfully tearing their rear echelons to shreds.”
Gonwyn tried to whistle and settled for a wince. “He’s that good?”
Adreal shrugged. “Seems so. They’re outnumbered, but I’ve never met an Eastholder yet with enough brains to do basic math. It probably hasn’t occurred to him yet that they should be getting swamped. They’re all still in a blood fury, so that helps.”
He made more marks to show the original Valdemaran lines, then scratched them out. “If we could hold, then we might be the anvil to their hammer, but as it stands, he’s pushing them all into us.”
A wounded Guardsman approached with a water bottle and a loaf. Gonwyn took the bottle and gratefully swigged from it. He sluiced out a mouthful of pink-tinged water before he drank. He considered the bread, the state of his mouth, and passed on the loaf. It was not a hard choice.
“Can Sorcha hold him up, give us time to reknit?” he asked.
Adreal stabbed the arrow into the dirt map. “No. She went down a little after midafternoon. With Eiven dead, she was our last link to the far flank on that side of the line.”
Gonwyn winced. “Eiven and Selim. Sorcha and Elissa. That’s seven pairs today.”
“Eight” Adreal corrected. “Morevon got hit with one of those floating, flaming bastards. Pinned him and Elath to the ground.”
Gonwyn made no response for a long moment. “It’s been a rough day for the Companions Field.”
Adreal laughed again, a dry humorless laugh. “It’s been a rough day for us all.” He stabbed the arrow into the ground. “There, I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours.”
Gonwyn wiped Adreal’s marks with his boot. He absently noted that blood had already stained the leather. He flexed his stiffening hand.
“Not much to tell”, he said, “I was on the ass-end of the line supporting Captain Arland’s Guards Regiment,and a herd of Orthallen’s militia. This morning I was all the way past where the oak grove burned, watching for Tedrel cavalry trying to push our flanks. We were still holding in our original deployments. The militia gave a good account of themselves. They broke the shock troops well enough. There was no serious effort to turn our flank . . . they were just keeping us in play at first.”