Might.
Sir Yarran Battlecrow weighed the options and alternatives, considered his responsibilities as Trianal’s adviser and mentor, and made his decision.
“Aye,” he said grimly. “Shallow Ford should do fine, Milord.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sir Fahlthu broke out of the undergrowth and guided his own horse up the northern bank of the ravine to the grassland above. It wasn’t the best vantage possible, but it meant he could finally see at least some of what was happening with his own eyes. He pulled his double-glass from its case and raised it, adjusting the knurled wheel between the twin tubes until the standard at the crest of the hill to the west snapped into focus. He couldn’t make out as much detail as he might have liked, even with the double-glass, but the figure on the tall, black stallion beside the standard wore the blue and white of Balthar, and the white bow and crimson-headed, green-fletched arrows of the House of Bowmaster showed clearly against the breastplate of his blackened cuirass. That had to be Trianal. And the other rider beside him, the one in the gray of Glanharrow and the plain, battered breastplate, was probably Yarran.
He lowered the double-glass and let his unaided eye sweep the seeming chaos of galloping horsemen. Trianal and Yarran would have a much better view of the action from their higher location, but Fahlthu was experienced enough to read the tempo of the battle from the smaller portion of it he could see. And as he absorbed it, he smiled grimly.
The fiery young hothead on top of that hill had made a serious error. Perhaps he’d underestimated the total strength Fahlthu could throw at him. Or perhaps he’d simply reacted with the stubborn inflexibility of youth. Either way, he’d made the wrong choice. He ought to have fallen back immediately, riding hell for leather to break contact while Fahlthu’s greater numbers were still occupied making their way clear of the tangled brush and woodland which had concealed them. Instead, he’d accepted battle. No doubt he’d hoped the numbers were close to equal, or—depending on his optimism—even in his favor. In either case, he’d clearly believed he could skirmish successfully, even against superior numbers, and break off if the engagement grew too hot. But this was a game Fahlthu had played before, and he began giving orders to his bugler.
Trianal could see the moment when the enemy commander began once more asserting control over his troopers. Trianal couldn’t actually hear the bugle calls across the noise and tumult of the battle between them, but he could see a third or so of the total opposing force falling back in response. The other two-thirds continued to press the attack, volleying arrows from their powerful composite bows and taking slower, more deliberate return fire from Trianal’s men.
It was impossible to form any precise assessment of his own losses so far. Only one troop’s swallow-tailed guidon had disappeared, but most of those which remained had less than the original twenty men following them, and troopers continued to fall by twos and threes on both sides. At a guess, he was down to perhaps a little over a hundred men, but by his rough count, the attackers showed at least a dozen guidons, which meant they had over two hundred—probably closer to three. So the other commander could afford to pull a third of his men back, resting their horses and conserving their ammunition until the critical moment, while the other two-thirds kept the pressure on Trianal’s troopers and forced him to expend his own arrows and exhaust his own horses.
He felt a moment of almost paralyzing doubt, then gave himself a savage mental shake.
If whoever that is knew what I really had in mind, he wouldn’t have pulled back a reserve, he thought. He’d have thrown everything he had at me and accepted his losses to overwhelm me quickly. He can still win this kind of running battle—and more cheaply than a frontal assault, if it goes his way. But if he’s willing to let me prolong it …
“I wonder if they know about the pigeons,” he said to Sir Yarran quietly while the sounds of distant combat became less distant by the minute.
“Likely not,” the older knight said back, just as quietly. “Erathian probably knows at least a little about ’em, but this fellow’s too aggressive to be one of Erathian’s commanders. Besides, this whole ambush—and that’s what it was when we got here, Milord, whatever the other fellow might have intended when he set out this morning—is something Erathian would avoid like the plague. Open warfare with Baron Tellian? He’d never agree to that—not if he thought it could ever be traced back to him, any road. And s’far as I know, nobody outside your uncle’s riding knows he’s been trying out the birds.”
“We can hope, anyway,” Trianal grunted, then looked the older man squarely in the face.
“I’m going to need all the help you can give me, Sir Yarran,” he said frankly. “Maybe I should have picked a spot further east than Shallow Cross, but I don’t just want to drive them back into hiding and leave us to find them all over again.” He shrugged. “I know what I do want to do, but I don’t know that I have enough experience to pull it off. If you have any suggestions—or if you see me making any mistakes—tell me. And be as loud and as blunt as you think necessary!”
He finished with a tight smile, and Sir Yarran returned it in kind.
“Milord—lad—you’ve done just fine so far. I’ll be ready enough to fetch your head a clout, if it seems necessary. But for now I’ve little to suggest … unless it might be as it’s time for you to be pulling a mite further back.”
“You’re right,” Trianal agreed, but before he moved, he beckoned to Yardan Steelsaber.
“Yes, Sir?” the captain of his command troop said in a voice which Trianal strongly suspected must sound much calmer than the other man actually was.
“You and most of your men, and anyone who gets back here on foot to remount, are our reserve,” Trianal said bluntly. “You don’t commit any of them without my personal approval, or Sir Yarran’s.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“For right now, though, I need three messengers. I want them to go out into that mess and find Sir Rikhal, Major Helmscrest, and Sir Kallian. Tell them we’re falling back to Shallow Cross and that I want them to stay oriented on my standard and keep those people following us until we get there. We’ll fight a slow retreat to the top of the hills, get their teeth set into the notion that they’re pushing us, we’re not pulling them. Then, once we clear the hills, on my signal, it’s time to show them just enough of our heels to keep them chasing us. Is that clear?”
“They’re to keep contact and fall back to Shallow Cross. Slow retreat up the hills, then go to a gallop at your command. It’s a feigned retreat to draw ’em after us. Aye, Sir, it’s clear,” Steelsaber acknowledged, striking his breastplate with a fist in salute. He seemed remarkably composed for someone who’d just received the orders of a lunatic, Trianal thought. But if anyone could get couriers through to his three senior subordinates, Steelsaber would get it done.
“Very well, see to it. And after you’ve sent the messengers, I think we’ll pull back to that cluster of aspens on the far side of the hill. But slowly! I want our people to see the standard on the crest line here long enough to know we’re falling back, not running!”
Fahlthu watched the standard of Balthar retreat towards the very top of its hill, then disappear over the crest. Any hope he might have had that the opposing force would dissolve in the belief its commander had abandoned it quickly faded. The troops of armsmen continued their intricate dance, giving ground steadily, but in a controlled retreat that sent stinging counterattacks to punish any of Fahlthu’s own men who got too far ahead. The loss ratio was in his favor—it had to be, when even the portion of his force actively engaged outnumbered the enemy almost two-to-one—but not by very much, and his own losses were painful enough. On the other hand, the young fool’s stubbornness might give him the opportunity to carry out his orders for a complete massacre after all.