Blood in the Water (53 page)

Someone had scouted out a good vantage point as the weather cleared last night. The retinue gathered around Captain-General Evord had an ominously clear view of the enemy now swiftly assembling. Further down the valley, militia regiments under banners of yellow and light green and the ragged remnants of Triolle’s mercenaries had come back across the river to occupy the main road to Pannal. Their ranks were drawn up tight on the far side of a little bridge that carried the highway over one of the streams running down to the river. As Tathrin had feared, both the stream and the tributary flowed swift and dark.

“See.” Gren pointed out a second bridge crossing another stream a few plough lengths behind the Triolle militia companies. “Lord Geferin doesn’t trust anyone who ran away from Tyrle. He’s making sure they can’t rout by putting them in that pocket.”

“They’re vulnerable on this side of the river, aren’t they?”

Tathrin was watching Marlier’s cavalry troops now sweeping past, barely hesitating as they splashed through the streams running down to the river meadows. As they advanced, they would soon menace the militia holding the ground between the two little bridges carrying the main road along this western side of the valley. His spirits rose a little.

“Won’t Ridianne the Vixen’s men just drive them into the river?”

“Hardly.” Sorgrad nodded towards a sizeable contingent of Parnilesse cavalry now appearing in support of the Triolle mercenaries and militiamen on Lord Geferin’s far-left flank.

Tathrin saw foot soldiers behind them, their mercenary banners adorned with black and green pennants.

“Those Parnilesse horse will charge just as soon as Marlier’s horse make a move,” Gren predicted, “with their mercenary foot soldiers ready to take on any of the Vixen’s men who’re unhorsed.”

“Those Triolle mercenaries and militia will deny us the bridges and the highway for as long as they can,” Sorgrad said thoughtfully. “Duke Iruvain will have sent Duchess Litasse on to Pannal. No Triolle man will want us catching her. Let’s hope the Marlier horse don’t realise that and go after her though.” Sorgrad gestured across the valley. “If we’re going to win this, we’ve got to cross that river and strike the Parnilesse line as hard as we can.”

“Where is their line exactly?”

This wasn’t like the battles for Carluse. Across the river, to the north, Tathrin could see troops of horsemen wearing Parnilesse black and green, over beyond the byway running east to the ford. He guessed that marked Lord Geferin’s right flank. But the gently rising slope straight ahead, between those cavalry troops and the bridges on the highway, was a mass of coppices, the ground between them dense with gorse. A few of the trees were still defiantly green; most were now red, orange and yellow. Leaves brought down by the recent storms lay thick on the grass, fading to dull brown. Tathrin could see mercenary banners here and there but any clear view of the enemy’s dispositions was impossible.

“There’s his lordship, and His Grace.” Gren’s sharp eyes picked out two moving standards breaking cover at the southern edge of the scrubby woodland.

Tathrin followed his pointing finger. Even at this distance, Triolle’s green grebe was unmistakable on its yellow field. Parnilesse’s crossed sword and halberd were indistinct black lines on the flag’s blue ground, the oak wreath a green smudge. He watched as the enemy commanders’ flags wheeled around before coming to a halt.

“Where’s the Vixen?” he asked suddenly.

“Over yonder.” Gren pointed to the far side of Evord’s command troop.

Tathrin caught a glimpse of Ridianne’s red and silver banner. Surrounded by her own retinue, she was close enough to receive the captain-general’s dispatches without delay, while still enjoying a clear view of her cavalry as they advanced on the Triolle mercenaries and militia who held the bridges along the road, as well as the Parnilesse horse on their left hand.

Tathrin saw the Marlier mercenary foot soldiers drawn up below Ridianne’s standard. All her regiments formed the exiles’ right flank. The bulk of the companies who’d fought this long campaign held their centre and left flank, their resolute lines reaching all the way back to the fork in the road. To the north of the fork, Tathrin could just glimpse the bold pennants of the Dalasorian lancers. He twisted in his saddle, struck by a sudden realisation.

“Where are the Mountain Men?” He had no idea.

“Waiting in reserve,” Sorgrad chided. “Evord won’t risk all this on one throw of the bones.”

“How many companies do you suppose Lord Geferin is holding back?” Tathrin wondered aloud. It really was going to be a long and bloody day, wasn’t it?

“Sausage?” Gren offered him a greasy link that looked like a dead man’s finger.

“No, thank you.” Hungry as Tathrin was, the thought of eating made him nauseous.

“Try this.” Sorgrad pressed a currant cake into his hand. “You’ll be no use to anyone if you swoon like a maiden.”

To Tathrin’s surprise, the spicy scent was inviting. Once he’d taken a bite, he quickly finished the cake.

“What now?” he said indistinctly through the crumbs.

On either side of the river, the two armies’ massed ranks of foot soldiers were still shifting their ground. Tathrin could see Evord’s archers and crossbowmen making ready to lead their advance. He couldn’t see what riposte the Parnilesse army might make to such missiles.

“White brandy?” Sorgrad offered his flask.

Tathrin waved it away, reaching for his own leather-wrapped bottle of water. “I’ll keep a clear head.”

“How long do we have to wait?” Gren was impatient. “If we don’t ford the river, they can cut and run at dusk and that’ll come too cursed early now.”

Sorgrad smiled thinly. “The captain-general won’t allow that.”

He nodded north, where the Dalasorian lancers were advancing towards the river, not bothering with the byway to the ford. The first troops urged their horses into the swollen waters. Tathrin recalled what that lancer had said before chancing the hidden ford below Carluse: there were no bridges in the grasslands. Nor any waiting lines of deadly halberds. How could they be so fearless?

As the Dalasorian horses plunged across, churning up dirty foam, Tathrin saw the Parnilesse horse were moving. How could the Dalasorians hope to reassemble before the Parnilesse cavalry struck? Tathrin felt his own heart quicken as the black-and-green-clad riders broke into a purposeful canter. The Dalasorians were still scrambling onto the bank in disarray.

A horse’s scream cut through the clamour rising along the valley. Yells followed, from men and beasts, of shock and pain. Tathrin saw the Parnilesse charge slowing.

“I don’t believe anyone told Lord Geferin that we have mounted archers.” Sorgrad raised his brandy flask in mocking salute.

Tathrin realised the Dalasorians’ bowmen and -women had stayed on this side of the river. Their recurved bows were sending flight after flight of arrows clean over their lancers’ heads. It didn’t disrupt the Parnilesse charge completely but it won the Dalasorians time enough to close up their ranks, spurring their horses on.

The arrows ceased as the first riders met. The lancers’ longer reach was murderously effective. Parnilesse riders fell amid the trampling hooves. Their second rank whipped their mounts on, charging to their comrades’ aid. Swords already drawn, they hacked at the wooden lance shafts before attacking the grasslanders savagely.

Tathrin’s grip tightened reflexively on his horse’s reins. He’d seen how their own mercenaries could be handier with a sword on horseback than some of the Dalasorians. They were used to riding into battle with the clear intent of fighting dismounted. The second rank of Dalasorians now riding into the furious mêlée were unable to use their lances decisively. It was impossible to see who was gaining the upper hand.

Tathrin’s horse quivered as a galloper raced past with a dispatch for the captain-general.

“They won’t get across the river,” Gren said scornfully. “The Dalasorians haven’t all joined in.”

Tathrin saw the third rank of troops who’d crossed the river were still waiting to move. That must surely tip the balance in their favour, now all the Parnilesse horse were embroiled in the fighting.

“The Wyvern Hunters will be ready if they do.” Sorgrad stowed his flask in his belt pouch.

Tathrin saw the captain-general’s messenger arrive at the Wyvern Hunters’ banner. Arest was soon leading the eight mercenary companies guarding the army’s left flank closer to the river.

Gren was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Tathrin couldn’t see anything amusing. In the mounted battle raging between the Dalasorians and the Parnilesse horse, men were killing and dying. Captain-General Evord’s foot regiments were moving down into the centre of the valley. Ridianne of Marlier’s mercenaries were wheeling slightly to advance towards the bridges that the Triolle mercenaries and militia held, denying them the highway.

“Those mounted archers, they’re riding right around that skirmish.” Chuckling, Gren was still intent on the cavalry battle at the northern end of the valley.

“That’s Sia Kersain’s banner,” Tathrin realised, indignant. “What are they doing?”

Sorgrad stood in his stirrups to see the clan lord lead three troops of fresh lancers straight past the fight, not slowing to aid his fellow Dalasorians. “Let’s hope he has some cunning scheme agreed with the captain-general.”

“If he hasn’t?” Tathrin demanded.

“Then he doesn’t think we’re going to prevail.” Gren shrugged. “So he’s decided to make some profit on the day. They’ll be going after Parnilesse and Triolle’s baggage wagons.”

“Or making sure none of the Parnilesse horse escape,” objected Tathrin. He could already see some of the black-and-green-clad riders struggling to break clear of the fighting.

A whistle interrupted him.

Gren slapped his grey horse’s neck. “Time to earn our oats.”

Tathrin wondered why he didn’t feel scared. Riding through the thick of battle would be perilous in the extreme. But anything would be better than sitting up here, a mere helpless observer.

He followed the brothers to the captain-general’s standard. Evord was dispatching messages in all directions. News from every regiment was arriving at the gallop.

“Ridianne’s compliments,” a rider with a Marlier accent said breathlessly. “Our cavalrymen are taking arrows from the Parnilesse mercenaries down by the river. Shall our mounted archers attack them?”

“No,” Evord said promptly. “Tell the mounted bow captains to send a single arrow storm into the Parnilesse horsemen. Tell your cavalry captains to charge as soon as the last shafts are in the air.”

“Captain-General.” Sorgrad raised a hand to show Evord they awaited his orders.

The Soluran spared Tathrin a brief smile. “My compliments to Beresin Steelhand and he’s to hold those Parnilesse mercenaries off our mounted troops until they break Lord Geferin’s horse.” He wrote quickly on a scrap of paper and handed it over.

“Captain-General.” Tathrin offered a salute before stowing the paper safely inside his jerkin. Once the cavalry were engaged on both flanks of the field, battle would be well and truly joined.

Saedrin send he’d arrive safely to repeat Evord’s words himself. He didn’t want to fall victim to an arrow, waiting for some sharp-eyed company captain to send a runner to retrieve the written message from his body. Sending aid for a wounded galloper would be a secondary consideration.

On his way towards Evord’s right-hand regiments, he spurred his horse past Ridianne the Vixen and her retinue. She was just as busy, taking charge of her side of the battle.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Karn

The Battle of Pannal,

in the Lescari Dukedom of Triolle,

1st of For-Winter

He was glad Lord Geferin had taken command. The Parnilesse lord understood the need for swift decisions in the midst of a battle. If such choices proved wrong, then action to salvage the situation was still possible. Hesitation invariably proved fatal. Karn knew that, if Duke Iruvain didn’t.

Lord Geferin had chosen the best ground available once it was clear the Soluran’s army was close enough to attack their rearguard in the morning. He’d wasted no time calling a halt for what remained of the night. He hadn’t bothered explaining why still attempting to reach Pannal and the bridge was folly. Ignoring Duke Iruvain’s protests, he’d sent his lieutenants and his orders to all the captains.

He’d paid no heed to which ducal symbols were interwoven with mercenary badges or to militia colours, black and dark green or paler green and yellow. When Duke Iruvain had protested, Lord Geferin had told him bluntly this battle was now a Parnilesse concern. Duke Iruvain had flown into a rage, storming off to his tent.

Was Duchess Litasse’s safety a Parnilesse concern? Karn could admire Lord Geferin’s military prowess but he didn’t like the way the nobleman looked at Her Grace on this journey. He’d insisted on sending a company of his own blue-sashed men to escort her carriage to the bridge. Karn had heard him order their captain to take her to Parnilesse Castle and with Pelletria dead, the duchess had no one he trusted with her.

But she had ordered him to remain with Duke Iruvain. She didn’t trust Lord Geferin either. Let the runes roll where they may, she had said bitterly. If her husband fell fairly in battle, so be it and he could make his excuses to Saedrin. But Karn must make sure Iruvain didn’t fall to a Parnilesse knife in the back. Litasse told Karn she dreaded finding herself widowed at Lord Geferin’s mercy, her claims on Sharlac merely one of her assets.