The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (18 page)

His horse scrambled out of the shallows and across the shale edge scattering men as easily as it scattered the loose stones beneath its hooves. Borman jagged on the reins, pulling the horse around in a sharp turn that made the bit bite deeply into his horse’s mouth and its hocks twist beneath it. The horse came to a shuddering halt and Borman stood in his saddle and waved his sword in the air to regain some sort of control.

It was hopeless. Nearly half of his heavy foot soldiers lay dead or dying on the hillside and the reserves, like the useless peasants they were, were running for their lives in the opposite direction. The royal guards, who he had set to watch them, had decided their lives were worth more than a few farmer’s sons and grunter herders and had let them go. Now they were crossing the river further down away from where the water-sodden bodies were being carried along by the current. On the far side of the river those who could run or drag a wounded comrade with them were staggering across the shallows, pushing the dead out of their way. A small troop of courageous veterans, led by an enterprising squad leader, were forming a barrier on the far edge of the river in a vain effort to hold the Tarbisian army back whilst their own men reformed or ran.

If there was anything left of the squad leader to identify him when this was all over then he would give the man a medal, and take his wife and sisters into his own household in honour of his brave deed. Unfortunately, at that moment, five thousand Tarbisian troops were pouring down the hillside, so the unknown squad leader’s female relatives were unlikely to have the chance to benefit from his attentions. He couldn’t see who now led the Tarbisian army, but from the chaos in the centre of the field, whoever it was had paid dearly for their bravery. Men milled around in confusion and he suddenly realised that his enemy was hesitant to push forward to claim the victory which was clearly theirs.

Borman pushed his horse to higher ground, frantically trying to assess the strength of the enemy and whether there was enough left of his own royal guard to reform and get him out of this mess. Trying to attract someone’s attention he waved his sword high in the air and his banner man ran towards him followed closely by a royal guard and two flag bearers. He had to shout at them above the din of the battle, but once they understood what he wanted, they set to work with horn and flag until the remnants of his army began to disengage. If he could get them across the river they could reform and take a defensive stance using the water to slow the enemy advance and the abundance of pikes he had brought with them to deter an enemy charge. With luck it would give him time to move back to a safer position.

The disengagement was surprisingly easy, and as men stumbled out of the water any who could still stand were pushed into line with a pike in their hand. They didn’t look like parade ground troops anymore and the lines were far from straight, but so far no one had run. That could have been because they were brave, or it could have had something to do with the two lines of royal guards on their huge horses with drawn swords which he had posted behind them ready to deal with the first signs of cowardice. They had another purpose too. If the lines of infantry didn’t hold back the enemy then the royal guards would make sure that he escaped back to Tarmin.

Across the river the last of his men who were able to walk were crossing the shallows and the line of brave defenders were slowly disengaging with their swords and shields still facing the enemy. Higher up the hillside the Tarbisian army was also reforming. Their earlier reluctance to continue the attack had gone as the remainder of the army, which hadn’t yet been engaged, moved forward to take the place of the battle weary troops. Those who had been relieved were being marshalled into place by their officers to form a rear guard.

There were thousands of them still, although noticeably fewer than before and importantly no mounted men. For a moment Borman thought of cutting his losses and leaving, but decided that the sight of their king riding away into the distance was not going to do much for his men’s courage. It would be better to wait until they were fighting again, then he could slip away knowing that his army were too occupied to notice that he was leaving.

The sound of horns drew him from his planning and he watched as the enemy army marched down the hill in well ordered ranks of light footmen. Without the weight of heavy armour they were quick to reform on the other side of the river and he could almost feel the fear of his men as they waited for the army to charge across the shallows. It didn’t help that all they could do was watch as their wounded comrades, who had been left behind, were slaughtered. Now would be a good time for a rallying speech to put heart into his men, but he had never been good at making speeches, and in any case, the quaver in his voice wouldn’t do much to bolster their courage.

Again the horns blew and the enemy charged, but a noise like the sound of thunder rolled across the river as two thousand screaming horsemen, with their swords drawn, crested the top of the rise and galloped down the hill like an unstoppable wave. The men at the front of the Tarbisian attack faltered, unsure if they should press their attack home or go back and support the rear ranks which had turned to face the new threat. With their momentum gone and confusion in the ranks the wallowing army was vulnerable and Borman saw his chance of turning defeat into victory. He gave the signal and his royal guards moved forward herding the battle weary foot soldiers before them. They didn’t need much herding as they too had seen their chance for reprieve and revenge.

The front ranks of Borman’s army ploughed into the light footmen with pikes lowered ,whilst behind them their comrades followed up with shield and sword. They destroyed the front four ranks of Tarbis’s foot soldiers without slowing their momentum, skewering them on their pikes and trampling them into the bloody water with their shields and studded boots. The fifth and sixth ranks slowed the charge but couldn’t stop it and then they too went down in a screaming mass whilst behind them men dropped their weapons and ran but there was nowhere to run to. At the rear, men fought for their lives as the newly arrived horsemen tore through their ranks slashing and killing and trampling men beneath the iron hooves of their battle-trained horses. Some tried to escape through the shallows but the royal guard drove in at the sides herding those they didn’t slaughter back into the killing ground.

At the edge of the river Borman sat on his horse with his personal guard around him and laughed in delight as he watched Rastor and Malingar’s men compete for who could kill most of the enemy. Once their blood lust was sated, he would let the Tarbisians surrender although that was going to be quite difficult as it looked like the two commanders were intent on outdoing each other. It would have to be done, however, he needed prisoners and perhaps even hostages. The officers would have to be executed of course and Newn along with them; he would deal with Tarraquin himself. Then all there would be left to do was to decide if he wanted to be King of Vinmore or King of Tarbis or perhaps even king of them both. He laughed again as the slaughter continued; it really had been a very good day.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Aftermath

Borman lifted the blanket back and stared at the face of the dead man lying on the back of the wagon, trying to ignore the ghastly wound between neck and shoulder which gaped open like a red mouth. Fortunately the man had bled out on the battlefield, otherwise there would have been blood dripping through the wagon bed onto the only unsoiled area of grass in the entire camp. The king looked down at the young man, who looked surprisingly peaceful considering the way he had died, and frowned. Despite being related through a distant grandmother he hadn’t seen Prince Newn since he was a boy, and he was unsure if the corpse in the wagon was really the last of the royal Tarbisian line or not.

The corpse looked to be about the right age and he wore the royal crest on his helmet, but that didn’t mean that he was the Prince. Borman lifted the blanket a little higher and looked to see if the man wore the royal seal but his fingers were missing, presumably cut off by some battlefield scavenger and long gone. It didn’t matter, it would resurface somewhere and he would have it back, but for the moment it didn’t help him with his problem of identifying the corpse.

He looked up and waved the small group of men forward who had been waiting nearby. Four of his personal guards pushed the prisoner towards him and then stood around the man, daring him to make a move towards their king. It was unlikely to happen, the prisoner was as white as death, apart from the bruises on his face, and his hands were tied behind him forcing the shattered bone in his broken arm to push further through his torn skin.

Borman looked him up and down and thanked the Goddess that he was the victor and not the defeated. “What is your name?”

“Guardcaptain Cowan, commander of the king’s army.”

Borman nodded, usually he would have had the man punished for missing out the honorific but it didn’t really matter, the man wasn’t going to live that long anyway. He picked up the corner of the blanket to reveal the face of the corpse and watched the man’s eyes. That told him everything he needed to know but he still asked the question. “Do you know this man?”

Cowan thought about lying but there didn’t seem to be much point. “Yes, Lord, it is the king. King Newn.”

Borman smiled; it was helpful to his future plans to have a positive identification. He nodded to the guards to take the prisoner away but the man took a hesitant step forward before the guards could grab him. “Your Majesty, may we have the body of our king to give it proper burial as is befitting his rank?”

The request and the man’s courage took him by surprise and he wondered if his officers would have done the same for him if the positions had been reversed. He put that uncomfortable thought out of his mind. It had been his intention to hang Newn’s naked body from a nearby tree for the defeated army to see but perhaps he could be more subtle.

“I will think about it.”

He nodded to the guards who this time did take hold of their prisoner ignoring his cries of pain from their rough treatment. The king watched them go and then turned his attention back to the three men who stood outside his command tent. If it hadn’t been for these three he could well have been the corpse in the wagon instead of his cousin. He took a deep breath, put on a grateful smile and went to join them.

The only thing the three of them had in common was the exhausted look of men who have ridden hard for several days and then fought a battle at the end of it. Rastor hadn’t bothered changing from his riding leathers which were splattered with blood and stank of horse, sweat and ingrained dirt. The shirt he wore was the one he had left Tarmin in, and by the look of his face he hadn’t washed or shaved since then either. Borman supposed the man had been busy since the end of the battle seeing to his own men, securing the camp and organising the prisoners, but he did wish that his Guardcaptain had changed into something less bloody. He was sick of blood.

“Guardcaptain Rastor,” began Borman, holding out his hand in a gesture he kept just for the most momentous of occasions. “You were late.”

Rastor took the king’s proffered hand and then hastily dropped it at the king’s accusation; he was never quite sure if his master was joking or not. “My apologies, Your Majesty, I did send a messenger with the reason for our delay.”

“Yes, you did, that idiot boy Janus. You were right, I should never have promoted him, he was far too honest for his own good, but just to show there are no hard feelings you may have his estates. They are not very big, but they will give you a nice income and somewhere to retire to when I become tired of your presence.” Rastor looked unsure at the veiled threat and Borman laughed at his discomfort. “As I said, you were late. Janus said you would be here at sunrise but the sun was at least two candle lengths high before you arrived. That nearly cost me the battle.”

“My apologies, My Lord, we ran into some opposition.” He glared at Malingar and his hand tightened on his sword hilt.

The gesture was not lost on Borman who turned to the other two men. Malingar had taken the time to change into his customary black, although his shirt and breaches were crumpled from being packed in his saddle bags and smelled of horse and herbs. He at least had made the effort to wash and shave, but there was a tiredness in his eyes that Borman had not seen before. He held out his hand which Malingar took and noticed the blood-stained bandage around the captain’s wrist and forearm.

“Lord Malingar, you and your men were a welcome sight, but I could have wished them to have been here sooner.”

“I’m sorry, My Lord, it was a long way and we ran into one or two problems as we neared the end of our journey which delayed us further.” He glanced at Rastor but said nothing more.

“I see that you are injured. It’s nothing serious I hope?”

“No, My Lord, just a small injury sustained when we ran into some opposition but it’s nothing and will soon heal.”

Borman looked between the two captains but decided not to ask any questions; it would appear ungrateful to have them both executed after they’d just won a battle for him. Instead he turned his attention back to the third man. At first he hadn’t recognised the old man. He had only met him twice, but there was something about the casual way he stood, as if superior rank meant nothing to him, which had jogged his memory. The man looked twice as exhausted as the other two, but he supposed that was due to his age. He too had washed and changed, but still managed to look like a peasant farmer. Borman looked at him in disdain and didn’t hold out his hand.

“My Lord,” interrupted Malingar. “This is Sharman of Leersland, my steward. It was because of him and his command of the men that we were able to arrive in such a timely manner.”

Borman raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Yes, I know who he is; he’s a deserter and a traitor whose head is forfeit for failing in his duty.” Rastor stepped forward eagerly, barely able to constrain himself from pulling his sword and taking the man’s head there and then. Sharman winced; he’d told Malingar this wasn’t a good idea. “However,” continued Borman, “You have done me a considerable service today, Lord Malingar, and as you already have an estate I give you this man’s life as a reward instead.