Book 6: Chapter 15 |
I HAVE TO GIVE THE ATALIAN COMMANDER due credit at this point: in the very short time remaining between the repulse and nightfall, he somehow managed to organize another assault and send it against our positions. True, I don’t know what he was expecting to achieve. After all, almost all of his heavy cavalry was either dead on the field in front of our positions, or dead in our midst at the top of the hill. Actually, though, the first wave had almost managed to knock the “Last Chances” out of their position. All thanks to the four strykers who managed to smash into the center of the Vestonian formation. If it hadn’t been for Sigurd and the “Savages” I sent in to take out these enemy mages, they would have taken a severe toll on Laforte’s cohort.
As I was watching the battle, and the attack of the Atalian mages in particular, I kept having bursts of inspiration, ideas that I thought could one day be put into practice. Alas, most of them would have to wait for a while. They would simply require far too much magical energy. We would need bruts and shadow materials, ideally in enormous quantities.
The second Atalian attack sputtered out while it was still on the slope. These riders weren’t as well-armored as their predecessors; indeed, most of the ones coming in the rear ranks didn’t have any armor at all. And neither did their horses, who stopped obeying commands from their riders as soon as they took their first wound. Baron Reese’s archers reaped a big harvest.
What remained of the second Atalian force soon limped back into the darkness. Despite the fact that everyone already knew we had won, I ordered the men to maintain their positions. I was worried about a possible trick on the part of our opponents. Baron Reese positioned his sharpest-eyed soldiers all along our formation, men who could see well in the dark and wouldn’t miss a new attack.
Nobody objected to my orders; even if they had, there was nobody to appeal to anyway. The only person who might have countermanded them was lying unconscious on the grass next to me.
As he watched the Atalian cavalry slam like a lava flow into Samuel Kroner’s battalion, Viscount de Leval simply couldn’t contain himself — he rushed into the fray. His vassals and bodyguards rushed in after him. In my personal opinion, Kroner’s situation (unlike Laforte’s) really wasn’t that critical. But Pierre was a hot-headed, impulsive man, and he wasn’t the smartest man in the world either. I didn’t even try to restrain him; I knew I wouldn’t have any success if I tried anyway. I had already restrained his impulsive nature for too long as it was. Pierre simply couldn’t wait to throw himself into the meat grinder.
As a result, his vassals were soon dragging his body back out into the darkness. The somber expressions on their faces suggested that they thought he had died. Although it also seemed to me that they weren’t so much worried about the Viscount’s “death” as the consequences it might bring for them. The Count de Leval (and indeed, their own fathers) wouldn’t be likely to pat them on the back for failing to keep their leader alive.
Slowly, I got to work healing him, catching hopeful, pleading glances from his comrades as I did so. Pierre’s life hung in the balance, at times by a matter of seconds. Someone had hit the hot-headed Viscount right on his hot head with something very heavy; thankfully, it looked like a glancing blow. Only the high quality of his helmet had saved our impulsive commander from a serious traumatic brain injury that would have made a normal life impossible.
In the end, I had to do some “tricks” with my scarlet potions. As I poured them into Pierre’s mouth, I was actively conducting a series of therapeutic energy manipulations with my aura to stop the spread of the black blotch through the Viscount’s energy structure.
I couldn’t help but notice her expressive, absent-minded expression. Strykers aren’t healers, after all. When I finally finished, and announced that the Viscount would survive, the nobles seemed about ready to lift me into the air on their shoulders in celebration. My eyes met Samira Clemand’s, and she shuddered involuntarily. It seemed she had understood everything very well. She understood that she would no longer be allowed to leave our force, even if she wanted to. I wouldn’t let her leave after what she had seen.
When Pierre’s unconscious body was dragged away, Samuel Kroner looked graver than I had ever seen him, but my words sent tears of joy trickling down his cheeks. The old warrior — who seemed, by the way, to be the only one present who was actually grieving the death of his master’s son rather than its consequences for himself — was genuinely overjoyed at the young man’s miraculous “resurrection.” He and I had been on good terms already, but I could tell immediately that I had gained another fiercely loyal ally in the person of Samuel Kroner.
Night brought a chill to the air, which was truly a blessing after the heat of the afternoon’s battle.
Horrible groans occasionally rumbled out from the field where the wounded Atalians were lying — men were begging for help or water. Some of the voices were particularly piercing.
We had plenty of similar voices in our own ranks, too. Riders were dispatched to the wagon train, and within a short time we could see a column headed toward us from the circled wagons, lit by torches and headed by Lada and Kaylinn Brinn. These two proceeded to work furiously and expertly to organize care for the wounded. The staff from the wagon train was kept busy for several hours transporting our dead and wounded.
The smell of blood and chilled earth hung in the air. It was mixed with the more pleasant smells of the forest and the lake. From time to time, a light breeze would bring the smell of roaring campfires toward us from our wagon circle. Just to keep things as difficult as possible for the Atalians, I had forbidden the lighting of campfires on the hill itself.
The darkness was thick, and as if to spite us, the sky soon filled with heavy clouds. I started to worry that the men would be soaked with rain by morning. The Glenns standing guard were reacting to every rustle they heard, ready at any moment to give the signal. The fury of battle slowly subsided, but there was still a certain tension in the air.
As I walked along the soldiers in their positions, I could hear their muffled conversations. The men were sharing their thoughts and worries following the battle. Mainly, they were excited about the next day and the division of spoils from the battlefield. Nobody expected the Atalians to attack again.
As I approached, the conversations would stop, and I would find every man’s eyes riveted on me, with a mix of admiration, excitement, fear, and respect in their expressions.
When I found myself among the “Last Chances,” however, one of the soldiers greeted me with a noticeably different look. There was no fear in his eyes. I looked closer. This soldier’s face was somehow familiar.
“Is that you, Viscount?” I asked once I finally recognized the man as André de Châtillon.
He replied with a stiff bow and answered in a firm voice:
“You have an excellent memory, Your Lordship.”
The conversations around us stopped immediately.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
I have to admit it: seeing him present in the ranks of the “Last Chances” was a massive surprise to me. Especially since he wasn’t in a commanding role. The Viscount was standing shoulder to shoulder with the rank-and-file, which (in my mind, at least) was an unacceptable risk, especially given the circumstances.
Sure, I didn’t have especially fond feelings for him (a feeling that was certainly mutual), and his expression was one of stiff formality, but at the same time I knew that all that was of secondary importance at best. There was a more important task at hand.
First and foremost, André de Châtillon was an excellent swordsman and rider, a man who had been preparing for a military career since childhood. A professional of this caliber shouldn’t be in the ranks with the rest of the infantry. His skills and experience could — no, they must — be used for other things. I was already thinking about the possibilities as he began to speak.
“It’s a long story, Monsieur,” he chuckled.
I also noticed that the Viscount de Châtillon wasn’t trying to burn a hole through me with hate-filled eyes like he had been the last time we met. There was no hatred in his eyes at all; neither, for that matter, was there any of the awe that was etched into the faces of his comrades as they stared at me. And the Viscount clearly wasn’t afraid of me. He looked somehow indifferent, even excessively calm.
“I hope you won’t refuse me the opportunity to hear your story over lunch,” I said politely, before adding with a gesture to the scene around us: “Once this is all over, of course.”
“I would be honored,” the Viscount replied with a bow.
* * *
Morning revealed a horrifying scene spread out before us. The battlefield was thickly strewn with the bodies of men and their horses. Their once-bright and colorful clothing (all the nobles were dressed as if they were headed to a fancy holiday picnic) was slathered with mud and blood. Weapons, arrows, torn banners, and shards of shields and spears were lying everywhere.
Drawn in by the smell of death, the carrion birds in the sky only added to the gloominess of the whole morning. Here and there, groups of badly-wounded Atalians had gathered together for warmth; admittedly, they all threw their weapons aside immediately at our approach. They were all keen to surrender. I couldn’t see any Atalian forces on the other side of the field.
Soon, I could see our soldiers moving through the remnants of our field fortifications and down onto the slope. The blood-soaked mud was soon squelching beneath their feet. The collection and distribution of trophies was about to begin. I had ordered a careful count of the fallen.
In the distance, I could see the Atalian baggage train, which had been abandoned right where it stood, in the spot where the enemy force had assembled prior to their attack. True, it had been pilfered to some extent; its owners had taken whatever they could with them, as evidenced by the items strewn all over the ground and the total absence of any horses. Our riders were already galloping off to investigate. It seemed unlikely that the Atalians could have brought very much with them at all. Which was very good news for us.
Despite our triumph, the atmosphere was sullen. At the top of the gently-sloping hill, I ordered a mass grave dug for our fallen, and work on it was already underway. The Atalians would soon be doing the same — at least those of them who could still move around. But their men would be buried at the foot of the hill.
I knew that ordering the corpses to be thrown in without any ceremony would be pointless — nobody would want to comply. And my reputation would suffer considerably. No matter how much of a hurry we might be in, these things had to be done properly.
By midday, we already had a pretty good idea of how many losses had been incurred by both sides. Despite the successful breakthrough by the Atalian knights, we had only lost about 170 soldiers. I say “only” because to be honest, I had been expecting a lot more.
The “Last Chances” suffered the majority of those losses. Baron Reese’s archers didn’t lose a single man, since the enemy was focused so intently on the legionaries in front of them. We had about three times as many wounded as dead — counting everyone, badly wounded and lightly wounded alike. Thanks to my intervention, not a single one of our badly-wounded men ended up dying.
In contrast to us, the Atalians had suffered heavy losses. And that’s putting it mildly. The count was still underway by midday, but it had already passed 700. And that was just dead — there were many wounded still on the field.
Furthermore, many of the dead were aristocrats and commanders. The Marquis di Spinola was among them, judging by the armor and cloak on one of the corpses we found. There would be few, if any, leaders left in their force. Although actually, maybe “force” is a bit of a misnomer. The fact that they had plundered their own wagon train spoke volumes.
* * *
“So, ladies and gentlemen — what now?” I asked as I looked around at the assembled commanders and nobles. “I’d like to hear your thoughts and suggestions regarding the situation that’s developed.”
It was near evening, and I had invited them all to my tent for a discussion. Among them were Samuel Kroner, Baron Reese, Gaston Laforte, two barons from the Viscount de Leval’s entourage (the Viscount himself was lying on a cot, still unconscious), and Samira Clemand. I knew it wasn’t really necessary to invite Samira, but I wanted witnesses to what was about to happen.
Everyone present exchanged morose glances. The mood was somber, because we had had a chance to talk to the captive Atalians — common soldiers as well as high-ranking aristocrats. And what they told us was enough to thoroughly ruin my comrades’ mood. Samuel Kroner spoke first.
“So there’s no Blood Fever outbreak after all...” He said, rubbing his forehead. “The Golden Lion has lured our armies into a trap...”
“We need to join up with Marshal de Clairmont!” The red-haired Baron d’Ardant shouted.
He was immediately seconded by his friend, the Baron de Saladens.
“We need to warn the Marshal about this trap!” He shouted. “We’re ready to leave right now! We still have a chance to avert a catastrophe.”
All the others turned to stare at the two men as if they were idiots.
“I’m afraid that if the prisoners’ reports are accurate, His Grace already knows about the trap that’s been set for him,” said Kroner, before turning to address the captain of the “Last Chances.” “I admit it, Laforte: you were right. The Marquis di Spinola’s force was sent to cut our legions off from their line of supply.”
Laforte replied with a wide smile and a slight bow of his head, obviously appreciating the compliment.
“Gentlemen!” Baron d’Ardant shouted again, this time jumping up into the air slightly. “I must insist that we go back the way we came and move to reunite with the legions under the Duke de Clairmont! We need to hurry!”
Baron de Saladens jumped up immediately after him and glared around at us as if daring someone to object.
“Your Worship,” said Kroner. “With all possible respect, how do you imagine we would do that? First of all, we’ve got huge numbers of wounded. We won’t be able to move quickly. And that’s without even addressing the fact that such a journey would kill many of them. Second, our supplies simply aren’t sufficient for the journey, even with everything we took from the Atalians. And third, we simply won’t be able to rejoin the rest of the army in time. The Golden Lion’s legions will reach us first, and then they’ll just close us inside the encirclement as well. And that’s a meeting we’re not prepared for at all.”
“We should continue to Gondreville, like we planned from the start,” said Laforte. Kroner seconded him with a nod.
The young barons exchanged glances, and the Ardant thrust his chin into the air as he announced:
“Well then, we’ll do it ourselves! Duty requires us to report this impending catastrophe to our commander!”
And without waiting for a word of reply, the barons rushed out of my tent.
“Stubborn as a horse’s ass...” Laforte snickered to himself. I could hear him say it. But I pretended I couldn’t. Especially since I completely agreed with him.
“Is everyone still in agreement with the previous plan?” I asked.
The reply was a resounding “yes,” almost in unison. True, Samira didn’t say anything. But her assent wasn’t necessary anyway.
“I have a question,” said Laforte. There was a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “And I suppose the answer concerns us all, not just me. The Viscount de Leval is wounded, and we need a leader... I think that given the developing situation, and so as to forestall any turbulence in our legionaries’ ranks, the correct thing to do would be to ask you, Your Lordship, to temporarily assume command of our force.”
The commander of the “Legion of Last Chances” stood up and bowed. Kroner and Baron Reese followed suit.
“I second this request, Your Lordship,” said the legionary captain with a bow.
Hilaire Reese didn’t say anything. He just bowed.
I didn’t really have a choice — I agreed to take command.
We spent the following hour discussing our next steps. But our little council’s session was soon interrupted by the sound of signal horns. The characteristic, dissonant harmony warned that enemies were approaching.
A few moments later, Gunnar came rushing into the tent.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“One of the pickets says an enemy force is moving toward us from the mountains,” said Gunnar.
We exchanged glances, and Laforte began to laugh:
“A welcome party from the locals.”
“You think?” Kroner asked.
“It couldn’t be anyone else,” said the captain of the “Last Chances.” “I wonder what they want. Do they really think they’re going to slink off with our trophies? Heh, let them try!”
We walked out of the tent and up to the top of the hill. The usual hustle and bustle was on full display in the camp. Sergeants were chasing their subordinates up to the positions at the top of the hill.
“See? What did I tell you!” Laforte exclaimed as he stared off toward the distant mountains, from which we could see a sizable armed force approaching us.
“A cohort, at the very least,” said Kroner, eyes narrowed.
He was right. As we watched the mountain-dwellers approach, I counted approximately 400 infantry in dark-green cloaks, with spears and halberds in their hands.
The mountain men moved confidently and decisively. That wasn’t too surprising, given that this land was their home.
Once they wound their way around the lake, they approached the edge of the field and started to get into formation to the tune of shouting from their commanders. A moment later, a long flagpole rose into the air from within their ranks, with a white flag at the end.
“They want to negotiate,” I said. “Well, let’s see what they need.”