Kellanved's Reach

After six days of continuous marching – pursuing the shifting forces of Gris and its diminishing allies – the army of the Bloorian League reached a halt. Gregar was beyond caring by this point. He knew they’d doubled back upon themselves at least twice while the opposing knights and nobles jostled and manoeuvred for an advantageous field position. He was so foot-sore and tired all he wanted to do was sleep.

This morning he had his wish, as no order to break camp rousted them before the dawn. Later, however, a Yellows trooper stuck his head into their tent and announced, ‘This looks like it.’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ Gregar groaned from his heaped straw and ratty blankets.

‘Now you’re getting it,’ Leah called from across the tent.

The drums to muster came soon after. Before pushing aside the flap of the tent Gregar made certain of the rag wraps at his feet, legs, and hands against the cold. Haraj appeared then, dragging himself from his blanket; the skeletally lean fellow looked even worse for wear than he.

‘This ain’t the life for you,’ Gregar told him.

Haraj nodded dejectedly. ‘Maybe we’ll see them today,’ he croaked, coughing.

‘Who?’

‘What do you mean, who? The Crimson Guard, of course.’

Gregar pulled the lad outside with him. ‘Let’s try to get something to eat.’ As they walked, he whispered, fierce, ‘No more talk about the Guard, okay? Everyone would laugh.’

‘You still want to join though, right?’

Gregar winced, and peered round to make certain no one was within hearing. ‘Look – it was a dream, okay? Just a dream. Now it’s time to grow up. You should go, though. This isn’t for you.’

The skinny youth shivered and coughed anew. ‘They’ll take you, I’m sure.’

Gregar shook his head ruefully. ‘Thanks, but things like that just don’t happen.’

They joined a line, and when they reached the front a portion of hard bread was thrust at them. They returned to their squad’s tent, gnawing on the rations. Haraj had been eyeing him, and now he said, ‘I don’t think I’ll make it on my own.’

Gregar sighed. He’s right about that. ‘Fine. You got me out of Gris – I’ll get you to them.’

‘Thanks.’

Leah was waiting outside the tent, glaring. ‘Where have you two been? Get your gear. Marching orders.’

Haraj sagged. ‘Not more marching.’

Leah snapped up a spear. ‘Marching to battle this time. Let’s go.’

Gregar’s regiment was formally the Second Yellows; he and Haraj were assigned to the Fourth Company, Seventh Lights. While Baron Ordren of Yellows formally commanded, the noble considered such duties to be beneath him as they would take him away from his beloved cavalry, so direct command fell to a veteran soldier, a commoner, Captain Rialla of Bloor. Sergeant Teigan ran the Fourth Company, and the colours Gregar carried were those of the Fourth.

Once column was formed, Teigan handed Gregar the tall pike with its limp yellow banner secured just behind its iron dagger-like head. Then the sergeant marched them to their field position, which proved to be a hillock in a broad meadow between two steeper forested hills. He had the company spread in lines four deep to block any path across the clearing.

Down-slope before them lay the agreed upon field of battle proper – a wide stretch of pasture and meadow with a meagre stream winding between. Only a few small copses and a couple of wretched crofters’ thatched hovels looked to impede the nobles’ charges. Early morning mist pooled in the lowlands and lay like banners across fields. Regiments raised by other Bloorian nobles, such as those of Larent and Netor, marched in column to their positions. The early slanting morning light flashed from spearheads and helmets, while the nobles trotted their mounts to marshalling grounds. Gregar had to admit they were a pretty lot in their mail coats and leggings, and long flowing tabards. Far away, close to a distant treeline, the Grisian forces arranged themselves into lines and massed cavalry as well.

On the left flank a swift column of cavalry caught his eye. Long pennants of a dark red flowed above them as they charged to a new position, and from those rippling banners flashed silver as well – the colours of the Crimson Guard.

Too far off, and moving too fast anyway.

In the Fourth’s lines, Gregar was standing front and centre with his pike and he considered their position far too exposed. When Teigan paced by, inspecting the lines, he called to the sergeant, ‘Shouldn’t we form square?’

The sergeant swung round, his thick black brows rising. ‘Oho – got us a regular military scientist amongst us.’ He halted, hands on hips, just in front of Gregar. ‘Graduated from the officer academy, did you? Years of soldiering experience, have you?’ Several in the lines sniggered at the suggestion.

Gregar just gave him a look. He motioned to the lines. ‘What are we supposed to be doing here? Watching?’