Kellanved's Reach

‘Our orders are to deny this particular staging area to the enemy and cover our betters should they rally here.’ He looked Gregar up and down. ‘Is that acceptable or would you like more honey on that?’

‘So what do we do if the Grisians try to take the hill?’

Teigan motioned to the pike’s top. ‘You poke them with that pointy end until they fall down.’

Several in the lines nearby laughed. Gregar gave them all a sneering smile. Very funny.

Teigan moved on, saying, ‘Just stand your ground and they’ll veer off – trust me.’

Gregar watched him go, glowering, teeth clenched against what he’d like to say.

‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ Leah murmured from behind. ‘We’re just a sideshow. The nobles’ll decide things among themselves. They’re not gonna risk wounding their warhorses. Them beasts are worth way more than us.’

‘I thought you said the knights enjoyed riding us down.’

‘Ah. Well, only when they’ve got nothing better to do.’

Gregar turned to her; she looked too unhappy to be mocking. Wonderful.

Though possessing something of a privileged position from which to watch the proceedings, Gregar didn’t have the training or experience to really know what he was seeing. Massed cavalry of mailed knights and petty nobles shifted about, perhaps seeking some sort of advantage. Lightly armoured skirmishers from both sides flowed about the field, harassing one another. At one point a column of archers came hurrying through the Fourth’s lines on their way to a new position. Green cloth strips tied to their arms or round their necks identified them as Bloorians. They were a poor and scruffy lot indeed, in ragged shirts and pants – some were even barefoot.

In his outfit at least everyone had some sort of footgear, be it plain sandals, like his and Haraj’s. Thinking about it though, and peering round, Gregar had to admit that few possessed even one item of armour; most wore quilted cloth jackets stuffed with straw. A few, such as Leah, wore a soft leather hauberk, plain, or sewn with bronze rings. So he supposed those poor Bloorian archers were only a touch scruffier than they.

A distant rumbling of hooves announced two larger masses of mounted knights and nobles closing upon each other. These two misshapen groups milled about one another in a moving savage scrum. This free-for-all scrimmage then overran a nearby regiment of infantry and the poor sods who failed to scatter like geese went down beneath the horses’ hooves. Gregar was beginning to comprehend Leah’s dire warnings.

This mounted boiling melee roiled on randomly across the field, leaving behind in the churned mud fallen and trampled bodies. Infantry from both sides harried its edges, and each other.

Watching the maces and axes rising and falling freely, the mounts crashing into one another, Gregar allowed that at least these nobles knew their one and only trade – fighting.

Hooves crashing the ground behind their position brought Gregar and everyone round. A small group of knights was bearing down upon them from the rear. The Fourth scrambled to reverse, spears and pikes clattered into one another, a few panicked soldiers even tripped and fell. Teigan was bellowing non-stop, taking troopers by their shoulders and yanking them into position.

As the cavalry closed, the sergeant threw up his hands and ordered, ‘Make way! Make way for our lords!’ The Yellows troopers hesitantly parted and the ten knights reined in. ‘Guard the perimeter!’ Teigan then bellowed, and he took hold of the jesses of one mount, soothing the horse. ‘How goes the day, Lord Gareth?’ he asked.

This knight had seen fighting. His mount was steaming with sweat and was dappled in blood. His jupon was torn to rags about his mail coat; it might have once been a bright festive orange. The flanged mace hanging at his side was wet with blood and gore, even what looked like a tuft of human hair. He drew off his helmet and set it on the saddle’s pommel. He was an older fellow, his long sweat-matted hair shot with grey, his beard tied off in two long braided rat-tails. ‘The day goes well – so far. Damned thirsty work, sergeant. Have you any drink among you?’

‘Drink!’ Teigan barked. ‘Drink for Lord Gareth!’ A water skin was handed up to the fellow, who took a long pull then tossed it back to Teigan.

All this time the other knights constantly eyed the surroundings, their war-axes, picks and maces readied in their mailed hands. Gregar realized that these knights were a bodyguard, or the personal household troop of this Lord Gareth.

‘May Togg and Fanderay watch over you today, m’lord,’ Teigan said, releasing the mount.

Gareth put his open-faced helmet back on, chuckling. ‘And Fener too, hey?’ He heeled his mount and took off down the hillside, his troop chasing behind.

Leaning on his pike, Gregar turned to Leah. ‘Who in Burn’s name was that?’

The woman was staring after the lord, a strange expression on her face. ‘That? That was King Gareth of Vor. One of the three kings of the Bloorian League.’