Kellanved's Reach

Prevost Jeral wasn’t assured, but she did note how all the troops nearby smiled in response to Orjin’s loud and confident laugh. He knows what he is doing, this one.

We just have to keep him alive, then.

‘Set the horns to call order, prevost,’ he told her, and started walking.

The Talians had chosen their ground as well as they could, given the flat domesticated countryside of fields and orchards. They occupied a crossroads – the stout Talian military roads being built up above the surrounding fields. Concentric circles of shieldwalls faced Orjin and his troops as they closed in.

He drew his longsword, its grip manufactured with enough extension for a hand and a half. He eschewed a shield, blocking instead with the sword, when necessary.

The Quon Talian infantry stood their ground. Their bronze shield-edges scraped as they adjusted their footing. Somewhere within that rough circle waited its core – men and women in the black tabard of the Iron Legion. Personally, Orjin was not all that impressed; he didn’t think this new corps would in any way be as formidable or hard-bitten as the old imperial force.

He picked up his pace as he closed, sword rising. He now kicked through the stiff brittle stalks of a harvested field, barley or rye. A war-shout was growing deep within his chest, both to intimidate his opponents, and to stoke his own fighting rage.

To his right, Orhan loosed his own shattering war-bellow; he had set aside his tall poleaxe for a mace in each hand, while on Orjin’s left Arkady had out two long-knives for thrusting in the chest-to-chest brawl that was to come.

They struck with a bone-jarring crash and all planning or consciousness of the larger engagement fled Orjin’s mind as he gave himself over to the animal ferocity of killing. Enemy faces screamed at him over shields, some eyes slit, others wide. Teeth were bared in grimaces of rage, or of agony.

Through it all he swung and bashed, exultant at the very fact of still being alive, until the troops to either side of him rebounded suddenly as if from a stone barrier; they faced now a solid wall of blackened rectangular shields emblazoned with a simple circle, or crown, of silver. Above the shields cool eyes regarded them, the gaze of those long inured to battle.

This pause allowed Orjin to raise his head and study the battle, and he saw that despite his hopes of allowing an opening to the rear of the enemy for them to retreat or break, his troops had washed round the much smaller force completely. He raised a fist for a halt, and Orhan lent his war-bellow to the order, ringing out, ‘Cease!’

The two forces eyed one another across the short gap of a few paces, one a tiny dot of black surrounded by thousands. Breathing heavily, Orjin cleaned his blade, sheathed it, and approached. A fellow in a black tabard over a long mail coat slipped out of the shieldwall to meet him.

Calm now, Orjin could see that every face belonged to a lined and seamed veteran. Some were clean-shaven, others carried grey beards braided in the decades-old style. All were calm, some even smiling.

The legionnaire who met him was a compact fellow no taller than Orjin’s shoulder; his thin hair was brush-cut to a grey stubble, his face sun- and wind-darkened to a deep umber brown, and his eyes, like those of Orjin, a bright glacial blue. His tabard was threadbare, yet clean and much mended – stored reverently for decades, no doubt.

Orjin inclined his head to the veteran. ‘You’ve made your point, oldster. There’s no need to continue. You may quit the field with pride.’

‘It is you who should quit the field, lad. Go back north, or we will break you.’

‘No. Not this time, I think. Stand down, please.’

The oldster shook his head. ‘No. There is no standing down. You don’t understand.’

Orjin raised his face to the sun and wind, let out a long breath. ‘Yes. I do understand. Once more you’ve answered the call. Once more you’ve set down your shovels and hoes and you feel the weight of armour at your shoulders, the heft of your weapon at your hip. But most important – once more you stand together as in the old days, shoulder to shoulder.’

The veteran had started nodding as Orjin spoke, and now he eyed him narrowly. ‘You do understand. Then you know what must be done?’

Orjin gave one slow nod of assent. ‘Yes – though I wish it were not so.’

The oldster saluted him and slipped back into the ranks of the shieldwall.

Orjin returned to his troops. Orhan sent him a questioning look he would not meet. He peered down the curved line of massed troops, right and left, then raised his sword, held it poised, then dropped it forward.