Vaelin reined in and watched the unfolding spectacle. Whoever had command of the Volarian horse was evidently quick in recognising a hopeless cause; assailed on three sides by horse archers and outnumbered into the bargain. Trumpets sounded amidst the roiling companies and they drew back, striking out for the only open ground to the south. The Eorhil, however, were not done.
Sanesh Poltar kept his contingent on the Volarian right flank whilst the two other wings continued to assail their rear and left, the arrows falling in a continuous rain, claiming ever more cavalrymen and horses. Vaelin watched the mobile battle fade towards the south as the North Guard and Orven’s men galloped past to join in the deathblow.
He turned Flame and trotted towards the hill where the Realm Guard were still standing in ranks. Their discipline held until his face came into view, whereupon they broke, running towards him with a great cheer, clustering around, joy and relief on every face. He nodded to them, smiling tightly at the babble of acclaim, nudging Flame forward until they came to the hill where a lone figure stood below a tall banner. He broke free from the clustering soldiers and guided Flame up the slope.
“Sorry, brother,” he said, dismounting at Caenis’s side. “I had hoped to get here sooner . . .”
He fell silent at the look on his brother’s face, eyes glaring amidst the dirt-covered visage of a man who had known nothing but battle and torment for weeks. “This all happened,” he said, the words spoken in a coarse echo of the voice Vaelin had known since childhood, “because you left us.”
Adal’s scouts brought news of three battalions of Volarian infantry to the west. It seemed the Volarian commander had split his force in his eagerness to finish the Realm Guard. Vaelin ordered the Eorhil to cut off their line of retreat and sent word to Count Marven ordering him to crush the enemy force with all dispatch. Time they were blooded.
“Five regiments,” Caenis reported in a clipped voice, the tones used by a subordinate to a superior, lacking familiarity or affection. “Or what remains of them. The Thirty-fifth is the most numerous with a third of its men still standing.”
“Is it true?” Vaelin asked. “About Darnel?”
Caenis gave a short nod. “We were drawn up for battle, the Volarians coming on in strength. When Darnel’s knights appeared we thought it a deliverance. There was no warning, they just trotted within a few hundred paces of the left flank and charged, smashing it to pieces. As of that moment we were undone. The men stood though, every regiment stood and fought, most to the death. I don’t have the words to do them justice. Lord Verniers might, if he still lives.”
“Verniers?” Vaelin asked. “The Alpiran Emperor’s chronicler. He was there?”
“At the King’s command. Grist for his history of the Realm.” Caenis met his gaze for the first time since their meeting on the hill. “He had an interesting story to tell and many questions, especially about our time in the Order.”
“What did you tell him?”
“No more than you did, I suspect.”
“How did you get away?”
“We rallied, launched a counter at the Volarian centre. I gambled their general would be careful enough of his own person to halt the advance and gather forces to his defence. As luck had it, I was right.”
“Your men are alive thanks to you, brother.”
“Not all, we lost many on the march.”
“Gallis? Krelnik?”
“Krelnik during the countercharge. Gallis in the retreat.”
Vaelin wanted to offer some words of commiseration, share memories of the grizzled veteran and the former climbing outlaw, but Caenis had taken his gaze away, staring rigidly ahead once more. “I regret asking you to march again so soon,” Vaelin said. “But we have business at Alltor.”
His brother’s expression didn’t change. “As my lord commands.”
Is this how it will be from now on? Vaelin wondered. Brotherhood turned to hate by lost Faith?
His gaze was drawn by the sound of drumming hooves as Nortah rode into their makeshift camp at the gallop, Snowdance loping in his wake. Perhaps this will lighten his mood, Vaelin thought as Nortah leapt from the saddle, striding towards Caenis with a broad grin.
“You are dead,” Caenis greeted him with a smile, his lack of surprise confirming Vaelin’s long-held suspicion his tale of Nortah’s supposed demise had never been believed by his brothers.
Nortah just laughed and enfolded Caenis in a warm embrace. “It’s a great thing to see you, brother. Your niece and nephew have long wanted to meet you.”
Caenis drew back a little as Snowdance padded closer, sniffing curiously. “Don’t mind her,” Nortah said. “We found some more slavers today so she’s well-fed.”
“We’ve solved your weapon-supply problem,” Vaelin told him, pointing towards the dark mound of bodies to the south. The Eorhil didn’t understand the concept of prisoners, war was a matter of absolutes to them, shorn of restraint or misplaced compassion, though they had been careful to spare as many horses as possible.
“Might be an idea if they left some alive in future,” Nortah commented. “Dead men have no stories to tell.”
“I’d hazard we’ll have a few storytellers in hand tomorrow.”
Count Marven had taken no chances with the Volarian infantry, sealing the flanks with his cavalry whilst the archers weakened them with successive volleys. The full army was unleashed when he judged the enemy sufficiently decimated. The Volarian host consisted of one battalion of Free Swords and two of Varitai. Predictably, the Free Swords were the most keen to surrender whilst the Varitai had to be slaughtered to a man. Even then there were only a handful of prisoners, most of them wounded.
“No officers,” the count reported to Vaelin. “Highest rank amongst them seems to be a sergeant, or whatever they call a sergeant.”
He gave an irritated glance over at Fief Lord Darvus’s twin grandsons as one of them shouted in pain, his brother attempting to stitch a cut on his forearm.
“Didn’t piss their breaches then?” Vaelin asked quietly.
“Hardly. No holding those two, my lord. Bravery they have in abundance.” He dropped his voice. “Brains, however . . .”
“My lords,” Vaelin called to the twins. “Best take yourselves off to Brother Kehlan’s tent.”
The two lords rose and bowed with their customary uniformity, the one on the left voicing their response. Vaelin had noted he was the only one who spoke, possibly in order to prevent them speaking in unison. “More grievously injured men require the healer’s attentions, my lord. A true knight would not trouble him over a trifle.”
“Clearly, your experience with true knights is limited. Your grandfather won’t thank me if you return having lost limbs to festered stitching.” He nodded at the tent flap. “Get you gone.”
“We collected more than enough weapons for the Free Company, my lord,” Brother Hollun reported when the twins had left. “In fact, we should have enough for six such companies.”
“Our losses?” Vaelin asked.
“Thirty-five killed, sixty wounded,” the brother responded with his usual lack of hesitancy.
“Would’ve been less if the freed folk hadn’t joined in,” Count Marven said. “Hate makes people careless of their lives, I suppose.”
“Nevertheless it was well done, my lord,” Vaelin told him. “Brother Harlick has been drawing up maps of Alltor and the surrounding country. I should like you to take a look, judge our best line of approach.”
The Nilsaelin gave a hesitant bow of assent. Their time in Linesh had made the man wary of him, Vaelin knew, and in his turn he had distrusted the count’s obvious desire for martial distinction. Now though, circumstance made such concerns seem trifling. “I . . . am pleased to enjoy your trust, my lord,” Marven replied.
The prisoners were no different from any other group of defeated men Vaelin had seen over the years. Eyes full of fear, gaze downcast and wary of drawing attention as they shuffled under his scrutiny.
“They’re all fairly ignorant and barely literate,” Harlick reported. “Volarian education is notoriously poor. People are expected to teach themselves whatever they need to know. This lot know how to fight and follow orders. How to rape and murder too, no doubt. But they’re somewhat close-lipped about their prior exploits in the Realm, as you might expect.”
“Do they know the name of the man who commands their army?” Vaelin asked.
Like Brother Hollun, Harlick had no need to consult notes or pause before providing a response. “General Reklar Tokrev. A red-clad, as they usually are. Distinguished veteran of several border clashes with the Alpirans and renowned commander of numerous expeditions against the northern tribes. I have to say, I find the list of his achievements a little improbable since one of the campaigns he supposedly led took place over seventy years ago.”
“Any news of Alltor?”
“They’ve never heard of the place. Seems they were sent after the Realm Guard before the general marched on Cumbrael. I . . . doubt they have anything else to offer, my lord.”
