LORD RIVA
THE SARASINIAN 5th ARMY
SOUTHERN AHRENIA
NEAR BORDIS
In the cool darkness of pre-dawn, Riva watched his commanders go about the laborious task of assembling soldiers into ranks. Once in position, men whetted blades and shrugged into mail shirts. Some warmed cold muscles by jogging or jumping in place, while others practiced overlapping their shields. In all likelihood there would be little else to do for many hours yet.
Crews were still working on Virgilio’s defensive trench, a jagged scar that stretched over a mile across their front. The channel doubled as a toilet, though only for officers. Ordinary spearmen had to stay in formation and so were forced to relieve themselves where they stood. The lines stank accordingly.
Virgilio’s deployment of their forces reflected his confidence. Shunning the protection of the marching camp, he sited his pavilion on the grassy knolls that bordered the western edge of the battlefield. He would direct the conflict from there, assisted by a small army of runners. Outcroppings protected his position on three sides, with woods and thickets below ideal for concealing men. As the main body assembled, he used their movement as a cover to shift some of his reserves there. The remainder he left in camp, ready to be deployed if or when they were needed.
Nestled inside the muddy banks of a wide brook, the Candran and Romelian troops comprised the army’s left wing. In addition to protecting against flank attacks, the brook would keep them supplied with valuable water. The provincials themselves were hardy, seasoned fighters, though considered inferior races by Sarasinians. Shorter in stature compared to northerners, and with little armour aside from iron helmets and padded jackets, they would probably suffer most of the casualties. Even so, they waited, watching the front with characteristic indifference.
The Sarasinian elite occupied the centre. Unblooded youths in front and veterans behind, their lines of purple and silver bristled with the banners of every great southern house and more besides. All wore mail shirts, breastplates, helmets, greaves and vambraces. Fanatical and arrogant beyond redemption, the youngsters sang and cheered, waving their colours with great passion. Green they might be, but they were raised to war and every bit as lethal as the veterans.
On the right, Riva’s Herenians completed the line. A mixture of older and younger men, veterans and novices, there was nothing particularly eye-catching about them. Favouring drab colours and content to stand in silence, they were closest to the provincial soldiers in temperament. That said, their gear was more like the Sarasinians and they could be counted on to fight with equal ferocity.
The ground shook as squads of archers, slingers and cavalry moved into position. Most of the horsemen wore purple, but the banner of Herena was there too, fluttering in the breeze. The archers arranged themselves well in front of the infantry, planting arrows point-first in the soil. Slingers found space behind them, turning out sacks to make piles of stones and lead bullets.
Dawn came, and the Ahren host swelled. Virgilio’s scouts had estimated facing forty or fifty thousand men, but it was becoming apparent they were up against considerably more. Riva felt a small pang of fear at the length of their front line. He fretted about the trench along his flank not being sufficient to keep from being skirted, but then a note came down from the general’s knoll. Everything looked good, Virgilio wrote, and all Riva needed to do was hold formation. He felt much better for the reassurance, and even managed to eat some boiled beef.
The sun began its slow ascent. Pale yellow rays streamed across the plain, falling on the backs of the enemy and reflected by myriad spear blades and helms. It was a sight to make any warrior’s breath catch in his throat, no doubt, but it was also a considerable handicap for the southerners. No matter which way he angled his head, Riva couldn’t face forward and avoid the glare at the same time. Putting the sun in their enemies’ eyes was one of the few things the Ahren had gotten right. If it would make a real difference to the outcome of the battle, though, he strongly doubted.
Time passed, and the enemy continued to mass. Men arrived on horseback and, seemingly unconcerned with forming up in any discernible pattern, dismounted wherever they could find room. Now perhaps around seventy thousand strong, the Ahren host was so large that from afar it looked like swarming insects. The longer Riva watched, the more certain he became of their strategy. There would be no cavalry thrusts or shock troops. No feints, no false charges, no tricks. They would simply come screaming down the field in a human wave, trusting in numbers to carry the day. It would be something to see, but not the sort of approach that would defeat a League army. The Ahren had obviously learned nothing from past engagements.
Somewhere around mid-morning, after the sacrifice of a bull and twelve sheep, an Ahren rider brought an offer to parley. Accompanied by Virgilio and some senior officers, Riva rode out into the space between the two armies. It was mostly tall grass and weeds, but they passed a few stunted shrubs and even some patches of wild cana.
The Ahren notables who met them were also on horseback. The first to be introduced was the Eratii chieftain, Secreen, a round-shouldered, sour-faced man in his mid-forties. After him came Baros of the Ulse, bear-like in stature and with a salt and pepper beard down to his waist. He was probably the same age as Secreen. There was also Julanten of the Cimal, a gaunt fellow of at least eighty. Riva didn’t think he weighed even half as much as Baros, and his eyes were so far apart he looked like a mantis. A black mask covered the lower half of his face.
Virgilio spoke no Ahren, so Riva offered to translate. The general, however, showed very little interest in learning his opponents’ names. He even cut formalities short by curtly telling Riva to go ahead and introduce him so they could finally get down to fighting.
“You are in the presence of General Renaldo Diemoz Virgilio, also known as the Lion,” said Riva, indicating the general. “A lord of Sarasinia. He leads the Fifth Army on behalf of the League. And I am Isidris Riva, son of Erbis, and the archon of Herena. The officers with us are–”
Julanten cut him off. “We know who you are.” His mask–or perhaps a lack of teeth–made him sound like he was talking around a mouthful of pebbles.
“Yes,” said Secreen, giving Riva a sour look. “A poisonous southern lapdog and his master. Were I you, I’d return whence I came.”
Riva looked at Virgilio, who frowned. “With respect,” he told the chieftains, “I don’t think so.”
Secreen stared past him. “Hmpf. No matter. We have warriors enough to kill you a thousand times over. Before that, you’ll send your champions to fight ours. Agreed or no?”
“Agreed.”
Secreen snorted. “I was expecting otherwise.”
“No. They’ll fight.”
“Hmpf,” said Secreen again, and then he gestured at a trio of servants. Each carried a wooden tray with an item on it.
“Gifts,” said Baros. “As is our custom.”
“Many thanks,” said Riva, accepting a silver figurine. “Is this Owic?”
“The same,” said Baros, bowing in the saddle. “I thought you might appreciate it.”
“Well given.”
Virgilio received two gifts, the first being a copper mirror and the other a small pair of tweezers. “I get it,” he said. “Implying that I’m a woman? How amusing. Tell them it will come back to haunt them.”
Riva did as he was asked, but received no response. He waved a hand and one of Virgilio’s officers distributed the gifts he’d brought for their counterparts.
“A fine blade,” said Baros, unsheathing his new dagger. “Well given.”
Julanten received his blade without enthusiasm, and Secreen tossed his at some nameless member of his entourage without so much as looking at it.
“Aren’t you going to tell them they’re for cutting their own throats?” asked Virgilio.
“If you wish,” said Riva, though he didn’t see the point. In any event, he didn’t get the chance.
“Enough of this farce,” said Secreen, clearly out of patience. “We go.”
“Aye,” said Julanten. At his gesture, men ran the servants through with spears and left them to die on the ground, twisting in agony.
Virgilio looked at Riva, who simply shrugged and said, “Probably an attempt to unnerve us?”
Virgilio laughed. “It didn’t work.”
Secreen noted his reaction, then turned his horse around and rode off. The other chieftains and their retainers followed.
Noon, and the Ahren sent out their champions, five in all. Not an impressive number by any means, but they walked out to the sound of tens of thousands cheering and beating weapons against shields. The noise gradually subsided, replaced by an ancient song of clannish pride and defiance: The Ahren. Every note carried across the field with perfect clarity, and its haunting refrain made the hair on the back of Riva’s neck stand on end. The League considered The Ahren seditious, and so it was banned. He wondered how many Herenians were following along in their heads; the penalty for singing it out loud was hanging.
The Ahren champions stopped about four hundred paces away, roughly halfway between the two armies and beyond the range of southern bows. They made exaggerated gestures, shouting for anyone brave enough to take them on in single combat.
The Fifth offered five contenders of its own, accompanied by wild applause as they left the lines, and also by the Sarasinians singing The Sword of Sarasin. Like The Ahren, it was a song to stir the blood, although they weren’t even a quarter of the way through it when the enemy started up again and drowned them out. Unsporting though it was, and an ill omen into the bargain, the Sarasinians didn’t seem to care. They simply kept going. Their earlier blood sacrifices had been interpreted favourably, and what enemies chose to do before battle was of no consequence. In their minds, they had already won.
As previously arranged, Nohrt had the honour of representing the men of Herena. He went out with his polished armour gleaming, attended by shouted encouragement. He waved to his supporters with no trace of trepidation in his bearing, and when he jumped down into the trench it was only a moment before he was out again on the other side. Though the thing must have been as deep as he was tall, he made it look like no obstacle at all. Riva felt pride, but also envy. What wouldn’t he give to be a warrior even half as fearless and capable as Nohrt?
The other duellists followed. It was never a challenge to pick Mozga out of a crowd. He was the tallest man in the Fifth, and the only leading warrior who wore neither helm nor mail shirt. He carried a greatsword in one hand and Virgilio’s yellow pennant in the other. Two Sarasinians flanked him, though Riva would have been hard pressed to put names to them. The provincial troops offered no champions, not due to cowardice but because Virgilio had forbidden their participation. The greater part of the glory must always be reserved for southern masters.
Before the fighters from both sides met, Mozga stopped to push Virgilio’s pennant into the soil. The move prompted enthusiastic chatter from the archers, and Riva caught the words two hundred paces. You didn’t have to be too sharp to know they were talking about the distance at which a steel point would punch through mail armour. Not that many of the Ahren were wearing mail, of course. And the yellow pennant meant nothing to slingers, most of whom could put down lethal lead shot from eight hundred paces away and further.
The duels began with little preamble. At least from where he stood, Riva had a mostly decent view. At four hundred paces, it wasn’t possible to hear whatever conversation passed between Mozga and his opponent, but an exchange of words clearly took place. Then the Ivarian stepped away, drew his sword, and cut the air with it a few times. The other man, who carried a similar weapon, did the same. The two swapped words again, perhaps, after which Mozga closed the distance with a single stride, swinging his blade with both hands in a huge downward arc. The Ahren met the attack with the flat of his sword, but Mozga’s heavier weapon knocked it back against his body. The man ducked away, perhaps disconcerted by such an inauspicious beginning. Or maybe he was unfazed; it was difficult to tell.
Mozga gestured at his opponent to attack. The Ahren obliged, and Mozga parried with apparent ease. Undeterred, the Ahren planted his feet and brought his sword around hard. Mozga, unwilling to risk his blade, stepped out of the way. As the blow whipped past, Riva expected Mozga to lunge and skewer the man. He didn’t, perhaps because the Ahren quickly darted beyond his reach. He was impressively quick. Mozga chased, the man whirled around, and the Ivarian barely got his blade up in time to save his neck. Steel met steel with a ringing crash. Mozga came off second best, stumbling backward. The Ahren launched a frenzied attack, no doubt eager to rid himself of the Ivarian as quickly as possible. He moved well, but try as he might he could not break Mozga’s defence. Wherever he was, so was the Ivarian’s sword.
“Ease up,” said Riva under his breath. It was hard to watch without wincing, because sooner or later one of those blades was going to snap. It must have concerned the Ahren as well, because he broke off his attack. The two men stopped, gesturing and tossing their heads as if speaking again.
The Ahren then did the most stupid thing imaginable: he pushed the point of his sword into the ground and leaned on it. Mozga wasted no time in taking advantage. The Ivarian was big, but he was also fast, and as the point of his blade raced towards his opponent’s chest the Sarasinians let out a roar of victory.
“Got him!” shouted a man ahead of Riva. “Yaaaaaa!”
But the Ahren’s ineptitude was a ploy, for his sword was suddenly in hand again and he swatted Mozga’s blade aside, stepped around, and cut. The Sarasinian cheering died as Mozga tottered away and the Ahren launched another lightning attack. He rained down blows that the Ivarian had serious trouble turning. At one point, the Ahren feigned a massive overhead blow, of the sort that could split a man in half down the middle. Riva half-expected to see Mozga’s sword jerk up in response, but he judged the northerner well and ignored him instead. Fortunate, because otherwise the fight might have been brought to a swift conclusion. He dodged several more of the man’s blows, then scuttled away with a hand pressed to his gut and his sword point dragging along the ground. The Ahren fighter sensed victory, and rushed in to deliver the killing blow. Behind the pair, the Fifth took a collective gasp.
But instead of being slaughtered, Mozga dropped his shoulder and charged. The northerner went sprawling, and although he recovered quickly, Mozga was faster. He brought his blade down on the Ahren’s mailed sword arm with all his strength and sent the weapon flying from his grasp. The man instinctively raised his other arm to defend himself, but Mozga cut him down in a torrent of blows. The Fifth erupted in joy; the Ahren host let out a groan of despair.
Mozga knelt beside his fallen opponent for a while, perhaps speaking with him. Then he stepped on the man’s arms and put the tip of his sword against his throat. The Ahren didn’t seem to struggle. Mozga knelt again after, and… caressed the man’s face? At this distance it wasn’t clear to Riva what he did, exactly. But then at last he bowed to the enemy host and began limping back to his own lines.
On seeing him go without claiming their champion’s possessions, the Ahren cheered him. Mozga turned once to salute them, and their applause redoubled. His movements grew increasingly laboured as he moved, and Riva wondered how badly he’d been injured.
He had little time to ponder. Nohrt fought his chosen opponent next, both men stepping up to batter at each other with axes and shields. The match was at first uneventful, with neither having much of an advantage. But then the Ahren booted Nohrt in the leg, and as Nohrt staggered back, the beards of their axes became entangled. Freeing them became a contest of brute strength, and during the back and forth the northerner let his shield arm drop. Nohrt’s reprimand was swift, the edge of his shield knocking his opponent’s helm sideways and no doubt rattling every tooth in his jaw. Nohrt then took his axe and dropped the man with a ferocious blow to the neck. The Fifth, and the men of Herena in particular, exploded in jubilation. The Ahren host stood in stony silence.
Nohrt raised his hands to the sky and shouted his victory. He was still celebrating when one of the remaining Ahren champions lunged at him with a spear. The point took him in the back, causing him to fall on his face. He got to his feet, angry and eager to get to grips with this new, impolite opponent. That man retreated while jabbing at Nohrt’s face and ankles. Nohrt sprinted at him, turning spear blows with his shield and swinging his axe overhand. The Ahren tried to block, but his spear shaft snapped and Nohrt’s axe ploughed into the front his helm. He plopped onto his arse, stunned, and Nohrt finished him off, caving his head in with heavy strikes.
Another man might have exulted in having killed two foes in quick succession, but not Nohrt. Instead, he chose to vent his fury at being attacked from behind. Whatever he said sparked the ire of the last two Ahren warriors, who came at him together. Neither seemed to notice the pair of Sarasinian champions moving to intervene. One brought a halberd down on the first, felling him instantly. The other used the beard of a great axe to sweep the other man’s feet out from underneath him, after which he hacked him apart. The halberdier then decapitated both men and Nohrt flung their heads at the Ahren lines.
The enemy host reacted with rage. By design or on impulse, the middle of their front line burst open and hundreds of men boiled out. Moments later, the rest of the army followed in a tangled mass of blades, beards and thrashing limbs. Nohrt and his companions ran, throwing away their shields and weapons to better make their escape.
“Shit,” said Riva, putting on his helm. The Fifth’s officers bellowed, and spearmen locked shields and lowered weapons. Ahead of them, archers put fingers to bowstrings, while slingers began loosing shot. “Shit.”
The real slaughter was about to begin.