The Dog of the North (18 page)

‘You, too, are allowed fear. Do not be fooled by Guigot’s assurance. None of us has repose tonight.’

‘I am not afraid, Father. How could the heir of Croad fear to defend his city?’

‘The same as any other man,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘We all advance along the Way, and the path is dark.’

Guigot interjected: ‘You will tell us Viator Sleech’s homily of the Humble Tailor and the Proud Knight next.’

‘Guigot, I allow you a degree of latitude tonight because we fight tomorrow, and whatever you say, no man is himself before his first battle,’ said Lord Thaume softly.
‘Nonetheless—’ this with a touch of steel ‘—I am your lord and your uncle. I will not tolerate disrespect.’

Guigot said nothing.

‘I myself do not attend the Viatory as much as I should, and perhaps do not give due weight to Sleech’s sermons. There are those who draw comfort from the Way at such times, and for
a fact Viator Sleech’s stout-coach is busy tonight. And of course there are those who would sooner hang themselves than take counsel from the viators, is that not so, Fleuraume?’

Fleuraume grinned. ‘Indeed it is, my lord. I am not the only man to follow the Wheel here – I reckon fully one man in four of your army has seen the light.’

‘That may be an exaggeration,’ said Lord Thaume, ‘but a man may choose his path along the Way as he sees fit, for he has but one life. Do not tell Viator Sleech I said
so!’

Fleuraume chuckled.

‘I have something to ask of you, Serjeant,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Oricien, Guigot, Arren: all are well-drilled and valiant, but they cannot imagine what tomorrow will be like. I
would regard it as a personal favour were you to keep an eye on them.’

‘I would do the same for any new recruit, my lord.’

‘And lads, the three of you must look out for each other. A man alone in battle dies in minutes, no matter how many comrades he has around him.’ Lord Thaume stood. ‘Arren,
would you care to step aside with me a moment?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Arren, puzzled. They made their way to a secluded part of camp.

‘You are not the only man whose father will be fighting alongside him tomorrow. You will not have time to worry about him, and he will not have time to worry about you.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘I must tell you that I have given Darrien the most dangerous assignment tomorrow. Tardolio’s men clearly outnumber us, but we have a slight advantage in cavalry. I wish to make that
advantage larger. Darrien will command the right wing, which will be made up mostly of pikemen. I must make that wing the weakest part of our line, because I wish Tardolio to try to break it. If he
smashes the right wing, he can attack our centre from the side. So I am tempting him to throw his cavalry against Darrien.’

Arren swallowed. It had never occurred to him that a soldier as experienced as Darrien could be endangered.

‘Darrien is the man I trust the most to hold the pikemen together. If he can scatter the cavalry that Tardolio throws at him, Sir Langlan will have a clear advantage in deploying my
cavalry. If the pikemen are routed, the flanks of the centre will be unprotected.’

Lord Thaume did not need to say that the centre was where Arren’s squadron would be fighting.

‘Sometimes a commander must give an order which puts valued comrades in grave danger. I have had to give such an order to your father. I do so because I would rather entrust our safety to
Darrien than to any other man in Croad, including Sir Artingaume. Whatever happens tomorrow, remember that.’

‘You think he will be killed, my lord.’

‘Do not misunderstand me, Arren. Our victory tomorrow depends on the pikemen holding, and I hope Darrien will be there to lead them throughout. What I am saying is that, even if I knew he
would be killed, I would still give him the order.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Sometimes the fighting is the easy part, Arren. Fight well tomorrow.’

9

By the time the sun came up, both Thaume and Tardolio were busy deploying their forces. The steppe was flat and featureless: there was no terrain to give advantage.
Thaume’s men were arrayed behind a series of ditches intended to slow Tardolio’s cavalry, but the ditches were few, since Thaume did not wish to impede the free play of his own superior
riders.

Thaume had deployed his infantry in the centre of his line, under the command of Sir Artingaume. Serjeant Fleuraume’s squadron, including Oricien, Guigot and Arren, was towards the front
of the ‘arrowhead’ formation. To the right was the small group of pikemen commanded by Darrien, positioned both to tempt and to destroy Tardolio’s cavalry. To the left, under Sir
Langlan, was Lord Thaume’s own cavalry, although Thaume himself commanded the rearguard, made up of both cavalry and infantry: these troops Lord Thaume could commit to the battle where they
were most needed.

Tardolio’s army comprised a sizeable block of infantry in the centre with two smaller blocks on either wing. He had split his cavalry into two squadrons separating the infantry blocks. He
took a risk by splitting his cavalry, the price he paid for being able to bring at least some of his riders to bear quickly at any point on the field.

Arren’s view in the infantry arrowhead was limited by the press of bodies around him. He could see the lilac and gold sunburst banners of Tardolio’s forces snapping
in the strong steppe winds, and the huge mass of his infantry in front of them. He was no longer conscious of the weight of his mail armour, his helmet, his longsword or his shield: he felt
distanced from physical sensation altogether. It was scarcely possible to believe that battle was about to begin. He could be dead in minutes, although the thought did not seem real. Beside him
Guigot stared into the distance, a grim smile on his face. Oricien, taller than either of them, peered ahead over the infantrymen in front.

Ba-da-ba-da!
The sound of the horn from Tardolio’s herald. Away to his right he saw infantry marching, cavalry under a pink banner trotting forward on gallumphers of enormous
dimension. They were heading for Darrien’s pike-men.

Ahead of him was Sir Artingaume, perched high on his own gallumpher. ‘Steady now, lads!’ he called. ‘Patience – they’ll be here soon enough.’

Arren could see the infantry breaking into a run ahead of them, charging straight for their position. One moment they seemed infinitely distant, the size of the toy soldiers he had once played
with; the next they were on top of the Croad infantry, howling with possessed fury.

A man in front of him fell. Instinctively Arren raised his shield with his left arm, hacked with his right. The attacker fell to the ground; Oricien next to him put his sword through the
man’s neck. Another came, with no armour. Arren drove his sword through the leather jerkin and out of the man’s back.

He glanced across at Guigot, who seemed paralysed, whether by indecision, fear or simple incomprehension of the scene unfolding. ‘Guigot!’ called Fleuraume. ‘Guigot!’

Guigot seemed uncomprehending as a huge Northman surged towards him with a mace raised. Fleuraume leaped forward, flung himself and his sword under the killing stroke, and drove the sword up
under the ribcage. With a grunt the Northman coughed blood, and slumped. Fleuraume withdrew his sword, smacked Guigot hard on the helmet with the hilt. ‘Fight, you fool!’

Guigot shook his head to clear the blow and seemed to come alive. He charged forward into the melee, pushing Northmen away with his shield, hacking them with his sword. Arren could hear his
great cries of rage even as he held off his own adversaries.

Arren could not tell how long this phase of the battle lasted. Men fell around him – Northmen and Croadasque – but still they kept coming.
Shield – parry – slash.
So it went, time after time.
Shield – parry – slash. Shield – parry – slash.
The more Northmen fell, the more came on. Arren’s yellow surcoat was soaked with
blood; his eyes stung with it. Some of the blood was his, dripping from his forehead, but he could not tell how he had come by the injury.

He saw Sir Artingaume on his gallumpher charge over to the right of the infantry line. ‘Cavalry! Cavalry!’ he called. ‘Look to the right!’

Even as Arren clattered his sword into an opponent’s shield, he knew that cavalry attacking from the right was the worst outcome. Not only did it mean that the infantry was attacked on two
fronts – including by cavalry, which it was not equipped to resist – but that Darrien’s pikemen must have been defeated.

He heard the sound behind him of the herald’s horn. ‘Lord Thaume!’ went up the cry. He had committed his reserve to protect the infantry’s flank and fight off
Tardolio’s cavalry.

Sir Artingaume raised his sword above his head. ‘To me! To me!’ he cried as a cluster of foot soldiers gathered around him. Fleuraume beckoned his own squadron, and, tripping over
the corpses and wounded, Arren made his way across the field with the Serjeant. He did not understand why they were all but turning their backs on Tardolio’s infantry which had been occupying
them for so long.

Thaume’s cavalry met Tardolio’s with a crash. Arren realized that Tardolio’s was outnumbered – had Darrien inflicted heavy casualties on it? From somewhere – Arren
could not tell where – went up the cry ‘Sir Langlan! Sir Langlan!’ The main force of the Croadasque cavalry was in action, perhaps scattering the very infantry Arren’s
squadron had been fighting.

Tardolio’s cavalry was now in great difficulty. Thaume was attacking it from the flank, and Artingaume’s infantry was barring its way. The gallumphers could not deploy properly
because of the press of infantry around them. This was a true melee.

Arren saw Sir Artingaume pulled from his gallumpher, or perhaps the beast had been killed under him. He struggled to his feet, flung himself into the press of Tardolio’s infantry, then he
was lost from view. A few feet away Oricien and Guigot were fighting side by side, Guigot swinging his sword with muscular relish, Oricien employing the careful footwork and swordplay Sir Langlan
had drilled into them.

Arren felt a clang on his helmet. He fell stunned to the ground, but the soldier next to him drove off his assailant as he moved in for the kill. In that curious battlefield dynamic Arren had
already noticed, the fighting surged away from him for no discernible reason and he was left lying alone on the ground. As he pulled himself erect he saw Oricien charging after a fleeing foe: he
tripped on the boot of a wounded Croadasque and fell sprawling to the ground. The impact knocked the helmet from his head and he lay exposed. Guigot moved across instinctively. A Northman saw
Oricien struggling to get up, and dashed at him, sword upraised. Guigot had ample time to interpose himself and fight the man off, but he simply stared ahead.

‘No!’ cried Arren, although no one could hear and he was too far away to intervene. But from nowhere Fleuraume appeared and brought the Northman crashing to the ground. Oricien
pulled himself to his feet and set his helmet back on his head.

Arren looked around to see where he was most needed. Then the cry went up: ‘Rout!’

Tardolio’s army was fleeing. The infantry had turned tail and was running with no discipline at all back to its own lines – only to meet the wall of Sir Langlan’s cavalry. By
the time Arren had caught up with the fighting, it was all over. Tar-dolio’s herald had sounded the mournful note of surrender. His army – what was left of it – sat on the ground,
its weapons lying where they fell.

Lord Thaume had won the Battle of Jehan’s Steppe.

10

That evening Arren learned the full story of the battle, which, immersed as he had been in a single portion of it, he had not comprehended at the time. Tardolio had thrown
a large force of cavalry and infantry against Darrien’s pikemen, and although Darrien’s wing was eventually forced from the field, it had inflicted merciless losses on Tardolio’s
men. By the time they turned their attention to Sir Artingaume’s infantry in the centre, they were all but fatally weakened. Once Lord Thaume chose to lead his cavalry reserve against them,
the issue was decided: Tardolio’s advance force was destroyed.

At the same time Tardolio had led the main force of his infantry and the remainder of his cavalry against Sir Artingaume’s centre. This was the assault in which Arren had been engaged. Sir
Langlan had waited until the last moment to commit the main Croadasque cavalry, but when he did, Tardolio paid the price for splitting his own riders, for Sir Langlan annihilated the remainder of
Tardolio’s cavalry. Sir Langlan was then in position to attack the flanks of Tardolio’s advancing infantry. This was the point at which the battle became a rout.

Tardolio himself escaped in no very gallant fashion, slipping away with his personal guard after the surrender had been sounded. Lord Thaume kept a number of high-ranking prisoners for ransom,
and sent others back to Tardolio with his demands.

Casualties had been heavy on both sides. Virtually all of Tardolio’s cavalry had been killed, and his infantry had fared little better. Thaume’s casualties had been highest among
Darrien’s pikemen – although Darrien himself sustained nothing worse than a gashed neck – and Sir Artingaume’s infantry. Sir Artingaume himself had fallen in the press of
battle. It was a victory achieved at high price, but Thaume had achieved his goal: Tardolio’s army had been destroyed utterly. It would be many years before Mettingloom had the capacity or
the desire to mount a full-scale assault upon Croad.

11

Arren sat by the campfire wincing as Fleuraume stitched the wound above his eye. ‘If I stitch it now, it will not scar later,’ he said. ‘I am sure you
want to look your best for the young ladies.’

Arren tried to grin but the effort was too much for him. He had expected battle to be glorious, especially when it ended in victory. He had not had time for fear, and by any standards he knew he
had acquitted himself well, so why did he feel such a pervasive gloom? His friends had all survived the battle, and not only was his father safe, but a hero too.

The death of Sir Artingaume was a shock, of course. He had fought in the forefront of the battle with his men, heartening them throughout. With his gruff manner and impatience with both ceremony
and fools he had commanded respect and affection, but Arren knew his own disenchantment went deeper than bereavement alone.