Blood in the Water (55 page)

Tathrin wondered how long he and the gelding would have to catch their breath. How long had he been riding to and fro with Evord’s concise, precise instructions? He was surprised to see the sun had risen barely a chime’s measure since the battle was joined.

His mouth was horribly dry. Was that fear or the cold, dry air? Uncapping his water bottle, he took a measured swallow. It would be days before anyone could drink from these streams or the river down in the valley. Dead men and horses jostled in the swollen currents and an evil log jam already choked the shallow arch of the first little bridge.

Where were Sorgrad and Gren? Looking around, he couldn’t see either of them.

“Tathrin!” A lieutenant beckoned him forward.

“Tell Pata Mezian’s men they’re not to engage the Parnilesse horse again.” Evord was concluding his instructions to a Dalasorian woman. “The archers are to hold them off until the lancers can regroup, along with any of the Marlier cavalry who return.” Ink spattered his fingers as his pen blotted the scratchy paper. “I’ll send word when I want them to attack. For the moment, they must hold the end of the Marlier line. Do you understand me?”

“As you command.” The Dalasorian took the paper and blew on it to dry the last shining words. Tucking it deep in her glove, she galloped for the south.

Tathrin would have moved forward but Evord summoned a youthful mercenary wearing the Vixen’s badge on his black surcoat.

“Take this to Captain-General Ridianne. She must hold the valley floor. Whatever dispositions she chooses, her men must not advance beyond the river or any further down the high road. Nor must they retreat.” Evord paused to look at the seething ranks below. “We have more archers than the enemy. Tell her to promise her bow captains whatever she must to inspire them.”

“My lord.” The man spurred his dappled horse towards the pierced-fox standard, now quite some distance further along the slope.

Evord finally raised his hand. “Tathrin!”

“Captain-General.” The throng parted to let him through.

The Soluran was already writing on the next leaf of his leather-bound memorandum book. “Take this to Captain Chanis of the Wheelwrights. He’s to advance to stand with the regiment led by Nyer’s Watchmen in the centre. Then the Wheelwrights are to lead that whole left-flank regiment along the byway. I want them to circle around and attack the northern face of that woodland. Nyer’s Watchmen will be pushing the Parnilesse line back into the coppices from the centre. I want the Wheelwrights ready to take them in the side.”

“As you command.” Tathrin quickly searched the northern end of the battle for the brown wheel on a red banner. There it was, solidly planted behind a wall of shields. The regiment led by the Wheelwrights had already forded the river and were now holding a prudent distance behind the carnage of that cavalry battle. Panicked horses rampaging through their ranks could be as lethal as any swordsmen.

Where were Nyer’s Watchmen? Tathrin couldn’t see their black flag with its white lantern at first. Then he saw them, leading the advance in the centre, trying to avoid the worst of the bogginess around that thrice-cursed, unsuspected brook.

“Tathrin?” Evord sounded amused.

Tathrin saw the captain-general was holding out the written copy of his orders.

“Forgive me.” Stowing the paper in his jerkin, Tathrin gathered up his reins.

“No, wait. You need to hear this, all of you.” Evord summoned a lean rider in a Shearlings’ surcoat. “Reskine, take this to Nyer’s Watchmen. They’re to cross that brook and take the battle into the coppices. I want Parnilesse’s mercenaries driven right back into those woods. Tell Captain Fethin to send the same word all down our line.”

He looked around at the waiting gallopers as he handed over this second note to the young Shearling. “That’s a general order but just for our regiments, not for Captain-General Ridianne’s men. They have their own tasks. Make sure everyone understands that.”

“Yes, Captain-General.” Tathrin wasn’t at all sure he understood. He could see the same uncertainty on several faces.

Evord wrote yet another note. “Tathrin, once you’ve spoken to Captain Chanis, see if you can gather up any Dalasorian lancers who’re still interested in a fight. Invite them to clear the Parnilesse militia out of that northern face of the wood. If they can start any kind of panic, so much the better.” He smiled. “Warn Captain Chanis to expect them.”

“Yes, Captain-General.” Tathrin took the second piece of paper and urged his bay horse northwards along the slope.

His shoulders itched. It seemed suicide to turn his back on the noisy battle in the valley, even though he knew no Parnilesse arrow had a hope of reaching him.

Movement caught his eye and he saw the thin sunlight gleaming on golden hair. Wherever they’d been lurking, one of the regiments of Mountain Men was now making haste down the road. Despite their successive losses through the campaign, they were still a formidable fighting force. Were Sorgrad and Gren with them? This was no time to wait and see. Tathrin had orders to deliver.

Crossing the road, he cut through a triangular field of yellowing grass to reach the byway. The track was badly rutted and with the sun rising, the frost was melting. He slowed as much as he dared. The last thing he needed was to lame his horse so far from any hope of a remount. Tathrin could see Dalasorian horses loose amid the aftermath of the cavalry battle but he wouldn’t wager a bent copper cut-piece on his chances of catching one.

On the far side of the river, some of the Wheelwrights were busy plundering the dead of the Parnilesse horsemen. More were looking impatiently towards the main battle, slamming their swords on their shields, bellowing encouragement to their friends or abuse at the distant foe. The breeze ripped their words to shreds.

The clamour irked his horse and the bay gelding tossed its head, snorting. Tathrin’s insistent hands only roused its rebellious instincts. It stamped and made a half-hearted attempt to rear. Leaning forwards, Tathrin used his heels, forcing it on towards the ford where the river cut through the byway.

Two men in Parnilesse black and green, breeched and booted, leaped up from the bushes. Tathrin’s hand drew his sword before he even thought of it. He slashed at the man thrusting a long blade up at his belly. Some fraction of his mind was relieved to see the second attacker was more intent on grabbing the horse’s bridle. He hacked again at the first man’s jabbing sword, unable to reach the bastard with a killing blow from so high up in the saddle.

The gelding reared right up, front hooves flailing. Tathrin gripped desperately with his knees. If he lost his seat on its back, he was dead. The second man recoiled but only for a moment. He dodged forwards as the horse dropped back down onto all fours. The horse snapped at his snatching hand but he hooked his fingers inside its leather cheek strap. The gelding tried to rear again, wrenching its head aside. Now the Parnilesse horseman used all his weight to hold it down.

Forced back a pace, the first swordsman still watched for his chance. He stepped in, his sword lightning fast. The point drove deep into Tathrin’s gut, slicing through his leather jerkin. He gasped as the steel plates behind the leather were driven hard into his belly. His sword came down on his attacker’s head. Sorgrad’s endless, repetitive lessons meant Tathrin’s arm knew how to respond even if his mind was reeling with shock. The steel blade smashed through the man’s temple, shattering his cheek and his eye socket. He fell backwards screaming through the crimson ruin of his broken jaw.

Tathrin’s horse shrieked and recoiled from the spraying blood. He nearly lost hold of his sword. More by luck than judgement as the panicked beast fought him, he landed a blow on the second horseman still clinging grimly onto the bridle. There wasn’t much force to the strike, only enough to leave a deep gash in his forearm, not cleaving right through his wrist.

The man fell away all the same. Tathrin saw a bloody wound in his thigh where the gelding’s frantic hoof had caught him. Whatever damage the horse had done, the man couldn’t run. He stumbled away, one bloody hand clutching his wounded arm.

“We’ll get him for you!”

A handful of the Wheelwrights were running across the ploughed soil to the river, swords drawn. Three plunged into the water, hallooing as if they hunted a deer.

Tathrin let them pass and forced his horse into the water, looking around warily all the while. Cold, turbulent water tugged at his boots. The horse snorted, calmer as the river washed the blood from its chest and flanks.

“Are you hurt, lad?” demanded the first of the men waiting on the far bank.

“Do we have orders?” shouted a man in a russet surcoat.

“For Captain Chanis.” Answering their questions saved Tathrin from having to think about what he’d just done.

The first man approached the bay gelding, his voice soothing. “Come on, lad, let’s be having you.” As he took firm hold of its bridle, he hissed between his teeth. “Your boy took a nasty cut.”

Horrified, Tathrin saw blood trickling down the horse’s forequarter. He couldn’t decide which appalled him most: that the beast was hurt, or the realisation that he was the one who had wounded it as he hacked at the Parnilesse man’s arm.

“You have orders? Let’s have them!” Now Captain Chanis was hurrying forwards, his standard-bearer at his side. His company gathered itself in readiness, a shiver spreading through the ranks like wind through wheat.

Shoving all other considerations aside, Tathrin handed him the paper and repeated Evord’s orders. “I’m going on to see if the Dalasorians can muster some lancers to help you.”

Captain Chanis shook his head. “Halcarion help you with that.”

He didn’t waste time on further conversation, making haste back to his men. As runners from other companies approached, he shouted brisk orders to send them haring back.

Tathrin sat on the motionless horse. Its head drooped miserably. Stripping a glove from one shaking hand, he reached hesitantly under his jerkin. He flinched as he found a painful bruise, and his fingers were still horribly cold. But as best he could tell, his skin was intact. The armoured jerkin had saved him.

Saved him to kill a man. He could still see every detail of the dead man’s ruined face, smashed to pulp as he ripped his sword free. He didn’t need to look around to know exactly where that corpse lay. He didn’t want to look around, for fear of seeing the wounded man who’d fled being hacked to pieces by the pursuing Wheelwrights.

But he knew what Sorgrad would say. This was a battle. Men died. Better him than you. Gren would be even blunter. Go and spew up, find a whore to get you thinking with your cock instead of your head or get so drunk you can’t think at all. Do whatever you must, but get over it and fast.

Tathrin couldn’t imagine doing any of those things. He still felt sick, a pain in his guts that had nothing to do with the bruise spreading across his navel. He had killed a man. He’d blooded his sword before, at Emirle Bridge, but he’d been able to kid himself he’d only inflicted wounds in all the confusion. He’d killed one of Wynald’s Warband in Losand, but that mercenary had been out to kill him. Those poor bastards hiding by the river had only sought a horse to escape their own death. And Tathrin hadn’t even killed that man cleanly. What agonies had he endured in the endless moments before his last breath, choking on his own blood?

No. He couldn’t think about what he’d done. Not now. He had a job to do. Rigid with the effort of not looking backwards, Tathrin concentrated desperately on the advancing regiment’s prospects.

He couldn’t see any enemy forces able to stop them attacking the northern flank of the woods now that the Parnilesse horsemen were broken. The companies of foot soldiers in the centre of the battle were already splashing through the brook. The archery companies were holding back to shoot straight over their heads, turning the lie of the land against Lord Geferin’s men now. Their merciless arrows were driving the Parnilesse men back to take cover in the scrubby woods. Yelling triumphantly, the foot soldiers pressed on up the slope.

Further down the valley, he could see the Marlier regiments were now fully engaged with those mercenaries who’d fought for Duke Iruvain. Neither side seemed to be gaining a single stride of ground in the fight for the road. The Triolle militia were still solidly arrayed between the two little bridges.

Beyond that, Tathrin had no idea what was happening. He couldn’t see anything past the rise in the land where Captain-General Evord’s standard flapped in the wind. He could only hope the Dalasorians on the Vixen’s right flank were still holding off the Parnilesse cavalry and the mercenaries backing them. Well, Captain-General Evord was trusting Ridianne to manage her half of the battle, even if Tathrin couldn’t see her banner any more.

He could see Lord Geferin’s blue standard with its black and green blazon. Tathrin held his horse still for a moment. He’d just realised something crucial. The Parnilesse lord had an excellent view of the mayhem around the bridges, where Marlier’s forces threatened Triolle’s mercenaries. But if Lord Geferin were to look northwards, he would only see as far as the field where Tathrin now stood. The undulating slope cluttered with copses and brambles would completely block his view of the northernmost face of the battle. Lord Geferin and Duke Iruvain would have absolutely no idea what the Wheelwrights and Nyer’s Watchmen were up to. Not unless some runners brought them news.