"Brave heroes of the Thousand Swords!" His voice rang out into the balmy morning. "Well, let us say brave men of the Thousand Swords, at least. Let us say men, anyway!" Scattered laughter, a whoop of approval. "My boys, you all know my stamp! Some of you have fought beside me… or at any rate in front." More laughter. "The rest of you know my… spotless reputation." And more yet. "You all know that I, above all, am one of you. A soldier, yes! A fighter, of course! But one who would much prefer to sheathe his weapon." And he gave a gentle cough as he adjusted his groin. "Than draw his blade!" And he slapped the hilt of his sword to widespread merriment.
"Let it never be said that we are not masters and journeymen of the glorious profession of arms! As much so as any lapdog at some noble's boots! Men strong of sinew!" And he slapped Sesaria's great arm. "Men sharp of wits!" And he pointed at Andiche's greasy head. "Men hungry for glory!" He jerked his thumb towards Victus. "Let it never be said we will not brave risks for our rewards! But let the risks be kept as lean as possible, and the rewards most hearty!" Another swell of approval.
"Your employer, the young Prince Foscar, was keen that you carry the lower ford and meet the enemy head on in pitched battle…" Nervous silence. "But I declined! Though you are paid to fight, I told him, you are far keener on the pay than the fighting!" A rousing cheer. "We'll wet our boots higher up, therefore, and with considerably lighter opposition! And whatever occurs today, however things may seem, you may always depend upon it that I have your… best interests closest to my own heart!" And he rubbed his fingers against his thumb to an even louder cheer.
"I will not insult you by calling for courage, for steadfastness, for loyalty and honour! All these things I already know you possess in the highest degree!" Widespread laughter. "So to your units, officers of the Thousand Swords, and await my order! May Mistress Luck be always at your side and mine! She is drawn, after all, to those who least deserve her! May darkness find us victorious! Uninjured! And above all—rich!"
There was a rousing cheer. Shields and weapons, mailed and plated arms, gauntleted fists shaken in the air.
"Cosca!"
"Nicomo Cosca!"
"The captain general!"
He hopped smiling down from his barrel as the officers began to disperse, Sesaria and Victus going with them to make their regiments—or their gangs of opportunists, criminals and thugs—ready for action. Cosca strolled away towards the brow of the hill, the beautiful valley opening out before him, shreds of misty cloud clinging to the hollows in its sides. Ospria looked proudly down on all from her mountain, fairer than ever by daylight, all cream-coloured stone banded with blue-black stripes of masonry, roofs of copper turned pale green by the years or, on a few buildings recently repaired, shining brilliantly in the morning glare.
"Nice speech," said Andiche. "If your taste runs to speeches."
"Most kind. Mine does."
"You've still got the trick of it."
"Ah, my friend, you have seen captain generals come and go. You well know there is a happy time, after a man is elevated to command, in which he can say and do no wrong in the eyes of his men. Like a husband in the eyes of his new wife, just following the marriage. Alas, it cannot last. Sazine, myself, Murcatto, ill-fated Faithful Carpi, our tides all flowed out with varying speed and left each one of us betrayed or dead. And so shall mine again. I will have to work harder for my applause in future."
Andiche split a toothy grin. "You could always appeal to the cause."
"Hah!" Cosca lowered himself into the captain general's chair, set out in the dappled shade of a spreading olive tree with a fine view of the glittering fords. "My curse on fucking causes! Nothing but big excuses. I never saw men act with such ignorance, violence and self-serving malice as when energised by a just cause." He squinted at the rising sun, brilliant in the bright blue sky. "As we will no doubt witness, in the coming hours…"
Rogont drew his sword with a faint ring of steel.
"Free men of Ospria! Free men of the League of Eight! Great hearts!"
Monza turned her head and spat. Speeches. Better to move fast and hit hard than waste time talking about it. If she'd found herself with time for a speech before a battle she would have reckoned she'd missed her moment, pulled back and looked for another. It took a man with a bloated sense of himself to think his words might make all the difference.
So it was no surprise that Rogont had his all well worked out.
"Long have you followed me! Long have you waited for the day you would prove your mettle! My thanks for your patience! My thanks for your courage! My thanks for your faith!" He stood in his stirrups and raised his sword high above his head. "Today we fight!"
He cut a pretty picture, there was no denying that. Tall, strong and handsome, dark curls stirred by the breeze. His armour was studded with glittering gems, steel polished so bright it was almost painful to look at. But his men had made an effort too. Heavy infantry in the centre, well armoured under a forest of polearms or clutching broadswords in their gauntleted fists, shields and blue surcoats all stitched with the white tower of Ospria. Light infantry on the wings, all standing to stiff attention in studded leather, pikes kept carefully vertical. Archers too, steel-capped flatbowmen, hooded longbowmen. A detachment of Affoians on the far right slightly spoiled the pristine organisation, weapons mismatched and their ranks a little skewed, but still a good stretch neater than any men Monza had ever led.
And that was before she turned to the cavalry lined up behind her, a gleaming row in the shadow of the outermost wall of Ospria. Every man noble of birth and spirit, horses in burnished bardings, helmets with sculpted crests, lances striped, polished and ready to be steeped in glory. Like something out of a badly written storybook.
She snorted some snot from the back of her nose, and spat again. In her experience, and she had plenty, clean men were the keenest to get into battle and the keenest to get clear of it.
Rogont was busy cranking up his rhetoric to new heights. "We stand now upon a battlefield! Here, in after years, men will say heroes fought! Here, men will say the fate of Styria was decided! Here, my friends, here, on our own soil! In sight of our own homes! Before the ancient walls of proud Ospria!" Enthusiastic cheering from the companies drawn up closest to him. She doubted the rest could hear a word of it. She doubted most could even see him. For those that could, she doubted the sight of a shiny speck in the distance would do much for their morale.
"Your fate is in your own hands!" Their fate had been in Rogont's hands, and he'd frittered it away. Now it was in Cosca's and Foscar's, and it was likely to be a bloody one.
"Now for freedom!" Or at best a better-looking brand of tyranny.
"Now for glory!" A glorious place in the mud at the bottom of the river.
Rogont jerked on the reins with his free hand and made his chestnut charger rear, lashing at the air with its front hooves. The effect was only slightly spoiled by a few heavy clods of shit that happened to fall from its rear end at the same moment. It sped off past the massed ranks of infantry, each company cheering Rogont as he passed, lifting their spears in unison and giving a roar. It might have been an impressive sight. But Monza had seen it all before, with grim results. A good speech wasn't much compensation for being outnumbered three to one.
The Duke of Delay trotted up towards her and the rest of his staff, the same gathering of heavily decorated and lightly experienced men she'd made fools of in the baths at Puranti, arrayed for battle now rather than the parade ground. Safe to say they hadn't warmed to her. Safe to say she didn't care.
"Nice speech," she said. "If your taste runs to speeches."