Rogont's headquarters was quiet as the dead, everyone staring down towards the ford, mouths and eyes wide, faces pale and reins clenched tight with worry. The Talinese had flatbowmen of their own ready now, sent a wave of bolts up from the water, flying flat and hissing among the archers. More'n one fell. Someone started squealing. A rogue bolt thudded into the turf not far from one of Rogont's officers, made his horse startle and near dumped him from the saddle. Monza urged her own mount a pace or two forwards, standing in the stirrups to get a better view, borrowed armour gleaming dully in the morning sun. Shivers frowned.
One way or another, he was here for her. To fight for her. Protect her. Try to make things right between them. Or maybe just hurt her like she'd hurt him. He closed his fist, nails digging into his palm, knuckles sore from knocking that servant's teeth out. They weren't done yet, that much he knew.
All Business
The upper ford was a patch of slow-moving water, sparkling in the morning sun as it broke up in the shallows. A faint track led from the far bank between a few scattered buildings, then through an orchard and up the long slope to a gate in the black-banded outermost wall of Ospria. All seemingly deserted. Rogont's foot were mostly committed to the savage fight at the lower ford. Only a few small units hung back to guard the archers, loading and firing into the mass of men in the midst of the river as fast as they possibly could.
The Osprian cavalry were waiting in the shadow of the walls as a last reserve, but too few, and too far away. The Thousand Swords' path to victory appeared unguarded. Cosca stroked gently at his neck. In his judgement, now was the perfect moment to attack.
Andiche evidently agreed. "Getting hot down there. Should I tell the men to mount up?"
"Let's not trouble them quite yet. It's still early."
"You sure?"
Cosca turned to look evenly back at him. "Do I look unsure?" Andiche puffed out his pitted cheeks, then stomped off to confer with some of his own officers. Cosca stretched out, hands clasped behind his head, and watched the battle slowly develop. "What was I saying?"
"A chance to leave all this behind," said Friendly.
"Ah yes! I had the chance to leave all this behind. Yet I chose to come back. Change is not a simple thing, eh, Sergeant? I entirely see and understand the pointlessness and waste of it all, yet I do it anyway. Does that make me worse or better than the man who does it thinking himself ennobled by a righteous cause? Or the man who does it for his own profit, without the slightest grain of thought for right or wrong? Or are we all the same?"
Friendly only shrugged.
"Men dying. Men maimed. Lives destroyed." He might as well have been reciting a list of vegetables for all the emotion he felt. "I have spent half my life in the business of destruction. The other half in the dogged pursuit of self-destruction. I have created nothing. Nothing but widows, orphans, ruins and misery, a bastard or two, perhaps, and a great deal of vomit. Glory? Honour? My piss is worth more, that at least makes nettles grow." But if his aim was to prick his own conscience into wakefulness it still slumbered on regardless. "I have fought in many battles, Sergeant Friendly."
"How many?"
"A dozen? A score? More? The line between battle and skirmish is a fuzzy one. Some of the sieges dragged on, with many engagements. Do those count as one, or several?"
"You're the soldier."
"And even I don't have the answers. In war, there are no straight lines. What was I saying?"
"Many battles."
"Ah, yes! Many! And though I have tried always to avoid becoming closely involved in the fighting, I have often failed. I am fully aware of what it's like in the midst of that mкlйe. The flashing blades. Shields cloven and spears shattered. The crush, the heat, the sweat, the stink of death. The tiny heroics and the petty villainies. Proud flags and honourable men crushed underfoot. Limbs lopped off, showers of blood, split skulls, spilled guts, and all the rest." He raised his eyebrows. "Reasonable to suppose some drownings too, under the circumstances."
"How many, would you say?"
"Difficult to be specific." Cosca thought of the Gurkish drowning in the channel at Dagoska, brave men swept out to sea, their corpses washed up on every tide, and gave a long sigh. "Still, I find I can watch without much sentiment. Is it ruthlessness? Is it the fitting detachment of command? Is it the configuration of the stars at my birth? I find myself always sanguine in the face of death and danger. More so than at any other time. Happy when I should be horrified, fearful when I should be calm. I am a riddle, to be sure, even to myself. I am a back-to-front man, Sergeant Friendly!" He laughed, then chuckled, then sighed, then was silent. "A man upside down and inside out."
"General." Andiche was leaning over him again, lank hair hanging.
"What, for pity's sake? I am trying to philosophise!"
"The Osprians are fully engaged. All their foot are tackling Foscar's troops. They've no reserves but a few horse."
Cosca squinted down towards the valley. "I see that, Captain Andiche. We all quite clearly see that. There is no need to state the obvious."
"Well… we'll sweep those bastards away, no trouble. Give me the order and I'll see to it. We'll get no easier chance."
"Thank you, but it looks dreadfully hot out there now. I am quite comfortable where I am. Perhaps later."
"But why not—"
"It amazes me, that after so long on campaign, the whole business of the chain of command still confounds you! You will find it far less worrisome if, rather than trying to anticipate my orders, you simply wait for me to give them. It really is the simplest of military principles."
Andiche scratched his greasy head. "I understand the concept."
"Then act according to it. Find a shady spot, man, take the weight from your feet. Stop running to nowhere. Take a lesson from my goat. Do you see her fussing?"
The goat lifted her head from the grass between the olive trees for a moment, and bleated.
Andiche put his hands on his hips, winced, stared down at the valley, up at Cosca, frowned at the goat, then turned away and walked off, shaking his head.
"Everyone rushing, rushing, Sergeant Friendly, do we get no peace? Is a quiet moment out of the sun really too much to ask? What was I saying?"
Why isn't he attacking?"
When Monza had seen the Thousand Swords easing onto the brow of the hill, the tiny shapes of men, horses, spears black against the blue morning sky, she'd known they were about to charge. To splash happily across the upper ford and take Rogont's men in the flank, just the way she'd said they would. Just the way she'd have done. To put a bloody end to the battle, to the League of Eight, to her hopes, such as they were. No man was quicker to pluck the easy fruit than Nicomo Cosca, and none quicker to wolf it down than the men she used to lead.
But the Thousand Swords only sat there, in plain view, on top of Menzes Hill, and waited. Waited for nothing. Meanwhile Foscar's Talinese struggled on the banks of the lower ford, at push of pike with Rogont's Osprians, water, ground and slope all set against them, arrows raining down on the men behind the front line with punishing regularity. Bodies were carried by the current, limp shapes washing up on the bank of the river, bobbing in the shallows below the ford.
Still the Thousand Swords didn't move.
"Why show himself in the first place, if he doesn't mean to come down?" Monza chewed at her lip, not trusting it. "Cosca's no fool. Why give away the surprise?"
Duke Rogont only shrugged. "Why complain about it? The longer he waits, the better for us, no? We have enough to worry on with Foscar."