The sound of the rain on the canvas was oddly comforting and, as he drifted off to sleep, its steady drumming rose to fill his mind and displace all other … sounds … distractions … thoughts …
Drumming, drumming.
Drumming.
Grey wakefulness slowly penetrated into the sound.
And more!
Shouting!
Larnss leapt up, suddenly wide awake, just as the flap of his tent was torn open by a wide-eyed and breathless reservist.
Larnss did not wait for him to find his voice, but pushed past him and out into the dawn.
For an instant he thought he was dreaming. Pouring around the broad shoulder of the hill, and making for the camp at full gallop, was a vast horde of horsemen. The drumming hooves filled the air, almost drowning the shrill cries of the sentries dashing through the camp desperately rousing their companions.
Larnss’ mouth dropped open. He had seen the Serenstad cavalry at practice and that was a formidable sight, but this …
This was unbelievable.
But it was there! And it would be on them in minutes. Stark reality swept aside Larnss’ initial shock.
Drawing his sword, he ran through the straggling camp, slashing open tents and brutally kicking awake any who had not already been wakened.
'To me! To me! Spears and shields! Form up, as you value your worthless lives. Form up!'
His junior officers frantically following his lead, the five companies attempted to form a line across the bend in the stream, but the speed of the approaching horsemen and the size of the widespread camp resulted in their only having time to form three ragged squares: two against the banks of the curving stream, and the third in between them.
Larnss, in one of the outer squares, was petrified. Questions flooded into his head. Who were these attackers? Bethlarii surely. But with such a huge cavalry force? He squinted into the approaching mass, but he could see none of the characteristic markings that he had been told typified the Bethlarii regiments.
And how could he and his men hope to stand against such a force? Their position was surely impossible against such numbers. The horsemen could move through the gaps between the squares and surround them almost completely. And the stream, though quite fast and deep, was certainly fordable and of little real defensive value.
'Hold!’ he shouted, trying to beat down his terror.
Then, to his horror, he saw the centre square waver ominously.
He had a vision of them scattering and splashing through the stream, to flee across the countryside while the great tide of riders surged through the opening they had left.
Without thinking, he forced his way through the uncertain shield wall of his own square and dashed across the gap towards the centre one.
Matching the speed of his arrival at the centre with shouts of encouragement interspersed with imprecations, curses, and blows, he stilled the mounting panic.
'Hold or die. It's that simple!'
Then, suddenly. ‘Look, they're slowing.'
Somehow he managed to make this sound like an angry reproach to his quavering men rather than the cry of surprise that it actually was. A glance around, however, showed him the cause of the riders’ loss of momentum.
They were charging into a narrowing field. Already, he noticed, some of the side riders were drawing back to avoid being edged into the stream, while the remainder were having to rearrange themselves to avoid collisions with each other.
The Rendd reservists, Larnss’ first command, had been given a little time.
Larnss seized two men. ‘You, left flank at the double. You, right. Anyone who's got a bow there is to defend the gaps. Shoot for the horses. The more we bring down, the less room they have for manoeuvre. Move!'
The two men needed no encouragement and scurried across the gaps as the few in the centre square who had bows began stringing them and preparing to implement Larnss’ shouted instruction before he ordered them to.
'Shoot when you're ready,’ he shouted. ‘Targets of discretion. Aim at the horses.'
There was a brief lull as the archers waited for the riders to come within effective range.
Larnss gripped his sword until his hand throbbed.
Then the archers began to shoot. Almost immediately, the front riders in the charge, already in some disarray, began to break up. The relentless thunder of the horses’ hooves faltered and the air began to fill with the sounds of men cursing and horses screaming in terror and pain as the iron-tipped arrows struck home.
Many stumbled, bringing down their riders, while many others reared high, forelegs flailing in an attempt to flee this cruel assault.
Larnss watched this unexpected enemy carefully. Who were they? he asked himself again. There were flags flying among the host, but still he could see nothing he recognized. And the horses were sturdier and slightly smaller than those used by either the Bethlarii or the Serens. But, most bewildering of all, was the sheer number of riders, and, he noted, watching the line disentangle itself, brilliant riders at that, for all that their formation discipline was not particularly good.
He'd heard of a land beyond the mountains in the far north which was said to be populated by wild tribes of horsemen, but surely …?
'Fast!’ he shouted to the archers as the great charge came to a shambling and chaotic halt, with the front riders turning to retreat running into those at the rear who were still advancing. ‘Fast, damn it! Save your arrows for when they're advancing, not retreating.'
At the top of the hill, Ivaroth and his senior officers watched in dismay and disbelief as the charge squeezed itself to a halt in the corner formed by the stream, and then began to retreat raggedly under the arrow-fire from the three squares.
Angrily, Ivaroth seized the reins of his horse and braced himself to charge down among his men. A hand reached out and caught his arm. He turned angrily. It was Endryn. His reaction had been automatic and he was about to express the concern that arrows were no respecters of person when wiser inner counsels prevailed. ‘They've spent too long fighting women and old men,’ he said softly so that only Ivaroth could hear. ‘It's time they were reminded how dangerous these people can be and what a journey lies ahead to the fulfilment of your vision.'
Ivaroth's jaw worked agitatedly for a moment, then he nodded grimly. ‘You're right, Endryn,’ he said. ‘A few dead will be a salutary lesson.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And it'll save me the trouble of executing some of those blockheads myself,’ he added.
Despite this routinely cavalier attitude towards his followers however, anxious, more conservative thoughts were increasingly occupying him. Effectively empty of fighting men, Endir, like Navra, had been subdued with ease, and now stood occupied by his army. The army too patrolled the river that ran between the mountains and Endir so that, as far as he knew, no clear news of his invasion had passed westward. Thus he was now in a position to move down into the territory of Serenstad, taking first the small city of Rendd and then the much larger city of Viernce.
There was no reason why the tactics of careful scouting and surprise that had worked so well at Navra and Endir, and indeed, at all the smaller settlements they had encountered, should not work on Rendd and Viernce also.
Yet it unsettled him that his knowledge of Serenstad was only a mixture of travellers’ tales, tribal lore, and such as he had been able to learn from the Bethlarii whose dreams he had ravaged. He would have preferred to have taken emotional possession of the Serenstad leadership as he had the Bethlarii, but his few attempts had been oddly unsuccessful. Further, they had shown him, albeit briefly, a vision of a people whose society was far more complex and diverse than that of the Bethlarii, and one much harder to control through the fear and superstition of a few leaders.
Thus, with an increasing part of his army being left behind to control the conquered territory, and with a more uncertain foe and therefore the most dangerous part of the invasion before him, Ivaroth was concerned by the seeming incompetence of his men now attacking the camp below.