Stammel grunted. “I could stand to know where the Sorellin militia is.”
“Keeping warm and dry somewhere,” said Kefer. “Like all militia.”
Arcolin laughed shortly. “Probably. Now: we’re going to advance west, away from the river. We think that’ll pull those on the river side after us, and the Vladi’s spears will hit their flank. Vladi says they’ve weakened the ones between them and the river.”
“What about our rear?”
“Dorrin and Cracolnya will shift when we do. We’ll have to string it a bit more open while the shift is going on—listen for me.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Pont’ll be directing the archers on this flank. If I fall, Stammel, take over until Dorrin can.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they moved, Paks was glad to be on the forward side of the square. Stammel moved them slowly, so the right flank could stay together. Paks saw the pikes lower ahead of her. The enemy started yelling, a raucous blast of noise. Horns blared behind their lines. The enemy lines moved as slowly as their own. Mist lay along the ground; they all seemed to be wading. Paks stumbled over something she could not see, and cursed as she caught her balance. Foot by slow foot they went on. Part of the enemy lines to her left broke toward them; Paks heard the crash of weapons. Directly in front of her, the foremost rank of pikemen suddenly lifted their pikes and heaved them like lances. Paks yelled and threw up her shield. The pikes were ill-balanced for throwing; most fell short. Those soldiers drew curved blades and ran forward.
Shieldless, the enemy swordsmen could not stand against the Duke’s men, who cut their way forward. Paks heard shouts and cries from behind but spared no glance for that. The troops in front gave back slowly. The third rank still had their pikes, and showed no inclination to throw these effective weapons away. A deeper roar from the rear: the cry of Vladi’s spearmen charging the enemy flank. Paks found herself grinning. Despite the numbers facing her, she began to think they’d get out of this mess alive.
Suddenly the ground trembled. Another storm? Paks spared an instant’s look at the sky, but saw nothing. The noise grew, was joined by high-pitched trumpet calls. Now she could hear the rolling rhythm of hoofbeats. If Siniava had cavalry—she set her jaw and lunged at the man before her, catching him in the throat.
Horsemen erupted into sight on the right: in blue, in red and black—the Blue Riders and Sobanai Company. They were in the enemy rear, busy with lance and sword, before the enemy realized who and what they were. The lines wavered.
“Now!” yelled Arcolin. “Forward on the left!”
“Go on!” bellowed Stammel and Kefer almost together. Paks was already yelling joyously, leaping at the enemy lines. She could feel the others with her. The enemy stiffened a moment, as the first impetus of the cavalry charge dissipated, but fell back before the Phelani charge. Then Paks heard, on the right, the battle cry of the Sorellin militia, as they came around the bend and ran forward. The enemy lines disintegrated, turning almost in an instant into clumps and individuals in headlong flight. She could see horses and riders twisting among the trees, foot soldiers dodging, fallen men and horses on the ground. She pursued, fighting fiercely for a short time, until she and her friends found themselves grinning at each other over a pile of bodies.
But that was the end of fighting for them. Vik was pale and unsteady on his feet; he fainted as she watched. When Paks turned back to find help, she found it an effort to walk; her legs felt like they had an extra joint. Kefer was not as worried about poisoned blades as she had been.
“It’s fighting without food,” he said. “That and cold. They’ll be all right.” And some hours later, fed and rested, they were. Arñe was ready to return to the cohort, and Seli was already back.
“I’m not limping,” he said. “And if I can fight beside the wagons—which I was—then I can fight here.”
“What did the surgeons say?” asked Arcolin.
“Turned up their noses like they do. By Tir, Captain, you can leave Paks as corporal, but I’m staying here.” But Paks was more than willing to return to her place as file leader. What she wanted more than anything else was sleep.
They heard from the Sorellin militia—disgustingly smug at having rescued mercenaries—that the remnants of Siniava’s army had fled south, and were trying to cross the Immer at a ford. Fewer than a thousand were left to him.
“So they say,” said Arñe sourly. “I thought he was supposed to be down to five hundred two days ago.”
“True.” Paks yawned. “How I could sleep! But they’ve scoured the woods, Arñe—no more of them there. And surely he’d have used all he had in that trap.”
“I hope so. We were afraid you’d all be cut to pieces up here.”
Paks yawned again. “We could have been. It was near enough.”
That night the talk around the camp was how the Sobanai Company horse had linked with Sorellin’s foot to reach them in time. A long, lanky Sobanai hirstar was more than willing to explain.
“We’d been in the Eastmarches,” he said. “Keeping an eye on the trouble in Semnath and Falsith—just in case you wondered why Siniava got no reinforcements from the east. Then Sorellin came to Sir Seti, and asked for cavalry aid: they were marching to meet you, and the Blue Riders were out of touch. Sir Seti spared a cohort to come, and when we met with Sorellin’s troops, above Koury, we heard such that we thought haste wise. Only Sorellin was on foot and slow. We kept after them, and wouldn’t let them stop to celebrate their restday, or whatever it was. Then we met the Blue Riders, but came on anyway. Yesterday, came a big storm after midday; they wanted to halt. So did we—the horses were jumpy. But after the worst had passed, we saw riders ahead—Clarts. So then we heard of the trap, and they led us here, a hard march. We stopped last night only when no one could see, and moved again at first light.”
Paks realized she’d hardly seen a Clart rider all day. “How many of the Clarts got through?”
“I don’t know myself. Not many, I think. They were hit hard, they said, and those who could stayed to harry the rear of Siniava’s lines.”
“What’s going on in the east?” asked Stammel. “Does Siniava have guild support as in Cilwan?”
“Some. Cloth merchants, and such. He had strong factions in the east, even in Falsith. Probably a thousand to fifteen hundred left the East-marches to fight with him. There aren’t that many left, of course.” He grinned around the circle of listeners.
“And where’s Sofi Gannarrion in all this?” asked Kefer. “I thought he was supposed to help.”
The Sobanai rider laughed. “Surely you know—? No? He’s in Fallo, with the Duke. The Duke of Fall’s second son, Amade, is betrothed to Ganarrion’s eldest daughter. He’s not about to stir out of there and risk his bride-gift being damaged.”
“Well, I’ll be—”
“Besides, he wants the Duke’s support when he makes his bid for the throne.”
“Sofi? He’s serious about that?”
“So I hear. You know he’s always claimed to be a prince. Allied with the Duke of Fall, he’s planning to take his throne back.”
“Huh. I’d always thought it was just talk. He’s no use to us then—”
“Unless Siniava tried to march in Fallo. I daresay old Sofi will come out of the keep then.”
“I hope so. What’s it like over there? And what about crossing the Immer?”
“Rich land, good open farmland. Hardly any forest: Siniava can’t hide that way. Mud’s your main concern. The roads are soup when it rains. As for crossing the Immer, the nearest bridge is Koury; otherwise, ford it.”
Chapter Thirty-one
The next day they crossed the Immer at the same ford Siniava had used. The Duke’s column spent two days crossing, but started the pursuit well-fed and rested. Siniava’s trace was clear, bearing almost due east: discarded equipment and dying men littered the way. For three days they followed the trampled trail, but saw no enemy. The Sobanai riders returned to the northeast; the Clarts and a half-cohort of Blue Riders stayed with them.