The first was his growling stomach. The second … well the second he would deal with while he ate. He prayed Guban’s information was wrong.
Stefan inhaled deeply, the faint whiff of food bringing another grumble of protest. He savored the sweet aroma from lingering cook fires before the stench of the waste pits drowned them. He hawked and spat. The phlegm spattered on the dry ground, appearing wet for a moment before the parched earth swallowed the moisture.
“Cadet Harvan, tell Knight General Kasimir to await my signal. Afterward, run fetch Knight General Garrick,” Stefan ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Harvan leaned his lance against the white canvas and ran off.
Stefan had been surprised to find Garrick, scarred face and all, with a full cohort when he returned from his victory over the Erastonians. Apparently, the King sent him to help with the upcoming battle. Garrick had shown open displeasure at High Shin Clarice and her Ashishin cohort, voicing his opinion several times. A time existed when Stefan might have dismissed the man’s malcontent as part of his distrust for Forgers.
From the small incline near his tent, Stefan studied his forces as they maneuvered into formations below, spreading to the south, banners flapping in the breeze. Forty-one Setian cohorts in all-four legions-two consisting of heavy foot, one of light foot, and the other contained the dartan cavalry. Three quarters of their number were Dagodin. Not as many as he wanted, but enough for now. The others were regular soldiers. Today, he would make sure the majority survived.
A grimace passed across the Knight Commander’s face at the single cohort of Ashishin standing to one side. Use who and what you must. Like the rest, they waited, four hundred strong, garbed in crimson tunics and pants with colored diagonal stripes down the front. Their matching, hooded cloaks hung deathly still. The Lightstorm insignia highlighted the back of each cloak. At their head were several High Shin and Pathfinders. While the other legions milled and fidgeted, this formation stood with an eerie, motionless silence.
Satisfied with the preparations, Stefan strode to a nearby table laden with food. He heaped slices of quail breast, slabs of deer, and cheeses and fruits from bronze platters onto a plate. Then he poured himself a tin cup of watered kinai wine from one of several flagons. If he died today, he would do so with his belly full.
“May Ilumni keep me strong to lead my men this day and the next,” he uttered in reverence, cup held up before him.
The Knight Commander threw his head back and emptied the cup’s contents. Fire racing down his gullet, he scrunched up his face. Within moments, the slight weariness from days and nights with little sleep in preparation for this encounter seeped from his bones.
A strong vibration against his leg reminded him of his sword’s presence and of the task ahead. His face curdled into an involuntary scowl before he casually rested his hand on the pommel. The vibration subsided until it became a near indiscernible thrum against his palm. Schooling his face to calm, he turned to the clink of armor.
Knight General Garrick Nagel stood behind him, his dark hair giving off a brighter than usual sheen, his chest an oak’s trunk covered in silver armor filigreed with gold. Deep-set eyes of ebon steel stared back at Stefan in a scarred face hewn from granite. Garrick knuckled his forehead and bowed, but his eyes never strayed from the Knight Commander’s own. He strode next to Stefan.
“Knight General Garrick,” Stefan held out a cup, “any word from the Scouts or Envoys?”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed at the title. Stefan suppressed a small smile.
“Not as yet, sir,” Garrick answered, his voice a rumble as if he spoke from deep within his chest. He took the cup with a slight nod of gratitude.
Stefan poured the Knight General a drink from his flagon. “Have the men feasted as I asked?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kinai juice or wine?” Stefan’s stomach growled again; a reminder that he himself had not eaten in almost a full day.
“Juice, General. They’ll have fervor and strength to spare.” Garrick downed the kinai in two gulps, his eyes narrowing with the first swallow.
“Good, good.” Stefan stroked the prickly stubble under his chin. “You know what I say: If a man’s to die, he may as well do so on a full stomach. Better if he dies after making love to a woman. Unfortunately,” he pointed at their surroundings, “there are never enough women soldiers to go around.”
Garrick scowled at the mention of female soldiers. Like many, he considered fighting a man’s job and women good only for tending home or bedding. “If you say so, sir.”
The man had not always been a stoic one, but he became so ever since the day he almost died to the Erastonians. Garrick walked and talked but something else in him perished that day.
“Time’s changing, Garrick,” Stefan said. “Either we change with it or get swamped under by the likes of them and worse.” Stefan gestured with his head toward the Erastonian army.
Garrick shrugged. “Maybe, but women aren’t the answer.”
“What’s the answer then?” Stefan asked. “Having their women train and fight alongside them have worked for the Erastonians. They easily outnumber any other force and their fighting prowess cannot be denied. Why won’t it work for us? How do we stop other kingdoms from following in their footsteps? The Astocans? The Cardians? We’re losing because of our ways. If we don’t explore every avenue, how do we win?”
“With fire and steel, not soft womanly wiles. That has always been the Setian way.” Garrick spat to one side then gripped his sword hilt in a huge gauntleted fist. “Strike first and show no mercy. There’s no greater advantage than surprise and fear.”
“Sometimes, sometimes, indeed,” Stefan said while stroking his beard, “but there has to be other ways that don’t require killing. How long will we continue to ravage the land we intend to live in? What will we leave for our families?”
Garrick’s lips curled. “This is war. You fight and you die. It’s your kind of think-” He stopped mid-sentence as Stefan arched an eyebrow.
“It’s fine.” Stefan smiled, but didn’t let the expression touch his eyes. “I know. It’s my kind of thinking that’s made the Setian and Ostania as a whole, soft. I have heard it before.” Sword thrumming against his palm, he picked out a slab of quail with his other hand and began to chew, his gaze on Garrick.
The war horns blared again as if to remind them they still had a battle to fight. Drums rumbled their response. Out on the Crescent Hills, the Erastonians had finally drawn to a halt. They covered the plains completely, not a patch of brown earth showing among their ranks.
Stefan eyed his dartan cavalry as they wheeled into position. “I can give you one of the new mounts if your leg can handle riding.”
Garrick flinched so slightly Stefan almost missed it. “No. They don’t take to me or my men.”
“Oh?”
Despite their location off to one side, the dartans swung their necks and kept their attention on Garrick’s cohort. The animals’ mewls were indiscernible from the drums, horns, marching feet, and jangle of armor, but their open mouths and swaying heads spoke of displeasure.
“I think they’re too used to your men. Does the King know about them?” Garrick’s brow wrinkled.
“Not yet,” Stefan said. He licked grease from his finger. “I wanted to wait to see how they fared in a battle before I reported their use.”
“And the Ashishin?” Garrick spat to the side again.
“Nerian won’t be pleased, but we needed to try something new. Even he can understand that after so many losses.”
Garrick grunted. “Do you wish to go over the plans with the Captains or address the men again, sir?”