Moorgoth motioned for the runner again.
“Tell the command group to fall back from the fight and join me here. Then go tell the cavalry commanders that I want them to ride hard to the back of that hill.” He pointed to the ridge that the Solamnics had only recently crossed. “Tell them to listen for my call. When it comes, I want them to charge into the Solamnics’ rear. Now go!”
The baron’s heart was pounding. He lived for the excitement of battle. He looked out to the fighting not fifty yards away. His infantry was pushing back the Solamnics. They were faltering, their lines starting to give way.
“Push them, damn you!” Moorgoth yelled to no one in particular. As if they had all heard him, the baron’s infantry line surged forward. The Solamnic infantry broke.
They were no longer a unit, or a group of units. Now, they were individuals, fleeing to save their lives. The Solamnics ran toward the town.
The baron’s infantry started to pursue.
Moorgoth turned to his bugler. “Quick, sound ‘form line!’ ”
The notes carried out over the noise.
Officers yelled and senior nonofficers shoved and prodded men back into position.
The command group of four armored bodyguards and two officers moved toward the baron. Moorgoth motioned for the bugler to follow him and he left the trees to join them. The red-and-black banner flew proudly in the wind.
Moorgoth moved into a run. He ran through his command group and forward to the infantry line just ahead.
“Come on!” he ordered. “Follow me.”
The bodyguards and officers did as they were told.
Moorgoth broke through the ranks to see what was going on. His infantry were beginning to straighten into lines. Several infantrymen were forward of the front line, pulling wounded survivors of the fight toward the rear, into the woods. They took only men in maroon uniforms. The Solamnics were either left to die where they had fallen or helped along the way with a stab through the heart.
Then, in his moment of triumph, the baron saw the danger. Instead of attacking piecemeal, as he had expected, the Solamnic cavalry were forming in the field. They numbered around eight hundred, the baron estimated, confirming his scout’s report.
Moorgoth ordered the bugler to call “officers to me.”
He was infuriated by the arrogance of the knights. Their commander stood out in front of his cavalry, and instead of ordering a charge, it appeared that he was giving a speech!
The baron’s own officers came in at a dead run.
“Gentlemen, I’ll make this quick. When you hear the retreat bugle call, have your men run back into the woods. Be ready to come out again fighting. Have your archers prepared to pepper them once we’re in the trees. Understand?” He looked around. “Good. Once we’ve broken the charge, the fight’s on. Do your best. Now, hurry!”
The officers sprinted back to their various commands and began shouting orders. On the top of the ridge, the knights’ commander had concluded with something inspirational. The knights raised a rousing cheer.
Lances up, they began their advance at a trot.
The cavalry was a sight to see. Eight hundred armored knights and horses, moving forward in brilliant lines, all the heraldry of many families proudly displayed. They broke into a canter.
Quickly, the distance between the two armies was shrinking. As they advanced, the command group could see more and more details of their foe. They kept their lines straight as they moved forward to meet their enemy.
At five hundred yards, bugles called out from several places in the advancing cavalry line. Their lances came down into horizontal positions, couched to kill upon impact.
The knights broke into a full gallop.
Chapter 22
Theros came down from the hill and walked back to his smithy. Nothing had been heard from Moorgoth about the direction of the battle. It was late afternoon. If they were going to set up, they would need word soon. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be enough light left to do anything.
He hadn’t taken two steps when a rider came galloping into their wagon area. The rider went straight to Belhesser Vankjad, the logistics officer.
Theros hurried to hear the news. When he arrived, the rider saluted Theros and then continued to speak with Belhesser.
“… and we should, if the fight goes well, be here just after sundown. Baron Moorgoth wants you to set up. He feels confident in the day’s decision, and wants a hot meal and a ready camp waiting for him and his troops when he arrives.”
Belhesser looked up at the sinking sun. He thought for a moment, then turned to Theros.
“What do you think, Ironfeld? Could you set up before sundown?”
“Yes, sir. I can be ready, sir.”
Belhesser turned back to the rider. “There you go, Corporal, you have your answer. We will be ready. You can report to Baron Moorgoth that we wish him the best of luck on the field.”
The rider saluted, remounted his horse, and sped away, back to the army in action.
“Any news of the fight?” Theros asked. He was confused, wondering if he wanted the baron to win or be soundly defeated.
Belhesser shook his head. “All he knew was that there had been heavy fighting, and that the Solamnics were fighting near the town. Moorgoth sounds confident, though. We’re to set up and all.”
Theros agreed. “I have to get back and get to work if I’m to be ready to mend weapons and armor tonight.”
He turned and ran back to his wagon. Erela was the first soldier he could find.
“Where is Yuri?” Theros asked, then realized that he already knew the answer.
The soldier blinked. “I thought he was around here somewhere, sir. He was a moment ago. I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him for the last half hour. Shall I go look for him?”
Inwardly, Theros cursed his young apprentice.
“Never mind. I’ll find him. Set up the tent over there.”
In a foul mood, Theros stomped over to the commissary area. People were beginning to move around the wagons, unpacking, setting up. He could see Quartermaster Sarger shouting orders.
And there was Yuri, rushing out from behind a wagon, heading for the smithy. And there was Telera running back to the rear of the wagons, hoping to arrive before someone noticed them. It could all be perfectly innocent-a stolen kiss behind a wagon.
Theros stopped in his tracks and pointed to Yuri. “You! Get over here!”
The men and women working to put up the commissary tent stopped and looked, wondering if the smithy was yelling at them. Yuri ran over. Defiance on his face, he stood in front of Theros.
Theros raised his hand to teach some discipline to the young man. Yuri tightened his jaw, braced himself for the blow.
Theros, scowling, let his hand fall.
“Get to work!” he ordered. “And stop hanging about that wench. People might get the wrong idea.”
Yuri blinked, astonished that he’d not been hit, astonished at the order. “What wrong idea? How-”
“Shut up, you fool. People are listening. Get back to the wagon and see that the smithy is set up correctly. Go!”
Yuri ran over to the smithy area where the soldiers were raising the first tent poles.
Theros stood gazing after his apprentice. Yuri did not want to be a soldier. He had never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to be a blacksmith. He had come to Theros, offering to work for food and board if only Theros would teach him the trade. Yuri had a talent for detail work, but he didn’t have the strength or girth to pound out huge axes or swords. It wasn’t his fault. He was born thin and wiry and he’d be that way until the day he died. Still, he had the brains to know that he could do good work within his limits.
But Yuri needed discipline. He couldn’t discipline himself, apparently, so Theros would have to do it for him. And the first thing Theros had to do was see that this romance came to a halt. For Yuri’s own good.