Lykourgos V: The Road to War
The Twenty-Fourth Day of the Ninth Moon, 872AD
Southern Einar, Central Teleytaios, Klironomea
Usually, night marches are difficult. Entire companies can lose sight of those in front of them in the black of night, leading hundreds of men miles off course. Some stories from the prince's childhood told of entire armies blundering straight into an enemy force, where free-for-alls dominated the coming hours and no man was sure if he had just stabbed an enemy or his brother. Last night's march, thank all the Angels, seemed to be an exception to the rule. Careful planning, clear routes, and stringent safety measures, largely thanks to the Lieutenants-at-Arms being exceedingly dutiful in maintaining order, meant that come the end of the march there had been no major incidents.
Camp had been set less than five miles from the enemy so that the men might snatch a few hours of rest, tents were set in neat rows and columns with a firepit for every four tents, waiting to be lit in the morning. By his side was Dreamwulf, who still had yet to sleep. Lykourgos, Nasos, Ilias and Eros had all asked him to stay behind and rest, but the newly assigned bodyguard had been resolute in his refusal.
"I've been named the prince's Personal Champion. It's my duty t' remain at his side throughout all battles. Besides-" he continued, gesturing to a still-injured Lykourgos, "with how your hand is, I don't reckon we'll be in for much of the fightin'."
Lykourgos had grinned despite himself. Here was a man of duty.
One thing that had limited the potential for a disaster was that the army had been split in twain; Ser Romanos had departed from the main column with almost every mounted combatant falling under his command, and they were now headed some twenty to thirty miles west to a rather insignificant little village called Suthenfordeinar. He had instructions to pivot south at daybreak, since he claimed he could reach the village by sunrise, and smash into the flank of the levies in the late morning. Assuming the intelligence Elikoidi provided was correct, and he hadn't given the prince reason to doubt him thus far, Marshal Harran would doubtless prove a mediocre commander at best. He would have learned the aspects of command and tactics in theory, but putting them into practice? That was something else entirely, as Lykourgos learned in the Twilight Rebellion, so named for it being the last time the high nobility would be able to ride in force against the crown.
Apparently, the young Marshal hadn't seen the need for a full command staff either, relying on an extremely small circle of nobles and knights to act as his lieutenants, instead of actual trained officers.
He smiled at that thought. In other circumstances this would be a learning experience for the young commander, but Lykourgos highly doubted he would be leaving the field to ruminate on his mistakes.
"Your Grace!"
The voice of his young cupbearer cut through the stillness of the camp. The only activity aside from that of his cupbearer were the Lieutenants-at-Arms eating with the prince in the officers' mess-tent, making polite chatter and generally shrugging off their drowsiness. Those amongst the twelve gathered quickly quelled their noise at the arrival of the newcomer, as their prince's voice rose above their own.
"Ilias! I see you've decided to join me at last!"
The cupbearer's face was beet-red. He'd looked so peaceful sleeping that the prince was loathe to wake him that morning... actually he just wanted to embarrass him a little at mess, but he didn't need to know that.
"I- Apologies your Grace. I fear I am not yet used to marching so far in such a short time. I shall endeavour to correct this flaw in the future."
His voice became composed and cold, to an almost unsettling degree. The prince frowned. He hadn't intended to actually hurt the boy's feelings. He nodded once at the boy, smiling slightly to hopefully convey his intended playfulness. His cupbearer moved to sit beside him when the prince patted the bench and moved up, spearing a choice piece of ham on his dirk and grabbing a fresh roll for the young servant before depositing them on a plate in front of the lad.
"Eat up, come on. We've got a long day ahead of us and you could do with a few more hot meals. The rolls are fresh, and damn good."
The cupbearer nodded and dug in, breaking his fast, as the prince cut open another roll and spread butter throughout. It melted almost immediately and smelled heavenly. He broke from his actions when he heard the noise of contentment from his left, and saw the cupbearer frozen mid-bite, before a lazy grin appeared while he scarfed down the rest. Lykourgos placed the second roll on his plate with a conspiratorial wink and a grin, for which he received a happy smile. I think he accepts my apology for embarrassing him.
The prince picked up a plum from the plate in front of him and dug in, enjoying the satisfying taste of the fresh fruit, letting the juice run down his chin before wiping it away. The men outside would not be enjoying such luxuries, though he supposed that very few of them would be awake this early, save the sentries and scouts. It was somewhere between the fifth and sixth hour of daybreak at the moment, and the men would be roused at the sixth. They'd only had a few scant hours of sleep, which may hamper their performance somewhat, but with any luck a full breakfast and morning preparations would wake them up. After all, nothing quite made one alert like the prospect of heading off to battle.
Lykourgos made conversation with the men around him as Ilias ate, and listened in to other men's conversations when he wasn't.
"The new provisioning system seems to be going well, your grace."
Lykourgos nodded. Even if they'd only been on the march for a day, the men had still needed to eat in the weeks prior as they drilled at Aenirhen, and with summer behind them there were few who wished to see twelve-thousand men gorge themselves on the town's winter stockpiles.
"Indeed. My compliments to you Lieutenant Isen for the idea. The men may have grumbled at the increase in their kit's weight, but I don't think any of them will be complaining when they're hungry and can't find enough to forage."
Another Lieutenant, older and more experienced, weighed in.
"Aye, and its stops the green boys from seeing the veterans foraging and thinking they know how to do it. If I had a crow for each man I watched go paralysed eating what he thought was cow parsley, well, I wouldn't need to be in the army anymore."
Lykourgos and the younger Lieutenant laughed at the elder's joke, and the prince turned himself back to his cupbearer.
"So, how has everyone been keeping since I left for Anaria?"
Ilias swallowed his food, and turned to look at the prince.
"Your retinue, your grace? We've been keeping fine enough, Elikoidi was odd though."
Lykourgos smiled.
"Oh, how so?"
"Well, he kept asking me random questions about people in the company we travelled with to the Horndaal. Their names, ages, professions, skills and the like. I guess he must have been pleased with me, cause he ruffled my hair with his gloved hand and walked off."
"He was testing you."
Ilias blinked.
"What?"
The prince nodded once, to confirm his own statement.
"Elikoidi wanted to see if you could be trusted, and more importantly, if you had the right skills to be permanently given the role of my cupbearer. Whether or not he thought you were good enough I would've kept you on anyway, but you've impressed the most dangerous man on our side as well, so good job!"
Ilias was a whirlwind of thought, that much was clear just from how his facial expression kept shifting and changing.
"I... I've done well enough to stay in your employ?"
The prince smiled and nodded.
"Definitely. Like it or not, you're stuck with us now."
Ilias smiled at that, and the two of them returned to comfortable silence. Lykourgos watched, bemused, as Ilias somehow managed to snag an entire block of cheese and devoured it all.
"I suppose I had better ask if there was anything you needed to tell me, you know, any ravens find their way here, messengers on horseback, the like?"
The boy shook his head as he finished eating, and moved to wash his hands in a washbasin.
"So, there was nothing urgent you needed to tell me, Ilias?"
The boy shook his head.
"No, your Grace. Only a message from an Armsmen that he believes in you, but nothing official."
There was a small spark of warmth in his words, and the prince continued smiling.
"Well, let's hope we do right by him, hmm?"
There was a mischievous glint in Ilias' eye.
"I mean, I guess if you get lucky you could, but I think he'd have been happier if you offered him a raise."
The prince grinned at him and ruffled his hair, much to the boy's chagrin, but he smiled happily nonetheless.
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As the prince left the tent leaving his Lieutenants to finish their meals, he could already see the odd man awake, a few tending to the now burning cookfires and frying strips of bacon for their comrades. As this went on a few men poked their heads out of the ends of their tents, sniffing the air like dogs before heading to the latrine pits to relieve themselves. Some were sharpening billhooks and swords, others checking bowstrings and quivers. There was even a crew of artillerists putting the pieces of a ballista together to be drawn by the horses to the chosen battlefield. As he passed men bowed or hammered fists to their chests, some just nodding deferentially. There was to be a battle today, and the men knew it well.
"Have you ever known battle before, Ilias?"
The boy shook his head.
"No, your Grace."
"Have you ever seen a man die?"
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There was silence between them as they continued walking around the camp for several minutes, telling the prince all he needed to know. When the cupbearer spoke up again, there was a hint of something in his voice that the prince wasn't well versed enough in his emotions to identify.
"... not to blade or bow, your Grace."
The words cold and hunger went unspoken, but the prince knew them all the same. Ilias was so good at holding himself with composure befitting his status that it was easy to forget that he had been homeless for most of his life. Lykourgos rounded on Ilias, and knelt so they were at the same height. He pulled a dagger in its scabbard from his belt, and pressed the leather-covered blade into the boy's hands.
"I'm giving you this for self-defence. You might not know how to use it, but if you're in a tight spot and need to flee, you'll at least have something."
The cupbearer stared at him intently, knowing that he wasn't finished.
"I do not expect this battle to go ill for us, not in the slightest. Every advantage is on our side."
Ilias nodded unsurely, waiting for Lykourgos to continue.
"But..."
"But there is little order to these things, no matter how much it may look otherwise. All it takes is a stray arrow, a stumbling horse, a panicked run, and with no warning I could be gone. If things go ill, find Dreamwulf and stick with him, make your way to Aenirhen. You should be safe there, at least long enough to get into the service of my brother."
Ilias blinked a few times.
"King Rhema? Why would he-"
"Trust me, I know my brother. Stick in a group with Dreamwulf, Nasos, and the rest of my retainers, and Rhema will take you in. I can't promise you'll find him pleasant all the time, but I know he still has a good heart. You'll be mostly safe and out of the way so long as he sits the throne."
"You talk as though you expect to die."
The prince stopped and took a deep breath. Ilias was right. Be it well-preparedness or paranoia, he was being pessimistic whatever the cause.
"I do not expect to die. Not for a long time yet. Nevertheless, there needs to be plans in place should I fall. You'll be safe with a plan in place."
Lykourgos stood, moving to continue walking around the camp through the early hours of the day. The skies were covered in light-grey clouds, the sun barely peeking through. It seemed that there would be some rain today, though hopefully nothing like the storms earlier that month. He shuddered as his mind went back to the downpour, as if to shake off the dampness he felt just thinking of the seemingly endless rains. He made it some ten paces from where he had been stood, before he realised his cupbearer wasn't by his side. He looked behind him, only to find that Ilias had yet to move from where he was stood, a look of confusion and bitterness on his face.
"Ilias?"
"Why? Why do you care what becomes of me? I'm your cupbearer, your servant. Why should you care what happens to me?"
Lykourgos turned back around, and stared. Stood before him was a young boy, draped in forest green robes far too big for him and a golden bracelet acting as a tiny crown atop his head. In his hands he held a shortsword, though with how small he was it may as well have been a broadsword. The boy gave him a toothy grin, dropped the sword, and threw open his arms for a hug.
Then Lykourgos blinked and he was back in the military camp, standing in front of his cupbearer.
He forced down the lump in his throat and turned back around.
"You remind me of someone important to me."
He couldn't say more than that, no matter how hard he tried. He wasn't sure why he was getting so emotional, stress perhaps? Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I'm about to go to war with my younger brother. With the only family that matters to me.
Maybe his brother was attempting to aid him, as he had alluded to in Anaria. Maybe this was simply a joke, though whether he was the build-up or the punchline he wasn't sure. Maybe his brother had simply fallen back into madness, and was being puppeteered by their sister.
Whatever the cause, none of it mattered right now.
He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his head, but all he could see was open arms, and green robes.
It had been one hell of an exhausting morning, and they hadn't even left for the battle yet.
Strange, he thought to himself as he swiped a padded sleeve across his eyes, I don't recall shedding tears.
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By the time they reached the Roses' Camp it was still morning, almost at the tenth hour of day. They had made good time thanks to the Coastroad making up most of their journey, and with well-trained and motivated men they were in tactically advantageous positions in front of the camp. When he had been told that the hill cresting the camp didn't even have pickets or sentries on, he had suspected a trap. It wasn't until he, himself, was stood atop the crescent shaped hill that he realised the scouts were right; more than there being no sentries atop the hill, somehow Marshal Harran and his men were encamped on possibly the single worst piece of terrain for miles, save only the river Einar itself.
The camp was situated on the plains beneath the crescent shaped hill that the prince lay upon, perhaps a few-hundred metres away from the hill. Tents and temporary structures littered the surrounding area, the only ordered area being what must have been the noble quarter at the rear, with its gaudy, colourful tents, and proud banners.
Directly to the left of the sprawling camp was a much more drab, orderly, and professional looking encampment atop a small hill, perhaps twenty or thirty metres tall with a medium incline. Surrounding the small camp there was a small palisade of sharpened stakes, and a rudimentary gate.
"Found the Starling's camp your grace?"
Dreamwulf's voice was hushed as they lay on their stomachs in the grass.
"Yes, and they're still competent. Seems Symon's son might be worthy of his father after all."
"I didn't know Sellsword Companies were inherited, yer Grace. Always figured they picked the strongest to lead 'em."
Lykourgos nodded.
"Depends on the company. Even so, the Starlings did pick Symons's son to lead them. By itself that speaks either to loyalty or competence."
"Or both."
Lykourgos grit his teeth. He really hoped it wasn't that.
"Yes, Dreamwulf. Or both."
There was a mild silence only broken by the gentle sounds of nature, whilst Dreamwulf seemed to be racking his mind for something.
"What... what is the name of Symon's son, your Grace?"
"Symon."
Dreamwulf blinked.
"So... Symon Symondson?"
Lykourgos nodded, and Dreamwulf shook his head.
"Angels above, the pride of some people."
"Well, we'll be facing off against him soon enough, so let us hope that he's not quite the man his father was."
The bodyguard shook his head again.
"This is a proper strange situation."
Lykourgos tilted his head to one side.
"How so?"
Dreamwulf took a deep breath, and let out a slow sigh.
"Okay, so lemme know if I'm wrong here. The enemy is less a mile away from our army and blocked from vision by nought but a crescent hill. Despite the noise we must have made on the road, no one seems to have put out even the barest of early warning systems, and now you, the head of our army, are freely overlooking the enemy with only a blind man as a companion as they go about a very late morning routine."
The prince nodded.
"I think that about covers it, yes."
He heard Dreamwulf let out a long exhale, before muttering into his hand.
"Fucking hell, didn't I use to be a farmer?"
"And an Oblate."
Dreamwulf turned to look at him with a deadpan expression, his dull eyes somehow conveying both exasperation and mirth despite not functioning. The prince watched as he shook his head in amusement and changed the subject.
"Right, how d'you wanna do this then?"
The prince pressed a hand to his chin and thought.
"If we had our cavalry with us I'd send them in en masse to route the enemy before they could mount a defence, however seeing as I was expecting an actual battle I sent them the long way around to flank this force. As it stands, I want every man holding a bow to come to the hilltop, Longbowmen by regiment and others as a screening force. See if we can pull up some of the light artillery too, we might be able to start making holes in the palisade around the Starling camp while we're at it. The more of them we can kill in our opening volleys the better, since we'll be catching them unarmed and unarmoured. Ser Romanos should be here in a few hours, give or take, so they can deal with any stragglers if they're not here on time for the actual battle."
"Well, that makes sense enough to me, not that it needs to. Come on then, let's get back to the column."
Lykourgos held up a hand, before stopping Dreamwulf verbally instead.
"Hold on, I see something. The Starling's camp..."
"What is it?"
There were a small number of men overlooking the palisade, likely on raised platforms to act as sentries.
"It seems that the Starlings heard us this morning. Why do they not tell their allies of a suspected attack?"
"Probably did. But Symon is a lowborn and Marshal Harran is not. That means Symon must be wrong, according to the nobles."
There was a beat before Dreamwulf realised what he had said, face reddening.
"No 'ffence intended, yer Grace. Only meant the Roses."
Lykourgos, for his part, was trying not to laugh at the bodyguard's faux-pas, a hand covering his own mouth to prevent any laughter from alerting anyone in the camps of their location. When he did speak his words were warm with mirth.
"Okay, okay, let's make our way back now. There's plenty to be sorted out with the Lieutenants before the battle begins and if we're quick we can have the battle started before we even get halfway through the tenth hour."
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Some of the men were readying themselves by praying. Most were silent. Some, mostly the veterans who'd seen battle before, relieved themselves one last time before the battle. When the last few stragglers fell into place they marched to the top of the crescent hill overlooking the camps, planted their banners, and readied themselves. Lykourgos watched as the various levied bowmen arranged themselves on the slopes in front of the hill, screening the various blocks of Longbowmen-at-Arms whose Lieutenants ordered them to await the prince's command. Dotted between the blocks of Longbowmen were various light artillery pieces, ranging from genuinely light, such as the scorpions a few of the levies had scrounged up or otherwise built themselves, to 'light' by Armsmen standards, such as ballista and onagers. It was tempting to order a few trebuchets atop the hill, just for show, but even if they would have helped in this battle, there was no way to bring them up the hill pre-built, and constructing them atop the hill would take so long that the battle would be over well before they were finished.
Lykourgos cleared his voice as the last of his men marched into position, hearing warning bells from the camps below. Too slow, far too slow. It'll take you too long to get your men organised and armed. It'd take your knights a full hour to get into their armour alone. Such is the folly of pride, I suppose.
Lykourgos raised his left hand high in the air, open palmed, and began to shout his orders.
"Nock!"
As one, two-thousand longbowmen slotted their arrows, each of them a deadly bodkin head. It rendered anything other than heavy plate useless, to say nothing of the padded jerkins and boiled leather the dull masses would be lucky to wear. Poor bastards.
"Draw!"
The sounds of tensing strings filled his ears, and he waited for the last of the noise to die down before clenching his raised hand into a fist and jerking it downwards.
"LOOSE!"
The twanging of bowstrings and whistling of the arrows seemed to last a lifetime, despite no arrow leaving a bow less than a few seconds after the first took flight.
Before the arrows had even touched the ground he ordered them to nock, draw and loose again. And then again. And again. By the fifth he didn't need to order the men to nock and loose; now knowing the speed at which the men could discharge their arrows and trusting the Lieutenants to maintain orderly firing rates he simply nodded towards the nearest of them and ordered him to continue loosing into the panicked enemy camp.
A few moments later the much more powerful twanging of the ballistae were heard, their bolts tearing straight through tents a scant few hundred metres away, shredding leather and splintering wood.
Panicked figures could be seen running between tents in the distance, and some men mounted the few horses in their makeshift stables to flee. Most of the horses reared or stumbled throwing their riders, though a few would certainly leave the field.
Not that it would matter.
The squall lasted for half an hour, before Lykourgos raised his hand in the air. Without speaking a single word, the men loosed their last shots before coming still. The Roses camp was in complete disarray, with wounded men crying out for help, for mercy, for death, for the Angels, their mothers, their lives, anything that may sooth them. Towards the rear Lykourgos could just make out the visage of a man who must have been Marshal Harran, or at least a highborn of some sort, doing his best to organise and arm his battered men. If he's smart, he's organising a withdrawal. The prince looked around at the disorganised camp, and the ridge his men stood upon. He looked back at the road they had travelled, completely uncontested.
"Probably not."
"What was that, yer Grace?"
"Nothing, Dreamwulf. Come, let's get the boys in there."
"Aye, yer Grace.”