Dawn broke over the camp, bathing the hastily assembled tents in a soft glow. The illumination quickly roused the warriors from their slumber and the camp was quickly abuzz in an effort to begin the march immediately. The decision to only set up the bare minimum for camp that night served as a prudent choice as the tents dissipated before the birds calling for mates pierced the air.
The soldiers arranged themselves in three groups in accordance with the previous night’s decisions. Valentin noticed that he was a member of the smallest of the three groups, both overall and in number of warriors. However, each warrior in the group under Ferron were superiorly armed and armored compared to the average footman of the other two armies. Additionally, the majority of horsemen favored this group and the large beasts stomped their feet in sympathetic anticipation to their riders.
Tiarna Celfor rode back and forth between the three groups, his armor and the barding of his horse shimmering with a matching bronze sheen. Once he had gained the attention of the waiting warriors, he stopped between the center and right flank.
“Proud warriors of Arven, once again we march on the dogs of Etrineux to repay a slight that is long overdue. This time we do not march alone, the spirits smile upon us by bringing powerful allies to our doorstep. We will not let this opportunity slip by. We will tear out the weed that is the Marche clan root and stem. Only then will we be able to live our lives with satisfaction! Now show ferocity and lethality that will make your ancestors smile!”
The warriors of Arven responded zealously to the speech of their leader. The people of Arven inherited the grudge of their tiarna. They slammed their spears on the ground and pounded their chest to an angry rhythm. Marshal Valun snapped her reins and the columns began their march towards the forests that lie in the distance.
“Do you have any rousing words for us, Ferron?” Arthus asked his leader, a smirk hidden under his mask.
The warband leader turned to face his own forces. “Yeah, earn your keep.”
Ferron’s column marched directly west in an effort to entirely circumvent the sprawling forest. The underbrush of the wooded ground offered too many hazards and concealed ideal ambush locations for their overwhelming cavalry force to risk a shortcut. Valentin imagined numerous eyes watching the column from the shade of the trees silently praying that the group was lured towards their doom.
“Do they already know that we are here?” Valentin asked, watching the treeline with a paranoid imagination.
“I sent a letter last cycle demanding the return of a precious clan heirloom through peaceful means or I would return to take it by force,” Tiarna Celfor answered. “I was blatantly rejected. They know we’re coming.”
The banners of the assembled forces hung limply in the calm morning. Only the movement of the column would allow the colored cloth to unfurl enough to advertise the owner of the force passing by. However, Valentin found it difficult to believe such a loud yellow as the one Arven used could be easily missed or mistaken for another.
The tame plains gave way to rolling hills and day gave way to night. Small groves of trees sprouted from the rocky soil. For the first time, the procession had to cautiously chart their path over the ridgelines and streams of the countryside. The horses were marched with tentative footsteps in areas where the uneven terrain proved treacherous.
After breaking camp, the procession climbed up one of the steeper hills of the region. From the top of the taller hill, Valentin could see a fair portion of the region. They were hemmed in on both sides by trees much shorter than the ones to the far west of the country. To the west, the boy could see the huddled hovels of a small village. A narrow footpath wound over the hills towards the north where several more hills and ridgelines flowed into the green treetops further into the horizon.
Ferron held out his right hand and the column shifted its mighty head northwards. He then pointed towards the horizon and several scouts rode out ahead. The speed of the procession slowed greatly. Idle conversation ground to a halt as warriors on the fringes of the column apprehensively pointed their spears towards the forests that corralled them further and further northward and horsemen led their steeds to hold a wider distance from the main force.
Valentin felt he was holding his breath as the warriors sluggishly trespassed onto the region. Surely now they would come into contact with their adversaries. Even the wind itself held its breath in anticipation of a clash. Only the drumming of boots and the scattered calls of birds.
“Not even a stray sheep out to graze,” Ferron commented. “It is a certainty that our presence is known.”
“Aye,” Hrost agreed, scanning the periphery of the flanking forests. “Though I doubt we will be confronted from this position.”
The column's advance halted at the return of one of the scouts. They patted their steed’s neck as their animal was lathered from the exertion.
“What did you see?” Ferron asked.
“There are two banners planted in the hill about five thousand paces ahead. A village that appears to be surrounded by tents is another thousand paces northeast beyond the hill. The nearby stumps seem freshly chopped, even young trees were felled. However, we did not see any defenses installed on the hill or any palisades around the village, though there may still be caltrops that were not discovered,” the scout briefed, pointing their fingers towards the relevant locations.
“What banners were flying?” Tiarna Celfor inquired animatedly.
“It was difficult to make out from a distance. One was red with what appeared to be an oak tree and the other was gray with some sort of animal on it. Perhaps a dog or a bear or a boar. I couldn’t say with confidence.”
Tiarna Celfor smiled, “Good, a member of the Marche clan is here. It will either be Firmin or his eldest daughter, Julianna.”
Ignoring Celfor’s response, Ferron pressed on with his own questions. “What is the terrain between here and the marked hill?”
“The next rise is the final elevated point before the banners,” the scout briefed. “The land between isn’t flat, but the soil is hard and should not prevent the horses from moving at speed.”
“And likely that soil prevented them from digging deep enough for palisades,” Ferron thought aloud in a low voice. “Good work.”
Ferron spun his horse around to address the column. He pivoted his body to point at the looming ridgeline and to speak to the warriors face to face. “Warriors, our battle starts in earnest. That is the place where we will begin our assault upon Etrineux. All that cannot fight will stop here and make camp. The rest, with me.”
The warrior’s march forward was brought with renewed vigor now that their destination was in sight and they quickly ascended the next hill before the next hour had passed. Now, atop the final rise before the enemy, the warriors could see the banners denoting the presence of the defenders.
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It was less than two thousand paces, two miles, which separated the two positions. A shallow creek flowed eastward, creating a natural border between the two forces. The thin line of water sat in the shadow of a mighty riverbed that carved through the hillsides. Sprouts of wild grasses climbed from the dried cracks of the silt soil that remembered the thundering waters that once passed over it. The slopes from either side of the riverbed were not overly steep and seemed that there would be little issue for warhorses to traverse.
“This is ideal,” Ferron stated to no one in particular. “We will make our introductions here.”
He held a hand perpendicular to his forehead to block the light and squinted towards the banners on the opposite hill. “Tiarna Celfor, was this the same banner that you encountered on your last campaign?”
Tiarna Celfor mimicked Ferron and strained his eyes towards the banners. His face twisted into a grimace and he spat angrily. “Aye, it’s the same dog faced bastards as last time. Merciless Curs were their name.”
“So it is Jean Barteau who stands in opposition,” Ferron commented. “I didn’t think he would campaign so far south. Though I had heard he was born in the Martelle region, perhaps this is his birthplace.”
“Have you encountered this man before?” Tiarna Celfor asked.
“No, the Merciless Curs prefer the northern campaigns. I have heard of them but they are not as renowned as their contemporaries, the Valicra or the Marauders of Hedrin. I can assure you that we have them outmatched.”
As the two leaders spoke, a wave of warriors spilled from the camp and flowed over the top of the opposite hill. A sea of spears pointed skyward and covered the position with angry stingers and metal plates. A small detachment of cavalry crested the hill and came to a stop at the warrior’s flank.
A low, bellowing horn pierced the air causing nearby birds to take to the skies in a panicked exodus. A chorus of shouts carried through the hills and barely reached the ears of Ferron’s warriors.
Tiarna Celfor motioned to one of his attendants, an aging man in bright yellow attire forwards. The man scurried at a rapid pace for one so advanced and hobbled his way beside his liege’s horse.
“Bring out the horn,” Celfor ordered.
The attendant quickly returned with the horn. The battle call was made from a bull’s horn and polished until it glistened. A ring of leather was bound around the horn and the noble’s fingers gripped tightly into the soft surface.
Ferron raised up his hand to prevent Celfor from blowing the horn. “I recommend against that, Tiarna. I fear that your horn will only inspire the defenders to spurn you again. Allow me to do the honors of announcing ourselves to our adversaries.”
Celfor twisted up his face as though he had eaten something sour. “Fine, do as you wish. This is your battlefield.”
Ferron nodded with appreciation before summoning his own horn. It was massive compared to the Avernian horn. Crafted from a massive aurochs that lived to the north, the gaping base of the horn made Valentin wonder at the size of the beast that had to be felled to create it.
Ferron took a deep breath and placed the horns to his lips. A low, guttural roar exploded out of the horn, forcing Valentin and many others that were caught unawares to cover their ears. Horses shied away from the quaking noise and the ground seemed to shake from the violence of the sound. Even when he stopped blowing into it, the harsh noise still seemed to reverberate over the hills and continue to ring within the ears of all those nearby. Once the air no longer sang the harmonies that had ripped through it, only silence remained. Not a sound managed to travel from the opposite hill.
“Return to camp. It is too late in the day for war,” Ferron ordered, turning his horse around and heading in the opposite direction.
Scouts remained atop the hill to watch for activity while the rest of the warriors returned to expedite the assembly of their beds. Warriors scurried out to the nearby woods to collect kindling and fresh water for the night. Tents quickly sprouted up from the ground and small cook fires began glowing in front of each opening.
Defying Valentin’s expectations, an air of calm and relaxation hung over the camp. Warriors interacted with each other with levity and gambling rings had quickly assembled. The clattering of bone dice in shallow wooden bowls could be heard if one got close enough. Warriors looked greedily at the bowls with their weapons outside of arm’s reach.
“Why do you look so tense, boy?” Ferron asked.
“Aren’t we but a couple miles from where the enemy sleeps? Are we not considering the possibility of an attack?” Valentin asked nervously.
“I have considered it and found it unlikely,” Ferron answered plainly as though the question was mundane. “There is not enough light left in the day for war; the clouds are high and will block out any light from the stars and lesser sky spirits. From what I am told, Jean Barteau is an honest and straight forward commander. They will maintain their defensive position and dare us to come to them.”
Valentin silently accepted this explanation. He had remembered his own flight over the roads through the pitch black of night. He could scarcely believe that one could fight at all in those conditions without a torch to give yourself away.
“You must pay very close attention to the coming days,” Ferron advised. “Strategy in combat is good, but you must also be aware of what is required before the fighting.”
And so Valentin watched the following day from a distance the actions and commands of the warriors. Several were dispatched into the forests. The crashing of felled trees were heard intermittently and logs cut at around twenty hands in length would be pulled from the woods by donkey and assembled into caltrops around the camp. Several of these defensive structures were staggered around the camp to dissuade charges.
Durant led several horses over the terrain between the two camps to test the footing and inspect for any natural hindrances. The opposing camp brought out their own cavalry to try to ward them from reaching too close to the camp.
A handful of warriors surveyed various depths within the creek to ensure the safety of an eventual crossing. They stabbed poles at five pace intervals along the water and marked where the water dampened the wood. Ferron would eventually inspect the positions himself, taking note of a few spots of interest.
On the second day, Ferron ordered the horns blown and drummers to beat out a marching tune. Whenever the opposing warriors would assemble, Ferron would withdraw his troops. He did this several times throughout the day while leaving a small detachment to continue to forage and bolster his camp defenses.
On the third day, Ferron marched his troops over the creek and got within shouting distance of the enemy. A frantic drum beat was played and the warriors brayed and shouted at each other. Valentin watched Ferron watching the battle lines intently.
It was now that they were so close that Valentin realized that the Armée du Corbeaux was outnumbered. However, many of the warriors that stood behind the Merciless Curs were poorly equipped villagers. If you counted the horsemen and heavily armored warriors, the Armée had a firm advantage.
Once several verbal volleys had been fired from either side, the forces mutually retreated back to their camps. The Merciless Curs exchanged verbal barbs over their shoulders towards their retreating foes.
Before they returned to camp, Ferron halted his forces atop the hill that they used as a mustering point.
“Warriors,” Ferron addressed his warriors. “These past few days I have watched these adversaries across from us and have found them wanting. They intend to bolster a proud warband with peasant levies that reek of wheat and manure. This battle is nothing more than a death sentence, an execution with the trappings of a battle. Return your tents, crack open the casks, and drink with your compatriots. Tomorrow, we will fight in earnest.”
Cheers echoed through the air and the warriors quickly returned to their camps to pry open the barrels of ale and allow them to flow into the eager mouths of those that were to risk their lives the next day. Raucous soldiers draped their arms around each other and sang songs of exultation and impending victory. People shared tales, gesticulating wildly with their limbs to provoke roars of laughter.
Upon dismounting, Ferron turned towards Valentin. “I require some time to myself tonight. Stay out here and make yourself known to the warriors before retiring. Get Durant to introduce you to some, he’s well liked.”
“I’m not sure if Durant is very keen on me,” Valentin said, dreading an interaction with the openly hostile man.
“If he gives you shit, tell him to grow up. He’s a grown man with no time to be feuding with children. Now go,” Ferron ordered with a hand that brushed off the boy’s protests.
Valentin watched the immense back of the warrior retreat into the tent. He was left within the whirlwind of celebrations of the warriors that surrounded him. He faced the chaos before him and considered the idea of leaving the camp entirely and spending the evening to himself. He sighed, his underperformance at the blood reading filled him with trepidation of the safety of his position.
Disregarding Ferron’s orders was firmly off the table.