Valentin sat upon Vescal on the southern hillside, clutching the reins tightly in both of his hands. His knuckles turned white from the exertion. The celebrations of the night before had wreaked havoc upon him. He had woken up perfectly fine, something Ferron attributed towards the blessings of youth.
He had expected a lecture or signals of disappointment from the warband leader. It never came. Instead, he was handed a short sword and a spear for protection and led towards the battlefield as though nothing had transpired the night before. Valentin would have to thank Arthus when he saw him next.
The full warband of fighting men were assembled before him. Ferron and Tiarna Celfor sat on horseback next to him. Lower down the hill the warband’s battle lines were starting to form. The degs were arranged at the bottom of the hill, their leader standing in the center of each group. Along either side of the formation was a grouping of cavalry. The left flank was led by Durant and the right by the Celfor cavalry deggan, Gareth.
Across the hilly landscape the Merciless Curs and Marche forces assembled beneath their banners. The sounds of drums and shouting echoed bridged the distance to Valentin’s ears. Valentin saw them as little gray spots arranging themselves in different patterns.
“They’re nervous,” remarked Ferron to Tiarna Celfor and adjusted himself in the saddle.
Tiarna Celfor smiled in response. “Tiarna Marche is a sniveling coward and so is his pack of hired dogs.”
“How do you know they’re nervous?” Valentin inquired.
“Because lad, they know that we are coming for them today. We have them out-skilled and out-horsed. They are already sounding the war drums in a desperate attempt to boost the confidence of their unskilled conscripts. They acted too early.” Ferron points at his own line, “See our warriors, Valentin?”
The soldiers of the Armée du Corbeaux were comparatively calm. Some were checking the weighting of their javelins, others were adjusting their armor and boots, and many more were standing completely still.
“They don’t look like they are about to fight,” Valentin responded.
“Not so, dear boy, they are remaining composed,” Ferron corrected. “It is too early to be whipped into a frenzy. We have two miles to cross before we reach them. A warrior has surprisingly little stamina, both of the body and the spirit. If I were to sound the kill pattern and march my troops across the field, they would be exhausted before we crossed the creek.”
“But were we not sounding the death drums yesterday when we showed our flags to each other?” Valentin asked quizzically.
“That was different,” Ferron clarified. “We were trying to intimidate them into retreat without a fight by displaying our martial and spiritual superiority. Now, we will be fighting and as the aggressor, we will be choosing the time.”
Ferron motioned for the flag bearer and a drummer to approach him. “Midday,” was all he ordered to the two of them. The drummer began to beat out a pattern that started to loop and the flag bearer moved the flag in a high circular motion. The men below made some calls to each other and seemed to relax a little. Ferron nodded in satisfaction.
“I want them to waste their attempt at raising hopes. Let the warriors over there think about what we are planning. Let them worry about what a battle against us truly means,” Ferron said with satisfaction, a small smile decorating his face. “Now, Valentin, you will learn one of the most important lessons of battle.”
“What is that?” Valentin asked and tilted his head to the side.
“Patience.”
The next hour passed without a word being spoken from atop the hill. After Ferron’s orders to the formation, the shouting and noise from the enemy forces died down momentarily as they watched intently from the other side of the field. Both formations sat still for what seemed like eternity to Valentin.
After some time had passed and quiet had spread over the battlefield, Ferron motioned for the flag bearer and drummer to return to him. “They are getting too comfortable. Hornet formation. Slow march.”
“What is hornet formation?” Valentin asked with some excitement.
“Watch and tell me what you think it is.”
A new drum pattern echoed out and the flag bearer twisted the flag left to right. Durant’s cavalry quickly marched out in front of the slowly advancing line. The right cavalry group advanced alongside the infantry lines. Ferron ushered his horse forward as Tiarna Celfor and Valentin followed.
“Tiarna, I trust that your deggan can organize a charge with your men?” Ferron called out to Celfor.
“Footman or horseman?” Tiarna Celfor asked.
“Footmen and whatever horsemen that Durant can’t contain,” Ferron replied.
Celfor nodded and rode forward to speak to the deggan of the cavalry group ahead. Valentin saw Gareth nod and the Tiarna turned to return to Valentin and Ferron.
Up further ahead, the cavalry led by Durant were charging the frontline of the Merciless Curs. A few javelins were thrown from the frontline and the charge was aborted. The cavalry regrouped some distance away from the line to allow the horses to recuperate. Every ten to fifteen minutes, Durant would charge, throw a volley of javelins, and turn away. Most missed or bounced off the soldier’s armor. However, one javelin found its mark and a man collapsed. Valentin could hear the footman of the Merciless Curs scream curses at Durant. Not every volley felled a man but the repeat charges had managed to kill or injure a handful of soldiers. Their bodies were dragged away from combat and the lines readjusted. A couple horsemen would ride behind the Armée’s infantry line and retrieve more javelins to return to the main cavalry group.
Valentin could tell randomly during volleys that one of the javelins would be empowered and rip its way through a warrior or two if the targeted soldiers didn’t use spiritual power to dodge out of the way.
Valentin noticed that the enemy’s horsemen started to move to mirror Durant but weren’t riding out to meet him. A much smaller group of horsemen were assembled across from the Tiarna’s forces; maybe only four or five compared to the Tiarna’s fifteen.
By this point Valentin could clearly make out the soldiers of the Merciless Curs. They wore scowls on their faces and Valentin could tell that Durant’s harassment was infuriating them. The men’s faces were twisted in visages of vitriol and were calling out insults to the warband. They screamed that they would disembowel Ferron’s soldiers and perform horrific acts upon their mothers. That the Armée had ancestors who were cowards and that they are now they are the worms in the dirt. That they will leave the Armée to rot under Ortus’ heat. They rattled their spears and swords and crowed boldly to the tune of their war drums.
Some of the words brought heat to Valentin’s cheeks and he felt an anger pass through him. These insults were much more severe than the verbal fencing that was previously exchanged between the two forces. However the soldiers did not react. Valentin took deep breaths to reorganize his spirit.
Ferron chuckled at the display before him. “It’s much too late for any of that.”
Valentin noticed that only the center of the formation was hurling insults and threats. The two flanks were calling to each other about where Durant’s group was. Enemy deggan were screaming at their soldiers to hold formation and had been calling for warriors in the center to start to support the weakened left. Valentin couldn’t see their eyes but their postures were tense. Their spears were rigid in their hands as they anticipated the true attack.
He could see that the untrained soldiers were less coordinated and more susceptible to the javelin strikes. It had reached the point that the village levies were moved to the other side of the lines.
Valentin had been counting the number of warriors that were felled by Durant’s volleys. Eleven toppled to the ground. Eleven blood-curdling screams. Eleven people pulled from the center to bolster the left. There were not many more than a hundred and thirty soldiers fielded by Tiarna Marche by Ferron’s estimation; they were nearing a decimation.
“Do you understand what hornet formation is, Valentin?” Ferron asked with his booming voice.
“A group of our cavalry runs fake charges with javelin volleys to pull the enemy’s attention to that group?” Valentin said with a little bit of uncertainty in his voice.
“That is the first part,” Ferron confirmed with a curt nod. “And why would I order for this formation?”
Valentin thought long and hard for a moment. Ferron tended to be extremely patient when Valentin would work through his thoughts on a question. Valentin went over all that happened in his head. The screams too early, patience, too comfortable. The ideas swirled in Valentin’s head as he tried to decipher Ferron’s intentions.
But suddenly, a stroke of inspiration crackled through his brain, delivering a clever answer to his lips. “To spiritually exhaust the enemy?”
“And how are we spiritually exhausting them?” Ferron grinned. Ferron’s smile confirmed to Valentin he was on the right path.
“By making them uncertain which attack will be the real one? We know which charge will be the one and don’t have to think about it. But they cannot.”
“Because?” The smile on Ferron’s face widened and Valentin knew that he was close to piecing it all together.
“Because,” Valentin started. “If they relax or loosen their formation Durant will see and finish the charge. They will lose before the infantry meets.”
Ferron’s smile became wolfish and evil, his teeth bared. “You’re a brilliant boy, Valentin. The longer they are thinking about the fight, the more likely they are to make a mistake.”
“And a mistake on the battlefield means death,” Valentin chimed Hrost’s lesson.
“Excellent!” Ferron boomed. “What did I say, Tiarna? The boy is the future of Corvello!” Tiarna Celfor nodded in approval. “Now Valentin, watch what happens when a desperate army meets a superior one.” He motioned to Tiarna Celfor. Ferron then called for the drummer.
“On my signal.”
The drummer nodded and trotted off and Tiarna Celfor waved his fists in a pattern at his horsemen. Valentin could see them adjusting their formation. Horsemen would stroke the necks of their mounts to calm them for the fight. Valentin waited in anticipation for Durant’s next charge.
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The horses in Durant’s group trotted back out towards the left flank, the enemy footmen rotated towards that side. They stood there for what felt like minutes to Valentin. Finally Durant made the motion to charge and the horse kicked up dust as they started their frenzied sprint towards the line.
Like the charge before and the charge before that, Durant’s group pulled away from the charge and threw the javelins. One more warrior fell, one more scream. This seemed to be one too many for the warriors on the front line that had been embattled by this assault for over an hour now. Soldiers shouted and the entire left flank charged after Durant. Not wanting to divide their formation, the center and right formations also charged.
A mistake.
Behind Valentin, a frenzied drum beat began. It sounded nothing like the patterns used during the intimidation. This sound was wild and violent like a crazed bull trying to kick away feral dogs. The soldiers in front of Valentin changed. Long gone was the composure and stillness of the warriors that once stood in front of him, the good souls of Killik. Now all that remained was some facsimile of a human. Countless steel boots lunged forward and the battle lines began their sprint towards the Merciless Cur’s position, all trying to gain advantage from Durant’s actions. Guttural screams reverberated from behind steel masks, blades pointed out in front or raised over their heads. The Cur’s screamed back, readying their weapons for the charge.
Finally, the Cur’s horsemen rode out to intercept Durant. Durant’s group rode away from the charging lines in an attempt to drive both groups of cavalry out of the fight. Meanwhile, the Tiarna’s horsemen bore down on the charging right flank of infantry. The heavily armored horses collided with the footman and sent them crashing into each other. Bodies and weapons went flying; limbs crushed under hoof. The Tiarna’s soldiers stabbed their long javelins downwards and impaled the collapsed line before riding forward to loop behind.
By the time the two infantry lines met, both of the Marche’s and Cur’s flanks had been thrown into disarray. The center was pinned on three sides, Tiarna Celfor’s horsemen behind. Valentin watched the lines descend into chaos and the enemy infantry realized that they had lost and tried to run for their lives. The horsemen pursuing Durant gave up the chase and rode in the direction of the village behind the banners. The people in the camp attempted to flee as the Tiarna’s forces turned their attention towards them. However, they were no match for the heavily armed horsemen that now bore down on their backs.
Durant’s group, no longer pursued, turned to charge into the backs of the escaping warriors. Men and women stumbled over and stomped down on each other in a rabid attempt to live. But it was too late, Tiarna Celfor had paid for a massacre so a massacre he would get. Valentin watched from his horse as the warriors of Etrineux were butchered by the Armée.
Eventually the screams silenced and the battlefield became still. Corpses littered the fields when only moments before it was full of the shouts and movement of over two hundred warriors. Ferron’s soldiers and camp attendants had already descended upon the corpses, looting better weapons and armor pieces, comparing boots, removing gold and silver jewelry and heirlooms, and piling the bodies up.
Valentin could see Darri and some others trying to loot the bodies on the fringes of the battlefield that had yet to be picked at by the warriors and move the bodies to the pile, little rats snatching at the sinews and innards while the kill was being feasted upon by the larger beasts. A scream of triumph echoed from one of the groups of looters. A head was extended over the group.
“That’s probably Jean Barteau’s head,” Ferron commented. “The Merciless Curs are no more.”
Tiarna Celfor grunted in approval.
“Was he strong?” Valentin asked.
“Aye. All warband leaders are. But Barteau wasn’t known as the cleverest warrior. It is said that he hasn’t been the same since his tactician died. It was only a matter of time that he found his spirit burned away.” Ferron pointed at the head and turned toward Valentin. “Memorize that sight. That is what happens to a man that tries to use strength alone to win battles. Find where you are weak and surround yourself with those that will bolster your strengths and cover your weaknesses.”
After a time, Gareth and his men rode back into view, bodies tied to the back of their horses as they approached Ferron and Celfor. As they approached, Valentin noticed that only one of the bodies wore armor. The rest were in regular tunics and dresses of various colors and styles. The armored man wore a cape with a tree that matched the banner that was now toppled off the encampment.
Gareth dismounted from his horse and kneeled in front of Tiarna Celfor, the rest of the horsemen followed suit. “My Tiarna!” Gareth shouted. “I present to you Tiarna Marche and the rest of the Marche clan.”
Tiarna Celfor and Ferron dismounted and approached the bodies and Valentin hastily joined them. The body of the armored man was flipped over by two horsemen. Tiarna Celfor inspected the body closely.
“So you’re saying that he fought in the end?” Tiarna Celfor chuckled. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a fight,” remarked Gareth. “We came upon him while he was trying to load people onto the fleeing camp wagons. Cut him down before he could react. I don’t think he expected us to charge the camp so soon. But you know, things happen quickly when a rout is going on.”
“And the rest?” Tiarna Celfor gestured to the other bodies. “I struggle to believe that Marche brought so many of his clan so far away from Etrineux.”
Gareth shrugged. “Perhaps nobles of the village. We killed anyone that was in the wagon to be sure. They were dressed nicer than the rest of the fleeing camp attendants; not that you could tell anymore. A few men in armor tried to stop us. We left those bodies back on the hill. Do not worry, Tiarna, we made sure that the appropriate people were not present.”
As the men continued their conversation, Valentin became transfixed on a specific body off to the left. A boy that appeared slightly younger than Valentin lay motionless on his back. His feet tied together but his arms contorted at unnatural angles over his head. His tunic stained red with the blood pooling from the hole in his chest. His eyes were still open but Valentin could detect no spirit inside of them.
He drew closer to the corpse and stared down at it. He wondered how close he had been to this same fate as the boy before him. What had this boy done to deserve this death? Had he brandished a weapon against the horsemen? Said something to offend them? Or was it just being in the wrong cart at the wrong time? A matter of fortunes and spirits arranging themselves unfavorably.
“You simply weren’t blessed,” Valentin softly commented to the corpse. The dead boy didn’t answer.
“Valentin!” shouted Ferron, interrupting Valentin’s thoughts. “What are you doing over there, boy?”
Valentin’s head jolted in the direction of Ferron who was striding over to his location. Tiarna Celfor started to meander after, still talking to Gareth. Valentin looked back down at the body and back up to Ferron who was now staring at the body.
“One of Marche’s?” Celfor asked.
Gareth shrugged. “I’m not sure, my Tiarna. He at the very least was a child of value to Etrineux to be all the way out here.”
“I see,” Ferron said to nobody in particular. “Does this boy bother you?”
Valentin did not answer the man’s question. Instead he looked at the ground at Ferron’s feet. “Why did they kill him? I thought nobles were captured and ransomed?”
Ferron scratched his head as he briefly thought about how to speak next. “There will be nobody to ransom these people to this time, Valentin,” Ferron stated. “This will be a message sent to our opposition that fighting will only end in their deaths.”
“Even those that may not be members of the Marche clan?”
Tiarna Celfor spoke up. “The Marche clan stole from my ancestors and all that ally or associate with them should feel the consequences of their decisions.”
“Tiarna,” Ferron interjected, using the boy’s question to address his own concerns. “Do you know what the members of the Marche clan look like or are we stabbing all indiscriminately?”
“I know the appearance of Firmin, his wife, Lucie, and his heir, Harald. I know he has several children, but I only know that his daughter, Julianna, is blonde. Understand that we do not see each other often.” Celfor paused for a moment before offering an accusatory glance to Ferron. “Do you hold reservations about this approach?”
“I recall us agreeing to the ending of the Marche clan, not the deaths of all the nobility of the region,” Ferron remarked. “Or do you plan to offer me a bonus to make up for all the ransoms that we will be losing?”
“We will discuss it later,” Celfor said, dismissing the warband leader’s concerns.
The Tiarna addressed Gareth. “Are you certain that Julianna Marche was seen on the battlefield?”
“We were not able to locate her body but some warriors reported a blonde woman on a horse retreating from the battlefield. She might have retreated to Etrineux, may intend to hold a final defense there.”
“I doubt it,” Ferron cut in. “With Barteau dead it’s only a matter of time before the surviving Curs disband. Will there be enough able bodied warriors left to hold a defense if this was the best they could muster?”
Tiarna Celfor considered the words for a moment. “I will ride ahead and attempt to regain contact with Marshal Valun. I take it that you will take care of the looting?”
Ferron only nodded in response. The horsemen had cut the tied bodies loose from their horses. Tiarna Celfor and his warriors mounted their horses and rode off in the direction of Etrineux, leaving Ferron and Valentin standing in the field amidst the butchered clan.
Ferron got on his horse and motioned for Valentin to follow him. The two of them rode up to the group of celebrating men that had grown larger since the head was hoisted. The men were laughing about something Valentin had not heard but stopped and turned to face Ferron as he approached.
“Which one of you is the Cur slayer?” Ferron boomed with a wide smile.
The warriors all started slapping one of the soldiers on the back. “Here is your mighty dog killer, Ferron!” shouted one. “He ended the bastard in one blow! You should have seen his face!” called another.
“It was you, Bren?” Ferron asked.
The man grinned widely, “Aye, it was me!” he called out. At the response everyone cheered again and called out that he was a true warrior.
“Collect your trophies lad, this is a kill worth bragging about for years to come!” Ferron bellowed. As the men cheered, Ferron surveyed the battlefield in front of him. He then briefly regarded the growing pile of bodies. “Were there any that lived?”
The cheering stopped for a moment. One of the deggan, Barth, spoke up. “A few threw down their weapons and begged for forgiveness. Blithered about having their lives spared,” He said with a sneer and the warriors burst into laughter. “I think they were mostly farmers. There were several injured warriors who fought us well so we kept them around. Durant should have them all.”
“I see.” Ferron commented. “You lot should check the enemy camp, see if there is any drink left for us to celebrate with!” The men cheered out once more and started their way up the field towards the former Marche camp. Ferron signaled to Valentin and directed his horse in the direction of Durant and the pile of bodies.
Camp attendants, lower warriors, and flies were buzzing around the body pile. Kindling for the pyre was stuffed into random gaps and crevices in the pile. Dry wood was meticulously arranged around and layered underneath the corpses. It hadn’t been long since the battle concluded but Valentin noticed that the smell of feces and other unpleasant odors were already starting to gather in the air. Valentin remembered Druid Relfon telling him that the spirits when not burned would begin to reek of corruption. Durant sat atop his horse and relayed orders to the camp attendants. When he noticed Ferron and Valentin approach he waved off the people around him and rode to meet the two.
Valentin noticed Darri dragging a body towards the pyre. Its boots and other pieces had already been looted and the bare feet were creating ruts in the grass. The two boys made brief eye contact before Darri tossed the body onto the ground and lumbered off towards the battlefield.
“Father,” Durant called with a smile, “I have delivered us a great victory!” He slightly motioned to the pile of bodies behind him to reinforce the point.
“It was a simple victory,” Ferron responded and seemed to mull over the events he had seen. “I didn’t even have to change formations. But you did well, Durant, no mistakes,” Ferron pointed at Valentin and smiled. “The boy understands combat. He figured out the motivations behind hornet formation quickly.”
“That’s wonderful.” Durant stated. His smile waned as he stared at Valentin, likely not having forgotten what had transpired the night before.
“So, what are the numbers?” Ferron asked, changing the topic.
“Four of our own and nearly ninety of the enemy so far.” Durant paused for a moment. “Though, many of the enemy dead weren’t well armed. Attendants, squires, pages, family members, unarmed peasants, even a few druids.” Durant’s voice trailed off and he went quiet, head tilted downward. “Say, Father, did we really have to-”
“Who did we lose?” Ferron interrupted, killing Durant’s question.
Durant cleared his throat and answered. “All infantrymen. None of high ability or rank,” Durant clarified. “About ten more injured. Zalavo and a couple of Celfor’s apothecaries are treating them. Only Arthus’ vice deggan is in any real danger from what I’ve been told, got unlucky where he was stabbed. None of them should die but we won’t have any of them available if we need to fight over Etrineux.”
“We’ll have to find a suitable replacement for Arthus’ deg until they recover,” Ferron remarked to himself. “Barth said we had some that surrendered to us?”
“Aye,” Durant pointed over to a group of people tied up and guarded by a few warriors. “Most of them were just conscripted peasants but a few of them were injured Curs that were abandoned during the rout. I sent those that were too injured towards Zalavo but all those that were conscious are still being watched over there. What are we doing with them?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Ferron ushered his horse forward. “Come on, Valentin.”
As Ferron and Valentin rode off, Durant called out. “Father, do you want us to make a separate pyre for our own?”
“No need,” Ferron waved his hand dismissively, “they are all going to the same place anyways. Make sure a druid is there when you light it, don’t need any bad omens.”
“And what about the Marche clan?”
“Same pyre,” Ferron said coolly.