by Mark Barber
“Leaving the legion under such circumstances was tragic,” Constance added, painful memories flooding to the fore as in a handful of seconds she revisited the most traumatic year of her life, “but the… have you ever… have you ever seen one of our prisons?”
The paladin shook his head.
“Twenty three of us went in,” Jaque explained, “we were there for just over six months before we were released. Nine of us were left alive by then. That tells you all you need to know about Basilean prisons.”
Constance swallowed and shuddered as she remembered the screams of torment from her comrades, choking on the stale air in the pitch black of the cell she was left to rot in, little more than a gap in the stone walls of the prison – too low for her to stand and too narrow for her to even turn around in. At the time, she was sixteen years of age and with only a few weeks soldiering experience under her belt. It was a miracle that she was one of the survivors. Bile rose in her throat and she quickly repressed the mental images.
“But we endured,” she forced a smile, “by the grace of the Shining Ones. Despite Hugh’s judgment.”
Orion’s brow raised.
“This Hugh? It was Dictator-Prefect Hugh of Athelle who passed judgment on you and had you branded and imprisoned?”
“Certainly makes a tale!” Jaque smiled bitterly. “Here we are, hired by the bastard who tried to have us rot to death to bring in the man we once would have followed into the very depths of the Abyss.”
Orion raised a lightly clenched fist to his closed mouth thoughtfully.
“I am sorry for you both. I cannot even begin to comprehend the turmoil and confliction you must both be facing.”
“There is no confliction,” Constance shrugged. “Captain Dionne was a good man. I think he still is. Hopefully the Duma will see that when we bring him in. At least the captain will face a fair trial rather than the sham we suffered at the hands of Hugh the Bastard.”
Orion’s response was cut off as another series of bellowed laughter echoed from the legion men gathered around the largest of the encampment’s fires. Constance felt Jaque’s hand on her shoulder, giving a gentle but reassuring squeeze. She flashed him an appreciative smile, although it did little to nullify the feelings that the conversation had rekindled following its uncomfortable change of direction.
“We’ve taken up enough of your time,” Constance declared as she stood. “I’m sorry the conversation took on a rather somber turn, but thank you for listening and thank you for what you did today.”
Orion stood and bowed his head slightly.
“I am sorry to hear your story,” he said, “I hope it does not sound trite, but I will pray for you both. And your departed comrades. I hope we will speak again soon.”
Jaque held out a hand to the towering paladin. Orion shook it warmly.
“Good night,” he gave a slight smile.
***
A stifled laugh was quickly hushed in the far corner of the inn, and four figures huddled around a small, circular wooden table glanced nervously across to where Tancred sat alone near the door. He had initially agreed with Hugh’s decision to billet the detachment’s more senior members in the comfort of the town’s inn, but having finished his meal, Tancred now felt that at best, he was surrounded by people who despised him; at worst, his life was under threat.
The inn itself was not dissimilar to any other that Tancred had seen in rural Basilea. A low, timbered ceiling separated a seating area with the lodgings above, and a large, open fire cast shimmering shadows across the planked floor. A long bar ran along the far wall from the door, acting as a serving area for both food and drink. Aside from Tancred, only three other tables were occupied, and the atmosphere was understandably tense given the events of the day.
Heavy footsteps thudded along the staircase leading to the lodgings. Tancred looked across and saw Hugh emerge from the alcove by the fireplace, dressed in fine clothes of embroidered black suede. Conversation at the other tables died away the instant the Dictator-Prefect appeared. Tancred felt his pulse quicken as the nobleman walked over toward him, the wooden boards creaking beneath his heavy boots. While Tancred knew that he had done the right thing and he certainly did not regret his actions, he still bitterly regretted the very fact that the scenario had developed, and he had now gravely offended the only man in the detachment who could have a real influence on his career and advancement. Swallowing his pride, Tancred stood and forced a smile and a courteous bow as Hugh approached.
“Please, don’t,” the Dictator-Prefect raised a hand, his green eyes narrowing uncomfortably. “I have come to apologize.”
Tancred was instantly aware that he was eyeing the older man warily, and so issued a slight smile so as not to show his suspicion.
“May I?” Hugh gestured to a chair opposite Tancred.
“Of course.”
Both men sat down. The Dictator-Prefect leaned forward and placed the tips of his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the dark wood table.
“I tend to be rather passionate about our cause,” he began, “perhaps sometimes too much so. I want to see Dionne answer for his crimes. I want to see justice served. I want to see the man who was responsible for the deaths of so many, due to his own inactivity, pay for his incompetence and lack of foresight.”
“There are many who still see him as a hero,” Tancred leaned back in his chair.
“They are fools,” Hugh replied with a regretful shake of his head, “so easily duped by this egotistical bastard’s lies. He is no hero. He was entrusted with his part of the defense of the Hegemony, and he failed Basilea and her people. There is nothing to idolize about the man. That is why I was so angry with the people here for defending him, for refusing to help us do the right thing and bring him to justice!”
Tancred watched the nobleman carefully, analyzing his words, gestures, and facial expressions. Tancred’s father had taught him a great deal about social interactions, and he was confident that in most cases he could spot a liar. Hugh certainly seemed to believe what he was saying, but something about the conversation still did not sit quite right with Tancred.
“I am glad you intervened when you did,” Hugh continued, breaking eye contact and covering his mouth with one hand for a brief moment. “I think these people are harboring a traitor. But perhaps you are right and perhaps they do know nothing. They deserve the benefit of the doubt. That is the difference between a man like Dionne and somebody such as myself.”
“Then there will not be a repeat of today’s incident,” Tancred declared rather than asked.
“Of course. And we need not speak of it again.”
There it was. Tancred suppressed a bitter smile. Hugh had not come to apologize; he had come to charm Tancred into silence in an attempt to ensure his actions were not spoken of in the capital. For a brief moment, Tancred considered the possibilities of the leverage he now possessed over such a powerful and influential figure.
“You will go far, Tancred,” Hugh smiled as he stood. “Thank you for your time and your understanding. A lesser man would see things in extremes, in simple black and white. But a wiser man has the ability to see past these oversimplifications, to look deeper at what is going on beneath the surface. I am glad you are such a man.”
Tancred nodded curtly. Hugh looked at him expectantly, but Tancred remained silent, folding his arms. The Dictator-Prefect’s eyes narrowed, a moment of real concern painted across his handsome face before the anxiety was replaced by a broad smile. Tancred was satisfied to see that his silence had unnerved the man. It was very much intentional.
“I shall bid you good night,” Hugh said.
“Good night, sir,” Tancred replied, standing up respectfully as the nobleman walked back to the alcove leading up to the second floor.
Tancred finished his drink and gazed out of the inn at the clear night sky, thinking through the possible courses of action that had now presented themselves to him. This was a situation that had played into his
hand, and one that could be subtly manipulated to his advantage. Still pondering over possibilities, Tancred walked passed the bar and paid for his evening meal before walking up to his room.
After washing and saying his prayers, Tancred settled into a light, disturbed sleep. He awoke several times throughout the night, feeling isolated and vulnerable in his room, even with a sword resting against the bed next to him. It was dawn when he awoke properly, suddenly finding himself sat bolt upright in bed and reaching for his blade as his eyes focused on an armed man in his room.
“Tancred!” Hugh shouted, “Tancred! Get up! There are warriors crossing the fields to the north! Two hundred of them!”
Chapter Seven
The beating of drums echoed across the small copses of trees to either side of the road as the soldiers marched north toward the open fields outside the town of Emalitos. The early morning sun cast long shadows across the dusty road and burnt sienna grass that ran alongside, and a thin haze muddied the horizon below an otherwise clear sky. The legion men-at-arms marched at the front of the column in three ranks, their Dictator-Prefect and his ever-present bodyguards riding at the head with their captain, while the paladins of the Order of the Sacred Ark rode protectively along the flanks. Behind them all, Constance trudged on at the head of her band of thirty mercenaries.
A series of orders were barked out from the front of the column as the first ranks of soldiers reached the precipice of a shallow hill. The men-at-arms immediately formed into a tight rectangle, five ranks of ten soldiers, and marched off to the east to the beating of drums. The Dictator-Prefect and his two bodyguards galloped back down the road to Constance and her mercenaries. She looked up into the face of the man she despised more than anybody she had crossed paths with as he hauled in the reins of his horse next to her. It was clear to her that the nobleman had no recollection of her whatsoever as he looked down at her from his saddle.
“Crossbowmen!” he yelled. “Move north! Take position to the right side of this road and await my orders!”
The mercenaries continued to march forward, heedless of the commands of the Dictator-Prefect. Constance suppressed a proud smirk.
“Company!” she shouted. “Form three ranks, standard intervals! Take position on my command!”
To emphasize the command to any of the mercenaries who could not hear her, Hayden gave three short blasts on his horn, followed by one steady tone. With well-drilled precision, the mercenaries immediately arranged themselves in three columns, a shoulder width separating each row of ten men and women, and followed Constance as she continued along the road. They crested the precipice of the hill and she let out an anxious breath as she looked down into the shallow valley below.
The road curved off to the left, around the back of a small hill to the northwest. To the right of the road, a wooded area of ruddy brown trees extended up to the horizon. Waiting to either side of the road, a few hundred yards ahead, stood two blocks of fifty soldiers carrying swords and shields of the same pattern as legion men-at-arms. The hundred warriors also wore the same armor, but without tabards or feathers in their steel helmets. To the left, west of the professional soldiers were two smaller groups; some twenty men armed with crossbows and perhaps thirty carrying crude spears and pitchforks, all without armor, stood atop the small hill overlooking the valley that separated the two forces. Off on the right flank, another group of some forty peasants with crude weapons waited by the treeline. The better part of two hundred soldiers, half of them well-armed and trained professionals. They were outnumbered two-to-one.
As directed, Constance trudged off the road and positioned herself to the east of the track at the crest of a gentle plateau. She held up her hand and Hayden blew another blast from the horn to signal that the crossbowmen were in position. The thirty mercenaries quickly came to a halt, turning in ranks to face their enemy. To the east of the plateau, the fifty men-at-arms reformed their square and waited in place. Constance walked out in front of her soldiers and turned to face them.
“Company! Load!”
***
Tancred hauled in his reins as he reached Hugh and his aides, dragging his warhorse to a stop by the nobleman and his bodyguard. The three riders sat atop their horses in a central position, between the mercenary crossbowmen and the pristine block of men-at-arms spearmen. The Dictator-Prefect looked to the north where the shouts of commands to the units of soldiers could be heard across the gentle morning breeze as the opposing force fanned out to face them. Hugh looked up at Tancred as he arrived, flashing him a confident smile.
“Good morning again, Lord Paladin!” he beamed. “Nice of you to join us. We’re outnumbered two to one, but half of their numbers are untrained peasants with sticks, and I’ve got your heavy cavalry. We need to whittle down their two core units of men-at-arms and then these farmers will run. I’ll chip away at the unit on the left with the crossbows, and then move our men-at-arms up to fight the unit on the right.”
“Understood,” Tancred nodded as he scanned his eyes across the horizon to assess the strength of the enemy. “What do you want from me?”
“Get your main strength on the right flank. As soon as I move the men-at-arms up to tackle the soldiers to the east of center, you sweep in and attack their flank. Get a few of your knights on the left flank to deal with their crossbowmen; I want to be the only one here who can shoot.”
Tancred looked to the west flank where a small group of scruffy crossbowmen were visible atop a small hillock, next to an equally amateur looking unit of men with spears and pitchforks. The concern was the fifty professionally armed and armored men stood just to the east of them, near the center of the enemy force.
“I can get ten knights positioned on the west flank to act as a deterrent, but if I give them the order to charge that hill, they will be outnumbered by those fifty swordsmen near the center. They will not stand a chance.”
Hugh looked at Tancred and then regarded the left flank again.
“Alright,” he nodded slowly, “you are my expert with heavy cavalry. Get ten knights on the left flank and the bulk of your men on the right. Be ready to charge in when the men-at-arms are in combat. Wait for my signal.”
“Understood,” Tancred replied, dragging his horse back around and digging his spurs into the animal’s flanks to gallop back to the south of the plateau. His warriors waited patiently atop their armored steeds, their polished plate armor and gold trim sparkling in the early morning sunlight, the gentle breeze tugging at the light blue of their surcoats and cloaks.
Tancred looked for his second in command. Orion sat atop his huge, powerful looking warhorse toward the left of the group, his blue eyes set in a frown. Tancred would not have chosen Orion to be his second - that honor would have fallen to Xavier as his most experienced paladin, or perhaps Jeneveve with her head for tactics and the respect she clearly held with the other knights – but while Orion was no leader of men, he was undoubtedly Tancred’s best man in a fight. By a considerable margin. But that, unfortunately, was all he brought with him.
“Brother Orion, take nine knights to the left flank, stand ready to defend our crossbowmen and hold position until the Dictator-Prefect orders. Do not charge unless you believe the attack to be tenable, or unless I am the one giving you a direct command. The rest of you, follow me.”
Orion barked out orders to detail off his nine knights and then led them in a canter over to his designated position. Tancred turned again to lead the bulk of his command over to the east flank. The whistle of crossbow bolts in the air to the north of the plateau announced that the battle had begun.
***
“Front rank,” Constance shouted, an outstretched hand held high above her head as she faced her soldiers, “take aim!”
The ten mercenaries of the front rank brought their heavy crossbows up to their shoulders, the deadly weapons pointed toward the further of the two units of fifty armored swordsmen who advanced steadily across the fields to the staccato beating of drums
. Constance brought her hand down.
“Loose!”
The sound of twanging strings rippled along the front rank as each crossbowman squeezed his trigger, sending a volley of deadly bolts up into the air and slicing down through the ranks of enemy swordsmen. Even from some three hundred yards away, Constance saw the effect of the shooting – the volley struck home with commendable accuracy, some bolts slipping between the enemy soldiers while others impacted with shields. Still, two or three figures from the unit sagged and dropped to the ground. The group of swordsman continued, more slowly, their shields locked in a defensive shell ahead and above them.
“Front rank,” Constance yelled, “reload! Center rank, take aim! Loose!”
Another volley of bolts was away, arcing up across the hazy blue sky and falling down with deadly accuracy. Almost simultaneously, a salvo of bolts shot from the crossbowmen on the hill to the north descended down to fall around the mercenaries. The scatter of the shots was wide, giving a good indication of the low levels of skill of the enemy crossbowmen. Their shooting was ineffectual; now was not the time to respond.
“Center rank! Reload!” Constance bellowed.
The ten mercenaries of the center rank dropped to one knee, each man and woman unclipping their pulley from their belts and putting one foot in the stirrup at the front of their weapon, holding it perpendicular to the ground and attaching the pulley to the string mechanism, before frantically winding the devices to drag the heavy string back to sit in the weapon’s nut.
“Rear rank, take aim! Loose!”
Another two soldiers dropped from the flanks of the enemy unit from the continuous assault from Constance’s crossbowmen. Content that the rhythm of her orders was being followed, Constance took her own arbalest from her back and paced over to stand by the front rank to add her own shots to their output.