He recognized the voice and accent. “A moment, Charese.” He rose from his blanketed cocoon on the ground (not even he had the luxury of a sleeping platform) and pulled on his breeches, then his traveling tunic. It had a Somrian cut, but was still the most comfortable piece he had. He had told Hellamer to spread a rumour that he had taken it off the body of a dead Somrian Patrician—untrue, but again, good for morale.
Once he was properly dressed, he donned a pair of boots and stepped outside.
It was a clear day, and the sun was already strong, though only halfway up the sky. The wetness of the previous day’s rainfall had completely dried away. It looked to be a hot day; his clothes, fitting for a Somrian autumn, would be adequate, if a bit warm.
Charese presented a proper bow, if a bit clumsy. Gallord-Smit knew they didn’t use such propriety in the Northern Islands; he was impressed. “My lord, Right-Precept Hellamer—I offer my pardon for disturbing you.” She started again. “The Right-Precept asked for you; he stressed it was important.”
“Lead on,” Gallord-Smit said. He knew his way to Hellamer’s command hut, but it didn’t hurt to have an escort.
Despite the early watch, most of the men were already afield—the half on duty, of course; the rest would sleep until mid-day. The few who sat around their small campfires greeted him politely, though they did not stand as soldier would have back home. It was a different environment here, and the men had proven their ilk; he wasn’t about to demand formality from them. He smiled genuinely and greeting the few he had met by name. The rest he offered a simple wave or head nod.
Gallord-Smit had imagined his name might be known among fighting men, but he had not at all expected the awe these men held him in. Hellamer had used stories of his exploits as examples of bravery and brilliance in the field of battle, so that they all knew more of his battlefield experiences than he even remembered. He could be certain that insubordination would not be a problem; he only hoped that they did not act foolishly to impress him.
Charese drew aside the flap for him, but remained outside. In the command hut, Hellamer was standing with his arms clasped behind his back. Another man was in the room with him; there was something wrong about him, but at first Gallord-Smit didn’t catch it. Then in shock he realized that the man was wearing a Somrian uniform. In fact, his darker skin identified him certainly as Somrian. He had become so accustomed to being among Rena’s countrymen that he hadn’t at first noticed the incongruity; he silently chastised himself, and resolved not to make that mistake on the battlefield!
“Good morning, Front-Captain,” Hellamer said, his demeanour all business. “Meet Bannerman Hordat Fierzen El, Chinal. He is an emissary from the leader of the Somrian army.”
Gallord-Smit bowed in the Somrian style, with hand to chest and one leg back. “You shall depart as you arrive, Bannerman Fierzen. Be welcome,” he said.
The Somrian was startled for a moment by Gallord-Smit’s perfectly Somrian greeting, but quickly recovered. He returned the bow as smoothly as only a Somrian soldier could. “Honour received, Front-Captain Gallord-Smit,” he replied. “I arrive na shall depart.” The accent was familiar to Gallord-Smit, but oddly foreign, as he had already become accustomed to being around his home dialect again.
Gallord-Smit straightened. “Right-Precept Hellamer, has the visitor been offered wine?” It was a Lords’ Lands custom; the Somrian was, after all, within their borders, as far as he was concerned.
Hellamer nodded. “He has been offered and declined, Front-Captain.”
“Please remain to oversee the exchange,” Gallord-Smit said. It was a necessary courtesy; if he didn’t invite him, it would have been rude for the man to remain, and would have demonstrated a lack of trust in the envoy. In Somria, as in his homeland, such protocol enforced a rigid code of honour and mutual respect on the battlefield. It was, for Gallord-Smit, a matter of great pride.
Hellamer only bowed briefly; he did not need to reply.
“I am curious to hear the reason for your presence here, envoy,” he said to the Bannerman.
“I come bearing na greetings from representative of Somrian army na this island,” Fierzen said formally. His name is Kirizal Sherzi El, Arad, son of Trentel Sherzi El, Taral, Commander-General of North Province na Somria. He offers truce.”
Hellamer chuckled lightly, amused—or perhaps pleased?—by the thought of the Commander-General sending his own son to lead the battle. Gallord-Smit, however, was struck dumb. Arad?
He realized both of the others were watching him. It was impossible that the shock on his face had not been noticed. He struggled for an excuse. “Forgive my, ah, hmm.” His mind was racing. Did this change things?
“Perhaps, Front-Captain, it may be worth asking his terms,” Hellamer offered.
Gallord-Smit shook his head to clear it. “Yes, go on, please,” he said roughly.
The envoy raised his eyebrows, but continued with a short bow of the head. “Sherzi El regrets na loss of civilian life in this misunderstanding na unfortunate exchange. He offers truce, and ta assist na safe removal of ya troops ta the Lords’ Lands.”
Gallord-Smit nodded slowly. Nothing had changed—Arad was demanding the island just as Hellamer said the previous envoy had. He was offering a safe, honourable out; that much was new. Gallord-Smit was not surprised at that; he knew that the young man was not lacking in conscience. But he was disappointed, nonetheless; Arad had seemed so against the war, and so opposed to his father’s warmongering. What had happened to change his posture so?
“Would the commander accept a compromise?” he asked carefully.
Fierzen shook his head. “Ya misunderstand Sherzi El’s position, forgive me, Front-Captain. Sherzi El is advisor to army activity and civilian overseer of the island’s colony,” he said.
“What in rot does that mean?” Hellamer blurted out. Gallord-Smit nodded agreement.
“The army commanders na under his jurisdiction, but he is na commander,” the envoy said, shrugging slightly.
Gallord-Smit nodded with a smirk. In other words, the envoy didn’t really understand either.
But it didn’t matter, if Arad’s stance was the same. “Fair on enough. Would the civilian representative accept a compromise?”
“Only one that involves na departure or disarmament of the rebel forces,” Fierzen replied.
“Rebel forces,” Hellamer echoed. Gallord-Smit could hear the bitterness in his voice as it came out from between his clenched teeth.
He sighed, shaking his head sadly. “Inform the civilian representative that I will consider his offer,” he said. “You are dismissed.”
The envoy glanced once at Hellamer, then executed another perfect Somrian soldier’s bow, and exited the hut. Gallord-Smit was pleased to hear no rude calls from the men at camp outside; such was commonly directed at envoys, but clearly Hellamer’s men had been taught the proper codes of respect.
No doubt the Right-Precept had done so using Gallord-Smit as an example. Which was precisely why Gallord-Smit had not given in to his true desire, to beat the envoy until he could barely talk before sending him on his way.
“Hellrack, put out the word. We will advance tomorrow morning at pre-dawn to waypoint one. Make certain everyone is ready, and the camp is left appearing occupied; fires smoking, and the like,” he reminded him.
“Yes, Front-Captain,” Hellamer said, grinning. He darted out into the balmy air.
At least the Right-Precept was happy. Why was Gallord-Smit depressed?
Because for a moment, he had thought he had a friend where it mattered. But now he knew they were back to his plan.
An act of desperation.
・
They started returning from their rounds during the evening; by mid-night, all of Hellamer’s men—his men—had returned, save for a few advance scouts. The night was clear and warm, a gentle breeze roaming the island from west to east. If he were hunting, Gallord-Smit imagined, he could be certain the wind would not give him
away to his prey.
He had never seen the entire army together; in fact, he had never seen more than a dozen men. He hadn’t doubted Hellamer’s numbers, knowing him to be a man of precision, but he was nonetheless pleased to see the small army preparing to march. They were poorly armoured, but had good quality arms and large shields; that would be enough to make the difference in a close skirmish. If it came down to a knock-down, drag-out fight, they would quickly be overwhelmed by an enemy that was fresher, better-equipped, and greater in number. He would have to make certain it would not come to that.
In the near-darkness, Gallord-Smit moved through them all to the front; with fists they pounded their shields if they had them, or chests if not. He recognized Util, and Losly, the mute fellow. He saw a few others he had met and visited with briefly. They were dirty, tired, and undernourished, but they were brave and they believed in their commander—Hellamer, or himself. These men had lost friends, wives, and children. They had been hiding out in the hills for moons with minimal supplies, and running double or triple shifts as scouts. He couldn’t help but feel a tightness in his chest at the courage he witnessed under such adversity.
He found Hellamer at the front and they began marching along the hillside. There were scouts ahead, he knew, but the appearance of being led by their officers went a long way. He looked back over his shoulder at the men now and then for the first while, sharing a confident nod when he caught a man’s eye.
Charese was trailing the two officers; Gallord-Smit turned to her. “How far to to the eastern edge of the mountains?” he asked. He knew the answer, but it was good to have confirmation, and helped her feel useful. The less time he gave each of the soldiers to think, the less afraid they would be when they engaged the enemy, and Gallord-Smit knew there would be more than enough fear to go around when that time came.
“We’ll make the eastern slope by dusk if we keep moving, Front-Captain,” she replied quickly.
“Good. We will camp atop the end of the ridge. And begin our maneuver at first morning light,” he added to Hellamer, who nodded his approval.
The daylight brought more heat; Gallord-Smit didn’t see any clouds at all, and the southern sun was fierce. None of the men stripped off any armour, but he saw many draping white pieces of cloth over their heads. When he noticed Hellamer doing the same, he asked him about it.
“Don’t know why it works, but it works,” the Right-Precept replied with a shrug. He dug into his pockets and produced another, handing it to Gallord-Smit, who plopped it on his head skeptically.
After a while, he was glad for it. Like Hellamer, he didn’t see how a simple square of cloth could help keep him cool, but it did. He still perspired as much as before, but somehow it seemed cooler. Hellamer winked at him, and he laughed.
The men were in good spirits as well. They stopped briefly for a mid-day meal—Hellamer said it was best to break for a while when the sun was at its hottest—then marched all through the afternoon. The entire day, Gallord-Smit had to rely entirely on Hellamer and his men to navigate; though he had studied the map, they never once emerged from the lush forest that grew along the southern slope of the ridge. That was good, he knew; it meant the enemy had no chance to witness their movement. Nevertheless, it was disconcerting, having no idea where he was.
The sun was at their backs, halfway down the western sky, when a scout trotted up to Hellamer. Gallord-Smit saw the proof of the Right-Precept’s boast that his scouts were in superb condition; the man had barely broken a sweat, though he had run a fair distance to carry his message in the wet heat. He was a youth, Gallord-Smit guessed less than twenty summers, with curly yellow-brown hair and a boyish face.
The scout bowed to the two officers, though poorly, and waited. Hellamer glanced at Gallord-Smit, then addressed him. “Report.”
“My lords, the enemy cavalry are launching an attack up the hillside toward our encampment.” The lad spit out the words as quickly as he could, obviously nervous in Gallord-Smit’s presence, then clammed up.
Gallord-Smit turned to Hellamer and frowned. “Why would they do that? Didn’t you say it would be utterly foolish?”
Hellamer nodded. “They wouldn’t stand a chance against our men dug in. And the cavalry commander has made it clear that he has no desire to lose men like that. I can’t explain it.”
“Could we . . . Hellrack, is there any chance we could have a spy among us?” He didn’t like saying the words, and did so quietly so that even Charese and the scout couldn’t hear, but he had to ask.
To his credit, Hellamer didn’t flinch at the suggestion. “No chance, Front-Captain. I didn’t even inform the scouts that we were moving until they reported last night. This attack would have been initiated before we even left.”
“Coincidence, then,” Gallord-Smit said uncomfortably to himself. “I don’t like coincidences.”
Hellamer considered. “This is a good development, though, isn’t it? Your plan was to draw them away from the hillside, then bait them into attacking us. This way we don’t even have to draw them away; they’ll already be in position for your trap.”
Gallord-Smit was silent. Hellamer was right; he had intended to draw the horsemen away, then prepare spears and archers to receive their charge. The cavalry commander’s tactics had been rudimentary so far by Hellamer’s reckoning, so he fully expected the man to buy into his routine. With the cavalry already up the hillside, his job was even easier. The horses wouldn’t charge well down a hillside, they could flank them from above, and he could really push his advantage.
So it seemed.
Hellamer was staring at him, however, concern evident on his face. “What’s wrong, Front-Captain?”
Gallord-Smit sighed. “It’s too perfect, Hellrack. No one makes that kind of mistake.”
“How can you be sure? My scouts report no activity from the main encampment. What else can they do?” Hellamer wore a trace of a smile. With his thick stature, a shrug almost made his neck disappear. “Maybe we’re just lucky today.”
“You’re sure the main body hasn’t moved from the town?”
“Absolutely, Front-Captain,” Hellamer said. “This may seem too good to be true, but there’s nothing to miss. The cavalry are on the hill. They have no backup.”
“All right, Hellrack, you win. Maybe I’m just being an old lady. Sound the advance—we attack.”
・ ・
By late afternoon they had moved into position in the forest below their mountain base; it was disorienting, since they had spent all day traversing the hilltops to arrive at the previous destination. Gallord-Smit would have sworn they had moved less than half of the way back, but Hellamer assured him that their base was directly up the hill. Apparently their circuitous, up-and-down route had also followed a crescent, so that they hadn’t covered all that much distance, as the blackbird flew. Since he couldn’t even see the mountain from their hidden position in the trees, Gallord-Smit had to take his word for it.
Shortly, however, there was no doubt that the horses were above them. As Gallord-Smit ordered his receiving teams deployed along the edge of the forest facing the hill, he heard horse cry in the distance. The cavalry had discovered that the camp was empty, and were returning back down the hillside.
“Send the word to the Hammers; tell them to cross the hill above the cavalry as they descend, and then charge,” he told his messenger. He had designated the two groups “Hammers” and “Anvils”, to represent their functions in the battle. The Anvils, the group he was with, would ground their spears to receive charge. The Hammers would attack down the hill from above. His own group had archers as well; they would remain in the cover of the trees and fire at the onrushing enemy.
The messenger bowed and dashed off. Gallord-Smit looked around him; the men seemed tense, but focused. He hefted his spear. “Advance to the last line of trees,” he called out, directing the command both to both sides, but cupping his hand to minimize the sound in the enemy’s direction. If they heard him,
it wouldn’t really matter, since he expected—even hoped for—a charge. But he preferred to keep it to the last moment.
They moved forward as a group, spears and shields low. Archers were at their back, arrows knocked. His group numbered two companies, or about a hundred men, plus twenty more archers. Hellamer had the rest; Gallord-Smit hoped they were skirting the ridge quickly now, getting ready to charge down into the enemy’s rear.
Halting at the treeline, he could see up the slope; the cavalry were advancing down the hill at a trot. Their commander had realized the danger and was trying to reach the trees as quickly as possible; it branded him an amateur tactician. In the same situation, Gallord-Smit would have chosen to move along the ridge instead, and re-enter the jungle at a random spot. He had planned to bait the enemy if that was the case; it wouldn’t be needed.
When the horses were fifty paces uphill, he called out, “To the right ten paces and hold!” He didn’t bother trying to be quiet this time; he wanted the enemy to know they were there.
To the right was the term for “advance” in the army of the Lords’ Lands; he had made sure the island defenders would understand his commands beforehand. At some point in history, an influential commander had designated new terms for maneuvers: To the right (forward), aft (rearward), starward (right), and portward (left). Some soldiers imagined that to the right referred to the just cause, or rightness, of their path; its opposite, to the left, meant deserting, and thus missing out on an honourable fight. Gallord-Smit knew the terms were simply meant to confuse the enemy. Starward and portward were, of course, adapted from nautical terminology.
The men in his group had remembered the teachings, and they advanced to the base of the hill, in clear view of the enemy, then crouched with their shields held in front of them. They would present an inviting target for a cavalry charge, despite it being downhill, which was not optimal for a horse and rider. Of course, it also concealed their spears.
The enemy sighted them almost immediately.
“Hold tight!” Gallord-Smit bellowed. As expected, just as the enemy spotted them, the enemy commander bellowed out an order to charge. They increased pace, readying weapons. Hellamer’s group, as planned, had emerged from a ridge above them. They were in perfect position. Hellamer yelled out his own war cry, and the Hammer group charged down at the horsemen; it had the desired effect. Some of the horseman turned to fight them, while others—Gallord-Smit guessed more than half—charged down the hillside.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 45