by Damien Lake
Basill Cerella’s Forces (Green)
Tristan Warlord Argus Yylan (Red)
Reeock Clan (Blue)
Further down the wall he found a key explaining what numbers each soldier figure represented. He studied the diorama until he had a good feel for the strengths of each force. The green and red armies were closely matched. Blue soldiers matched the combined forces of the other two.
Basill Cerella. The man who had unified the small holdings of individual rulers into the larger kingdom of Galemar in a war lasting over half his own lifetime. At first glance he appeared to be doomed in this encounter. None of the green figures were mounted cavalry. Half his men were foot soldiers, with the other half being archers.
The Tristans were almost entirely mounted, bearing lances and sabers. From their positioning on the field they looked like they were enmeshed with fighting the Reeock, but Marik could not say for certain. It made little sense as well, given what he knew of the Galemaran histories. Basill had been fantastically successful at decimating the old houses, at forcing them to ride under his banner. Everyone else in the old lands had put aside their differences to band together against him. Why would the Tristan warlord be fighting against the Reeocks with Basill sitting on his flanks?
He continued studying the board. Marik could decipher most of what he saw, and prided himself on it. Over the last few years working as a mercenary he had learned much on the matters of warfare. Let others gain their knowledge through books on strategy and instructors with inflated egos. His expertise had a solid foundation based on hard-won, personal experience. Nothing taught a man so much as getting his hands dirty in the real thing.
There were no indications on the board regarding the time of day. If he knew the time, he could better guess at what he saw laid out. His instincts said it was still early, perhaps late morning, surely not yet noon. Basill might be hanging back to evaluate his position when faced by a group three times the size of his own.
Both the red and blue forces held back a reserve force, which also indicated the directions from which each had come. Oddly, they had come separately rather than together as he first assumed. That suggested other possibilities.
Marik reexamined the date of the battle before remembering it was listed according to the old calendar. He had no idea what the corresponding date might be on the post-Unification calendar, and suddenly realized that it wouldn’t make much difference to him if he did. The historical events he knew of were few, and their chronological placement was beyond his knowledge. Most of what he had learned of the Tristans he’d found out from Landon, but only about the events themselves. When they had taken place in relation to the rest of Basill’s bloody years, he had no idea.
It startled him to realize that. He had believed he’d learned quite a lot from Landon thanks to the archer’s hobby of collecting the history of every area he ever passed through. Now he could see that what he knew hardly so much as scratched the surface.
What reasons could have collided three separate forces together? He did not for an instant believe it to be coincidental. Did the blue and red forces come under an alliance against Basill? That made sense based on what he knew, yet the layout of the soldiers suggested several discrepancies. The overwhelming implications of the particular formation in each ranks suggested they were arranged to defend against one another.
Of course, that wholly assumed that this toy’s layout was accurate in the least. If the display were simply meant to amuse visitors, the last one in this chamber could have entertained himself rearranging the soldiers to suit whatever fancy he indulged. No universal law demanded that the diorama must remain historically accurate.
Still, he had nothing else to occupy him in the room. The battle display was far more interesting than whatever the books might contain. He let his eyes wander across the field, leaving the figurines untouched, imagining how a battle such as this might proceed if the arranged forces had, in fact, been arrayed exactly as shown in miniature. None of the possible scenarios he envisioned would bode well for the Unifier of Galemar’s small forces. It must have been the hells own battle.
Marik was left to his musings for nearly a half-mark. So enthralled had he become that he lost his sense of time passing, and his ire at being mysteriously summoned no longer rankled. The heavy door opening surprised him into an abrupt spin.
In walked a man who immediately made the surrounding room vanish in Marik’s sight. Instead of the room, surrounding the man were the canvas walls of rain-soaked tents, his features illuminated by scattered braziers filled with coals rather than oil lamps. The bizarre displacement held for only a moment before Marik saw him as he was; a man bearing up well under the weight of his years, dressed trim and still fit as a horse. Marik needed no explanation to understand his peculiar moment. Once before he had seen this man close up, on the Cracked Plateau prior to the Nolier war.
The knight-marshal advanced with the bearing of a man about an assigned duty. He wore none of his rank’s insignia, as when Marik had seen him distantly during the tournament’s opening ceremony. His clothing remained of a military cut, color and material, though. Marik’s spine stiffened slightly when the man stopped to study the mercenary without much fondness evident in his expression.
It was Dietrik who had once been a solider in Galemar’s army, not he. Marik spurned a reflexive action to stand at rigid military attention…though he accepted the older veteran as a warrior worthy of respect. Clearly the knight-marshal lived his rank and responsibilities, rather than donning them to wear at court while filling a position appointed to him.
Since Marik felt as a fish pulled from a flowing stream to flop in confused bewilderment on the shore, he remained quiet, letting the knight-marshal speak. The man still gazed upon him with hard appraisal, measuring Marik against a standard unknown to the subject of that inspection. It increasingly disconcerted him by the moment.
At last, he glanced down at the display. He had obviously noticed Marik studying it when he entered. “A tenuous situation.”
Marik followed the gaze down. “So it would seem, sir.”
The knight-marshal shot a quick look at him, probably as the result of the ‘sir’. Most mercenaries clashed with any soldier they encountered. Little love had ever existed between the two professions. Marik understood the general reason why, but had never adopted the bias completely. Genuine fighters won his respect. Animosity shown never gained anything except animosity returned. That was why he usually added the ‘sir’ whenever speaking to an army officer unless the man had already proven he enjoyed harassing mercenaries simply for the crime of being a mercenary. Many of the men who had overseen the construction of the depots during the war had indulged in the attitude.
His honorific made no dent in the stony visage. “This was a key battle fought by Basill Cerella with Faustus Hueart as his master tactician. It was this battle that sounded the bells of change in the southlands. After this, the Tristan warlords and the scattered clans recognized that Basill was no petty tyrant as bloodthirsty as they. They recognized that he was far greater than that.”
He kept his eyes locked on the diorama the entire time. If he watched Marik at all, it was only through peripheral vision. His tone of voice, too, was far from conversational. It bore traces of cold steel and disapproval.
When the knight-marshal halted, waiting for a response, Marik groped for words, finding the opening gambit in this conversation exceedingly odd. “I suppose, then, that means this battle…the battle at Thrae Valley took place in the early years of the Unification.”
That brought the man’s gaze fully upon him. The disapproval in his hard eyes intensified. “Year thirteen.” He bit the words off forcefully. “The wars of the Unification lasted twenty-two years. The Tristans had never cared one bit what the northern lords were about, and paid Basill’s awesome efforts no heed whatsoever! One warlord had already fallen. It was the subjugation of Argus Yylan that finally opened their eyes to their dwindling days of powe
r.”
Marik examined the display in order to break eye-contact with the old warrior. “Faustus must have been an accomplished strategist to win against such odds.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, the truth of the matter struck Marik. He instantly wished he could rephrase the statement in order to prevent the testy response already forming on the knight-marshal’s lips. “Faustus Hueart indeed was such an individual, as befitting the man who would be labeled ‘Basill’s Arm’. Later, of course, after Basill Cerella bestowed a name upon his army, the title was altered to make him into the hand that struck with all that formidable strength behind it. The Arm of Galemar.”
His words made Marik feel foolish. He wanted to reply in a confident manner, yet while he struggled for such a response, he knew that anything he said would sound inane. In lieu of words, he elected to fold his arms and nod once at the table.
“You are combat experienced,” the knight-martial observed, “and been through battles where the most unexpected turns of events have occurred.” He nodded at the diorama. “If you were there, leading the green forces, tell me what you would have done. How would you have attained the victory that Basill Cerella claimed that day?”
Marik’s arms unfolded. He wanted to ask what this was about, but thought he might know after all, strange as it seemed.
Since the mysterious invaders had crossed the Stoneseams, bringing their monstrous beasts with them, Marik had been one of the few to face them multiple times in combat. With his mage senses active as well, it was possible that he had greater knowledge about the bull-creatures than anyone else with first-hand experience. Could they have possibly summoned him in order to help supplement their knowledge regarding the terrifying creatures? Was this banter about a battle long since over merely a tool the knight-marshal intended to use in order to gauge Marik’s understanding of warfare, and thus see how reliable any information the mercenary presented might be?
If so, then Marik needed to put forth a good showing. It would help later when he tried to make them understand how truly horrendous the monsters were. He bent his full concentration on the miniature figurines.
“The reds and blues must be preparing to fight each other after all. I thought they were banding together against Basill’s greens. If the south wasn’t united against Basill yet though, then perhaps not.”
“Argus Yylan was embroiled in his generations-long dispute with the Reeocks at the time.”
Marik nodded, this time in thought. “With the tree clusters scattered around the valley, the greens might still be out of sight of the other two,” he muttered, brooding over what he saw. The presence of the knight-marshal faded from his awareness. “But they couldn’t stay hidden for long…no commander worth his bread would fail to put out scouts to watch for enemy flankers moving in.
“Of course, the reds and blues seem to have started fighting already. If they knew the composition of the enemies well enough in advance beforehand, then once they located all the elements, the scouts wouldn’t range too far afield. It might be possible for a third party to sneak a force in closer once they were occupied with each other…”
The knight-marshal said nothing. He watched Marik move around the table, peering at the various pieces. For all that he intruded on Marik’s shifting awareness, he might have been a granite statue.
Marik tapped the side wall of the diorama with his fingers, seeing the situation for what it was thanks to the minute information the old veteran had graced him with. “That must be it. These two…old enemies for generations. They were meeting to fight each other, not the Galemarans. Basill must have been moving south to bring the war against the Tristans. But…”
His head swiveled between the green forces and the others. “He didn’t have many men with him. The first Arm, Faustus, he was a clever one. Maybe they came on the fight by accident…or maybe not. If they knew one of the Tristans they meant to subdue was about to go through a battle, then maybe they inched closer to the fight, meaning let them weaken each other, then take out both of them. That’s still very risky, though…”
He straightened from a leaning crouch, fingering his chin. In a louder, stronger tone, he stated. “That’s what I would do. I would hold my forces back, getting as close as I dared. I would try to position my men in the best place to make a hard strike when I thought the situation best suited my purposes. When one side had been reduced to a fluttering rag, then I would hit hard and fast, attacking whichever was the stronger first. After I wiped out their main strength, I would be able focus my men on stomping out the largest pockets of resistance on down.”
“A wise strategy, if your goal were to utterly eradicate your foe,” the knight-marshal stated, jolting Marik from his musings. “But such was not Basill Cerella’s goal, was it?”
Marik felt a flush crawl over his face at the rebuke buried in that steely voice. He maintained his view despite it. “Not to kill everyone, no sir. But he faced a massive enemy in the Tristan warlords. He needed to whittle their strength, perhaps to wipe out the first few southern strongholds in order to make them see he meant business.”
A shrug met this, as if the response to the challenging question were unimportant. The knight-marshal’s eyes returned to the display. His lack of words prompted Marik to continue, hoping he were not shoving his feet into his mouth.
“Each of the red and blue forces have reserves. A man like Faustus would surely have expected that. In his place, I would have held my men back behind the trees as long as possible, until I saw the reserves moving in. That would be the signal that one side was growing desperate. They would be nearing the point of defeat.” His eyes flew between landmarks. “I’d say Basill’s men were a mile or so from the main battle, if the battle remained where the two forces met.”
Silence from the current commander of Galemar’s fighting men persisted, yet to Marik it seemed colder. Was he making mistakes in his evaluation? He needed to do this right, damn it! No mistakes could be afforded if they effected his credibility later. Time to get specific.
“Basill has no mounted lancers or cavalry men. His foot is mostly swords, only a few spears, but half his men are archers. Both the red and blue forces have few archers. The Tristan has more horse than the clan brought, so he must have used them as a millstone against the larger number of melee fighters on foot. The clan horses would have tried to counter that but they made a big mistake.
“They brought no spears at all with them. The Tristan’s riders would have been devastating against the foot soldiers with no spears to keep them at a distance, especially since half the horsemen are armed with lances. Clan riders would be fighting against their mounted enemies with only minor effectiveness. The warlord armed plenty of his foot soldiers with spears to use against the clan riders. With his own horses feinting and leading enemy riders into traps of spear-wielding soldiers between their attacks on the enemy foot, the Tristan should have won the day despite being outnumbered at the beginning. His melee fighters would fill in the cracks and buy the time the horses needed to prepare for their next move.”
A twitch marred the knight-marshal’s left eyebrow. Marik hurried on, praying silently that he would be able to cover for whatever mistake he had just made.
“The Tristan should have won if he used his men well, but his forces must have taken damage. No one gets a free ride against a force twice the size of his own. Still, I’d bet that the clan reserves were the ones Basill’s scouts saw moving in to reinforce their main body. If they came in soon enough, they might have provided enough extra manpower that the Tristan was forced to call in his own. Basill should have started moving his men at that point, preparing to attack them without warning.”
Marik sidled along the table’s edge, seeing the valley laid out. The walls were steep in most places, too steep to climb easily on a whim. A sound reason would be needed to crawl up the sides, a prospect that would require the hands clutching for purchase as often as a man’s feet.
The southern e
nd narrowed to a near needlepoint, filled by a hill that seemed misplaced. It resembled a skullcap left forgotten squarely in the center of the valley. Around to both sides, men could traverse the valley floor without need to climb the hundred foot rise, yet the space between the hill’s foot and the valley walls could only be forty feet on both sides at most. Such geography struck Marik as abnormal. Strange.
But he would have seen it as a gift from Ercsilon if he found such a lovely battlefield. He continued his speculations.
“Basill must have made for the hill in the valley’s southern mouth. Holding the hill means any forces within the valley have to fight their way through you if they want to leave in that direction. With the tree cover, he might have made it all the way to the perch unnoticed if the enemies were concentrating on fighting each other.”
Marik paused, seeing a problem. “There’s no guarantee the Tristan or the clan leader would want to fight Basill, though. They could easily head north out the valley’s other end and circle to wherever their lands lay. The Tristan likely had his lands south and would want to return that way. Except after a major battle, he would be a fool to challenge a third army with his own men still exhausted.”
He glanced to the knight-marshal. The man stood with his arms crossed, impaling Marik with his gaze. Nothing was offered.
Marik swallowed his unease. Having come so far he shouldn’t try to second guess his own theory. Besides, all he had said thus far seemed like the most logical possibility.
“On the idea that Basill wanted to bring the war south, he would want to force a confrontation. He would need to make the surviving enemies fight him, but no matter where he stood, they might avoid him by going the other way. There weren’t enough Galemaran men to surround the survivors, no matter how much the Tristan’s or clan’s forces had been whittled in the fight. What would a man like Faustus do…what to do…”
He circled the table again, looking not at the soldier figures alone, but at the terrain features as well. Earlier he had been taken by their realism. Now he began contemplating what the details of that craftsmanship might offer.