The sun was a watery smudge on the horizon, the sky thick white with streaks of heavy grey, darker bruises hanging over the northern ridge. 'For the moment, sir,' said West.
'No word from Poulder yet?'
'No, sir. But it might be hard-going, the woods are dense.' Not as dense as Poulder himself, West thought, but that hardly seemed the most professional thing to say.
'Did you eat yet?'
'Yes, sir, thank you.' West had not eaten since last night, and even then not much. The very idea of food made him feel sick.
'Well at least one of us did.' Burr placed a hand sourly on his stomach. 'Damned indigestion, I can't touch a thing.' He winced and gave a long burp. 'Pardon me. And there they go.'
General Kroy must finally have declared himself satisfied with the precise positioning of every man in his division, because the soldiers in the valley had begun to move forward. A chilly breeze blew up and set the regimental standards, the flags of the battalions, the company ensigns snapping and fluttering. The watery sun twinkled on sharpened blades and burnished armour, shone on gold braid and polished wood, glittered on buckles and harness. All advanced smoothly together, as proud a display of military might as could ever have been seen. Beyond them, down the valley to the east, a great black tower loomed up behind the trees. The nearest tower of the fortress of Dunbrec.
'Quite the spectacle,' muttered Burr. 'Fifteen thousand fighting men, perhaps, all told, and almost as many more up on the ridge.' He nodded his head at the reserve, two regiments of cavalry, dismounted and restless down below the command post. 'Another two thousand there, waiting for orders.' He glanced back towards the sprawling camp: a city of canvas, of carts, of stacked-up boxes and barrels, spread out in the snowy valley, black figures crawling around inside. 'And that's without counting all the thousands back there—cooks and grooms, smiths and drivers, servants and surgeons.' He shook his head. 'Some responsibility, all that, eh? You wouldn't want to be the fool who had to take care of all that lot.'
West gave a weak smile. 'No, sir.'
'It looks like…' murmured Jalenhorm, shading his eyes and squinting down the valley into the sun. 'Are those… ?'
'Eye-glass!' snapped Burr, and a nearby officer produced one with a flourish. The Marshal flicked it open. 'Well, well. Who's this now?'
A rhetorical question, without a doubt. There was no one else it could be. 'Bethod's Northmen,' said Jalenhorm, ever willing to state the obvious.
West watched them rush across the open ground through the wobbling round window of his own eye-glass. They flowed out from the trees at the far end of the valley, near to the river, spreading out like the dark stain creeping from a slit wrist. Dirty grey and brown masses congealed on the wings. Thralls, lightly armed. In the centre better ordered ranks took shape, dull metal gleaming, mail and blade. Bethod's Carls.
'No sign of any horse.' That made West more nervous than ever. He had already had one near-fatal encounter with Bethod's cavalry, and he did not care to renew the acquaintance.
'Feels good to actually see the enemy, at last,' said Burr, voicing the exact opposite of West's own feelings. 'They move smartly enough, that's sure.' His mouth curved up into a rare grin. 'But they're moving right where we want them to. The trap's baited and ready to spring, eh, Captain?' He passed the eye-glass to Jalenhorm, who peered through it and grinned himself.
'Right where we want them,' he echoed. West felt a good deal less confident. He could clearly remember the thin line of Northmen on the ridge, right where Ladisla had thought he wanted them.
Kroy's men halted and the units shuffled into perfect position once again, just as calmly as if they stood on a vast parade ground: lines four ranks deep, reserve companies drawn up neatly behind, a thin row of flatbowmen in front. West just made out the shouted orders to fire, saw the first volley float up from Kroy's line, shower down in amongst the enemy. He felt his nails digging painfully into his palm as he watched, fists clenched tight, willing the Northmen to the. Instead they sent back a well organised volley of their own, and then began to surge forward.
Their battle cry floated up to the officers outside the tent, that unearthly shriek, carrying on the cold air. West chewed at his lip, remembering the last time he heard it, echoing through the mist. Hard to believe it had only been a few weeks ago. Again he was guiltily glad to be well behind the lines, though a shiver down his back reminded him that it had done little good on that occasion.
'Bloody hell,' said Jalenhorm.
No one else spoke. West stood, teeth gritted, heart thumping, trying desperately to hold his eye-glass steady as the Northmen charged full-blooded down the valley. Kroy's flatbows gave them one more volley, then pulled back through the carefully prepared gaps in the carefully dressed ranks, forming up again behind the lines. Spears were lowered, shields were raised, and in virtual silence, it seemed, the Union line prepared to meet the howling Northmen.
'Contact,' growled Lord Marshal Burr. The Union ranks seemed to wave and shift somewhat, the watery sunlight seemed to flash more rapidly on the mass of men, a vague rattling drifted on the air. Not a word was said in the command post. Each man was squinting through his eye-glass, or peering into the sun, craning to see what was happening down in the valley, hardly daring even to breathe.
After what seemed a horribly long time, Burr lowered his eyeglass. 'Good. They're holding. It seems your Northmen were right, West, we have the advantage in numbers, even without Poulder. When he gets here, it should be a rout—'
'Up there,' muttered West, 'on the southern ridge.' Something glinted in the treeline, and again. Metal. 'Cavalry, sir, I'd bet my life on it. It seems Bethod had the same idea as us, but on the other wing.'
'Damn it!' hissed Burr. 'Send word to General Kroy that the enemy has horse on the southern ridge! Tell him to refuse that flank and prepare to be attacked from the right!' One of the adjutants leaped smoothly into his saddle and galloped off in the direction of Kroy's headquarters, cold mud flying from his horse's hooves.
'More tricks, and this may not be the last of 'em.' Burr snapped the eye-glass closed and thumped it into his open palm. 'This must not be allowed to fail, Colonel West. Nothing must get in the way. Not Poulder's arrogance, not Kroy's pride, not the enemy's cunning, none of it. We must have victory here today. It must not be allowed to fail!'
'No, sir.' But West was far from sure what he could do about it.
The Union soldiers were trying to be quiet, which meant they made about as much racket as a great herd of sheep being shoved indoors for shearing. Moaning and grunting, slithering on the wet ground, armour rattling, weapons knocking on low branches. Dogman shook his head as he watched 'em.
'Lucky thing there's no one out here, or we'd have been heard long ago,' hissed Dow. 'These fools couldn't creep up on a corpse.'
'No need for you to be making noise,' hissed Threetrees, up ahead, then beckoned them all forward.
It was a strange feeling, marching with such a big crew again. There were two score of Shivers' Carls along with 'em, and quite an assortment. Tall men and short, young and old, all manner of different weapons and armour, but all pretty well seasoned, from what the Dogman could tell.
'Halt!' And the Union soldiers clattered and grumbled to a stop, started sorting themselves out into a line, spread across the highest part of the ridge. A great long line, the Dogman reckoned, judging from the number of men he'd watched going up into the woods, and they were right at the far end of it. He peered off into the empty trees on their left, and frowned. Lonely place to be, the end of a line.
'But the safest,' he muttered to himself.
'What's that?' asked Cathil, sitting down on a great fallen tree trunk.
'Safe here,' he said in her tongue, managing a grin. He still didn't have half an idea how to behave around her. There was a hell of a gap between them in the daylight, a yawning great gap of race, and age, and language that he wasn't sure could ever be bridged. Strange, how the gap dwindled down to nothing
at night. They understood each other well enough in the dark. Maybe they'd work it out, in time, or maybe they wouldn't, and that'd be that. Still, he was glad she was there. Made him feel like a proper human man again, instead of just an animal slinking in the woods, trying to scratch his way from one mess to another.
He watched a Union officer break off from his men and walk towards them, strut up to Threetrees, some kind of a polished stick wedged under his arm. 'General Poulder asks that you remain here on the left wing, to secure the far flank.' He spoke slow and very loud, as though that'd make him understood if they didn't talk the language.
'Alright,' said Threetrees.
'The division will be deploying along the high ground to your right!' And he flicked his stick thing towards the trees where his men were slowly and noisily getting ready. 'We will be waiting until Bethod's forces are well engaged with General Kroy's division, and then we will attack, and drive them from the field!'
Threetrees nodded. 'You need our help with any of that?'
'Frankly I doubt it, but we will send word if matters change.' And he strutted off to join his men, slipping a few paces away and nearly going down on his arse in the muck.
'He's confident,' said the Dogman.
Threetrees raised his brows. 'Bit too much, if you're asking me, but if it means he leaves us out I reckon I can live with it. Right then!' he shouted, turning round to the Carls. 'Get hold o' that tree trunk and drag it up along the brow here!'
'Why?' asked one of 'em, sitting rubbing at one knee and looking sullen.
'So you got something to hide behind if Bethod turns up,' barked Dow at him. 'Get to it, fool!'
The Carls downed their weapons and set to work, grumbling. Seemed that joining up with the legendary Rudd Threetrees was less of a laugh than they'd hoped. Dogman had to smile. They should've known. Leaders don't get to be legendary by handing out light duty. The old boy himself was stood frowning into the woods as Dogman walked up beside him. 'You worried, chief?'
'It's a good spot up here for hiding some men. A good spot for waiting 'til the battles joined, then charging down.'
'It is,' grinned the Dogman. 'That's why we're here.'
'And what? Bethod won't have thought of that?' Dogman's grin started to fade. 'If he's got men to spare he might think they'd be well used up here, waiting for the right moment, just like we are. He might send 'em through these trees here and up this hill to right where we're sitting. What'd happen then, d'you reckon?'
'We'd set to killing each other, I daresay, but Bethod don't have men to spare, according to Shivers and his boys. He's outnumbered worse'n two to one as it is.'
'Maybe, but he likes to cook up surprises.'
'Alright,' said Dogman, watching the Carls heaving the fallen tree trunk around so it blocked off the top of the slope. 'Alright. So we drag a tree across here and we hope for the best.'
'Hope for the best?' grunted Threetrees. 'Just when did that ever work?' He strode off to mutter to Grim, and Dogman shrugged his shoulders. If a few hundred Carls did turn up all of a sudden, they'd be in a fix, but there weren't much he could do about it now. So he knelt down beside his pack, pulled out his flint and some dry twigs, stacked it all up careful and started striking sparks.
Shivers squatted down near him, palms resting on his axe-handle. 'What're you at?'
'What does it look like?' Dogman blew into the kindling, watched the flame spreading out. 'I'm making me a fire.'
'Ain't we waiting for a battle to start?'
Dogman sat back, pushed some of the dry twigs closer in and watched 'em take light. 'Aye, we're waiting, and that's the best time for a fire, I reckon. War's all waiting, lad. Weeks of your life, maybe, if you're in our line o' work. You could spend that time being cold, or you could try to get comfortable.'
He slid his pan out from his pack and onto the fire. New pan, and a good one, he'd got it off the Southerners. He unwrapped the packet inside. Five eggs there, still whole. Nice, brown, speckled eggs. He cracked one on the edge of the pan, poured it in, heard it hiss, grinning all the while. Things were looking up, alright. Hadn't had eggs in a good long time. It was as he was cracking the last one that he smelled something, just as the breeze turned. Something more than eggs cooking. He jerked his head up, frowning.
'What?' asked Cathil.
'Nothing, most likely.' But it was best not to take chances. 'You wait here a moment and watch these, eh?'
'Alright.'
Dogman clambered over the fallen trunk, made for the nearest tree and leaned against it, squatting on his haunches, peering down the slope. Nothing to smell, that he could tell. Nothing to see in the trees either—just the wet earth patched with snow, the dripping pine branches and the still shadows. Nothing. Just Threetrees got him nervous with his talk about surprises.
He was turning back when he caught a whiff again. He stood up, took a few paces downhill, away from the fire and the fallen tree, staring into the woods. Threetrees came up beside him, shield on his arm, sword drawn and clutched in his big fist.
'What is it, Dogman, you smell something?'
'Could be.' He sniffed again, long and slow, sucking the air through his nose, sifting at it. 'Most likely nothing.'
'Don't nothing me, Dogman, your nose has got us out of a scrape or two before now. What d'you smell?'
The breeze shifted, and this time he caught it full. Hadn't smelled it in a while, but there was no mistaking it. 'Shit,' he breathed. 'Shanka.'
'Oy!' And the Dogman looked round, mouth open. Cathil was just climbing over the fallen tree, the pan in her hand. 'Eggs are done,' she said, grinning at the two of them.
Threetrees flailed his arm at her and bellowed at the top of his lungs. 'Everyone get back behind the—'
A bowstring went, down in the brush. Dogman heard the arrow, felt it hiss past in the air. They're not the best of archers, on the whole, the Flatheads, and it missed him by a stride or two. It was just piss-poor luck it found another mark.
'Ah,' said Cathil, blinking down at the shaft in her side. 'Ah…' and she fell down, just like that, dropping the pan in the snow. Then Dogman was running up the hill towards her, his breath scraping cold in his throat. Then he was scrabbling for her arms, saw Threetrees take a hold round her knees. It was a lucky thing she weren't heavy. Not heavy at all. An arrow or two shot past. One stuck wobbling in the tree trunk, and they bundled her over and took cover on the other side.
'There's Shanka down there!' Threetrees was shouting, 'They shot the girl!'
'Safest place in the battle?' growled Dow, crouching down behind the tree, spinning his axe round and round in his hand. 'Fucking bastards!'
'Shanka? This far south?' someone was saying.
Dogman took Cathil under the arms and pulled her groaning back to the hollow by the fire, her heels kicking at the mud. 'They shot me,' she muttered, staring down at the arrow, blood spreading out from it into her shirt. She coughed, looked up at the Dogman, eyes wide.
'They're coming!' Shivers was shouting. 'Ready, boys!' Men were drawing their weapons, tightening their belts and their shield straps, gritting their teeth and thumping each other on the backs, making ready to fight. Grim was up behind the tree, shooting arrows down the hill, calm as you like.
'I got to go,' said the Dogman, squeezing at Cathil's hand, 'but I'll be back, alright? You just sit tight, you hear? I'll be back.'
'What? No!' He had to pry her fingers away from his. He didn't like doing it, but what choice did he have? 'No,' she croaked at his back as he scrambled towards the tree and the thin line of Carls hunching down behind it, a couple kneeling up to shoot their own bows. An ugly spear came over the trunk and thudded into the earth just beside him. Dogman stared at it, then slithered past, up onto his knees not far from Grim, looking down the slope.
'Fucking shit!' The trees were alive with Flatheads. The trees below, the trees to their left, the trees to their right. Dark shapes moving, flapping shadows, swarming up the hill. Hundreds of them, it
seemed like. Off to their right the Union soldiers were shouting and clattering, confused, armour clanking as they set their spears. Arrows hissed angry up out of the woods, flitted down into 'em. 'Fucking shit!'
'Maybe start shooting, aye?' Grim loosed a shaft, pulled another out of his quiver. Dogman snatched out an arrow himself, but there were so many targets he could hardly bring himself to pick one, and he shot too high, cursing all the while. They were getting close now, close enough for him to see their faces, if you could call 'em faces. Open flapping jaws, snarling and full of teeth, hard little eyes, full of hate. Clumsy weapons—clubs with nails in, axes made from chipped stone, rust-spotted swords stolen from the dead. Up they came, seeming fast as wolves through the trees.
Dogman got one in the chest, saw it drop back. He hit another through the leg, but the rest weren't slowing. 'Ready!' he heard Threetrees roaring, felt men standing up around him, lifting their blades, their spears, their shields, to meet the charge. He wondered how a man was meant to get ready for this.
A Flathead came springing through the air over the tree, mouth wide open and snarling. Dogman saw it there, black in the air, heard a great roar in his ear, then Tul's sword ripped into it and flung it back, blood spraying out of it like water from a smashed bottle.
Another came scrambling up and Threetrees took its arm clean off with his sword, smashed it back down the slope with his shield. More of 'em were coming now, and still more, swarming over the fallen trunk in a crowd. Dogman shot one in the face at no more than a stride away, pulled his knife out and stabbed it in the gut, screaming as loud as he could, blood leaking warm over his hand. He tore its club from its claw as it fell and swung it at another, missed and reeled away. Men were shouting and stabbing and hacking all over.
He saw Shivers wedge a Shanka's head against the tree with his boot, lift his shield high above his head and ram the metal rim deep into its face. He knocked another sprawling with his axe, spraying blood into Dogman's eyes, then caught a third in his arms as it sprang over the tree and they rolled onto the wet dirt together, flopping over and over. The Shanka came out on top and Dogman smashed it in the back with the club, once, twice, three times and Shivers shoved it off and scrambled up, stomped on the back of its head. He charged past, hacking another Flathead down just as it spitted a squealing Carl through the side with a spear.
Before They Are Hanged Page 54