Sitting on his black horse, two names for himself competing in his head, listening to reports, Alured-Visli considered how best to attack, drawing on what he had learned from his onetime allies in Siniava’s War: expect reserves, expect a unit you did not know was there, with weapons those in sight have not shown. His advisor stirred in his head but for once did not interfere. His advisor, he’d been told, had never fought this kind of war.
It would be a test battle, this first one. He had brought six hundreds with him, a mix of weapons—he would see what worked. Every other consideration vanished as he made his decisions, ordered his troops, and advanced.
The Fallo contingents stood firm, though they were visibly outnumbered. So—they thought their reinforcements were larger than his. Larger they might be; harder they could not be, especially the veterans of the battle for Cortes Cilwan. Nor were they better equipped. In the first sandglass of the battle, his troops pushed back the Fallo infantry and his cavalry swept Ganarrion’s riders aside time and again. The Fallo reserves—poised, he was sure, on the slopes of the hills—did nothing.
That worried him. They should have—they must have—some point at which they would come charging down. He would have put his reserves in by now if his troops had been pushed back so far.
Now the Fallo front line appeared to waver, and in the rear some turned to run. His own troops pressed forward, his captains glancing back at him for an order to advance, pursue … but it did not feel right. So short a battle, given up so easily? He gave the order to halt; his flagmen flipped the flags back and forth at once, and his captains yelled at their men. His troops halted, shifted to a tighter formation.
Even as they did, the woods to either side gave back the sound of men running headlong through the trees, and Fallo’s reserves poured out into the open. All the reserves? They had seemed to lack discipline before, and now again they had not waited to be sure they had his flanks.
He signaled advance, and once more his troops pressed forward. The lines stiffened on Fallo’s side; the noise intensified. Slowly, bloodily, his troops made headway, pushing Fallo’s troops back step by step, death by death. He had the advantage; he had the numbers and the right weapons, and it worked as he had planned.
Because you knew to halt. How did you know?
He did not have time now. His advisor could see what he had seen only if he spoke the words to explain in his mind or let his advisor take over. The battle could still be lost if he did not stay alert. He said those words aloud as well as in his mind: “Not now. Later.”
Silence from his advisor. He rode his horse a little way up the slope of the hill on his sword-hand to get a better view of what lay ahead. Fields, a few simple farmhouses, a vill in the distance. A narrow bridge over a small creek, the line of the creek winding between him and the vill. And between him and the vill, what looked like a long mound casting a shadow—with no hedge on top. Black dirt against the green of young grain. It ringed the vill.
Fall’s troops must have come from there, must have tried to fortify the vill and then decided to march out to meet him. That could have worked if he’d had fewer troops or fallen for that ambush. But he had enough men to kill them all, given time.
He pushed them back almost to the creek, which seemed sunk deep in the rich soil. Then, to his surprise, a line of soldiers rose from the creek, coalesced into four cohorts of pikes, and—fresh and eager—plowed into his front lines. At the same time, cavalry in Ganarrion’s colors galloped out from the vill, jumped the creek upstream and down of the battle, and fell upon his flanks.
Vaskronin disappeared from his mind, leaving Alured, survivor of many desperate times. He called on the magery his advisor had given him, clutching the red jewel on a chain around his neck. His troops roared and held their ground; he cast a dark cloud laden with fear at the enemy. For a moment the massed pikes faltered; the cavalry horses shied, bucked, bolted out of control. His troops advanced again, pushing the enemy back toward the creek while Alured aimed the fear and anguish trapped in the advisor’s jewel.
Finally the enemy broke and ran. He held his troops back from pursuit and pressed on to the vill. That fortified vill would make an excellent camp, a base from which to advance again.
He had won. He could conquer Fallo, and next year—next year he would take the rest of Aarenis. The year after that, the north. King. King of all.
You are strong and brave; you deserve to be king.
Familiar warmth spread through his body, this time more flame than warmth along his bones. He felt more alive than ever, filled with strength, power, the wild joy of victory. In that moment of exultation, he had no thought of the disfigured child, of Andressat’s curse, of possible treachery. He dropped the reins, raised both hands high—sword and jewel symbols of his power—and spurred his mount toward the vill with the others, yelling in triumph.