The siege column was overtaken by some light cavalry. Evertsen recognised them as the Duke of Winneburg’s tactical company, one of those redeployed from Cintra, by the designs on its pennants. Yes, he thought, they have something to be pleased about. The battle won, the army from Aedirn routed. Reserves will not be deployed in a heavy battle against the regular army. They will be pursuing forces in retreat, wiping out scattered, leaderless groups. They will murder, pillage and burn. They’re pleased because it promises to be a pleasant, jolly little war. A little war that isn’t exhausting. And doesn’t leave you dead.
Evertsen was calculating.
The tactical company combines ten ordinary companies and numbers two thousand horse. Although the Winneburgians will probably not take part in any large battles now, no fewer than a sixth of their number will fall in skirmishes. Then there will be camps and bivouacs, rotten victuals, filth, lice, mosquitoes, contaminated water. Then the inevitable will come: typhus, dysentery and malaria, which will kill no fewer than a quarter. To that you should include an estimate for unpredictable occurrences, usually around one-fifth of the total. Eight hundred will return home. No more. And probably far fewer.
Cavalry companies continued to pass along the road; and infantry corps followed the cavalry. These, in turn, were followed by marching longbowmen in yellow jerkins and round helmets, crossbowmen in flat kettle hats, pavisiers and pikemen. Beyond them marched shield bearers, veterans from Vicovaro and Etolia armoured like crabs, then a colourful hodgepodge: hirelings from Metinna, mercenaries from Thurn, Maecht, Gheso and Ebbing . . .
The troops marched briskly in spite of the intense heat, and the dust stirred up by their heavy boots billowed above the road. Drums pounded, pennants fluttered, and the blades of pikes, lances, halberds and guisarmes swayed and glittered. The soldiers marched jauntily and cheerfully. This was a victorious army. An undefeated army. Onward, lads, forward, into battle! On Vengerberg! Destroy our foe! Avenge Sodden! Enjoy this merry little war, stuff our money bags with loot and then home. And then home!
Evertsen watched. And calculated.
‘Vengerberg fell after a week-long siege,’ finished Dandelion. ‘It may surprise you, but the guilds courageously defended their towers and the sections of wall assigned to them until the very end. So the entire garrison and all the townspeople were slaughtered; it must have been around six thousand people. When news of it got out, a great flight began. Defeated regiments and civilians began to flee to Temeria and Redania en masse. Crowds of fugitives headed along the Pontar Valley and the passes of Mahakam. But not all of them managed to escape. Mounted Nilfgaardian troops followed them and cut off their escape . . . You know what I’m driving at?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t know much about . . . I don’t know much about war, Dandelion.’
‘I’m talking about captives. About slaves. They wanted to take as many prisoners as possible. It’s the cheapest form of labour for Nilfgaard. That’s why they pursued the fugitives so doggedly. It was a huge manhunt, Geralt. Easy pickings. Because the army had run away, and no one was left to defend the fleeing civilians.’
‘No one?’
‘Almost no one.’
‘We won’t make it in time . . .’ Villis wheezed, looking around. ‘We won’t get away . . . Damn it, the border is so close . . . So close . . .’
Rayla stood up in her stirrups, and looked at the road winding among the forested hills. The road, as far as the eye could see, was strewn with people’s abandoned belongings, dead horses, and with wagons and handcarts pushed to the side of the road. Behind them, beyond the forests, black columns of smoke rose into the sky. Screams and the intensifying sounds of battle could be heard ever closer.
‘They’re wiping out the rearguard . . .’ Villis wiped the soot and sweat from his face. ‘Can you hear it, Rayla? They’ve caught up with the rearguard, and they’re putting them to the sword! We’ll never make it!’
‘We’re the rearguard now,’ said the mercenary drily. ‘Now it’s our turn.’
Villis blenched, and one of the soldiers standing close by gave a loud sigh. Rayla tugged at the reins, and turned around her mount, which was snorting loudly and barely able to lift its head.
‘There’s no chance of our getting away,’ she said calmly. ‘The horses are ready to drop. They’ll catch up with us and slaughter us before we make it to the pass.’
‘Let’s dump everything and hide among the trees,’ said Villis, not looking at her. ‘Individually, every man for himself. Maybe some of us will manage to . . . survive.’