The Maid's War(7)

Boquette rubbed his lip. “Remember his brother’s army at Azin—”

“Don’t say it, Boquette, don’t even utter the words!” Alensson said, clenching his arm and squeezing it. “We will not be held hostage to memories of the past. We know their tactics. They’ll use archers as they did before. They’ll drive stakes into the ground to stop our horses. We know this! We’ve chosen the ground this time. We have a defensible position to fall back to.” He shook his head angrily. “No, this is nothing like before. This is my chance to avenge my father.”

Boquette did not look convinced. “Don’t underestimate these foes, lad. I know the prince trusts you enough to have given you command of this army. But listen to the advice of the sergeants. Many of them fought in the battle of Azinkeep. They’re still afraid.”

Alensson shook his head. “That’s our problem, Boquette. Fear. It saps a man’s courage worse than a disease. I will not let it infect me or these men. This is our time. I want the soldiers called out to the field. Right now. We’re going to fight them in an open battle. Let the enemy quail when they see our numbers. This is our first step in reclaiming Occitania. Prince Chatriyon is the rightful heir, not the dead king’s brat.”

Boquette grimaced. “That brat is a prince of the blood of Occitania!”

“But Deford isn’t,” Alensson said. “He may be the protector, but he holds no right on his own. He will bleed like other men do. Prepare for battle.”



Alensson sat stiffly on his war charger, heavily encumbered by armor. From his mount, he had a clear view of the field that lay ahead and the enemy soldiers arrayed opposite him. In addition to his usual sword, he was equipped with a battle axe—his father’s preferred weapon. It was the same one his father had used in the Battle of Azinkeep, and the wood was still stained with blood. He brought his horse down the line of Atabyrion warriors who formed the front ranks of the army, nearly seven thousand in all. On each flank were Occitanian knights in their silver armor, pennants flapping as they anxiously tried to calm their mounts. Beyond them were thousands of paid Occitanian men-at-arms, men who clearly feared the fight ahead of them. That’s why he’d put them in the rear. The Atabyrions were anxious for a brawl.

While Alensson rode in front of the lines, he could hear the clattering noises of the Ceredigions preparing for battle. His scouts reported that they were securing their baggage and horses behind the lines, that none of the knights were mounted. Hobbling the horses was a measure to embolden an army. It meant that none of the leaders would be able to ride away should the tide turn. It was the ultimate sign that they would conquer or perish. Well, let them perish if they so wished.

A blazing fire raged inside Alensson’s heart. Was this what the Fountain felt like? He was fifteen years old and he was leading an army into battle. He felt confident that it was the Fountain’s will that he drive the usurpers out of his ancient homeland and restore it to its former name and its former glory.

“Do not fear!” the young duke shouted to the men of his army. “We will show these dogs from Ceredigion what men we are! Think of your homes. Think of your families. Think not on the shame of the past but on the glory we will achieve this day. I doubt not your courage. You are each one stronger than those camped yonder. They will fall before our steel! Courage, my brothers! Courage and strength!”

A cheer rose up from the soldiers, and battle cries rent the air. Alensson paused, straining to sense the Fountain. He longed for its reassurance that he was doing the right thing, that it would honor his efforts with success. If it did, he would be renowned in Occitania. He was the Fountain’s willing servant, and it if it brought him victory, he would give credit where it was due. Still, he heard nothing in his mind except his own thudding heartbeat. He turned his horse around and rode down the line, repeating his speech, sending another roar across the camp. Then he raised his sword, pointed at the enemy lines, and started toward the Ceredigion forces.

The knights on horseback did not charge at once. No, Alensson would learn from the mistakes of the past. The Atabyrions marched in step with the horses, bringing the bulk of the army across the field like thunderheads. The smell of sweat and metal stung Alensson’s nose. He was ready for this fight. This was the moment the tide would finally turn in his favor.

“Archers!”

The shouted command came from the throng of enemy ahead. The archers of Ceredigion marched a few steps forward, dropped to one knee, and then loosed the first volley of arrows at them. The swarm of black shafts hurtled into the sky and Alensson and his men raised their shields. The shafts came down like deadly rain. Some soldiers cried out and dropped to the ground, but the shields protected most of them. The bulk of the army moved closer, picking up speed, dodging the remains of the wounded and fallen.