— 20 —
Commander Philemon of the Third Karinthian Cavalry sat rigidly on his white steed, his emblazoned breastplate and small round shield glistening in the brilliant light of the Day Father, the Fire Stealer, and the Demon Star.
It makes no sense, he thought. We've sat here more than half the day; the men grow weary of this inactivity, this overcaution in the face of a few undisciplined bandits. If I were in command—
"Lord Commander," his aide called. "The enemy moves at last."
Philemon squinted and looked across the flat fields, recently sown with grain. A small troop of cavalry—horse archers, from the looks of them—were galloping forward from beside the low rise where the enemy had deployed his small force of pikemen.
Philemon grunted his disappointment. The movement of such a tiny force would hardly start the battle. No doubt the horse archers would come up to skirmish with the slingers. No matter. Karinth's own foot archers would soon put them to rout.
"It's nothing," Philemon replied to his aide. "They're merely preparing to . . ."
Philemon squinted again. His head jutted forward as he studied the enemy movement. The fools had turned and were riding toward the river! Their flank was exposed—and beyond them, the apparent main body of the enemy stood. Hitting the horse archers in the flank now could rout the entire enemy force. . . .
"Lord Commander!" The cry came from the ranks of the horsemen. "Behold! Our breakfast!"
Laughter rippled through the tight formation of lightly armored cavalry. The men stirred on their mounts; most were already raising their twelve-foot spears, used as lances.
"Let's make short work of them, Lord Commander Philemon," shouted a man.
"Aye, Philemon. Lead us to glory, booty, and then home to our beds!" called another.
The men are right, Philemon thought. And, as a commander, I have sufficient rank to act on my own authority as circumstances warrant. And the backing of the Council, if I need it.
Philemon's knees pressed inward on the sides of his horse, and the fine steed strutted forward. The Lord Commander placed himself at the head of his eight hundred men, turned to face the enemy and raised his own spear.
"Men of Karinth," he shouted over his shoulder. "Forward to victory!"
The Karinthian horses surged forward, a large column about one hundred men abreast and eight ranks deep with their lances extended, eager to taste the enemy's blood.
Yatar-Opollos! That upstart Philemon disobeys my strict orders, the Lord General Hectris grumbled to himself. He charges—and by so doing, commits the army. That fool. I should let him go to his slaughter. . . .
"My lord general," an aide called. "Philemon leads the Third Cavalry forward. He takes the enemy formation in flank—it may rout their whole force."
"I have eyes, Achillos."
Achillos moved closer and lowered his voice so only the general could hear.
"Star lord or no, these are rabble, and Philemon will soon have credit for this victory to add to the songs of his praise in the Council."
"Will he now?" Hectris whispered back. "Aides!" the general shouted. "Take messages to all commanders. The entire army will advance, pivoting on its right! We'll throw this crew of murderers from the north into the river!"
A cheer rose from the staff as aides galloped off with the orders of the Lord General Hectris of Karinth.
Go to section 47.