Chapter 15 Sariel
SARIEL
T he wide field spread out before them, gently rolling down into a flower-blanketed valley.
Not far to their left was the beginning of the Telbelt Forest and the road slicing through it that would lead to the next river crossing.
In the distance approached Argylle’s first legitimate attempt at defending her lands, a force of what appeared to be eight hundred soldiers.
Outnumbered, they should have been running, but this defensive force, unlike the Doremy army, included what Sariel estimated to be nearly sixty mounted knights riding at the front.
“The knights are a problem,” Sariel said. “They alone can turn this battle.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” Faron said, idly swinging his sword through the air to limber up. “Besides, rumors said they had a hundred, not sixty, so we’re already better off than we anticipated.”
“Bravado is not a defense against a mounted charge.”
“True, but my sword is.”
Sariel shrugged and dropped the matter. They would do what they must to secure victory, but he feared the losses would be too dramatic to continue the southern campaign.
Princess Isabelle had left a token force to hold Wendway Fort and marched west, making for the second river crossing.
With both taken, all of southern Argylle would be completely sealed.
It seemed King Bentley, or at least whoever was in charge of the small forces in the midlands, also understood that risk and had mustered what they could to intercept them on their way to the bridge.
“Look alive,” Alex shouted, the big man surprisingly dashing in a suit of chainmail and an iron kettle hat. He walked before Sir Tristan’s squadron, inspecting the soldiers. “I want us eager and ready if we get called to the front!”
Alex paused before Sariel, crossed his arms behind him, and then smirked.
“Too good for your armor?” he asked.
Sariel had refused to don the padded leather and instead wore his normal attire underneath his heavy black coat.
“Armor is necessary only if I am struck,” he said simply.
“Cocky bastard. I pray we do get called to the front. I’m dying to see what that sword of yours can do… or can’t.”
The trainer had tried to convince Sariel to adopt a more traditional sword, insisting there would be no room on a battlefield to swing his giant, cumbersome weapon. Sariel had politely listened and then refused.
“Be glad you will gain such knowledge from a place of safety,” Sariel said. “The same cannot be said for my foes.”
“Of course,” Alex said, unimpressed. “Just don’t go stabbing your fellow soldiers with that oversized bit of bone.
” His attention then turned to Iris, who sat calmly at Faron’s side.
“Princess Isabelle herself has allowed the bitch to remain with you, but if she goes wild, or injures one of our own, I will not hesitate to put her down. Is that clear?”
Faron scratched Iris behind the ears.
“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She knows who the enemy is.”
Alex continued, checking the others. Sir Tristan’s squadron was in the far left rear of the army, a little jut sticking out like an unwanted thumb.
It was clear that Marshal Oscar held little faith in the Argylle recruits.
The better-armed and -armored Doremy troops formed the front lines, stacked deep in the hope of better resisting the anticipated mounted charge.
“It’s going to be hard to impress with your heroics so far from the front,” Sariel told his brother. “Or do you plan to ignore orders and go charging the battle line anyway? That sounds like something the One-Man Ram would do.”
Faron flinched at the name. “From the moment I heard them calling me that, I knew you’d never let me live it down.”
“Then you know me well.”
Trumpets sounded, a lone, long note. Not the order to march, but instead to prepare. Argylle’s army had almost arrived.
“Do you think we’ll be needed?” a young man beside Faron asked. Bart, if Sariel remembered correctly from the flurry of introductions. For reasons unknown, he stuck to Faron as if he were his own father.
“It all depends on how Isabelle handles the charge,” Faron said, ruffling Bart’s hair. “Just stay at my side if we do get called up. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
Sir Tristan paced before his troops once Alex slipped into line not far from Sariel.
His practiced eyes scanned those under his care, and he snapped at poor stances, improperly buckled sword belts, and a dozen other little things that might mean nothing, and might mean the difference between life and death.
He purposefully ignored Faron and Sariel. What that meant, good or ill, Sariel did not care to guess. His attention was on the front line.
The enemy army neared, the sound of hoofbeats and stomping boots growing louder.
Doremy soldiers lifted their shields and braced.
What few spearmen Isabelle commanded backed the second row, those spears peeking between shields in anticipation of the charge.
Sariel watched, his eyes enhanced, so that he saw the distant battle as if he were a hawk circling overhead.
The Doremy soldiers might not have been the most impressively garbed and outfitted, but there was no questioning their training.
They held firm against the charge with their shields raised high.
They did not falter, nor did they break in fear as the sound of rattling armor and stomping hooves thundered across the grass.
The charge hit. Blows exchanged. Blood flowed.
Sariel watched with bated breath, but the line did not crumble.
The rest of the Argylle forces arrived, slamming into the Doremy front lines to prevent the knights from being swarmed.
The battle began in earnest, and Sariel watched, captivated as always by the flow.
Most intriguing was Princess Isabelle herself.
She did not hide with her marshal, watching from afar.
The Bastard Princess fought in the heart of the conflict, two skilled knights guarding her flanks so the trio could press forward.
Her armor shone brilliant in the daylight, and her sword cleaved through her enemies with strength shocking even to Sariel.
Aren’t you a fascinating one? he thought as he watched her block a soldier’s errant strike, bat the weapon aside, and then plunge her sword into his throat.
She turned, shouted praise to Leliel, and then thrust once more at the nearest foe.
Sariel’s eyes narrowed, and he felt a squirming, wormlike worry grow in his chest. A faint golden light shimmered across her sword.
Perhaps it was but a trick of the light…
but then he saw it again when her sword punched through a soldier’s armor as if it were straw.
What game are you playing, Princess?
With his senses heightened, the din of the battle was nearly overwhelming to his ears, but amid the cacophony he heard another sound, one strange and separate. From the west. From the forest.
Hoofbeats.
Sariel blinked away the radiance’s blessing and grabbed Faron’s shoulder.
“Riders in the woods!” he shouted.
Alex overheard and turned, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword tightly.
“Riders?” he asked.
Sariel rushed past him, ignoring everyone but Sir Tristan, who stood near their center, watching the conflict. When he saw Sariel, his glare could have curdled milk.
“What in Leliel’s name are you…”
Sariel pointed past him with his sword.
“In the trees,” he said, fibbing just enough so that he might be believed. “I saw riders in the trees. It’s a flank!”
The knight looked to the greater forces to the north, then west to the trees. He hesitated only a moment, then began shouting his orders.
“Left pivot,” he shouted, realigning them. The line turned, soldiers drawing swords and lifting shields amid the confusion. Faron joined Sariel’s side, the two anchoring the new midpoint as the first of the riders emerged from the trees.
It seemed Argylle did have one hundred riders, after all.
Forty mounted soldiers arrived, and now free of the forest, they whipped their horses into a charge.
They were lightly armored, and their horses smaller and quicker than those crashing the front.
Skirmishers, meant to hit and run. Sariel gripped his sword with both hands, the battle slowing, his senses and reflexes enhancing as radiance pounded through his blood.
Forty riders against one hundred infantry. Even with Tristan’s squadron prepared for the charge, it would be a bloodbath. Once victorious, the skirmishers would hit the rear of Isabelle’s army. In a battle so precariously balanced, the damage and chaos they sowed would trigger a panic.
Sariel and Faron exchanged glances, wordless in their agreement. Faron readied his shield, lifted his sword high over his head, and charged headlong at the riders. Sariel followed, ever the shadow to Faron’s heroism. Sir Tristan hollered for them to fall back, to get in line, but neither listened.
Horses shifted, one rider seeking to cut Faron with a ride-by slash, while another sought to trample Sariel beneath his horse’s hooves. Sariel planted his feet, and the world itself seemed to slow, his senses heightened and his speed unmatched.
He shifted left, his right foot dropping back to plant and his left foot digging in where he pivoted.
Redemption thrust high, the dragon-bone tip easily piercing the hard leather armor the riders wore.
The man cried out as the impact flung him from his saddle.
Sariel continued the thrust as he shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, pirouetting into a slash at the next rider.
The sharpened edge hacked right through the horse’s shoulder, broke ribs, and then sliced off both saddle and the leg of its rider.