Chapter 26 Faron
FARON
F ifty miles past the border of Vivarai, the group gathered around a map, the tent filled with frowning faces and heavy concentration.
“I cannot imagine this slipup is intentional,” Marshal Oscar said. “We must take advantage, lest our war drag on needlessly for months.”
Sir Tristan leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He was among several other squadron leaders, all brought in to offer their advice on how to react to the latest scouting reports.
Also with them was vassal King Allan of Armane, the burly man a mixture of splint armor and fur, and whose ax had earned him a fine reputation among the soldiers.
Beside him stood Queen Sillia’s son, Druss, sent in her stead.
He was clever but young, and deferred to Allan often when it came time to discuss plans.
There was no reason for Faron to be among such a group, but he accompanied Tristan anyway, and endured their glares.
“Intentional or not, we cannot risk overstepping ourselves,” Tristan said. “What seems like a blessing may become a curse if we find ourselves with an entire mounted host charging into our backs.”
Queen Isabelle stood on the opposite side of the map, and she gestured to the pieces.
“We have a day to react, maybe less, if our scouts were off on their estimations. The question is, how do we best respond?”
Faron peered over Sir Tristan’s shoulder to observe the pieces.
The current problem had been a weakness in Isabelle’s army since the beginning, which was her total lack of mounted units.
The Blue Rivers Alliance, on the other hand, had an estimated two hundred trained knights serving King Jehan of Etne, and another four hundred serving King Murta of Vivarai.
The Etne knights had split off from the main army, and week after week picked opportune moments to charge in and assault Isabelle’s army as it sprawled out across the miles on their march toward Murta’s seat of power at Lossleaf Castle.
In response, Isabelle had tightened her ranks and flooded the surrounding lands with advance scouts, but this slowed their progress to a crawl.
Food was growing scarce, and meanwhile King Murta’s coalition refused to engage in a full-fledged battle.
They only skirmished, letting their few archers pepper the Doremy lines before withdrawing, their retreat protected by yet another rear charge from Etne’s knights.
It was bleeding them dry, but finally came a bit of good news; Etne’s forces had, in an attempt to flank Doremy’s troops, misjudged distances and separated significantly from King Murta’s grander force. The question was, what did they do to take advantage of that mistake?
“We should rush King Murta’s forces with all haste,” one of the other squadron leaders insisted. “With our numbers advantage, our victory will be assured.”
Marshal Oscar judged the distance and shook his head.
“We will arrive haggard and tired, and these hills make for tiresome travel as it is. I don’t like it. And should we call for a retreat, and Etne’s knights arrive, the losses will be devastating.”
“We may not have a choice,” Isabelle argued. “We need this fight. We’re on their land, among their people. They can outlast us and outsupply us. If we lay siege to Lossleaf Castle without first crushing their army, we may find ourselves completely surrounded.”
Faron had not a good measure of King Murta yet, but he’d seen enough of the knights’ charges to judge the tactics of Etne’s king, Jehan.
He was patient, lurking until he found what he deemed moments of weakness, but upon seeing one, he would attack with all-out aggression to maximize the damage. A person like that could be baited…
“Then make them seek out the fight,” Faron said. The squadron leaders turned his way, many not bothering to hide their disdain.
“And how, pray tell, do we do that?” asked one of them.
Faron pushed through until he could reach the figures on the map representing the armies.
“We see Etne’s separation from the rest as a weakness to exploit,” he said. “But what if we make them think it is to their own advantage?”
He took Isabelle’s squadrons and spread them out in a line, purposefully positioning Sir Tristan’s the farthest west, closest to the errant knights.
Doing so placed them at a nearby forest’s edge.
He knew the terrain well from his lifetimes of travel, and a secondary plan was already forming in his mind.
“We spread out on our march,” he continued.
“Make it look like we’re tired, and careless in our attempts to hunt and forage.
Most importantly, we fool King Jehan into thinking we do not know the location of his forces.
” He tapped the forest. “And it is here we prepare for the knights. Jehan will think we are exposed on the western flank and send in another charge.”
“While also informing King Murta of our thinly spread lines and his planned attack,” Marshal Oscar said, following through the logic. “Murta will almost certainly pivot to hit from the east at the same time.”
“How does that help us?” Isabelle asked Faron directly.
Faron slid more pieces east, leaving Sir Tristan’s behind.
“Because we’re ready for the attacks on both sides.
It will take time for riders to cross the distance between King Murta and King Jehan, and during that time, we will reposition and use the hills to disguise our movements.
Only Sir Tristan’s shall remain behind, and we will be enough to occupy Jehan while everyone else fights the real battle. ”
“This may bait Murta into a fight along the east, perhaps here at Oswind’s Crossing,” Oscar said, tapping the map. “But there still remains the threat of Etne’s knights. If they break Sir Tristan’s squadron, they can still flank us unimpeded.”
Faron grinned, and he projected an aura of utmost confidence. It would win over all present by the sheer influence of the radiance he projected… all but Isabelle.
“Hold faith in me and my fellows,” he said. “We will not break.”
Isabelle bit her lower lip as she stared at the map. All others there fell silent.
“We’ve whittled Etne’s numbers, but they still possess some two hundred knights,” she said. “And though you’ll have a slight edge in number, you will lack the advantage of horses. It would be a miracle for you to fight them to a standstill, let alone win.”
Her golden eyes met his silver, and his smile hardened.
“We will not break,” he repeated, quieter and more assured. “You will have your miracle.”
The queen matched him smile for smile.
“We are an army of miracles,” she said. “Let it be done.”
“A lot is riding on this idea of yours, Faron,” Sir Tristan said as he fiddled with the straps of his armor. “The thinnest of margins separates a planned retreat from a real one.”
“Would you rather fight Etne’s riders on the open plains?” Faron asked. “Have a little faith.”
“My faith is in Leliel and in Isabelle, not you.”
“Fair enough,” Faron said. “But I’m the one here with you, not them, so at least give me a little confidence.”
The knight laughed. “We’re doing your bullshit plan. What more do you want from me?”
Sir Tristan’s squadron had been reinforced with two hundred soldiers from another squadron, pushing its numbers up to five hundred in total.
They formed a battle line five deep in front of the forest. In the distance were King Jehan’s two hundred knights, riding in full view toward them.
The ground seemed to tremble with their approach.
With their armor and momentum, they would run straight through Tristan’s lines with ease, and both sides knew it.
Far behind them marched another four hundred Etne footmen, seemingly forgotten in the charge.
“Steady,” Tristan shouted. “On my command, we move as one!”
Faron adjusted his kite shield on his arm.
It was much larger and more finely made than his old one, and with Doremy’s new winged sword standard painted across its front.
It had been a gift from Queen Isabelle, to celebrate his role in the battles leading up to the conquering of Argylle.
The sword was newer as well, and had opened many throats over these past few months.
It wasn’t as sharp as Redemption, granted, but neither was anything else.
“Hope you’re having fun, brother,” he muttered to himself. Faron couldn’t stay with Isabelle after proposing his plan, but neither did he like the idea of the queen fighting alone on the battlefield. So Sariel stayed behind to be her shadow and protect her while Faron dealt with the knights.
The distance closed between the two forces. Soldiers fidgeted nervously. Iris growled beside him, keeping near his leg as she watched the approach. Sir Tristan waited, and waited, wanting the Etne soldiers to be fully committed.
“Retreat!”
The five hundred turned tail and sprinted into the forest. The trees were thin and spaced wide apart, with little underbrush to trip a man or horse.
Faron led the way, Iris at his heels, as they crossed the few hundred feet to reach a shallow creek.
The water was barely enough to wet one’s ankles when crossing.
It would scare no riders, and that was entirely the point.
The creek’s rapid flow would, however, be enough to hide the traps placed within.
Faron had led the practice for several hours that morning, whipping soldiers into a frenzy and then sending them sprinting across the water from various angles and starting positions.
Each time, they were to look for little sticks propped up along the stream’s edge, just high enough to be noticeable.
They marked the safe paths. That training paid off as the hundreds of fleeing soldiers filtered into smaller lines when sprinting across the water.
There were a dozen safe paths, enough to ensure the fleeing soldiers could cross in a timely manner without alerting the chasing knights.