The Stone of Knowing Complete Set, page 43
Even the Castelan soldiers increasingly deferred to Will. That was appropriate, of course, given his role as commander of the combined armies. The Castelan nobles, though, were well aware of this growing respect and vigorously sought to undermine it.
Bottren glanced at Will again, allowing himself to see the young commander with new eyes. For the first time he acknowledged what he knew his king had long since recognized: this grave young man was a vastly more capable leader than any of the nobles, and offered the best hope—maybe the only hope—of defeating the Rogandans.
“Don’t let them get to you, Will—you’re a better man than any of them.” The acknowledgment was long overdue, but Bottren knew there was never a wrong time to begin giving credit where it was due.
“Thank you, My Lord,” the commander returned simply. “It would seem that your confidence is not shared universally, though,” he added with masterful understatement.
“Perhaps not,” the lord replied. “But the king sees it the same way, and his opinion is the one that matters.”
They rode on in silence.
A single concern troubled Bottren. He succeeded in pushing it down for a time, but finally it would not be denied.
“Is the Rogandan army really as big as our scouts report, Will?” he finally asked.
“Yes, My Lord, it is immense. Almost beyond counting.”
“How will we defeat them?”
“I don’t know,” Will replied candidly. “But somehow we must find a way.”
Will, currently in the final stages of preparing for conflict, had been fully absorbed for several days. The looming battle would be his first as commander of the allied forces.
Rogandan forces had increasingly been concentrating near the small village of Pinder’s Flat. It was uncomfortably close to Steffan and Istel’s main camp at Hazelwood Ford, and the constant presence of Rogandans in the area had become a growing irritant. The two kings were determined to drive them away. The encounter would not decide the outcome of the war, but it would be an important test for the new allied army.
Planning was proceeding smoothly, at least on the surface, but nevertheless Will was troubled. He turned away from the maps spread out before him and faced King Steffan.
“I would prefer to fight this next battle with your own soldiers, Your Majesty.”
“I understand, Will,” the king returned. The request clearly exasperated him, but he was visibly working hard at remaining calm and reasonable. “I must remind you, though, that defeating the Rogandans is not the only objective in this action. We need victories, but we also need to build an effective fighting force that includes both Arvenian and Castelan armies. Victories can help us establish that, but only if we win them together.”
“May I speak frankly, Sire?”
“Of course, Will.”
The king’s words suggested he was open to hear whatever Will had to say. The firm line of his jaw said something entirely different. Will decided to voice his concerns anyway.
“Your goal of a unified force might be better achieved with someone other than me as commander, Your Majesty. Perhaps you would be better served if one of your noblemen took command.”
King Steffan stiffened. “I never expected this from you, Will,” he growled. “I don’t need you going soft on me.”
The king’s response stung, but Will remained silent.
“I’ve appointed the person best equipped to lead this army, and that person is you,” the king insisted, jabbing a finger at him emphatically. “I’m not entering into discussion on this. My very kingdom is at stake!” Brows bristling, he frowned across at Will, who maintained his silence.
“I know the cooperation from some of Istel’s people might be a bit half-hearted at times,” he conceded, “but you simply need to find a way to work with them.”
It seemed clear that the king had little understanding of the extent of the hostility of the Castelan nobles toward the upstart commoner. But Will knew he could not expose the true situation without openly criticizing the lords, and that was simply out of the question. And besides, the king was right. It was his responsibility as commander to resolve any problems that affected the army, including this one.
“May I request, then, Your Majesty, that you appoint a liaison to coordinate the Arvenian and Castelan forces on my behalf?”
King Steffan frowned. “Who did you have in mind?” he asked.
“Lord Bottren,” Will suggested. It was a risk, but he had the feeling that Bottren would be willing to work with him. And it might help ease tensions if the Castelans could interact with another nobleman instead of him.
“Consider it done,” the king replied, reaching for parchment, his quill, and the royal seal.
A vast cloud of dust drifted slowly into the sky ahead. The ring of metal on metal sounded above the cries of men and the scream of horses.
Will and Bottren skidded their horses to a halt at the top of a rise. The village of Pinder’s Flat lay behind them. Below them, the placement of the rival armies could be clearly seen, even though men were fighting and dying little more than an arrow’s flight away. The extreme vulnerability of the Arvenian left flank was immediately obvious.
Bottren stared in horror at the conflict raging below. “What are we going to do, Will?” The look on his face bordered on panic.
Will rapidly scrutinized the scene before him, witnessing the growing confusion spreading from the hard-pressed left wing of the Arvenian ranks. The battle hung on a knife edge. If he didn’t respond decisively the struggle below him could quickly degenerate into a rout.
“Archers, My Lord, NOW! Bring up the Castelan bowmen! We drive off the Rogandan reserves, or our left flank collapses.”
Even as the wide-eyed Bottren galloped away, Will spurred his horse frantically down toward the heaviest of the fighting.
“To me, men! For the king and for Arvenon!”
Will crashed into the seething mass of men, his sword weaving a skillful web of destruction. Others took up the cry, “For the king and for Arvenon!”, and pushed through the press to reach him.
Seeing their commander fighting on the field of battle gave new heart to Steffan’s harried soldiers. The cluster of men gathering around him gradually grew in size. Rufe appeared from the Arvenian center and charged into the fray at the head of a grim band of horsemen. For the first time the Rogandan momentum was halted. Outnumbered five to one, Will’s soldiers nevertheless began to surge forward.
Then a Rogandan horseman, clumsily avoiding the stroke of an opponent’s sword, crashed into Will and almost knocked him from his horse. Rufe, witnessing it close at hand, was powerless to help in the melee. His face registered alarm, then slowly the alarm was replaced with rage. His face glowed red, and his whole body shook. Raising himself high in the saddle and roaring ferociously, he broke upon his enemies like a wave.
The Rogandans fled in terror from the madman, some throwing away their weapons in their haste. A gap opened up in their front line, and it quickly widened as Will’s men began to push vigorously into it.
At this critical moment Bottren arrived with the archers. A steady shower of arrows flew over the heads of the combatants and fell among the soldiers gathered in the Rogandan rear. Some turned and fled. Others pressed forward to escape the deadly rain, and collided with those fleeing Rufe’s berserker fury. The chaos spread, and soon the entire Rogandan front line began to disintegrate.
The Arvenian army, so close to collapse only minutes before, instead began to visit ruin upon the Rogandan forces. Superior numbers did nothing to help the invaders as men became trapped and helpless in the middle of the Rogandan lines. Foot soldiers were crushed and trampled in the press without ever facing an Arvenian soldier.
The eager embrace of Malzakh awaited many Rogandans that day. But more than enough escaped to whisper abroad a rumor of the wrath of Arvenon and the terror that awaited its enemies.
At Pinder’s Flat, Will became commander of the combined army in more than just name. Steffan’s soldiers embraced him with the same enthusiasm as their countrymen at Arnost. They were willing to go anywhere with him, and said so openly.
The small detachment of Castelan archers were also quick to adopt him. Will had assigned them a crucial role in the battle, and when it was over he swiftly acknowledged that they had carried out their task flawlessly. He also openly accounted to them a generous portion of the credit for the victory. It soon became clear that the Castelan soldiers were glimpsing for the first time a leader they might follow without hesitation into the valley of the shadow of death.
The Castelan nobles were another matter entirely. The battle was not even over before the recriminations started. When the leaders finally met to review the battle the atmosphere in the room almost crackled with tension.
“What madness led us to Pinder’s Flat?” one of Istel’s nobles demanded with a sneer. “The terrain favored no one but the Rogandans!”
The speaker, Lord Eisgold, had bitterly opposed Will’s leadership from the beginning. Will held his peace. He glanced across at Bottren and saw his second-in-command pale with anger.
“The conditions were so appalling it left me no choice, Sire,” Eisgold spat, turning to King Istel. “Your soldiers would have been massacred if I’d left them exposed in the position he assigned them.” His thumb jerked toward Will. “It was only thanks to my considerable experience that they were extracted without a catastrophe.”
Will smiled grimly to himself. It was true that the extraction had been well executed. If the soldiers had been led into battle with the same enthusiasm, the outcome would never have been in doubt.
“This looming massacre you speak of, Eisgold,” Bottren interjected. “How many men did you lose?” His voice trembled with suppressed rage. “What was your death toll before you decided to abandon your post? I heard it was as many as four or five!” he sneered.
Eisgold rose from his chair in a rage. “Are you accusing me of cowardice?” he bellowed.
Everyone began shouting at once. Many of the nobles leaped to their feet, gesticulating wildly.
“SILENCE!”
The word came almost simultaneously from the lips of both sovereigns. One by one the nobles fell silent, and resumed their seats. Istel’s face glowed red with anger, but Steffan’s revealed an icy calm. The two kings exchanged glances, and Istel nodded, deferring to his younger ally.
“None of you will speak until invited to do so,” King Steffan commanded emphatically. He paused to allow them to recover themselves.
“In my assessment,” he asserted, “Pinder’s Flat was indeed a near calamity. Disaster was averted only by the quick action of our commander. At considerable risk to himself!”
Istel’s noblemen glowered, but said nothing.
“Will, do you have anything you wish to say?” King Steffan offered.
Will paused, his mind racing. How should he respond? What could he possibly say that would make any difference?
It was obvious that Eisgold’s action was intended to finish him. Some of his supposed allies were determined to see him fail, whatever the cost to their own cause.
Will’s plan of battle had been simple. He had chosen a position to the south of Pinder’s Flat. The site was protected by marshland on the left, preventing any flanking movement from that direction. The left wing he entrusted to King Istel’s men under Lord Eisgold. The best of King Steffan’s troops took the center with Rufe at their head. A lightly wooded slope climbed away to the right of the site. The wood prevented any rapid deployment of soldiers, but it was not impenetrable. Will accordingly assigned a sizable contingent of Arvenian troops to the right wing to guard against any attempt by the Rogandans to turn his right flank. Castelan archers stood close by in reserve to be quickly deployed wherever they might be needed.
The Rogandans vastly outnumbered his force. But that would probably always be the case in this war. And victory should have been readily within their grasp, if Eisgold had not removed his soldiers as soon as the fighting started. If the Rogandans had exploited the gaping hole on his left wing more quickly and effectively, the battle would have been over, and decisively so, in a couple of hours.
He knew that Eisgold’s soldiers were not to blame. In fact he had heard that they were seething. They had been ready to fight, and were bewildered at being withdrawn so quickly from the battle. Now, with a victory won and praise and honors distributed freely elsewhere, they resented having being sidelined.
The perverse obstinacy behind Eisgold’s behavior was maddening. Facing the Rogandans on the battlefield seemed straightforward compared to battling the Castelan nobles. Will could summon little enthusiasm for a campaign of this type. But he could not afford to retreat. The stakes had risen significantly, and Will wondered if the king fully realized the gravity of the situation. If he stumbled, the king would not long be able to continue to support him. And given the absence of an obvious successor, along with the disunity and lack of combat experience of the nobility, his removal had the potential to deal a fatal blow to the Arvenian cause.
He pushed down the sinking feeling in his gut. There was no room for weakness or self pity. He was now fighting for his life on two fronts, and he had to win both wars. There simply was no other option.
The king was still waiting patiently for his response.
“I have a question, Sire.”
“Ask it,” King Steffan replied.
“How would you respond if one of your soldiers withdrew from the heat of battle without orders?”
The sovereign did not hesitate. “I would have the man executed. There is no room in my army for deserters or cowards.” He glanced across at Istel, who nodded his acquiescence.
“And if one of your noblemen withdrew?” Will continued.
Eisgold bristled, but did not speak.
“I would have the man immediately relieved of command. If I was in a good mood,” King Steffan growled.
Again Steffan glanced across at Istel. A deep frown creased the Castelan’s face. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded again, firmly.
“You asked if I wished to speak, Your Majesty,” Will offered calmly. “I do have something to say,” he continued, getting to his feet.
“There are times when decisive action on the part of a leader can mean the difference between victory and defeat in a battle. Occasionally the situation demands such a rapid response that there is no time to seek confirmation from the commander.
“Today’s battle at Pinder’s Flat was not such an occasion,” he asserted bluntly. He paused to let his meaning fully sink in. “Nevertheless, I would suggest that we choose to view today’s action as a learning experience.”
Will bowed in deference to the two sovereigns and waited for them to respond. King Istel nodded his assent at once. King Steffan glared darkly at the nobles for a moment, then nodded as well.
“As long as I am commander, though,” Will continued, a hard edge in his voice, “if any leader orders a troop withdrawal again without my authority I will not hesitate to request that Your Majesties take the strongest possible action against that leader.”
He gazed slowly around the table, locking glances briefly with any of the nobles willing to meet his eye. Then he sat down.
Lord Eisgold was one who boldly met his stare. He glared back at Will with an undisguised look of pure hatred.
6
The fire sizzled and spat as fatty juices dripped down onto it. Thomas turned the makeshift spit one last time, confident that the hare was finally ready to eat. He examined the meat carefully, searching for the most evenly cooked portion. Having selected a leg, he tugged at it hopefully. To his delight it came away readily in his hand—surely the meat would be tender. Then he carefully handed the prize to Brother Vangellis.
The monk, his brow furrowed in concentration, took a bite and chewed it critically. Then he delicately pulled away pieces of meat with his teeth until only bone remained. Finally he licked his fingers clean.
Thomas, anxious and impatient, could restrain himself no longer. “Well?” he demanded.
The monk frowned a moment more, then beamed him a broad smile. “Wonderful, Thomas. Beautifully cooked! And a fine piece of meat.”
Thomas exhaled in relief and grinned back at him proudly.
Life in the wilderness had been harsh. With the weather gradually becoming colder, he rarely felt warm enough during the long nights. And he nearly always ended the day hungry, even though they spent many of their waking hours searching for food. But he knew he had toughened up a lot. He might be lean, but his muscles had firmed up visibly and he’d developed physical strength he never had before. He was a different person from the awkward youth who had ridden away from Arnost.
For the first time in his life he was learning to fend for himself. He knew how to use available materials to start a fire, he knew which berries to pick, and he could now identify mushrooms that were safe to eat.
Today had been his crowning achievement. He had fashioned a trap, caught a hare, made a spit, lit the fire, and skinned, cleaned, and cooked his catch. Every action had been carried out by him entirely on his own.
The monk’s approval was immensely gratifying. With the verdict behind him, though, there was no further reason to hold back himself, and Thomas attacked the hare without further ceremony. Brother Vangellis looked on with a smile for a moment before joining in the feast.
After the food was gone Thomas sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, gazing at the fire flickering at the entrance of the cave. The surrounding terrain hid the entrance very effectively, and they had not hesitated to select the cave as their dwelling place almost as soon as they discovered it. It was small, but dry and sheltered from the prevailing winds. And it was adjacent to a reliable spring, an important consideration since they had no containers suitable for storing water.
