Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

Pikemen fell, lanced through or scattered like ninepins as the horsetroops plowed into the center of the Twenty-

First's line. Swords slashed and stabbed. The din drew louder and the center units, beset by the fresh Hardorn regiment, sagged under the pressure. Trumpets blew frantically as under officers fought to hold the line. The battle hung in the balance, a race between whether the pikemen could reknit their formations or the Hardornens could split the regiment and roll it up.

Cogern took half the remaining swordsmen in the command party and went to shore the line where the fighting was thickest. Solaris followed, keeping the Ori-flamme aloft. The soldiers, seeing the woman and the banner, both now stained with blood, fought harder. The pressure intensified, the battle growing more desperate as units lost cohesion. The thick, coppery smell of blood, mixed with the stink of loosened bowels and horsedung, threatened to overwhelm Tregaron, as did the clouds of dust as thick as smoke that obscured much of the field.

Twice the pressure on the command party built, and once Tregaron himself had to swing his sword against the enemy. More horncalls sounded from the right, calling for assistance. Tregaron looked around frantically. The entire right half of the line was engulfed and all reserves on that side were already committed. He had to launch a counter, something to take the pressure off the beleaguered center and right before it cracked under the Hardornens' hammerblows.

'This'll have to work,' he said to himself as he summoned his remaining trumpeters. Most were dead, killed defending the relics. He pointed to two. 'Go to Captain Luhann. Tell her to prepare to attack en echelon. She's to commence when she's ready. Don't wait for a signal. We're counting on her to take 'em in the flank and grind 'em into powder. Repeat.'

The runner cleared his throat. 'Attack en echelon when ready. Don't wait for signal.' Tregaron checked the message with the other runner, then sent them to the left. He repeated the same message with two more and dispatched them to the right, though he doubted that wing of the regiment could comply.

He fretted in the minutes that followed, afraid his order had come too late, or that the Hardornens would break the line. He peered anxiously to where he could see the Oriflamme, still bravely waving. He worried about what was going on there even as a Battle or two of horsetroops made another try for the regiment's banner. More blood and more dead followed in a sharp little fight.

The Hardornens finally broke, driven from the standards by a volley of arrows fired from across his line of sight. The dust cleared and he saw the archers on the extreme left complete the echelon movement that gave them a clear shot along the regiment's long axis. Each pike company stepped off in turn, marching forward a few paces, then wheeling to the right. In the distance, Luhann made it look like a parade ground maneuver. He distantly heard her voice through the din, using a leather megaphone to yell orders to her troops. Her voice didn't have Cogern's carrying power, but she compensated well.

He considered Luhann his best triumph. The army, the fighting arm of a very male god, was as thinly populated by women as the priestly ranks. He remembered the laughter of his counterparts when he'd accepted her as a cadet. The crisp precision of her troops was all the proof he'd ever need that he hadn't been daft in appointing her to command.

A runner panted up to him. 'Pikemaster Cogern sends 'is respects, sir, and asks if you're ready to close the wings yet? He says he's hanging on by 'is teeth.'

Tregaron gathered his thoughts a moment before answering. 'My compliments to the Pikemaster. Tell him the left has already started. He's to lure them deeper, if he can.' The runner repeated the message and scampered away.

Tregaron had little to do but fret. Victory and defeat looked a lot alike in those moments, while the center remained vulnerable and the flank attack developed. His smaller force was strung out around three-quarters of the compass while a numerically superior enemy held the center. His regiment could be easily shattered and there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

He sent several squads he couldn't afford to give up to back Cogern, who had began a slow retreat in the center. The Hardornens pressed forward, sensing victory. Just when he thought the battle could get no louder, he heard a crash and clatter on the far right. The sounds of fighting there intensified. A slight breeze stirred, moving the thick dust, but not clearing it. Had the Hardornens broken through? Was all lost?

Distant trumpets sounded. The trumpeter beside Tregaron closed his eyes, listening intently to the distant signal. 'First Battle reports: Attacking en echelon, Left Wheel, sir.' Tregaron tried not to whoop with glee.

More trumpets blew, this time on the left. Luhann's entire battle, pikes in hand and its blood up, finished pivoting on its right heel, paused, aligned its ranks, and charged.

They crashed into the disordered Hardornens, crushing one side of the mass and working a fearful slaughter as the cavalry tried to flee. The horse archers, briefly visible though the murk, rushed to seal the trap, covering the opening between the two wings like a lid on a pot.

The bulk of two regiments were trapped. Tregaron knew his own forces were spread much too thin to hold the enemy inside, so it was time to kill as many as they could before the Hardornens broke free.

'Sound General Advance,' he yelled at the remaining trumpeter. The boy nodded, blatted into his horn a few times, then sent the final command in pure ringing notes. The troops on either side of Tregaron advanced, carrying with them their standards and cheering. They smashed the weakening resistance, killing horses and riders with equal abandon.

A portion of the rear regiment cut through the thin screen of horse archers and burst out of the trap. The Hardornens scattered like wind-blown leaves as each rider fled to preserve life and health. A hot gust of wind swept the dust away, giving Tregaron a glimpse of the carnage. The entire field before him was littered with dead and dying horses and soldiers, piled three deep in some places. Hardornens cried for succor in a dozen languages.

He saw, as he walked forward across the torn and bloody field, that the leading regiment had gotten trapped between Cogern's and Luhann's units. Badly weakened by the javelins, robbed of its momentum and best fighters, it was caught in the jaws of an implacable foe. He looked at the trumpeter. 'Play: No Mercy.' The boy looked grim, but complied.

Ancar took no prisoners in Karse and showed no mercy. Now the favor was returned. Luhann gave the final command and Reglauf's regiment vanished under a wall of pikes.

Later, Tregaron walked among the troops laid out in groaning, screaming rows where the regiment's hedge- wizards labored to save as many as they could. He adjusted his turban, his one concession to the heat, while his helmet hung from his belt. Many of the soldiers, busy tidying the battlefield or finishing the wounded Hador-nens, had also removed their helms. Even Cogern, who normally would have blistered the troops for such a lapse, kept his silence. He also, Tregaron noted wryly, kept his helmet.

He glanced back at the wounded. The regiment had suffered three hundred casualties, a twenty-percent loss. It was a light butcher's bill considering the desperate nature of the fight, but still far too heavy. Tregaron took each dead and wounded soldier as a personal failure, his losing Karse's most precious resource.

The Hardornens had lost much worse than he, at least five times his numbers killed, one regiment destroyed, and another scattered. Still, Hardorn recruited the scum of five countries, and such losses were easily made good.

He bent to help one man who begged for water, taking his own canteen and holding it to the man's lips. Tregaron held the man's head while he sipped. He caught a whiff of punctured bowel. This soldier would never recover. His end would be agonizing as his own waste poisoned his body cavity.

'Do you wish mercy?' Tregaron asked, his voice gentle.

The soldier, perhaps only then realizing what he faced, sobbed once and nodded. 'Hagan,' the dying man whispered, 'send Hagan. Third Battle, fifth company. He'll do it.' Tregaron stood and summoned an orderly who sprinted to fetch the man's friend.

Havern waited at the end of the row. He seemed positively cheerful as he looked around at the long rows of gored and wounded soldiers. 'Can I help you?' Tregaron asked, realizing as he looked at the man just how bone tired he felt.

'We'll have the Fires ready within the hour, Colonel,' the Black-robe said.

'Must it happen now?' Tregaron replied.