The foremost regiment stopped and began to spread out about a half-mile from the water. Other columns began to spill from the road, forming battle lines across the valley. There was nothing clever about the plan, as far as she could see.
But they had the numbers. They didn’t need to be clever.
“The Talinese have arrived,” murmured Rogont, pointlessly.
Orso’s army. Men she’d fought alongside this time last year, led to victory at Sweet Pines. Men Ganmark had led until Stolicus fell on him. Men Foscar was leading now. That eager young lad with the fluff moustache who’d laughed with Benna in the gardens of Fontezarmo. That eager young lad she’d sworn to kill. She chewed her lip as she moved the eyeglass across the dusty front ranks, more men and more flooding over the hill behind them.
“Regiments from Etrisani and Cesale on their right wing, some Baolish on their left.” Ragged-marching men in fur and heavy chain mail, savage fighters from the hills and the mountains in the far east of Styria.
“The great majority of Duke Orso’s regular troops. But where, oh where, are your comrades of the Thousand Swords?”
Monza nodded up towards Menzes Hill, a green lump speckled with olive groves above the upper ford. “I’d bet my life they’re there, behind the brow. Foscar will cross the lower ford in strength and give you no choice but to meet him head on. Once you’re committed, the Thousand Swords will cross the upper ford unopposed and take you in the flank.”
“Very likely. What would be your advice?”
“You should’ve turned up to Sweet Pines on time. Or Musselia. Or the High Bank.”
“Alas, I was late for those battles then. I am extremely late for them now.”
“You should have attacked long before this. Taken a gamble as they marched down the Imperial road from Puranti.” Monza frowned at the valley, the great number of soldiers on both sides of the river. “You have the smaller force.”
“But the better position.”
“To get it you gave up the initiative. Lost your chance at surprise. Trapped yourself. The general with the smallest numbers is well advised to stay always on the offensive.”
“Stolicus, is it? I never had you down for book learning.”
“I know my business, Rogont, books and all.”
“My epic thanks to you and your friend Stolicus for explaining my failures. Perhaps one of you might furnish an opinion on how I might now achieve success?”
Monza let her eyes move over the landscape, judging the angles of the slopes, the distances from Menzes Hill to the upper ford, from the upper to the lower, from the striped walls of the city to the river. The position seemed better than it was. Rogont had too much ground to cover and not enough men for the job.
“All you can do now is the obvious. Hit the Talinese with all your archers as they cross, then all your foot as soon as their front ranks touch dry land. Keep the cavalry here to at least hold up the Thousand Swords when they show. Hope to break Foscar quickly, while his feet are in the river, then turn to the mercenaries. They won’t stick if they see the game’s against them. But breaking Foscar…” She watched the great body of men forming up into lines as wide as the wide ford, more columns belching from the Imperial road to join them. “If Orso thought you had a chance at it he’d have picked a commander more experienced and less valuable. Foscar’s got more than twice your numbers on his own, and all he has to do is hold you.” She peered up the slope. The Gurkish priests sat observing the battle not far from the Styrian ladies, their white robes bright in the sunlight, their dark faces grim. “If the Prophet sent you a miracle, now might be the time.”
“Alas, he sent only money. And kind words.”
Monza snorted. “You’ll need more than kind words to win today.”
“ We’ll need,” he corrected, “since you fight beside me. Why do you fight beside me, by the way?”
Because she was too tired and too sick to fight alone anymore. “Seems I can’t resist pretty men in lots of trouble. When you held all the cards I fought for Orso. Now look at me.”
“Now look at us both.” He took in a long breath, and gave a happy sigh.
“What the hell are you so pleased about?”
“Would you rather I despaired?” Rogont grinned at her, handsome and doomed. Maybe the two went together. “If the truth be known, I’m relieved the waiting is over, whatever odds we face. Those of us who carry great responsibilities must learn patience, but I have never had much taste for it.”
“That’s not your reputation.”
“People are more complicated than their reputations, General Murcatto. You should know that. We will settle our business here, today. No more delays.” He twitched his horse away to confer with one of his aides, and left Monza slumped in her saddle, arms limp across the bow, frowning up towards Menzes Hill.
She wondered if Nicomo Cosca was up there, squinting towards them through his eyeglass.
Cosca squinted through his eyeglass towards the mass of soldiery on the far side of the river. The enemy, though he held no personal rancour towards them. The battlefield was no place for rancour. Blue flags carrying the white tower of Ospria fluttered above them, but one larger than the others, edged with gold. The standard of the Duke of Delay himself. Horsemen were scattered about it, a group of ladies too, by the look of things, ridden out to watch the battle, all in their best. Cosca fancied he could even see some Gurkish priests, though he could not imagine what their interest might be. He wondered idly whether Monzcarro Murcatto was there. The notion of her sitting side-saddle in floating silks fit for a coronation gave him a brief moment of amusement. The battlefield was most definitely a place for amusement. He lowered his eyeglass, took a swig from his flask and happily closed his eyes, feeling the sun flicker through the branches of the old olive trees.
“Well?” came Andiche’s rough voice.
“What? Oh, you know. Still forming up.”
“Rigrat sends word the Talinese are beginning their attack.”
“Ah! So they are.” Cosca sat forwards, training his eyeglass on the ridge to his right. The front ranks of Foscar’s foot were close to the river now, spread out across the flower-dotted sward in orderly lines, the hard dirt of the Imperial road invisible beneath that mass of men. He could faintly hear the tramping of their feet, the disembodied calls of their officers, the regular thump, thump of their drums floating on the warm air, and he waved one hand gently back and forth in time. “Quite the spectacle of military splendour!”
He moved his round window on the world down the road to the glittering, slow-flowing water, across it to the far bank and up the slope. The Osprian regiments were deploying to meet them, perhaps a hundred strides above the river. Archers had formed a long line behind them on higher ground, kneeling, making ready their bows. “Do you know, Andiche… I have a feeling we will shortly witness some bloodshed. Order the men forwards, up behind us here. Fifty strides, perhaps, beyond the brow of the hill.”
“But… they’ll be seen. We’ll lose the surprise-”
“Shit on the surprise. Let them see the battle, and let the battle see them. Give them a taste for it.”
“But General-”
“Give the orders, man. Don’t fuss.”
Andiche turned away, frowning, and beckoned over one of his sergeants. Cosca settled back with a satisfied sigh, stretched his legs out and crossed one highly polished boot over the other. Good boots. How long had it been since he’d last worn good boots? The front rank of Foscar’s men were in the river. Wading forwards with grim determination, no doubt, up to their knees in cold water, looking without relish at the considerable body of soldiers drawn up in good order on the high ground to their front. Waiting for the arrows to start falling. Waiting for the charge to come. An unenviable task, forcing that ford. He had to admit to being damn pleased he had talked his way clear of it.
He raised Morveer’s flask and wet his lips, just a little.
Shivers heard the faint cries of the orders, the rattling rush of a few hundred shafts loosed together. The first volley went up from Rogont’s archers, black splinters drifting, and rained down on the Talinese as they waded on
