No other general would so prepare their steed for close combat, but this was how Roper’s men had come to know him. This was the Black Lord, wiser than his years and with an unexpected flair for command. He had killed an elite legionary in single combat when the man had tried to assassinate him. He had marauded alone into a mist-smothered enemy encampment with little more than a horse and an iron nerve. He had devastated the Suthern forces by the sea. This was their leader, Roper Kynortasson.
At his back was a full legion of heroes. Pryce the Wild. Hartvig Uxison. Gray Konrathson. Uvoren the Mighty. Leon Kaldison. Vigtyr the Quick. Legionaries who, in any other age, would have stood peerless in the recognition of their skill-at-arms and their courage. And, as Gray had said, the hardest, most cussed army that had ever been at the Black Kingdom’s disposal. Most were veterans of dozens of battles: the distilled few who had outlived their brothers through skill and serendipity. Those who were new to the battle line were products of a system of duty and education that commanded their allegiance from birth.
The drummers pounded relentlessly as they marshalled on the Altar. They seemed to draw a response from the clouds overhead as the first peal of thunder rolled across the field. Roper was at the centre of the line beneath a fluttering Wolf. The legates, winged and brooding, were gathered around him on horseback along with Uvoren, Gray and several aides. Helmec, having been banished from the Guard and therefore unattached to any fighting unit, stayed with Roper as well. The Black Lord squinted at the Suthern ranks, suspicious that his eyes were not as good as some of the others’ there.
“It looks as though they’re almost entirely pikemen,” he said. “With a core of dismounted knights in the centre.”
“Skirmishers in front. Longbowmen behind,” observed Tekoa.
“That’s why Bellamus wanted us here,” said Gray. “We’ll have to take on these pikemen head on: we can’t possibly out-flank them.” Gray paused. “So what’s he done with that cavalry?” he murmured, almost to himself.
Roper shook his head and gestured to an aide. “Have all our arrows brought up from the baggage train, as fast as you are able. Ensure an equal number is distributed to each legion.” The aide tore off. “We’re going to stand off for as long as possible,” Roper told the assembled legates. “Bombard them with arrows to thin out the pikes. We do not want to engage pikemen head on unless we’ve softened them up first.”
Something tinkled off Roper’s armour. Looking down, he saw a hailstone the size of a pea cradled in the gap between his greave and his arm. “We’re about to lose visibility, lord,” advised Tekoa.
Roper nodded. “Peers, if you cannot hear the trumpeter, then command of your legion is purely yours until you hear from me. Hold the line; on this battlefield, much will depend on maintaining a disciplined formation. Skallagrim? Your lads to stay in reserve until they’re required.”
“Yes, lord,” said Skallagrim, a touch irritable at being held back.
“Tekoa? The Skiritai are to make a bloody nuisance of themselves out front as best you see fit. Make sure their skirmishers don’t bother us, enrage their pikemen and then withdraw between Ramnea’s Own and the Saltcoats in the centre before the battle line joins.”
“I will, my lord,” Tekoa promised.
“I will be in the centre, with the Guard and Ramnea’s Own. After the bombardment, we’re going to take it to the knights and will need your support on the flanks.” Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Hail was beginning to bounce off Roper’s helmet. “Peers; to your legions. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed, my Lord Roper!” boomed Tekoa. He dragged his horse around and raised a clenched fist in salute to the other legates. They cheered and turned for their own legions. A peal rang out from the trumpets; each made from a human femur and calculated to appal their Suthern opponents. The call aggravated the drumming and a shocking flash of light illuminated the battlefield, followed a second later by a crack so mighty that Roper could feel it as a physical change in air pressure. The hail intensified and a grey haze began to obscure the Suthern forces.
“This is like fighting in heaven,” murmured Roper. As he spoke, a forked bolt struck the ground between the two armies. “Uvoren,” he said, staring hard at the captain. He would be staying nearby as the Guard were in the centre with Roper. “I’m looking forward very much to seeing Marrow- Hunter in action.”
Uvoren rode close to Roper and held out his hand. Roper, a little surprised, grasped it. “Today, Lord Roper, you’ll see how much it hurt to stay in the Hindrunn. Those knights are mine.”
“Let’s get started,” said Gray. Roper gestured behind him to the trumpeter who blew out three long notes: Advance!
The drumming changed, unifying into a single beat that rippled along the line. The legionaries, usually so silent and professional, cheered as they began to advance. The visibility decreased drastically as the freezing hail intensified, so that now they could barely see twenty yards. Roper was grateful for his armour; the deluge felt like a physical weight pressing down on his head and shoulders, and he had to work hard to keep Zephyr under control as the destrier snorted and bucked irritably. He beckoned to one of the aides behind him. “Go after Tekoa,” he shouted over the roar of the hail and another rumble of thunder. “Tell him that I’ll need the Skiritai to tell us how far away the enemy are.”
The aide nodded and spurred away, using the battle line
