"Have the soldiers move closer together!"
Gerald Matheson had been a soldier almost his entire life. For more than twenty years he had served his country, mostly in the Northern Wars. Now, he was here, on the street, being told by an untried officer how to conduct his men.
"Yes, my lord!" he replied back.
He knew there was no use in arguing, so he gave the command and the soldiers moved together. After carrying out the manoeuvre, they did not entirely cover the width of the street, leaving their flanks exposed. Gerald had thought of forming a single line, but a shield wall needed men in a second rank to help support it. Here he was with only twenty men, stretched across the road in a sparse double line. A company was fifty soldiers on paper, but the realities were far different here in the capital. With the crown holding the purse strings, most were lucky to have thirty men. On top of that, with sick and wounded, his company could barely scrape together twenty at any one time. He looked up at the officer and knew that Lord Walters failed to grasp the danger of their situation.
He glanced over at the far end of the line and immediately realized it was sloppy. He cursed under his breath, now he would have to walk over there to see to it himself. He wondered if he should take his numbleaf, but decided against it; better to be in discomfort and alert than to have his senses dulled. With the first step forward, his leg threatened to buckle as the unwelcome, but familiar shooting pain returned. He stopped to catch his breath as he examined the line, trying to hide his weakness. His hand instinctively sought out his belt pouch, and he withdrew a small, pale green leaf. The line was still facing forward; no one was watching him. He looked at the small leaf in his hand and was overcome with guilt knowing that each one cost him dearly. The bulk of his pay funded the relief he now sought. He was tempted to put it away, but he knew he would welcome the relief the leaf would bring. He popped it in his mouth, looking around conspiratorially, lest anyone see his actions.
He quickly chewed the leaf, and as soon as the skin was broken, he felt the effects. The slightly minty taste enveloped his mouth and then the blessed numbness soaked into his limbs. His leg no longer pained him, but he knew his senses were dulled. He cursed the Norland blade that had wreaked so much damage. Looking back toward the line, he saw that Henderson was still out of place, and he began moving again, hobbling down the line to stand behind the man.
“Henderson,” he said, “move forward, you're in a battle line, not a brothel.”
The man moved forward, and the sergeant stared at him a moment.
“Where’s your helmet man?” he yelled.
Henderson looked back at him and blushed, “Left it in the brothel, Sergeant.”
The soldiers around him laughed at the joke. The man had likely sold it for some coins to buy drink, but now the mistake could very well cost him his life. The laughter died down. They were good men, but inexperienced in combat, and he wondered, not for the first time today, if they would do their duty. He knew they were nervous; he must keep them occupied so they wouldn’t focus on their fears.
In an undertone, he uttered, "All right lads, when you see the mob, I want you to spread out to your left. Never mind what his lordship says."
The muttered response indicated they understood. He casually strolled over to the other end of the line and repeated the same command. Confident that everything was taken care of, he marched back to the captain and stood beside him. The officer’s horse, already skittish, shied away from him, while the rider tried to maintain control over his mount.
"It’s cursed hot out here today Sergeant!" his lordship exclaimed, trying to sound calm.
"Yes, my lord," he answered.
The officer was nervous; he was trying too hard to appear nonchalant. For a captain who barely spoke to his social inferiors, he was positively chatty. Gerald had stood with officers behind a line before. Lord Fitzwilliam of Bodden had an easygoing attitude toward his men. His capacity to entrust his sergeants to carry out orders had inspired their loyalty, but that was the frontier. Here, in the cesspit of the kingdom, the quality of officers was limited to those who spent most of their time socializing with the elite rather than training.
He stood still and waited as the sun grew hotter. Noon was approaching, and his right leg began to ache again. Had the numbleaf worn off already? Each time he sought relief with the remedy, it was less effective, and now he could barely get a morning out of a single leaf. He hobbled back and forth behind the men to try to hide his unease, knowing the pain would return shortly. He had reached the end of the line and turned, beginning to retrace his steps when he heard a noise in the distance. He stopped to listen; a dull roar echoed through the streets.
"Shields!" he yelled as he made his way back to the captain. "They're approaching, my lord!"
"Steady men," the officer yelled, rather unnecessarily. The soldiers stood at the ready, shields to the front, swords held up, braced to receive the enemy. Gerald would have hoped to form a proper shield wall with their shields interlocked, but the men here had no such training.
Two blocks down, a swarm of people rounded the corner. They strode confidently, brandishing clubs, daggers, and even broken bottles. There were old men, young men, women, even children in the crowd yelling and screaming. When they saw the soldiers lined up across the street, it was as if a tidal wave
