Страница 117 из 165
He paused before a man once known as Gallis the Climber, now Sergeant Gallis of the Third Company. Gallis greeted him with a smart salute. “Milord!”
“You need a shave, sergeant.”
Gallis gri
Vaelin glanced over his shoulder, darkness still shrouded the landscape but the thunder grew ever louder. “Indeed, sergeant.”
“Hope they’re easier to kill than the Lonak.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
He moved to the rear where Janril Norin was waiting with Spit, holding his reins with nervous hands and keeping as far away as possible from his infamously vicious teeth. Spit snorted as Vaelin approached, allowing him to mount without the usual shudder of a
Reined in nearby were fifty mounted men of the scout troop, at their head a muscular young brother with lean, handsome features and bright blue eyes. Seeing Vaelin, Frentis gave a tight smile and raised a hand in greeting. Vaelin nodded back, pushing away rush of guilt. I should have contrived to spare him this. But there had been no way to keep Frentis in the Realm, a newly confirmed brother with already renowned skills made too fine an addition to the regiment.
Janril Noren quickly mounted his own horse and reined in alongside. “Signal prepare for cavalry,” Vaelin told him. The call quickly rang out, three short blasts of the bugle followed by one long peel. There was a ripple in the ranks as the men fumbled for the caltrops they wore at their belts. It had been Caenis’s idea, back when the Lonak had taken to charging the regiment’s patrols on their sturdy ponies. The caltrops had worked remarkably well, so well the Lonak abandoned their tactic, but would it work now against these Alpirans?
Out in the gloom the thunder stopped. Vaelin could see them now, barely visible in the pre-dawn light, a long line of mounted men, horse’s breath steaming in the cool air amidst the flicker of bared sabres and lance points. A quick calculation of their numbers did little to lighten his mood.
“Must be well over a thousand, my lord,” Janril said, his strong melodious voice showing the strain of the wait. He had proved himself a brave soldier many times in the past four years, but the wait before the killing could u
“Closer to two,” Vaelin grunted. “And that’s just what we can see.” Two thousand or more trained cavalry against twelve hundred infantry. The odds were not good. Vaelin glanced over his shoulder at the dunes, hoping the spear-points of the Realm Guard would suddenly rise above the sand. The riders he had sent to the Battle Lord must have reached him by now, although he had doubts about Al Hestian’s kee
The line of Alpiran horsemen paused, shimmering in the gloom as they dressed their ranks in preparation for the charge. A lone voice could be heard shouting orders or encouragement, answered by the horsemen as they roared out a single word in unison: “SHALMASH!”
“It means victory, my lord,” Janril said, sweat shining on his upper lip. “Shalmash. Met a few Alpirans in my time.”
“Good to know, sergeant.”
The Alpirans were moving now, at the trot at first then increasing the pace to a canter, three lines coming on in good order, each man garbed in chain-mail, spiked helms and white cloaks. Their discipline was impressive, not a rider was out of place and their lines moved forward at a precisely observed pace. Vaelin had rarely seen it done better, even the King’s Mounted Guard would have been pressed to match the feat away from the parade ground. When they had closed to within two hundred paces a fresh tumult of shouts and bugle calls sounded and they surged into the charge, lances levelled, each rider hunched forward, spurring their mounts onward, the precision of their lines fragmenting, becoming a mass of horse flesh and steel, thundering towards the regiment like a giant mailed fist.
There was no need for further orders, the Wolfru
On the dunes behind, Dentos judged the time right and unleashed his archers. Over the years the company of bowmen had grown to two hundred men, slow-loading crossbows long since abandoned for the Order’s strongbow. Skilled and practiced veterans, they took down at least fifty riders with the first volley before commencing their arrow-storm, drawing and loosing as fast as they could. The Alpiran’s charge stalled and then stopped under the relentless rain of arrows, the three proud lines now a confused jumble of wavering lances and rearing riders.
Vaelin nodded to Janril once more and the bugler sounded the three long blasts that signalled the charge of the whole regiment. A shout rose from the ranks and all four companies surged forward at the run, pole-axes raised to stab at the riders, many dropping their lances to draw sabres in the press of the fight, clashing steel adding to the din of the battle. Vaelin could see Barkus in the thick of the struggle, his hateful two-bladed axe rising and falling amidst the chaos, cutting down men and horses alike. Over on the left Caenis had led his company in an oblique charge against the edge of the Alpiran line, hedging them in and preventing a manoeuvre around the regiment’s flank.
Vaelin watched with a practiced eye as the two sides thrashed at each other, waiting for the inevitable moment of crisis when the tide of battle would turn in favour of friend or foe. He had seen it happen many times now, men would assail each other with seemingly boundless ferocity then abruptly turn and flee, as if some primal instinct warned them of impending defeat. Seeing the way the white-cloaked Alpiran cavalry continued to hack at the Wolfru