Ever Faithful
Ruby
FetzenThe Battle of the Sheep’s Bridge
William
The rain had come suddenly and subsided just as quickly, but the fog that followed was so thick a man could barely see the trail before him. A fact William was deeply regretting. The last few days had been ones of great trails of dust and long marches across fields of dead, dry grass. Now, the sweltering heat and the sudden moisture had proved even more blinding than than that.
William bit back a curse and turned to the vague outline of the rider behind him. He signaled him to move forward and the soldier followed William’s lead. The hulking knight turned his warhorse to the right and moved further down the leaf-strewn game trail that snaked it way through the damp woods.
They were perhaps a few hours ahead of the Tyrell host and William, having found himself at loose ends had taken his men to range farther afield. He rode on in silence, turning over the last few days in his mind. Great lords needed constant reminders of the deeds much less the existence of others. Lord Tyrell had been grateful enough and a gracious sort of fellow, but William had expected more.
“When last I saw her lord, she was borne away in the arms of a man I deemed to be of the Baratheons and she still drew breath.” William had said.
Well, there wasn’t much else he could have told the man. Sometimes you played the pieces had on the board, such as they were. Lord Tyrell had no shortage of highborn noblemen and knights to aid him in his campaign. A knight of middling birth and a small holding would be of no consequence. Especially now that word had reached Lord Tyrell’s ears that his daughter, or at least her soldiers were on the move again. William had served his purpose . . . for now.
Over the last few days, William had seen his share of tracks from riders and Tyrell scouts brought back reports of men in the heraldry of the Faith Militant. Bandits roamed the lands and more than once, patrols had found signs of slaughtered travelers . . . or never returned either.
Now, he was one of many such knights and smaller lords who’d been tasked to ride out, scout the land and find Vittoria’s host and presumably the High Marshal herself.
Well, it’s this or languish away on the march, guarding the herd or tasking my men to help dig latrines and such lowly tasks. Could be worse, Lord Tyrell feeds his men regularly. He thought.
William came to a fork in the trail and gently turned his steed to the left. He saw scattered droppings and shrugged under his armor. A deer or a boar would be a nice addition to his evening meal and no doubt, his men would be happy enough with that.
He turned back to voice that thought and bit back another curse. Wispy tendrils of fog roiled through the dense branches and drew back long enough for William to see he was alone. A few moments ride in the opposite direction was enough to show he was on a completely different track and with no other hoofprints but those of his own horse.
The ground and the short, scrubby stretch of forest that covered it seemed largely flat. Though the forest didn’t stand particularly high, the gnarled limbs of the knotted trees were high enough to block the view on every side. Even without the soupy fog, William would have a hard time getting his bearings.
William shrugged after a moment. His men weren’t fools, they would know to look for their lord and then ride back to the camp and seek aid if their efforts were in vain. Later on, he’d have to devise a method to ensure this kind of thing didn’t happen again. As for his own course of action . . . Well, this trail had to lead somewhere.
He rode on, his visor down and the short, broad-bladed spear he’d taken, braced off his leg. He emerged at last from the worst of the fog and saw the faint glimmer of the sun through the leaden sky. William had never imagined he’d miss the hazy heat of the past days, but he’d take it over this.
He spurred his horse across a gently rolling field and in the distance, he could hear the sound of rushing water. He turned and the fog rolled back enough for him to see the dim shape of stone far off. As he drew closer, William nodded. It was a narrow stone bridge, just wide enough a small cart could pass over . . . or a man on a barded warhorse. The creek below it, undoubtedly reduced to a thin trickle, was now swollen to a muddy torrent from last night’s storm.
Hearing hoofbeats, William turned and then lowered his spear as Harlyn drew up before him. The squire had a half dozen men behind him and he raised his gauntleted hand in salute before running it over his blond hair, plastered to his skull by the moisture. He also had William’s warhorse in tow and the two-wheeled cart they’d taken along for supplies. The lad had done well, all things considered.
“I apologize, lord. I turned down the trail and-”
“It’s alright, it happened to me too. Is this all you could find?”
“Yes, lord. I rode up and down this river and couldn’t find anywhere to ford and then I heard your horse in the fog and turned back.”
“It’s alright, lad.” William smiled and clapped his armored hand on Harlyn’s pauldron.
“Here’s what we’ll do. Post the men at this bridge, I have a feeling it may prove important and then you and I will ride back into the woods and beginning tracking down the rest of the-”
It was then that the muggy breeze picked up and the fog slowly parted. First, William saw that the open field was far bigger than he’d first thought. Big enough in fact for a small army to deploy or set camp for the night.
Second, he bit back another curse. On the opposite were scores of men on horses and the shaggy ponies sometimes used by border reavers to the south. Among the oncoming horsemen were the unmistakable outlines of men in full plate, knights. But that wasn’t what caused William’s chagrin. Above the ragged lines of approaching horsemen, the banners of the Faith Militant whipped over their heads.
William’s head whipped back and forth as he took in the land and after a brief, tense moment, he stood in his stirrups and nodded shortly.
“Their scouts must have been as lost as we were.” Harlyn said, his features taut with worry.
“That may be, but that’s not just scouts. It looks like a portion of their advance guard stumbled across this place.” Said William.
The half-dozen Marston soldiers waited silent in their saddles, though William could see the fear in their eyes. Nor could he blame them. After all, they were peasant farmers, stonemasons, smiths and other such things in times of peace. Not men of war like himself.
William thought back to the map Lord Tyrell had shown his commanders at his tent. William had only caught a glimpse, but if he was right, then the flooded creek before him ran north to south. After the rain, this bridge would be the only real crossing point for miles around. It would slow the Faith soldier down, but not by much.
“If they cross, then they’ll have gained more of a march on us than I suspect they already have.” Willaim said.
Harlyn remained silent, knowing his lord was thinking out loud.
“No doubt, they’ll have already sent riders back to their vanguard. The rest of Lord Tyrell’s men are too far off and getting an army in battle order takes hours at best.
“It’s early yet, but the Tyrells are a day and a half away back west . . . if they’re lucky. And if Lord Tyrell’s men can find and then join with his daughter’s host.”
William stood in his stirrups and shook his head. There was a shout from the Faith soldiers and a handful of knights urged their horses onward. Marston still had some time, but the enemy would close the distance and fast. He considered his few, poor options and made a choice.
“Harlyn, the Tyrells are too damn far off to try and hold this. Though it be a fine chokepoint. Even if they ran their men like dogs, they’re be dead tired and still too far off . . . and even if I had all the men I took with me this morning, we’re still too few to try and hold long enough for it to matter.
Harlyn opened his mouth to protest and William raised a hand, a gentle smile gracing his normally grim countenance.
“So, you will take your men and ride due west until you find those horse archers that Lord Tyrell said his daughter has. If their commander is worth a damn, some of them should be riding far enough ahead for you to pass on a message. Say that we cannot hold the crossing but the open ground to the east of this should do as well as any.”
Harlyn nodded shortly. “Yes lord.”
“Good lad,” said William, “once done, you will ride to our north-west, with any luck you’ll find the Lord Tyrell’s men and that should allow for the Lord and this Lady Vittoria to join their armies.”
Harlyn dutifully repeated back all that he’d been told, word for word, as he’d been trained.
“One last thing,” said William.
Harlyn turned in the saddle, “Lord?”
“Leave your warhorse here, give me your lance and take my riding mount.” William was already out of the saddle with a clash of steel.
“Ser, I do not-” Harlyn blinked owlishly.
William grinned wolfishly at his squire. “You ride back and pass the word, the Faith will take this crossing but I need all of the men I have to ride away so that we have every chance of our lord knowing what has happened.”
“I- as you say lord, but . . .” Harlyn had already dismounted and now he waved a hand at the Faith soldiers, still a ways off in the distance.
“Plant my banner and ready that destrier.” William laughed merrily at the thought, as one of his men ran the cart to draw one of the lances lashed atop.
“Milord, you cannot mean to-”
“I can and I do, boy. Go on, I will hold this bridge and what a deed of arms that shall be.”
Harlyn paused, as if hoping his master was making some poor jest but after looking into his lord’s cold eyes, he nodded grimly and ran to aid the other Marston men in readying their lord.
The banner was unfurled and the twin-headed falcon snapped in the muggy breeze as it was planted to the right of the bridge. The remaining lances were leaned up against the bridge, so a man on a horse could easily catch one up. William swung into the saddle of his armored steed and the big stallion snapped its jaws angrily.
“Fear not, my sweet.” William said as he took up his polished shield and rested his lance on his gleaming cuisse.
Harlyn picketed the other warhorse near the bridge and then, with one last glance, rode away at a steady canter. In the space of a few heartbeats, Marson’s squire and six other soldiers had scattered like a flock of sparrows and were over the rising ground to the west. Hopefully, one of them would make it back to tell the Tyrells what was happening. Who knew? Maybe that would allow for the two Tyrell hosts to join and meet the Faith as one. William had to admit that a part of him wanted to see what a force of some six hundred horse archers would do to a bunch of clustered peasant rabble.
He shrugged beneath his armor, no matter. The outcome of that particular gambit was no longer his concern. He spurred his horse forward as the Faith horsemen drew closer. Though the looped sides of the bridge were almost up to his steed’s withers and both horse and master were in full armor, William was relieved to see that none of the lighter cavalry of any of the knights had taken or a heavy crossbow with them.
He was confident enough that his armor would stop a longbow arrow and maybe a even a glancing hit from a large crossbow. However, he had no desire to be shot at while attempting this desperate passage of arms, he’d decided on.
A part of him wondered if perhaps he was a madmen for even thinking of such a thing. But then he reminded himself of the glory he would gain if he succeeded. And why not? The bridge was narrow and he was fell-handed knight, a gentleman of war.
The enemy cavalry drew, perhaps suspecting some sort of trap. By then William had counted perhaps two hundred odd men. An assorted mix of cavalry. Some were squires, hobelars with spears and helms and even a few peasants on mules. But there were a great deal of knights among them. Most wearing something approaching full armor and on horses that were of at least decent quality.
“I am Ser William Marston of Larkwood and I say you cannot pass.” William called out.
A man in a white and blue surcoat raised his visor to reveal portly features and a neat, gray mustache.
“Stand aside, Ser. We are here on the Faith’s business, to cleanse this land of those who would defy the will of the Seven.” The Faith knight roared.
“The business of the Faith? What has the Faith to do with churls such as yourselves? I say you are all gelded curs and the sons of donkeys and whores.” William said with an infuriating grin.
“Allow me, Ser Tyran.” A handsome man with red hair rode past the mustached knight and readied his lance.
William raised his eighteen-foot lance with seemingly effortless ease and then lowered it into place, holding the steel-tipped weapon in place without a hint of movement. If the weight gave him any great discomfort, he didn’t show it.
The red-haired knight drew up and looked back at his companions.
William couldn’t blame him. Even without the bulk of his armor, he was a large man and atop a horse covered in good steel. The wind rippled the blood red caparisons that draped his steed’s armor and William drew back on the reins just enough the dun stallion reared with a shriek of fury, its plate-sized hooves flailing in the air.
And why not? A little showmanship never hurt these things.
The Faith knight lowered his great helm over his fiery hair, took his lance and charged with a wordless cry. William answered with shout of fury, lowered his visor and spurred his mighty destrier forward.
The knights met in clash of metal and screaming warhorses. Their lances shattered in a cloud of wood splinters and their warhammers swept out and over in gleaming arcs. William’s borrowed destrier rose into the air, lashing out at the enemy horse and rider with ironshod hooves.
The red-haired reeled back in the saddle, a split second later. William wrench the brutal spike of his warhammer from the eyeslit of the man’s helm in a gout of crimson. The slain knight shuddered, his body still twitching as it fell over the bridge and into the swirling brown of the turgid river below.
William hurriedly backed his horse, snatched up another lance and then spurred his furious forth to meet another charge. The second challenger went flying from his saddle, blood spewed all down his gorget, from the fist-sized dent in his helm. never to rise again.
A third knight, a man in gold-washed plate, spurred his roan mare into a headlong charge. A charge met by the tip of William’s war lance. The man roared in pain as he slammed back against the cantle of his saddle, his helm arcing away into the river. A needless bit of showmanship but William had shown his skill as much to goad his foes into unthinking fury, as anything else.
The knight’s pale widened in shock as he sat up, fumbling for his sword, just in time for William’s to punch his lance straight the man’s face in a spatter of hot gore.
William raised his lance in a mocking salute and set his horse for another charge. The knights of the Faith drew up and through the narrow field afforded by his helm’s eyeslits, Marston could see scores of the enemy light horses riding north and south along the bank. No doubt trying to find a ford large enough for an army and its baggage train to pass.
Well, hopefully, this desperate ploy of his would buy a little more time. In war, the space of a heartbeat could be the winning or the ruin of a kingdom.
Shame I don’t have one of House Targaryen’s dragons with me right about now. He thought and then grinned wolfishly behind his helm. Ah well, all the more glory for me.
The rest of the Faith knights looked at each other and then surged forward with a roar of fury and William’s mad laughter rose to meet as the lone knight and the Faith cavalry galloped into another headlong clash.
Lady Vittoria
The man, no, boy, that Garin Sands had borne back on his own steed didn’t have long to live. Any of the three great black arrows sprouting from his armor would have been the death of many strong men. Whether by the archer’s skill or poor luck, each of the cursed things had found a gap in the young squire’s plate and punched through the mail rings beneath.
It was still early in the morning and the dawn’s brilliant rays had only just begun to fade across the sun-baked horizon.
Garin leapt from the saddle and hurriedly helped the poor warrior down. The flanks of his restive Sand Steed were splashed with fresh blood, though none was from the horse or the mercenary captain. Vittoria saw a flash of something like pity in Dornishman’s cold eyes and he shook his head as his gaze met hers. With his help, the wounded squire tottered over to where she waited astride her horse.
The boy’s face was chalk white from pain and blood loss. His blond hair was plastered across his skull sweat and he still clutched a broken longsword with what remained of his right hand. Still, the lad knelt before Vittoria’s stirrup, as frothy blood gushed from his mouth and down his breastplate. Harlyn Meller had served his lord, William Marston for two years and had served well. Now, he would not survive more than the space of a few heartbeats.
Between the rasping breaths and agonized gasps of a man whose lungs have been pierced, he gritted out his lord’s message. Word for word. It was a testament to his will and courage that he survived long enough to speak.
For her part, Vittoria leapt from the saddle as soon she saw the boy half-climb, half-fall from Garin’s horse. Harlyn died in her arms, the last shreds of his will giving way and his eyes empty with pain and fear.
His lips worked one last time, speaking silent words to no one there. But Vittoria was sure she caught one thing between pain-filled breaths.
“Momma . . . sorry.”
Harlyn died then. The man he might have been and whatever deeds, good or ill, he might have done, now lost forever. But he passed knowing his duty was fulfilled and that his grim and prideful lord would have been pleased with him.
For a moment, Vittoria sat in the dead grass, holding a lifeless stranger she’d only known for the few heartbeats it took the fallen squire to relay William’s message. Her hair fell in a dark curtain, shielding her face from view. She gently eased the dead youth to the parched earth, covering him with her cloak. When she rose, her face was the picture of icy calm. Whatever she might have felt was buried and she saw Garin nod for a moment. No doubt this wasn't the first time he’d seen such a thing . . . and far worse.
“Captain . . . this boy- this man. He will not have died for nothing.”
“As you say, Lord Commander.” Garin’s voice was just as calm and even as hers.
She swung back into the saddle of the little mare she’d chosen for a riding horse. She stood in her stirrups and glanced back at the small cavalcade behind her. Scores of Garin’s horse archers had ridden far afield or along the myriad of little trails that criss-crossed the scrubby woodlands off the hazy distance, to the north and south of her army.
“Map.” She said.
A map was brought up and smoothed out over the crumbly grass and pinned with rock.
Garin leaned from the saddle, using the butt of his lance to outline their position based on what his own scouts and the fallen Harlyn had told him.
“The boy was one of six, sounds like they ran into enemy scouts on their way back.” He said.
“I see, go on.” Vittoria was only half-focused on the old parchment, her mind racing as she considered the possibilities.
Garin ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as his face twisted into something like embarrassment.
“Their scouts might not be Dothraki, but they're not bad either. No matter which way we slice it, they’ve gained a march on us. This heat and the dust have slowed us down far more than I’d have liked.”
A bitter truth to swallow, but there was nothing she could do to change that.
“Very well, what choices do I have?” Vittoria said.
Garin paused, his face smoothing back into the careful mask of a professional mercenary. No doubt he was wondering how she’d react next.
“Well, Lord Commander. If Harlyn,” he gestured to the now cloak-shrouded body, “was telling the truth and his lord was fool enough to try and hold that bridge. It’ll buy you enough time enough to buy some more.”
Vittoria blinked and raised an eyebrow.
“. . . How so, Captain?”
“Well,” Garin pointed his spear at the map, “by now their scouts will be riding up and down that river, trying to find a ford. Even if you march your men at the double, horse and rider will dead tired and thirsty
“It would been a nice chokepoint, but it’s far enough out of our reach it might as well be on Essos. Even if you took the handful of cavalry we have with us, we’d never hold long enough to matter.”
Vittoria nodded and bit back a curse. She’d been afraid that Garin might tell her exactly what she didn’t wish to hear. But she had her duty and she didn’t pay the Dornishman to lie.
“So time and distance are both against me. I neither troops nor water enough to try and hold long enough for the rest of my men to relieve me . . . and no doubt the Faith Militant would love nothing more than push over the river and destroy the armies of my House in piecemeal fashion.” She said with a wry grimace.
“It’s a bitter drink and one we’ll have to swallow to the dregs.” Garin said.
Vittoria glanced around at the assembled rider and their guarded expressions. Knights, light cavalry from her own lands and the motley soldiers of Essos stood on restless steeds. No doubt all wondering what a woman unlike any they’d ever encountered would do next.
“Well then, I suppose I should be a good commander and ride ahead to see what’s happening.
“Garin, send some of your best riders to get word to my men to change their march to the north.and send scouts that way to find exactly where my father’s army is. We’ll take the rest of what we have here. Then we’ll ride to the bridge and delay the enemy.”
Garin started to say something and Vittoria raised a hand.
“I know what you’re thinking, Captain. But as you say, I need time. A delaying action gives our messengers more time to get to the rest of our forces. That time lets my father unite his troops. The Faith knows we’re here and they know that river crossing will be vital. The time we buy will let our soldiers be formed and still fit to fight by the time those fanatics reach them.”
Garin nodded and barked out orders. Scouts peeled off from the main body, some continuing to screen Vittoria’s troops and others riding west and north to try and bring about the unification of the two Tyrell hosts.
A handful of others brought up a horse and lashed Harlyn’s body to the saddle, taking it back with Vittoria’s personal command to see the slain youth was buried as a knight.
Garin
Garin rode ahead of the column, despite Vittoria’s arguments to the contrary. He had his orders, but it was hard to collect pay from a dead employer after all. So his men rode out in loose formations, sometimes in single file and other times abreast. They kept their weapons down and shrouded in dust to help avoid the sunlight flaring off their blades and alerting any enemies nearby.
Some horsemen would ride forward, always seeking to avoid the crest of low-lying hills before them and then signaling back that the way before them was clear. Bit by bit Garin’s soldiers rode across the empty fields of rocky soil and dead, stubbly grass. All the while the mercenary cavalry kept a wary eye on the short but dense forests to the north and south of the desolate plain.
At last, they came around a low rise in the ground and Garin pulled up. The barren ground before them sloped gently down to the muddy banks of a flooded river. But that wasn’t what held his attention.
A few of his men grunted and some of the Dothraki laughed and began placing bets on the scene below.
“I . . . am I seeing what I think I am?” Vittoria said.
Garin turned to her and then back to the clash at the small, stone bridge below their position.
“If you’re seeing a lone madman playing knight, then yes.”
Vittoria stood in her stirrups and squinted, hand over her eyes and shook her head.
“Well . . . well, he’s very brave or very foolish.”
“Only a madman is that brave.” Garin said.
“That may be, Captain but then, this is an unexpected boon.”
“Mmm,” Garin grunted and then raised an eyebrow as a massive figure of a man, even this distance rode from the ranks of the Faith knights.
“Shall I proceed, then?”
Vittoria smiled grimly, narrowed her eyes upon the bridge, unsheathed her short sword and raked back her spurs. As one, the mercenaries rode down the grassy slope with their Lord Commander.
William
The mossy stones of the bridge were now caked in blood and viscera from slain knights and warhorses, already thickened and black, gore ran in slow trickles from the weathered stone to drip into the surging waters below. The butchered carcasses of dozens of men and horses lined the narrow passage over the bridge. The addition of slain knights and horses also meant the Faith soldiers had to slow their advance every time they tried to close the distance.
Sparks had flown from their blades and the swirling melee was like something from song and tale. But it held the brutality and sheer bestial cruelty that men at war unleash, something often left out of heroic legends.
As for William, he wasn’t even breathing hard. He took up a fresh lance and laughed merrily behind his helm. The Faith knights reigned in their horses and made ready for another charge. He’d chosen his spot well, occasionally an arrow whistled past and on had skipped off his cuirass but so far, he’d nothing to worry about.
The old bridge only let the enemy cross in ones and twos and so it was almost childsplay murdering them. William raised his lance in a taunting salute.
“Tell me,” he roared, “if you serve the Seven then how come they’re letting you die so easily?”
They howled with outrage and started to charge again. But then a knight pushed his gigantic steed through his surging comrades. Despite himself, William felt a stab of fear work its way through his stomach. The man before him was easily seven feet in height if he was an inch. A massive figure of a man on a massive black stallion. His shield and armor were black as midnight. The sun flashed off the wickedly sharp point of the great ash lance he carried like it was a switch.
“Damn.” William heard himself mutter.
The black knight raised his visor to reveal a scowling visage and a beard that came almost up to his brilliant blue eyes.
“I see no true knight before, merely a blasphemous dog, who shall die like one.” The man voice sounded as if came from the bottom of the deepest sea.
“I see you before me and I must confess, I didn’t know men stacked hogshit that high.” William said with far more confidence than he really felt.
What followed was a blur of frenetic violence and truth be told, William could never fully recall exactly what happened. It was as if he was recalling some half-heard recounting of a vague dream. To those on the slope above it looked like a man wrestling a mountain, was the best any of them could describe it.
The black knight raked back his spurs and his furious warhorse charged head on, with a scream of pure fury. William’s destrier, though beginning to tire, raised his proud head and rushed to meet this latest foe.
William’s lance shattered and then the black knight’s slammed in his helm with devastating force. William went nearly prone over the cantle of his high-backed warsaddle, his armored legs flying up in the air. Despite his pain, he scrabbled for his warhammer out of reflex. But the black knight wrenched it from his tremulous grasp with contemptuous ease.
William drew his sword, only to have it caught between the enemy knight’s shield and vambrace and he stared in horror as it was broken with a metallic ring.
Then, the gigantic sword that the Faith knight had hanging from his saddle swept up and over like it weighed as much as feather. William’s horse reared and screamed, its legs kicking futilely, as the noble stallion sagged against the bridge. Blood sprayed in a curtain down the destrier’s armored flank.
William grunted with pain as his leg was pinned against the stone.
Then the elephantine knight grasped William’s helm under the rim and laid his other hand on Marston’s left pauldron. As the horses strained and bit at each other, William’s steed still having some fight left in it, the black knight began to twist. William’s frantic hold on the man’s arm seeming to avail him little.
Marston felt the pain and pressure build to almost indescribable levels. He could hear his horse bugling its rage and from far away, the black knight’s mocking laughter. That more than anything galvanized him to ignore his pain and the colored lights that kept exploding behind his eyes.
He roared with hatred and reached for his dagger. As he expected, his arm was grasped and his wrist twisted. William had expected that, braced himself for that pain and as the bones in his wrist began to give away.
He spurred his mortally wounded steed one last time, in a desperate gambit. If only because William was determined to die fighting, if nothing else. The destrier whinnied and then half-crawled, half-lunged forward with a final beat of its noble heart. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. His leg freed, William kicked free of his stirrups, twisted his body with the black knight’s grip and swung over behind the Faith knight’s saddle.
His neck and shoulders hurt like all hell, but he’d freed himself a heartbeat before the black knight managed to do anything permanent. William ripped his foe’s own dagger from the man’s golden belt and plunged it through the warrior’s left eyeslit with a speed born of desperation.
The black knight ripped free of William’s grasp with a howl of pain and rage, dashing William to the ground in the process. But Marson didn’t fall alone, this time it he who’d gained a hold on the Faith knight’s ebon helm. Both men went flying to the ground with a crash of steel.
Knowing his enemy would never give him another chance, William yanked up on the man’s helm, tearing the chinstrap in his desperate strength. A warrior’s rage clouded his vision but not fully that William didn’t see the loose rock in the bridge railing. A snap kick of his sabatoned foot sent the Faith knight back to the bloody stones, broken teeth spraying everywhere.
William then launched himself, pinning the stunned warrior to the ground. Marston grabbed his enemy by the beard and headbutted him thrice. The black knight’s fell strength was terrible indeed, as he roared with pain and levered himself up off the ground -
Just in time to meet the stone William had grabbed. It smashed the Faith knight’s nose with a wet crunch and then was followed by another blow and another and another.
At one point, the black knight tried to crawl away with a pain-filled whimper. There was no pity or mercy in William’s gaze as he hauled his would-be killer back and mauled him to death with the rock in his clenched first and the spiked gadlings across the knuckles of his gauntlet.
To be sure, William grasped the man’s head and chin and scissored his massive arms in a final, desperate burst of strength. The black knight collapsed, his skull and neck both hopelessly broken.
Marston stood for a moment, wanting nothing more than sob for breath, or perhaps just sob. But his was a heart of iron. He reached, taking the reins of the great black stallion the black knight had ridden to his death and swung into the saddle. A quick glance told him what he’d feared, all his lances were spent.
His gaze swung back to the rest of the milling Faith knights. Judging by their reaction, everything had taken place in the space of a few heartbeats. Though it had certainly felt like all eternity for William, he shuddered beneath his armor, cold fingers of running up and down his spine. Never had he felt so close to death . . . or come so near to being bested.
He took up the ax the black knight had hanging from his saddle, as a backup weapon, and leveled it at the remaining Faith knights. Like a boar turned at bay to a pack of mangy dogs, William prepared to make his stand.
“Rush in and die, dogs. I was a man afore I was a knight.” He ground out.
Vittoria
For the Lord Commander, the scene below was impressive . . . in a brutal and horrific kind of way. The knight holding the bridge, a man bearing the sigil of a twin-headed falcon, had gone up against what looked a mountain clad in iron. For a moment it seemed as if the duel was over before it began but then the smaller knight wrestled the black knight from his saddle . . . and killed the Faith knight with a rock.
She shook her head for a moment. In truth, she wondered if she’d ever understand such men. She’d heard her share of songs and stories, but the reality of knighthood seemed far grimmer. Though, she supposed, if a man grew up accustomed to such things, he might very never question it.
She turned, realizing Garin had asked her something and she shook herself from her reverie.
“Enough of this, Captain, drive the enemy back from that bridge and make them keep their distance for as long as you can.”
Vittoria rode with the banners, as her cavalry descended towards the river like a flock of sparrows in flight. As she drew closer to the bridge, she saw the knight of the twin-headed falcons raise his ax. Opposite, a Faith knight spurred his horse into a furious charge. Despite his restive steed, the falcon knight spurred his horse into a side step at the last possible second and then brought his ax down the Faith knight’s helm with bone-shattering force.
The Faith knight’s helm split in a gout of blood, bone and chunks of brain. The lifeless corpse rode on past, still held upright its saddle, sagging limp as a gutted fish. More enemy knights charged and were met by their lone opponent. Men fell like embers sparking from iron under a smith’s iron. Some collapsed where they died. Others pitched screaming from the saddle, clutching at their deaths. Man and horse alike were bowled over the low sides of the bridge and into the murky stream below. By then Vittoria’s cavalry had reached the muddy bank of the river and for a moment, they shadowed the far side of the river in a hail of arrows.
The Faith knights drew up and more than few of their light cavalry fell from the saddle, clutching at the black-feathered arrows that had claimed their lives. With a shout they turned and galloped away.
For a moment, Vittoria wanted to shout in triumph but she knew that sense of victory was illusory as best. In the distance, just over the low-lying trees and hills to the east, she could see the faintest smudge of dust. The Faith army’s vanguard was not far off and would most likely be able to cross the river and continue marching the next day. And her troops were a day and a half away, if all went well.
Well, she’d have to trade ground for time. As planned.
Vittoria withdrew from her saddle upon the mare and was on the bridge in moments, the steel shadow of Ser Ryam Redwyne behind her within an instant. The half-cloak she wore was green, bordered with gold, and in the sudden breeze of the moment it flew up near enough to Ser Ryam’s face as she nearly stopped, careful in approach.
“Ser William?”
He’d been one of her father’s favorite finds. What happened to Lord Theo when his daughter assembled most of the best knights of the Reach into a small army? Lord Theo got creative and started looking for Knights that needed opportunity. Marston had been one of those Knights, and by Vittoria’s judgment, even before today, the best of them…even if his character as a man of Faith and goodness was still in question to her.
The knight spun his new steed in place, managing the fiery beast like it was a small pup on a lease. She could see his eyes flared wide behind the eyeslits of his dented helm and hear his breath coming in great gasps. The wooden haft of the gore-smeared ax, he clenched in his right hand, creaked under his grip and Vittoria was reminded of nothing so much as a wild beast.
“I am he.”
His speech seemed oddly lurching, disjointed, like someone who’d not seen another human for many years. At that moment Vittoria was reminded of the older songs and legends. Stories of monsters and men that fought with armor and weapons of bronze under a new sun, when the world was young. The killer of men, as such like the one before her, were called.
She’d seen his skill at arms, he could certainly kill, but there seemed to be little of the chivalric graces that a knight was supposed to have alongside his prowess in battle.
He recognized her, and that was enough for her to walk the distance on the bridge between them. If stepping in death bothered her in any way, it didn’t show, as she seemed to navigate to the path between fallen horses and bodies and weapons and the slippery surface of blood-soaked wooden bridge slats with expertise. It was the horse that concerned her most, as she approached calmly, confidently, and spoke gently to the creature. Up upon him she looked, squinting at the sun above as clouds that had offered a mirage of rain earlier had parted too far apart to provide so much as shade now.
She meant to ask him if he could ride, but she knew the type of man—he reminded her of Dennet, save she knew him to have no wife, no children . . . there was no hidden softness to this man. There was just the Knight, the red-handed killer, before her in this moment, even if there had been more to William at other times.
“You’ve given us a chance, Ser, and you shall be rewarded for it…but it’s time to drop your arms, Ser, it’s time to see to your dead, take your rest and make your report to the War Council. We cannot stay here long. Would you please escort me to camp, Ser?”
It was how she’d learned to phrase things to Knights. No favors given, no order commanded, in the hour of blood and violence and death it was better to ask them if they could see their commander to safety, rather than be their High Marshall.
There was a long pause and for a moment, all was silent, aside from the low gasps for air from both horse and rider. From the corner of her eye, Vittoria could see Garin and the subtle shift in his weight, as he carefully lowered his spear. Just enough to avoid provoking the man but so much he couldn’t strike if William tried something.
At last, William nodded and slowly lowered his ax. He reached up with a trembling hand to remove his helm and hung it from his saddle. His high cheekbones and flowing hair might have made for a handsome man, but his eyes . . . his eyes burned with animal fury like the heart of a furnace. Vittoria thought he might have resembled an avatar of the warrior’s wrath but . . . no, that was wrong. This battle-fatigued knight, his armor and tattered surcoat running with spilled blood, he looked like nothing less than a demon of iron and wrath, dredged up from the darkest hell.
“Your pardon, lady but I fear I can only lower my ax. My right hand is cramped so tight I can’t let it go just yet.” He said with something approaching a human tone.
After a whisper of a chuckle, she smiled up at him, “You need no pardon, Ser William, and allow me.” She took the reins of his horse and carefully led the animal and the Knight off the bridge, looking up to find Garin and speaking in the same calm, gentle, tone she’d held since walking onto the bridge in the first place, “Let’s go, Captain. No more surprises today.”
The Battle
The following night bled into the day and for Vittoria it had all run together. Hastily snapped orders, quick glances at maps and lists of supplies, hurried calculations of rates of march and the distances involved. She spent more time in the saddle than she had in the past week.
Garin’s men had held the bridge and then gave ground, feigning a retreat the entire way. In truth, that had brought her more time than she’d dared hope for. By now, the bulk of the Faith forces had to have taken the bridge or found a ford for their baggage train.
And so Vittoria had learned and learned quickly that conducting a retreat was far harder than conducting an attack. Whether it was seeing to her supply trains, considering what her scouts said and seeing to the needs of her men, she had to be in every place and all at once.
She rubbed her tired eyes and tried to ignore the sensation of someone having rubbed hot sand into them. Then her eyelid began to throb and she bit back a curse. The little mare she’d chosen earlier was spent and the Dornish horse she’d borrowed had spirit but seemed intent on testing her at every turn. As if sensing her exhaustion, the stubborn beast crow-hopped in place and she gently reined the gelding’s head to the left, making it turn until it grew tired of the whole business and calmed down.
Garin’s riders cantered past in a column, the scouts having reported that all was clear ahead and more to the point; the news she hadn’t dared hope for.
Vittoria urged her steed on fell in at the head of the column, the early morning sun flashing off spearpoints and armor. She ran a hand over her dusty hair and for a moment, wished for nothing more than long soak in a steaming hot bath and a few nights sleep.
But all that faded and she felt strength surge through her again as she drew on a plateau and saw the Tyrell host arrayed in their serried ranks. It seemed clear that, like her, Lord Tyrell had ridden through the night and he’d accomplished a small miracle.
Some eight thousand knights, light horse, crossbowmen, archers and infantry stood in disciplined lines, all in a formation some seven miles across. For a moment, she had to squint and look again to truly believe it.
It was an impressive enough force to be sure . . . but, where was the rest of the Tyrell host?
Behind the Tyrell formation, she could see the dust clouds of pack animals and the baggage train, no doubt being guided into place by herdsmen and teamsters. Lord Tyrell would have undoubtedly ordered a fortified camp built and now the camp followers and servants would be working like made to maintain in the aftermath of the army’s departure.
She felt a stir of pride at her father’s workmanlike Generalship. Such things, not violent deeds in battle, were what truly mattered. Supply, rates of march, organization, amounts of food and water, these were what kept an army going and what decided who won a war and who bent the knee.
“Damned impressive,” said Garin, gesturing at the soldiers and dust trails from the camp beyond.
Vittoria smiled slightly, “My father is a man who prides himself on his stewardship, to be sure.”
Garin nodded in quiet approval and turned to order his horse archers. The Essosi mercenaries peeled off in columns of two and began riding to the rear of the Tyrell lines, seeking water and fresh horses.
Garin and Vittoria rode with the banner to the rear of the formation. Vittoria nodded pleasantly to each soldier she passed and exchanged greetings with any that she could. She wouldn’t pretend to know the names of every man in her army but she could certainly do her best to be all they expected from a commander.
As they drew close to the Tyrell banners, in the center of the formation, she could see her father and his household knights. Like all the men, they looked as if they’d rested decently enough. More to the point, there were armed servants bringing buckets and dippers of water up and down the ranks. Perhaps her house’s force hadn’t gotten as much sleep as they’d have liked. But Vittoria knew that Lord Tyrell would have ensured every man and beast had food and drink aplenty.
Lord Tyrell stood in his stirrups and waved a gauntleted hand at the hovering cloud of dust that signified the advancing Faith hordes.
“As soon as I realized what you were up to, I conferred with my captains and made up a plan.” He said.
The Lord of the Reach swung down from the saddle and hurriedly sketched things out.
“I believed it best to ensure our enemies knew we had the strength to withstand them so I dispatched the bulk of our forces north and then east towards King’s Landing.”
Vittoria saw Garin’s glance from the corner of her eye and she bit back a curse. For a moment, sorrow and exhaustion warred with her courtly demeanor but at last, she found the strength to bow and force a smile.
“As you say, my Lord.”
Her father beamed and Vittoria suppressed the sigh that rose with all her remaining restraint.
By all that’s holy, my dear naive father really thinks he’s made some great strategic triumph here. Instead, the other two thirds of the army that I need to win today are weeks to the north. And what he thinks those men will accomplish against people that might very well have dragons . . .
She shook herself from that particular reverie. One disaster at a time.
“So then I think perhaps you could enlighten us as your plan for this Faith rabble that took the bridge from you.” Lord Tyrell said.
Vittoria managed to keep her expression neutral. An angry outburst would solve nothing, as cathartic as might be to vent her frustrations, undermining her father would solve nothing. And well, they need to show strength right now.
And how better than to try and win when we’re outnumbered and very possibly outmatched?
The plan Vittoria and her father’s retainers gazed down at looked like a formation that began as a straight line and then slowly flexed inwards to form a rough crescent. As with most things, the logistics, coordination and planning were the truly difficult part of war.
The tactics were usually simple enough that a child could follow along.
“Once our enemy thinks he’s pushed our center in, we’ll fold in his flanks at my signal. I’ve already arranged it and have my men set in place.”
“Yes, excellent, I think it will work. Pity we have no time to rehearse this idea, retreats are tricky things at the best of times.”
Once again, Vittoria nodded carefully. Reminding her father, that her desperate delaying action at the bridge was what permitted their small armies to join, especially in front of his subordinate lords would hardly maintain cohesion . . . or his good will.
“What would you ask of me, father?” She said with a gentle smile.
Lord Tyrell smiled gently. “I will remain here and oversee the outcome of the battle. But I need someone I can trust. Once the enemy has been encircled, I need you to take our cavalry around the rear of the enemy foot, once they’ve taken the bait.
“If you wish to crush them like the pincer of a crab around prey, you’ll be the best choice to oversee it. Most of all, I need you to keep our cavalry in play and not haring off after fleeing enemies or going to pilfer their baggage train.”
Vittoria nodded slowly and blinked at the implications of such an honor. Her father’s logistical planning had laid much of the groundwork for what could be a great victory but now, he was setting aside his pride and giving his daughter the honor of leading the charge that might just decide the day. Lord Tyrell could have been the one to lead his men in battle and gain great glory. But he knew how important it would be to cement her reputation in the eyes of all around her.
Her father would no doubt be recognized for his careful and methodical planning. But Vittoria and the Tyrell cavalry she led would be the ones to crush an enemy force more than twice the size of her own . . . if she survived to see it.
Before she could reply her father turned and his smile remained but there was a hint of caution in it. The way a man might look at at a strong but aggressive destrier he was considering buying.
William Marston had come riding up on the great black horse he’d taken from the man who’d almost killed him the day before. His cold gray eyes were like chips of northern ice and Vittoria noticed that the helm and broken sword of Harlyn, his fallen squire, hung from his saddle. He had said nothing, at least not to her, when he learned of Harlyn’s death. But he had stood vigil for the boy and ordered his late squire buried with a gold-plated knight’s belt and spurs.
Vittoria felt the same instinctive caution as her father. She didn’t exactly fear Marston but where Garin was a man who did what he did because it was what he’d had to do . . . Marston, well, he seemed to enjoy the chaos and carnage. He took to it like a drunk to fine brandy.
He was a creature who belonged in a different age and for a moment, she was surprised to feel a stir of pity for the man. Perhaps dying in battle would be a kindness for one such as him. After all, what in the name of all that was holy, would he ever do in a time of peace?
She forced such thoughts aside and nodded politely to Ser Marston and noted from the corner of her eye that Garin and the newcomer both carefully evaluated each other. In the manner of two feral dogs circling around the same piece of meat.
A part of her, a very small part of her, wished to see them fight and wondered who would come out on top.
“Well my lords,” she forced herself to smile graciously, “you all know the plan, pass the word along, lead your men well, hold true and the victory we gain here will make our house a legend.”
Well, maybe not, but a little embellishment never hurt anything.
I’ve talked a fine game, now to see if I can keep my promises. She swung into the saddle and forced her doubts aside, no time now for human weakness. Battle was the greatest game of them all and there was no second place, you won or you died.
Lords, knights and squires rode away to carry out her biding and Garin was already off in the distance with his banner rippling in the hot wind, already moving his cavalry into formation.
For her part, Vittoria rode up and down the serried ranks of her small army. Eight thousand had already woke, broken fast, armed and began the slow process of marching to the desolate field where they would make their stand.
Led by their banners, the companies slowly marched to their marked positions. From left to right, the men of House Tyrell merged the relatively small squares of their formations. Like a glacier calving ice, the different banners moved out on the field. Shortly before midday, the dust was billowing high, obscuring the view between the Tyrell lines and their camp. The serried ranks seemed thin, almost fragile, compared to what marched from the east. But it would have to do.
Vittoria stood in her stirrups and nodded. The host of the Faith Militant drew nigh, some fifteen thousand men, the best armed and armored at the front. It looked as though the bulk of their cavalry were riding ahead of the infantry. Perhaps they believed they’d break through and then make things easier for their lighter armored footsoldiers? No matter, either way, fifteen thousand men was still a living battering ram against her much smaller army. Still, at least, they’d committed the bulk of their knights to the initial assault.
Vittoria considered ordering a retreat, but she knew such a thing could easily become a rout at the very best of times. So she spurred her little mare forward once again. The Iron Rose rode up and down the line and made the same speech, over and over again until she had returned to her position of command at the center of the Tyrell army.
She’d kept it short and, she hoped, sweet.
“Men of the Reach, look and see what the enemy has dragged to our doorstep.
“I see no army, more like a swarm of rats. So, I say to you, are you as angry as I am? Brothers, these fools have wasted our time and took us from our hearths and families for this dog’s breakfast of a rabble? Let us no more of our day, hold to the plan, listen to the signals and stay with your banner. Do this for and we will break them here and now.”
There was no rousing cheer, merely quiet nods and the last checks of armor and equipment.
Now, the Faith Militant stepped up their speed into a steady trot. Their trumpets blared and they closed the dusty gap between them and the Tyrell ranks. They roared in fury as they moved on, spear and blade clamored against shields and many of them took up a song of war or a chant of their dogma, as they careened towards Vittoria’s men.
As per Vittoria’s orders, the men of House Tyrell raised their shields and lowered their spears in grim silence. Tyrell archers nocked arrows to bowstrings and stepped forward.
At last, the Faith Militant charged with a single roar of bloodlust. Their cavalry in the lead, they speed towards the Tyrell lines with breakneck speed. Though their line was a little ragged in places, as some fell back and others surged ahead, it still struck home with bone-shattering force.
The impact was like the end of the world. Screams, war cries and curses soon rang out over the parched earth and blood spattered into the windswept and the lines clashed and rippled back and forth.
Sunlight flashed off spear points and arrowheads as the two formations fought like two dogs with their locked in each other’s throats. All along the front of the Tyrell battle line, the fight was joined and Vittoria could already see her men slowly giving ground. They fought like gods that day and the Iron Rose thought her heart would burst with pride. They fought, gods knew they fought. The Faith Militant paid in blood for every inch of ground.
Though the initial fury of the Faith knights’ charge was soon followed by their infantry, the Tyrell army held. The entire formation was rocked back from the sheer momentum of the enemy onslaught, but they held. Horse and man foundered and were crushed to the uncaring earth, to lie under the armored boots of friend and foe alike. Vittoria bowed her head and after a moment, she slowly lowered her visor.
She would not, she could not, let them see her weep. What she was doing was necessary but she hoped the souls of the men and those were scarcely more than boys would see she had spent their lives for good cause.
She waited, as the tension built within and she could feel the eyes of the knights and lords of her house on her. She stood in the stirrups and surveyed the carnage with a calm she didn’t feel.
The Faith and Tyrell lines slowly drew apart, by a tacit assent borne of exhaustion. Fresh troops stepped into the front rank and as the Faith knights attempted to extricate themselves from the position they’d become sandwiched in, Vittoria gave silent thanks. No doubt, they’d believed their charge would sweep away her men. And perhaps it might have, if things had gone on a moment longer.
Vittoria nodded and turned to the squire bearing a trumpet on her. “Sound a counter-charge.
“And someone ride to Garin Sands and Marston, tell them ride out now.”
Messengers galloped away and Vittoria watched as the Tyrell infantry surged forward. Gone were the war cries and now there were just the sounds of thousands of desperate breaths, mixing with the clash of steel. Her men were spent and Vittoria knew they wouldn’t last much longer, no matter how much heart they had. Limbs would lose strength in moments, in any fight.
But that quick counter-attack had bought her time and it pinned the Faith knights. They were forced to dismount or ride back through their own lines. Vittoria gave another silent prayer of thanks for her enemy’s impetuousness. Though she’d hardly gambled her success on such a thing, she would take any advantage she could get.
She watched for the battle draw on, for the space of perhaps ten slow heartbeats, the battle rose to a fever pitch and then Vittoria saw what she was waiting for.
Her formation was beginning to give in the center and there, on her left flank, two banners had fallen and the men in those companies were beginning to buckle. But the Faith Militant drew back again.
Well, time to try and use the chaos and fatigue of battle to her advantage.
“As I ordered, sound the signal. The center will retire at a halfstep march and in good order, the left and right flanks are to be reinforced and will hold.”
The trumpets rang out and her messengers rode forth once again. As her cavalry moved out from behind her infantry, the Faith Militant charged back into the fray with renewed vigor. They had seen the Tyrell center giving back and Vittoria remained perfectly still, thankful for her visor and its masking of her true feelings.
For a breathless pause, she wondered if perhaps she’d fumbled the whole thing. But then, the Faith Militant came crashing into the inside curve made by the half-moon shape of her army’s new formation.
Vittoria drew a long breath and watched as her cavalry slowly rode around the flanks of her troops and drew closer to the strung-out rear of the Faith Host.
“Now, order our left and right flanks to turn inward and resume their attack. Do not halt.”
Once again the trumpets rang and her messengers rode out and then back on fresh horses.
Like some giant beast into a jungle tar-pit, the Faith Militant host had let itself be drawn into an encirclement. And now . . . now her cavalry were able to provide the hammer blow.
Vittoria stood in her stirrups once more, raised her mailed hand and brought it down with finality of a judge passing death sentence.
“Now.”
She watched as her small contingent of knights formed into a blunt wedge and there, at their head, was the armored bulk of Ser William Marston. By then, they’d ridden close enough to charge and no doubt, the red-clad knight knew it. The man lifted his lance high in the air and urged the black destrier he’d won into a headlong gallop.
Behind the small wedge of knights, the Essosi horse archers scattered like a flock of starlings and the sky turned with a shower of arrows, as the horsemen loosed so quickly, that it liked the interlacing boughs of a godswood.
Those soldiers to the rear of the Faith Militant turned and died, those around tried to flee and the front ranks lapsed into a confused rabble. Within moments, the Faith soldiers were boxed in. Often so tight, they couldn’t raise their weapons to fight. The victor was now the conquered and the Tyrell army charged into battle with a howl of triumphant fury. They fought with renewed vigor and their foes were like lambs to the slaughter.
Months of preparation and many sleepless nights, all for a battle that scarcely lasted an hour from start to finish. Vittoria forced herself from her musings and watched as Marston’s cavalry charge finished the job. The knights of her house rode boot to boot at a steady gallop. As one, their lances dipped and they tore into the disorganized and fleeing Faith warriors like ravening wolves in a pen full of sheep. Marston led the knights in a headlong gallop that split the Faith mob like a new ax through rotten wood.
Garin Sand’s horse archers feathered enemy infantry with so many arrows, they looked like practice butts at a range. Lances shattered in showers of splinters and Vittoria watched as Marston, wearing his squire’s helm, drew a great black mace from his saddle and laid about with wanton rage.
The song of battle reached her ears as the knights sang with the joy of battle. The Tyrell footmen took up the harsh war-hymn as well and they marched in step, echoing the ancient lines of a song men said came from Ghis but was probably far older. The Paen echoed over the dusty fields and the battle became a slaughter.
By the end, it was sheer butchery and though Vittoria did her best, the Essossi and the Dothraki among them were not known for mercy.
Few prisoners were and even fewer of the Faith Militant escaped from that carnage. Vittoria’s formation had pinned them like the jaws of a bear trap. Of the few that did manage to break, most were hunted to a man by vengeful horse archers. Of the Faith knights who’d ridden out to give battle, not one survived and their horses and armor were looted almost immediately.
Nonetheless, Vittoria did her best. Garin’s men had obeyed their commander and reformed. Now, a small detachment of them raced to pursue any survivors. She’d given orders to take prisoner any men who surrendered. But she had no illusions about how closely her mercenaries would obey her, once out of sight. Another detachment of cavalry and some of her own knights galloped away to retake the bridge and secure the Faith camp.
That done, she rode up and down the lines with the knights of her household and gave orders. To all there, she seemed serene. She leaned down from the saddle and spoke to her men. More than once she dismounted to help an exhausted or wounded man on his feet.
As she’d ridden back to her place in the battle line, she’d seen Marston dismount and kneel beside a fallen knight. The youth was scarcely more than a squire, no doubt knighted shortly before the battle. His tattered surcoat bore diagonal lines of green and white. His legs were twisted under his armor and he was pinned by the gutted bulk of his slain warhorse.
Vittoria knew instantly that the poor youth’s death was a matter of moments and it couldn’t come too soon.
The young knight’s breath came whistling out and he coughed blood down his dented gorget.
“P-papa.” He burbled.
Vittoria started to swing down from her saddle but halted as Marston gently clasped the dying youth’s hand.
“I’m here, lad.” Marston’s eyes full of . . . sorrow? Could a man such as he truly feel such a thing?
Vittoria wasn’t sure. But for a moment, she was certain she’d caught a glimpse of the man Marston might have been. Perhaps could still be.
“Papa, it hurts.” The dying knight sobbed as his lungs slowly collapsed.
Marston, continuing on his charade of father to a dying stranger, drew his dagger.
“Close your eyes, lad. It’ll be better soon.” William said.
The knight drew another shuddering breath and slowly closed his eyes.
“Good night.” Marston said softly.
“Good night, Papa.”
Marston opened the fallen knight’s neck with blinding speed.
He stood and met Vittoria’s eyes, his expression unreadable. At last, she turned away and wondered a little bit if she wasn't more like the ruthless killer than she dared think. But she forced herself to think past that bit of lethal mercy, she’d seen and turned back to the many tasks at hand.
Little by little, her infantry reformed the line and drew back from the field of slaughter before them. Already, the piled corpses were shrouded in flies and the vultures were descending. Camp followers strode out to loot for their men, carry the wounded and help drag away the dead for burial, the summer heat would only help in the spread of disease.
Her cavalry were remounted, her infantry reformed and given food and water. Vittoria nodded to herself, once she’d ridden back to the banners, in the center of her host.
Her scouts had already ridden back, saying another host was drawing near. Some thought they might be men of the north. Well, whatever might come, she was as ready as she could be. Nothing besides a retreat was more chaotic than the aftermath of a victory, but she’d managed to ride out the chaos. Her men had been promised that the loot of the Faith camp would be divided evenly and that they’d be paid. Now they waited, formed in deeper ranks than before, the banners rippling listlessly overhead in the hot northern breeze.
They’d won today. It had hung on a knife’s edge, but Vittoria Tyrell had fought and won a great victory.
No doubt I’ll truly grasp what that means later on. Mostly I feel . . . empty. She thought.
