Blood in the Water by Juliet E. McKenna Page B

already moved to hold the ground left unguarded by the Red Hounds’ intemperate advance.
    The Red Hounds had very nearly closed with the Longshanks. Only Evord’s mounted mercenaries weren’t waiting in reserve on that side of the battlefield. They were charging right into the Red Hounds’ flank. Even above the din, Tathrin heard screams of agony cut short by merciless swords.
    As the Red Hounds stumbled backwards, the riders wheeled away. Tathrin recalled Captain-General Evord insisting that this time the mounted mercenaries stay horsed as long as they possibly could.
    Now the Longshanks charged forwards, more banners following. Evord’s left-hand regiment cut through the scattered Red Hounds to lay into the other Carluse mercenary companies opposite across the grassy ride. Carluse’s archers gave up their volleys. The risk of killing their own men was just too great.
    The rebellion’s archers had no such problems, still raining lethal shafts down on Duke Garnot’s waiting regiments. In the centre Juxon’s Raiders now led a steady advance, all the following banners still in disciplined ranks.
    Tathrin wondered who Juxon had been. Now the company was led by a disconcertingly handsome woman called Jifelle.
    “Here they come.” Evord’s satisfaction was tinged with something Tathrin couldn’t identify. Sorrow? Regret?
    Duke Garnot’s army was advancing, unwilling to endure any more of the rebellion’s arrows. Counting their standards, Tathrin tried to guess at their numbers. More than three thousand? Then Carluse had as many foot soldiers as Evord and the militia were armed with halberds. Could the polearms’ greater reach give the Carluse men a decisive advantage over more experienced swordsmen?
    Battle was now well and truly joined between the rebellion’s mercenaries and the Carluse militia in the centre. Carluse’s men were learning that their halberds only served them as long as they kept the enemy beyond the point of the vicious blade. As the mercenaries dodged and stepped inside the flailing poles, their swords ripped into leather and flesh.
    Meaningless insults taunted foes who couldn’t hear, intent on their own killing and survival. Banners swayed and shifted, warriors gathering around them before charging shoulder to shoulder. As the slaughter ebbed and flowed, voids came and went, briefly revealing trampled grass stained with blood, corpses motionless among fallen weapons and severed limbs, the wounded writhing.
    A gust of wind swept up the stink of slaughter. Tathrin gagged on the acrid mix of blood and sweat, piss and shit, crushed greenery and churned-up mud. Then the breeze shifted and all he smelled was spicy gorse. Where did that come from?
    “Those bastard Spearmen need a kick up their arses.” The Tallyman glowered at the right flank of the rebellion’s army. “Shall I ride to warn the captain of Nyer’s?”
    Tathrin saw a green standard with a broken spear retreating. Captain Vendist had formed his new company only that spring, Gren had said, and the other captains were trading wagers on how long his standard would fly.
    “Hold your ground,” Evord told the Tallyman.
    It was too late to warn Nyer’s Watchmen. Tathrin saw their blazon, a grey tower on a black flag, forced back, lest they get cut off. He caught his breath. The Wyvern Hunters’ creamy flag with its black-winged beast came up behind the Spearmen.
    “Captain-General!” A galloper hurried up, his horse tossing its head. “Your orders for the reserve on the right?”
    The anxious man pointed at Duke Garnot’s horsemen. They were moving slowly down from the ridge. Tathrin looked at the wavering line below, then glanced back over his shoulder and his apprehension turned to sick certainty. Evord’s reserve was too far away.
    If Duke Garnot’s riders charged into battle, they would hit the Spearmen before the rebellion’s reserve could reach them. If Evord’s mounted force moved first, trying to reach the mêlée to