The Blackswords is a serial set in The Inner World, following the misadventures of the eponymous mercenary company. In Marching the company is on their way to a new engagement, when trouble finds them on the road.
Read S1:E6 ‘Counting Coins’ here.
Content warning: threat/peril, language
Marching
It was a fine day, with a breeze to cool the sun’s fire, and Falcon’s new horse felt good between his knees. She was a destrier, taller than the horses he was used to, but he’d almost think her an ambler, so comfortable was her walk. To buy her, and all the other gear he needed to call himself a Blacksword, had taken all his gold, and a marker for twice as much again. He hoped this business paid well.
The road wound through pleasant country, terraced hills where cereals and vegetables grew in strips among almonds, olives, peaches, and other trees, dotted with beehives and windmills, frequented by half-wild goats and pigs. The people looked fearful, this close to the border with Elkhora. War was not likely, but local politics in that barony of fanatics often sent groups of religious lunatics streaming across the border to prove their piety. They did not practice gentleness or mercy.
A large round shield hung from his saddle, marked with the Blackswords’ badge. There was also a bow, but as yet, no lance. There had not been time to begin his training as a lancer—they had been in need of sergeants to marshal the foot they were marching up to the barony of Levos. Falcon was lucky that things had gone so badly for the company in Dorna, or he would have been among those trudging in the dust with a pike and a third-hand leather gambeson.
‘That’s it, me boys,’ he called. ‘Only a couple more watches till you get your ale.’
They’d been on the march now for more than half a moon. Falcon knew there was a lot he didn’t know about soldiering, but the difficulties of simply marching had been a great surprise to him. After the first day he understood why his fellow Blackswords spent so much time complaining that they’d be having to travel with foot soldiers. There was a tangle of tasks to perform before they could set off in the morning or camp for the night. If things were to take place in a timely manner, all of them had to be performed with the utmost precision—and they rarely were. He had imagined that his training as a sergeant would be largely about fighting, but very little of it was. Instead, he had learned how to get a bunch of novice soldiers to make breakfast when all they could think of was another watch of sleep.
He heard hooves behind him, coming at a canter, and turned in his saddle. He recognised Amintir, a Shinsi archer who served as a scout, one of two fighting women in the company. He had seen her not long before, cantering the other way. She looked serious, but her expression had been the same every time he’d seen her. He greeted her.
‘Come away,’ she said, gesturing to higher ground on the right of the road. Falcon followed her, until she stopped in the shade of a sweet chestnut. His men kept marching.
‘What’s afoot, me bully?’ he enquired.
’Trouble’s afoot, Falcon.’
Amintir was one of the most reserved and controlled people Falcon had met. It was impossible to read her, by voice or face. It would be easy to assume she thought him a fool from her manner of speech, but she spoke that way to everyone.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Elkhori hipparchs, fifty or sixty of them, riding in close order towards the border.’
‘Understood. I’m new at this, so bear with me. We’re in Minessor, and Elkhora is not at war with Minessor, so…’
‘Nor is Levos, but we’re on our way there to fight in the not-war that they’re not having with Elkhora. The Elkhori are insane, they won’t care about coming into Minnesorid territory to wipe us out. And their hipparchs are fearsome. Against fifty of them, thirty Blackswords and two-hundred odd foot won’t stand a chance.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly. Half the Blackswords have never seen a battle, and almost none of the foot. I’m not here to discuss this, I have orders for you.’
Amintir was among the most beautiful women Falcon could recall seeing, but there was something in her bearing that made it obvious he should not offer her a compliment, or try to banter with her for sport. The simple fact that she had the respect of this company of sell-swords made her perfect face more frightening than attractive. Her mordant blue eyes cut like arrowheads. She gave him his orders and rode up the column to the next unit of infantry, that led by Irtain.
* * *
The next morning’s breakfast was a meagre affair. The baggage train had been heading back the way they’d come since the middle of the day before, and they’d had to make do with what they carried. It made it easier to get moving, on the other hand. Irtain served as ensign over the other sergeants of foot, and he made it aggressively clear to them that they needed to be on the road early. The foot complained bitterly at the schedule, having no idea what had induced this new urgency.
As far as Falcon understood, thinking back to the maps he’d been shown in Tua, they were close to the border with Levos. Minessor was bordered by Elkhora to the north, and by Kalitos to the east, but between those frontiers it had around five leagues of border with Levos, following a river that descended from the hills in whose lower slopes they were marching. Across the border they’d be home and safe, as there were Levid troops there, in strong fortifications.
Once they got under way, it seemed much like any other day. Falcon had drawn a horse from the herd, to give his destrier a rest, as he did every three or four days. At least that was the reason he gave. The horse he rode now was light and sure-footed, able to eat up the miles over rough country. He felt a little regretful, riding beside men he’d been getting to know for weeks—especially for the two lads he’d enlisted to help keep the others in line. But mostly, he felt pleased with himself, for having made sure that he wasn’t in their shoes.
The order of march was simple. Two scouts ahead, then the foot, then the horse, then the unridden horses, then the baggage train. There were no flankers. This was friendly territory, and they weren’t foraging. Scouting duties rotated among the experienced troopers, with the best archers taking most of them. It was a popular assignment, much preferred to the tedium of the march. Today Falcon had seen the Shallu twins, Maghîllin and Ashurra, riding out ahead, most of a great watch before they got underway. He surmised that it must mean serious business if that fearsome pair were the column’s scouts. Once they were marching he could also see a group of four riders well off to the left of the road, riding the ridge lines, moving quickly between vantage points and stopping to survey the country.
His ignorance bothered him. All Falcon’s life his survival had depended on being flash to the lays that were worked around him, whether or not they were his business. He knew how things were done, and if they were going to be done to him, he could anticipate them. That’s why he was here, well away from Megano, not being fed to pigs in the West Shore Gardens, or wearing lead at the bottom of the Gilos. He might have been stupid enough to put steel in the wrong cove, but he was sharp enough not to have been hushed for it. Now he felt that if death came for him, he probably wouldn’t see it.
‘Narono,’ he called to the taller of his two assistants.
‘Yes, sergeant?’
He used his knees to bring his mount alongside the man. He took a swig of wine from the flask at his saddle-bow, and offered it to Narono.
‘How about the rest of us?’ demanded the man marching beside him.
‘You can shut your fucking hole, or I’ll shut it for you,’ Falcon told him good-naturedly.
‘Fair enough, sergeant.’
Narono wiped the flask and handed it back. Falcon corked it and stowed it.
‘You from Tua?’ he asked.
Questions like that were not asked among the Blackswords. If someone wanted you to know where they were from, they’d tell you. People signed up in order to be forgotten, to paint their past out of the picture. Narono grunted an affirmative.
‘I’m from Megano, me,’ Falcon told him.
That was a joke. It was as obvious from his speech as if it had been tattooed on his face.
‘What? That’s horse-shit! I thought you were Shinsi.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m in disguise.’
Narono snorted. They plodded on a while in silence.
‘So, Narono,’ Falcon said after a while. ‘Might be that we need to use some of the manoeuvres we drilled for before we set out.’
‘What? I thought marching was all there was, sergeant.’
‘Feels like it, but no. I don’t want to say too much, but there might be a scrap. Nothing you can’t handle.’
That was a lot more than he’d been told to say. In fact he’d been ordered not to say a word to the foot, but he reasoned that they’d need to turn in good order when it came to it. He wondered if he’d made a mistake, as Narono had turned pale, but he set his jaw and nodded.
‘Yes, sergeant.’
Of course the men around him had heard as well, and a couple of them broke step, turning to look at him.
‘Keep your boys steady, Narono. Nothing we can’t handle, and there’s likely a bit of loot in it too.’
Falcon favoured them with a grin, and rode up the column to repeat the process with his other assistant, Deruikh. The other ten lads had learned to respect Narono and Deruikh’s fists, if nothing else.
* * *
The watches passed. They stopped in the middle of the day to drink, and chew on some of the jerky that made up most of the food in their packs. Around a lesser watch after they set off for the day’s second march, Falcon saw that the group of four riders to their left was closing with them. As they neared he saw that two of them were Ukhand and Rajir, and that they’d been joined by the twins, back from scouting. Three of them rejoined the horse, while, Maghîllin and two others rode along the column, stopping as they reached each sergeant.
‘Be ready for halt column,’ Maghîllin told him curtly as he passed. ‘This low place.’
He pointed ahead to a saddle between two low hills, a few chains ahead of them to the left of the road.
‘Yes, sir,’ Falcon told him loudly, as he’d been trained. He told his lads to make ready for the signal. He knew what to do. He’d had detailed instructions when they camped the night before. He didn’t like them, but he knew better than to question them. His fate was in Ukhand’s hands now. The three rode on to the head of the column, and continued there, just ahead of the leading troop of pikemen. Just as the last of the foot came level with the low point, he heard Maghîllin’s bugle at the van, and saw the pennant on his lance rise and fall.
‘Halt!’ he shouted, and his men half-stumbled to a stop. He looked at the land to their left, roughly to the north. It fell away gently, offering the best view of the country in that direction that they’d had for a couple of days at least. It was less settled than the hills behind them, with larger patches of woodland, and some of open grassland. Right in the centre of the vista was a large cloud of dust. Now he heard bugles both ahead and behind, out of time, but the signal clear. He turned his troops to face left.
There they stood, for long minutes. Then one of the three riders in the van made his way back towards the rear, telling the foot to eat and drink as he went. They laid down their pikes, and most stretched out on the ground to rest. Falcon dismounted, and watched the dust cloud. It was getting slowly larger, and tiny black dots were becoming apparent at the bottom of it.
Ukhand rode a little way out towards the approaching cavalry, accompanied by a group of the most trusted Blackswords. They watched for a while, talking and passing round a spy glass. Falcon began to understand that the Elkhori cavalry were both further away and moving slower than he had thought. Their direction of travel was unmistakeable, however. There seemed little urgency among the Blackswords, although most of the foot had now realised they were in for a fight.
More time passed. The dust cloud grew, the dots at its base becoming more distinct. Eventually, the order came to form up. They had spent weeks drilling in a field outside Tua, which had seemed excessive to Falcon at the time. He was glad of it now, and realised that it had barely been enough. Their formations were ragged, the foot not appreciating the value of good order, and more than half the sergeants not experienced in maintaining it. With a great deal of shouting and shuffling, ten marching units of two dozen pikemen formed up into two troops of forty men abreast, three rows deep, and began to march down into the valley. The sergeants stood behind the formation, instructing their men, and leading their horses. They marched around a mile north from the road, then they stopped and waited. Individual Elkhori horsemen were visible now.
A cavalry charge against set pikes was a risky proposition. The foot had been taught to believe they had the advantage, if they held firm. Under most circumstances this would be true. The Blackswords’ horse formed up behind the foot, ready to manoeuvre and flank the Elkhori attackers. The embargo on information had been lifted, and the foot had been given an account of the battle plan. The horse would circle behind the hill to the east, which could be easily passed, and come out on the Elkhori flank. They would charge them as they charged the pikemen, disrupting their attack, and then circling back behind the foot. If the Elkhori attempted to flank the foot to the west, this would be seen by a scout atop the eastern hill, and they would emerge immediately to take them in the rear. The pikemen had only to hold steady, with their spears well grounded.
* * *
The light was beginning to fade by the time the Elkhori cavalry came into range. The Blackswords didn’t have enough archers to make an impression, and their opponents were well armoured. It was hard to see what was happening behind the Elkhori, but they didn’t appear to have much in the way of a baggage train. They had stopped at some point to armour their horses with plate barding. Falcon could see that his boys were shitting themselves. He reassured them, joking with them, and talking about the booty they were sure to win.
The horse took up their position, riding out of sight around the flank of the hill. Falcon knew it for a point of no return. He’d held his nerve through a few of those. His heart was pounding, but it felt good. His blood was up. The enemy drew closer. He knew what he had to do.
These were cataphracts, horsemen armoured so heavily that only metal could be seen of them. Their banner bore the device of the Thalkhetine Church, a circle with a torch burning in its centre. They took their time forming up, around three furlongs from the line of pikemen. They formed two companies, and each began to move forwards at a walk, diverging as they came. Falcon kept talking to his men, and he could hear the other sergeants doing the same along the line. It was not quite time.
It began to look as though the cataphracts would try to flank the foot at both ends of their line. They hadn’t anticipated that they’d attempt that at the eastern end, as it was hard against the slope of the hill, and there was precious little room for them to manoeuvre. Irtain stood at that end of the line, and he waved to his sergeants, steadying them as they steadied the foot. The enemy began to pick up their pace. Irtain’s bugler blew a signal, and the sergeants ordered the front ranks to set the pikes. Irtain raised his hand. Falcon knew it would not fall until the cavalry had committed to the charge. He wanted Irtain to drop his hand now. He’d had enough of waiting.
A horn call went up in the enemy line, answered by a dozen more. The hipparchs urged their horses to a gallop, aiming to strike the pikemen’s lines obliquely at each end. Falcon felt the thunder of their hooves like a rush of blood. Irtain’s hand fell.
And then he moved so fast he couldn’t recall the steps he’d taken. One moment he was standing behind Narono, a steadying hand on his shoulder, and the next he was mounted, galloping south. As he neared the road he could hear the clash of arms behind, him, but he didn’t look back. He was a fast rider, but not as practised as many of these men, and he found himself near the back of the group. He heard screams of fear and pain behind. Irtain led the way, his hands in his horse’s mane while the reins hung slack.
They followed the road to the northeast for half a mile, then took a rough farmer’s track that led up into the hills. They could see from their tracks, even in the fading light, that a good number of horse had come this way. They’d rendezvous with them tonight if they could, and as soon as the morning’s light permitted, if they couldn’t. With their heavy armour and horse barding the Elkhori hipparchs would stand very little chance of catching them by the time they’d finished slaughtering the foot.
Oliver Arditi 