Stiffly, cautiously, the engineer at the first cannon took match-cord from powder boy and gingerly touched the flame to the pan. The crew all turned away, hunching down, covering their heads. Vick winced. There was a pathetic little splutter and a puff of sparks.
“That’s it?” said Tallow, looking up.
The cannon jolted on its trestles, fire spurting from its mouth. There was a thunderous, barking explosion, as painfully loud as anything Vick ever heard. A moment later, the next cannon fired, and the next.
She shrank down against the hillside, clapping her hands against the sides of her head, and felt her skull buzz, and her palms tremble, and the very ground shake.
Felt like the end of the world.
“He wants you to hold,” growled out the Young Lion’s pet Northman, Whitewater whatever, “until he gives the—”
And everyone turned at a great low rumble. There was a flap and flutter as birds took off from the trees, then another rumble, and another, like thunder close at hand, loud enough Clover could feel the earth quiver through the soles of his boots. But then, they were a little worn.
“What’s this?” snarled Stour, striding to the treeline and staring off across the wheatfields. Far away, on the big bluff over on the other side of the town, puffs of smoke were going up and floating out across the valley.
“Fire engines, I reckon,” murmured Clover. A few of the older fellows looked as unhappy about it as he was. They’d seen ’em used at Osrung, maybe, and hadn’t much enjoyed the experience.
But Stour had slept through Osrung in his mother’s belly. His eyes shone as he watched the smoke puff out. “They call ’em cannons now,” he murmured, then turned about. “Get the men ready.”
“Eh?” said Greenway.
“You heard me.” Stour grinned out across that sea of windswept wheat towards that sloping green ridge with the flags at the top. “I want that hill.”
Clover winced. What the hell Stour planned to do with a hill in the middle of Midderland was anyone’s guess. Graze sheep on it? But the Great Wolf wanted it. So that was that.
Whitewater was staring at ’em all like they’d parted from their senses. Which they probably had, some months before, when they all consented to Stour being king. “Didn’t you hear me? The Young Lion wants you to—”
“I fucking heard you, boy.” Stour’s eyes slid across to him. “But I’ve had quite enough o’ the Young Lion’s pleasure.” It was almost a surprise that menacing slaver didn’t drip from his teeth. “He wants me to stop, he can come over here and stop me himself. No? Didn’t fucking think so.” He turned to roar into the trees. “Weapons, lads! War cries, you bastards! Time for you fuckers to fight!”
And there was a great clattering and hissing as swords were drawn and shields raised and spears hefted. A great growl and murmur of war curses and prayers to the dead, shouted orders echoing from further off as the call to arms spread down the long line. A great jingle and rustle as mailed warriors crunched through the brush to the very edge of the trees. Stour brushed Brock’s man out of his way and strode forward himself into the golden wheat, drawing his sword, and his gilded bastards crowded after, all falling over themselves to show how thirsty they were for blood.
“By all the fucking dead,” whispered Whitewater, staring after Stour and dragging at his red beard so hard he looked fit to tear it out of his jaw.
“Look at the sunny side.” And Clover slapped a sympathetic hand down on his shoulder. “After today, one way or another, I doubt you’ll have to deal with the idiot again.” He puffed out his cheeks as he drew his sword. “Some of us are stuck with this madness. Downside! Get the boys ready to charge!”
The sudden cannon-thunder had turned the headquarters into a mass of plunging horses. One of Leo’s guards had been thrown, dragged to the back with a broken arm. The first casualty of the day. But surely not the last.
A stone whizzed over the orchards and into the dirt, sending up a spray of mud. Another struck a tree and Leo flinched at the great cloud of splintered wood that rained down on the cowering men, now pinned more hopelessly than ever. A moment later, the great crack of the impact echoed across the fields.
“Damn it,” hissed Leo. If they waited for the Open Council to get across that river they’d be waiting till nightfall.
“What the hell?” he heard Mustred say, gazing over to their left. Leo followed his eyes.
A great mass of Northmen had emerged from the trees and was wading steadily through the ripe wheat towards the low ridge. Carls, with their round shields, and bright mail, and the sunlight glinting on the blades of axe and sword and spear.
Leo stared in mute amazement. He couldn’t even find the words to swear.
The plan had been so simple. How could it have come apart so badly? Confusion in combat was one thing, but he’d lost control of his army before they’d made the slightest contact with the enemy. He stared over at the Open Council’s self-inflicted chaos on the right, then at Stour’s self-inflicted chaos on the left, then at the earthworks straight ahead. He took a long breath.
“Everyone!” His voice sounded surprisingly calm. He’d always been at his best when there was only one thing to do. “Sound the advance!”
Mustred leaned closer, waving doubtfully towards Stoffenbeck. “They’re well dug in, Your Grace. They’re ready for us. Without the Open Council flanking them—”
Leo clapped the old lord on the shoulder. “We’ll have to outfight the bastards.” He turned in his saddle to roar at the men around him. “Lift the standard, lads! Beat the drums! It’s time!”
He saw Savine standing on the hillside. He smiled, and raised his arm, and gave her a last wave.
Then he wrenched his horse around towards the enemy.
Bugles blared, and with a mighty tramp that shook the troubled ground, the army of Angland began to move south.
Even back here the noise never stopped now. Jolting wagons, bellowed orders, thumping hooves, the throbbing fury of the cannons. Someone kept screaming, high and thin and broken. Behind them, far from the fighting. Accident among the supplies, maybe.
Over on the left, the great mass of Northmen were forging ahead through the golden wheat, leaving it brown and flattened behind them. Over on the right, fires were burning in the orchards, black smoke from the trees meeting white smoke from the cannons and throwing a grey shroud over the whole battlefield.
“What’s happening?” whispered Savine.
“I’ve fought in five sieges and three pitched battles,” said Broad. “Never saw one yet where I had a clue what was happening.”
The air had a sharp smell. A tang of Gurkish Fire, and metal, and fear, and shit. Someone had dug a latrine pit way too close to camp and a couple of slumping wattle screens weren’t doing much to hide the sight of men’s waste, let alone the smell of it.
“Bloody traitors!” roared that old bastard with the gouty leg. “The King’s Own’ll cut you to pieces!”
Broad frowned up the hill. “He’s a charmer.”
“Lord Steebling owns most of this land,” said Savine through gritted teeth. “Leo says we’re here to support his rights, not to take them away.”