The lines had shifted, even she could see that, bowing back in the centre where the fighting was hottest, the massed Anglanders grinding ever so gradually in toward Stoffenbeck, weight of numbers starting to tell. Time was running out.
She turned back to the hill, forced her tired legs on. She ran past a dead horse with two arrows sticking from its side, flies already busy at the blood in the grass. Northman’s arrows, long and slender, flights fluttering in the wind.
She ran past a man snarling, “Damn it!” again and again as he fiddled with the jammed crank of his flatbow, fussing with the bolt, trying to turn the handle, fussing with the bolt, trying to turn the handle, fussing with the bolt, over and over. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!”
Someone clutched at her ankle, nearly dragged her over. “Help…” A man on a stretcher, blond hair turned brown with sweat stuck to his clammy pale face. “Help…” She kicked free and hurried on, half-running, half-clawing at the grass with one hand while the other stayed white-knuckle tight around Orso’s message.
She ran on. Up onto the brow of the hill. Breath wheezing. Legs aching. A big corporal got in her way, shoved her back so hard she bit her tongue and nearly fell. “Where the hell are you going?”
“I have to speak to Lord Marshal Forest!” she gasped out. “Message… from His Majesty.”
“That’s the king’s girl!” someone shouted. “Let her through!”
She gave the corporal almost as hard a shove as he’d given her, then nearly tripped over a corpse just behind him. A Northman’s corpse, fur around his shoulders matted with blood. He wasn’t alone. Lots of bodies, left where they fell.
It was plain things were as much of a mess up here as they were down in Stoffenbeck. Forest’s own staff had seen action. One officer’s arm was in a sling. Another stood with sword drawn, staring at the edge as if he could hardly believe there was blood on it. The lord marshal himself stood with fists clenched, frowning down towards the valley, an oasis of good-natured calm, snapping out orders, clapping men’s backs. Just seeing him was a reassurance. At last, someone in charge. Someone who could help.
She stumbled up, holding the message out to him, realised it was crumpled to a smudged mess in her sweaty fist. “The Anglanders… are pushing us back… towards Stoffenbeck.” She was breathing so hard, she was nearly sick. “His Majesty… needs support.”
Forest smiled, lines spreading across his leathery face. “Afraid I just sent a messenger to get support from him.”
“What?” she said.
“They’re coming again, Lord Marshal!” someone bellowed.
“’Course they’re bloody coming again!” Forest bellowed back. “It’s a battle!” He took Hildi by the shoulder and leaned close to whisper. “If I was you, I’d run.”
And he turned away, leaving her staring.
Forest strode towards the lines, sending one of his officers off with a thump on the shoulder.
“We can’t fail, Captain! Can’t fail!”
They’d been mauled when the Northmen first came. Only just pushed them back. Wounded everywhere. Morale in tatters. They needed something to believe in. Someone to give ’em courage. Forest had no idea how it had happened, but it looked like that someone would have to be him.
“The king’s counting on us, boys!”
Years back, when they first made him a sergeant, he’d imagined the officers must have all the answers. When he was given his commission, he’d imagined the generals must have all the answers. When King Orso made him a general, he’d imagined the Closed Council must have all the answers. Now, as a lord marshal, he finally knew it for an absolute fact. No one had the answers.
Worse. There weren’t any.
The best you could do was play a long con and act as if you had them. Never show fear. Never show doubt. Command was a trick. You had to spread the illusion that you knew what you were doing as deep and as wide through your men as you could. Spread the illusion and hope for the best.
“Steady, lads!” he roared. ’Course he was scared. Any sane man would be. But you push it down. You make yourself a rock. The king was counting on him. The king! Counting on him! He couldn’t fail.
“We need the reserves!” squeaked a panicky major.
“There are no reserves,” said Forest calmly, even if his stomach was trying to climb out of his mouth and run for the rear. “Everyone’s fighting. I suggest you join ’em.”
And he drew his sword. Felt like the moment to do it. He’d had it forty years. Ever since they made him a sergeant. Never swung it in anger. Never had to. A good soldier needs to march. Needs to keep discipline. Needs to stay cheerful. Needs, sometimes, to stand where he is. Actual fighting was down near the bottom of the list somewhere.
But rarely, very rarely, it has to be done.
“The king’s counting on us!” he roared. “We can’t fail!”
A young lieutenant stumbled past and Forest caught him by the collar with his free hand, near dragged him off his feet.
“Lord Marshal!” he stared with wide, wet eyes. “I was… I was…” Running for it, obviously. Forest hardly blamed him. But he had to stop him.
“Bravery’s not about feeling no fear,” he said, turning the man firmly around. “Bravery’s about standing anyway. The king’s counting on us, you understand? You going to let these Northern bastards bully us? On our ground? Now get back there.” He gripped the young lieutenant by the shoulder and marched him towards the line. “And stand.”
“Yes, sir!” muttered Stillman, hobbling on wobbly legs back to the lines. “’Course, sir. Stand.”
Stillman had meant to stand. He had been standing, indeed, but then, for some reason, his legs had carried him away up the hill. Bloody legs.
He’d dropped his sword, and clawed it up, and clawed up a handful of sheep droppings with it. Always been so keen on his presentation. Now he was all smeared with mud and spattered with dirt and literally left holding a handful of shit.
Always thought he’d be one of the brave ones. Congratulated himself on it when he was doing his jacket up that morning. You’re one of the brave ones, Stillman!
And then the Northmen had come, with their bloody horrible war cries, and they’d killed Corporal Bland. They’d killed him all to hell, and… did Stillman have that poor bastard’s brains on his breastplate? Was that brains? He wanted to be sick. He was sick a bit. Just a stinging tickle at the back of his throat.
He stared about him at the men he was supposed to command. Everything was a muddle now. He’d no idea where his company ended and the next began. Didn’t know half the faces. Or maybe it was the mad expressions that made them strangers. The filth and the blood and the bared teeth. Animals. Savages.
Then the war cries started up again. That high wolf howling, something out of the darkness beyond the edge of the map. Stillman went cold all over. Took a shuffling half-step back.
“I…” he muttered, “I…”
Was he crying? His eyes were swimming. Everything blurry. Bloody hell, was he a coward?
He realised he was pissing himself. Could feel the warmth of it spreading out down his trousers. Bloody bladder. Couldn’t trust it any more than his bloody legs.