Chương 12: The Blood Red Field
"There they are. Do you see them, lad?" Ser Tristan Rivers asked, mounted at the head of twenty of the Golden Company's best riders.
I reined in my horse and stared down the hill at the expansive flat plains where the opposing host awaited us. They were camped beside a small-town split in half by a stream with a narrow bridge connecting the two sides. Compared to our camp which was organised and fortified enough to make the Romans proud, their own was chaotic with tents having been erected chaotically like pale mushrooms after a night of heavy rain, sprouting haphazardly with no organisational skills to speak of. There were no fortifications and sentries were few and far between.
How hard would it be to organise a night-time raid?
"How many do you think there are?" asked Jon Connington who stood at my side.
I stared for a moment. Ser Tristan had been teaching me how to best count the numbers of a foe from a distance. "Ten thousand? Give or take. Looks to be near our number."
Connington hummed, his lined face screwed in thought. "They may number just slightly less. But it's more than I expected. Maybe nine? I'd say it's closer to eight thousand."
"I'd agree with that," Myles commented before he pointed to the side. "Look at the cavalry over there. Essarian light horse and Westerosi destriers. We should expect heavy lancers and mounted skirmishers armed with bows and javelins for distance, axes and swords for close quarters. Stormcrows on their left, Long Lances on their right. Not only them, but Company of the Rose as well. That's another two hundred horsemen. Altogether, their army numbers five-hundred-and-a-thousand cavalry. That's a lesser estimate."
"The Long Lances . . ." I hesitated. "Look at the ones over there. They're outfitted as—"
"Volantene cataphracts," Rivers finished.
"Crap."
I had a conversation with Melio about the finest cavalry in the world. The Dothraki had been mentioned but dismissed due to their lack of armour and discipline. I put forth the suggestion it was Westerosi knights and the mercenary commander concluded that on a flat open field that was the case. He'd noted, though, that there was another mounted force in the known world that could deal a serious blow to the Golden Company. Volantene kataphractoi were more lightly armoured that their Westerosi peers but were capable of using curved bows. They were, however, exceedingly well-trained from the citizens of Volantis. Between an equal number of knights and cataphracts, Melio was of the opinion that given room to manoeuvre, the Volantene horsemen would slowly whittle away the Westerosi heavy horse whilst taking minimal losses. And considering the fact that Westerosi armies didn't field that many horse archers, they'd have little support in such an engagement. Whether the Long Lances could compare to their Volantene cousins was a question we may soon find the answer to.
I took a sip of air to calm my nerves and stared at the army banners assembled to meet us. Haldon had been giving me lessons about the various free companies in Essos and the six assembled before us. Stormbreakers formed the centre, the Company of the Rose and Cat beside them and cavalry assembled on the flanks. Mingling among them were the Myrish Company with their finely crafted crossbows at the ready.
Myles Blackheart grunted; eyes remained fixed on the force before us. "With their number and unit composition, I would not like to engage them if needs must."
I could understand. Their cavalry outnumbered ours and would fight most effectively on the wide open plain. It didn't help that Myrish archers were renowned the world over for their skill, and their weaponry could drop a fully armoured knight. Myrish crossbows would be essential in dealing with Westeros, I knew. Their outfit surely took pride in it, even their banner was a crossbow.
"Their archers will form before their main line, correct?" I asked.
"That's if we engage them," Jon muttered. "It would be best to meet them on more desirable terrain. These hills will negate their cavalry."
Myles didn't answer, just continuing to stare.
"But the Myrmen?"
"They'll form up and shoot before withdrawing behind their lines when we get close enough or they take sufficient casualties. They'll seek to soften up our lines. We outrange them, however. Black's Summer Islanders and Westerosi longbowmen can shoot further."
Out of all them, I had a nagging feeling it was the Myrmen who would be the greater threat despite being the smallest force present. While the Myrish Company looked disciplined, the rest of the army didn't look all that well-equipped. Many wore leather armour – which was less effective than gambeson – and rusted mail. The officers stood out like sore thumbs with all their gold and cloaks sewn with copper disks. Knowing how Black Balaq operated, he would snipe those officers and damage their command structure – which would be faulty and disorganised at the best of times. The fact there were so many sellsword companies working together, and hopefully without a centralised command, benefited us even more. With all the various rivalries between them, their pride and personal ambitions would get in the way and hinder their ability to cooperate.
"We can take them," I said confidently.
"We will, but not without cost," Myles mused. "Should their cavalry overwhelm ours and force them from the field, we'll be in a spot of trouble."
By "a spot of trouble," he meant we could be crushed. Despite my love for phalanx formations and preference for infantry, they were weak to attacks against their flanks and rear. Should our cavalry be overwhelmed, no doubt our reserve would be thrown against them. Unfortunately, they were in no place to deal with more mobile horsemen. I knew the value of a mounted fighting force. "Perhaps we should meet with them."
They turned to me, some even looked perplexed.
"You need to know your enemy to defeat them. Perhaps we can have a few choice words with the captains at different times. We could just demand they surrender, or maybe offer them bribes and the opportunity to turn cloak in return for the spoils. Why allow them to be united when we can divide their little alliance and make them more suspicious of each other?"
"You seek to share the spoils?" Rivers didn't look happy with my suggestion.
"I never said we'll work together. Just give the illusion we could be. As long as they think their allies may potentially backstab them, all the better for us."
Myles looked at me for a moment, then grinned slyly. "You cheeky lad. It could possibly work."
I returned the grin impishly. "A house divided against itself cannot stand. We invite them for drinks, we talk and have a laugh. A few hours apart and not together. Maybe Maar's spies can spread some rumours around their camp."
"Good point. But what if they don't come though?" Connington asked.
"We're the Golden Company. They are sellswords and I doubt those who fight for coin would be willing to die. They'll seek to profit and we can offer that." Doesn't mean we have to follow through though. "I'm sure they'll use this opportunity to gauge our strength as well." I chuckled. "They'll be scared."
At Toyne's command, a messenger was sent forth.
...
"Are these cushions really necessary?" I asked Myles as the servants prepared the tent to meet our most treasured guests. "I mean . . . this isn't a Lyseni pleasure den, you know."
He laughed as the wicker carpet was rolled out and thrown over the top was a much softer carpet that was part of a ransom for a Tyroshi noble. Tables were brought in with bowls of fruit and glasses of fine Arbor Gold. "This is diplomacy, lad. You need to impress them. Show off our wealth and power and seduce them with various trappings. Harry encouraged it and I trust the man like a brother because, in many ways, we are. We grew up together, fought together. He knows people and I trust his judgement."
Harry fought? Ah, you learn something new every day.
After an hour or so, Jon Connington entered with the three captains of the Stormcrows. They wore black feathers on their polished helms, and all claimed to be equal in honour and authority. I stood at Myles Toyne's side while he sat atop a plush cushion stuffed with goose down. While my eyes studied our guests for anything to use against them, they barely gave me a glance. I almost felt insulted despite knowing it was the Essosi custom to treat everything but the highest lord like a piece of furniture.
The Stormcrows captains were a Yunkai'i, a Qartheen and a Tyroshi. It made me want to think of a joke of them walking into a bar. This was the exact same setup Daenerys had, if I remembered correctly. Prendahl na Ghazn was a thickset Ghiscari with a broad face and dark hair combed into bull's horns. I almost snorted in laughter at that. Only the harsh sideways look from Joncon stopped me and probably saved my life. Sallor the Bald was a Qartheen with skin like milk, pale eyes and a scar running down his cheek. He was dressed in pale blue and yellow silks under a silver breast plate with pieced nipples and his cloak was sewn with copper scales crusted with precious stones.
Then there was the incredible flaunting peacock himself: Daario fucking Naharis. Bloody hell, the sight of him was almost enough to break my composure. His beard was dyed blue, as was his hair. But where I could work the look, he looked positively foolish. His beard was long and cut into three prongs while his curled moustache – which reminded me of an Italian chief stereotype – was dyed garish gold. His clothes were all painfully bright yellow and laced up with Myrish lace that spilled from his collar and cuffs. His doublet was sewn with brass medallions in the shape of dandelions and the high leather boots that reached his thighs were covered with ornate goldwork. His belt was made up of a chain of gilded rings (because why wouldn't it be?) and folded on them were a pair yellow suede gloves, stilettos with hilts being a matching pair of naked women made of gold – their forms erotised and not at all practical, and on the opposing hip was a Dothraki arakh with a golden handle crusted in jewels. Even his fingernails weren't spared. They were enamelled blue.
In short, he looked a complete and utter wanker.
Daenerys, what was wrong with you girl? Somehow, even more amusingly was that none of the others seemed to care. Their faces might have been carved from stone. The fact they didn't laugh or even react to the walking breathing joke before us made it all the funnier. At least I could understand why the show changed his appearance. Otherwise it would have turned into a comedy at every scene he entered. I had to take a deep breath and focus my attention elsewhere else my composure may just break. I must have been gawking, because he turned to him, displeasure in his blue-eyes. Yea, go ahead and judge me when you look like a freaking Loony Tune.
It was the pale-faced Qartheen commander who took a step forward and spoke up. "So this is the great and famous Golden Company. Can't say I'm impressed. What I see is a snivelling boy, a cluster of old men and—"
"What I see are opportunist bandits who dare call themselves soldiers," Myles said with a smile so false it was patronising. "How far you've fallen, Stormcrows, that you're among an alliance with . . . who in charge?" Blackheart cocked his head, not looking at all impressed. "Gylo Rhegan? Bloodbeard? Not that it matters who leads you sorry lot. It isn't all good a group to be perfectly honest. Who have you got fighting alongside you? A rabble of lesser companies who will break before they even see blood. They'll run for the hills at first opportunity, leaving you in the dust if you don't run first. What's your number again?"
I gave Myles a sideways glance. "Five hundred light cavalrymen, fighting against ten thousand of the Golden Company. You crows will run at the first sound of thunder."
Daario must have become my enemy in that short moment because he turned to me with nothing but pure malice. "Who are you to speak to us that way, boy? Who are you but another one of Toyne's boy whores to bugger up the arse?"
Connington stepped forward, hand clasping the handle of his sword, but Myles gestured him to stop by raising his hand. His face was hard. "They come under a banner of truce, Jon. I will have no blood shed here, but neither will I accept you to insult my squire who shouldn't have spoken up."
Daario spat on the ground. "There's your apology."
Civil. I rolled by eyes. Why're we dealing with this bunch of drivelling fools?
The Ghiscari grimaced and his voice was a heavy drawl. "We stand beside our loyal brothers in arms. None of us will flee."
"Sure, sure. But when the swords are out, I doubt your friends are true friends. If there's one thing that's certain with the lot of you, it's that you can trust them all to stab you in the back at first opportunity. I would too, if I didn't hold this thing people call integrity," Myles took a sip of his cup, letting the silence linger for a moment. "Even if my employers have the combined wits of a goat."
Daario spat once more, further ruining the expensive carpet. "We don't need them. Oh, some will break, but the rest of us will remain stalwart. No matter, we don't need much to destroy you. For while you may speak pretty words and coat yourselves in gold, you'll flee when the battle turns against you. We are what you should be afraid of."
"No one in their right mind should be afraid of you," Jon Connington commented wryly.
In truth, the thing I was afraid of Daario Naharis was him giving me fashion tips. I just couldn't stop staring. It was like watching a car crash. You wanted to pull your eyes away, but you couldn't.
"We'll see you eat those words in the field of battle." Daario's eyes turned from Jon to me. "Perhaps I'll hand that boy to my men before I kill him in front of you. He looks like he needs a good hard raping."
What the fuck?
Myles Blackheart had to physically restrain Jon for the threat and others pulled out their weapons. I had a hand on my sword more out of newly created instinct then anything.
Prendahr grunted, his hand on the handle of his curved sword as a response to everyone else. "You lot are acting like children. We came here to discuss business, not exchange insults. Now, Andal, tell us why we should back off?"
Myles let go of Jon and looked at them sternly. All the false warmth was gone and now it was the face of a man who could stare into the jaws of hell and make the devil blink. "Once battle is joined, we don't ask for any quarter and nor will you receive any. Scamper away or join me. The latter will ensure you a share of plunder. Fight against us and your reward will be death." He turned to Daario. "I'll make sure of it."
Sallor glanced at each of his fellow captains. "Your words are gold covered in poison and make no sense. We outnumber you in cavalry. We'll smash you."
"You mean to insult me with your words?" Myles asked, turning to him, looking taller than everyone in the tent despite his short height. "I would return it, if I considered you more than vermin." He met each of their stares in turn. "This is the Golden Company, a fellowship of exiles, not a cluster of beggars who form your sorry excuse of an army."
The pale man spat. Blimmin' hell, it'll take a while scrubbing those stains out. "We will break you, and we will bleed you. You lost whenever you looked at Westeros and you'll loss now. You'll die screaming."
They left angry.
Jon Connington turned to me. "Young Griff are . . . are you crying?" He sounded more surprised than anything.
My tears must have released trying to hold in my laughter. "There is just so much beauty in the world, you know." Then the dam bust, filling the air with my laughter. "If their competence is like their fashion sense, I swear this battle is as good as won." I didn't fear them, not in the slightest. This battle was going to be a cakewalk.
"And you helped fuck it up, boy," Myles turned to me, rage across his features. "Best learn to keep your mouth shut and not look at them like they draped themselves in fucking paint. I allowed you here to see how negotiation worked. You didn't need to say anything or do anything, yet you failed regardless. I'll give you one more chance. Just one. If you fuck it up, I swear I'll scourge you before the entire Company, Blackfyre or no. In the name of the Father Above and all the Seven, I bloody swear it."
That wiped the smile off my face.
Throughout the rest of the day, the other captains came forward either as groups or individuals. The commander of the Long Lances looked more craftsman than a hardened veteran and, like Homeless Harry, was a businessman to the core. The towering Northman in charge of the Company of the Rose who, despite claiming loyalty to his 'friends,' seemed among the most eager to save the lives of his men by withdrawing to a more desirable location to the rear, which seemed another way of saying "let's get out of 'ere, lads." The commander of the Company of the Cat – who formed the largest force which gave him default command, was interested in blood and loot and battle. Excluding Bloodbeard, they were more civil than the Stormcrows and this time I didn't laugh, nor even speak.
Regardless of what was said, the sellswords were going to fight. That night I remained awake, dreading the things to come.
...
Groggy, I threw away my itchy blankets and sat up. The horns sounded through the camp, urgent and angry, a shrill sound to wake up every man and beast and usher in them a bloodlust to be unleashed upon the enemy. Outside the canvas walls of the tent were the clatter of spears, the clamber of pots, the whinny of horses and the curses of angry men.
My first proper battle, I thought, my body going rigid. It's finally happened. I might die again today . . . maybe I'll be resurrected once more . . .
Around me, Serpent Squad were up and ready. None of them were inexperienced to fighting, having fought on the streets of Volantis and some before even that. The lot of them were equipping themselves and doing any last minute things like Rickard praying to the Warrior to give him strength.
Taking deep breaths to calm my nerves, I put on a padded tunic, a thicker gambeson, mail hauberk and coif, brigandine, a gorget to protect my throat, lobstered greaves and gauntlets and finally a sallet helm. It was plain armour, dark and unornate. I looked just like any other soldier on the field. At least this way I won't grab their attention for I didn't carry any bling for them to pry from me. On the other hand, there was no chance for me to be ransomed. I considered that extra motivation to fight all the harder.
"You know, Griff, if I die, weep for me," Damon said as he flicked his curly hair back.
"Only if you weep for me," I replied, tying the buckles and clasps and making sure they wouldn't come loose.
We helped each other with our armour when we could and when that was done, I buckled on my studded belt, heavy with the weight of a bastard sword and dirk. Then I picked up my main weapon: a cavalry hammer on an extended pole, with a hammerhead on one side and curved spike on the other. Arms like these were the best anti-armour available. I didn't know who I was going to face, but this would be useful be it against light or heavy opponents.
I hoped it was enough.
Outside, wisps of pale light streamed through the holes in the blanket of dark clouds that seemed so fitting for the mood. Men and horses were rushing through the pre-dawn chill, saddles were being thrown atop mounts, wagons loaded, and campfires extinguished. All the while, the horns continued to blow. Knights and mounted lancers vaulted atop snorting steeds with more grace than people would expect, and attendants rushed to push long poles into their hands. Men-at-arms rushed through, still putting on their armour as they ran.
Going through the encampment, it didn't take long to find Haldon and Septa Lemore. While my favourite Dornish septa wore her white-woollen garbs, the Halfmaester wore armour – which surprised me. Haldon wore a kettle helm, with mail armour and a dull breastplate over the top. While I stopped to give them a few words, my friends continued to the assembling lines.
"I didn't know you'd be fighting, Halfmaester," I grinned nervously, being pushed in the river of men. We'd been standing in the middle like an island before deciding to get to the side so we wouldn't get trampled.
"It's likely I'll find myself involved, Young Griff," the Halfmaester said, looking me up and down. "I didn't join your fellowship to fight, but I found myself doing so regardless." He sighed. "I do have iron links, after all."
"Iron. That's warcraft, isn't it?"
"Aye. Military history, logistics and strategy," he told me. "Not fighting. Though it's not unknown for some maesters to pick up the sword."
"Just don't die then."
"My life matters little in the grand scheme of things, Young Griff. You die and our life's mission would be all in vain."
"Great. Place those expectations on my shoulders why don't ya?"
Septa Lemore smiled softly, though it was clear how worried and uncomfortable she was. "You look like a warrior. Like your ancestors. No doubt your mother would be proud of you if she was standing here right now. I'm proud of you, too, Young Griff. I know we've been preparing you and though it hasn't gone the way it was meant to be, I . . ." she sniffled. "I'm proud of you. You're like a son to me." Without wasting a breath, she embraced me. I was caught by surprised and froze as she wrapped her arms around me.
Knowing there was a chance I wouldn't be returning to camp when the battle was done, I returned the hug. Though covered in cold metal, Septa Lemore didn't seem to mind. "I'll return, Lady Septa. Don't you worry."
I felt her smile and she pulled away. There were tears in her eyes and she blinked them away. "You were always confident. I prayed all last night for the Seven to give you strength this day. I prayed for the Warrior to give you courage, the Crone to light your future path and the Smith to ensure your armour and arms won't break. I prayed to the Father to watch over you and the Mother to protect one of her children. I prayed you'll return to me, to all of us." She kissed my forehead then, her lips lingered for a moment before pulling away. "Be careful. Take care of yourself."
"He won't be doing that on his own," came a familiar sound. I looked to the side and saw Duck grinning from ear to ear as he followed the exiled Lord Connington who looked down at me from atop a splendid bay horse.
Despite not being the best, the former lord of Griffin's Roost was a renowned swordsman in his younger years and had since become hardened, having returned to the Golden Company and sparring with Myles Toyne nearly every afternoon. Standing before me, he looked every inch a fighter. Jon wore dark-grey plate mail, basic but obviously high quality and in the flair of Essosi craftsmanship. Over that he wore a tabard of two combatant griffins countercharged on a white and red field. Duck, by contrast, looked little different than me. He wore a brigandine and carried a heater shield on his back. Under his arm was a great helm and there was a warhammer on his belt – his favourite weapon and a fitting one for a smith.
Duck grinned at me. "You think I'll leave my friend to care for himself?" He snorted a laugh. "I'm going with you. I know you loved to be in the thick o' things. Why not now? I'm to rein you in."
"I don't need to be reined in." The opposite in fact. I bowed my head respectfully. "I wouldn't mind someone watching my back. Thank you, Ser Duck."
He punched me cheerfully on the shoulder. "Why wouldn't I stand by your side? You're my friend."
A friend . . . maybe because I wasn't really Young Griff, but those words left a sour taste in my mouth. "And you are to. Those sellswords will soon learn they can't match the power of friendship!"
Jon Connington scoffed. "We have a battle to fight. You and your squad are to join me and the other knights and squires on the left flank. Rolly and others handpicked by Blackheart will ensure your survival."
Can't have the Blackfyre dying before he invades Westeros, now can we? "I thank you, father. May I ask who we're to fight against?"
"The Long Lances." He looked me up and down. "You're to mount up. We'll serve as the hammer to the infantry's anvil."
I paused. "But I thought . . . I thought—"
"Do I have any objections?"
"N-no. No, ser."
I gave a salute, said what could be my final goodbyes to Haldon and Lemore and followed Jon Connington to the field. My stomach formed a hard knot that made me want to throw up last night's meal. As we left the camp, the sky began to clear with pale crimson rays breaking through the clouds. The western sky remained a deep purple speckled with stars and the east a brilliant orange that looked like it was on fire. This may be the last sunrise I ever see. I almost laughed. My other death had been completely unexpected, and I felt nothing or at least I could remember nothing. Hopefully my next one would be just as painless should it ever come.
In the early morning dawn, both armies assembled to meet each other in the field.
Before this day, both sides had stood their ground. Due to the nature of battle, neither army desired to abandon its position to make the first move. The sellsword coalition controlled the wide empty plains that was the best terrain for their cavalry while the Golden Company planted themselves atop a collection of rough hills that benefited our nine-thousand infantry. The hilltops had been fortified which made the further diminished the coalitions willingness to attack. As such, neither side moved and instead just waited patiently.
It had continued like that for more than a week.
It didn't mean our forces never engaged each other, however. While the main armies stood their ground, both sides sent their more mobile units to scout, probe enemy positions and supply their forces. Thus began the intricate game between groups fighting to get the upper hand in the battle of attrition. We set men on their foraging parties just as they did to us. The longer we waited, the more crucial this would be. It was also a delicate balance. The more men sent to forage and guard would ensure more food for us and less for them but, at the same time, it would leave less men at camp and should that be weakened enough, it'll allow the coalition to descend upon us. As the days dragged on, the skirmishes grew increasingly heated and Myles authorised the burning of whatever we couldn't get out hands on to ensure it remained out of our enemy's hands. Not to mention poisoning water sources.
But now the wait was over, and the proper battle was to begin.
As we shored up our lines, the coalition forces assembled before us. Beneath hundreds of colourful banners, serjeants harangued their soldiers into a semblance of order. There was something vindictively satisfying about their lack of cohesion. Unlike us, they didn't have a unified command structure and instead had a council where everything was decided by popular vote – at least in theory. Maar's spies reported that both Myr and Tyrosh had sent representatives to order their hired swords to advance. The army they collected cost a fortune and they didn't want to be losing money with the army just sitting there and absorbing coin like a sponge. That had been the only thing to get them into action. Their military council, reportedly, was swept up by bickering and fragmentation that had weakened their unity. That and our attacks on their foragers would hopefully cripple morale. Still, their army was an impressive sight as they matched forward, and we assembled below the hill to goad them. They'd taken the bait and their leaders decided to go with one of the classical formations of a line of infantry in the centre and cavalry on the wings: Stormcrows on the right, Long Lances on the left.
To counter their army's composition, Myles had formed his battle lines.
The Golden Company had been split up in three groups. From afar, Captain-general Myles Toyne commanded from atop the hill, riding a grey stallion with a snow-white mane. He was armoured in the same dull and scratched plate he always wore, underneath that a gambeson and chainmail. Only the heraldry on his shield displayed him as someone of prominence. On his right-hand side was Harry Strickland and on his left was a squire riding atop a white mare and holding the banner of the Golden Company peaked with gilded skulls. The gold banner was flowing strongly, snapping with the force of the wind. He wasn't alone though, with him was a reserve force numbering two thousand men. Myles was a commander who stood at the rear, on the high ground where he could watch the battle unfold below him and commit forces to where they were needed most. With so many men waiting atop the hill, eight thousand would engage on the flat terrain, putting us on near equal footing to our enemies.
In the centre, Ser Marq Mandrake had been handed command. Pikemen formed the centre in blocks eight men deep that should hold the line and were invincible to cavalry from a frontal assault. Supporting them were heavy infantry armed with shorter spears, swords, axes and hammers and a variety of polearms. Standing at the front, with arrows planted in the ground and quivers on their belts, stood the archers under the stern eyes of Black Balaq. They were lightly armoured, with one-third using crossbows, another wielding the double-curved-and-sinew bows of the east, and the rest were Westerosi longbowmen. Light infantry supported them, with javelins and slings and other throwing weapons. They'll soften the up the opposition and pull back when the enemy approached.
The wings were all cavalry. The Golden Company's entire cavalry force of one thousand was sent to hold the Stormcrows and Long Lances in place. Four hundred knights in heavy armour and an equal number of squires under the experienced eyes of Tristan Rivers. They stood on the left to deal with the greater number of enemy horse and were massed together like a great iron fist. On the opposite flank was the smaller number of Essosi cataphracts whose silver scales dazzled in the sun and were beautiful to look upon. Their olive-skinned commander was a tough but fair commander, expecting the best of them, which apparently included polishing their armour till they could blind their enemies. While the knights were an iron fist to smash into the enemy, the cataphracts had lancers and heavy cavalry archers working in unison; which involved the mounted archers shooting the horses of their opposition and letting the lancers trample them into the dirt.
But that wasn't all. There was then the pride and joy of Homeless Harry Strickland: two dozen war elephants which had been split evenly on the flanks to panic the coalitions' mounts. Horses hated the smell of elephants and always panicked unless they were exceptionally well-trained. I grinned at the sight of them. They were massive grey behemoths, armoured with crested headpieces and suits of scales. On their backs were howdah's manned by archers, javelinmen and sellswords armed with long spears.
All in all, the Golden Company was an impressive war machine. Which was a shame as our opposition was anything but. It did instil in me a measure of confidence. Ours was the finest military in the Free Cities, the best mercenary company in a continent of mercenaries. It wasn't completely at ease though. Despite having been trained to fight for the last few months nearly every day since waking up in Essos, I felt uneasy. My heart beat rapidly in my throat while my forehead was cold with sweat.
"Best put your visor down," Duck told me.
I was about to respond when the rumble of trumpets drowned out my words from across the field. I turned from Duck to the army that had shown itself to be a very colourful rabble. Their drums were so near I could feel the beat creep under my skin and my hands twitched.
"The Long Lancers," Jon Connington muttered. I nodded, staring at the white lance on their yellow banners. "That's their largest force of cavalry."
"And commanded by a craven," Duck finished.
The Long Lances were not considered the biggest threat. When we met in the tent, Gylo Rhagan looked more a shoemaker than a soldier, a man who spoke little and when he did, nothing but murmurs. Maybe he should have a mouse on his banner instead of a lance. The cavalry force was not that reputed either, having a lowly reputation and more like to flee once the battle turned against them. Still, they outnumbered us and, should we be overwhelmed, would prove a formidable challenge for the infantry. Eight hundred on their own didn't seem much on paper when thinking about the size of the armies involved– ok, it was a lot, but they were mounted and mobile and a threat to any force on foot. Alongside their pale-yellow banner was the crossbow and a rising sun of the Myrish Company and their elite crossbowmen that formed the city watch.
As they closed the distance, I felt a sickness in my gut ready to retch. This would be my first proper fight I'll ever be in, not drilling or sparring with some mates. An actual battle with people trying to kill me. They didn't care who I was, nor would they know. I was simply another soldier for them to kill.
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and then came the shrill sound of our trumpets.
The Long Lances' trot turned to a canter, much more mobile than their infantry and outpacing the Company of the Rose. It would be immature to separate their two forces and leave them unsupported from the other. Still, the field was suited to cavalry. The ground was flat and dry, broken only by shallow hills and the fences of pastures which broke before the weight of their formation. The sellswords shouted and cursed with cries eager with bloodlust.
But soon that confidence turned to cries when Black Balaq's arrows fell upon them like hail. The lancers didn't falter, however. At this distance, the Company's archers could do little. Most arrows either missed their mark or failed to penetrate. As soon as the first volley was released, archers were fitting arrows onto their bowstrings and knocking their crossbows.
As to support their friends, the Myrish Company charged forwards only to find themselves in turn be bled. Black Blalaq and half his Summer Islanders let loose a volley of accurate arrows that ripped through the tightly packed Myrmen. Under fire, they split up into loose formation, planted painted shields into the ground and took cover. Pavise crossbowmen. Smart. The Long Lances had been dissuaded but were now back on the attack. Going from canter to gallop, they charged straight at us. They were bloody quick, faster than I'd like to believe, shouting and cursing as they formed a wedge like a hedgehog bristling with steel spikes.
I slid my hand up the handle of my lance and felt something touch my shoulder. I turned and saw Duck fidgeting beside me. "Young Griff, if this is the last thing I need to tell you, let it be this. Do not hesitate. Not even once. Use what I taught you and stick close to me. Don't play the hero. You need to stay alive. That's the most important thing. Understand?"
I met his eyes hidden beneath his helm. "Un-understood."
"We'll get through this."
"I hope we do."
"KNIGHTS AND SQUIRES OF THE GOLDEN COMPANY, FORM UP!" Jon bellowed. "BENEATH THE GOLD—"
"—THE BITTERSTEEL!" the knights and squires roared, the sound utterly deafening.
I didn't remember when he shouted charge, nor did I remember kicking my courser into action. I only remember closing the distance, forming a wedge with Jon Connington at the tip and me right beside him. There was the thundering of hooves and the war cries of eight hundred men behind me.
Arrows arced overhead towards the mounted lancers. A few died but those were petty losses and the rest gracefully leapt over the corpses and moved all the faster. We kicked our mounts into a gallop and more volleys were sent at the Long Lances to soften them up for us. A second and a third. Jon Connington made sure to manoeuvre us in a better position so the archers would be of more use. The third volley had been the bloodiest.
While I didn't consider myself a good rider – certainly not as much as those riding alongside me – I felt confident on the concept of remaining in the saddle as we smashed into the Long Lances like an iron fist against a soft stomach. Our lances threw sellswords from their mounts if not go through them. My own burst right through one man's chest and the guy behind. Letting it drop, I pulled out my hammer. Inside my gloves, my hands were slick with sweat, but I didn't care. As soon as I smelled blood, my mind became clear. Serene. Gone was the confusion and chaos and fear. My breaths became steady and my reactions became faster.
The next man I killed wasn't even looking at me. I struck him in the back of his bald, unprotected head. The hammer carved his skull. Blood and brains splattered my visor, seeping through the gaps of my helm. It was a coppery taste, not that I cared to notice. Before the man dropped from his saddle, I turned to another. One sellsword charged me with a curved sword high above his head. He swung in a deadly arc and I rose my shield. The blade bit deep into the wood. Stuck, I twisted my shield and left him open. My spike punctured right through the copper scales and the chest underneath. Copper was soft and the flesh underneath even softer. That armour's as useful as nipples on a bird.
I wasn't thinking. It was all instinct. I felt nothing: no anger, no hated, nor any concern for the people I was maiming if not killing. The only thing I felt was the adrenaline. I saw ginger Symeon be thrown from his horse and trampled beneath the hooves of a Golden Company knight, Damon was struck in the side of the helm with an axe but killed the man with his sword after a brutal exchange. Duck and others ensured the only ones that concerned me were the ones directly in front and my armour did its job of protecting me from their strikes. It was different from the training yard. I felt no need to restrain myself and this time I was filled with more determination. It felt glorious. I was grinning, giddy.
Parry, block, smash. Keep moving. A man, dismounted, lunged aggressively and snatched the reins from my hand. I didn't think. On reflex my hammer formed a sizeable dent in his halfhelm. As soon as that was done, I kicked my horse forward and found another target barely an arm's length away repeatedly striking Jon Waters' shield. I struck him, the spike of my hammer going through the back of his head. It was surprising how effective the pick was in combat. The only problem was pulling it out. I couldn't. The man fell and took my weapon with him. With no alternative, I pull out my backup sword. It wasn't as effective, but soon the blade was coated crimson.
Eventually we broke the Long Lances, punching through their formation where they turned tail and ran. Those who weren't fast enough were cut down. Turning around, I saw the infantry had finally engaged each other. The pikemen in the centre remained strong, holding back the Stormbreakers and, if anything, gained ground as they pushed forward. The men on their left flank, beset by the Company of the Rose, were getting forced back and at risk of being overwhelmed.
I looked up at Myles who remained atop his hill, eyes fixed on the battlefield. I couldn't see what was happening on the opposing wing, but I doubted Melio was having the same success we had. Why hasn't he moved his men?
Jon Connington opened his visor. His face was as red as his tabard and he was gasping for breath. "REFORM THE LINE! REFORM THE LINE! STRIKE THE FLANK! KNIGHTS OF THE COMPANY, CHARGE!"
Forming another wedge, we broke through the unprotected flank of the Roses. Engaged with infantry at the front and being smashed by a cavalry change from the side, many dropped their weapons and fled. My mount was bloody as we cut through their lines and encircled a great portion. With nowhere to go, the Roses either fought all the harder like a pack of starving wolves or dropped their arms and begged for mercy. Caught up in our bloodlust, we simply cut them down where they stood. My arm ached from the weight of my weapon which grew heavier with every swing.
Somehow, amidst the fighting, I found myself on the ground. My horse had collapsed a few feet away, still alive despite the spear halfway through its neck. Half staggering and heaving, I was met with a man mace in hand. He was tall and sturdy built, wearing a long chainmail hauberk and gauntlets of steel but his helm was gone, and his cheek looked like they'd been torn off by a dog . . . or possibly a horse.
Grunting in pain, I swung but he parried effortlessly and slammed his shoulder into mine. I stumbled back, slashing the air clumsily to ward him off. "Die, boy!" He lunged and I stepped back, his mace smashing my shield. I realised that man was stronger and quicker than I was. Where was Duck and the others? "Die!" I threw my shield up just in time before his mace slammed into it. The painted wood exploded under the force of the blow and I felt the impact through my shield, a force so great it made me think my arm would snap. I cried out in pain and the man got in close, so close I could taste his breath and he hit me across the helm. My head rang and I tripped on something. I didn't know whether it was a stone or a corpse, but I was on my back, the world spinning around me. I felt urge to vomit. I was weak, too weak to move and the man stood over me, grinning like a fool. "Die," he repeated and lifted his mace up high, about to bring it down on my skull . . .
Then a shadow lunged forward. Both figures were thrown into the ground. The shadow was smaller but built and they circled each other, slashing and cursing. My eyes flickered and focused. The face was familiar. Jon? Jon Waters. He'd lost his helm and was bleeding from a savage cut to the forehead and his dark hair was matted, but he had a savage look to his face I'd never seen before. There was nothing graceful about those two, it was savage and desperate, but it was Jon who came out on top. It was Jon who elbowed the Northman in the face and cleaved his skull in two. Turning to me, he grabbed my arm and hauled me up.
"A life for a life," he grunted, clearly in pain but with a thin façade of good cheer. "I owe—"
A flash of agony. The tip of a spear burst through his neck. In that moment, he didn't look like the young man who loved to fight, but a boy. His hand on mine loosened and he brushed the spear point, delicate like stroking a shy animal. Jon fell to the side, shuddering as blood pooled into the ground. He gurgled and struggled, but his body relaxed a moment later.
Sneering at me was the spearman.
I saw red.
Feeling adrenaline pump through my body, I yanked the dirk from my belt and lunged forward, not caring in the slightest for my own survival at this point. My mind had its objective and wouldn't concern itself with anything but that. As was its way.
The man fell back and I was on him, driving the dagger through his neck repeatedly before he even had a chance to drop his spear. I didn't care about anything else. The man tried to fight and claw at my armour but soon his arms dropped to his side, I continued stabbing until his face was naught but ruins.
A meaty hand grasped my shoulder but I pushed it away. It tightened and I was lifted onto my weak legs. The knight was Rolly Duck, and the others who should be protecting me. He had a sword in hand and a battered shield in the other which had once been a duck painted on a field of vivid green, but now brown and coated in blood and beaten from axes, swords and spear points.
The adrenaline still pumping through my body, I threw his hand off me and was replied with a punch that sent me reeling. "Get a hold of yourself," Duck growled, gone was the gentle voice of a friend and in its place was the voice of a soldier.
"That man . . . he . . ."
"I saw it. You killed him. Stabbing him more times won't make him any more dead. You had your revenge." He pushed my sword into my hands. "The battle is not yet done."
He said no more words and turned to face a group of sellswords charging at us. Grabbing my shield from the ground, I faced a slender man in supple leather armour, I brought my shield up to protect myself against his short sword. The sharp metal bit deeply into the edge of the wood where it stuck. Feeling my anger seep away and be replaced an eerie sense of nothingness, I shifted as he tried to yank it out. Not wasting a second, I thrust my sword into his neck. He choked and grabbed his throat to try and stop the bleeding. I ignored him and moved to the next target. He was already dead.
Three more came at us, shouting for our deaths. I didn't know where they came from, nor did I care. All I knew was that they wanted to kill me and wouldn't hesitate to do so. Myles said there was a beast in every man and would wake up at the smell of blood. From a metaphorical sense, I could certainly feel it. A brawny man turned to me, coated in blood but didn't get a step closer before a horseman ran him down. One with a grey shaggy beard was on me within a heartbeat, slashing and thrusting with a longsword. I was too tired, too sluggish. My armour was the only thing keeping me alive. Shouting for help, Rolly came after me, having lost his shield and drove the tip of his sword through the bearded man's unsuspecting neck.
In the distance I could hear the trumpets.
Dazed, I looked around and the battle had moved beyond me. Ravens were circling above, many flying down to feast upon the dead and dying. The coalition's centre was in full rout now, their men throwing down their swords as the pikemen pushed forward, thrusting at whatever resistance remained. The air was filled with arrows again, but they came only from Black Balaq's men. A single hedgehog of oval shields reinforced with iron studs collapsed, crumbling at arrows and the sight of their own men fleeing the field. Over the chaos, their commanders shouted orders for them to either stand and fight or flee if they weren't fleeing with their tail between their legs themselves. I could hear a few stubborn bastions of resistance from where smaller grounds had been surrounded, but the battle was won now. History showed that when one flank broke, the battle would soon be over and the remaining sellswords were not like to stick around.
Turning to Jon Connington who approached and still mounted, I pulled up the visor of my helm. Underneath the thick metal and padding it was baking like an oven. Blood and sweat ran down my face and I was panting like a dog. "Father," I said before letting out a grunt as the agony in my arm erupted once more.
The Griffin studied me before his attention turned to Commander Myles Toyne who galloped forward with his reserve to strike the killing blow. I watched him thunder down the hill with his fresh troops, the golden banner of the Golden Company rippling overhead. That signed the death note where the remnants of the coalitions lines shattered like thin glass beneath a sledgehammer.
Feeling sick once more but unable to hold it in, I collapsed onto my hands and knees and my previous meal came back up, retching half-digested bacon and sausage and bread, all disgusting and horrid with a taste mingling with the coppery sharpness of blood. Just the sight of it made me even sicker. A hand patted my back and Myles Toyne approached, must having noticed Jon Connington waving his over.
"The right flank is crushed," Blackheart called out cheerfully. "You crushed them easily, it must be said. The lancers under Commander Melio had a harder time, however, and took heavier casualties. But I always knew this flank would be more important." He turned to me. "Are you alright, lad?"
"My first battle. Do I look alright?" My words came out as a growl, or a hiss. I didn't really care how it sounded.
He huffed. "You appear to be wounded."
"Good for you to notice, commander." Would it trouble you to send over a maester or something?
He didn't seem to like my response but said nothing. Blackheart turned across the field and his voice became soft, soft enough so only I could hear. "Aegon, you are the rightful Lord of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms. What is your decision? What happens now?"
This was a test. It had to be. My answer came straight away. "You know what's best, captain-general. But . . . but ensure our light cavalry hunt them down. If needs be, send a detachment to their camp and secure the war chests which should be divided out to the men as a reward for their service." I looked at the sellswords before me, all begging for mercy from their captors. I remembered Jon and my soul hardened towards them. "Give them no quarter. Let the Seven sort them out." That was the standard issue in medieval warfare. Everyone but the nobility and wealthy were put to the sword. I didn't care for prisoners. I just wanted them all dead for what they did.
I came from twenty-first century Britain and I suppose I should be feeling merciful and follow the Geneva Convention, but rules of war didn't exist here besides very basic ones reserved for the upper classes. Even still, I wasn't feeling particularly merciful, not after slogging my way through everything and killing more people than I'd ever thought possible. When in Rome, do what the Romans do. We don't need useless mouths on legs.
"Kill them?" Blackheart repeated as to to ensure he that was correct.
I nodded, feeling a tinge of regret before suppressing it. Blackheart gave a brisk nod then rode off without another word. I didn't linger and loot the corpses of all valuables like so many others. Instead I limped back to camp and the butchery continued behind me.
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