A Match for the El Maiens

Thank you for the feedback and votes.

:)

*****

Tashka sat still on her horse staring across at the long line of red-clad Sietter soldiers ranged on the opposite hillside against the grey morning sky. A cold breeze riffled over her cropped hair and flapped in her banner beside her. She blinked. Her mind flipped quickly through her strategies.

Yes, they had massed themselves to the centre, their wings trailing off in the Vashin bird. She had thought they might do so, given the terrain they were on. Sietter had won here at Shier Bridge using that strategy before but then it had been Fourth, standing where she was now standing, in defence of the Maier Pass. Fourth, watching the arm of Clair el Maien, her beloved brother. They had chosen to make a stand here, thinking she would feel it, to stand here where her brother had lost one thousand four hundred and fifty-nine men including ten Lieutenants and one Captain whom he loved not only in duty of care and with his heart but with his whole body. They thought she would feel it, an officer of the H'las army where duty of care was paramount. They thought she would weep to think of the men and juniors flung away here, so many of them personally known to her. They forgot that she had been trained in Sietter. When she looked down this green valley she did not feel but thought with a cold admiration of the elegance of Hanya Vashin's victorious strategy.

It was their men who would feel it, looking across this ditch of a valley and remembering that a Sietter troop had been through such Hell here before using the Vashin bird to get victory that the officers and men who had made so elegant an achievement would still go white and weep for it. She had not been here on that day but because Fourth had been stripped out and redistributed among the other troops some of their men were sure to be standing white with horror already and stricken in remembrance; this was the failure of a structure of command focussed on victory and not duty of care to men such as those.

She had set out her troop on the brow of the hill in such a way that they looked as if they had formed a square Palair box formation. In fact there were two Units separated off on each side who would come over the brow of the hill wide of the Sietter soldiers' wings, dragging them out until Fourteenth Sietter fell apart.

The two troops were poised in place, looking across the shallow valley at each other, each waiting for some trigger of the battle. It was their first chance to assess each other's strengths, each thinking:

they have this, they have that

.

Tashka was thinking: 'Thank the Angels they have not got war-dogs. I knew they had an Unit of archers. Commander Rian has a nervous horse, he is a fool to use that kind of horse in battle but Rian always was a fool for a piece of horse-flesh.'

She heard Fiotr make a tense moan behind her. Her banner-bearer's horse shifted uneasily but she would not give Sixth H'las the signal. They all knew they had to wait for Fourteenth Sietter to move first because of the archers.

'Rian,' Tashka thought sadly. 'We have practised manoeuvres in these hills together, when you were a baby Lieutenant in Ninth and I was in Fourth.'

No tears came to her eyes in spite of her sorrow at taking arms and planning strategies against people she knew so well. She ran through her strategies again, pulling her mind to the cold clear emotionless rational place from which she would be able to bear fighting this battle - as if it were just a gigantic game of chess and afterwards they would say:

Well played, that was a magnificent strategy, el Maien

, and all go for a bowl of beer to laugh about what had gone wrong instead of weeping for it.

A ragged cry came up from Fourteenth. Rian's nerve had broken and he had sent the soldiers forward. The line of cavalry broke down the rough green hill, the infantry running after.

Tashka flung up her arm, straight up, her left arm. Cold grey light gleamed on the gold and rubies on her finger, her signal holding Sixth H'las back until the moment when they could go without fearing the archers. The moment had come. She flung her arm forward and kicked Challenger to jump forward!

Pouring down the hill, heart hammering, the blood singing in the ears so that the yell of other soldiers was almost blotted out. Sword leaping out of scabbard, spear down towards those Sietter scum, eyes wide with fear, mouth open to yell in anger.

In the engagement there was no time to think. One must get on with one's weapons as well as one could. Nobody did well. Everyone was tense, frightened, too slow, too fast. Frightened of being wounded, killed; frightened of wounding, of killing; angry, angry, hang on to anger!

A soldier falls by one's side. Do not think of it, do not look to see who it is, just hack, stab out at whatever scum brought one's fellow down. Inevitably those scum Sietter archers had been given the order to shoot although their own men were down in the field of battle - yes, any sacrifice for an elegant bloody victory - those scum!

Tashka was dragging on Challenger's reins, her sword rising and stabbing. Faces swam about her horse's shoulders. She was at the front of it all, stabbing into a clutch of Sietter red and gold uniforms, too terrified to look back and see if she had any support behind her, not even sure if her banner-bearer had been able to keep up with her.

Fiotr's horse forced a passage to her left. He was left-handed so they could keep their horses practically pressing flank to flank and each forget one side and strike out on their fighting sides.

Fiotr was screaming mindlessly rhythmically as he fought but Tashka was eerily silent, her lips in a tight line, her dark blue eyes wide and glaring. Then Tashka's Challenger plunged forward, Fiotr's Maiden fell back. Before she could turn her head to see what was on her left, Tashka felt a ripping agony in her upper arm.

She flung back her head, her knees automatically clenched tighter on Challenger's sides, her right arm came over to plunge her sword into someone's throat.

She heard the banner-bearer cry out behind her. Fiotr was furiously struggling to her side screaming

Scum scum

and striking out at the Sietter troopers. They were through the knot of infantrymen and engaged in hand to hand with the cavalry.

Tashka could feel great gouts of pain from her left arm. Her fingers were curled tight about her reins but the arm muscles were too weak to make the hand move, she must guide Challenger only with her knees. Her wide glaring eyes stared into a petrified young officer's face as her sword crashed down on his with a jolt. He jerked on his reins in his terror, she nudged Challenger to jostle his horse and he was flung off down under the hooves of the cavalry.

Before even she heard his scream she was pushing on to engage another soldier then she became aware that H'las cavalry were on either side of her and behind her, she was momentarily safe - except from some chance bloody arrow just as likely to fall on some poor Sietter scum. She took the opportunity quickly to stand in her stirrups and look all around the field.

She saw Flava Trait at the head of some infantry, going in to a section of Sietter cavalry. She saw a Sietter sword flash, Flava's arms fling up and he disappeared from his horse's back, down down into a writhing sea of men's arms and heads. She cried:

"Trait!"

but she knew he would never lift his head to her call again.

"Trait!" she screamed, she twisted her knees into Challenger's sides to try to get to him. He might, he might still be alive, might he not?

She had broken away from Fiotr and Fiotr's cavalry. They had not time even to stop and stare or wonder what she was about. She was trying to ride across her own infantry, her banner-bearer struggling in her wake. Hanya's hand was on her bridle, he was pulling her horse round to face forward.

"Are we going for the wing?" he thought it was part of her strategy.

She stared wildly at him and gasped: "No!" flung her head up and looked round the field again.

The two Sietter wings were pulling out to reach the two H'las Units at each side. She caught sight of the furling red and gold Sietter banner, swept her sword up and round to indicate it.

"Follow me!" she said fiercely to Hanya.

"B-but that is the thickest part," he gulped. "Should we not go to cut in half where they are thin?"

"I have thought!" she hissed, she pressed her knees into Challenger's sides so that he jerked the bridle free of Hanya's grip and rode off towards the banner.

Hanya only paused to collect what cavalry riders he could to him and rode after her, struggling through the infantry to where he could see her black and blue banner floating at her side. He was right-handed but he was trying to fight twisted in his saddle, to protect her wounded left side. She was pulling them on, thrusting, cutting a path to that thick bunch of soldiers in the centre. They were there; she was battling in the heart of the Sietter troop with only a Lieutenant, five H'las cavalry and her banner-bearer at her back. The rest of her troop were desperately struggling to break through and catch up with her.

She was face to face with Rian. They stared at each other. Their swords met with a crash. Rian's horse jinked to his left, he was shaken in the saddle, distracted, his eyes flicked away from hers. She shoved her sword through the arm-hole of his mail, grating into the bone and flesh of his breast, so hard that her sword stuck in his body and jerked out of her hand as he fell off his horse, leaving her weaponless in the midst of the Sietter.

But they were panicking. Their line had been pulled out too far and had broken in three places. The H'las were beginning to appear behind them. Hanya had torn the Sietter banner out of the hands of its bearer, who, seeing his Commander fall, let it go. Hanya pointed the banner to the ground.

The Commander and two of the Captains were gone. Another young Captain suddenly stood in his stirrups and waved his arm above his head, yelling on the Angel of Mercy. He turned his horse and galloped away, his Quarter ran raggedly after him. The remaining soldiers fell back and began to scream on the Angel of Mercy and to run.

~#~*~#~

Tashka walked down into the valley in the grey dull light of the afternoon, her legs shaky, her face still and pale. She was grimy with the dirt of battle: sweat and black marks where her helmet had rubbed on her forehead and her mail on her undershirt. She had taken off her mailcoat and helmet but had just thrown her black and blue felt tunic on over her sweaty undershirt, pushing Batren coldly aside when he tried to get her to take a bath. She let the medical unit bandage her left arm but only while the three remaining Captains and Hanya Lein made their verbal reports to her.

She had spent the day going to and fro in the littered valley where they had fought. She organised the taking of the wounded H'las back to camp, her tall lean figure stood patiently waiting for news by the medical tent. She was back in the valley to ensure there was no looting of the dead bodies. She was instructing one of Petra's sections to load the Sietter weaponry into wagons to be sent back to the depot. She was looking to ensure there was no cruelty to the Sietter wounded lying screaming and dying, waiting to be sent back for.

She had set Lieutenant Shaada to collecting the H'las dead. His face was pale under its natural brown colour. He did not look like the bright card-player and lady-hunter he was reputed to be. He and his men were walking the hillside, pulling the bodies out and carrying them aside while trying to shut their ears to the cries of the Sietter wounded. Those pale Angels, the Sietter, would be writing their reports back to the Generals in the effort to explain the defeat and contribute to some possible future victory before troubling their minds about duty of care to the wounded - if they could get their muddled heads around the shameful failure to take due care of their strategic head, the commanding officer. In H'las where duty of care to the juniors and men was paramount, someone would have had the heart to step straight up into command, simply out of concern to ensure that the wounded and dead were immediately attended to and thus there would be no break in transition of command.

Hanya Lein walked at Tashka's heels as she strode down the hillside. Batren stood on the brow of the hill and watched them gloomily before turning to Tashka's tent and her bloodied muddied mail.

Tashka walked purposefully to a particular place in the valley, stooped and pulled a Sietter body aside from a heap of flung limbs and tossed heads. One red-clad body opened his eyes as she did it. She looked into his eyes. His eyes widened in hopeful recognition of the el Maien face then his gaze fell to her black-clad form. He gave a soft moan, his eyes turned away from her and he lay still in the heap of bodies, staring away up the hillside in the vain hope that they might come before nightfall. Her slanted blue eyes narrowed, her rose-petal mouth set hard, she turned her fine-boned face away.

Tashka gathered the one H'las body in the heap up under the arms and dragged it free. She fell on her knees, she did not have the strength to hold him up. She let Flava lie in her lap, cradling his head with her right arm.

She stooped her head to look into his face. It was cold and white. It had been twisted as it lay in the pile of bodies and set in a grotesque mask. His eyes were open and the brown eyeballs stared lifeless at the sky. She put out her left hand and clumsily managed to pull his eyelids shut. The sleeve of her black and blue felt tunic oozed ominously damp, she had re-opened the wound in her arm with the effort of pulling him out from the heap of bodies.

"Flava," she murmured, "gentle one, my Flava."

Hanya fell to his knees behind her, pressed himself shivering against her back, his head pushed hard on her shoulder, he was shaking her with the violence of his sobs. The Sietter soldier had turned his eyes back to them and lay staring at them, speechless with pain and loss of blood. Tashka stooped over Flava Trait, stroking his cold face with the clumsy ringed fingers of her left hand and murmuring to him:

my officer, my junior, my friend

.

~#~*~#~

Hanya Lein sat in the canvas folding chair by Tashka's bedside, staring off into the back of her tent, his hands twisted together. There was a bandage round his head and one of his eyes was still a mass of cuts and bruises, swollen up so he could hardly see out of it.

Tashka lay propped up on some cushions, her slanted blue eyes horribly bright. Her face was so thin that the bones jutted out of it like a strange sculpture. She had no expression on her face whatsoever.

"So Iada died this morning," she said in a cold thin voice.

"Yes sir," Hanya's voice in reply was as colourless as hers.

"The surgeon said he would live."

"It is so."

"And so why did Iada die?"

"Th-the," Hanya stammered, paused. They both waited for him to collect himself. Tashka stared away in silence. "The surgeon could not say," Hanya answered at last. "Sometimes ... it ... happens ... like that."

Tears were rolling down his cut and bruised cheeks, stinging the cuts around his eye. Tashka did not look at him but she reached over one skeletal tanned hand with her rings loose on it and shook her fingers at him. He took her hand and pressed it to his forehead. She let her hand slide down, caressing the tears on his face, and said: "Go to," and he went, letting Batren in as he lifted the entrance flap.

Batren limped to the clothes rail at the back of the tent to hang up some tunics he had managed to get washed in a village nearby.

Tashka said: "There is a paper on the floor," in a voice of absolute horror and disgust.

Batren looked around the absurdly clean tent. Two folding chairs stood at almost exactly equal distance from the table. A stool was set with geometric precision in front and to the middle of Tashka's box-desk by her bed. Each rug was laid square on to a piece of furniture or the edge of the tent and the one rug that had a fringe to one edge was so tidy it looked as if it had been combed. Batren could not see anything on the floor.

"Th-there," Tashka said, her eyes huge with disgust, pointing a shaking finger.

Batren saw a small crumpled white scrap to one side of the chair where Captain Lein had been sitting. He went and picked it up and set the chair square on to the bedding again, edging it about until he was sure it was in line with the end of the bedding.

Tashka relaxed and lay staring at the ceiling of the tent. Batren looked at the piece of paper. It was just a scrawled note that must have slipped out of Captain Lein's pocket while he made his report to Tashka. Batren put it in his own pocket to give back to the Captain in case it was important.

~#~*~#~

Batren came into Tashka's tent from the rain and darkness outside and paused, his face disappointed in the light of the fluttering candles. She had been sleeping when he last looked in and he had hoped she would sleep soundly, at least for a few hours. Her slanted blue eyes stared at him as bright and strange as ever as she laid the papers she had been looking over in her lap.

He limped in and set a little pot on the brazier of glowing coals close to her. He took a packet from inside the breast of his jacket and held it out to her, showing her the yellow seal on the back which he had recognised although he could not read the name written below it.

"A letter from Lord Vadya," he said gently. "It came one half hour ago."

"Why did you not wake me?" she started nervously back against her pillows, snatching at it.

"It is not a report nor orders," he said in a clear gentle voice. "It is a letter." He went and bent over her. She put her arms about his shoulders and he lifted her up, plumped up the pillows behind her and let her down in a more comfortable sitting position.

She stared at the paper packet in her hand. At her full title in Vadya's familiar extravagant handwriting scrawled all the way down the creamy thick paper. He had never yet sent her anything but her orders handed down through him from the Generals and occasionally the kind of supportive report a senior might send to a junior officer working under stress. He always praised her, he guessed how she would be blaming herself for not doing this or for doing that and he showed her why she was not at fault. Those reports kept her just enough alive but left her dead enough to cope with the horror of war all around.

She turned the letter over and stared at the yellow seal with the two towers, signifying Port H'las and Port Ithilien, the wavy lines in between signifying the sea: the van H'las crest with

VeG

and a banner in between the two towers. She ought to have been using that crest herself with

AeM

on it but they had gone to war before she could have a new seal made.

Batren was setting her tray of food out for her: the bowl of soup in the exact centre of the tray, the spoon at the same distance from the bowl and from the edge of the tray. He ladled soup carefully from the pot on the coals into the soup bowl, ensuring there were no drips or splashes, and brought the tray to her.

"I told you not to get me special food," Tashka said automatically. She was not even looking at her food. Batren was surprised at the quietness of her voice. Sometimes she threw her tray on the floor if she thought it was obviously special.

"This is the same as what all the troopers are eating," Batren lied as usual.

It was the same clear good soup that all the invalids had but her other obsession, besides the tidiness, was that she was not ill and would be walking about the camp in an hour or two.