Caderyn was no stranger to death. At the age of seventeen he'd killed his first man: an assassin seeking to claim the life of an allied noble. Within a few years of that first bloodletting, he'd hunted bandits along the borders with Jadewall, and then later claimed the life of his mother's would-be assassin. In Ravenmark he'd faced a band of raiders who had been paid by Thandor to kill him. Down in Tsannor, he'd cut down rebel soldiers when he'd haphazardly joined the assault on Everard's keep. Not long after that, he'd slain brigands who had once fought at his side against Everard.
Death had ruled the world around him when Baron Aelred had betrayed his father, cutting down Lucan and many of his loyal soldiers.
And yet none of that death and carnage compared to what unfolded before him on that bright, sunny, day.
Blood and gore stained the valley between the two low hills. Hundreds of dead men and horses littered the ground. Many more wounded cried out for help or mercy, some dragging themselves away, only to be trampled by fleeing comrades. The tattered green banners of Jadewall hung limply above the slaughter.
Upon the eastern hill stood the battered but proud remnants of Girjar Bear-Bleeder's force of northern mercenaries. They had been the bait, arrayed in a loose and haphazard shield-wall intended to draw forth Jadewall's cavalry. A small token force of Fellhaven pikemen had held the western hill. As expected, Jadewall's forces had longed to repeat their prior victory over the barbarians and had surged forth to break the northern mercenaries, bypassing the bristling formations of pikemen.
When the great tide of cavalry had exposed their flanks, longbowmen and crossbowmen had rushed up from their hiding places on the far side of the western hill. The high ground and clear air created perfect conditions for several storm-like volleys. The vaunted knights of Jadewall had died in droves, their momentum crumbling as barons and captains were cut down. As they'd reeled, Girjar Bear-Bleeder led a charge down the hill.
Jadewall's infantry had been deployed in reserve, waiting to mop up once the lancers had shattered the northlanders. And while they'd waited, watching in horror as the knights died in droves, the true killing blow had fallen.
Baron Florian, despite his diminutive build and his earlier suggestions of appeasement, had executed the masterstroke. Once Pelagia's outriders had killed off the scouts on the enemy's far flanks, Florian was able to guide most of Caderyn's mounted forces on a wide flanking maneuver. After striking and burning the enemy baggage train, they fell upon the enemy archers, scattering them and sparking a general panic. The infantry perhaps could have held on, but they broke within minutes, no doubt demoralized by the sight of the butchery between those two hills.
The pitched battle became a hunt as Florian's men ran down the fleeing soldiers.
And Caderyn himself had not lifted a finger. Despite his guilt, Caderyn had heeded his mother's tearful pleas to stay out of direct combat unless as a last resort. Thus he had remained upon the forested hill along with his pikemen, observing and directing the slaughter as best he could. Truth be told, however, there was little need for his involvement. The brutal planning of Girjar, Rathgar and Florian had ensured the victory.
"By the fangs of the gods," Gwion said from his position beside the duke. Like many in the army, he'd adopted northern curses after the influx of so many barbarian mercenaries. "What a lovely, bloody day."
Caderyn's cold gaze drifted over the field of corpses. While he did feel pangs of guilt for the peasant conscripts, he placed the true blame for their fate upon Thandor, who had forced those poor men to march to their deaths. The blood was on Thandor's hands, not his own. The distant screams and wails, however, still assailed his heart.
His heart turned to ice when he heard the pikemen chant out his father's name, dedicating the victory to the beloved duke who had been betrayed and killed by Thandor's puppet Aelred.
The chants were a reminder of what Thandor had taken from him. His hand curled into a tight fist.
"I don't expect you to join in the cheers, milord," Gwion said, removing his helmet and wiping sweat from his brow. "But at least grin a little. Gods, what a victory."
"I'll save my smiles for when Thandor lies dead at my feet," Caderyn said crisply, his eyes narrowing at the southern horizon, watchful for any sudden reinforcements. "This was but perhaps a mere third of his forces."
As callous as Thandor was, Caderyn doubted he'd decided to just sacrifice all those men as a delaying action. No doubt overconfidence had led Thandor to send the smaller force northward, perhaps thinking that the untested Caderyn would be easily bested, or that his men would have broken easily, their hearts still reeling after Lucan's fall.
The rest of his forces still awaited further to the south, besieging the great crossing at Stonecurrent.
Against all odds, the loyal Sir Tedrun had held onto the imposing fortress. Doing so had strained Thandor's supply lines and had limited Jadewall to the use of smaller crossings and more precarious fords. If Thandor managed to take Stonecurrent, however, he'd gain easy passage to the entire southern half of Fellhaven. Slaughtering that blocking force was not enough; Caderyn needed to march south, relieve Tedrun, and throw Thandor's back from the river.
And even after such a victory, the war would be far from over. They would still need to push into Jadewall and dethrone Thandor.
Thus he could not take part in the cheers and elated howls.
With a wave of his hand, he sent the pikemen forward to help secure the field; they marched forth in tight, disciplined rows. Girjar's northmen stalked among the corpses, claiming loot and grisly trophies from the fallen. Caderyn had given strict orders to take prisoners when possible, but he doubted the wild mercenaries would heed his words.
As the last of the fleeing infantry vanished over the horizon, Baron Florian guided his blood-spattered destrier up the hill. The little baron was clad in fine chainmail, a battered breastplate, and a torn blue-and-gold cloak. The removal of his helm revealed a bright, almost boyish smile.
"The day is yours, my duke."
The smile faded at the stern look in Caderyn's eyes.
"And yet we must win far more than this victory, I understand," said Florian. "But...I do still have something that might put a smile upon your face."
He motioned for his men to approach. A few of Florian's knights staggered up the hill, dragging a cart. Judging by the ash staining the wheels, the cart had been looted from the ransacked supply camp. Limp and unconscious beneath a tattered blanket on the cart was none other than Sir Jehan. Blood stained his long, elegant blonde curls and a bloody bandage covered his forehead. His chest rose in short, shallow breaths.
Caderyn had been hoping the traitor Aelred would have commanded the force sent to intercept him, but this was still quite the prize. No doubt Jehan had seen it as a chance for an easy victory, perhaps a means to redeem himself for the cowardice he'd displayed back during the war against the barbarians.
"I did not see his banners on the field," Gwion said with a wild grin.
"Because he was not
on
the field," Florian said, dismounting to inspect the prisoner more closely. "Our knights caught him in the camp. He was half-armored and vomiting into the latrine."
Caderyn wondered if he'd enjoyed a bit too much wine the night before, or instead had been afflicted with one of the many common ailments that could ravage an army at war. His own forces had been weakened by an outbreak of flux that had put many of the longbowmen out of commission for the battle. Only the alchemical skill of Ketrik and a few other mercenary shamans had prevented it from worsening.
Whatever the cause, he smiled for the first time that day, not quite able to believe that the hated Sir Jehan was in his clutches. Over two decades ago, Jehan had ridden to war at his parents' side, only to be revealed as a craven coward during the great battle. He'd served his cousin Thandor faithfully over the years since, taking charge of the offensive across the border.
And now there he was, covered in his own blood and vomit, helpless and at Caderyn's mercy.
"Fetch Ketrik," Caderyn ordered, and Gwion took off running.
After a few moments of staring down at the nearly-dead knight did Caderyn glance back up at Florian.
"And Sir Pelagia?"
"Alive and well, my lord. I cannot say the same for her foes, however. I saw her cut down three of Jehan's knights, and that nasty wound to his head was her work."
As much as he longed to find and embrace his lover, the aftermath of a battle was hardly appropriate for such affections, and there was no time at all for any such distractions during the march south. It had been two weeks since that wicked night with Melisent and Avicia; not once had he dared to dally with another lover since.
The shaman Ketrik trotted up to Jehan. Blood stained his hands and tattooed face; he'd clearly been hard at work tending to other wounds when he'd been summoned.
"I need him alive," Caderyn said. "For information and as a potential bargaining tool."
Sighing, the shaman knelt, gently pressing his fingers near the nasty wound to his forehead.
"I will do what I can, my duke." He raised a graying eyebrow. "And your wound?"
The wound in fact still stung, especially after sitting high in the saddle for most of the morning. The soreness had spread to most of his lower body, but his focus on the battle had kept the dull ache from his mind.
"I shall manage. Focus on that wretched man's life."
**
As his riders fanned out to secure the flanks and hunt down stragglers, the captives were put to work burying the dead. Girjar's mercenaries erected a great bonfire made from the lances and spears of fallen foes; their howls and chants echoed across the plain. The wails and moans of wounded men rose from the makeshift field hospital between the two hills. Over the course of the day, those horrific sounds faded into a dull murmur.
The end of Jehan's army did not mean the end of Caderyn's duties. He had to decide which prisoners to ransom and which ones to send back for questioning, and what to do with the hundreds of lowborn captives. Girjar had demanded they be flayed alive as part of a grisly ritual, while Florian had advised a mass execution to avoid a waste of supplies. Rathgar had suggested splitting them up among smaller prison camps near the capital.
As his mind sifted through the options, a messenger arrived at his tent with a summons from Ketrik. Setting aside the matter of the lowborn prisoners, Caderyn trotted across the darkening camp towards Ketrik's tent of elk-hide.
Within, the captured knight was chained to a cot, herbal bandages wrapped over his wounds. His glossy, misty eyes darted back and forth. Drool leaked from his lips and he let out a low, almost animalistic moan at the sight of Caderyn.
A dozen Fellhaven knights stood guard, hands upon their weapons in an entirely unnecessary display given Jehan's wounds.
"All but two of you can go," Caderyn said. "Spend your time protecting more capable prisoners."
They bowed and filed out past their duke while Caderyn crouched down beside Jehan.
"Lucan?" Jehan murmured.
