Told In Stone Chapter 1. Flanking

Despite the chill of the morning, Colonel Tobias Worthy pulled his new bicorne hat from his head and dabbed the beads of sweat from his forehead with an already sodden handkerchief. The arcanum army stood on the brink of annihilation, and he stood on the flank of that brink. He wasn’t currently flanking of course, but if he intended to flank, then by the gods he would not hesitate.

“It looks as though the enemy are forming up to move toward our position, Uncle.” Lieutenant Clarkson sniffed again. The boy sniveled incessantly, just like his father. Worthy had no mind to bring the boy onto his staff, but his sister had insisted, and the boy was family after all.

To Worthy’s left, the sound of giggling from inside the golden carriage ceased and the door flew open to reveal the powdered face of the young Faelen prince. “Is it time to attack, Colonel?”

Worthy rammed the hat onto his head and straightened his back, trying to pull in his great stomach that strained the buttons of his uniform jacket. “No, your highness, as I said we are unlikely to see any action today. We have a strong position and the enemy would be fools to test us.”

At the bottom of the gently sloping hillside, two hundred Leybound wearing the light blue of the arcanum regiments stood in a neat square, each of the four sides made up of fifty men in two ranks. Worthy loved the square. It was disciplined, safe, and best of all, static. It did mean that the only tactical support they could offer was to the lone bullock that stood in the empty paddock to their left. But that was fine with Worthy, their damn uniforms alone had cost him as much as his country estate, he would not let them be fodder for Faelen darts.

The young princeling pouted and pushed away the slender hand that tried to pull him back into the carriage. “Will we not give battle Colonel? I came to see your Leybound in action.”

“Uncle! Cavalry!” came the high pitched warning cry from his nephew.

“Excuse me, your highness, this requires my immediate attention,” Worthy said, with a gentle inclination of his head.

“Throw the Leybound into battle! Lead them, Colonel, lead them to victory!” The Prince exclaimed.

Worthy strode away from the carriage, snatching the viewing glass offered by Clarkson and cramming it against his pudgy eye.

A mile away, a great rent split the air. It was a hundred paces wide and half again as high, its edges tattered and rippling. Through this gateway, lay the blasted red landscape under a cursed red sky. Worthy tried not too look at it, but it drew his gaze and made his eyes water. The Mazral army streamed from the gateway in their thousands and arrayed in battle formation, their white sashes crisp against the red of their uniforms. Faelen for the most part, but there were men and women in there, opportunists from the scattered kingdoms from the east that had flocked to the banner of the self proclaimed Faelen Emperor, Mazral.

“Where’s this cavalry then?” Worthy snapped.

“Down there Uncle, to the right,” Clarkson replied, pointing to where a platoon of horsemen were indeed moving toward them, leaving their own flank exposed.

“What the devil are they doing coming after us?” Worthy complained.

“I’m not sure they are after us, but it seems that Major Doyle has sent an officer for orders, sir,” Clarkson supplied.

The officer in question was as poor a horseman as Worthy had ever seen, sawing at the reins and cursing at the animal as it bent its head down to graze. Finally he slipped awkwardly off of the horse and looked to curse the animal before continuing on foot.

The man was a bloody embarrassment, far too old to be a Lieutenant, and far too scruffy to be any kind of officer. Worthy's eyes narrowed. “Is he wearing Faelen boots?”

“Apparently he and the others take them off of the dead. They claim that they are better than the regiment issued footware, sir,” Clarkson supplied.

“It’s not right, saddling the regiment with an upstart from the ranks,” Worthy muttered.

“They say he has the ear of the general himself. After that business in Morbian last winter.”

That whole situation reeked of Wikkan interference. An Arcanist and a rag-tag group of Leybound prisoners somehow free a citadel from Faelen occupation and now this lieutenant swaggered around like some damn hero. At least when Walden Moran was here he kept them at arms length. But the Major had disappeared on some mission for the witches and Worthy was saddled with this man. “It’s bad for moral, Clarkson. The men need order, structure. They need to know that a better class of man will lead them.”

“Actually, he’s quite well liked sir. The men seem to think he’s lucky,” Clarkson continued. “Gosh, he’s rather frightful looking isn’t he?”

A shade over six foot tall with broad shoulders, the lieutenant had a pronounced brow that shaded his light grey eyes, a nasty scar on his face tugged at his skin and pulled his mouth into a sneer. His sword, like his boots, was Faelen made. A yard of dull grey steel that Worthy knew he would hardly be able lift, let alone swing.

“They’re damn rank and file, Clarkson, this isn’t a ruddy popularity contest,” Worthy spat.

The not-a-real-lieutenant gave a salute that while textbook, suggested an arrogance that was typical of the grey-eyed Erudorans. “Captain Doyle sends his regards, sir. There’s a company of cavalry heading our way and he wants to know when we’ll be moving over to shore up the Erudorans.”

There it was. The lieutenant never asked for orders, he told you what orders he thought should be given. “Where is your uniform, Lieutenant? We wear the light blue of the arcanum in this regiment,” Worthy said.

“At the menders, sir,” the Lieutenant replied absently, his gaze wandering over to the battle.

Clarkson coughed gently. “His highness is coming, sir.”

Prince Gwilhelm was a gangly Faelen youth of around twenty with a foppish grey wig encrusted with precious stones. His patterned frock coat was similarly bejewelled and delicate lace spilled out at the neck and cuffs making him look like a rather flamboyant scarecrow. In his hand he grasped a long emerald feather quill that he waved toward his frail, elderly footman. “Fetch my table Paulie, and my notes,” he trilled.

“Perhaps your highness would be more comfortable in your carriage,” Worthy began.

The Prince waved him off, his attention focussed on the shabby Lieutenant. “A Leybound,” he breathed, walking around the officer as if admiring a statue in a gallery. “Paulie, fetch my charcoals. No, no, my oils Paulie. I must capture him.”

The elderly footman hurried behind the prince and hastily began to assemble a neat table.

“The lieutenant was just leaving your highness, he has to relay important orders to the regiment,” Worthy said.

“I say, are you not a little old to be a Lieutenant?” the Prince mused, trailing the feathered quill under his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Promoted for distinguished service, your highness,” the lieutenant replied.

“Isn’t that unusual, Colonel, to promote from among the rank and file?” The Prince asked, turning back to Worthy.

Worthy could feel a vein throbbing in his forehead. “It rarely happens, your highness, and is generally viewed as a mistake. They don’t sit right.”

The lieutenants attention had turned back to the field of battle. “Suggest moving the Prince’s carriage up the hill, sir.”

“When I want suggestions from a lieutenant, I’ll bloody ask for them,” Worthy snapped. Moving the carriage was a fine idea, but he was damned if he was going to do it now.

“Your orders, sir?” The Lieutenant asked giving him a level stare.

Worthy fussed with the tassle on the hilt of his sword. It was only one platoon of cavalry, against two hundred Leybound. But each of those men cost forty gilders to outfit, and two silver Dukes a day to feed. He glanced at the thick woodland fifty yards behind him, and surveyed the two hundred yards of open ground between him and the leybound square and suddenly felt very exposed.

As Worthy pitched his own significant bulk against the weight of command, the Prince fired questions at the bemused looking lieutenant.

“I see the bindings there on your hand, exceedingly elegant work, was it a painful process?” Gwilhelm enquired.

“It hurt like the blazes, my lord,” the lieutenant replied.

The Prince threw his head back and gave a shrill, tittering laugh. “Did you hear that Paulie? He said it hurt ‘like the blazes’. You were right Colonel Worthy, he is wonderfully provincial isn’t he? What is your name, Lieutenant?”

“Riot, your highness, Nathanial Riot.”

The Prince took a seat at the table and drew a fresh piece of parchment toward him. “Carry on Colonel. Remember, I am not even here,” he said, selecting a crayon from a neat little box.

“Shall I take the order to march to Captain Doyle, sir?” Riot asked.

“March, march where? What are you talking about man?” Worthy snapped.

“So that we might be able to support the Erudorans, sir,” Riot replied, though gritted teeth.

“Don’t be a fool, they’ll be ripped to shreds.”

“Are the Leybound not equal to the enemy Faelen ranks, Colonel?” The Prince asked, not looking up from his careful sketch.

“It is difficult to say, your highness, they are as yet, untested in larger engagements.” The cavalry were getting awfully close now, testing the furthermost corner of the infantry squares. Each time they charged and wheeled away, the sporadic cracks of Leybound charges could be heard. They would chip away, and every chip cost him a fistful of gilders.

The Prince continued. “What is the range of your casting abilities, Lieutenant Riot?”

Worthy cut in before Riot could answer. “Your highness, the Leybound are a novelty, unreliable for serious soldiering. Now, if you would be so kind as to–”

“Most can’t do much damage past twenty paces, a handful can kill at fifty,” Riot interrupted.

The Prince nodded thoughtfully and made a note on the parchment. “So you would have to be closer to the enemy to be effective.”

“Closer than we are now, that’s why we should form up, and march.”

Worthy followed the exchange with mounting anger. “Lieutenant Riot, you are to return to Captain Doyle, now! His orders are to bring the square back to the foot of this hill.”

Lieutenant Riot’s gaze flickered out as if looking for some kind of support but all they found was Lieutenant Clarkson, dabbing his nose with a stained handkerchief.

“You have your orders, now deliver them!” Worthy shouted.