The northernmost encampment was situated on the southern bank of Kilsney. The rolling plains of Menthenae by the Great River Divide were some of the most beautiful places Rasmus had ever seen and the beauty of the green, rolling hills dotted with trees and deer made life at the front line all the more bearable. He had been there a number of times in his life, all for several-month deployments, but he had rarely had the chance to stop and look at the land they were defending. Fifty years ago, before Queen Sorcha’s grandfather Reider had pushed the northerners back and made the border between the two empires secure at the river, Menthenae had been part of the Ayon Empire. The Divide was a hard obstacle to cross for both sides, so neither army had been able to push any substantial advance since. Constructing a permanent bridge had never been a top priority for either side, so rafts had been used in the rare instances that either force had crossed.
That morning, a thick blanket of mist hid the northern bank entirely, as it often did, but Rasmus felt the heat of the sun warming the back of his neck and knew its rays would soon disperse the veil. He breathed in the crisp morning air as he tied his blue surcoat tight at his chest. Regardless of the front line’s reputation for being uneventful, he woke early and made his rounds every day before even thinking about breakfast. He ensured that his battalion of two hundred men were all fit to fight and their horses were well cared for. Rasmus was a fine horseman, despite transferring from the infantry only two years ago. He had quickly gained the respect and support of his peers through a combination of skill, leadership and personality. He was an outgoing man who seemed to know exactly how to befriend all types of people. By the way they talked, Rasmus could tell whether they would want to sustain a long conversation or not and about which subjects. By the way they acted, he could tell whether they would be up for playful fights. And by the way they drank, he could tell whether they would be willing to challenge him to a popular military drinking game.
To the south, the sky was clear and he could see for miles across the plains of Menthenae. The Black Mountains were topped with snow and a cool breeze from that direction brought with it the whisper of winter. He drew his weapons belt tight and went to tend to his horse. The cavalry were rarely needed in the north. During the periods of uneasy truce, the infantry guarded the narrows of the river, while Rasmus and his battalion were responsible for patrolling the plains west and east of the Kilsney encampment. It was rare for the Ayons to launch an attack from the east but Commander Tiron took no chances. The main Ayon encampment was at Rhóhn, no more than four days’ march further upstream from Kilsney. Not an immediate threat in itself but the terrain on the opposite bank of the river was so hilly that it prevented Ronnesian watchtower soldiers from seeing more than a few miles into Leith. Should the Ayons decide to march, they would have very little warning. Rasmus and Cassios, who had been deployed in the same rotation, had been here for three months and there had been nothing, not even a whisper, from across the river. The town of Kilsney, the southernmost settlement of the Ayon Empire, was essentially deserted. Those who had once lived there had long since moved further north to escape the constant threat of war. The Ayon border garrison was camped just beyond the town’s outskirts – or at least, it had been: it was strange that none of the soldiers had been seen for days.
The talk about the encampment was that General Kaster would not give the order to invade because the Ayon King had offered his hand to Queen Sorcha and she was contemplating her answer. However, Rasmus had heard the same rumor for weeks. If the queen had answered in the affirmative, an envoy would have arrived at the front line. As it was, there had been nothing and some reports had even spoken of more reinforcements, boosting the defense by half again. Rasmus was not a political man and tried not to worry too much about what might be happening between the two monarchs. All he cared about was the sword at his side, his horse and all the men who were at the border with him. Whatever his orders, he would carry them out.
He approached the stables, a section of the encampment that had been divided into makeshift pens covered by tarpaulins. They had not considered constructing anything permanent for the horses, just as they had not considered constructing anything more permanent for the soldiers. The men had been sleeping in tents for years; he supposed it was one of the ways in which the commanders made sure the soldiers did not forget that their situation could change in the blink of an eye. He spotted his horse immediately, a dark brown stallion with white rear socks and a light smudge on his left flank. The horse turned his head and nudged his master’s side, recognizing the feel of Rasmus’s fingers when he stroked its neck. He loved horses and how the strength of them could break enemy ranks. In the heat of battle, a horseman was worth at least ten infantrymen. Rasmus quickly strapped on the saddle and led his steed away from camp for his usual morning exercises.
He jogged for a while, holding the reins securely as his horse trotted alongside him. After several minutes, he stopped, leaped into the saddle and went for a short gallop across the plains to the east. He enjoyed these moments when it was only him, his horse and the wind in his ears. He loved the way he could pretend, for a moment, that there was no war, no opposing empire on the other side of the river. In these moments, he could be a farmer returning home after a hard day’s work. He could pretend he had a wife who would be waiting for him when he came in off the back paddock. He could even be a boy again without a care in the world.
That was until he turned his head to the north.
The mist was thinning quickly with the strengthening sun. As he watched, a gust of wind broke it apart, revealing the northern bank of the river. The very instant he saw the dark mass of soldiers, he heard the sentries’ horns blazing back at camp. He brought his horse around and galloped back, glancing every few seconds at the Ayon army. They seemed to have already constructed a quarter of a bridge across the Divide! The Ayons had used the mist as a perfect veil. Their carpenters had built a strong, demountable bridge and the pieces were being lashed together with little effort. It would take them some time to span the entire one hundred and eighty yards of the river at the point they had chosen, but the speed at which the men were working was alarming.
Rasmus slowed as he entered camp and slid from the saddle without releasing the reins. He shouted to the archers to fall into quick formation behind a defensive wall of infantry. Hurrying through the camp, he led his horse to the commander’s tent and handed the reins to a guard before entering. Commander Tiron was hastily pulling on his armor.
“Sir, the Ayons have come in strength and are attempting to cross the river. They have already made considerable progress constructing their bridge.”
“I don’t care about any bridge, Auran. Just give me numbers!”
“Unsure, sir,” Rasmus replied, recalling what he had seen. “A few thousand at least.”
“Then the queen has rejected the proposal.”
“No surprise there.”
“None at all, captain,” Tiron said, hitting his shin guards into place and tying them securely. “Lead your men behind the camp, out of sight. Tell Elroy to take his battalion and make a show of force behind the infantry. He is to wait for my signal before attacking.”
“Yes, sir,” Rasmus replied. He paused. “And my own men, sir? Are we to wait for a signal?”
“The only signal you will need, captain, is the moment our own forces start being pushed back. Your duty is to remain out of sight, so the Ayons have a false idea of our numbers.”
“Yes, sir,” Rasmus said, quickly saluting.
He located Elroy near the barracks. After relaying the commander’s orders, Rasmus went to muster his own soldiers.
“Third Battalion!” he cried above the noise of battle preparations. “Follow me!”
His men hurried to their positions. Most were already mounted but a few led their horses into formation, still adjusting saddles and armor. The Ronnesian troops were still finalizing ranks by the time the Ayon carpenters had reached the southern shore and Ayon soldiers began to swarm across the bridge, their shields raised and swords poised. But the Ronnesian archers had been waiting for this. When the order came to fire, they released their bowstrings, sending a wave of arrows arcing through the air. Many Ayons toppled from the bridge with arrow shafts protruding from their bodies. Those who fell upstream grabbed onto the bridge and tried to pull themselves back up. Those who fell on the other side were either carried downstream by the current or sank below the surface, weighed down by their heavy armor. The Ayons appeared to have brought only infantry with them as there was thankfully no returning fire from the invading force.
Rasmus felt somewhat relieved. It had been his own suggestion that had led General Kaster to boost the number of trained archers at the northern border.
The two forces clashed and the sheer difference in numbers halted the Ayon attack, but not for long. The Ayons stabbed back, and even when Commander Tiron signaled for Elroy’s equestrians to strike, the Ayon force did not seem to diminish, though dozens of their dead now littered the southern bank of the river. Elroy made another sweep but, this time, many of the horses were cut down and men were thrown from saddles into the throng of the Ayon ranks.
It was an hour before the Third Battalion acted. More and more Ayon soldiers were forcing their way across the bridge and all the available arrows had been fired. The Ronnesians had only been forced back perhaps twenty yards but that was enough to convince Rasmus that his men were needed. They came around the western side of the camp and thundered into the unsuspecting Ayons, killing close to a hundred of them in the first sweep without a single horseman lost. There was a great cheer from the defenders. Rasmus brought his men around for another sweep but several of them were cut down. Even though the arrival of Rasmus’s battalion had given the Ronnesians the opportunity to regain the ground they had lost, progress was slow.
The Ayons’ attention turned to the cavalry and Rasmus found his battalion broken into several smaller groups. He spied one of his deputies and spurred his steed into a gallop, knocking Ayons to the ground in his effort to reach him. He slashed from side to side, spilling blood with each strike. When he looked up, the group he had been aiming for had forced their way westward to join up with another fragment of his battalion.
An Ayon darted out in front of him, brandishing a spear at his horse. His stallion reared, tossing Rasmus out of the saddle. The cavalry captain landed heavily on his back in the trampled soil and stars flickered in his vision. The Ayon pikeman stood over Rasmus, the point of his weapon speeding down victoriously toward his unprotected neck.