In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - Kendryek

The days passed in monotony for Kendryek, and the drills nad lessons all blurred  as he moved around the Troop, taking part in a few lessons while simply watching others. Half of each day was devoted to physical exercise, with heavy practice weapons being introduced a week after that first day. With the practice weapons came the expected wave of minor injuries – bruises and sprains, with the occasional broken bone.

As time passed, the men began to become more acquainted with horses, and how to care for them: learning how and what to feed them, and how to groom them, and tend to their equipment. Knowledge of saddles and such was of paramount importance for Lancers; the greater proportion of their power derived from the fact that they were mounted, so Kendryek made sure his troops paid particular attention to those lessons.
One unpleasant moment came a few months later. Two Lances were wheeling around in the centre of the field moving through a series of drills. Dressed in full armour now, his men were learning to become accustomed to the weight of their full accoutrements, although Kendryek had decided for this drill there was no need to carry lances. The man sat his courser well out of the way, observing. He appreciated the progress his men had made , and the smooth progress of the men and horses was something to be admired.
Kendryek was about to turn away when he noticed a slight ripple in one of the formations. A piercing scream ripped through the air moments later, and Kendryek shouted an order for the two Lances to halt. Before they had fully stopped, Kendryek was already heeling his mount in the direction of the now-persistent screams. His staff hastily followed his lead, cantering  in his wake.

When he arrived at the slight parting in the ranks, Kendryek cursed. As he had grown older, many of the other Colonels had whispered none too quietly that he was growing ever more soft. While he no longer directly took part in battles, he told himself it would be irresponsible to place himself in the centre of a melee. Combat would both restrict his vision, and endanger the lives of the men around him, bound to protect him as they were.
As he stood there, taking in the scene, he slowly realised what had to be done. A young man, no more than a teenager had fallen badly from his horse. One of his legs was a bloody ruin, and Kendryek could see a gleam of white where his shin bone protruded slightly. He was amazed that the young man was still conscious. A few of his comrades were pinning his arms and head, preventing him from looking down at his leg. As the Colonel arrived, the man’s screams were replaced with a series of hacking coughs which spurted blood over his face.
From that, Kendryek could tell. When he had fallen, the unfortunate man had broken at least one rib which had speared a lung. He had seen the effects of such injuries before, and so knew instantly that the young man was going to die. He knew also that it would be very slow, and very painful. Looking up, he met the eyes of the recruit’s lieutenant. He understood, and moved to join the more senior man. Together they turned away, and Kendryek shared his deductions.

“This man will die. His lungs are filling with blood.” The young knight stared uncomprehendingly at  him, not taking in his words. One of the other senior officers moved forward and gently shook him by the shoulder.
“It is your duty. You are his officer, and it is only humane to end his suffering.” The lieutenant’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened.
“What? You want me to-“ He was cut off by a resumption to the blood-curdling screams. Kendryek made a decision then.
Resting a hand gently on the officer’s shoulder as he passed, Kendryek did not say anything, only smiled sadly. He knelt down behind the man’s head, out of his vision. He looked at those either side, then quietly drew his knife.
***
The Warrior

The Warrior saw Qira turn and leave, and smiled. He had succeeded, they had got away. Turning, he neatly parried another sword; his riposte skidding off the mail of his opponent. The blow knocked his opponent back and he moved on, slashing across the exposed forearm of another with his knife, and almost completely severing the muscle there.
He turned again, and three men were bearing down on him at the same time. He moved left, and hurled his knife at the man there. He tried to dodge, but only served the perfect the guard’s shaky aim. The knife sunk deep into his chest, and he dropped, fouling the charge of the other two. Still they came on though. One blade was parried safely away, but the Warrior was forced to twist sharply to avoid the other, and this aggravated both the wound he had already taken and the arrow lodged deep in his shoulder
The pain of it dimmed his eyes, and he forced himself to continue through sheer force of will. The point of his sword punched into the first man, and he drove it in up to the hilt with a roar of animal rage. As the man fell, The Warrior’s blood-slick hands lost their grip on the sword, and he lost it.

The last man grinned evilly as he closed on the now unarmed man. He had no time to savour his advantage however, as he was bowled over by an unexpected charge which bore him to the ground. The Warrior punched hard, down into the man’s throat, destroying the cartilage there, and crushing his windpipe. Swaying to his feet, he left the man there, struggling for breath.
It was then he heard a scream, unmistakably Qira, split the night, and for a moment he stopped, unsure whether he had failed or not. But another scream rang out later, further away, and he was able to discern the name of the young squire who had accompanied them. He must have fallen.
The pause was all the opening his attackers needed, and one lunged clumsily in, spitting the man through the belly. With a roar of pain and anger, The Warrior pulled him closer, and head-butted him hard in the nose, cracking the bone. As the man reeled, he pulled the sword clear of his own belly, and hacked into the man’s neck, almost severing the head with a single, terrible blow.

Pain crashed down on him in waves, he could hear nothing but a roaring in his ears, and he struggled to stay on his feet. The men around him were not eager to move closer, content to wait and see him weaken. Lurching forwards, he swung blindly with the stolen sword, felt it connect and bite deep. Swinging about himself madly, he barely felt the next blow hit him, as a man reared up behind him and plunged a sword deep into his back. The blow drove him to his knees, but still he kept his blade moving albeit without form and strength. The sword was jolted from his hand as he was parried, and he held his arms up into the air, baring his soul to The Warrior, the God of War and Battle, Wself the bringer of Slaughter.
In the instant before he died, his thoughts went to Qira, and he hoped he had done enough. Then the men around him closed in and bodily hacked him apart.
***
Althalos

The days of travelling were some of the most enjoyable Althalos could remember. It had been years since he had been among his own people, and even then he had felt bound by the expectations of others, and the strict discipline of everyday life. The simple repetition of life on the move was welcome for Althalos, and he felt almost at peace foris life had been a series of battles – whether against the Ethernath or the Darkness, or even – thousands of years ago – against the ancestors of the Laternae. Just travelling through the beautiful landscape of central Laternas gave him the opportunity to simply sit and stare.

The three of them broke camp around dawn everyday and rode slowly until dusk had begun to fall before they stopped. Breakfast and lunch were eaten cold in the saddle. Every evening, Tobrecan and Sceotend took turns sparring with him. They only used sticks, as it was the issue of coordination rather than strength that Althalos was troubled by, and slowly he thought he was beginning to improve with his left hand.
Both Tobrecan and Sceotend could still scarcely beat him however, a fact which they both enjoyed immensely, and he knew he had to be better. Every evening he pushed to train longer, harder, until they were all exhausted. All of them were more tired from thr relentless training more than the travelling. They weren’t pushing too hard though, and Althalos found himself grateful. Even so, it took them well under a month to reach Thurii, which they skirted round, not wanting to attract any attention whatsoever.

Tobrecan thought it best only to stop for provisions in the small villages dotted about the countryside. Most were so small they didn’t even have a tavern, but when they did, the three of them often stayed a night under a roof rather than exposed to the weather.
About a week after they had passed around Thurii, and across the border into Saphrax, they found such a village nestled in amongst the  low hills so common to the area. It was lucky they spotted it, as it was slightly off the main road to the west, but Scceotend spotted the tiny plumes of smoke that rose in a distinct group, and could only come from a village. Together they rode slowly into the village so as not to cause alarm. Once outside the inn, Tobrecan dismounted and entered to inquire after a room and some supplies. Before too long he re-emerged with a small man who was apparently the owner.
“This man has offered us a room, and more supplies, as well as a place to keep the horses – around the back.” Behind the men came a young booy who couldn’t have been more than twelve. Nevertheless, the youth darted in and grabbed the reins of the horses and led all three of them around the building. The three of them followed the little man inside, and up the stairs to their room, where they barely bothered to look around before each throwing themselves down on to a bed.

The next morning they all woke up refreshed for having slept in an actual bed, and went down to the common room to eat. The selection of food was somewhat sparse, but none of them particularly minded. It was good and solid, and they weren’t eating in the saddle for once.
Just as they were finishing, a young man burst in through the front door, shouting about bandits. He left as soon as he had arrived, moving to the next building to repeat his warning. There was an instant of calm before both the Crossbowmen and Althalos surged to their feet, and Althalos vaulted the table to go and look out the door.. Sure enough, ten men or so were riding casually intothe bvillage with arrogance of men who had nothing to fear. Their mounts were one and all of poor quality, and Althalos could tell they would be able to outrun them if need be. They only needed to reach their horses, and Althalos turned, looking for a back exit.
Instead, he saw both Tobrecan and Sceotend had drawn their swords, and were calmlychecking the edges of their blades.
“You’re going to fight them? There’s at least ten of them, how do you expect to win?”
Sceotend smiled grimly, but Tobrecan answered.
“They are bandits. We only need to kill a few and the rest will run off. And, we are soldiers, they are not.  We aren’t going to un, and leave this people.” Althalos looked at the men with new respect. Unlike the Lancers, these men seemed honourable, and surprisingly intelligent. Althalos had thought them simple soldiers following orders. Witty and humourous yes, but only really able to follow orders. Tobrecan displayed initiative and, while his doubts remained over Sceotend, Althalos found it hard not to admire him.

“Sir, do you have any weapons at all? A bow or something?” Tobercan had addressed the small man still standing stunned behind the bar. He hesitated , and Tobrecan round on him.
“Yes...yes, I do.” Terrified into action, he reached below the bar withdrew a battered old crossbow, with a handfukl of hald a dozen bolts. Crossbows were rare, and it must hahave been some sort of family heirloom. Tobrecan strode over and scooped it up, bolts and all. He placed it end down on the floor and braced it, pulling the string up to the hook. Once it clicked into place, he picked it up and placed the bolt iin the grove that ran the length of the of the stock. He then set the loaded crossbow down, careful not to touch teh trigger.

By now, the bandits were spreading out, looking for valuables and women. Two made there way straight for the inn when they dismounted, and Althalos slammed the door shut, fumbling left-handed for his sword. It was as the two men kicked in the door that he ripped the sword from his scabbard. He was too slow to engage however, and the two burly Crossbowmen launched themselves across the room, knocking chairs flying in haste. The two bandits were utterly unprepared for a real fight, especially against trained soldiers; neither of them had even bothered to draw their weapons. Tobrecan’s sword was unopposed as it scythed into his opponent’s shoulder, where it shattered his collar bone. The force of the blow drove the man to his knee with a cry of pain, which was cut short by another blow administered using the pommel.
Simultaneously, Sceotend dispatched the man before him with equal efficiency, and the brothers paused, listening to hear if any more were coming. All of the others had heard the cry and had filtered out into the street to try and work out where it had come from. The brothers were not goin to give them a chance. Even while Althalos was peering out of the narrow doorway at the activity, Tobrecan had picked up the crossbow and was already back at the doorway.

The elf stepped back to give him space, and he watched, fascinated, as the man brought the stock up to his shoulder, aimed and fired. The stubby bolt was little more than a blur, and at this range, there was no surviving it. It took one man in the chest, and knocked him flot on his back, where he didn’t move further. Following the bolt out of the door, Sceotend charged fowards, waving his sword menacingly and roaring at the top of his voice. Confronted by someone actually willing to fight, the bandits panicked, mounting up and dragging the women they had managed to find up with them.

Althalos had followed the younger man out, sword in hand, to see the bandits fleeing back the way they had come. The gap had already opened to a few hundred metres, and Althalos shoved his sword back into the sheath at his hip.
As he did so, something flashed past his left ear. He whirled to see Tobrecan had advanced out of the door, crossbow levelled. Althalos’ hand dropped back to his sword, but the Crossbowman was looking beyond him , after the bandits. The bolt had hit the last horse in the rear. At this range it barely injured the beast, instead causing it to buck. The rider was not expecting it and, leaning forward for more speed as he was, the unexpected jerk tumbled him out of the saddle and to the ground. His companions carried on, not sparing him even a glance in their eagerness to get away from the crossbow.

The man had fallen badly, and so struggled to rise. Sceotend raced to reach him before the stunned villagers could harm him. He managed it, but barely. Already some of the men were standing around him, and Althalos could see angry gestures at the prisoner. Sceotend obviously realised he was not going to be able to talk them down, and turned back to the fallen man. He lifted the man bodily into the air and shook him like a child’s doll. Althalos thought it best to find out what was going on, and started down the street with Tobrecan falling in silently beside him.
When they approached, Althalos realised Sceotend was interrogating the man. It seemed their camp was some miles to the esat, but he didn’t know how long they would remain, although it probably would be something to do with how long the women lasted. The remark earned him a vicious punch to the stomach, and then Sceotend left him to his fate, handing him over to the angry villagers, who swiftly marched him away.
“Let’s go.” From his tone, and Tobrecan’s grim nod, it was clear that the two reserved a special kind of hatred for rapists. Altahlos thought it best not to argue and together, they fetched the horses.

As they reached the main road, they heard the first scream ring out through the still morning air, causing flocks of birds to take flight. Althalos decided he had no wish to know what the villagers were doing to extract such noises. Instead of travelling along the road, they went straight across it. Tobrecan was riding with the crossbow loaded, eyes constantly moving, scanning the ground ahead. They quickly found hoofprints, and followed them. The path the bandits had taken was windey and soon they found themselves back at the main road, which they followed to the south.

By then it was nearing midday, and the sun was high in the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, Althalos saw a glint of metal, and his head snapped round, expecting to see the bandits. What he in fact saw was the glint of metal on the other side of the road, right on the edge of the track. Telling Tobrecan to wait, he swung down from his horse and bent to examine the object. It was a helmet; a familiar design of half-helm, although it was missing the cheekguards. Not so long ago, Althalos had worn one of these. It was a Lancer helmet. Looking around, Althalos began to see more discarded items: more helmets, swords, lances, even shirts of mail lay abandoned in the long grass at the side of the road. Returning to his horse, he tossed the helmet to Sceotend, who caught and showed it to Tobrecan.
“Seems some Lancers got what they had coming.” The younger man grinned, but his brother did not return it.
“The Lancers may be arrogant and misguided, but they are good.” Tobrecan frowned. Althalos was frowning too. As Modred had told him, the Lancers hadn’t yet suffered a major defeat.
“Who could have done this? We should find out what happened.” Althalos wasn’t sure he wanted to find who had done this, but his curiousity got the better of him. Tobrecan shook his head however, and spoke with his eyes still ahead.
“No. We find the girls first. Every moment will count.” Not waiting for any argument, he started off again, eyes on the tracks before him. It gave Althalos no choice but to follow. Before long, they turned east off the road again, following a single track to the foot of a boulder flow.
***
Qira

Once in the countryside, the night rushed in around them, and Qira forced herself to slow her horse to a trot and eventually a walk. Every fibre of her being screamed at her to gallop on, to put as much distance between them and the city, but she knew any pursuers would find it near impossible to follow them in the darkness, and she did not want to risk either of their horses breaking a leg. Although Qira preferred to walk or run usually, she was a proficient rider, and the horse beneath her was of fine quality, being from her father’s stable.

The next two weeks were spent in complete silence, despite Qira’s efforts to get Lillah talking again. They spent every hour of the first week travelling, and took turns sleeping in the saddle, with the other one taking the reins over the horse’s head. Qira was thankful at least that Lillah was responsive, unlike that terrifying ten minutes on the night they had escaped, but still wished she would talk. Qira was driving herself insane thinking over and over about the events of the night, wondering if somehow her friend possibly could have survived. She also rued the missed opportunity. If, while Heber had been talking to Nahash, she had simply taken an arrow from her quiver, placed it on her bowstring and let fly at him, the rebellion might well be over. But no, she was still not quite that comfortable with the notion of killing another human being, even if she had managed to justify the actions she had taken that night.

The first night, Qira had taken a quick tally of the combined contents of their saddlebags. She had been surprised and glad to see that Lillah’s small bow – the one Qira had built for her – had been strapped to one side. As well as this, there was enough provisions to last them both two weeks if they ate sparingly, and Qira knew she would be able to supplement this with her own foraging and hunting.
And so they went on, eating sparingly, barely sleeping for the first week, and Qira constantly was looking over her shoulder for some sign of pursuit. She did not doubt that there would be people searching for them, but she had not yet seen any indication of them, and she hoped that, by riding so much, they would outstrip any messages Nahash tried to send ahead of them.

During the second week of travelling, Qira thought it would probably be alright to stop for a few hours every night, to give both the horses and their riders some respite from the constant travelling. It was this time that Qira used to set snares in a small radius around their camp, which she checked and carefully dismantled each time they moved on. It occasionally yielded a rabbit or some other small animal, and Qira was careful to ration the small amount of meat, cutting smalls pieces off so they could be cooked on a much smaller fire. Even then, she was painfully aware of how far the small glow could be seen from, but it was a choice between the glow in the darkness, or smoke during the day, and Qira decided it was much easier to shield the light given out by fire than to prevent smoke rising into the sky.

She tried to lead them along roads as much as possible, very aware that Lillah was not used to such trials of endurance. Sometimes in their ride south however, Qira was forced to deviate. In their state, any band of brigands or highwaymen would be more than a match for them, and she was not sure how far the perfidy had reached, so avoided any and all patrols of Watchmen, taking massive detours across the rough terrain of southern Cantar. Unlike the north of the province, there wasn’t as much continuous woodland, which Qira would certainly have found more comforting, but rather more in the way of hills.

‘Hills’ was a potentially inaccurate description Qira thought: they were enormous, by and large steep-sided, and extremely rocky, which all contributed to making them treacherous under their horses’ hooves when the need came to ascend one of the escarpments. Again, Qira was forced to weigh up the dangers of travelling up and down the narrow natural paths formed among the rocky outcrops against the time they lost by going the whole way around. Thankfully however, the decisions she made seemed to pay off, and they were never spotted by any of the patrols, for which she was equally thankful. Normally she would have thought nothing of riding past on the roads, but the events of the past few weeks had taught her the value of extreme caution, and she was desperate not to invalidate the sacrifices her friends had made for her just by making a stupid mistake.
***
Althalos

“On foot from here. Theses tracks are fresh.” With a nod to Sceotend, they both dismounted, Althalos following suit. They crept up between the boulders, moving as quietly as they could. Perhaps halfway up, Althalos could hear men and horses ahead, and soon the others heard too.

Tobrecan slowed, using hand gestures now. Sceotend circled away to one side, and began his ascent, soon disappearing from view. Tobrecan continued straight up, motioning for Althalos to follow behind. The slope was steep at first, but as they picked their way round more boulders, it began to level out more. The two of them almost walked into the temporary camp without realising. The acoustics of the rocks had made it impossible to hear the raised voices. They had taken refuge in a significant-sized hollow formed by a rockfall.
The effect was to create almost a cave, with only a couple of narrow entrances, and Tobrecan smiled, setting the crossbow down carefully. He quietly drew his sword and lay it down on the ground for ease of access, before reclaiming the crossbow. Althalos set his hand to sword-hilt, ready to draw.

Tobrecan peered around the entrance trying to gauge the positions of the men. When he withdrew, his face could have been carved from granite. He nodded to Althalos before spinning out into the opening. The crossbow was levelled, and Althalos heard the twang as the man fired. A cry came from the hollow, soon joined by others. Without thinking, he rushed past Tobrecan to engage. His sword was in his hand as he took in the scene.
There were eight men and four women present. One of the girls was lying naked on her back to one side, eyes glazed and unseeing. Two more had men grunting atop them, and the other was staring wide-eyed at the bolt which had sprouted from the man’s throat right in front of her. He was thrown backwards, and knocked into another, who had sworn and pushed him away before he realised what was happening.

By then Althalos was among them. One thrust took the man nearest the entrance, but when he swung at the next he found it solidly blocked. It was lucky that Sceotend came charging out of an entrance to the right, for the four unoccupied men were already closing in, weapons raised.
Due to where he emerged, Sceotend came upon the women first. Rather than using his sword, he stamped down on the first man’ ankle, shattering it and crippling him. The second man he booted in the face as he passed, cracking him across the nose.
Then he was there next to Althalos, and the calm that had descended with his appearance was broken, and they began to fight. The opponent before Althalos swung his axe, and the elf just managed to block the blow, although it was a strain to do so one-handed.
Another bolt whistled between him and Sceotend, striking a man in the knee, and causing him to crumple with a shriek. As he fell, the bandits remaining on their feet exchanged glances before dropping their weapons and holding their hands up to surrender.

“Turn around, hands behind your back. Now.” Sceotend did not hesitate, and efficiently bound the three men’s hands together. By the time he had finished, Tobrecan had descended into the hollow and had gathered the girls off to one side, away from the body of their friend. He picked the blankets off the floor and handed them round so that they could cover themselves, while Althalos picked one up and draped it lightly over the dead girl, to leave just her face exposed. The others did not need to see the bruises, nor the blood that still dripped between her thighs.
Quietly he muttered one of the prayers of his people, placing a hand on her face and closing her eyes. When he was done, he folded the blanket to cover her face as well. He rose, and turned to see the other occupants of the hollow all staring at him. He shrugged, and walked to join Tobrecan and Sceotend, who were standing over the dejected-looking prisoners.

“What are we going to do with them?” Althalos was not entirely sure he was comfortable with the expressions on the two men’s faces.
“In Laternas, rapists get put to death by mines. Hard labour.” Tobrecan was clearly thinking of ways to resolve this.
“Far too good for them. Bastards should burn.” Sceotend sounded more vindictive than Althalos had ever heard him. Tobrecan nodded his head in agreement.
“Perhaps...” Althalos was worried what the brothers might do, and so butted in.
“You cannot judge them. What gives you the authority?” The words caused Tobrecan to turn and fix his eyes on the elf. He did not reply, and continued as if Althalos had not spoken, now addressing the three bound prisoners, and two cripples.
“You are all guilty of the crimes of rape and thievery, as well as doubtless others. The penalty for such must be paid. You who stole will lose your hands, and you who raped...well...I’m sure you can guess.” Tobrecan and Sceotend grabbed the man with the shattered ankle, and held him down. Tobrecan held his arm out, and Sceotend brought his sword down hard. There was a spray of blood, quickly staunched as Tobrecan thrust the man’s wrist into the fire.

Althalos wrinkled his nose as much at the screams as at the smell of burning flesh. The other hand quickly followed the first, and then Sceotend moved to sit on his chest, while Tobrecan drew his knife and moved down between his legs. The shrieks intensified and grew more high pitched, until the man passed out from the pain. The two brothers simply left him there, and turned back to the others, who were staring, mouths open in horror. They were unwilling to watch, and yet unable to look away.

One by one, they all received the same treatment. Upon reflection, Althalos decided that the punishment probably did fit the crime, though it made the process no less unpleasant. While the Crossbowmen went about their task, Althalos shepherded the three terrified girls outside and sat them down in the sunlight. When he returned to the hollow for the horses, the smell of cauterised skin was thick in the air, and he realised about half of the horses had panicked and escaped either during the fight or afterwards.

Four horses, in addition to the ones tethered at the foot of the hill would be enough to see them back to the village. Once he had gathered all the horses, and had found some clothes hidden in one corner of the hollow for the girls, Althalos simply stood watch. It wasn’t long before the two men emerged, arms bloody up the elbow, and carrying sacks of provisions they had found. None of the girls had yet spoken, evidently unsure who their rescuers were or indeed if they even were rescuers. The three huddled together near the horses looking terrified.

Tobrecan broke the silence.
“We came to take you home. Come, it isn’t long back to the village.” He offered the horses to each of the girls in turn, before stepping back into the hollow and emerging a few moments later carrying the wrapped body of their companion. One of the girls let out a choked sob as Tobrecan tied the body to the spare horse, along with the provisions they had found. The three travellers mounted up and led the others back down the hill and to the road, leaving the bandits alive and to their fate.
When they did reach the road, Tobrecan and Althalos left Sceotend to wait with the crossbow and the girls, and rode a little way south, trying to find a sign of the Lancers.

Soon enough they did, and it was beyond anything Althalos could have imagined. Bodies lay everywhere, and with them, Althalos could tell the story of the battle. The men they came to first; the rear guard had been hit first. They had died in a neat column, and had not even had time to draw their weapons. Men and horse alike had been struck down with arrows and javelins, which meant the enemy must have been able to get very close unnoticed. The baggage train was a ruin: the carts smashed; the supplies taken. To either side of it, the Lancers had had the chance to form up, but many had been killed on the road.

There had been a counter-charge, and the bodies lay around in a chaotic fashion, telling him there had been a melee. He could not see any dead that weren’t Lancers though, so the enemy were either very good or, more likely, they removed their dead.
The battle at the vanguard had been the worst. They had evidently tried to punch through the encirclement, but it looked as though the enemy had done their best to avoid contact. The skirmishers he realised had managed to pull the units of Lancers apart, meaning they could surround and destroy them individually.

Tobrecan followed Althalos as his horse picked it way carefully through the mounds of corpses, presumably making his own assessments.
“We should find the Colonel of the Troop, I want to know which it was.” Tobrecan nodded, a grim expression on his face.
“They didn’t stand a chance. Completely encircled by soldiers they couldn’t engage.” He shook his head.
“Even Lancers should be given a chance.”
“Crossbows don’t tend to give opponents a chance, surely?” Althalos could not help a slightly flippant response. Tobrecan stiffened.
“We never retreat. If the enemy get past the bolts, we stand and fight. Not like this. Do not compare us to this.” The reply was so fierce that Althalos snapped his mouth shut, and swallowed. The tone reminded him of the savagery that lurked beneath the man’s exterior. He had just seen him cripple and castrate half a dozen men, and here he was making careless comments.

“I’m sorry, that was careless.” Althalos held his hands up in apology.
Tobrecan in acceptance, and then they both dismounted, looking for the horse-hair crest which would mark out the Colonel. After ten minutes, when they had still not located him, Althalos was tempted to give up, and turned to shout to Tobrecan.
The words never passed his lips however. Something heavy impacted on the back of his head, and he crumpled.
***