The command pavilion overlooked nearly three miles of battle line.
Count Alistair Rennick slowly lowered his brass spyglass.
"...That's odd."
No one in the pavilion answered immediately.
Around the count stood the commanders of the center and left wings, along with half a dozen runners waiting to carry fresh orders to the line.
Finally, General Harrow broke the silence.
"What do you see?"
Rennick raised the glass once more, studying the enemy ranks before lowering it again.
"They've reversed the line."
"Reversed what?"
"The honor companies."
He handed the spyglass to the older general.
"They're on the left."
General Harrow frowned and lifted the glass to his eye.
Tradition placed an army’s veterans, household guards, and knightly retainers on the honored right flank. Its newest levies generally held the left, where experienced troops could steady them if they wavered.
Harrow's expression darkened.
"They've put their veterans on the left."
"And their green troops?" one of the colonels asked.
"No." Harrow continued watching through the spyglass. "Their green companies are in reserve. They've held them back."
A murmur spread through the pavilion.
"They're committing only seasoned troops to the attack," another officer observed.
"But why?"
Silence settled over the command tent.
Then Colonel Voss stepped forward.
"Because they've read us."
He pointed toward the kingdom's deployment.
"Our newest companies are holding the left."
Another officer's face paled.
"They mean to break the recruits."
"They mean to break our left before we can reinforce it," Voss corrected. "Once the flank folds, they'll wheel inward and roll up the rest of the army."
One of the younger captains looked between the generals.
"Can we shift the reserve?"
Another silence.
General Harrow finally lowered the spyglass.
"Not now."
"Why not?"
"Because they're already watching us."
He nodded toward the enemy line.
"The moment we begin shifting battalions, they'll know we've recognized their plan."
"And if we leave the line as it is?" asked Colonel Ashcombe, an older nobleman whose military reputation had never quite matched his family's influence.
Before General Harrow could answer, one of the younger aides stepped forward.
"Sir."
Harrow turned.
"Yes, Whitby?"
The young officer glanced down at his notes before looking back up.
"Sir, wasn't there a troop of light cavalry that arrived yesterday evening? I believe they were ordered to stand down from today's engagement."
Several heads turned toward him.
General Harrow frowned.
Whitby's words hung in the air for a moment.
Then General Harrow looked up.
"Captain Ellsworth's light horse..."
"They're fresh, sir," Whitby replied. "They arrived just before dusk yesterday and were ordered to stand down."
Colonel Voss frowned.
"They can't stop heavy infantry."
"No," Rennick agreed. "But they don't have to."
Several officers looked toward him.
Rennick stepped to the campaign map.
“If Caldwell’s line breaks, their veterans will wheel inward and roll up our flank.”
Whitby pointed toward the low ridge behind Caldwell’s sector.
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“But if Ellsworth strikes while they’re turning, they’ll have to halt and reform.”
“It won’t stop them,” Colonel Voss said.
“No,” Rennick agreed. “But it will buy Caldwell time.”
On a battlefield, minutes could decide kingdoms.
General Harrow nodded.
"Good."
He pointed to one of the waiting runners.
"Find Captain Ellsworth."
The runner saluted.
"Sir!"
"Tell him his orders have changed."
Harrow's finger settled on a low ridgeline behind Captain Caldwell's sector.
"I want his riders concealed here."
"They are not to engage unless Caldwell's line breaks."
Colonel Ashcombe frowned.
"So we're planning for failure?"
Harrow's eyes never left the map.
"No."
"We're planning for what happens if brave men cannot perform miracles."
The pavilion fell silent.
***
The battlefield had become a madhouse.
The ordered lines that had seemed so neat from a distance had dissolved into a wall of noise and violence.
The first line had met the enemy with a crash like thunder.
Then came the screams.
Gods...
I didn't think I would ever stop hearing them.
Men cried out in pain.
Others shouted for help.
Some screamed for their mothers.
Some screamed until, all at once... they didn't.
The sounds of steel on steel rang without pause. Shields slammed together. Spears splintered. Somewhere to my left, a horse shrieked so loudly it made my blood run cold.
I couldn't see much beyond the broad back of the veteran in front of me, but I didn't need to.
The battle was coming closer.
Step by bloody step.
"Steady!" Sergeant Harlan roared from somewhere behind us. "Keep the line! Shields together!"
The men around me shifted as one.
Wood scraped against wood as our shields locked tighter.
My heart hammered so hard I thought everyone around me must hear it.
Then Brenn moved.
The veteran planted his feet, waited for the opening he'd been expecting, and thrust his spear through the narrow gap beside the man in front of him.
There was a wet grunt.
He pulled the spear free without even looking to see what it had done.
"Again!" he barked.
The man ahead of me leaned to his right, his shield driving into the enemy opposite him.
For the first time...
I had a target.
An enemy soldier pushed forward, his green face twisted with effort as he tried to force his way through the shield wall. His helmet had slipped back, exposing part of his cheek beneath the rim.
My hands trembled.
Do it.
I remembered Bertram's voice.
Don't think.
Thrust.
"Die!" I shouted, more to drown out my own fear than anything else.
My spear shot forward past my squadmate's shoulder.
For an instant I thought I'd missed.
Then I felt it.
A solid resistance.
Something softer than wood or leather.
The ash shaft jolted in my hands as the spearhead struck flesh.
The man's eyes flew wide.
He staggered backward, one hand clutching at the wound.
I froze.
I hit him.
Before I could think another thought, Brenn slammed the butt of his spear into my shoulder.
"Don't stare!"
The veteran's voice cut through the chaos.
"Again!"
Training took over.
I yanked the spear back, lowered the point, and searched for the next opening in the line.
I didn’t look to see whether he fell.
Another enemy shield crashed into ours.
The entire line lurched backward a step.
"Hold!" Sergeant Harlan bellowed.
"HOLD!"
Around me, dozens of voices took up the cry.
"Hold!"
"Hold!"
"Hold!"
I dug my heels into the churned earth and shoved with everything I had.
I grunted as I threw my weight against my shield.
The impact rattled my teeth.
Someone on the other side slammed into us again, and the entire line groaned under the strain.
"Push!" Sergeant Harlan bellowed somewhere behind us.
"Push, damn you!"
I shoved with everything I had, boots digging furrows into the churned earth.
For just a heartbeat, I glanced down.
An enemy foot stepped too far beneath the shields.
Without thinking, I dropped the point of my spear and drove it low.
The spear slid beneath the rim of the opposing shield.
There was resistance.
Then a sharp howl erupted from the other side of the shield wall.
The foot vanished.
The pressure against my shield eased ever so slightly.
"Good!" Brenn barked beside me. "Make 'em pay for every damned step!"
I leaned forward, throwing my shoulder harder into the shield.
The men beside me did the same.
For one precious moment, the enemy advance stalled.
Our line surged half a step forward.
"That's it!" Harlan roared. "Drive them back!"
A cheer rose from somewhere down the line, quickly swallowed by the crash of shields and the screams of the wounded.
I didn't know if I'd crippled the man.
I didn't know if he'd die.
I only knew he wasn't pushing anymore.
Another pair of boots appeared beneath the wall of shields.
I lowered my spear again.
This time...
I stopped.
The boots were too even.
Too still.
There was no weight behind them.
No shield pressing into mine.
No grunt of effort.
A chill ran down my spine.
They're baiting me.
If I lunged, my spear would be trapped beneath the shields, leaving me defenseless while they shoved forward.
Bertram's voice echoed in my memory.
"Don't attack because you can. Attack because you should."
I kept my spear back.
A heartbeat later an enemy spear shot through the gap where mine would have been.
The iron head hissed past my face, close enough that I felt the wind of it against my cheek.
I jerked backward instinctively.
"Good!" Brenn shouted, having seen exactly what had happened. "They're trying to draw your spear. Don't give it to them!"
The enemy weapon vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The pressure on the shields returned.
Now I knew.
I leaned harder into my shield, pretending I hadn't noticed the trick.
The pressure built.
Then eased.
Again.
I smiled despite myself.
Come on...
Try it again.
A heartbeat later, an enemy spear darted through the gap, searching for my face.
I was already moving.
Rather than thrusting, I slashed.
Bertram had drilled it into me a hundred times.
"Sometimes a spear cuts better than it stabs."
The sharpened edge bit into the shaft of the enemy spear, slid down it, and into the hand gripping it.
A scream erupted from the other side of the shield wall.
The spear vanished as though yanked away by a rope.
Brenn burst out laughing.
"Ha! That's the way, lad!"
Still chuckling, he jerked his chin toward the churned mud between the shield walls.
"Look."
I glanced down.
At first I thought they were two fat white-green grubs writhing in the mud.
Then one twitched.
My stomach lurched.
They weren't grubs.
They were fingers.
Two of them.
Still wearing a strip of leather from the man's glove.
Blood seeped into the mud around them before another boot stepped down, grinding them beneath the fighting feet of both armies.
Brenn's grin faded as quickly as it had come.
"They'll remember you now," he said quietly, lowering his spear again.
"So don't make the same trick twice."
The next enemy spear came through from a different angle.
I was already expecting it.