Celine stretched out against Amrec’s saddle and stared up at the sky. “The boys have been telling me stories about you during the war.”
“Shit.” Styke sighed. As much as he tried to avoid it, Celine had become something of a favorite in the camp. Everyone who’d lost a daughter or a cousin or a sister back during the war took it upon themselves to tell her stories and “raise her up right.” Aloof or not, Styke was going to have to start cracking heads.
“Did you really kill a Warden with your bare hands?”
Styke snorted. “I told you that story.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t believe it before. I thought you were making stuff up. My da used to make stuff up all the time so his friends thought he was tough. But Jackal said you did kill a Warden. Did you?”
“I did. Broke his back, then cut his throat.”
Celine nodded seriously, as if this were the response she expected. “Then Ibana’s right. You shouldn’t pity yourself. You’re too strong to pity yourself.”
“Okay,” Styke said, pushing her off his saddle with one toe. “That’s it. I’m not letting you spend time with Ibana anymore. Or Jackal. Or Sunin. I don’t need everyone thinking they can heal me. I’m fine.” His final insistence rang a little too forceful, even to his ears. “That was over ten years ago. You weren’t even a twinkle in your daddy’s eye back then. I’m not strong enough to kill a Warden anymore. People change. That’s the nature of life.”
“You killed a dragonman. I saw the body after.”
Styke looked down at his hands. If he focused hard enough, he could still feel the slick, warm blood up to his elbows, the bits of brain between his knuckles. “Yeah,” he said uncertainly. The memory felt like a dream. “I did, didn’t I?” He shook his head. “All right, enough of this. Help me get Amrec’s saddle on him. He and I need to go through some paces before Ibana lets everyone go for the day.”
Styke was tightening the straps on the saddle while Celine fed Amrec an apple, when he heard the sound of approaching hooves. He looked up to find Major Gustar, commander of Lady Flint’s cuirassier and dragoon companies. Gustar rode with the comfortable slouch of a natural horseman, and he gave Amrec an appreciative glance as he reined in. “Afternoon, Colonel.”
Gustar was a tall man, thin and bowlegged with the shoulders of a saber-swinging cuirassier. He had brown hair, perfectly trimmed muttonchops, and a clean-shaven face. He struck Styke as the type of man who’d joined the cavalry to impress women and was surprised to find he was a capable officer.
“Gustar. Word from Lady Flint?”
“Indeed. We’ve spotted a Dynize vanguard.”
“How large?”
“Five hundred. Mixed horse and infantry.”
“Any idea what kind of an army is coming up behind them?”
“We do. Five brigades of infantry, and they’re marching recklessly fast. Flint expects to engage them this evening.”
Styke played with his big lancers’ ring, looking down toward the drilling lancers. The words to an old lancers’ hymn came to him, and he sang under his breath, “Ride, lancers, ride, through the meadows, against the tide. Let your hooves ring, steel ring; break your lances, break their bones, break their spirit against the stones.” He took a deep breath. “What are our orders?”
“You have command of me and my cavalry again. Lady Flint is preparing a welcome for the Dynize. We’re to crush their vanguard and then sweep their eastern flank to keep their scouts from seeing her preparations.”
“Cavalry?”
“Not that we’ve seen. We suspect that their horses are simply what they could scrounge from Landfall.”
Styke smirked. “We took all the good ones when we left. They’ll have nothing but fourth-rate mounts. You said they’ll be here this evening?”
“That’s what we expect.”
Styke looked up. It was still early in the morning, but he could tell it would be a pleasant day. It was hot, but not too hot, and the humidity was bearable. As good a day as any for killing. “Ride, lancers, ride,” he sang to himself. Louder, to Gustar, he said, “Pass on the orders to Ibana. We head out within the hour.”
Styke and Celine watched the arrival of the Riflejack cavalry—a force of over a thousand that included a few hundred cuirassiers in their steel breastplates and bearskin hats, along with a larger contingent of dragoons, all riding under the Riflejacks’ flag of a shako over crossed rifles. Styke waited until they had streamed into the Mad Lancers’ camp and then rode down to join them.
He found his second-in-command, Ibana ja Fles, standing next to a makeshift headquarters—a tent flying the skull and lance of the Mad Lancers—issuing orders and reviewing inventory reports. Major Gustar stood nearby, his jacket resting loosely over his shoulders, hand on the butt of his saber, eyeing his men in silence. Styke lowered Celine from the saddle and followed her down, tying Amrec to a post before heading over to join the officers.
Ibana finished with a set of reports and handed them off to a soldier. “Flint has no idea how big that Dynize army is, and she’s still preparing to dig in and fight.”
“I don’t think she has much of a choice,” Styke responded, nodding to Gustar. “She can withdraw and let them ravage the refugees, or she can pick her ground.” He asked Gustar, “What’s this surprise she’s preparing for them?”
“No idea. All I know is we need to keep them from getting a good look at her formations.”
“Do they have cavalry beyond those in the vanguard?”
Gustar spread his hands. “Sorry.”
“Pit. We need better information than this.”
Ibana snorted. “Yeah, well. This whole venture was your idea. So what do we do?”
“How are the new recruits?” Styke responded with his own question.
“They’ll do.” Ibana sucked on her teeth. “I’d like another three months to train them, but that’s not going to happen.”
Gustar gestured toward her. “Same here. We’ve been trying to fill out our numbers from Adran ex-pats and retired cavalry officers among the refugees. They’re a willing bunch, but very rusty.”
Like Ibana said, they would have to do. Almost a third of their number would be green or out-of-practice riders with just a few weeks of training under their belts. “Make a buddy system,” he said.
“A what?” Ibana replied.
“A buddy system.” Styke smiled grimly. “They used to do that in the labor camps when a new batch of prisoners came in. Pair one of the new guys with two or three old hands. The old convicts were responsible for the new—teach them the ropes, the guard signals, the schedule.”
“And that worked?” Ibana asked doubtfully.
“Seemed to. I knew the camp quartermaster, and she said the buddy system extended life expectancy and reduced injuries.” He tapped his finger on the side of his leg thoughtfully, fiddling with his big lancers’ ring. “Of course, every once in a while the old convicts would just murder the new one for his shoes.”
“That,” Major Gustar said, “is not reassuring.”
Styke ignored him. “We do as we’re told. Smash the vanguard and then go looking for trouble.” He pictured a mental map of the area, considering the refugees, the river, and Flint’s forces. “The river is too deep for them to flank us, but they may send scouts. Gustar, I want you to take a hundred and fifty of your dragoons and sweep the west bank. Keep eyes off of Flint.”
“Yes, sir.”
Styke flexed his fingers, feeling that twinge in his wrist. He wasn’t the young, strapping cavalry officer he’d once been. But he was the best Flint was going to get. “Ibana, take the rest of the Riflejacks down the road. I’ll swing wide with the lancers and we’ll hit that vanguard before they know what’s happening.”