“I don’t,” the wizard replied coldly.
Overhead, heavy clouds swirled as boys ran about the camp spreading the order to form up. Horses trotted, kicking up clods of earth. Carts rolled, leaving deep ruts. Half-dressed men darted from tents, slipping in the slick mud. They carried swords over their shoulders, dragged shields, and struggled to fasten helms. Hadrian and Esrahaddon rode through the hive of soggy activity to the top of the ridge, where they could see the lay of the land for miles. The city to the north, with its wooden spires and drab walls, stood as a ghostly shadow. To the south lay the forest, and between them a vast plain stretched westward. What had once been farmland was now a muddy soup. The field was shaped like a basin, and at its lowest point a shallow pond had formed. It reflected the light of the dreary gray sky like a steel mirror. On the far side, the hazy encampment of the imperial army was just visible through a thick curtain of rain. Hadrian stared but could make out only faint, shadowy shapes. Nothing indicated they knew what was about to happen. Below them on the east side of the slope, hidden from imperial view, the Nationalist army assembled into ranks.
“What is it?” Esrahaddon asked.
Hadrian realized he was grimacing. “They aren’t very good soldiers,” he replied, watching the men wander about, creating misshapen lines. They stood listless, shoulders slumped, heads down.
Esrahaddon shrugged. “There are a few good ones. We pulled in some mercenaries and a handful of deserters from the Imperialists. That Renquist you were so taken with, he was a sergeant in the imperial forces. Joined us because he heard nobility didn’t matter in the Nationalist army. We got a few of those, but mostly they’re farmers, merchants, or men who lost their homes or families.”
Hadrian glanced across the field. “Lord Dermont has trained foot soldiers, archers, and knights—men who devoted their whole lives to warfare and trained since an early age.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. I’m the one who has to lead this ugly rabble. I’m the one who must go down there and face those lances and arrows.”
“I’m going with you,” he said. “That’s why you don’t need to worry about it.”
Bently and three other young men carrying colored flags rode up beside them. “Captains report ready, sir.”
“Let’s go,” Hadrian told them, and trotted down to take his place with a small contingent of cavalry. The men on horseback appeared even less capable than those on foot. They had no armor and wore torn, rain-soaked clothes. Except for the spears they held across their laps, they looked like vagabonds or escaped prisoners.
“Raise your lances!” he shouted. “Stay tight, keep your place, wheel together, and follow me.” He turned to Bently. “Wave the blue flag.”
Bently swung the blue flag back and forth until the signal was mimicked across the field, and then the army began moving forward at a slow walk. Armies never moved at a pace that suited Hadrian. When attacking with him, they crept with agonizing slowness. But when he was defending, they seemed to race at an unnatural speed. He patted the neck of his horse, which was larger and more spirited than old Millie. Hadrian liked to know his horse better before a battle. They needed to work as a team in combat, but he did not even know this one’s name.
With the wizard riding at his right side, and Bently on his left, Hadrian crested the hill and began the long descent into the wet field. He wheeled his cavalry to the right, sweeping toward the city, riding the rim of the basin and avoiding the middle of the muck, which he left to the infantry. He would stay to the higher ground and watch the army’s northern flank. This would also place him near the city gate, able to intercept any imperial retreat. After his company made the turn, he watched as the larger force of light-mounted lancers broke and began to circle left, heading to guard the southern flank. The swishing tails of their horses soon disappeared into the rain.
The ranks of the infantry came next. They crested the hill, jostling each other, some still struggling to get their helms on and shields readied. The lines were skewed, broken and wavy, and when they hit the mud, whatever mild resemblance they had to a formation was lost. They staggered and slipped forward as a mob. They were at least quiet. He wondered if it might be because most of them were half-asleep.
Hadrian felt his stomach twist.
This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly, then they would at least look like soldiers.
Success or failure in battle often hinged on impressions, decided in the minds of men before the first clash. Like bullies casting insults in a tavern, it was a game of intimidation—a game the Nationalists did not know how to play.