Chapter 96 93

Lord Axel Arryn.

The valley we occupied had a generous amount of loose soil. The heat had baked the earth bone-dry, leaving the entire area thick with dust. From the small clouds of it rising where enemy detachments moved, one could read their intentions clearly enough.

"They are cutting off the exits. Then they will encircle us." I was not the only one who could read an army's intentions from the dust.

"Yes. Eyris, we have an hour, perhaps two, while they finish their preparations and satisfy themselves there are no traps. Have the men eat and drink grog before the fighting starts."

"I hate that foul brew of yours." I understood completely. I hated it too.

Grog was a stimulant that dulled physical pain and allowed a man to give everything he had. Some orc of Mordor had created it toward the end of the Second Age or the beginning of the Third; I could not remember precisely which. Fortunately for everyone present, most of the original ingredients, or their equivalents, had been beyond my reach. I had been forced to develop something from scratch, which I had managed to do in Essos. My company, back in our days as sellswords, had used the concoction in decisive engagements, but it carried a risk. The side effect was unpleasant. A few hours after taking it, a man would collapse from exhaustion.

"So do I."

"I hope you know what you are doing, because I have my doubts about your assessment."

"After all our battles and adventures together, you still doubt my judgment?" I feigned offense. "I am wounded, ser."

"For your prediction to come true, a miracle would have to happen."

"One will, my friend."

...

All those unfit for battle we sent into the caves for their own safety. Supplies and medicine followed. Then we had to manage carefully and collapse the passage behind them. The decision was practical. There were no spare men to guard them, and the wounded would anchor us to a fixed position, which was as good as a death sentence. This way they would survive the day. If I fell, Brynden would have no interest in them, and when they had recovered some strength they could leave on their own. If I won, I would come back for them.

"Prepare yourselves." The ease left our ranks. "Jasper, you remember the plan?" That kind of familiarity might have offended many knights, but the last few days had changed Ser Jasper

"My lord Arryn, I will see it done properly." The giant's voice was calm as he made the promise.

Most men were ground down by defeat, some lost their will to fight altogether. Jasper Redfort had only been hardened by it. Over the last few days his bearing had changed. The wild beast in him had quieted. The arrogance was gone, and his mind had come awake. He had stopped being a fighting animal. That did not make him weaker. On the contrary, I could feel his battle spirit churning deep inside him.

"We wait for the signal."

…

Ser Brynden Tully.

"Sound the attack." Intuition was beating insistently at the back of his mind, warning him of danger.

Every person in the world possesses intuition. It showed itself most often in craftsmen who had devoted their lives to a single pursuit. An experienced smith unconsciously knew where to strike. A learned clerk could sense when something was wrong with a document. A seasoned guardsman could pick out a wrongdoer from a single glance. What all these people shared was one thing: experience, deep experience in their craft.

Brynden considered himself a craftsman of war with long experience. Intuition had saved him more than once, and right now it was trying to tell him something, but he could not decode the message. It troubled him greatly. He looked around, but found nothing suspicious.

His army moved calmly toward the hill, advancing like a single organism. Looking at them now, you would never guess they had been common rabble not so long ago. Weeks of drilling had not been wasted on them. Once they had been farmers who had never held a spear. Now they were soldiers, and proud ones.

"SER!!!" A rider came galloping toward him at full speed. "...Ser... hff-hff... I was riding to relieve the sentry on the northeastern road... and a horse came rushing out at me with a dead man in the saddle... the man was full of arrows... I turned right around... and rode to report..." The rider got the words out between gasping breaths.

Who could have killed him? The Falcon's Eye's cutthroats? They could manage it, but no. Someone from outside? Then the nearest sentries would have raised the alarm. Which means the sentries were all killed at nearly the same moment. That cannot be. Enemies?

"Redeploy. Send riders, have all the blocking detachments fall back to headquarters. Call up the..."

A horn sounded behind them.

…

Lord Axel Arryn.

"VZZZZHHHHHUUUU!!!"

"Rejoice, Eyris. The miracle has happened." He had made it.

Watching the enormous pillar of dust thrown up by the movement of a thousand men, I smiled. My loyal man Desmond had done something incredible. He had arrived within a timeframe that must have given the Blackfish a considerable shock. I was certain Brynden had known about the second army; there was no other reasonable explanation for why he would turn around and lay a trap for me. But under normal circumstances, even when a commander wrings every last effort from his soldiers, reinforcements were still half a day away at best.

So why had they arrived so much sooner? The army I commanded did not use the hill horses of the Vale. We used the sand steeds of Dorne, faster and more enduring than their counterparts, capable of galloping through an entire day and night without rest. An interesting tactic I had borrowed from the Lhazareen. The Lhazareen are not a warlike people, which causes them to suffer frequent raids from the Dothraki. Their spirit is weak, their culture is too, and the people themselves are as soft as any you will find. And yet why do these people still exist, when the realm of Sarnor was destroyed by the Dothraki? The answer is simple. They are very good at running and hiding.

Those clever Lhazareen had devised the large-scale use of wagons to move men quickly. I had reworked the idea for military purposes, and Desmond had put it into practice. An army's speed is determined by its slowest man. Desmond had driven his soldiers forward using wagons and constant rotations. This allowed them to march longer while tiring less, and that paid off in their pace.

Desmond's army was already in battle formation. Infantry at the center, cavalry on the flanks. By rough estimate the forces were roughly equal, though Brynden had the advantage in mounted troops. The rebel army was plainly panicking. They scrambled to redeploy, but too slowly. Redfort's infantry was driving into them like a hot blade through butter. Within the next half hour it would be decided whether the rebel army survived or was destroyed.

…

Ser Brynden Tully.

"Redeploy! Infantry to the front, archers back." Damn it all, a nasty situation. "Have Ser Rafiq and Ser Mendon press harder on the left wing! Ser Meikor, take the headquarters infantry and reinforce the center. It will take the heaviest blow."

He was forced to commit his most capable units, his veterans. It went against standard tactics and strategy, but there was no other way. If one section of the line broke, defeat and death awaited them all. They were trapped. Retreat was impossible, the terrain would not allow it. If the army broke and ran, pray to the Seven that one man in ten survived.

Committing the veterans justified itself. They steadied the line and turned a near-losing situation into a stable one. Once the immediate threat had passed, the advantage in cavalry began to be pressed. Advance, strike, withdraw. Because of this, despite the early success, the army of Desmond Redfort would be spent before Brynden's was.

"SIR! Two hundred riders have hit us from the rear. Facon's Eye is leading them." He turned and saw Arryn's banners behind his lines.

I do not know whether to admire his courage or call it stupidity. Even facing death he loves to throw himself into a mad venture. Naturally, he wants my head. He only needs to cut through the reserves, which for Arryn is no difficulty. Or would be, were Axel not wounded and his soldiers not well past their best.

"Send Ser Justace. Have him take all the guardsmen and bring me the Falcon's Eye's head."

Justace and three hundred guardsmen were seasoned fighters who served as my personal protection. They were the finest I had, and together with the reserve soldiers they would be more than enough to deal with half-dead men. Ten minutes later, Arryn's falcon banners disappeared from view. Justace had done his job.

Brynden breathed easier and turned his attention back to the battle against the Redfort. All that remained was to wait for them to bring him Axel Arryn's head. It would break the enemy's morale, and there was a chance they would surrender outright. Then peace would come, and his niece and grandson would be safe...

"SIR!!!"

He turned. Behind him, riders had smashed through the nearest ranks of his own men, led by an armored giant wielding a two-handed sword. Without hesitating for even a moment the giant charged straight at him. His hands drew his sword by reflex. He managed to block the blow that should have split him in two, but the savage force behind it threw him from his horse.

The world tilted, sound fell away, and pain spread through his old body. He could see men trying to reach him, but the giant's companions were cutting them off. It took only seconds to gather himself, but on a battlefield, seconds are everything.

With a furious cry the giant brought his sword down on Brynden.

The last thing he felt before death was the impossible weight of steel.