Battle
The Spakka formed up in a long line, several men deep, great round shields overlapping in the front, a process which took a couple of hours while the Harrheinians marched closer. Spakka pipers strode in front of the line, competing with each other and dragging the men into song. Brawny young Spakka boys, dressed in just shorts, barefoot, dragged wooden barriers in front of the lines, with wicked spiked tree trunks pointing forward to welcome the Heavy Horse. Asmara searched for diggings, seeing no sign of death traps for horse beyond the barriers. She ran her estimate of the Spakka over again, amazed at their ability to bring so many over the ocean and keep them resupplied. There must be well over five thousand men here, perhaps as many as seven. All front line warriors, it seemed, and she recounted again, counting a section of the wall accurately, then multiplying that by the number of sections in the wall.
Her tongue protruded as she went through the mental calculations before eyeing Sergeant Russell. “Six and half thousand warriors, Andy?”
“Near enough, Princess.” They kept their voices to a whisper, despite the distance, in case of pickets.
Asmara worried. She knew the Harrhein army to be larger, ten thousand men, but few were hardened soldiers. Yes, the Northern Lords wore their scars with pride and amounted to a solid core of three thousand, and the Galician and Harrhein cavalry, most of whom would fight on foot, practised for warfare on a daily basis, hacking at each other in the lists with blunted swords. They made up another two thousand, but half were in the reserve, and the remaining five thousand were levees, farmers paying their lords through armed service. Few possessed experience, let alone armour, weapons or skill, but held sharpened poles and improvised farm implements. They were of no more use in fighting Spakka than to tire their warriors’ axe-wielding arms.
The Harrhein columns marched forward, drawing up in lines opposite the Spakka wall, the shouts of sergeants preparing the men, while Spakka champions strode out to challenge. Some of them managed broken Harrheinian, liberal lacings of insults making their intentions plain. While the Harrheinians moved into position, the invitations received no response at all, but once in position and waiting, boredom set in, and it wasn’t long before the first champion strode from the ranks, a Galician knight unknown to the watchers on the cliff.
The niceties of the combat could not be seen from the cliff, till the climax when the knight threw his shattered shield in the axeman’s face before running him through with a sword, seconds before the axe removed his head.
“That’s a draw,” said Jez.
Asmara kept quiet, surprised that the marshal permitted the challenges. They made the warfare all too similar to the old ways, trumpeting glory rather than winning, and though she appreciated the entertainment while the lines sorted themselves out, and thrilled at Spakka blood spilt on the ground, rather too many Harrhein heads went spinning into the air for comfort.
Jez turned to her Master-at-Arms.
“See here, Andy, you’ve fought these bastards, face to face?”
Sergeant Russell grunted and rubbed his thigh, where an Uitlander spear penetrated a few years earlier “Couple of times. Hard not to on the frontier.”
“How do they react to horses?”
“Threaten the rider, usual style, then take the horses legs from under before chopping up the rider as he lands.”
“They’ll get a shock with a lancer, then. How are they armoured?”
“Boiled leather, three layers with metal studs, sometimes, or nothing. They like to move on foot and don’t want much weight. Don’t think you can lance them so easy, those axes will deflect or break your lances.”
“We come a bit faster than they might expect. Anything they do that would stop a lance? Helmets, shields?”
“Shut it, Jez,” said an older man, rolling over and glaring at him through ferret-like features and a scarred mouth full of broken teeth. Asmara realised he was much younger than his greying hair announced. “How many bloody times do you have to ask these damn fool questions?”
“Just getting it straight in my head, double checking I’ve got it right.”
They lapsed into silence while the champions slowed down. Asmara thought the Galicians would view the forthcoming battle in a different light, considering how easily some of their champions died. The king appeared, obvious from his pennants, with a substantial guard. He made his way to the centre of the line, causing some unseemly pushing in the Spakka lines as various warriors attempted to change their position to oppose him.
Jez turned to the bushes and hissed, whereupon they parted and Matt’s bearded face shone through.
“Matt, get the lads mounted, make sure they water the horses, and assemble at the top of the trail down, where I showed you. Be there in ten and wait for me.”
Asmara raised an eyebrow, but Lionel did not seem bothered. They worked well together, these two.
The king dismounted, his horse taken to the rear by a lad. He took his place in the centre of the line, swinging an axe to loosen his shoulders. The whole line bristled with intent, various soldiers following their own routines, mainly involving gods and luck.
“Oh, you silly old bastard, I told you not to be in the front line.” Asmara did not realise she spoke aloud till she saw Lionel grin. She flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
“Don’t you worry about him, Princess,” said Sergeant Russell. “He’s so mad with himself over the Duchess, he’s going to make them Spakka pay, and he’s a hand with that axe. Some good lads alongside him too. See, that big lad must be Bear, and I reckon those Guards on the other side are the Trotter twins. The general put in proper soldiers to keep an eye on him, not parade ground pussies.”
The two lines shook as the warriors picked up their shields and the first steps towards each other came at almost the same time. Spakka boys ran forward through their lines, collecting the stake barriers and running back with them in a pretty display of drill as the front line opened to let them through, barriers in hand.
The distance between the two lines closed, and although both matched in length, the Spakka line stretched two or three deeper than the Harrhein ranks. With twenty paces between the lines, the rear file of the Harrhein wall dropped back and a black cloud flew over the heads of the wall, smacking into the Spakka, tearing great holes in the ranks. Spakka curses flew and their line sped up as the warriors raced to avoid more arrows, thumping their shields into the Harrhein line with a crash that caused clouds of rooks to rise into the sky from trees surrounding the plain.
The two sides strained, shields locked together, bosses grinding, seeking to disrupt the push. The men in the front line used short swords, trying to slip them through cracks, but in no time they were reduced to simply shoving, unable to use a weapon. The second rank pushed as well, hard on the backs of the men in front, while the third added their weight in places, and in others a soldier would drop down and use a longer sword to stab at the feet of the enemy front line.
The archers continued to let fly arrows, thudding into the back ranks of the Spakka wall, where the boys rushed up with straw palliasses, holding these above the heads of the troops and nullifying the effect.
A long ten minutes drifted past, the buzz of insects around their heads ignored as the two sides strained against each other, more of a pushing contest that warfare. Boys ran through both lines to drag bodies back from the front, some still alive, others comatose, most nursing a bloody foot. Pennants fell and rose again, while Asmara watched for the Galician right to break.
“Damn,” said Sir Lionel, “the left is giving first. Jez, see what you can do.”
“About fucking time,” he muttered as he left, Asmara pretending not to hear, but inwardly delighted to hear a swear word. She pushed back to go with him, but he motioned her back.
“Not this one, Princess, join us later, we’ve got a battle plan to save.”
She turned to the front, in time to hear Lionel whisper, “Hold just a little longer, lads, we’ll have your backs.”
The left did rally, as the banner of Lord Fearaigh crashed into the front rank, surely with his nephew, not the old man. Another five minutes and they were slipping back again, when she saw movement down in the trees to their left.
A column of riders came out of the pines onto the plain, riding six abreast and maybe just twenty files deep. A Spakka boy saw them, his shout just audible as the boys raced to place their barriers between the riders and the shield walls. Asmara could see Jez in the front row, Matt’s beard shining beside him. The rows stretched out, two horse lengths between each and the Spakka boys’ mouths fell open so wide they could be seen from the cliff, as the first row took off and sailed over the barriers, shortly followed by the second. The boys ran, a couple taking lances in the back for leaving it too late.
The front row of the Lancers changed, with Jez pushing to the fore and almost becoming single file. His lance dropped, sinking into a Spakka in the back row, the handle rising behind him as the Spakka dropped and Jez rode past his body, pulling out his lance as he went before circling left to come round behind his column.
Matt took the next man, seconds later, repeating Jez’s movement as did the following riders, moving in a deadly ballet, a curving gallop, killing their man and swinging away, always out of reach of an axe. In seconds the Lancers broke through the Spakka right, tearing through the back of the wall to spear the front warriors from behind. Sensing the approach, the Spakka tried to turn and step back, to form an impregnable wall impervious to horse. The sole effect was to jostle the next warrior, and a sideways motion shuddered down the shield wall, breaking the concentration of warriors for a good three hundred paces.
The Harrhein left grasped the advantage, pushing hard at the staggering Spakka, keeping them off balance and pushing back, regaining the lost ground and threatening to break.
Not all the Lancers made it. One horse failed to clear the barriers, impaled and screaming till his rider lanced it, while four fell while jumping, one lying still in the grass, the others recalling their mounts. One Spakka caught a lance with his axe, snapping it, only for the next rider to catch him in the armpit.
By the time Jez circled round for a second pass, the Spakka bristled from behind a new wall, and he kept wide of them, dodging a thrown axe and streaking down the back of the line to spear a warrior turning to defence too late. He and his men proceeded to ride up and down the back of the line, halving its effectiveness, as they faced two ways, and giving the advantage to the Harrhein wall.
“Amazing,” said Asmara, watching the confusion in the Spakka wall. “Did you know that would happen? With so few men?”
“I found an old scroll, described cavalry tactics. Talked about the best tactic to hit from the side and roll them up. How you could destroy a whole wall if you hit it right. But it was Heavy Horse stuff, not Lights. We can’t hit an armoured wall, not without huge losses, but we can destroy a confused enemy. I thought this was a good blend of the two tactics.” Sir Lionel chewed a straw of grass, while contemplating the battle.
The Spakka commander sent some of his reserve to block Jez and his troop, who simply rode round it and skewered half a dozen isolated warriors, moving too fast for the foot warriors. The bulk of the Spakka reserve gathered around the commander, while boys placed the stake barriers in a thick hedge in front of them. The Lancers continued to ignore them and ventured further down the back of the shield wall, causing Sir Lionel to curse. “Not too far, damn you.”
The entire right wing of the Spakka quivered and bowed, disrupted by a handful of men, less than fifty, the uncertainty creeping through them while the Harrheinians punished their confusion and the whole wall crept backwards
Now the Spakka commander committed more of his reserve, upwards of two hundred troops, which spread out in a wide arc to entrap the Lancers. Jez responded by dividing his troop into three smaller bands, which drove straight at the warriors in the arc, each band ten paces apart. The warriors whirled their axes, the Lancers feinted a thrust, dodged the counter and leaned forward to take the enemy in the face with unexpected speed. They left a line of twitching corpses as they broke through the line, including one horse while the rider sprinted after his friends, only to take a thrown axe in the back. Two riders circled back to help him, and rode down the thrower only to disappear in a mass of warriors pulling the horses down.
“It’s time,” said Sir Lionel, Sergeant Russell grunting in agreement, and Asmara saw the Galicians on the right begin to break and stream away from the battle. The Spakka commander, with a worried glance at the small band of lancers, committed his reserve to the breach and they ran in a torrent towards the gap created by the Galicians falling away. The Lancers hurried to their horses, while Sergeant Russell tried to restrain Asmara.
“We’ll watch from here, give you the best view of the battle and you can see the tactics emerge.”
“Like hell I will,” she glared at him. “I’m riding with the Lancers, and I’ll put a knife in you if you try and stop me.” She held her hunting knife in her hand, a dainty piece of beautiful, silvered steel which he taught her to sharpen, and the edge glinted at him with evil intent. She pushed past him and rushed to her horse, held for her by a smiling boy whom she didn’t know. She leapt astride, accepting the proffered cut down lance with relish, and trotted up to join Sir Lionel at the head. He frowned at her, but withheld comment as his soldiers adjusted to her position at his left.
With a quick glance behind to check all riders were ready, Sir Lionel raised his right arm, containing his lance, and twisted it forward. As one, the troop broke into a trot, which they raised to a relaxed canter as the trail broadened. Asmara thrilled at the speed and in mere moments they were on the plain, four hundred and fifty Lancers with pennants flying.
The very sight of them broke the Spakka right, as shouts of alarm caused too many warriors to turn to protect themselves from cavalry, allowing the full fury of the Fearaigh men to explode through their wall.
Asmara stood in her stirrups as she cantered, striving to see the battle on the right, without success. In front of them the Spakka commander’s face showed behind his guard, bearded face working as he shouted commands. His reserve was gone, despatched to the break in the line and slaughter the Harrhein shield wall, and now he dragged his personal guard, huge, bearded men with massive axes, into a line between himself and the oncoming Lancers.
Asmara felt a moment of horror at the thought of riding into them, before combat ecstasy washed over her and she screamed joyously as she couched her little lance, selecting the hairiest, biggest face to bury it in. Her horse neighed as his own anger surfaced and she switched to a gallop as she urged him on, only for Sir Lionel to smack her horse on the nose with his lance, causing it to shy and slow down, while she scrabbled to retain her seat.
“Discipline, damn you,” he said, his eyes on the enemy.
Asmara blushed and rode with an upright, mortified back while the Lancers cut down the distance to the enemy lines. The Spakka warriors braced themselves, some standing sideways, others pointing the crowning spike on some of the axes straight at the horses. She witnessed the measurement in the eyes, not one afraid, all veterans of a hundred charges from heavy horse, each preparing for the moment.
A mere fifty paces separated them when a command from Sir Lionel caused the Lancers to split and ride sideways in front of the Spakka wall, Sir Lionel’s own horse turning hers. As they turned, the warriors lost their readiness, axes grounded, and raised their heads to find out what was happening.
Cries of agony mixed with Spakka swearwords echoed from behind them and the warriors turned, just in time to see their commander’s head explode as a lance shattered it, perfectly piercing the circlet of gold around the skull, proclaiming him a king, not just a commander. A horse reared, its rider screaming an inarticulate roar of triumph and shaking his bloody lance as the crown slithered down it. Jez whirled the horse and was away before the shocked warriors could react, their back rows decimated by the unexpected charge and their commanders slaughtered. Jez had led his column around the back while Lionel distracted the Spakka king, choosing the perfect moment for a surgical narrow charge up the unguarded back of the hill.
Sir Lionel turned again, this time leading his side of the troop past the edge of the wall and neatly skewering the outside man. Asmara, on his left, couldn’t reach one to her intense annoyance. The Lancers turned and repeated their tactic, riding past the remaining warriors, using the length of their lances to pick off exposed men, each fallen man exposing two more for the next rider. Sir Lionel continued to restrict Asmara’s charges as she became more and more frustrated, before allowing her join him in riding down broken warriors running for the trees.
The Spakka right was in full flight, turning for the hills and the route back to their ships, pursued by the weary Northerners, who ceased when the Lancers took over.
*
King Richard’s fury sustained him through the first half hour of the fight. He managed to stab one opponent as they closed, after which he exchanged insults with the Spakka noble opposite him, in an equal fury. Neither man could harm the other in the crush, and now came one of those queer moments of respite in battle, where both sides took a step back and breathed. The king became conscious of pain on his head and in his foot, but didn’t remember the blow to the head or the stab from under the shields.
He supposed he ought to worry about the battle, but all his interest remained focused on the noble in front of him. Either side of him, hulking soldiers grinned at their opponents, equally large.
Shouts came on the breeze, in Harrheinian, from behind the Spakka lines, interrupting the moment and causing heads to turn to find the source.
“Hey bastards,” came the voice. “Wet-assed fish-fuckers, it’s over, you’re finished, I killed your fucking king. Look at me, I’ve got your bloody crown. I’m your bloody king now!”
Riding at an unbelievable speed on a huge yet delicate horse was a boy, wearing just leather or cotton clothes, no armour. Riding was the wrong word, he was standing on the saddle, holding a long, long spear in the hand that held the reins and shouting as he rode. A gold circlet, which did look a bit like his own, thought the king, gleamed from his right hand, waved with abandon above his head and shaken at the Spakka lines. Following behind the boy was another twenty odd boys, all that remained of the fifty who rode out first, all laughing at the Spakka and shouting as well, that the battle was over, they’d won, they’d killed the king.
The Spakka in front tensed, many snatching looks behind, and barking questions at each other. The noble in front stepped back enough to concentrate on the crown, before turning back to King Richard with a faint nod and easing back into his men.
The king nodded back, leaning on his axe which now weighed twice as much as earlier. The Spakka did not surrender, but fought to the last man. These men would fight their way back to their ships and many would die, from both sides. The king wondered if he would see the noble again.
The Spakka centre in front of the king turned and ran for the trees. Those running towards the break in the Harrhein line, the reserve, slowed and also turned and fled, few getting far as the Lancers fell into a killing frenzy. The men of the Harrhein shield wall stood and recovered their breath, silent onlookers as the Lancers ran down the fleeing Spakka. Here and there a group came together to retreat in good order, ignored by the riders who concentrated on the single runners, dropping them as they ran. A Lancer would gallop through the field, keeping well away from the foot soldiers before picking a target, standing tall in his stirrups and placing his lance with precision in a soft spot, riding over the fallen warrior and extracting his lance as he did so, using the speed of his horse to pull it free of the suction.
A horse careened towards the king, drawing back on its haunches and skittering the last few paces, waving its front hooves in the air.
“Dad! Are you all right? We have them on the run!”
The king stared up at the rider, seeing his daughter astride the horse, teeth shining through the blood across her face, hat long gone and red hair streaming in the wind. She waved a lance in her right hand which dripped heart blood as he nodded, dumbstruck.
“Got to run, I’ve only had four so far, will lose my bet,” she said with breathless determination, wheeling her horse and charging after the fleeing Spakka. Around the king, soldiers cheered and waved while the Bear turned to his liege.
“D’ye hear that? Four? The little hellion has outdone her da’, she has.” He shook his head. “Ye’ll never find a man to marry that one to, Yer ‘Ighness, she’d ‘ave all your pansy nobles for bloody breakfast, she would.”
“She’s a little darling,” said one of the two monstrous twins on the king’s other side. “But she won’t stand in a shield wall like her dad.”
“She won’t need to,” said his brother with unexpected insight, causing the king to nod in thought. “They’ll change the face of war, them lads. The Spakka can never put a shield wall against us again. Time to retire lads. Take the Spakka a few years to work out how to deal with those boys.”
“Not least because we’ve broken their armies, they won’t have the men to send a big army like this for many a year.”
The king nodded in thought. “What about those who broke through? Any sign?”
The Bear used his greater height to scan the field, shaking his head. “Can’t see anything. We’ll hear soon enough, I reckon.” He eased off the armour from his shoulder, where a massive dent dug into his flesh, cursing as he gave it to the boy who ran up to collect it. The king followed his example, relying on the instincts of these old soldiers. His squire unlaced his breastplate and stripped off the various parts, wrapping them in greased leather in the forlorn hope he would have less work to do in cleaning the rust.
Retaining his sword, the king strode towards a little knoll, from where the Spakka commander had viewed the field. The king began to limp as his foot pained him. He and his guard took five minutes to reach the top, picking their way through the corpses while the soldiers finished off the wounded. The king inspected the corpses before settling above a large man with a shattered head and better clothing. After a moment of silent contemplation over the body of his foe, he walked to the crest from where the view stretched to the forests on either side of the plain.
To the north, dead Spakka speckled the plain, the rooks and crows already alighting. The city gates of Hardenwall were wide, and the populace boiled out, away to loot the dead and finish off the wounded. The Lancers scattered over the plain, walking now though most appeared missing, and a good few horses scattered the plain, indicating it had not been one way killing. He guessed the majority, including his wretched, bloodthirsty daughter, were harrying the retreating Spakka to their ships. He wondered if they would finally capture some.
In the south the situation was less clear. Long lines of corpses marked the spot where the shield wall had stood, with priests and healers going over the bodies, helping a good number back to the base camps. Harrhein soldiers streamed away, apparently unaware the battle was won. King Richard grunted in amusement, thinking that Count Rotherstone would be one of them. The Pathfinder and the Guards regiments stood out, still arrayed in squares bristling with axe and spear, plus the new combination, the pole-axe. The squares moved at a snail’s pace towards the north. The Heavy Horse spilled out around the plain, with a band heading straight for the knoll.
As the leader sped up towards him, he pulled back his helmet to reveal the grinning face of Lord Sol.
“Tally ho! Excellent sport. We gave them what for, a complete right-about. Your young general did an excellent job. Lanes for us to charge down, just like being in the lists.” Lord Sol clasped a broken lance and blood dripped from his left gauntlet which still gripped the reins. “But what happened up here? You broke the buggers? How the devil did you kill so many?” He stared out at the plain in amazement, the bodies strewn everywhere, while the townspeople worked over them.
“We’re getting old, Jackie. I tell you I didn’t kill a soul today, and my damn daughter rushed off after checking up on me, as if I was the child, saying she had only killed four and wanted more. The kids did that, they’re the bloody future.”
Lord Sol stared for a moment, before climbing slowly down from his charger, stretching his back briefly and rummaging in his saddle bag. He produced a black bottle with a grin of triumph and knocked the top off with his sword.
“Get some of that down you, and tell me all about it. Kids? What kids?”
The king accepted the bottle and took a hearty swig before passing it back.
“Did you know we had some Fearaigh boys here? No? Neither did I. Tell you the truth, we’re not quite sure what happened. General Roberts didn’t mention any of this to me.”
The Duke of Fearaigh had arrived, and helped himself to the brandy before adding some information.
“Top lads. They saved the battle, no question. We couldn’t hold, were falling back, when barely fifty kids on ponies, itsy-bitsy bloody ponies, came charging out of the woods and hit the end of the Spakka line, smack on the side. Whole Spakka wall fell apart, as they shoved people into each other, like dominoes. We took advantage and pushed back, but it was only for a moment. The kids charged up and down the back of the line, spearing the Spakka slaves and they had to form a double wall, one at the back as well. They didn’t like that.”
He reached for the brandy again, eyes far away while more gathered to hear his words.
“Spakka king sent part of his reserve to sort them, and the boys just went round them before going down the line and out of sight.” He swigged heavily. “A whole mass more of them came out of the trees, yes with your daughter right at the front. Didn’t they move fast, by Jove. Twice the speed of a Heavy Horse charge. Straight at the Spakka king. Too much for the wall. They started to break as we pushed at them. I didn’t, I was watching the horse. They didn’t hit the wall guarding the Spakka king, they split, going across the front of the wall, confused the hell out of the Spakka.”
He grabbed back the brandy which the king had retrieved and his swallow filled the silence.
“The Spakka king was on top of this hill, looking down at the ponies, and all of a sudden his head tore apart like a melon hit with an axe. It was those first fifty kids, they’d only circled round and cut up the hill like a spear, the leader must have been travelling when he took the king. Young rascal tried to cut off the king’s head, but there wasn’t much left of it so he had to be content with the crown. Last I saw of him he was standing on his bloody horse and careering down the back of the Spakka line with his mates trying to catch him while he whirled the crown over his head.”
“Yes,” said the king, “we saw him. The Spakka broke when they heard his words and saw the crown.”
“Sire,” said the Bear. “General Roberts approaching.”
Indeed, the general cantered up the hill, dismounting in front of the king, his quick glance assuring the health of the leading nobles.
“Hello Bobby, I suppose you are going to claim that this was all according to plan?”
“Wish I could, Dicky. Lord Sol did his job to perfection as I knew he would, but what happened here? How did the Spakka wall disintegrate? Who killed them all? Surely not the Lancers?”
“Is that what you call them? Yes, those blasted boys. Fearaigh, tell him what happened again.”
“Sire,” said one of the twins. “The boy who killed the king, that’s him over there, with his friends.”
“What? Where? So it is. Here you, whatever your name is, ride over there and get him, this instant. I want to talk to him.”
“Captain Rogers, sire, equerry to General Roberts.” The rider spurred his horse into a standing gallop while the Duke of Sarl repeated his story for the general. As he finished, the boy cantered up to the bottom of the knoll, where he deposited the blonde girl from his saddle, leaving two of his riders to protect her. The king noticed several of the riders had collected girls, presumably part of the civilians streaming out of Hardenwall.
The boy persuaded his lathered, exhausted horse to canter up the hill without spurring him, as the king noted with approval. He reined to a halt ten paces from the king, gathered his legs underneath him and stood up in the saddle with a graceful movement, burying his lance in the ground beside the horse and tying the reins to it with a swift motion. He somersaulted from the back of the horse, clean over its head to land on bent legs in front of the king, from where he went down on one knee.
“Sire,” he said in a clear, well-spoken voice, “may I present you with the war crown of the Spakka?” He held up the thin band of gold, distinctly bent and bloodstained.
“Thank you, lad. Now, what’s your name and how the devil did you manage that trick?”
“Sire, I am Jeremy, brother to Colonel Sir Lionel Summoner, commander of the Royal Lancers.”
“Are you his second?”
“Not likely, sire. I am his champion. I lead the charges, first through the breach and make it myself. Death or glory, sire.” Jeremy grinned, a grin full of devilment and mischief.
The king threw back his head and laughed.
“Damn rascal,” he said, cuffing him. “So you boys spent the night in the hills ready to come out at need this morning.” Jeremy nodded. “And my daughter spent the night up there with you. If you touched her, boy, no stay down, damn you, I am not finished.”
The king dragged his sword out of its scabbard causing Jeremy to tense. The king whacked the sword down hard on his right shoulder before moving it to the left.
“Now you can get up, Sir Jeremy, damn good job you did today. Yes, I know it isn’t the proper bloody ceremony, Jackie, but is all we need on the battlefield. This lad won’t swear a church oath, if I am any judge. No, stay here, I want to talk with you some more and I expect Bobby will want to debrief you.” The king bent forward and whispered in a hoarse voice. “Make it good and you’ll get a good rank out of it.”
Jeremy looked back down the hill to where his blonde waited, no longer watching him but flirting with the other riders.
“Never mind her and never mind loot,” said the king, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll find enough women waiting for you tonight, wide choice too. And there is no loot on Spakka. Not that you need any, as your earned yourself some land today.” The king glanced at Lord Sol with a straight face. “Few empty Baronetcies in Galicia, I think.”
Lord Sol bridled.