Breaking Ranks

Grant: Defeat

It was a defeated company that trudged back, closer to Sandstone. A defeated company that had not even lifted a blade.

We had formed up once more in the morning, following orders given out by the wise 14-year-old Chief Samander, and trekked back to Sandstone. The enemy followed from a distance behind, close enough to unnerve the men and yet far enough that there was never a need to form up for battle. Until that afternoon, when we had taken our new positions in the outlying hills around Sandstone, both the walls and the towering aeroponics facility in sight.

It wasn't my place to second guess my orders. And yet I found it strange that we still remained outside the town. If we were to fight out in the open, then why withdraw? And if we couldn't fight out in the open, then why not continue withdrawing and fight behind the walls?

And yet that was not the problem that confronted me. The problem was the eighty-seven men arranged for inspection. Or, to be more precise, those who were not. I should have noticed it earlier but thirteen of them had slipped away.

I cursed to myself, wondering if I should report this to Chief Samander. Wondering what I could have done to avoid this. Thinking of all the officers I had roundly mocked over the years, when my life was a good distance away from the pressures of command and I was in the company of comrades. Giving a few of my old officers a silent prayer.

By the Twelve, how easy it had seemed back then. Just have the sergeants do the work and keep the men paid and fed. But how do you do that when there are no sergeants? When a clerk hands you paper scroll with a mass of runes and all you can do is stare at those black marks swimming in a white pool and meaning less than nothing to you except as a reminder of how unsuited you are for the job?

I breathed out slowly as I examined the men. What men were left. Men and boys, I amended. Well, I might not know a thing about feeding them but I could make them fight. Had to make them fight. Or else, if I didn't... well, what would change, really? A different noble with a different accent giving different proclamations?

But no. That wasn't how a soldier should think.

"Never mind those Twelve-damned cowards," I hissed to the formation. "Regulation breakers the lot of them, and cowards all. A true man of Sandstone stands and fights. A true—"

"Ah, Sergeant," said a gangly farmer, pointing behind me. I turned.

There was no great fanfare from the enemy ranks. No trumpet sound or drums. No clash of sword on shield, no yelling, no screaming. Just a low rustling as a thousand pairs of legs moved as one through the grass and dirt that was all that separated our two sides. The noise that came was on our side, from shouts of alarm, from the loose lines of crossbowmen who fired a few volleys into the steadily advancing lines.

Then they weaved their way back through the thick ranks of the baron's personal guard, blocks of mailed soldiers, many of whom I would have recognized. My son would be among... oh, that's right.

Well. He would have company before too long.

The enemy was rushing forward now, moving at a faster pace than before, and they soon closed with the front ranks of the baron's professional soldiers. The baron's men held their ground and must have exacted a heavy cost, but sheer numbers forced them back. And then the enemy cavalry made their appearance, as in groups of twenty they made their way through their own lines with surprisingly delicate precision.

They moved as if they were the grasping fingers of a discerning thief, only dashing in when gaps had formed in our lines, and charging with sudden swiftness into the unprotected flanks. These gaps opened further, and more bands of horsemen slammed forward, and the first of our crossbowmen had reached us now. They had reached us not because they had been ordered to but because they could read the battle as well as I could and knew it to be lost. There were swordsmen intermixed with them now, angry and panicked faces pushing through the gaps in our lines.

I realized now that the standard bearer had been shouting something at me. He was a tall man, tall like my son. I stood there, unsure. Dimly I realized that the standard bearer had left. The baron's standard had fallen as well, though I saw the man himself riding off.

Our cavalry had been clustered together as one, and before the fighting had reached them they peeled off as one. Instead of charging through our lines they circled around as if taking the leisurely route to Sandstone. They would be going through the Port Gate, I thought. I had taken walks through the Port Gate with my wife before, to a meadow not very far away. Many times before. Before the daughters died, anyway. She didn't walk much any...

I started as I realized something had poked me. Is this the end? But I saw that it was the point of a shovel. The boy was holding the other end of it and looking at me in puzzlement.

"They're attacking," he said, as if reminding me of something. I looked at the scene before me, the baron's infantry now either fleeing for their lives or cut off and fighting to the death against the enemy swordsmen.

"There's no shame in running, boy," I said, looking at the boy. He looked pale, clinging to the shovel like it was some sort of spear. But it wasn't a spear, and he was no spearman. Maybe he would be some day, if he ran.

I looked back at the enemy. They pushed forward now, deep into our ranks. Men were streaming back now, panicked men, first in ones and twos and then whole groups of them. A crossbowman passed me now, almost bumping into me in panicked flight, tugging at his mail as if he could just strip it off and run faster. I gritted my teeth and looked back at the boy.

"You know," I began, and then realized I was talking to a shovel. I turned around more and saw the boy running off. Well, he was a smart one anyway. There weren't too many of the levies left either, and those few who remained were staring at me as if they expected me to set some sort of example for them. I took one glance back at the massacre and saw an armored knight cleaving through a swordsman's helm with a broadsword.

Well, that was the final argument.

I ran, my chest heaving, and found myself following the boy as I went. I must have dropped my sword for both arms now swung up and down as I forced myself onward. I wasn't too young to die, not anywhere close, but I found that I was still eager to avoid it if I could, and it wasn't like there were any old comrades around.

There's no way I would have ran if they could have seen me. We would have died together like stubborn old shits. Died and littered the hills outside Sandstone, to marinate under the lights and the chemical rains, away from the wife and son I had lost.