The Heroes

catch a mouthful of barley, and urged his men forward with what was intended to be a soldierly jerk of the hand.
    ‘On! On! To the town!’
    It was no secret General Jalenhorm was prone to poorly considered orders, but saying so would have been terrible form. Usually officers quietly ignored him where possible and creatively interpreted him where not. But there was no room for interpretation in a direct order to attack.
    ‘Steady, men, keep even!’
    They kept even to no noticeable degree, indeed in the main they appeared rather ragged and reluctant, and Lasmark could hardly blame them. He didn’t much care for charging unsupported into an empty mass of barley himself, especially since a good part of the regiment was still clogged up in the shambles of men and equipment on the bad roads south of the river. But an officer has his duty. He had made representations to Major Popol, and the major had made representations to Colonel Wetterlant of the Sixth, who was ranking officer on the hill. The colonel had appeared too busy to take much notice. The battlefield was no place for independent thought, Lasmark supposed, and perhaps his superiors simply knew better than he did.
    Alas, experience did not support that conclusion.
    ‘Careful! Watch the treeline!’
    The treeline was some distance away to the north and seemed to Lasmark particularly gloomy and threatening. He did not care to imagine how many men could be concealed in its shadows. But then he thought that whenever he saw woods, and the North was bloody full of them. It was unclear what good watching them would do. Besides, there was no turning back now. On their right, Captain Vorna was urging his company ahead of the rest of the regiment, desperate to get into the action, as ever, so he could go home with a chestful of medals and spend the balance of his life boasting.
    ‘That fool Vorna’s going to pull us all out of formation,’ growled Sergeant Lock.
    ‘The captain is simply obeying orders!’ snapped Lasmark and then, under his breath, ‘The arsehole. Forward, men, at the double!’ If the Northmen did come, the worst thing of all would be to leave gaps in the line.
    They upped the pace, all tiring, men occasionally catching a boot and sprawling in the crops, their order fraying with every stride. They might have been half way between the hill and the town now, Major Popol in the lead on horseback, waving his sabre and bellowing inaudible encouragements.
    ‘Sir!’ roared Lock. ‘Sir!’
    ‘I bloody know,’ gasped Lasmark, no breath to spare for moaning now, ‘I can’t hear a word he’s … oh.’
    He saw what Lock was desperately stabbing towards with his drawn sword and felt a horrible wave of cold surprise. There is a gulf of difference, after all, between expecting the worst and seeing it happen. Northmen had broken from the woods and were rushing across the pastures towards them. It was hard to tell how many from this angle – the dipping ground was cut up by ditches and patchy hedgerows – but Lasmark felt himself go colder yet as his eyes registered the width of their front, the glimmer of metal, the dots of colour that were their painted shields.
    The Rostod Regiment was outnumbered. Several companies were still following Popol blithely off towards Osrung where even more Northmen waited. Others had stopped, aware of the approaching threat on their left and seeking desperately to form lines. The Rostod Regiment was heavily outnumbered, and out of formation, and caught unsupported in the open.
    ‘Halt!’ he screamed, rushing into the barley ahead of his company, spinning about and throwing his arms up at his men. ‘Form line! Facing north!’ That was the best thing to do, wasn’t it? What else could they do? His soldiers began to perform a shambolic mockery of a wheel, some faces purposeful, others panicked as they scrambled into position.
    Lasmark drew his sword. He’d picked it up cheap, an antique, really, the hilt was prone to rattle. He’d paid less for it than he had for his dress hat.That seemed a foolish decision now. But then one sword looked much like another and Major Popol had been very particular about the appearance of his officers on parade. They were not on parade now, more the pity. Lasmark glanced over his shoulder, found he was chewing so hard at his lip he could taste blood. The Northmen were closing swiftly. ‘Archers, ready your bows, spearmen to the—’
    The words froze in his throat. Cavalry had