His feet slithered on the mud, desperate to find some purchase on the sodden grass. "Come on you piece of shit." He grunted, gripping the spokes of the wheel tighter. "Get up, one more heave." The others grunted and heaved, the wagon lifted an inch higher. "Oh come on!" he screamed putting all his effort in, his muscles strained to breaking. His men screamed in effort and pain and, finally, the wheel pulled out of the mud, they shuffled it sideways half a foot. "Don't drop it," he warned, "slowly." Gently, they put the wheel back down on the cobbled road.
"Yes!" The men cheered, slapping each other on the shoulders. Loren marched to the teamster, who was hunched over, hands on his knees, panting heavily. "Now don't put a wheel off the road again," he warned the man, jabbing a finger in his face. The wagon had come off the road on a particularly slippery patch, both wheels sinking into the mud. It must have taken them half an hour to lift it and it's load out of the sucking brown filth.
"No, my lord," the teamster said.
Loren waved him back to the wagon. As he returned to his horse, he pulled his gauntlet off and ran his fingers through his sticky hair. The rain was washing some of it away, but barely, still, it felt good to work the cold droplets into his scalp, let it run down his back. He rubbed the sheen of it over his face, moaning in relief.
"My Lord, are you okay?"
"I am, thank you Tyland," he passed his squire back his gauntlet who helped work it onto his hand again. He flexed the fingers, clenched a fist, then relaxed. Much less pain than before, still, best not to put too much strain on it. "A hand." Tyland steadied his horse and helped him mount so that Loren didn't have to put too much pressure on his tender arm. His plate had stopped the Young Wolf's stabs, but the blow to his elbow had left it purple and tender. He didn't doubt he'd be fighting again, and he didn't want to strain it too much.
He still couldn't believe he'd crossed blades with the Stark King in person. Perhaps it hadn't been, but no, the stark sigil on his horse, the ornate helm, the great bloody wolf, it had to be. He wouldn't be trying that again in a hurry, next time he'd suffer worse than a bruised arm. He satisfied himself that the bruised arm had saved his army. His direct intervention had worked just long enough for reinforcements to arrive from his right flank.
Only a bloody miracle had saved them. If the two sides had coordinated their attacks better, he'd have been crushed, but thank the gods, the attack on his right came a full half an hour after the Young Wolf had led his first attack. His men had been exhausted, running from one side of the column to another. The attackers on his right, led by a giant man with a giant sword had been more aggressive than the Young Wolf's never stopping, getting all the way to the convoy before he was able to bring more forces from the left to drive them back again. They'd been close to breaking point when the darkness had forced the Starks to break off the attack.
He'd unloaded several casks of wine from the convoy for that night, enough for a cup for every man, praising them for their triumph. Well, hardly a triumph, but they needed to think they'd won a great victory, and the fact that the Young Wolf hadn't yet attacked again seemed proof. But Loren knew better. He knew the numbers. Two thousand dead, another thousand wounded, many of them were being carried in the wagons, sprawled across sacks and crates while they waited for flesh wounds to heal or bones to set. But the rest had been too wounded to carry on.
He closed his eyes at the pain the memory brought.
"How many are there?" He asked.
"Hundreds," Gerold whispered, glancing over to where the most wounded were huddled, missing clutching at the stumps of legs, moaning through head injuries that would render them simple for the rest of their days. One was crawling over to a water skin, his legs dragging behind him useless, his back broken.
"There's not enough room on the wagons," Loren said. He wasn't asking, he knew. They'd packed the wagons full of those who would still be able to walk and hopefully fight again. If they tried to carry them, or support them, they'd slow to a crawl. They'd be caught. Either the Young Wolf would attack again, or Stannis Baratheon, hot on their heels, would catch them.
"My lord we'll-"
"I know!" Loren snapped. "I know." He closed his eyes. "I'll tell them."
Stop, he thought, just stop, I don't want to remember, I can't-
He walked over to them, smelling the wounds, hearing the pain, seeing the loss. He stood before them. They looked at him, pleading in their eyes, one, not older than fourteen was weeping silently, the tears just flowing as he looked up at Loren. "I'm so sorry," he said, loudly, so that they could all hear. They needed to hear it from him. "I'm sorry, but I can't take you with us. You'll slow us down."
"No my lord!"
"Please lord!"
"I can still walk, I beg you!"
"I can't!" Loren shouted, silencing them. "I'm also going to need your weapons," he said. "Men who can still fight will need them."
"I can fight!" The man was middle aged, a bandage over his eye. He struggled to his feet, his wounded leg shook. He collapsed with a cry of pain.
"Please lord, you can take one more, take me with you, don't leave me!" So young, what was he doing here? Why was he fighting?
"There's no room," they'd assessed those most fit. "I'm sorry, but I can't delay anymore, or everyone else will die." His men advanced to take the weapons. "Leave them their knives," Loren commanded, "but take everything else."
There were scuffled, some tried to resist, to hold their weapons and claim they could still fight. Others tried to attack his men. One of his men recoiled with a curse, clutching at a cut in his cheek. The man he'd tried to disarm held out his sword, the tip red. "Stay back," he said, his voice quivering in terror.
His soldier disarmed the crippled soldier. "Don't!" Loren shouted, seeing he was about to turn it on it's former owner in rage. The soldier looked at him and Loren rested his hand on his own sword pommel in warning. He stalked off to collect more weapons.
Something clutched at his leg. He looked down. It was the young soldier with the broken back. "I'm… I'm not useless, lord," he slurred through pain.
Loren knelt. "What's your name?" He whispered.
"Wes, lord," he grunted, clutching at his dead legs.
"Wes… I'm sorry, but I can't take you." He reached down and took Wes' shoulder. "Where're you from, Wes?"
"L-Lannisport," he grunted, pained.
Loren nodded. "I see, is there anyone waiting for you, in Lannisport?"
"My… my sister," he whispered. "Please, lord, she needs me… I'm all she has, she begged me not to go… had no choice, was called, couldn't refuse… but she begged, oh she begged."
"Wes," Loren cut him off, looking him in the eye. "How old is your sister?"
"Ten," Wes whispered. "Left her, with the neighbour. Good old woman that… Mistrel, tavern wench… swore she'd look after her…"
"What's her name?"
"Leonella," his breath was coming hard, his words quiet.
"Wes," he was getting weaker, this effort was all he could manage. "Wes look at me, look at me!" He hissed. He took Wes' cheeks and looked him in the eye. "Wes. I will look after her. I promise you. I can't take you with me, but I'll find her and have her cared for, I promise."
Wes looked at him with a weeping eye. "My lord, I can do it, I can look after her, just take me with you, I-"
But Loren had gotten to his feet. He couldn't stay down there, there was nothing more he could promise. Tavern wench Mistrel, looking after Leonella, he'd write to Aly, get her to look for the girl and take her to Casterly Rock. They could find a role for her.
He spoke to the men damned to be left behind. "We're leaving you your knives, and I'll have some cattle butchered for all of you, one final meal," about a hundred of their cattle had been seized in the battle, but several cows and sheep had been hobbled by overeager northmen before they were driven off, they would be as much use as these men. "Stannis Baratheon is coming up behind us. He is without mercy. After your last meal tonight… No one in this life or the next would judge you harshly for ending it before he got here." He bowed to them. "I wish you all speed into the heavens."
He turned, trying to shut out the cries.
"Please!"
"My lord."
"Take us lord!"
"My lord."
"Please my lord."
"My lord!"
His eyes opened suddenly, flashing around. Back in the present, good.
"My lord are you alright?" It was Tyland.
"Yes," he coughed, shaking himself. "Let's move on."
Every evening Loren would listen to a report from his scouts. He listened directly, he needed to hear the news directly, no inference from an intermediary. "Still nothing of Robb Stark?"
"Nothing more than before lord," his scout replied. "They're shadowing us just as they have been since the attack, but they aren't setting up any other attacks, we've been sure to check for them."
"Well keep it up, they'll be planning something or they would have retreated by now." He turned to his second scout. "And Stannis?"
"His progress is steady. He's catching up, but we're preventing him from getting close enough to see exactly how within reach we are."
"Still more than a day behind?"
"A day and a half at regular march," the scout said. "But he could speed up-"
Loren cut him off. "He could do a lot of things. It's my job to worry about what he could do, you just tell me what he is doing."
The scout bowed his head. "Yes lord."
He dismissed them both with a wave. "Go and rest, while you can."
He'd had to cut the amount of rest down by two hours every night, just to make sure they stayed ahead of Stannis' army. His men were feeling it. He was feeling it. But it was necessary, if they were caught by Stannis' army it would be over.
"If Lord Stannis gets too close, leave the last seven rows of wagons behind, that might buy us some time and shorten the length of the march. King's Landing would feel their loss, he was sure, but better to lose twenty one wagons than the entire convoy.
He didn't walk the line anymore. His men needed every minute to sleep, and that was better than having him give them pep talks. He found his bedroll, which Tyland had already laid out for him, let his squire help remove his armour, and collapsed onto the straw mat, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit his pack.
They awoke with no words, barely speaking as they ate their gruel, warmed over, there wasn't time for it to get hot. Loren only ate half his bowl, walking up the line and finding one of the wounded still lying on the wagons, passing the other half to him, letting him eat while Tyland fastened his armour back on.
They marched for four hours, silently trudging along. The rattle of wheels on the road and horses snorting into the air the only sounds to be heard. Then the convoy stopped.
The men muttered, looking at each other confused. Had Robb Stark blocked the road ahead? Something else? "Ser Raynald," he called to the leader of House Westerling's men. "You have command here!" Loren put his spurs into his horse and raced up the line. He had to find out what was going on. There was no attack, no sign of anything coming. What was it? Something was in the distance, along the line of the march. A castle. A rough stone keep.
"No," he whispered, not daring to believe it. "It can't be." He forced himself not to hope. He couldn't hope, not now. They kept riding, slowing their pace so as not to risk the horses.
They passed a village, about a mile and a half off the main roseroad to the north, an hour after beginning their ride. Many villagers seemed to be out there, looking towards them. Probably scared, soldiers passing was rarely a good sign for them.
"Lord Loren!" He pulled his reins and the horse slowed to a halt. A rider was waving at him, riding full tilt from the other direction. The rider pulled up, breathless. "Lord Loren, ser Gerold reports," he bent over the saddle, panting heavily.
"Reports what. Spit it out man!"
The rider looked up his face red. "We've reached the Bitterbridge, my lord."
Bitterbridge. There was a moment, just a moment where Loren was able to hold it all in. Then he raised his head and let out a laugh. It was a good laugh, full of everything that he had kept bottled in. He laughed until his eyes watered, tears trickling from them down his grime smeared face. He laughed until his throat was raw. "We've made it."
But the rider wasn't laughing. "My lord, there's still one problem."
"What?"
The rider led them to the head of the column, and Loren's heart sank. "No. Not now, not when we're so close."
Ser Gerold smiled grimly. Loren hadn't seen him since the attack, his armour was battered and half his cloak was missing, and that wasn't the same horse he'd been riding at the beginning of the march. "My lord, as you can see there's a… problem."
Loren looked over the bridge. "It's not wide enough."
"Well," Gerold replied, looking at the sturdy stone construction, "it's wide enough, for one wagon."
One wagon had its front wheels on the bridge, the two either side of it were turning in. Teamsters were standing in the saddles trying to work out how best to go forward and co-ordinate their efforts. Soldiers were making sure to keep them apart and prevent any potential scuffles.
Loren dismounted and headed for the wagon partly on the bridge, clambering on top of it. He looked out over the convoy of wagons. It stretched along the roseroad as far as the eye could see, sunlight glinted off helms and spearheads, with damp grass blanketing either side of the road, where two small villages stood to either side of the road, dirt paths leading towards the main road, large harvested fields surrounding each of them. This wasn't going to be quick and easy. It already took nearly a day to ride the column when it was three wide. They'd have to thin out in order to cross the bridge, how long would it take then? "Fuck." He jumped down. "Fuck fuck fuck."
Gerold dismounted and joined him. "My lord?"
"We won't be able to get them across before we're attacked," he said simply. "Robb Stark is nearby, Lord Stannis is less than two days away to the south.
More lords and knights came to join him. Loren held up his hand to silence them before they began, he needed to think. He pictured the line, what was the best way of getting the wagons across before Stannis' dogs started snapping at the rear of his line. More lords came from up the line, wondering what the hell was happening. They came for him, surrounding him, waiting for his say.
"Okay," he said, opening his eyes. "The first thing we need to do is get the wagons across. Start the convoy moving, the centre line of the column will move across the river and keep on going, as the line moves in, the wagons at the back will fold in, one from the left, one from the right into the centre to create a single, constant moving column. Who here comes from the back of the column?" A few knights raised their hands. Loren picked one at random. "Do you understand what I just explained?"
"I… think so, lord."
Loren looked at another one with a raised hand. "Did you understand?"
"Yes lord."
"Then go, get your horse and get to the back of the wagon, tell Ser Garth what my command is. Now!"
The knight nodded and hurried for his horse, those who had come with him went as well. "We need to take these two villages to the north and south," he said next, pointing to them. "Ser Gerold, take the northern village. Two thousand men, five hundred riders, tell me if you need more." He glanced at the men around him. "Ser Talbert, you will command in the south. The same numbers of men. Tell the villagers to leave, steal nothing from them, nothing at all. Fortify the villages, prepare to hold them against the enemy. Ser Farbert, take your Florent men, Lord Robin Moreland, take your men as well. And I'll send five hundred of my own to the rear of the column to reinforce Ser Garth's command. He is to slowly retreat as the rear of the column moves up to the river. I'll command the rest here, and help wherever I can. Am I clear?"
"My lord," it was a knight in Tyrell colours. Loren recognised him, Ser Thryce, he'd fought well against the Starks.
"Speak."
"How many men are you sending across the river to escort the convoy onwards?"
"None," he said at once.
"None?"
"None, we can't risk it."
"But my lord, if the enemy have managed to cross the river then-"
"Listen here," he said, marching over so his face was mere inches from Ser Thryce's. "The scouts were clear, Robb Stark is to our north, likely seeing his opportunity to attack right now." Loren jabbed his finger at Bitterbridge castle. "House Caswell's banners still fly from their walls. Lord Caswell is a weak coward, but it looks like he's kept his castle, I'll send riders to confirm what he knows, but it doesn't really matter. If we split our army and send men on to escort the convoy, we're fucked. If he's sent men across while he prepares to attack us, we're fucked. If he hasn't and all his strength is gathered here, we're fucked. The only way we're not fucked is if he hasn't sent men across and we keep our entire army protecting the crossing." He stepped back and looked at all the gathered lords and knights. "Let me be very clear, my soldiers. We are going to be attacked. We are most likely going to be attacked by two armies. Robb Stark to the north and Stannis Baratheon to the south. We need every man here to fight like they never have before, like I know they can, if we're to have a chance. Do you understand?"
They nodded, faces steeling, knowing what was to come. "Ser Thryce, I need you to command the crossing. This is no disgrace, no dishonour, this crossing must be smooth at all times, you understand. Keep the convoy moving. There was enough room either side of the wagon to fit some cattle moving single file, so move them as well. If any of the teamsters or shepherds give you trouble, if they do anything to slow down progress they are to be executed immediately, no second chances, no warnings."
"That's harsh justice for a minor crime, my lord," Gerold replied warily.
Loren nodded. "It is. But in this instance, the less severe the crime the better. If my own father botched this effort I would hang him, that's how bad our situation is." He nodded at the line of wagons trailing off down the roseroad into the distance. "Stannis and his army are a day and a half that way," he pointed along the road to the south. "Robb Stark is probably closer, and will be coming from that way," he pointed to the north, past the northern village. "Each of them outnumbers us, probably two to one, and we may have to fight both of them. He saw men swallow, fear was taking heart. Better the fear came now than later, in the midst of battle. "Even if it's constantly moving, I estimate that it will take us two days and nights to get this entire convoy across the river. At least. Anyone who stymies that process is to be executed immediately. "Are we all clear about how severe our situation is?" They nodded. "Good. Now get ready, if fortune is with us, then we have today to prepare for battle. Ready your men, rest them, sharpen your weapons. We don't have long."
The army spread out. Lords and knights taking their battalions to their assigned positions. Streams of villagers left the villages, fleeing to the river. Loren allowed them to cross and take refuge on the other side, they shouldn't be caught in what was to come. He sat on top of one of the wagons that was waiting by the river for the central column to pass. There had been complaints by the teamsters there, but between Loren reminding them that they were far safer here than at the rear of the column, and Thryce threatening to behead the next man who complained, Loren had peace. His eyes stretched over the upcoming field of battle. The two villages were about three miles apart. He didn't have the numbers to draw his forces in a line between them. He would have to rely on the villages being strong points to hold back Stannis and Robb Stark long enough, while keeping his force in reserve to stop them being surrounded.
But the shepherds and cowherds had spread their thousands of cattle and sheep out on the fields between the villages to graze. He wouldn't be able to move his army through that. He'd need to get them across the river. He dropped down from the wagon. "Tyland, come with me."
His squire hurried to his side as he started walking up the length of the river. He couldn't stop the wagons to allow the cattle through, but he needed the cattle on the other side of the river as fast as possible. So he had to find another way or make one. He paused. "Tyland, look here." He knelt beside the river where the banks bowed outwards for a few metres on both banks. "Does this remind you of the Yaeron river?"
The Yaeron river was one of his first commands in the Golden Company, where he had earned the command of the scouts. They'd been fighting for Myr against Tyrosh. The Tyroshi sellswords had fortified the three bridges across it and would have exacted a heavy toll on them had they tried to force it. But Loren had found a small section of the river where the water slowed. His men had quickly dug out along the banks and allowed him to slip across the river in the dead of night, striking at the enemy supply lines. Franklyn had described the following battle as 'the formal slaughter before victory was declared'.
Tyland examined it, kneeling beside Loren. "I think the water moves faster here," he said, pointing to where the water wrapped around a rock protruding from the other bank about ten metres downstream. "And I can't see the bottom."
"That's because of mud," Loren said, "the recent rainfall has dirtied the water." And probably also made the river deeper than it was a week ago. "We need to see if we can cross here," he said. "Go and find me some volunteers, tell them there's a silver in it for them."
Tyland nodded and raced off, returning with three young but strong spearmen, one of House Lannister, one from the Shield Islands and one from House Tyrell. They looked eager and expectant, he was surprised that money still held that sway for them after this march. "I need you to go and see how deep this river is, and how easy it is to ford," he told them, "give me your spears, I'll use them to pull you out if you get swept away." He doubted they would, the current didn't seem that strong, but he wasn't going to ask them to risk their lives for nothing.
The man from the Shields nodded and stepped forward, holding out his spear. "Here, my lord." Loren nodded, taking the spear and the man approached the river. He tested the waters with his boot before steeling himself and stepping into the river. He waded into the dirty water. Within a few steps the water had reached the rim of his boots. "It's cold," he called out, cursing as the water reached first his knees, then his crotch.
"What about the riverbed?" Loren asked. "Is it slippery?"
"N-no lord," he said, looking back, "just a lot of stones."
"What about the flow?"
He struggled forward, he was at the centre of the river now, the water at the top of his waist. "It's quite strong, but I can make it," he grunted back. He kept moving and made it to the other bank without too much trouble.
"Can you make it back?" Loren asked.
"Yes lord," the spearman said, wading back across the river to them.
They all helped pull him up the bank and Loren passed him a silver, and the other two as well, they may not have walked, but they did volunteer. The man started shivering, so Loren pulled off his cloak and gave it to the man to wrap himself up in. They'd have to get a fire for him soon, and the others that would come. "What was the hardest thing about the crossing?"
"Lord?" he replied, clearly not sure.
"What made it most difficult to cross? The rocks on the bottom, the current, what?"
"The water was quite fast, lord, that was the worst bit."
Loren nodded, casting his eyes around the field, then at the banks either side of the river. "You two," he snapped at the other two, who stood tall. "Go and find more men, then get me digging tools and rope. And dig up one of those fences and bring it here as well. Go now. Tyrek, go with them, you act with my authority."
"What are we doing, lord?" The spearman asked.
He smiled down at the man. "We're going to create another crossing."
In no time they had thirty people working at the crossing, digging out the bank to make a gentle slope into the water from both sides. More had taken a length of fence and were wading into the water, hammering the fence into riverbed to slow down the water flow. While they were doing that, another soldier was holding an iron spike stead above the ground while another hammered it into the dirt with a sledgehammer. A length of heavy rope was waiting to be tied around it and carried across the river to where another spike was being planted. The rope would extend between them, giving the shepherds and cowherds something more to help them cross.
Speaking of shepherds and cowherds, Loren turned to face the most senior of those groups who looked aghast at what he was telling them to do. "My lord," one of them plucked up the courage to speak. "You… you can't mean it surely."
"Yes I do," Loren said simply, "I need to be able to manouever my troops, which I can't do in fields overrun by cows and sheep, and I can't stop the wagon train to let you cross the bridge. The only option is for you to cross here with the animals, bring them up on the other side and let them eat and sleep there."
"But-"
"No buts," Loren cut across him. "I didn't bring you here to ask for your opinion. I have brought you here to tell you what is going to happen. The river may be too deep for sheep, but you'll bring the cows across here, send the sheep to the bridge. You'll continue until sundown and start again at sunrise. That is my command, now see it done, or I will have you executed and find some who will." Either his words or the band of armoured knights at his back cowed them into obedience. Whichever it was, it was what he needed. They would thank him when Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark descended on them, looking for blood.
When he was satisfied that they were going to keep moving, Loren returned to the wagons and, even though the sun had not fully set yet, lay out his bedroll. He wasn't alone, most of the soldiers here were lighting fires and preparing to sleep. More fires spread across the fields as lords and knights settled their retinues down, determined to get a night of good sleep before the next day, when battle would inevitably come.
"You can stop that now Tyland," he said.
"My lord?" Tyland asked, pausing in his scrubbing of Lyonel's armour.
Loren squeezed his shoulder. "Get some sleep instead," he looked out towards each of the villages, lights shining from windows and guard posts, "tomorrow is going to be a very busy day."
Loren fell back onto his bedroll and closed his eyes.
"My lord, save us please!"
"We can still fight my lord!"
"Don't leave us to die!"
He squeezed them tighter. "Not now," he prayed, "please… just one night… one night without them. Everyone else needs me."
