Four hundred men. One hundred knights and three hundred mounted serjeants. What the fuck! "Where are the rest of you?" Loren seethed at Lord Alyn Sloane.
"Ser Garlan is bringing the rest of the army with him. They'll be here by sundown tomorrow."
"Too long, it's too long," Loren insisted, turning to his bodyguards. "Ser Balin, take a spare horse and ride to find ser Garlan. Tell him he is to send every rider he has ahead of his army, they have to get here sooner."
Ser Balin nodded, turning his horse and racing to find a spare. "In the meantime, Lord Alyn, take three hundred of your men and head down to the rear of the column. You'll be under Ser Garth's command, keep the enemy off our wagons. The rest of your men will join the next sortie to aid ser Gerold."
Lord Alyn looked like he was about to bristle and object, but Loren had already turned and was riding away. He had given his order, let Lord Alyn disobey it if he dared.
Everything was happening to the north. The village was the eye of a raging storm of rain and ruin. Horsemen under half a hundred banners charged, whirled, clashed, and died to lance and sword and axe. Loren had sent already sent one wave of riders from his reserve to bolster the village, and they had stabilised the situation, but the northmen were still pressing their attack, so another was being gathered under ser Lucien Laygrove to throw them back again. It was nearly dark, so they only had to hold them off a little longer before the Starks would have to retreat to their camp. Ever since the northerners had begun their attack in the mid afternoon, his attention had been drawn between ser Gerold's forces in the village, ser Garth's along the caravan line and managing the river crossing both here at the bridge and at the ford, where cowherds and teamsters were still coaxing the walking beef into the water and out the other side.
To the south, Ser Talbert had been continuing his work to reinforce the village to that side. Loren had been inspecting it before news came of the Stark's arriving, and he was impressed. Barriers were erected in the streets, rough caltrops laid in the fields surrounding them except on paths subtly marked with stones to let men and horses into and out of the village safely. There were stores of arrows and quarrels in nearly every house and the men were being drilled in retreating from one line to another, dealing damage all the time.
He turned his attention back to the relief sortie, which lined up, Lord Alyn's riders adding their strength to it. "Sound the charge," he ordered. Trumpeters raised their instruments and sang into the sky and ser Lucien's column charged towards the fray.
By the time darkness fell, the Starks were retreating, and Gerold sent him word that the village was secure.
As most of the reinforcements he'd sent to Gerold returned to the reserve, Loren rode in the opposite direction. The men were confident, sure of themselves, despite the injuries they bore, their broken lances, and dented plate mail. Many of them raised their hands in salute to him as he passed and he mimicked the gesture. It was good that they still held strong. But of course, these were the reinforcements. How did the defenders of the village feel.
If anything, even better. The infantry cheered, raising their water skins and simple hewn cups as he entered the village square. Squires were feeding horses at the troughs, brushing them down or leading them out to the horselines, feeding them with apples from their palms.
Loren waved to them before he dismounted and made his way over to Gerold, who was talking with a pair of archers by one of the houses. "Gerold," he called.
Gerold turned to him and bowed his head with a smile and dismissing the archers. "My lord. I'm sorry to report that the Young Wolf slipped through our fingers."
"He was here?"
"Aye," Gerold said ruefully, "he led the attack through the village in person, we nearly had him in the square but he called for a retreat."
"You nearly had him!?"
Gerold told him how they'd withdrawn into the square and then let loose with archers and crossbowmen from inside the houses to try and cut the enemy down, but the Stark men had retreated at the command of their king. "Tomorrow he'll try something different," Loren said, his voice bitter. "We won't get that chance again."
"It's unfortunate, but remember, we're not here to capture or kill the Young Wolf, not yet," Loren reminded Gerold. "You did all that you had to by holding off Robb Stark's attack. This was a good day."
"He'll try again."
"And we'll be ready again."
Gerold glanced around. "My lord, Robb Stark nearly took this village and he only arrived after midday. Tomorrow he'll have a whole day to overrun the village and then attack the wagon train without interference."
"Gerold," Loren replied curtly, "you misunderstand me. I'm not saying you'll be ready again out of blind confidence in your abilities. I'm saying you'll be ready again because we don't have any choice. We've still got more than a hundred wagons to get across this river, we won't be done until after sundown tomorrow. So help me god you will hold this village tomorrow. Am I clear?"
He stiffened, standing tall. "Very clear, my lord," he replied.
Loren clapped him on the shoulder. "Very good. Now, what do you need from me?"
"Many of my knights lost their lances, if you have any spare?"
"I'll have some sent over," Loren said. He didn't have many left, but they only needed to hold for one more day, just one more day… "Anything else?"
"I'd ask for drink, but I think water will suffice for us tonight."
"I quite agree," Loren replied. "If you need anything else, let me know, I'll do what I can for you."
"Yes my lord. And my lord," Gerold added as Loren turned to leave. "Make sure you get some sleep, we'll need you tomorrow I fear."
"If I have the time, ser Gerold, if I have the time."
He didn't wait for Gerold's reply, he still had to inspect the rest of his battalions.
Ser Garth's forces had seemed to fare even worse than Gerold's had in the day's attacks. He saw lines of men lying out on the ground being tended to by surgeons, replacing bandages and washing wounds. Those too injured to fight on were being placed on top of the food supplies in the centre wagons to be taken across the river. One wagon was having a wheel hastily repaired and a huge pile of broken weapons and shattered shields lay discarded.
Garth himself, hair matted and face red caught sight of Loren and disengaged from a conversation with Lord Alyn to hurry over. "Lord Loren, thank the gods you're here."
"It looks bad, ser Garth, tell me."
"We suffered badly against the Stark assault, my lord," he said, wiping his face down. "We held them off this time, but if they attack like that tomorrow, I don't know how long we can last."
"You need more men?"
"We need weapons more than we need men," Garth admitted. "Half of my spears are too damaged to use, and shields as well, if you can. We've scavenged what we can from the Stark dead, but it's not enough to replenish our losses."
"I'll see what I can send you," Loren said, trying to keep the uncertainty from his voice. How many spare weapons did he have?" He shook himself. One more day.
"Pardon, my lord?"
"What?"
"You said 'one more day,' do I have to wait another day for the weapons?"
"I said… no, no you don't, I'll send what I can after I've finished my inspections." He subtly indicated Lord Alyn. "Are the new arrivals… settling?"
"They certainly helped in the battle," Garth said, glancing over his shoulder at the new men. "And I've no doubt they will tomorrow." He trailed off with a telling pause.
"Do I need to talk to them?"
He shook his head. "No Lord, nothing I can't handle."
"If you need me to crack some heads, tell me."
Garth chuckled. "I will my lord, until then, I'll keep their leashes as tight as I need."
"See that you do, we can't lose, not now."
He checked on the common soldiers as well. One of them spilled his bowl of broth as he scrambled to stand in Loren's presence. Loren joined in the laughter, but filled the soldier's bowl again, patting him on the back and advising him not to spill the next one. The soldier flushed red, but laughed with the others, tucking into his bowl.
He knelt over the lines of the dead, placing his hand on the brown of one billman of House Hightower, closing his eyes and muttering a prayer for his soul.
When he pulled himself back onto his horse, the sun was set, the fields blanketed with darknesss. Paths of light spread along the roseroad from the bridge and circled the two villages. Loren decided against visiting the southern village, they were in good hands and he'd inspected them earlier that day. The men should also sleep, they needed their energy. However, one in the area didn't need to sleep, who had slept for far too long already. Loren led his guard across the bridge, iron-shod hooves clattering on Bitterbridge's stone, and turned up to the castle overlooking the bridge, where lights still flickered from windows.
"This is a late hour, Lord Loren," the guard told him from the other side of the portcullis, "Lord Caswell is abed, perhaps you could come tomorrow."
"I'm glad, that Lord Caswell is able to sleep soundly tonight," Loren forced a smiled as he rested an arm on the Portculis and leant forward. "But I need to speak with him. Now."
The guard looked uncertain.
"I don't think you quite understand. The Lord Marshall needs to speak with your lord about matters of war. That means you say, 'yes Lord Marshall, I'll go and get him at once', then you turn around and go and bring your lord down here."
He stared at the guard until he replied, "yes Lord Marshall, I'll go and get him at once."
"Good man," Loren said. As the guard returned to the castle Loren sighed and muttered darkly to himself for several minutes, before the guard returned with a man in a thick ermine cloak with a narrow face and a cropped beard. "You're not Lord Caswell," Loren remarked coldly.
"No, Lord Marshall, I'm the steward of Bitterbridge. My lord is asleep, so I'm here to help you however we can."
"Good. Then go and get Lord Caswell and bring him down here."
"Lord Marshall I-"
"Silence." The steward was silent. "This castle claims loyalty to House Baratheon of King's Landing. Despite my requests for aid, and the fact that we were attacked by Robb Stark, no men of House Caswell came to our assistance during the battle. So, you will wake your lord and bring him down here to hear his explanation myself. If you don't, then you'd best hope that I lose the battle tomorrow and die a very painful death. Because if I survive, when I am done delivering these supplies to the capital, I will come back with an army, tear down the walls of this castle and hang Lord Caswell as an oakbreaker. Go and tell him that."
He gulped, visibly perturbed. "My lord has taken a concoction from our maester to help him sleep," he said.
"Rouse him," Loren bit back. "I will wait."
When the steward made his way back inside, Loren returned to his horse and his guard. "Do you believe him, lord?" One of his guard said.
Loren scoffed. "Not likely, Lord Caswell is a weed, not unexpected given the injuries he suffered in his youth, but more likely they want time to come up with an excuse that will save his hide."
It took a long time for Lord Caswell to come down. In that time, Loren stared to the west, to the lines and rings of torches that showed his men in their camps, safe, shielded by fire. What awaited them in the darkness? Hell. Joffrey didn't deserve their sacrifice. Why by all the gods did Robert have to spawn such a child first? If he and Tommen had been reversed, how much of this could have been avoided? All of it? Or would Tommen be just like Joffrey if Cersei and Robert lavished their full attention on him?
No longer. When he was in King's Landing he would-
"Lord Marshall!"
He returned to the portculis to find the whispy Lord Caswell waiting behind the iron bars, a thick cloak around his shoulders. "My lord," Loren bowed his head in respect to Lord Caswell's rank.
"Lord Marshall," he replied.
"So, Lord Caswell, I trust there is an explanation for you refusing my request for aid?"
In the flickering orange light, Lord Caswell looked pale as a ghost. "My Lord, Lord Marshall. Yes… My Lord I wish I had aid to give you, but I'm afraid I have none."
"None?" Loren hissed dangerously. This man was close, so close to making Loren want to punch through the portcullis and and rip his beady little eyes out. "Explain."
"My lord, almost all of my knights and levies are at King's Landing at this very moment. Apart from my own garrison, I have no men I could send you, and I can't denude my castle of it's last defenders, my people need me to defend them."
"Your people?"
"Yes lord, from those two villages you evacuated and others from further afield who are seeking refuge. They have come to me here, I must defend them as is my duty as their sworn liege lord, I'm sure you understand."
He gritted his teeth. That was his duty, but if Loren could only get inside, he suspected he wouldn't find any more than the two villages' peoples. A convenient excuse. "If you can't provide soldiers, could you provide us with weapons, spears and shields, any you have spare."
"I regret, my lord, I have none to offer, all my spears went with the men, I have a few swords and plenty of arrows in storage, but if I give them to you, then my castle will be defenceless."
"I see," Loren said, gripping the bars so hard he could feel it on his knuckles beneath his gauntlets. "Very well, lord, I wish you fortune, should the enemy break through our lines and come for your castle, you'll need it."
He didn't wait for Lord Caswell's reply as he returned to his horse and mounted it. "That man," he huffed, pulling himself up into the saddle, "he's shut his eyes and shoved his fingers in his ears, and he's hoping that'll be enough to make the war pass him by." No aid to give, my arse.
As they crossed the riverLoren was ready to take his armour off and lie down on his cold straw mattress, but when he reached the other side, he was told there was a commotion by the ford. So he rode to the ford where the cowherds were complaining that their animals wouldn't dare cross in the darkness. Loren had to intervene and eventually, when he'd seen that the cows would not be guided into the river, he let the cowherds go and settle the remaining cattle on the grass for the night, they would resume in the morning.
But he still wasn't done, after that was done the shepherds and teamsters were demanding sleep. He told them that they had to keep moving as many as possible during the night because the enemy was likely to attack the next day. That seemed to work, until one of the shepherds heard that the cowherds were allowed to sleep, so they demanded the same. This time words weren't enough, so he selected the two loudest shepherds and the two loudest teamsters and had them flogged against the nearest wagon. After promising that the next would have stones tied to them and then thrown in the river, they got back to work. It was harsh, harsher than he should have needed to be, these were civilians who had stuck by the column through battle, blood, and bones, but this was the crucial juncture, when it was all done he would repay those four men, but for now, he needed them to work.
By the time that was done he had to race back to the river to deal with a commotion. Ser Garlan had sent another force of one hundred and sixty mounted serjeants. They told him they had passed his messenger and directed him to Garlan's main camp, but that they had been sent by Ser Garlan to scout out what was happening. By the time they were done explaining everything Loren wanted to know, he was about to order them to get to sleep. When he looked up and saw that the black was lightening to just the faintest shade of blue. "Go to the rear of the column," he told them instead, you're under ser Garth's command. Go."
He sighed, and went over to the river, kneeling down on the grass and staring into the water. His reflection stared back at him, hair plastered to his brow, his eyes were dark pools and his lips were chapped dry. The water below flowed around stones and roots. It looked so easy, to flow around all that stood in your way and continue on your way, where no one could stop you. He reached down and poked his reflection, rippling away his haggard reflection, he didn't need to see that. He let his fingers trail in the water, feeling it pull gently on them, like a baby in a crib, exploring a finger presented to them.
"My lord!" Loren jerked back, the sky was getting bluer. How long had he been here? He reached down and cupped some water in his metal palm and splashed it on his face. It slapped him with it's cold touch, chilling away his tiredness. He held up a hand for a moment as he struggled to his feet and turned. Soldiers, shepherds and teamsters were clambering to their feet, the wagons were rattling and rolling incescantly. A rider on a scout's horse dismounted and hurried over to him. "My Lord, ser Garth has sent me."
Loren just stared at him until he realised that he wasn't going to say anything more. "And?"
"My lord, banners to the south, Baratheon banners."
Loren sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Of course there are." He shook himself. Don't lose focus Loren, not now. He pointed at one of his guards. "You, get one hundred men together, send them to help Ser Garth. You," he pointed at another, "get me my horse." As he made his way back to the river crossing, where he could stand on a wagon again and get a better view of things, he started rattling off orders. "Get word to Ser Talbert, tell him the enemy are coming and he will soon be under attack, remind him that command is his and he is to do the best he can. It's unlikely that Robb Stark will attack both the column and the village with Stannis' army in the area. So tell Ser Gerold that he will likely be facing the full brunt of the attack at his village. Shepherds, cowherds, get up! Get your beasts moving or they'll be lunch. You," he de pointed at the shepherds who had kept their sheep to the north of the road, "you're not using the bridge anymore, go to the ford."
"But my lord, they'll drown, they're too short."
"Then carry them," he snapped. "You lot from the south, get your sheep down the right side of the wagons, leave the left side open for any reinforcements that Ser Garlan will deign to send us. At arms, everyone!"
He scanned the south, it was all dust and haze from here, the shadows of banners and men. How many were there, a vanguard? The entire army? No matter, his commanders knew what they had to do.
The reports from his commanders came thick and fast. Just as he'd ordered. He needed to know as much as possible, so he could best determine where to send his desperately small reserves.
"Stannis' vanguard has attacked the rear. We drove them off, few losses."
"Robb Stark's army is assembling near the village, no moves to attack."
"Another attack on the column, heavy use of archers, the wind is against us, we can't fire back, need more infantry."
Loren snapped out, "two hundred spearmen to ser Garlan. Prepare a cart of shields and sent them after!" That's two hundred fewer reserves.
"Enemy archers are still shooting at the rear of the column. No second close assault yet."
"Baratheons attacking the village my lord, ser Talbert is holding the outskirts."
"Robb Stark is holding still."
"Stannis is sending more infantry to attack the column."
"Get more infantry up there," Loren ordered. "Stick to the column but fast as you can." Why was Robb Stark holding still? He rode to the north side of the road and saw a great mass of Stark men under a hundred tiny banners, unmoving. What was his plan?
Back on the other side of the river he watched Stannis' attacks on ser Talbert's village. Much as the Stark attack had been, the enemy cavalry were attacking Loren's own cavalry,. Behind them he saw the mass of Stannis' infantry moving on the village in three columns, like the prongs of a trident. The banners were mixing and clashing amidst the houses, so Stannis had already taken the outskirts. He sent a scout to find out what was happening.
Loren watched his rider gallop out to the village, coming in from the east, where Stannis hadn't been able to reach. But he was getting close. Stannis' horsemen were putting more weight into their attacks around the village's flanks. "Prepare a sortie," Loren commanded. "Cavalry in front, infantry following on behind, prepare to attack Stannis' cavalry." As they gathered he raced back across the road. Still not doing anything eh? What are you up to Stark, just waiting for use to bleed each other? It's what he would do, but that didn't seem like Robb Stark's style.
Nevermind, Gerold would hold. Talbert needed his help.
Back with the column, all of his cavalry reserves were assembled. He tried doing the numbers, how many had he sent to each front the previous day? How many had returned? No, no time, he was taking all of them, they would have to be enough. Behind them three blocks of infantry were prepared, in the middle was one of his ironmen battalions.
Loren rode to the head of the cavalry force. Stannis' riders were still coming in. He saw a rider break out from the east of the village and tear across the open plain towards him. The shepherds had gathered their sheep as close to the river as they could, desperate to avoid the battle. "How is it?" He asked as the rider returned, the horse panting heavily.
"Ser Talbert is holding well, the enemy are paying a heavy price, but they're still coming on, infantry are attacking on three sides."
"Then they can't hold," wait here. "Ser Thryce, you command the rearguard, deal with requests for aid as best you can."
Ser Thryce nodded, face set and steady.
Tyland held out Loren's lance and he took it, holding it tall, as the rest of his knights did the same. "Go," he ordered, setting his horse off into a trot.
He felt the judders through his thighs as his horse steadily moved across the grass. He reached up with his shield arm to slam his visor down and kicked his horse from a trot into a canter. The ground shook beneath them as they rode towards the swirling melee. Loren picked out a rider. He had a green sparrow on his shield. He'd do. The blood pumped in his ears, the pressure rose in his chest. He let it out, all his rage and frustration with a single roar as his lance tucked under the shield of the sparrow knight and drove into his side. He let the lance go, raised his visor for better vision and more oxygen, and drew his sword as his cavalry swept into the fray. From afar they'd seemed so fast, but compared to his fresh lance of riders, Stannis' knights had gone sluggish. He rained down sword blows left and right. One of Stannis' knights saw him and charged, their swords clashed as they passed, but Loren didn't turn, there was a knight from the Shield Islands, just up ahead, desperately fending off a vicious morningstar. Loren came up on the other side of the attacker and rained blow after blow on his head. Suddenly attacked on both sides, he stalled. As he tried to spur himself away, the Shield Islander's axe cleaved into his helm. He spasmed, blood leaking from the wound, his lips and nose before he slumped from the saddle.
Loren didn't wait and spurred his horse onwards. Another of Stannis' knights was ahead. He stood in the saddle, raised his sword high, and brought it down on his helmet with a sickening crash before his horse carried him onwards. Blood everywhere, the screams of men and horses. Death.
Stannis' cavalry had been broken, many were being pulled from their mounts, more were fleeing the turned engagement. They needed momentum. Loren gathered his men by roared commands and example, his expensive armour a clear guide to his men. The cavalry followed him as his infantry reinforcements advanced into the village. One of the prongs of Stannis' trident had been broken, and his footmen trapped it between themselves and the defenders of the village, two walls of steel closing together, mincing the men in between. Loren had to keep momentum. Stannis would have more cavalry in reserve and would rally those that had fled. He would also quickly devise a counter to Loren's stroke. He couldn't give him time to do so.
"Rally to me horsemen!" He roared. "Every rider to me, to me!"
All the riders from Loren's relief sortie, and those from the village rallied to his side. They fell into a rough formation, knights crowding to banners and mounted serjeants following on behind. At the head of the formation, Loren could see this battlefield up close. Stannis' army was split into three groups. One attacking the village, blocks of infantry pushing hard into the streets to the sounds of battle. Another group was attacking the column. This was a more mixed group of cavalry, infantry and archers. The third group remained further away under Stannis' royal banner, and it was the largest. Men and horses were fed from this group to the others like veins.
Loren raised his sword. "Charge!" he ordered, and led his men against the central prong of Stannis' now broken trident. A thin line of horsemen had rallied to try and defend it, but it wasn't enough to block the weight and power of a full cavalry charge. He felt himself carried on a wave of horses and men they swept over the thin line of knights and smashed down on the infantry behind. They had turned and tried to form a shield wall, but it was a mess. He felt spears break on his horse's barding as he broke through them, crushing a skull on one side and stabbing into an open jugular on the other as they carried through. Other knights weren't as lucky as he, spears tore into the flesh of ser Falman's horse. But even in death it served a purpose, the momentum sending it down to crush the offending spearmen. The next knight's horse tripped over the fallen steed and also crashed down, the knight on top still hacking down at his foes as his steed fell, but the next knight cleared the mess with a leap, and the next. And so snap went the middle prong of Stannis' trident. Levied footmen couldn't stand against cavalry when their formation was broken. They scattered and fled, dropping shields and swords in a desperate attempt to escape the slaughter.
They charged, hacked and cut, but even as Loren called them to reform and be ready to charge, he saw that they were done. The third prong of the trident had halted it's attack on the village, turning to face his men. That was a line that wouldn't break, and Stannis would, even now, be preparing a response.
"Retreat!" Loren ordered, standing in his saddle and screaming to his men. He gasped for breath, feeling light headed, but he still screamed. "Retreat, all men, with me!" He rode back the way they had come. As they retreated, the horsemen from the village returned to ser Talbert's command. He gathered up most of his infantry reinforcements to return to the reserve. He left some behind to replace ser Talbert's losses and brought the rest back towards the reserve line.
"Lord Loren!" He closed his eyes. Just a moment, by the gods, just a moment.
"What is it?" He halted the march to look to the messenger that was racing over.
"My lord, Ser Garth has been captured?"
"What!"
"Captured my lord, the rear is overrun."
Loren yanked the reins, his horse whinnying in protest as it turned to the west. "With me now!" He kicked his horse into action. As his horse set off he cast a glance over the wagon train where a dark cloud was rising from the other side. As they rode down he chanced a look at Stannis' line. They were still working to recover from his cavalry charge. The village was holding fast, he saw a thin line of spearmen and archers from ser Talbert's garrison retake the outskirts from a few feeble sorties. Stannis' army in the field was still in had time, that was all they needed. Just a little more time.
All was in chaos as Loren approached the rear of the column. Battlelines had dissolved into chaotic duels, where the only objective was to kill the man in front of you, then move on. Men were starting to swarm over the wagons, he saw one teamster slumped in his seat, his front painted red. And saw the flashes of terrified eyes from underneath the wagons, desperate, terrified. Still the middle line of wagons rattled onwards, the enemy satisfying themselves with the outer line. Loren drew his sword. He closed in on one wagon, where a man in Baratheon gold had clambered on top and was rifling through the contents, a victorious grin on his face. He looked up suddenly at the sound of the cavalry charge. He paled, his eyes went wide as Loren's sword sliced through his gambeson and opened his belly.
They tore into the bloody chaos, trampling through the disorder to drive away Stannis' men. They were so intent on looting and killing that they hadn't noticed Loren's charge until it was too late. As Loren set upon the infantry, a detachment of his riders swept onwards, out into the fields and into the enemy archers, scattering them and cutting off their hail of death. Who had commanded that? When this was over, he'd commend them, those were the commanders he needed.
Despite Garth's capture, his men still fought as small bands under individual commanders. "Drive them away, drive them away!" He ordered, cutting the head of a Baratheon banner bearer. His horse reared and kicked another foe in the face, breaking the skull beneath.
Distracted by loot, Stannis' men were hacked down and put to flight. He led the horsemen onwards, to attack the still exposed enemy archers. The group that had broken off to attack them first was chasing down some fleeing enemies, spearing them in the back and cutting them down with blades. They need to retreat, they're going too far! He spurred onwards, racing to a full gallop, but it wasn't enough.
Scattered and angry, they were unprepared as a second wave of Baratheon horsemen swept into them, they were lanced, cut, dragged from their horses and taken away, and he could do nothing to help them from here. He whipped his horse back around and rode back to where the men were killing the last stragglers of the Baratheon attack. The dead and dying lay around them, but they were ignored. They couldn't spare them even a moment, they had to fight. "Form up, form up. Shields in front, archers behind! Everyone who can, take up a spare spear!"
The men hastened to obey, forming a small crescent of men around the rear of the column. He saw squires and stragglers coming up to them with arms of discarded spears. "Get ready," he ordered, riding up behind them. "Prepare to throw spears at my command." He glanced back, was that fire? What was happening? "Keep those wagons moving!" He ordered.
Stannis' cavalry finished up with his overextended horsemen. The rest had pulled away in time and were now forming up to the rear. They came onwards, tufts of mud and grass kicked up in their wake, bloody blades raised and lances lowering, devils of steel and slaughter. "Hold fast," Loren ordered, holding his sword out. They were getting closer, bigger, they loomed so tall. "Hold." He took several breaths to steady his heartbeat. "I'm right here with you men. Keep your formation and you will break them." He rode up right behind them. "I trust you with my life and our victory. Hold." A few hundred gathered infantrymen against what seemed to be an avalanche of oncoming chivalry. "Front ranks, spears out!"
They locked their spears on cut outs in their shields, a bristling wall of steel.
Seeing this, the knights pulled hard on their reins, halting their charge and turning to the side, planning to circle them and get behind. But the sudden change in momentum caused them to halt, just for a moment. All the moment he needed. "Throw spears!"
The air was filled with steel and wood as a salvo of spears hurtled into the momentarily paused knights. Some struck shields or shattered on breastplates, but most punched into horseflesh, the side facing mounts easy targets.
In a moment disorder fell into chaos, mounts fell, tripping those behind, banner bearers at the front of the march were cast to the ground, leaving those behind blind to where they should be going. A great mass of dead and wounded horses and knights. "Charge!"
The infantry roared their defiance and set upon the cavalry with a vengeance. Robb of their momentum, suddenly the knights were isolated and surrounded, while those on the ground, struggling to their feet, were set upon with knives and hammers, a constant rain of arrows shot over the head of the infantrymen into the knights behind. "Sweep around the side, now!" He ordered his own cavalry who launched their counter charge.
A few of the nobles and knights who were among the infantry were taking prisoners, but the levied men, those who had marched for days and weeks, struggled through rain and fire and death, showed no such mercy. Unbound by the rules of chivalry they butchered the knights and horses that had fallen. The sudden change of momentum forced Stannis' cavalry to withdraw. Perhaps a hundred of them had fallen, two hundred at most. But he had bought himself some time, and time was everything. "Reform, reform!" He ordered and the infantry fell back, some of them claiming trinkets from the dead, be they chains, swords, shields, helms or daggers, discarding their old ones for the equipment of the elite. So many ransoms lost in that moment, but he couldn't focus on that right now, the battle, the battle was all that mattered. He had done all he could here, the rear was reforming, he was needed elsewhere. "Lord Alyn," he spotted the surviving nobleman, who was blood stained and defiant. He looked over, sword held tightly, shield dented, the crest on his helm sheered off. "You have command of the rear now," he told him. "You speak with my voice. Do the best you can."
"Yes Lord Marshall," Lord Alyn replied, immediately taking to the role, reforming infantry lines and archers and preparing.
He left two hundred and seventy of his riders with Lord Alyn to help hold the rear and hurried back along the wagon to the reserve positions.
As he rode along, the wagons bounced in his vision, rocking from side to side. Gods the ache in his arms, his thighs. Maybe he could just…
"My lord," something caught his arm. Slowly he looked over and saw one of his knights rushing to keep pace. Now he was out of the constant fighting, he noticed how his head was throbbing, his eyes burning. Another knight came up on his other side and helped him back onto his saddle, which he only just realised he close he was to falling off. "Are you injured lord?"
"No," he whispered, then swallowed, gods why was his throat so dry, "no, I'm fine." He gripped the reins tighter and held on as they slowed to a canter, returning to the rear, through the smell of smoke and blood to word of disaster and loss.
"My lord, Stark troops have forced ser Gerold from the village."
"What!?" Loren turned his horse to the left so fast that he slipped to the right. Again, he was caught and helped back onto the saddle. He shook himself again, blinking away the shifting images swimming before him. "Gerold is what?"
"He's been forced from the village lord, it's burning."
"Show me," Loren urged his horse onwards, moving between the wagons and turning to the village. "Gods," he breathed.
The village was on fire. The thatch fueled the raging inferno that breathed orange flame and black smoke into the darkening blue sky. Men were pouring front the village, mounted and afoot. They were gathering in a square behind it, shields out and ready. There was a lot of space between him and them, and coming around the village like two grey steel jaws was Robb Stark's army, horsemen in front, infantry following on behind.
"We'll have to rescue them," he muttered. "Gather another reserve, everyone we have."
"Ser Thryce is already preparing one, my lord."
He nodded, breathing heavily, so tired. "Good, tell him he has the command, all troops apart from my guard and those necessary to man the crossing are going with him. Get those men back to safety." Loren turned to look at the southern village. Stannis' men were closing in again, square after square of infantrymen, with cavalry forming up behind, he dragged his gaze over to the rear of the column. It was now just close enough to see, but the gods that was good, most of it must surely be over the river now, they could break off, retreat… No, every wagon they could get, every one was needed. But his men. He looked at the men forming up to go and try to save Gerold's endangered force, they were flagging, many looked drained, others committed to death, more just… empty. "Send a rider to ser Talbert, the fastest we have, tell him to abandon the village and begin a retreat. We'll form another shield wall closer to our position." He has to come back, I have no one else I can send him.
"My lord?" one of his guard questioned
"Do it now!" He yelled, his throat tearing.
As they scrambled to obey Tyland, who'd remained behind for want of a horse to carry him, came hurrying over, his expression concerned. "My lord."
"Tyland, get me some water," he said, swallowing a wad of saliva to wet his windpipe. "And send another rider to Lord Alyn at the rearguard. Tell him I have no more reserves to send him at the moment, he is to hold as long as he can. But if he cannot hold on, he is to retreat at his discretion down the line, if he has to abandon some wagons, so be it."
Tyland returned with a waterskin and Loren chugged half of it down them poured the other half over his face. "My lord, you look ready to collapse."
Gods I am. "I'm fine," he said out loud. The men were going to face death, he would not fall asleep on them. "I'm fine."
"My lord, ser Thryce is ready to advance."
"I'm fine- I mean yes, that's fine," he caught himself too late, "sound the advance."
The sortie advanced, a spear of men thrusting out towards ser Gerold's position just east of the village. Lannister archers fanned out in two wings either side of the spear. They started shooting the last of their arrows into the Stark host just as the jaws closed in a circle surrounding Gerold and his men. "He has to charge," Loren whispered.
They did. Trumpets blared out and Thryce's footmen sped from a march to a jog while the cavalry split into two thin lines either side of the infantry column. A second blaring of the trumpets and they sped into a charge. The ring of Stark men surrounding Gerold was thinnest at this far side, and Thryce's attack bent it heavily. Loren was forced to watch, desperate, as Thryce's men threw themselves against the Starks of unrestrained fury. But every Lannister man who tried to break through was met with a fresh Stark man coming to reinforce the ring that was tightening behind them. They were determined to trap and cut down Gerold's men. "No," he murmured, not Gerold, surely he wouldn't be caught so easily.
As the Stark men closed on Gerold's position from north and south, suddenly he broke to the east, away from the burning village. They surged messily into the Starks, just opposite where Thryce was attacking. Suddenly trapped between one force desperate to save their friends and one desperate to escape, the thin Stark line was broken, and all was chaos.
Gerold's forces, fueled by fear and desperation, were fleeing for the thin gap opened by the combined attack. It was a corridor of slaughter and death as men fought and died to keep open a thin passage for their fellow soldiers to escape. Loren's horsemen hurled themselves at greater numbers of massing Stark cavalry, selling themselves to prevent them from cutting them all down. The corridor itself couldn't be more than a few metres thick as men streamed through, some breaking off from the retreat to seal gaps that opened either side. Stark infantry slammed into the thin red line, determined to break it and end the escape. .
Loren felt pride surge in his chest as he had never felt it before. His men, his heroes bled and died, giving every drop of blood and sweat so that people they had never met even the slightest chance of surviving the slaughter. How many hundreds died there? How many hundreds were saved.
But while they were heroes, they were also men, and two days of battle was too much. The thin red line broke, the Stark jaws snapped shut again, and this time, the men left behind had no escape. Thryce's battered column pulled back towards the river, hounded by Stark horsemen, chomping at them, hunting down the stragglers and ending them. The Stark footmen followed on close behind. Loren saw the banners circled by the starks begin to fall, one by one as the men behind them realised they had no escape and lay down their arms. His father would be furious with them. Joffrey would want them dead. If Loren ever saw them again he would kneel before them and wash their feet.
Thryce's column was trying to reform into a shield wall closer to the wagon train, and Loren took the chance to examine the rest of the battlefield.
Ser Talbert's men had escaped the village and were making a desperate fighting retreat along the grass towards the bridge. Stannis' second attack had been thorough and swift. The infantry had punched right through the village and were now marching through it unimpeded to get to the battlefront. "Knights," he breathed. Stannis' knights were forming a huge wedge behind the infantry line, gleaming steel lances pointing to the sky. "They're going to break through," he whispered, and he couldn't stop them.
The fighting along the wagon train was coming closer, he saw the figures of men standing triumphantly on the wagons to the rear of the column. A pair of men clashed on top of one of the wagons about two thirds of the way down the line, mere shadows in the gathering darkness. Alyn had begun his retreat then.
Thryce's shield wall was stringing out, desperate to cover ground, he had no one to send them.
He was impotent.
"Tyland," he whispered, but was drowned out by the huge chanting call of Stannis Baratheon's trumpets.
Stannis' infantry retreated from the bloody fighting, clearing the way. The bloodied men of Talbert's force struggled to pull together, they could see what was coming. So many knights, he thought.
They came, the lowering sun casting their shadows long and dark, so long they were touching the riverbank. Streaming like water through the gaps in Stannis' infantry squares and forming into ice just before impact.
His men broke just before the charge hit, turning and running, discipline worn down by two days of fighting.
It was over. He pulled himself to a stand in his wagon, taking a deep breath and shouting out over the song of slaughter. "Left and right columns, abandon the wagons! Grab whatever you can carry and get over the bridge!"
They didn't need telling twice. Teamsters jumped off their wagons and sprinted hell for leather for the bridge. Perhaps one in four actually grabbed a crate of bag to lug with them. His bridge guards tried to turn them back to get some, which made a few run for the closest wagon, but the rest just shoved past, terror giving them strength. He had meant for the centre line to continue as long as possible, but only another two wagons rolled onto the bridge. The third driver gave in to fear and leapt from the wagon, racing for the bridge, and there was no recovering now. Now he had to save lives.
"ABANDON THE WAGONS!" he roared.
He swung off his horse, landing on the ground with a loud thud. "Tyland," he grabbed his squire and pulled him over. He was still just a boy, he would be crushed in a stampede. "Take my horse," he said.
"But lord!"
"Take it, that's my order you bastard," he spat, hoisting him up. Where was his strength? Tyland grabbed the reins and helped pull himself up onto the saddle. "Take it across the river, wait for me there!"
"My lord you-"
"I have to see the retreat," he replied. "Now go!" Tyland swallowed and nodded, turning the horse and leading it across the river.
Loren drew his sword again, it was crusted with dried blood, and made his way for the nearest wagon, climbing on the back and looking around.
All order was lost, his men were running for their lives for the bridge. Ser Talbert's men were being butchered by Stannis' knights as they sprinted for the river, discarding weapons and shields to lighten their load. To the north, Gerold and Thryce's men had been shattered by Stark attacks, split down the middle by a devastating cavalry charge. They were fleeing for cover, some to the bridge, some to the ford the cattle and sheep had used. He saw four horsemen standing in the water, using their steeds to break the water flow, urging the infantry across. Archers held their bows over their heads as they waded over, on the other side they restrung and lined the banks, ready to provide some cover with the few arrows that they had with them.
It was out of his hands, all of it, all he could do was guard the bridge head at this last moment.
He dropped down to the ground and strode back over to his guard, who waited patiently for him. "What are your orders, my lord?"
Such loyalty. "I won't command any of you to stay, if you wish to retreat, do so with honour."
"Do you command it lord?"
Loren shook his head.
They looked at each other and nodded. "Then we'll choose our own honour." He smiled, wanting to weep, wanting to sleep…
"Stand with me then," he turned and faced outwards. "We keep the bridge open. As long as the bridge is open, they have a chance." So they formed their last defence, a line of red steel around the bridgehead. Twenty four knights and him. They beckoned teamsters and soldiers through, urging them over the stones. Loren's mouth was so dry. He kept his sword at his side, his arms were so tired, his fingers were loosening - no! He gripped hard, not yet, not yet!
Oh gods how they fought that day. He didn't know if it was minutes or hours, but they fought. Ser Tharren fell as they charged out to repel an advance of Baratheon cavalry, being lanced through the chest, the tip of the lance driving through his back covered in lung and rib cage. Ser Leomore was isolated by Stark infantry, slaying three before one stepped up behind him and drove a spear into his back. He fell to one knee, but kept fighting, reversing his sword to drive it back into the man that stabbed him just as three axemen fell on him.
And so they fell, one by one. They tried to capture ser Lucas. But when his foe raised his visor to demand Lucas' surrender, Lucas stabbed him through the eye. The next knight showed no such mercy.
Loren saw a teamster trip and fall. Two Stark footmen jumped down from a wagon, and advanced, the red thirst in their eye. He charged forwards, between the wagons, his calves burning, his steps barely steady. Another Stark man at arms was on top of a wagon and Loren raised his sword and brought it around in a savage cut that chopped his leg off just below the knee. He didn't stop as blood spurted over his helm, he kept running as the stark men closed on the teamster. With a roar of effort he leapt between the soldiers and the teamster, sword raised across his body. The footmen looked surprised to see him, and Loren took the opportunity to step forward and thrust his sword hard into the chest of the first man. He pulled it out just in time to block a viscous downwards strike from his friend, turning the blade and bringing his hilt around to strike his head. The man staggered and Loren opened his throat in a spitting red smile.
He grabbed the teamster. "Come on!" He spat, pushing the man ahead of him as they raced back to the bridge.
A flash of movement - Loren shoved the teamster forward with a cry of "run," stepping back to avoid the deadly cut of a greatsword that nearly split him in half. A giant of a man in furs emerged, half his teeth missing when he grinned at Loren, advancing, blood flicking from his blade. "You're mine," he laughed.
Loren raised his own sword and deflected the next attack, but the man was fast and Loren was getting sluggish, before Loren could riposte, the man was attacking again. Loren was driven back, barely able to keep his footing in the tight confines between the wagons, chips of wood flew around them as their swords sparked against each other. But then the northman's sword struck Loren's left thigh and he fell to his knee with a cry of pain. It hadn't breached his plate, but gods, the pain. The man stood over Loren and raised his sword with a cry.
Pushing off his right leg with all his strength, Loren surged upwards, driving his sword to the hilt into the man's belly. "What?" The man breathed before he fell backwards, his weight wrenching the sword from Loren's grip. Loren took a breath, stepping on the man's chest and pulling his sword free. He hurried as fast as he could back to the bridge.
Three more of his guard were dead ser Ballis and Garyth were both huddled on the stone. Ballis was avoiding putting any weight on his right leg, and Garyth's hand was impossibly twisted around. Loren slipped past his other guard and went to them. "Go," he commanded, his voice hoarse, "get across the bridge."
"No, my lord, I-" Garyth tried to protest.
"Now I'm ordering you," he said. "Go."
He didn't wait for them, they would obey him here, he turned back to the fight and immediately set off into a sprint. His leg screamed in torment, but he made it to ser Morton and tackled the swordsman who had been about to strike him to the ground. He drew his dagger and shoved it through the man's neck, the steel scraping on the spine with a sickening crunch. He clambered to his feet, getting back in position and scanning the field.
The enemy was closing in on all sides, Stark and Lannister crushing the last life out of the survivors. The only reason they were still alive, it seemed, was because the enemy armies were looting the baggage train. The Starks had already mounted several wagons and were driving them to the north, away from the battle.
The survivors of his guard huddled around the bridge, but there was no one coming through. "Retreat," Loren said, "it's over, get back across the bridge."
They backed onto the stone, but just as Loren was about to turn, he saw a crossbowman in Lannister colours racing for the bridge, chased by four Baratheon men. "Go!" He commanded his guard before running back onto the western bank.
His guard called after him but he was already running. The crossbowman tripped and fell just before reaching the wagons. Loren got to him just in time and leapt over his prone form sword drawn. Seeing a knight in full plate, the pursuers halted, out of range of his blade, waiting.
"Get up," Loren said over his shoulder. "Get up now." The crossbowman must not have heard him. He huddled on the ground, hands covering his head, whimpering. Loren stepped back carefully and lowered himself, still keeping his eyes on the four men. "The wagons are yours," he told them. "Don't risk death today," he gestured with his blade.
Not risking death when there was quick riches, the men broke off, running for the wagons. Loren hauled the crossbowman to his feet. "Th-thank you, ser," he said then his eyes went wide as he saw Loren's face. "Lord Loren!"
"No talk," Loren spat, "move." They ran back for the bridge, but as they reached it, a band of Baratheon men arrived, eight of them, including the four he'd warned away. Fuck those bastards, they hadn't gone for gold, they'd gone for friends. "Go," he said, "you can't help me here." He shoved the crossbowman forward who hurried across the bridge, leaving Loren alone to face the eight men. Three of them were archers and were stringing their bows. The rest charged.
Loren slammed his visor shut, he couldn't risk keeping it open with arrows flying. He kept backing along the bridge, keeping all of his enemies in sight. The one leading them got just a little too far ahead and Loren took his chance.
He charged forward, bringing his sword around in a wide swing and opening his belly. With his abdominal muscles cut, his spine bent backwards before he toppled to the side. But Loren was still moving. Momentum was everything, he had been trained to fight for as long as he could walk, these men hadn't, but if he let them control the battle they would overwhelm him and his training would be for nothing.
He exchanged a flurry of blows with the next man before pulling off a disarming strike and cutting him from collar to hip. The next man went low with his sword. Loren trusted his greaves to protect him and stepped forward. As the sword sparked off his legs, Loren punched the man in the face. He felt cartilage and bone break beneath his metal fist and the man went spinning to the ground. His eyes fluttered, just for a second, but that was it. A heavy blow stuck him across the back and he stumbled to the side where another caught him in the chest and then another rang off his helm. The surviving three were on him and hacking at his armour.
His plate dented and buckled under the blows. No, he would not die here, not now! Loren charged to the right with a roar worthy of his sigil, shoving the warrior aside and turning. One of the other two had been stunned by his rapid action, but the other leapt forward. Loren came up from below, bringing his sword with him in an arcing strike that cleaved the man's face off. He stumbled back, pink fingers reaching momentarily for the cross section of bone and matter that had once been his face before dying. The other man looked at his friend in horror, but Loren charged him, smashing into him and driving him against the side of the bridge. He seized the man by the throat and shoved him with all his might. The man tried to scrabble for the waist high stone wall of the bridge. But Loren had all the weight and momentum of a suit of armour with him and the man tumbled over the side, screaming as he crashed into the water below.
Loren turned on the last man, the one he'd shoved aside and was just now getting to his feet. Alone he was no match, and Loren dispatched him with barely a thought. And so he stood alone on the bitter bridge surrounded by death. He looked over the battlefield again, abandoned wagons, fields of the dead and dying and a burning village. Stark direwolves flew on grey to the north and Baratheon stags praced on gold to the south. He turned and trudged along the bridge, he would make it across that's all he had to do.
Something rattled on the stone to his side, cutting through a numbness in his ears. What was it? No matter, probably nothing important. He ignored it. There was another, then another just ahead of him. An arrow? Why was anyone shooting a bridge? What had the bridge done?
A sudden blow struck him on the shoulder. He kept walking. Another arrow flew past him. Gods his legs hurt so much. Clang! Something rang off his helmet. Maybe he should sit down, make himself a smaller target? No, then he'd take too long, he just wanted to get across this damn bridge. But it was so far. Step, step, rattle. Something clanged off his greave. Step. "You can do it," he whispered to himself. Step, step… step. He couldn't do it. "Yes you can," he told himself. "You are Loren Lannister, come on, it's just a few more steps. Three more that's it." Step, step, step, still the bridge. "Three more, come on." Step, step, step. "Just one more." Step. "One more." Step. "You can do it, last one." Step, thunk. Ground. Not stone. He blinked looking at his feet standing on dirt road.
He fell to his knees, gasping sobs and clutching at the ground, unable to hold any of it. "I made it," he whispered through his tears. "I made it."
"My lord." Someone took his arm and helped him to his feet. "My lord." The voice was distant. Was that Gerold?
"Put him on the wagon," someone said. "He's fine. Just put him on the wagon."
He felt figures around him but everything was blurry. His armour was being taken off him. "No," he said. "Need it… can't lead… without my armour…"
"You can lead lord," the voice that sounded like Gerold's said. "But you need to lie down."
"No," he tried to fight the people off. "My men… must command."
"As you wish lord, just rest your head for a moment, that's all just a moment."
He felt himself being lifted up. "Just a moment?" He asked.
"Just a moment."
"Just a moment… yes, just a moment. "Just a moment," it was barely a breath. He closed his eyes and rested, just for a moment.
