Baldric
He furiously paced amongst his surviving men as their foes stretched into a wall of pikes standing between them and their camp. Royce had gone straight for it, along with a small number of his men. The rest of them - several hundred - stretched out their lines to only a handful of ranks deep. Faced with such discipline was demoralizing to Baldric's bannermen, many of whom were ordinary smallfolk who carried axes, tools, and spears which were at least a third shorter than the pikes.
"Form up!" Baldric screamed, desperate to save his sons. Karl Penny and Cameron Bolt echoed his orders until a ragged shield wall was formed up beyond the tree line. The rest reluctantly fell in behind them.
"Men of House Dondarrion!" Baldric walked amongst them, shouting as loud as he could so that all might hear him. "These are the Vulture King's forces! If they triumph here, they will overrun your homes! They will kill your families! We must stop them here! Find your courage and fight!"
He struck the boss of his shield with his sword hilt. "I am Baldric Dondarrion! I led some of you in the Blackfyre Rebellion. I bled with you in the Vale! I bled with you in the Crownlands! I will bleed with you now, in the Red Mountains!"
The pikemen had begun advancing as he spoke, chanting and jeering to drown his words out.
"Fight for me," Baldric screamed, hoping that he did not sound like he was begging. "Fight for your land! Fight for your families! But in the name of the gods, you must fight!"
"Dondarrion!"
Ragged cheers broke out across the assembled crowds. They grew with each breath, until more than a thousand men were shouting the name. Baldric could have wept with relief as he muscled his way towards the front. He linked his shield with those in the first row, crouching so that his eyes barely peeked over his shield's rim.
Truthfully, it was a sobering - nay, frightening - sight to behold. At least three rows of pikes were held at the ready, their glittering points aimed at Baldric and his men.
Baldric saw one man in front of him aiming his weapon so that it would impale one of Baldric's legs. He halted and knelt, grunting as the pike glanced off his shield. Two more pikes went over his head, but Baldric was already rising to his feet again. The shafts rested harmlessly on his shoulders.
Ignoring the clashes of joined battle all about him, he bulled his way forward. Pike points buried themselves into the thick wood of his shield, but Baldric would not be dissuaded.
He thrust his sword over the top of his shield; he felt resistance, even as a shriek of pain sounded out. Baldric did not look to see whom he'd struck or where his lunge had struck him. He stepped back and deflected the counterattack with his shield.
As he turned his head to protect his face, he saw other men doing much the same as he did. The front ranks used their shields to hold off the pikes, trying their best to strike back or at least break the pike shafts.
The pikemen fought back, ramming their deadly weapons forward, pushing against the Dondarrions to drive them back into the trees and uneven ground.
Baldric sensed that something was amiss, however. Just before, the pikemen had been densely packed, pushing their own ranks forward to the point that they were suffocating. This advance felt much weaker.
They've overreached themselves, Baldric realised. Their lines are too extended.
"Focus on one place," he told the men beside him. "We all push against that spot!" He gestured in front of him. "Tell the others!"
Men passed on the word beside them and behind them. Gods be good, Baldric prayed fervently, please grant us the chance to break them before they destroy us.
"Forward!" He shouted. "All together now! Break the line!"
It was a clumsy advance, but they followed their lord. The shield wall struggled to stay united, especially with the mass of infantry pushing against them. Baldric picked up the pace to avoid being pushed flat on his face.
The pikes withstood the rush; steel points clattered against shield bosses, sunk into wood, glanced off armour, or else found marks in flesh.
Baldric felt short of breath as he was squeezed between the men behind him and the pikes in front of him. He cried out as a pike point sunk into his calf. Most found his shield, holding him in place as the brigands holding the pikes strained to keep him from closing the gap. Panic was building within Baldric as he swung wildly with his sword.
And yet, for the first time, he saw fear in the faces of the enemy before him. They were straining to hold their place against this blunt onslaught. They had benefited from the square formation, but now that they were in a line, their power was diminished. It was clear that they'd expected panic to seize the Dondarrions and leave them helpless.
Hope leapt back into Baldric's heart. "Harder," he called, hoping that the men could hear him. "Keep pushing!"
Pain shot through him again; another pike had pierced his forearm as he'd swung his sword. He gritted his teeth as he forced himself to ignore his wounds.
He had no chance to look about him; he was in the front line now after three men before him had fallen. They screamed as they writhed on the ground, but Baldric did not hesitate to step over their bodies. He would not be dissuaded from saving his sons. He could not fathom going back home to face Cassana and admit he was wrong to doubt her. That he might have prevented Royce Storm from destroying their family. Death was easy compared to that.
He kept his head down to protect his eyes and mouth. Blades clanged against his helm and shield. Shouts and grunts were all about him. He could scarcely breathe as he tried to break the line of pikemen before him.
Several times, he swore that he could hear something strange yet familiar, but the tumult about him was too great. The pain in his calf forced him to limp; weariness fought fiercely with his resolve.
He could not be sure how much time had passed since he'd led the counter-charge, much less how much time had passed since he'd first entered the valley. Battle seemed to defy all logic and reason when it came to the natural laws.
As he tried to take yet another step forward, a weapon struck the top of his shield. So forceful was the blow that the shield's rim was knocked backward and rammed against Baldric's face.
He saw stars as he felt something crack. Pain shot so fiercely through his nose that his eyes filled with tears. Warm blood was dripping onto his lips and into his beard. He felt himself fall to his knees, still clutching his shield.
The line in front of him was holding firm. Had Baldric's army been able to keep their morale, they might have broken out. Mayhaps they still might, but Baldric felt a thrill of fear knowing that he too would be trampled in the attempt. He no longer knew if the tears on his face were from agony or from despair.
Men suddenly shouted above him, but Baldric did not trust himself to look up, for fear that he would meet his death. He did not know who was shouting, or for what reason. He simply tried to protect himself from his enemies whilst praying that his bannermen would save him.
He was also growing weak. He did not know how long they had been fighting, but he felt weary and dizzy. His resolve would not abate, but his will was failing, and a wave of feeling threatened to drown him in bitterness, self-loathing, and despondency.
You could not protect your family, a small voice echoed inside his head; it was a voice that he recognised only too well. You were always the least of your brothers. Your name was a gift from your wife, your lordship undeserved and unearned. And now here you lie, on your knees, waiting for death to take you.
The shouts above him grew, as did that strange sound which Baldric had gleaned earlier. Trumpets!
He dared not react, for fear of exposing himself to some evil strike from friend or foe in the midst of this melee. He could not see who struck his shield, let alone how the battle was playing out.
Men suddenly began cheering. He could hear them hollering behind him and around him, and so he risked a glance from beneath his shield.
The pikemen were fleeing in all directions. From the far end of the valley, an army of men advanced with all haste. A line of knights on destriers led the way, their armoured forms glittering in the sun. Above them flew the banners of House Caron and House Dondarrion.
Baldric wept as he slowly rose to his feet. His injuries did not allow him to run after the hated enemy, as many of his bannermen now did. The first line of horsemen were running down dozens of the Vulture King's troops. The Vulture King!
Panic seized him once more. He waved his arms in the air, crying out for aid. One of the arriving horsemen, bearing the sigil of House Caron, saw him and spurred towards Baldric.
"Go back to our camp," Baldric cried out, gesturing in towards the way he'd first entered the valley. "The Vulture King is in our camp! Hurry!"
The knight bobbed his head, then spurred his horse back to the main line. Baldric watched them thunder off toward the end of the valley, and gave a slow sob of relief.
Most of Baldric's troops that remained with him were also wounded. He saw Karl Penny lying on the ground, groaning as two of his knights attended him. One of the hedge knights whom he had commended was leaning against a wizened tree as his giant of a squire knelt beside him.
A group of Dondarrion horsemen trotted to the grove of trees where Baldric and his host had been driven. Their leader lifted up his helm's visor, revealing him to be Manfred. He quickly descended from his horse when he saw Baldric.
"Are you wounded, Father?"
Baldric could not stop tears flowing down his face as he nodded.
Without another word, Manfred put a hand on his father's shoulder as he turned to the others. "Bring Lord Caron's maester at once!"
As the others spurred their horses back the way they came, Manfred turned back to Baldric. "You had best compose yourself ere Lord Caron sees you."
Baldric could not be certain whether Manfred meant that as a warning to spare him embarrassment, or an admonishment to spare Manfred himself from embarrassment. In that moment, Baldric did not care which it was; he had begun to think he'd never see his son again. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and held it up to his nose.
"How was this possible?" he asked in a dazed voice. "Where have you and Lord Caron been?"
A dark expression flashed across Manfred's face. "We were led astray," he admitted grudgingly. "Those scouts you found were traitors."
"Indeed." Baldric had almost forgotten about Agripina. "I found out the same, too late. I was so worried for you."
Manfred spoke again, but Baldric could not follow his words. Instead, he looked about in astonishment. The Caron and Dondarrion reinforcements had taken the field for themselves, even as the survivors of the Vulture King had fled.
He turned back to Manfred when his son grabbed his shoulder. "What?"
"Where are Kres and Gerry?"
Clarity broke through the fog of his mind. "I must find out. Help me onto your horse."
"Father, you mustn't go," Manfred tried to persuade him.
Baldric resisted an urge to strike him. "Mustn't? Mustn't I? Damn your eyes, of course I must! Royce went to find them!"
"Royce?" Manfred frowned. "You mean Royce Storm?"
"Of course," Baldric shouted. "He is the Vulture King!"
Soon, he was cantering back to his camp, ignoring those men who called to him. The old dread had returned, and he prayed fervently that the reinforcements had caught Royce before it was too late. Alive, he thought furiously. Take him alive, so that I might deliver him to Cassana in chains. She will know what to do with him far better than I.
As he neared the bend, he saw smoke drifting into the air. Terror seized him so suddenly that he thought his heart had stopped beating. He struggled to breathe properly as he urged Manfred's horse onward.
The camp had been razed. Most of the tents were aflame; several had already become smouldering piles of rubble and ash.
There was no sign of the Vulture King or any of his followers, save those who had been slain. Alongside those dead were dozens of camp followers, regardless of age.
Baldric urged his horse forward, clutching the reins with shaking hands. "Kresimir," he called out. "Geraint!"
His pleas were soon answered. Hador the blacksmith approached him with a limping gait. The expression on his face was enough to make Baldric feel faint.
"My lord," Hador began, even as Baldric clumsily slid from the blood-stained saddle.
"My boys," Baldric demanded hoarsely.
"Geraint is there," Hador gestured to one of the few tents still standing. "He is still feverish from his hand, but he still lives."
"Thank the gods," Baldric gasped. "Oh thank the-" The meaning of Hador's words, and tone with which he said them, struck him so suddenly that he lost his voice.
"Lord Baldric?"
He turned to see Pearse Caron astride his stallion; both he and the horse were streaked with blood. His face was grim as always, but there was a hint of sympathy as well.
Baldric felt too weak to stand; he sank to the ground. "Not again," he pleaded, bereft of pride. "Please! Not again!"
"I'm so sorry, milord," Hador stuttered. "Kresimir and Colby joined the fight to defend the camp. Colby still lives, but Kresimir fell."
Baldric wanted to scream. He wanted his keening to pierce the gods' ears themselves. But he did not have the strength to even do that. He felt faint as he supported himself with both hands on the ground. Let it be no more, he despaired. Make an end to all this and be done with it!
"He's lost his reason," Caron declared.
"Nay. My father is wounded. He has lost much blood. We must have him attended."
Good lad, Manfred, Baldric thought. Your mother would be proud of you. Gods, what will she say when we return home?
He felt hands touch him, stripping away his armour, applying rags to his wounds. He barely felt any of it. He stared numbly at the ground before him, thinking of his poor boy.
Cassana had insisted on naming him for the brave man who had given his life to fight against the Swanns. Both his sons had also risked their lives in the name of House Dondarrion, earning a knightly house for their bravery. For his part, Baldric barely recalled Kresimir from his days growing up in Stonehelm, but Kresimir had apparently thought well enough of him to turn against House Swann. What did I do to earn that sort of loyalty? He wept as he thought of how many men had met their ends whilst following his orders.
It was some time before he realised that it was no maester who was treating him. She was a woman whose pale skin was covered in freckles, and whose dark chestnut hair had been cut shorter than Baldric's. It took Baldric some time before he realised that she was younger than Manfred. Scars had aged her face, as did the expression in her eyes. He recognised that expression in men who had endured the worst of war during the Blackfyre Rebellion.
"Drink, milord," she urged as she held up a cup of water. "You lost much blood."
Baldric did not question her orders. After he drained the cup, he looked at her again. "Who are you?"
"Hallia, milord," came her answer. "Hallia of Barca's Valley."
Baldric simply nodded, rather than admit that he didn't know who Barca was or where his valley lay. "You have my thanks."
Hallia inclined her head. "You have mine, milord, for bringing this army against the Vulture King."
Baldric was struck by the way she pronounced the last two words. "Has he wronged you too?"
"Yes, milord." She began to bind up one of his wounds rather than elaborate on her answer.
He did not know how long he sat there, nor did he care. He flinched as his wounds were treated, and obediently drank water when it was given to him. He heard men and horses go past him, he heard their whispers. Sometimes they spoke aloud. None of it mattered to Baldric.
"Where is Royce Storm?"
It was Lord Caron who answered Manfred's question. "There is no sign of him. He escaped before we finished liberating the camp."
"He will not escape for long," Cameron Bolt declared forcefully. Baldric was faintly surprised that the young man was present. When did he arrive?
Lord Caron spoke again. "What of Lord Titus?"
This time, it was Karl Penny who spoke. "We have not seen him for days. He led a party into the mountains, just as I did. Branston Straw was another, but we know he is dead. The Vulture King's work." Baldric's eyes flicked up to Cameron Bolt as he spat with loathing upon the ground.
"Mayhaps my uncle is also dead," Manfred suggested hesitantly.
Baldric suddenly jerked his head upward. "His boy was here. Andrew. We must look after him if Titus has fallen."
The others looked at him strangely, except for Hador. He was still morose as he shook his head.
"Nay, milord," he replied. "He, too, is dead."