Crusade - James Lowder [112]
Azoun patted the scout on the head and sent him to his place at the rear of the army, where he'd be ready as a messenger if the need arose. Trailing the standard-bearer and a few knights behind him, the king walked to the rear of the lines himself. With the help of a wooden ramp, Azoun mounted his fully barded horse. The white destrier pranced nervously, then trotted to the front lines under the king's guidance.
As Azoun watched, a few soldiers scattered caltrops over the field far in front of the Alliance's lines. These spiked metal balls, like the wooden barricades that also littered the field, were meant to slow a cavalry charge. All along the first line, the men tightened the straps on their leather armor or shifted under the weight of their hauberks of chain mail. Spear points and pike blades glinted in the morning sunlight as the weapons sat on the ground near their owners, who also rested in anticipation of the conflict. Wineskins passed surreptitiously from man to man as the waiting began.
The experienced campaigners knew that a period of tense expectation, when the lines were formed but the enemy had yet to charge, would be part of the battle that day. They took the delay in stride. Many listened to the sergeants and captains barking orders or tossing encouragement to the men.
Others heard the murmur of hushed, worried conversations, and, closing their eyes, dreamed that they were in a tavern far from this particular battlefield.
Whatever they did, the soldiers who had seen a large battle before tried their best not to look for the Tuigan on the horizon.
They knew that the enemy would come soon enough.
In fact, it was only one half-hour after the king had signaled the lines to form that the dust from the Tuigan advance became visible, even against the bright morning sun. The signal to prepare for assault rippled through the standards, and the men got slowly to their feet. Last gulps of wine were swallowed, and prayers were quickly murmured. The more hardened mercenaries placed final bets on the number of men they might kill or how many hours the fight might take. Most of the soldiers simply stood and stared at the dark line growing across the horizon.
"Can you see how they're arrayed?" Azoun asked the armored horseman to his right.
As infantry commander, Farl's position for the start of the battle was near the king, to the rear of the first line. Be squinted at the enemy troops rushing toward them and, after a moment, shook his head. "I can't tell from this distance." Farl's horse shifted nervously beneath him, and he steadied it with a pat on the flank. "If there are as many warriors as you said, their front isn't long enough for them to be riding in less than two, perhaps three lines."
Fear knotted Azoun's stomach, and he suddenly knew why the men had been so quiet, so tense in the hours before the battle. The king's work had kept his mind occupied with hundreds of details, and his position had called on him to make a myriad of decisions, all of which drew his attention away from the reality of the conflict. As Azoun sat on his destrier, watching the Tuigan advance, he knew with horrible certainty the battle that might end his life was charging toward him at a fast gallop.
Azoun glanced at the helmet in his hands. The basinet was ovoid, with a high point at the summit that tapered to the ornate gold rim of the Cormyrian war crown. "In a battle against Zhentil Keep this crown might guarantee my safety," he said vaguely as he slid the helmet over his coif of mail.
"But the khahan has expressed a wish to make my skull into a cup, so I suppose this makes me stand out more than a full