Almost a hundred horsemen massed for a charge up the hill, arranging themselves in a tight line five deep. At the order from their commander, they drew their sabres. The blades were curved and light, used to slash quickly at infantry as the horsemen drove through their ranks. However, the infantrymen, wearing the green jackets and red trousers of the Renfian army they were attacking had seen them coming and quickly formed a neat square with their guns pointing outward.

“They’re going to be slaughtered,” muttered the young man. He wore the colours of the Markvist army, a white jacket over black riding trousers. A crowned crimson eagle stood defiantly on his right breast, clutching a sword and a pistol in either of its talons.

The young man’s pulse quickened as he tracked the advance of the cavalry squadron from the base of the hill. Soon, it would be his turn to mount a charge. He widened his gaze and attempted to analyse the battlefield as a whole. Men of the Third and Fifth Infantry regiments lay dead or dying on the ground while their others charged up a rise. The cannons on top of the hill roared every so often. A shot struck the ground just in front of a group of advancing infantry wearing black and white, who had clumped up too close together. It bounced up upon striking the ground, obliterating the torso of one man, taking the head off another and the arm and foot of two more just behind.

The young man swallowed. This was to be his first command and his first battlefield. Atri niv Markvist, Earl of Mallingar, had just come of age the year before and this was what he had been preparing for since he could talk: leading men into battle. As the Crown Prince of Markvist’s third son, he stood little chance of inheriting his father’s throne, so military service was the avenue chosen for him to distinguish himself. Not that he lamented his lot in life. He knew he was luckier than most and was determined to prove himself worthy of his name.

The sound of dozens of guns firing at once brought his attention back to the cavalry charge. He watched as several riders fell from their horses, a good two hundred yards away from the infantry square. The first row of infantrymen knelt to begin the lengthy process of reloading their muskets while the second row aimed over their shoulders.

“They’re a disciplined bunch, those Renfian dogs,” a grizzled old man spat.

Carodin Barost was a heavyset soldier in his late forties. He had taught Atri everything he knew about the cavalryman’s way of war and now served as his second in command. He was also the only man in the squadron who had seen battle before. A hundred riders were stood at their backs, riding the finest horses and finest weapons as befitted a squadron personally commanded by a member of Markvist royalty. The cavalry was the cream of the Markvist armies and admission into their ranks brought great prestige.

“Second Squadron are withdrawing, it looks like they got badly mauled,” Carodin observed, as a bugle sounded over the battlefield. They had advanced to within fifty yards of the enemy infantry when the charge was called off. They had inflicted no casualties upon their enemies while losing almost a third of their own number.

“Get ready,” Atri ordered as he saw a messenger running towards them at full gallop in the corner of his eye. He had identified a weak point in the Renfian infantry square and was keen to exploit it before their foes noticed.

“This is it boys, it’s finally our turn,” Carodin bellowed.

It had been two weeks since the Renfians crossed into the Province of Norinvia and captured the strategic town of Vestervin. In response, the pact of mutual protection was triggered, and the Principality of Markvist along with the other members of the Nescovian League had dutifully sent soldiers to drive the invaders back. Today was the fourth day of the battle, and it seemed was finally the Sixth Squadron of the Markvist Cavalry’s turn to see action.

Horses whinnied and fidgeted as they sensed the tension in their riders. Soon, the messenger was upon them. His clothes were mud-spattered and both horse and rider were exhausted, for it was late in a day of many actions.

“Orders from General Penolith!” the messenger cried, as he brought his horse to a halt just in front of Atri.

The young man raised an eyebrow as the messenger relayed his orders. “Is the general sure?” he ventured, “can you double-check?”

“There’s no mistake, My Lord,” the messenger replied indignantly, “you are to move out at once. Time is of the essence.”

“It’s a wise move, boy,” Carodin said soothingly, sensing the young captain’s irritation, “and one that could win the day. I’d say the general is doing you a great honour.”

“That is hardly any consolation,” Atri sniffed, as he watched the remnants of Second Squadron slink back to their lines to the jeers of the enemy infantry.

“You are to go at once,” the messenger urged before digging his heels into the sides of his horse, sending it charging back to the command post.

“You heard the man,” Atri shouted in his best parade voice, “on me! Wedge formation!”

“Men, forward!” Carodin boomed, as Atri nudged his horse forward.

They set off at a canter up the slope towards the infantry square that had just defeated Second Squadron. The enemy infantry was beginning to break into a marching formation but saw their approach and quickly reformed their square.

“Good,” Atri thought grimly to himself, “just stay there.”

A glance over his shoulder told him that his men were holding their formation well. He knew he didn’t need to check. They were well trained, disciplined and highly motivated. However, this was to be their first battle, and he wanted everything to be perfect.

“Draw sabres and increase speed!” Atri ordered.

The men unsheathed their sabres and held them and kneed their horses, increasing their speed to a gallop. It was a measured gallop to ensure that all horses remained in formation, and they quickly ate up the distance to the infantry. Soon, they were close enough to hear their commander issue orders in Renfian, “take aim!”

“Break!” Atri ordered once they were three hundred yards away from the infantry.

Atri’s herald put a bugle to his lips to sound out the order and his men picked up speed, bringing their horses to a full gallop. Then just as they were about to enter the infantry’s firing range, they veered away suddenly, charging past the square and up the hill towards the enemy cannon.

“Scatter!” Atri ordered.

The bugle sounded out, and the riders spread out, continuing their charge up the hill towards the enemy cannons. Soon, the gunners spotted them. Frantically, they wheeled their cannons around to train them on the newcomers. There was a crack of thunder as one of the cannons fired when they were five hundred yards out. The shot was wild, landing harmlessly between a pair of riders. It was a panicked shot that earned the gunners a sharp rebuke from the battery’s commander. Soon, the other guns were trained, but the riders had already closed to within a hundred yards. A few sentries fired off their muskets, and a rider yelped as he fell from his horse. Then, came a five gun barrage. At this range, it was hard to miss, and another seven riders fell.

“Show them no quarter!” Atri roared.

They were a mere twenty yards away now, and the gunners abandoned their guns. They hadn’t a hope of reloading them and were now running for their lives. Determined not to finish his first battle empty-handed, Atri rode a straggler down, and cut him down from behind. The man shrieked and fell face down in the mud. The taste of blood filled Atri’s mouth, and he looked around frantically for his next victim. He locked onto them quickly. Two men running down the reverse side of the hill carrying a third who had turned his angle. He was about to charge after them when Carodin’s bugle blast next to him brought him back to his senses.

Atri turned around and saw that he was almost two hundred yards from the cannons. He could see the Renfian infantry reserves before him in marching formations and spotted an enemy cavalry squadron massing in the distance. He looked around and found at least half his men even further forward than he, completely focused on cutting down the fleeing gunners just as he had been.

“Don’t forget why we’re here, My Lord,” Carodin warned.

Atri nodded and cursed himself for his lapse.

“Men, about-face!” he roared, but they couldn’t hear him over the screams of their falling foes and the closeness of the kill.

Then came a second, more urgent bugle blast that brought most to their senses. Realizing the predicament they had almost placed themselves into, most wheeled their steeds around and returned to the top of the hill.

“Lieutenant, send someone to bring the rest of the men back here,” Atri ordered.

“Locan, you heard the young master,” Carodin barked.

A pale-faced young man sporting a ginger moustache nodded and kneed his horse forward, while Atri gave Carodin a sheepish look.

“I won’t tell, don’t you worry,” Carodin said with a knowing smile, “but I fear word will reach your brother all the same.”

“Then we had better complete our mission, at the very least,” Atri sighed.

They turned their horses around and rode back up the hill to where the enemy had abandoned their cannons. There, they took stock of the guns they had just captured. It was a battery of ten eight-pound cannons which meant they could fire shots weighing eight pounds each. Each cannon was mounted on a two-wheeled carriage. They had also captured ten of their accompanying caissons which each still held half their ammunition as well as two half-full powder wagons.

“We were lucky, eh?” Carodin remarked.

“Excuse me?”

“Our losses would have been heavier if they had time to change to canister shot,” Carodin remarked, cocking his head at the flat-topped cannon shot sitting on top of a caisson.

Each was filled with dozens of metal balls packed into a tin casing, and the thought of facing that sort of shot chilled Atri. He had seen what it could do to the human body on the first day of fighting. They weren’t useful at a distance but deadly at close range.

“I think we had better break out the spikes, my lord,” Carodin recommended, “holding this position will be difficult even if what’s left of the Third and the Fifth joined us.”

Atri turned around and saw several enemy infantry columns climbing up the hill towards them, including the one they had just bypassed. “It’s a shame,” he sighed, “after everything that was sacrificed to capture this position.”

“Do we have your permission, commander?” one of his men asked.

Atri looked back to their own troops and nodded. “Do it quickly and prepare for another charge.”

Carodin watched the advance of the enemy and nodded his approval as the men set about driving metal spikes into each cannon’s touch hole with mallets. The spikes were barbed, making removing them a time consuming and laborious process. The cannons would be rendered unusable until they were removed. “If we’re done quickly, we could hold up at least a regiment of theirs until our boys get dug in.”

Atri cursed softly. “The Renfians brought at least eight thousand men with them, while we only have five. What’s General Penolith thinking?”

“The general has to make do with what he has,” Carodin remarked, “he can hardly be blamed for the League sending insufficient men.”

“We’re going to lose Vestervin at this rate,” Atri observed worriedly.

“It might be the kick up the arse the League needs to take Renfians seriously,” Carodin declared, “unfortunately for us, it looks like they might have finally gotten their house in order.”

“Is that admiration I hear?” Atri asked, turning to his mentor.

Carodin nodded. “Nothing wrong with acknowledging your enemy’s strengths. In fact, it is very important if you want to win wars.”

“Job’s done, captain,” one of his soldiers reported, “and Locan is coming back with the rest of our men.”

Atri nodded and Carodin tapped him on the shoulder.

“New orders,” he said, pointing at the flags at their general’s command post.

“I hope that’s not Korto’s doing,” Atri frowned.

“If it is, I doubt your brother’s doing it to protect you,” Carodin pointed out.

Atri raised an eyebrow and Carodin broke into a smile, “even if it is, are you really going to defy orders after your first taste of combat?”

Atri’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “No, I suppose not. Get the men ready to withdraw.”

“You heard the captain!” Carodin roared, “we’re leaving this place to the ground pounders. Mount up and move out!”

“It all seems so wasteful,” Atri muttered half to himself as they rode down the hill back to their own positions.

“My Lord?” Carodin ventured.

“They say it takes at least five years to raise a cavalryman,” Atri pointed out.

“A barely competent one, yes,” Carodin allowed, “at least twice that to train an effective one.”

“How long does it take to raise an infantryman?” Atri asked.

Carodin stroked his thick whiskers thoughtfully. “I’d say a week to become competent with the gun, and another six months to a year of drills to drill formations and assault tactics into their heads.”

Atri nodded thoughtfully. “And the cost of maintaining a cavalryman for a year could pay for ten infantrymen.”

“That depends on the cavalryman,” Carodin allowed, giving the boy a curious look, “what’s your point, my lord?”

“It just doesn’t add up,” Atri replied.

“Long live the prince! Long live Markvist!” the infantrymen cried as they made gaps in their lines to allow Atri’s squadron to pass through.

“What doesn’t add up?” Carodin asked once they had passed through the infantry columns.

Atri looked over at the despondent looking Second Squadron as they tended to their wounded and sat around looking every inch the badly mauled unit they were. “The expense of maintaining cavalry compared to its effectiveness on the battlefield,” Atri replied.

“My Lord, what you’re saying would be considered seditious if it were uttered by a commoner,” Carodin gasped, aghast. He looked around to ensure the rest of the squadron were out of earshot.

Atri looked Carodin dead in the eye. “Does that make it any less true?”

Carodin’s eyebrows shot up. “My Lord, it’s true that the role of cavalry has changed, but we still play an important role on the battlefield. Our victory today is testament to that.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Atri muttered, unconvinced.

“Earl Atri niv Markvist, the vice general requests your presence at the command post,” a breathless soldier panted as he ran up to them.

“Keep the men ready and assess our losses,” Atri said to Carodin. He climbed off his horse and passed the reins to his second in command.

“Yes, My Lord,” Carodin replied deferentially.

“Ah brother, I’m glad to see you’re safe,” Korto niv Markvist beamed, “mother would never let me hear the end of it if you came back with so much as a scratch.”

Solon niv Markvist’s second son was a broad-shouldered man with fair hair. He wore a bright red long-sleeved tunic. The gold braided rope that hung from his right shoulder signified his rank as vice general of the Nescovian League’s armies. Numerous medals hung from his breast and his eyes danced mischievously as he looked at his brother.

Atri’s eyebrows soared. “I’m glad you’re safe? Not good job out there? I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want any special treatment.”

The command post was located in an open-sided tent well to the rear of the fighting. A large table dominated the centre where officers and their aides poured over a large map of the battlefield. Coloured wooden blocks representing enemy and friendly units were strewn across it. The tent, which had been a hive of activity, fell silent as officers and messengers held their breath. None dared to interrupt. All of them knew who the brothers were, and how important their father was.

Korto’s eyes hardened, and his good humour vanished in a flash. “Would you rather I had sent you in Second Squadron’s place?”

Atri glared back defiantly, “Sixth Squadron would have wiped that infantry unit out.”

“Perhaps, but you would have taken hideous losses, and knowing you, not obeyed the signal to pull out,” Korto shot back.

“Sending Second Squadron was my decision, not your brothers,” came an imperious voice from behind Korto.

“General Penolith,” Atri said, clicking his heels as his body snapped to attention, “Atri niv Markvist, commander of Sixth Squadron, Markvist Cavalry reporting as ordered, sir.”

Penolith niv Nevowise, commander of the League’s army on this battlefield, was a bespectacled man in his sixties and sported a rich mane of white hair. Though he was thin, his back was ramrod straight and his body still had the strength of steel in it. He was the most respected and accomplished general in the League.

“Second Squadron’s job was to pin that infantry unit down to create an opening on the cannons while minimizing their own losses,” Penolith said. His voice was deep and clear and could be heard clearly through the tent, “something a fresh squadron with an unexperienced commander is ill equipped for.”

“I disagree,” Atri blurted, then remembering his place, quickly added, “with respect, general. I just don’t think I should be treated any differently just because of who my father is.”

General Penolith, general of the Nescovian League’s army set his slate-blue eyes on Atri who flinched in spite of himself. “Captain Atri, follow me.”

Korto gave Arti a look that said, “you’ve done it now,” as he followed the general out of the command tent and into a nearby tent. The interior was spartanly furnished with just a bed in one corner and a desk and chair in the other. A large map of the battlefield was pinned to a wheeled board.

“Captain Atri,” General Penolith began with a dangerous edge to his voice, “do you mind repeating what you said earlier?”

Atri hesitated before snapping to attention. “General, I do not require special treatment just because of who my father is,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“Is that a fact?” Penolith asked, as his eyes bored into Atri.

“Yes, sir!” Atri replied without hesitation.

“Do you know how many sixteen-year-old captains of cavalry squadrons there are in my army?” Penolith demanded.

Atri fell silent as he tried to articulate an answer. Before he could get think of something, Penolith barked, “the fact that you’re a cavalryman at all is only because of who your father is.”

“You need to grow up and take the advantages and disadvantages of who you are in stride,” Penolith continued, without giving Atri a chance to reply, “if you were to die under my command, I would be up to my eyeballs in the sewer, and that’s a fact. However, that had nothing to do with you not being chosen to assault that infantry battalion. If I had my way, a fresh captain like you wouldn’t have participated in this battle at all, but I have to pay my dues to the political side of things, which is why I gave you an easy mission to curry favour with your father so that he continues contributing men and supplies to our cause.”

Atri tried to find an argument but was so rocked by the truth being laid bare to him that he could not.

“Again, if you were an ordinary soldier, I would have had you lashed for insubordination over your outburst in the tent instead of giving you a private talking to,” Penolith said, his voice losing none of its hardness, “so let this be the last I hear of you complaining about special treatment. Is that clear?”

Atri swallowed and nodded.

“Is that clear, captain?” Penolith barked.

Atri clicked his heels together and straightened himself, “yes sir, general!”

“Good,” Penolith seethed, “you are dismissed.”

It took all his self-control not to weep as he spun smartly on his heel and marched outside. He walked through the tent flap and found his brother waiting outside with a sympathetic smile.

“He really let you have it, didn’t he?” Kotro said compassionately. When Atri just stood there numbly, he put his arm around his younger brother’s shoulder and guided him over to Sixth Squadron’s position.

“Well, don’t take it too hard,” Kotro grinned, “there’s no telling how many officers old Firebrand Penolith has reduced to tears.”

“Why did you summon me anyway?” Atri managed at length.

“To tell you to stand down,” Kotro replied, “we just got word that there are another two Renfian regiments a day’s march from here, while we haven’t had so much as a whisper about reinforcements from our end.”

Atri’s eyebrows shot up. “We were already outnumbered to begin with, what do we do?”

“We’re withdrawing,” Kotro said with a wry smile, “we’ll be overrun if we stay here, so we need to withdraw back over the Sinlet River.”

“That means all the deaths so far have been for nothing!” Atri cried.

“Staying here or continuing our attacks would just cause more senseless deaths,” Kotro pointed out, “withdrawing is the correct decision.”

“It all seems so wasteful,” Atri breathed.