Emeric sat at the head of a deep cavalry formation, breathing deeply of the morning dew. With the sun perhaps a half hour away from breaking the eastern horizon, the tropical ndscape had not yet lost its humidity. Galnt stirred beneath him, hide jumping as he tossed off what little water had slipped through his armor. Emeric gave him a calming pat on the neck, which cnked noisily as their armor collided. Both were used to it, and both ignored it.

  The Champion's army sudden retreating had thrown the King's pns into disarray, had thrown near everyone's pns into disarray, but not Emeric's. He was a Knight first and foremost. A cavalryman. Though the fields of Tulian were not his home terrain, they were not so alien as to disturb him. Where the enemy marched, so too could he ride, and it was in this expertise his confidence was greatest.

  Tracking five thousand soldiers was not a difficult task. They had done it well enough even in the night, allowing his cavalry to arrive at the Tulian camp some time before midnight, then send his lighter forces out to reconnoiter the immediate environs while the bulk briefly rested. They reported that clusters of thick jungle littered the countryside in patches, but this far north, they were fewer and far between than was reported in the deeper south. Perhaps a problem if the enemy chose to press their backs to it, but only then. It was not yet restricting his strategic mobility, only his tactical options.

  He took another long, deep breath. The air was crisp, cooling his throat. He expected it to be a cooler day, at least by southern standards. A good thing for the horses.

  He slowly urged Galnt up the hill before him, until just his head was poking above the crest. The Tulian camp sprawled out before his eyes, and in his estimation, it was as fine a military camp as could ever be asked for. Five thousand troops, twenty-five hundred tents, all aligned with the precision of a chessboard. Only the center of the camp, in which the thousand or so accompanying civilians were cloistered, had a shade of disorder to it.

  That the Champion apparently prioritized the safety of her civilians over that of her command staff was odd, but also admirable in its own fashion. The few scouts which had dared a closer approach over the course of the night reported that the camp was organized by regiment, with the relevant Colonel taking shelter in the center of their personal commands. Sacrificing centralization of command in lieu of responsiveness under sudden attack, Emeric surmised. A choice, for sure, but not one he had yet developed an opinion on.

  What more greatly frustrated him was at the outermost edge of the camp. Rather than marching fully through the day, it was clear that the Champion's army had broke from their march before dusk, spending the st few hours of daylight securing themselves to a degree almost fanatical. Scrapes in the soil showed where logs had been dragged from a nearby thicket, then whittled into long stakes before being distributed throughout the army. The entire army was now happily ensconced within the protective nest of hundreds of wooden spikes. Per his scout's reports, the cross-shaped lines of spikes leaned against one another, both sides braced by points stabbed deeply into the dirt. They would have been stronger if they had been permanently shed together, rather than loosely wrapped with rope too frayed for other uses, but even this was not without its purpose. He would have to expect the Champion's camp to be simirly protected every night; it was clear that the contraptions could be folded and stowed in a matter of minutes.

  He hadn't a clue how they intended to haul them, however. Already the Champion's chosen infantry were among the heaviest equipped he had ever faced, at least as a general force. Their armor was extensive, their halberds ten feet or more in length, and each soldier was clearly expected to carry a pack that contained their tent and personal effects. Tallying it all together, Emeric guessed they were each carrying sixty, perhaps seventy pounds of equipment, and doing so while setting a brutal marching pace throughout the day.

  Has she no care for what happens to her nation after the war? Emeric wondered. Pressing them so hard, equipping them so effectively, it is a nigh certainty that the younger of her troops will gain a warrior's Css. She is creating a beast she cannot control.

  He put the line of thought forcefully aside; contempting such an issue presupposed her victory in the war. Battles were first fought in the mind, and he would not allow thoughts of defeat to corrupt his thoughts.

  "Squire," he called, keeping his voice gentle, so it would not carry. He shortly heard the armored pitter-patter of Rolda approaching, and did not look down when the sound stopped. Instead, he pointed. "Survey the enemy camp, make your observations, then return to me with them. Carefully now, so as not to be spotted."

  "Yes, sir!" The boy barked, perhaps a bit too loud. Emeric did not chastise him for this. Military discipline was much harder to instill in a twelve year old than subtlety. He would much rather spend his ter years telling him to keep his voice down than muster him out of the ranks now for failing to show proper deference.

  The boy came up with a rattling cnk, his slightly oversized armor making quite the racket as he dropped to hands and knees to sneak up the hill. Amonsgt the many prospects for squires Emeric had been forced to reject, Rolda had stuck out for the simple reason of his size. He could wear Emeric's old equipment, from when he himself was a boy, and if it didn't fit him quite right in some pces, it at least didn't fall off his body or cut him when he twisted.

  Emeric waited patiently while the boy made his observations. Though he himself was not yet nded, Emeric had styled himself after an older era of Knight, from the days when one with a title was expected to personally take their successor under their wing. If Emeric was never awarded a grant of nd on which to raise progeny of his own, he would at least have an apprentice to which his Knighthood could someday be conferred to, the King's permission notwithstanding. Most first-generation Knights amongst the cavalry preferred to direct all their efforts towards someday earning nd, and so treated their squires as little more than assistants and armor caretakers, but Emeric had always found himself unable to view the children so callously. He had been a squire himself once, and remembered those days well. Perhaps he was too empathetic for his own good, as some of his acquaintances cimed, but it was an attribute he could not help even if he wished to.

  After a few minutes spent gawking, Rolda shuffled away from the hilltop on his stomach, then retreated on all fours, finally standing only when he was well out of sight. It was an incredibly awkward affair. No one could deny the boy was enthusiastic in his duties, at least.

  "Sir!" He said, and this time he said it with a bit less volume. Emeric nodded him on. "The enemy camp is well-prepared, and the wooden... erm, spike-things, encircle the entire perimeter. They haven't yet risen for the day, but lookouts are plentiful, and the hill we shelter behind is the closest cover in any direction. No hiding a charge, sir."

  Emeric nodded ambiguously, confirming nor denying nothing, so Rolda pressed on after a moment's thought.

  "Considering the spikes, Sir, it might be best to wait until they begin to break camp, then attack."

  As his own mentor had once infuriated him with, Emeric nodded silently yet again. Rolda stewed at this, tongue working as he thought things through.

  "Sir, can you specify which observations you would like from me?"

  "A general overview, if you would."

  Emeric though he caught a huff being suppressed, but couldn't be sure. After another brief pause, Rolda straightened up even further.

  "Sir, rations are appropriate for the three-day expedition we were allotted, but Quartermaster Lindel reported a greater than normal number of weevils in the grain, which she attributed to the water-proofed casks we were provided being too dry, though Schor-Mage Hearth asserted that weevils in fact thrive in areas which include water–"

  Emeric silenced him with a hand. "Your point is made, Squire Rolda. Having now surveyed the enemy, I ask for what advice you would give me on encountering the enemy in battle."

  He nodded sharply, almost enough a master of his expression to not let the smug smile slip through.

  Almost.

  "Then as I said before, Sir, I think it might be best to attack when the enemy is breaking camp, when there are gaps in their defenses."

  "And are you not worried that facing a more alert enemy will be more dangerous?"

  "Yes, but the spikes–"

  "They pose a danger to our cavalry, in your estimation?" Emeric interrupted. He leaned forward and patted Galnt's armored chest. "They are mere wood, are they not?"

  "Erm, yes Sir, I thought so..." Rolda fumbled, what little training in etiquette he'd had not having prepared him to be prompted to disagree with a superior. "They're wood, yes, but it seems to me that they wouldn't go to through all the trouble to build something that couldn't actually hurt our horses, respectfully, Sir."

  "And therein lies your mistake, Squire Rolda." Emeric finally let the impassive mask he'd maintained fall, smiling brightly. "You assume the enemy has the same knowledge of our capabilities that we do. However, they are led by a Champion who has not yet spent a year in these nds, and her forces possess few, if any, experts on warfare. At a gnce, did you think such flimsy things capable of stopping a creature such as Galnt?"

  The squire eyed the massive warhorse, whose withers stood higher than most men's heads. In the cool morning, each snorting breath from his nostrils blew a cloud of steam rge enough to engulf the boy's torso. The animal's enchanted armor, aside from two admittedly prominent circur dents, was immacute.

  "I... didn't put much thought to the matter, Sir, speaking honestly. I apologize."

  "Apologies are not yet necessary, Squire Rolda. If some day the responsibility for such observations lies upon you, then yes, an apology may be appropriate, but not today. I asked for your view to train you only, and to sharpen my own thoughts." Emeric nodded once, sharply. "Return to the baggage train and consider the matter. Formute a pn of attack, perhaps, and compare it to the actual events of the battle afterwards."

  "Yes, Sir!" Rolda cried, saluting sharply before retreating. Really, the boy had too much enthusiasm at times.

  With the obligation of training his squire put behind him, Emeric considered. He had only a short time before the enemy camp would be awake in earnest. It was time to make his own decisions.

  ----------------------------

  Sara

  ----------------------------

  The enemy made themselves known shortly before noon. She'd known they were there, somewhere, on instinct alone, but the first first she saw of them was then.

  The Knights of Sporatos rode over the the hill with all the leisure of men on parade, aligned in neat rows. Though she could only catch glimpses of them from a mile or so away, they were no less impressive for it. A solid block of steel, a grid more perfect than any city street. They moved and pivoted as one, the outermost horses shifting between a brisk trot and a ckadaisical walk as the entire group turned, their formation's edge as sharp as a razor.

  Whispers and cries went up and down the Tulian army as their presence was noted, terror in nearly every voice. Some even began to fall out of line, anticipating the order to form a defensive square. Sergeants quickly disabused them of the notion with a torrent of profanity, forcing them back to their pces as rapidly as possible, but the interruption still caused the entire column to stutter. It was if they were a single great beast, flinching at the sight of an even greater predator.

  Sara called for a general halt as she watched the cavalry in silence, spygss held to her eye. They were not charging. In fact, they were not even closing the gap. They were simply holding position at about a mile out, matching her army's pace. They'd clearly figured out the range of her cannons.

  "Is he there, Master?" Evie asked.

  With the supernatural aid of her Carrion spygss, Sara searched for a certain set of armor among their number. She found it in short order. Knight Emeric rode in the centermost position of the formation, the same mace that he'd once used to nearly crush Sara's skull bouncing jauntily off his hip. That was only his sidearm, for today. His main weapon was the massive nce that was secured to his saddle, its steel length tipped by enchanted bcksteel.

  "He is," Sara confirmed.

  Evie licked her lips. "Perhaps he will end up dismounted. It would be quite the prize, taking him for ransom."

  "I think you're skipping a few dozen steps there, Evie," Sara said, closing the spygss. "We've got to survive the bastard first."

  "No sense pnning for what happens after we're dead."

  "God, I love your optimism."

  They watched the horses for a while longer, the entire army halted by indecision. The cavalry slowly closed the distance, serenely confident in their approach, but eventually stopped, holding position at three quarters of a mile or so.

  "They're in cannon range," Evie noted.

  "Yeah. And they know it, too."

  Lieutenant Shale took that moment to hustle up, smile wide. "Ma'am, the enemy is within range of–"

  "I know," Sara interrupted. "And they know it, too."

  Sara thought of what she knew of Emeric, both from her personal encounter with the man, and Evie's second-hand recollections. Knighted at a young age for his fanatical dedication to King and Country, he'd quickly proved adept in the ways of cavalry warfare, both as a warrior and a leader. Little was said of his preferred tactics in battle; he had no favored technique, altering his pns to fit the situation as he thought necessary. Not a practical man, but an intelligent one, turned particurly dangerous by his dogmatic loyalty.

  "He wants us to unlimber the cannons," Sara decided. "We might get a few shots off, but they'll reach us before they break. If he captures or destroys the cannons, it won't matter how many casualties he suffers. That'll be it for us."

  "We can at least fire one shot, to get the range–" Shale began, but Sara shook her head.

  "No. Every minute we stand here gawking is another minute for the main force to catch up to us. That's what he really wants."

  "So what will we do?" Shale asked. By then the Colonels had drifted over to the center of the column, awaiting her instructions.

  Sara shrugged. "I don't know. Bullshit goddess powers let me figure out what he's pnning, but hell if I know what to do about it. Evie?"

  "Of course, Master," the feline replied, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a number of thick military textbooks, many with titles long enough to be called paragraphs, and began flipping through. If cavalry was king, she was looking for a guillotine.

  "Colonel Targ?" Sara called while Evie looked through her books. Voth's old army sergeant, now in charge of over a thousand troops, stepped forward. "See if you can find a good map of the area, or at least some locals that know the pce. We're going to resume the march, and I don't want us going around any bends or terrain that'll split us up. They'll pounce in an instant if they can."

  "Yes ma'am," he rumbled, turning away with a zy salute. Sara liked that about him. He still carried the cynicism of a career soldier, and didn't get overawed by her various titles.

  "In the meantime, let's get this army back on the move," Sara told the others. "We're going to have to slow our pace, unfortunately."

  "Slow it?" Ese asked incredulously. "There's cavalry bearing down on us, and army in tow."

  "Yeah, but we're not going to outrun the cavalry, and with how much rger the Royal Army is, we can afford to drop our pace a bit." Sara pointed to the glittering cavalry, which were waiting with a predator's gleaming hunger. "It doesn't matter how fast we run from them, though. They'll catch us no matter what. I don't want us exhausted when they finally decide to charge us. We'll need everything we can get."

  "Master?" Evie piped up. "I believe I've found several relevant texts for your perusal."

  "Love you, babe," Sara said, slipping a hand around the woman's waist to peek over her shoulder at the books. "Read 'em aloud, for the rest of the colonels."

  "A summary must suffice, then," she said, then cleared her throat. "It seems to me that the texts are in near universal agreement regarding our predicament. We are hopelessly outmatched, and must either build temporary fortifications within which we await a relief force, or we must counter with cavalry of our own."

  "Neither of which we have."

  "Unfortunately. But accounts of battles in which a force cking in enchanted cavalry persevering through an assault by a force such as that we face do exist. Rare, exceptionally rare, but it has happened."

  "Oh?" Sara asked. The rest of the Colonels leaned in, expressions intense. To be desperately studying tactic manuals in the middle of the march generally boded poorly for one's prospects in a war, but it wasn't like they had any option.

  "Again, as a basic summary, each army which successfully fended off enchanted cavalry did so by leveraging some other advantage they had in excess to their opponents. Mages, for example, are most common, as their versatility can counter the more limited attack vectors of mounted knights. Alternatively, as touched on before, fortifications and traps were prepared overnight, maiming a great deal of the enemy come morning. Not a decisive fraction, but enough to encourage a brief retreat to nurse their wounds and recuperate."

  "We don't have mages," Shale said, "But we do have–"

  "Cannons, yeah, I know," Sara said. "But we've only got four of them for now. That's not enough to stop eight-hundred odd horsemen, Shale, not on their own."

  "Do you see know of any other advantage we possess that the enemy doesn't?"

  "No," Sara sighed, "but that doesn't mean that's the right option." She released her hold on Evie, heaving a deep, worried breath. "We're gonna have to figure something out, though."

  She once more looked at the cavalry, and was mildly surprised to see their formation wheeling to one side. For a brief, naively optimistic moment, she thought they were heading away, but that hope was quickly discarded. Instead they set themselves at an angle to her army, clearly moving ahead to cut them off.

  "Guess we're gonna fuckin' find out sooner or ter," Sara grumbled, watching the horses begin to pick up speed.

  Colonel Targ chose that moment to return, a thoroughly intimidated looking private in tow.

  "This kid's from around here," he said, hauling the poor woman into the spotlight in the same motion that he handed her a quill and parchment. "What kinda terrain are we looking for?"

  "Anything that'll let us pick the time to engage," Sara said, waving the woman forward. She nervously stepped up, and Sara held out one of the crude maps she had of the area. "How accurate is this, private, uh...?"

  "Tilly, ma'am, Private Tilly," she said, swallowing nervously. She leaned forward, looking at the map. "Well, this stream here is a bit farther north, I think, and a wider one..."

  Sara let the woman talk, doing her best to not let the poor girl get intimidated into a coma by the presence of her entire army's high command crowding around her as she described the area. Sara didn't want any mistakes to be made; there was a hell of a lot riding on exactly how accurately she'd be able to know the terrain.

  In the distance, horse hooves rumbled.