“We got a plan.” Kaivl was grinning as he strode under the small pavilion. 

There was really no space left, though, with the four soldiers and the small table. Not to mention that Nez was taking up half the table running a stone down the edge of his broadsword. It barely left any space for the coins and dice.

“I’ve got a plan, too,” replied Hevedal, shaking dice in a cup. “It’s simple, really. I carry all of Dason’s silver for him. I consider it a win-win.”

Dason grimaced and shook his head. “Just throw the dice, Hevie.”

Nez looked critically down the edge of his blade. “Who’s got a plan, Kaivl?”

“The brass. I’ve just come from Wiken. Sarden and Count What’s-’is-name from Fort Trest were there too. They’ve noticed a fortuitous conjunction of events, but we need to move quickly.”

“Throw the dice, Hevie.”

Everyone glanced down as the three dice tumbled out to a sum of eleven. “No sixes, Hevie,” said Nez.

Dason pulled two short stacks of coins from Hevedal’s side of the table to his own. 

“Guys. Listen. See those soldiers over there setting up that tent? On the corner, just by the south tower.”

The other three looked, but only Nez stood to get a better angle. “What about them?”

“Here’s the plan. We rush them.”

“The five of us,” said Hevedal with a raised brow.

“Abo’s ass, what kind of goddam plan is that?” Dason said.

Kaivl closed his eyes briefly, gave his head one quick shake. “Watch your obscene tongue,” he said. “It’s an honor to be selected for such a prestigious mission.”

“I’m sure I’m not worthy,” said Dason, scooping the silver into his wallet.

“Who gets to rush the main gate? I feel slighted. Were we even in the running?” Hevedal put the dice back in his pocket. He’d have to find some younger, drunker conscripts later to make back his losses.

“Spare me your sarcasm. This plan comes from General Wiken,” said Kaivl, emphasizing the rank.

“And I say Holy Zoser himself would drop a turd on it. What’s the goddam point? There’s scores of infantry within 50 meters of that position, and it’s within bowshot of the walls. We wouldn’t last a minute.”

“Speak for yourself, m’lady. I shall hew them, a dozen to my left, another to my right.” Hevedal announced in a stage voice. He swung an imaginary sword in wide arcs, making swishing noises. “They cheer from the walls.” He raised his arms, encouraging the fictitious applause.

“Shut up, Hevie. What’s this about, Kaivl? Why are we rushing this corner?”

“Because,” he replied, pausing and winking, “the soldiers guarding the enemy command tent are nearby and will rush to engage us.”

Dason sat up, dropping his cloak. “Go on.”

“It’s too far away to engage before they figure out the diversion,” said Nez slowly. “Some of the soldiers will turn to intercept our forces. Besides, they have elite warriors at the command tent. What’s Wiken’s move, here?”

“He wants to release the garr. You see,” he said, forestalling the incredulous looks from Dason and Hevedal, “the defenders have slaughtered a bisra and are grilling it for their beloved commanders.”

“The garr are all the way back with the supply line,” Dason said, still skeptical. “If Wiken releases them, what makes him think they’ll ignore all our ponies and men and attack a command tent that’s nearly a furlong away? Even if they have bisra on the barbie?”

“It’s the marinade,” said Hevedal, giving a chef’s kiss.

“They’ve already smelled it,” replied Kaivl. “They’re going nuts. Wind’s blowing it right at them, and Wiken’s already had the men move all the supply horses back downwind. Everyone between here and the front line is cued up to make a hole. All we need to do is draw that front line a little to the left.” He grinned big. “That’s us.”

Nez shook his head. “A lot can go wrong,” he said, adjusting his vest and wiggling his shoulders to settle the mail shirt. He hefted his sword and reached for the shield leaning against one of the pavilion poles.

“We didn’t really have time to give it the consideration it deserves, but,” Kaivl paused, shrugged. “Swords lead, asses follow.”

“What’s to keep their cavalry from engaging?”

“The Marreschall of Kordika is observing on the right flank. They’d have to go around him.”

“Why doesn’t he do something?” Dason asked, pointing with his chin.

“Rebel Earls are the Realm’s business. Got nothing to do with the Lands,” Kaivl replied.

“Yeah, but cut down some mini-king’s holy hawthorn bush in a godforsaken piss-pot of a hamlet and you’ve got Indagators crawling up your ass and cutting their way out.”

Dason shook his head and got up, oblivious to the stool that fell as he rose. He grunted as he bent to retrieve his shield from where it lay in the grass. “Well dammit. When we doing this?”

“Two minutes ago.” Kaivl reached into his vest, pulled out a small glass bottle. “Shot of liquid courage?” He pulled the stopper and took a swig. Making a face and coughing painfully, he held it out to Hevedal.

“Is that dabosi?” He took the bottle and downed a gulp. “Hooo!” he bellowed. “That’ll burn the hair off your balls.” 

The bottle went round and Nez tossed the empty onto the table. He turned the fire in his throat into a battle cry and started at a trot toward the enemy line. Dason, Kaivl and Hevedal took it up and fell in with him. Soldiers in their immediate vicinity looked up, hastily grabbed whatever weapons were at hand and joined in the mob. In seconds they were at a full run, hooting, shouting and banging swords on shields. 

The stewards and laborers pulling the stays tight on the tent looked up in alarm and bolted. One side collapsed, entangling a half-dozen panicking men under the heavy canvas.

The soldiers standing watch along the front gave the alarm, and in seconds men were running to meet Nez and his disorganized horde. The remaining watch sargeants tensed, calling their lines to arms, but the rest of the attackers looked as surprised as they were at Nez’ charge. All eyes were turned toward the impending crash.

A burly mountain of a man stalked forward of the tent, a heavy dual bladed ax held low against his thighs. His head was shaved and painted with streaks of red over his scalp and down his face. He gazed calmly at Nez, swung the big ax down in one hand and brought it up easily to a two hand grip resting on his right shoulder. 

Nez angled his run slightly to take him head on. He was aware of others lining up behind Big Red, shouting to find some courage of their own. But the huge ax wielder made no sound as he crouched slightly and gauged the rapidly dwindling distance. At the last second, the ax came off the shoulder and started a terrifying windmill that would take it high overhead. Nez shifted the shield up slightly and threw his sword arm back to the side. Just as the ax came up, Big Red flexed and jumped to get his full body weight behind the downward stroke. Nez went low, sliding his feet right between his opponent’s legs and twisting so that the shield covered his head and shoulder. As the ax plunged into the earth behind him, he pulled the broadsword across the giant’s unarmored inner thigh, slicing through muscle and artery, and heaved up to a crouch as his opponent went down on one knee, no longer able to support his weight with his left leg.

Nez turned immediately to engage another enemy as Dason and Hevedal dispatched the surprised man.

“Line!” he screamed over his shoulder, batting away a sword and driving his own blade over the top of the shield in front of him. It caught the defender in the neck, and he kicked the man down with a boot on his shield. “On me!”

Dason and Hevedal were with him in an instant, thrusting their swords along their shields. Two others forced their way onto Dason’s flank to extend the wall, and Kaivl was suddenly there, too. “Spearmen!” he screamed, thrusting blindly, and was rewarded with four poles going over his and Nez’ shoulders. Nez felt the reassuring bracing on his back of fellow soldiers helping him against the enemy press, ready to swap out when he needed a break.

He risked a glance left and almost wished he hadn’t. Gleaming silver-scaled bodies flicked and twisted among enemy troops. The air was a spray of blood and body parts as the garr tore through the defenders toward the command tent.

Then he was occupied with his own fight, and the relentless plunge of sword against shield. “Push, push goddam it!” he screamed, and his allies redoubled their efforts, forcing the line back. The defenders stumbled and succumbed to the spears, but the momentum was lost. Nez was starting to wish they had planned a retreat signal, but there hadn’t really been time for that. The whole enemy compound was engaged now, most with the whirlwind of screams and shouts around the garr, but plenty also streaming toward the diversionary force. That was the problem with being the bait.

“Swiiiiitch!” yelled Kaivl, and the line surged forward for a moment, then relented and a half dozen men rotated to the rear. Fresh soldiers took their place and Nez set his shoulder against the man who had taken his. 

There was a clash as the enemy line seized the opportunity to press forward, but the line held. Then, suddenly, there was no resistance against Nez’ shoulder, and he knew he had less than a second to fill the breach. As his man went down, he lunged into the line, a sword thrust grazing his temple and slicing his ear. He extended along his enemy’s blade and found the shoulder. He shoved, thrust again. The damn fool wouldn’t die. Nez felt a chill settle in his stomach. 

What happened next was a blur. He felt his brace man lurch, then a foot planted full on his shoulder and someone - or something - launched from behind him clean over the line. Whoever it was did a blue-and-silver somersault in the air over the enemy. There was a flash on the way down, a fraction of a second of silence, then a clap like thunder that flattened a dozen men from both sides and left Nez dazed with ringing ears. In the epicenter stood Wiken’s battlemage. His forearms and lower legs were wrapped tightly in iron studded leather, and Nez could see a kind of scaled shirt under the bright cassock and fascia. They wore so much damned cloth, they looked more priest than warrior. If that were so, the two longswords of cold-forged frostbone held lightly in each hand eloquently announced his religion.

The enemy rolled around groggily, searching for weapons and shields. “Back to the line,” the battlemage barked to Nez and his men before turning his shaven head to face his opponents.

Nez really didn’t need any further encouragement. He heard shouts from the walls as a dozen bowmen released and reached for more arrows. The mage flicked his wrist sharply, making a short arc with one sword and the arrows were suddenly going in the other direction, back to the battlements. More cries and two falling bodies. 

One of the soldiers found his feet and charged, head lowered, to try and knock the battlemage back. The mage sidestepped and delivered a vicious backhanded blow to the head and the soldier sprawled out, face down and twitching. Another was right on his heels. The mage's left blade glowed blue as he frissoned down the attacker's extended sword, then the right blade came across in a ferocious blow that shattered his enemy's sword.

Nez realized he'd been staring when he should have been retreating. He turned about, and all indications pointed to the enemy doing the same. No one else seemed ready to challenge Wiken’s champion.

The enemy command tent was a shambles. The dead littered the field, among them the two garr. They had certainly punched above their weight. "Wiken must be cackling," said Kaivl to his left, following his gaze.

"I told you it was a stupid plan," added Dason, holding a cracked rib. He had lost his shield somewhere along the way.

"You're looking a little violated," said Nez.

"Check a mirror."Nez smeared the blood out of his left eye. Shrugged. "Gonna go find the surgeon. And another bottle of dabosi."