Styke walked among the dead on the banks of the Hadshaw after a short, bloody battle. The Dynize vanguard had tried to withdraw when they saw the Riflejacks bearing down, and had run straight into the lancers. Some fled, some fought, but he’d caught them all in his pincer movement and they’d been ground into dust in an appalling slaughter.
He searched through the corpses until he found his lance, buried through the chest of a Dynize scout. The scout was a middle-aged woman, and her eyes shot open when Styke grasped the handle of his lance. She made a deep sucking sound, her mouth bubbling blood. She tried to reach toward him. He drew his boz knife and ended her suffering with a single stroke before reclaiming his lance, leaving the body where it lay.
He wiped the gore off the tip and examined the corpses of the vanguard. The horsemen wore turquoise uniforms and carried a light kit with nothing more than a knife and an outdated carbine for defense. The infantry still carried the same short bayonets that they’d used in the assault on Landfall and had been unprepared for a flanking maneuver by cavalry. Styke was unsurprised to see only a few bodies belonging to Riflejack dragoons, and none to his lancers.
Ibana approached on horseback, her roan picking its way through the bodies with an almost dainty affection. “We got them all,” she reported. “It’ll take the main Dynize army a few hours to figure out something is wrong. I’ve got boys set up all along the road to ambush any messengers who come looking for the vanguard.”
Styke lifted his eyes from his lance and looked across the river, where Gustar and his dragoons hugged the shoreline and cleaned up the handful of Dynize who’d braved the depths of the river to flee. He tapped his ring against the lance, frowning. “Why do I feel uneasy?”
“Too clean of a kill?” Ibana suggested. “They barely put up a fight.”
Styke grunted an answer and put his lance over his shoulder and headed back to where Amrec stood nibbling at the grass on the riverbank. He patted Amrec’s nose, speaking over his shoulder. “Gather the horses. Send any prisoners back to Flint. She’ll want to interrogate them. I think that …” He trailed off, turning around to examine the field of slaughter.
The dead lay scattered in a radius of about ninety yards. Riderless horses had already been captured by attentive lancers, though some had fled in the confusion.
Ibana seemed to sense something was amiss. “What is it?”
Styke climbed into Amrec’s saddle and searched among his own men until he found Sunintiel—an ancient woman who looked like she’d be unhorsed by a breeze. Celine sat behind Sunin in the saddle, and waved when Styke gestured her over to a captured Dynize horse.
“Tell me what’s wrong with this horse,” Styke said when the two approached. Sunin opened her mouth, but Styke made a shushing motion. “Celine.”
The girl’s forehead wrinkled. “Nothing is wrong with it,” she said.
“Its health is fine, sure,” Styke said. “But what about it is out of place?”
By this time several of his officers had arrived. Looks of understanding began to dawn on their faces. They remained silent. Celine glanced around nervously. Styke watched her trying to work out the solution. “Don’t worry about them. Worry about that horse. What can you tell me about it?”
“Small,” she said. “Probably pretty quick. Not particularly strong. It was spooked by the battle. By the hindquarters I’d say it was bred for endurance over other qualities.”
Proud smirks spread among the officers, and Styke had no doubt each of them would take credit for teaching Celine about horses. But he knew where she really learned it, and stifled his own smile. “What kind is it?”
“It might …” She hesitated. “It might be a Unice desert racer. But I haven’t seen a horse with those markings before.”
“Neither have I,” Styke said. “Neither has any of us.” He swung down from Amrec and gave the captured horse a quick walk-around, treating it to a whisper and a light touch to calm its nerves. He returned to Amrec and pulled himself into the saddle. “I’ll bet my saddle this is a Dynisian.” Mutters followed the proclamation.
“I’ve never heard of that,” Celine said.
“That’s because the Dynize have been a closed nation for over a hundred years, and before that they weren’t exactly friendly.” Styke searched his memory. “Supposedly, Dynisians were bred for, as you said, endurance. They’re an all-purpose horse, meant to be docile, obedient, generic, and easily interchangeable. Just about every Fatrastan breed has a bit of Dynisian in them, going back to when the Dynize actually ruled this damned place.”
“So, what’s so special about this one?” Celine asked.
“Nothing more than any of the others,” Styke said, gesturing toward a group of lancers attempting to run down riderless horses up on the ridge.
Ibana snorted. “We don’t have time for this, Ben. Tell the girl what you’re getting at.”
“Right, right,” Styke said. He stretched his fingers and adjusted his lance before climbing back into Amrec’s saddle. “A Dynisian here means that the Dynize have cavalry—they’re not just using scrounged fourth-rate Fatrastan horses.” He meditated on the possibilities for a moment. “We’re not just sweeping for scouts now. We’re looking for an enemy cavalry force, and we have no idea how big it will be.” He looked around at his officers. “Strip the bodies of anything useful.”
They were on the move again within fifteen minutes. Captured horses trailed behind their column, and Styke made sure that his “buddy system” was still in place. They’d had more injuries during that quick battle from green riders getting fingers tangled in the reins than they had from actual enemy combatants, and he needed to keep those kinds of accidents to a minimum.
They headed east away from the river, then cut south to flank it, being sure to keep at least two hills between themselves and the river valley at all times. His own scouting parties fanned out to watch for contact with the enemy army.
Styke couldn’t help but shake a feeling of uneasiness. He shouldn’t be surprised by Dynize cavalry, not really. Lancers would make quick work of any force riding Dynisian mounts. So what was bothering him? The prospect of greater numbers? Disappointment that he had more to worry about than flanking enemy infantry?
He was still pondering this question almost an hour later when Ibana joined him at a gallop.
“We have contact!” she shouted.
Styke snapped out of his reverie. “Where? To the west? From the river?”
“No, south. Directly south!” Ibana was flushed, and she immediately began barking orders.
Styke was about to ask for an explanation when he topped a small rise in the landscape and inhaled sharply. Directly in front of them, riding in their direction, was a wide column of Dynize cavalry. Breastplates shone in the evening sun, and at half a mile he could see that they were armed with sabers and pistols. Their column was spread out, moving at a walk with no real cohesion, and he could see a sudden flurry of excitement ripple through them.
Ibana raised her looking glass to her eye for a moment, then stowed it in her packs with a curse. “They’re as surprised as we are. God damn it, we must have taken out each other’s scouts.”
It didn’t take a genius to realize why they were here. The Dynize cavalry were going to attempt the same thing as the lancers—flank the enemy. But instead of a handful of ill-equipped riders on fourth-rate horses, these were Dynize cuirassiers, and there appeared to be almost two thousand of them.
“Orders, sir?” Ibana asked. “We’re outnumbered and have no element of surprise. All things being equal, they’ve got us.”
Styke rocked back and forth in his stirrups. Beneath him, Amrec began to stomp, pawing at the ground in anticipation. Styke had to think quickly. They could outrun the weaker Dynisian horses. But a retreat would only give the Dynize extra ground and the time to assess Styke’s forces. Best-case scenario: Draw them all the way back to the Riflejack infantry and set up some sort of ambush. But Flint could not afford the men to deal with Dynize cavalry. He needed to handle this on his own.
“Orders!” Ibana snapped.
“Send a runner to Flint. Tell her we’ve met a superior force.”