Trials of the Horseman

It was not a pasture. And the narrow strip of dirt running through the middle of it was not a road. A farmer and a traveler might argue against that. The farmer might point out that the hundred or so acres of oval-shaped, knee-high grassland were perfect for grazing animals or a hay harvest. The traveler might point out that the strip of dirt, dry and firm and smooth, with a hundred yards of grassland on each side, was a road and a convenience.

Both would have been mistaken on this day.

Secreted in the field, and in the woods on both sides of it, were hundreds of cavalry troopers who saw the space for what it truly was. A place of death. It was no more a pasture and a dirt road than a snare was a bit of twine and a stick. Before nightfall, the snare would set and the picturesque scene would be changed.

In the western woods were three companies of cavalry. They lined up beyond the center point of the field, preparing themselves and their horses. Grimble, near the southern end of the line, stood next to his dapple gray mount. He closed his brown eyes and took a breath. The woods and the wildlife were getting used to their presence. The squirrel had stopped barking. Birds sang. The forest came to life as the men around him prepared to kill. All was well. He breathed out and opened his eyes.

All three companies were thirty yards deep into the woods. Shade from the newly leaved trees and the tall evergreens shrouded the regiment. The shadows that hid them also inched their way across the field. When the regiment eventually emerged, the sun would be at their backs. The location was excellent, the timing perfect.

“Set, Corporal,” Eng said.

“Set,” Kelban said.

“Rah.” Grimble, of medium complexion with short, brown hair, kept his focus on the trees. He watched their movement in the breeze. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. Neither the light wind nor the shade was enough to keep him from sweating beneath the crimson-and-white gambeson armor each of the troopers wore.

A stillness formed in pockets among the line of troopers and horses of the 209th. In those spaces of silence stood the veteran troopers. Like Grimble, they had finished strapping barding to their horses and turned their attention to other matters. None prayed. They would do that when the battle was inevitable.

Grimble waited on one other member of his patrol to report.

“Shit,” mumbled Goat. His cursing continued. Grimble shook his head.

Goat and the other “boots” spoiled the silence. They cursed and recited rote prayers between shallow breaths. They jingled their buckles and frustrated their mounts. To the veterans, the noise the boots made was like a fiddler rapidly stroking his bow across a discordant string. It even pushed Grimble’s patience.

Goat mumbled on the other side of his horse, his head jerking as he repeatedly tugged at a leather strap. His mount tossed its head and shuffled its legs with each tug.

Grimble took a slow breath. This was not the time to yell at the recruit. Goat needed to be confident and focused when they faced the goblin horde. Everyone, boot and veteran, had some measure of apprehension over the coming battle. Understandably, the boots, with less than a month’s training, handled that stress worse.

Grimble looked to Kelban, who stood by his own horse behind Goat. With every jerk of Goat’s barding straps, the veteran’s face reddened, his lip twitching and his scowl growing. “Fucking boots are gonna get us killed,” Kelban mouthed.

Grimble caught Kelban’s attention before the tall man snapped. He motioned with his hands for Kelban to calm himself, tilting his head toward Goat. Kelban’s scowl retreated. He nodded in understanding.

The two veterans moved between their horses and the trees to finish securing Goat’s horse’s armor and check the rest of its tack. Goat stood off to the side while they worked. His face was unreadable. That blank stare was the very aspect that had earned him his nickname.

After strapping the barding to Goat’s horse, Kelban walked over to the young man. At six feet and two inches, Kelban stood taller than every other man in the regiment – even Goat and Grimble, who were themselves among the taller troopers. Kelban was clean-shaven, but the hard lines of his weathered face and the intensity of his brown-eyed stare lent him a certain maturity.

He waited for Goat to look up and into his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep listening to Grimble.” Kelban smiled. “I’m tellin’ ya, you do as he says and you’ll stay in the saddle. He’s helped a lot of us.” He turned to Grimble. “Did we look this young seven years ago?”

Grimble chuckled. “I did, but you’re like Dinger. You’ve always been hard. You never looked dough-faced like the rest of us.”

Though they may have joined the regiment in a doughy condition, the troopers had been hard-baked by their training and the engagements they had survived. Because of that, every veteran seemed to have the same lean, trim physique. Grimble ran his fingers over his cheeks and the short hair of his brown beard.

Would they recognize me back home?

“Comparing me to Dinger Durinson? I don’t know if I should be flattered or annoyed.”

“Annoyed? How so? Dinger’s better than any of us, save Roche, with spear and sword. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I’m much better-looking,” Kelban said as he stepped back to his horse. Grimble shook his head, but couldn’t help smiling.

Goat took his horse’s reins again. The animal fidgeted. Its eyes and nostrils were wide, its body tense. Grimble looked across the saddle into Goat’s eyes. Like Kelban, Goat was clean-shaven, but unlike Kelban, it made him look boyish. The young man stared back. He was of lighter complexion than Grimble and Kelban, his face showing a gathering redness.

Grimble spoke evenly. “Slow your breathing.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goat.

“Don’t speak, just breathe. Slower.” Grimble rubbed the horse’s neck and head, and watched as it relaxed. He took a drink from his canteen and passed it to Goat, who took a couple of sips between breaths.

“When we meet the enemy,” Grimble said, “focus on your part. That’s all you have to do. When fear and doubt enter your mind, and they will, turn away from them. Go to your training. Remember it. Maintain the line. Pick your target and trust that we will do our jobs.”

“And if that doesn’t work,” said Kelban, “just stab the piss out of anything that doesn’t look like us.”

A faint smile tugged on Goat’s cheeks.

There’s a killer in there, Grimble thought. “All that shit with your brother back home,” he went on, “use it. Let it motivate you. But when the fighting starts, keep your mind here.”

“I can do this, Corporal,” said Goat. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know. I trust you.” Gods, I hope we’ve had enough time to prepare.

Before Grimble could return to his horse, Kelban asked, “You don’t trust the scout reports, do you?”

“What?” Grimble asked. “What part do you have a problem with?”

“Almost all of it, brother. I’m tellin’ ya, there’s no way this Beshta’Rek’s a goblin.”

“Great gods, Kelban. The Ravens know how to do their job. Yes, I believe them.”

“Too many things just don’t make sense. First, he’s a foot taller than any other goblin ever seen. And there’s the size of this horde. Eighty? Biggest one I heard of before this was nineteen, and that was a large raiding party.”

“I agree, it’s strange, but given his size it’s no wonder he’s gotten a huge following.”

“Okay, how about his using tactics, real military tactics, to hit the villages and towns along the frontier? And there’s that advisor of his, T’Ugly…”

“Too’Ug,” said Grimble.

“Right. He won’t show his face – maybe he’s human.”

“Ha!” sniped Eng, turning his attention from the arrow in his hand to Kelban. He was the fourth trooper in the patrol, three horses away from Grimble. Eng did not tolerate Kelban’s distrusting nature.

“How can you believe they’re goblins?” Kelban asked him. “They move faster and have attacked deeper into Aendura than any other goblin raiders. They’ve avoided local militia and the king’s infantry. Strangest of all, they take human prisoners.”

“True,” said Eng, stabbing the nock end of an arrow in Kelban’s direction, “but their strange behavior doesn’t disprove the reports. Your suspicious nature misleads you, brother. You’re wrong here.”

“A silver dula says I’m right.”

“It’s a bet.”

“I hate taking your money, brother, but you make it so easy. I’m tellin’ ya, no goblin could organize a horde that big… or be as big as they say Beshta’Rek is. Care to make it two dula?”

“Two it is. Careful, I’ll own your soul before too long.”

“Can’t,” said Kelban. “I traded that for a bottle of wine and a night of bliss the last time we were in Cairn Cross.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Eng. “Fun night.”

Grimble smiled. That was a fun night.

“Care to get in on the bet, Grimble?” asked Eng. “You up for taking some of his money too?”

“Grimble doesn’t gamble,” said Kelban.

“Why?” asked Eng. “A Temple man?”

“Nah,” said Kelban.

“I never win,” said Grimble.

Kelban laughed. “He’s a mule sack at it. I’m tellin’ ya, he’s the worst. Lost everything his first few weeks of training. Took him some time to get caught up with his debts.”

“Thanks for being so honest, jackass.”

“What are friends for?”

“Yeah, we had a guy like you in First Company,” said Eng. “But he wasn’t smart enough to quit, like you.” He paused, his face turning solemn. “He was a good brother.”

“Steep Ridge?” asked Kelban.

“Yeah.”