The large contingent of men paced steadily onward under the prince’s guidance. They moved in unison, marching as a well-trained troop. Yet it all changed when one of the sentries sprinted toward the prince from the north, and it was then that Garinor witnessed the true craft of leadership.
Within minutes, the entire battalion was broken into four quadrants. Garinor’s group lingered toward the rear and tended to the supplies. The next sprinted off toward the east, hands on their scabbards to keep them from making noise. The other two groups drew their swords and split from each other only slightly. They would be the main force.
It all happened so suddenly that it took Garinor a few minutes to realize that they were only moments away from entering a battle. The prince mounted his horse and strode forth to the front of the pack. If their enemies attacked, he would be the first target. Garinor shuddered.
The four groups crested a rise in the landscape and then came barreling down the other side, wild shouts echoing through the air. Garinor strained to see from his position with the supplies and by the time they also passed the hill, the battle was on in full.
Swords whistled, slashing madly between combatants. The two forces had comparable talent, but the prince’s men were clearly better trained. The other warriors were scruffy and sloppy, but their hits were effective as well.
At some point, the enemies turned toward the supply wagon. Garinor realized in a panic that they were headed straight for him. He scrambled around the wagon with the others, reaching inside belatedly for any kind of arms. He found a short sword and brandished it without skill.
Before he knew it, Garinor had joined the fray. Angry faces pounced for him with glittering blades and he ducked underneath and swung instinctively. In this manner, he felled six of the attackers without even understanding what he was doing. He was warm and sticky with blood and all he wanted was to get as far away from this place as he possibly could.
A stray dagger sliced his cheek and he reeled in pain. Growling savagely, he retaliated and plunged his sword tip first into the man’s belly. After that, bloodlust took over him. He pounded into the battle and whacked away where he could, dodging when he saw others coming for him. He knew he couldn’t survive a proper duel, so he pitched himself into the fighters who were the most distracted and he ran from those who sought him in revenge.
Then from the east there was a wild cry. Another forty men rumbled into the battle. It was the regiment that had split off from the prince’s main forces. The other warriors lost heart at this tactic and soon the survivors surrendered completely.
Garinor’s aide found him once the battle was over and dragged him off to dress his wounds and to find him something to take the sting out of his cuts—he hadn’t even realized his arm was bleeding badly. Thus Garinor had no idea what happened to the others. All he knew later was that the other combatants and a troop of the prince’s men were simply gone.
There weren’t many casualties that day for the prince’s army. Most of his soldiers had defended as well as they had attacked, and once the main set of affairs was attended, the prince visited Garinor personally.
“Are you all right?” the prince asked with concern.
“A little scuffed, but I’m fine, thank you.” He saw that the prince was favoring his leg when he walked. “Are you hurt?”
“I was caught watching you battle like a demon out there. It was highly impressive, I must say. You took down many.”
Garinor’s face burned red from embarrassment. “I wasn’t that good. Just lucky. I’m sorry you were hurt because of it.”
The prince laughed. “I would not have missed such a show as that in all my ages. You know, you may one day be a truly gifted swordsman. You could have adventures the likes of which all would envy.”
Garinor smiled with the thought of that. He would travel across the land, seeking out brigands and bringing them to justice, returning home in triumph. It made him think of his father, a traveling merchant who wound up in an occasional scuffle. He could even act as a guard for his father.
Before either of them could say anything more, one of the soldiers entered the tent and whispered a few words in the prince’s ear. His face lit scarlet and he turned an angry eye to the messenger.
“Forgive me,” he said to Garinor. “It seems that some of our prisoners managed to elude their guards.” He went toward the tent flap and stepped out, muttering loud enough for Garinor to hear, “My work never ends, not even for a moment.”
Dinner was not as well-cooked as previous meals, but many of the soldiers were either hurt or tending to the wounded and so fewer people were able to assist with the meal. When Garinor offered to help, he was told he needed to rest from his own injuries, and he was given a large goblet of wine to drink down. He slept well that night.