Excerpt: Desert Fire (working title)

Mattias and Ragnar watched the nervous bustle of the camp as they lead their horses through the early morning fog. The horses pulled at the reins, excited; having spent the night picketed in the cold, they needed careful treatment to be warmed up.

"You would think that after a while, I would stop being surprised by it." Mattias said as he guided his horse, Breaker, through the confusion.

Ragnar grunted, raising his eyebrows.

"You can tell as much about a band of men by watching their camp as you can by watching them in the scrum." The old king said.

The battle-worn soldier looked at his king, rolled his eyes, and said nothing.

Mattias laughed, glancing briefly at his friend of many years. "I know. You've heard this all before."

"Yeah," groaned Ragnar, looking past his king to where a group of servants were busily preparing breakfast inside a circle of ornate tents. The smell of roasting pork and fresh bread wafted out of the encampment. "I expect I am going to hear it again." He sighed.

"Is it just me," Mattias said, "Or is it way too fucking cold for August?"

"It's cold." Then, as a grin split the scarred, white bearded face, Ragnar continued "And it's you."

The king laughed. Ragnar was a tough old man, all gristle and shoe leather. He and Mattias had been through the ugliest times of their lives together, and there was a real affection between the two. Ragnar was even shorter than Mattias, thin and slight. Words were not Ragnar's friends. He hated speaking, and did it only when necessary. He kept his gray beard and hair cropped short, which allowed anyone curious enough to see the long scar that ran from his left ear straight around the back of his head. Another scar split his right eyebrow, passing across his eye into his cheekbone.

The king looked at the bustling camp "Look at this. I've got two thousand troopers from The Hammer here. They've been ready to go since dawn. There were a hundred men on night guard, and they have been ready all night. Now, it's almost an hour past dawn, and these honored noble men aint out of bed yet." He turned his horse to walk a long, slow circle around the noble's picketed mounts. Each man of station in the Kingdom was required to maintain a certain level of military readiness, and a certain level of gear. Since they were, in theory, commanded by the baron of each holding, they were considered to be "Men of his house", or "Housemen".

In reality, Barons rarely took the field personally, and the noble housemen were actually the greatest threats to his authority. They supplied their own arms, and their own horses. They had their own agendas, and their own plans.

The audible whinnies and snorting from the housemen's mounts caught Mattias' attention as he and Rangar passed. "Now, those are some beautiful horses," he stated, the mist forming in front of his gray beard. "It seems like the great damn white charger is the fashion this year."

The Nobles' stallions were radically different than the shaggy little war horses the king and Ragnar rode. They were like mountains of muscle, and, as Mattias had noted, tended to be a very light color. They were short haired, towering beasts; absolutely beautiful.

"They've got guards for their horses, but not for their camp?" Ragnar asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"Yeah." Mattias chuckled ironically. "They’re worth more than the servants. What do you want to bet that those manes will be plaited with ribbons when they finally arrive at the muster?"

"No bet." Ragnar said, rubbing the scar on his forehead.

One of the massive chargers noticed the two little horses, and stomped, blowing. His massive neck arched in a truly impressive display of power, and he strained at his picket line, appearing to try to get free of it.

The sturdy horses, both veterans, snorted derision as one, not even deigning to turn their heads, and the old soldiers laughed.

Slowly, the two walked the camp, warming up the horses and their own old, aching joints. The day gradually warmed from its wet and cold status as they returned to the Hammer's encampment. Unlike the other camps, the Hammer was precise. No massive pavilions adorned this camp, only rows of tents made of oilskin cloaks on two pointed sticks. Every four tents shared a small fire pit, and pit privies were dug at the end of each row of tents. While there was little fanfare, activity sounded through the camp like a crowded market. The men were pulling down their small tents, and packing their horses for the day's battle. Spears were being removed from the neat cones where they were stacked and placed in mule carts. There was a trick to unracking weapons. If you did it wrong, the stack came down in a rush, usually onto your head.

Fire pits were being buried, and men ferried back and forth to the river, carrying cooking pots. Even a small hole in the ground could injure a horse -- or a man, for that matter -- and any fire pit that remained would get four men flogged.

Mattias and Ragnar packed up their belongings upon reaching their tents. Once the bedrolls were bundled up tightly, they started loading their horses.

Breaker snorted in suspicion and, much to his dismay, was soon being burdened with his master's load, along with Bastard. The saddle blankets, a cavalryman’s mattress, went across the horses' backs, followed by the saddle and saddlebags. A strap went across each horse's broad chest, with a strong leather strap running back to the saddle girth. Mattias noticed that Breaker had inflated his belly so the saddle girth would be loose when he exhaled. He clicked his tongue in disapproval and gave his mount a quick discouraging punch to the stomach, startling Breaker and allowing the girth to tighten.

"Why do you bring these sorry bastards along, anyway?" Ragnar asked, looking down the path toward housemen's camps with derision. His fingers found his old scar again. His scalp had almost been taken off by a bandit's knife years ago, and the scar looked as if his skull had been split open. Mattias himself had stitched that one up, terrified that he was going to lose his old friend.

"Because these men are helping to keep my Peace." The king said.

"Bullshit, Your Majesty." the old soldier snorted, hanging a short lariat from his saddle. "Those assholes are looking for loot, reputation, rape, and sack. Maybe a slave or two. You know, young things with big, weepy eyes." He pulled a foot to the side as Bastard, his horse, tried again to step on his foot.

"Yeah, that's what they're looking for," the King said, strapping his bow case and quiver to the saddle. "But what they are doing is keeping the Peace. When I call for housemen, they have two choices. They can stay home, and stay safe, or they can come, and make The Kings Shillings, plus the promise of the sack. It costs them nothing to come, and they make profit from their fallen brother. At the same time, they learn that breaking the peace will mean that their brothers will line up to make profit from them. Like vultures gathering around a carcass, they all know that they could be the carcass next."

The old soldier was fastening his bedroll, tightly compressed by its leather straps, to the back of his saddle. He wrapped his oilskin around himself, fastening it at his neck with the thin strings that were attached to it. The two sticks were broken and thrown into the fire pit.

A cloak was an easy thing for an enemy to snag as a rider rode by. Better to lose it, than lose your seat upon your horse, or worse yet, get strangled by a lucky peasant. Thus, the strings were thin. The two old soldiers, now King and General, looked around the spot that had, until a few moments before, contained their tents. Nothing remained.

Taking their reins, they walked toward a knot of men, carts and horses where activity buzzed. The men of The Hammer knew not to bother either Ragnar or Mattias unless there had been an emergency, leaving the two old troopers their privacy.

"Ready to go be a general?" Mattias asked Ragnar, grinning.

"Shit." The general replied to his king. "You know, I don't think I will ever get used to somebody cooking my porridge for me on campaign."

"I can." Mattias said. "I never could cook worth a shit. You need to get used to it too. You're a general now. Plus, there's meat."

"Yeah." the scarred old veteran replied as they neared the group. "I can get used to having meat. Don’t forget to frown."

As they approached, a trooper came and took the reins from them, and another handed the king a bowl of boiled oats with strips of meat in it. A cup of hot mulled wine went with it.

The King immediately pulled a spoon from his belt pouch, and squatted on his haunches. Ragnar, however, had commander stuff to do. Mattias just watched, and listened, remembering to glower.

Ragnar rolled his eyes. Mattias knew he hated to speak, for any reason. Generals spent all their time talking.

Ragnar strode up to a trooper who's chevrons marked him as a captain, and raised an eyebrow.

The Captain took a breath and gave the General his morning report. "Some men drifted in and some drifted out of the rebel camp last night. It still looks like about nine thousand men over there. About seven thousand cavalry, nobles and burghers, armored, and about two thousand militia." the man reported.

"What's the Militia look like?" Ragnar asked.

"Like a huge mass of frightened, hungry peasants trying to shite themselves to death. They have no real weapons to speak of, and most of them have no shoes." The captain said.

"Sick?"

"Noble and peasant alike. Most of the peasants have left their breeks off, running around bare assed."

Ragnar grunted happily. Mattias had sent troopers up river of the rebel's camp to drop dead goats, several days old, into the river weighted with stones. That had been a week ago, as the armies were beginning to concentrate. By now, the entire camp, man and horse, must be sick with the flux.

"Fortifications?" the General asked.

"None that we have been able to see." the captain replied.

"Surprises?"

"Nope. Well, two of our brave, noble housemen got piss drunk last night and knifed each other." The man said, dismissively.

Ragnar waved a hand, dismissing it, if those men lived, they would be hanged before the battle. Their personal gear would be the property of Mattias, who would probably give it to somebody. Everybody in the kingdom knew the king's discipline. This was not something to bother the general with.

"All right." Ragnar took a deep breath. The little old soldier seemed dwarfed by the men around him.

"This is the way it's going to be. We are horse bowmen. The enemy are lancers." He looked around. Nobody seemed to get it. More talking was obviously required.

He steeled himself, and jumped in with both feet. "We have four battalions. I will take the first and third battalions, and I will be on the right. His Majesty will take the second and fourth on the left. Half the mule carts will go left, half right. Every man brings a double quiver with twice as many arrows as usual, and we will engage with bows."

Ragnar looked at them. Mattias could hear him swearing in his head. He fought back a grin and concentrated on frowning again, quietly eating his cracked oats.

"Do not get close enough for them to engage you with hand weapons." Ragnar was being positively motherly today. He glowered at the men again.

"I will start off the party on the left, and when they wheel toward us, trying to hurt us like we have just hurt them, His Majesty will engage them on their rear, from our left" Ragnar looked at the men again. They still seemed to need more words. He looked angry. His left hand bunched into a fist, and his right seemed to have a mind of it's own, waving about as if to brush away flies.

"If they continue, even when attacked from the rear," he said "whichever unit is being chased will retire across the river, and defend the ford. If they try to cross the ford under fire, they're easy meat. Smaller units that break free from their main force to retreat, let 'em go. If a smaller unit breaks free to attack, we will engage with lances."

Ragnar's face started to turn red.

Mattias could see the general thinking. It was painful to watch, but he could see the old soldier realize that more talking was needed. "They have much larger chargers, a lot heavier armor, and much longer lances, so that will be ugly."

Ragnar looked around once more. The captains were nodding.

"They have seven thousand cavalry, and we have two thousand Hammers, so the odds are in our favor."

The men laughed.

"The Housemen will be kept in reserve. Those big chargers of theirs won't be worth a shit after about half an hour, but by the time we call them in, the enemy should be easy meat for them. They will get to make a fucking magnificent charge at a full gallop, and go home to brag about how they won the battle for us."

More laughter.

Ragnar raised his voice.

"There are no heroes in the Hammer. Any man that wants to be a hero, there's a lot of heroes right here in camp that would love to have another lickspittle."

The men laughed loudly.

"Now, I am going to eat my breakfast, and then His Majesty and I will take a short ride around the camp. You have your orders."

Ragnar accepted his bowl of oats, and stomped sullenly over to his old friend.

"That was really good." The king said, grinning. "You really are quite the speaker."

"Bite me, Your Majesty" The old general replied, every syllable very carefully enunciated.