Lyle Crakehall, Steffon Swyft, Balon Swann, and Jon Cafferen were dead, along with dozens and hundreds of others I had come to know… Each of them fulfilled his duty, fought to the end, and took many enemies with him. Their bodies remained on the battlefield, and we were not even able to give them burial.
Half of the Holy Company had perished, and almost the entire Honor and Valor unit was gone. It was painful and bitter. If I'd had another six months, I could have turned each of those detachments into truly deadly fighting formations.
But we had survived, ground down a tremendous number of enemies, and preserved the baggage train with its supplies and everything necessary. And perhaps most importantly of all—Turquoise had not been harmed.
William Mooton, Bonifer Hasty, and Erik Fell all urged me in one voice to give the order to retreat—the enemy might receive reinforcements during the night, and we would not withstand their combined assault. Grinding my teeth, I agreed.
The royal army, exhausted and battered but unbroken, began a slow withdrawal. For appearances' sake, we lit numerous campfires and left behind a small rearguard detachment that made a lot of noise, kept the fires burning, and did everything possible to make it appear that life in the camp was in full swing.
The enemy had been so thoroughly washed in blood that they only found the strength to launch a sortie after midnight—by which time we had already moved far away. Our rearguard showered them with arrows, emptied every quiver, and caught up with us by morning.
The wounded were carried on carts and wagons. The jolting did nothing to aid recovery or allow for proper sleep—I felt that perfectly well myself. But a king is tended by dozens, if not hundreds, of people, so it's not as hard on him as it is on ordinary men.
Lancel was also carried in a wagon. He had lost an eye, and now he was no longer the handsome youth he once was.
All the others—Tyrek, Orm, Oakheart, Garth Greysteel, Mooton, Erik Silveraxe—were wounded as well, but remained on their feet, or rather in their saddles.
Our situation was extremely difficult—so many wounded and maimed. We were retreating, and a recovered enemy pressed hard at our heels.
In those days William Mooton, Bonifer Hasty, and Erik Fell became my hands and eyes. They became the men I relied upon—for there were no others left. Archmaester Marwyn took upon himself the duties of caring for the wounded. Together they were the ones who helped preserve what remained of the army. They organized the rearguard and advised me constantly. Not for a single hour did they leave my side.
In that tense time we were fortunate if we snatched two or three hours of sleep over three days. Every hour we rode along the ranks, inspecting the detachments and trying to keep up their spirits.
On the second day Jaime regained consciousness and sent for me. I rode over and awkwardly climbed into his wagon, cradling my broken arm. Orm—who, surprisingly, had suffered almost no injuries despite fighting without sparing himself—along with Tyrek took up positions on horseback behind us.
"You look good," Jaime said. His voice sounded quiet, and I leaned closer to hear him better. He lay on a soft mattress, surrounded by pillows and covered with an expensive blanket. The wagon was enclosed, with a roof, walls, and a door—like a small but very luxurious house on wheels. Now the servants had opened the small windows, and a light draft pleasantly cooled the interior.
Archmaester Marwyn, who sat deeper in the wagon at a small table, grinding something in a mortar, gave me a sign not to overindulge in conversation.
The swelling on the Lord Commander's face had gone down somewhat, but he was all broken, bandaged, incredibly pale, and utterly exhausted. It seemed as though life had only accidentally remained within that body. He carefully looked me over from head to toe and managed the faintest hint of a smirk.
"And you look like hell," I said honestly, and we both laughed.
"Life is pain," the Lord Commander observed philosophically.
"They told me what you managed to do," I said quietly, meeting his eyes. "People say you accomplished the impossible. You know, I think they're understating your achievements. Mooton said you alone cut down more than a hundred enemies. They're already making legends about you and that battle!"
"Bullshit," he snorted. "Though I'll admit I showed those damn northern bastards how to fight. Is there any wine?"
"Yes," Marwyn nodded in approval. I turned to Jacob Liddon, and the young man handed over a wineskin. Jacob had not only managed—together with Marwyn the Mage—to keep Turquoise safe, he had also taken part in the fighting himself and acquitted himself well. In short, the lad had earned his knightly spurs, and he had only a few days left as my squire.
I took the opened wineskin from Liddon and passed it to Jaime.
"That's better," he said, taking several swallows. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and lay there for a few moments before asking me to tell him how things stood.
"They're already calling it the 'Battle by the Hill,'" I said, explaining how more than half our army had fallen on that nameless field and listing the most prominent of the dead by name.
"Crakehall… that's a loss," Jaime said, sorrow audible in his voice. "He was one of the strongest warriors in Westeros, and we've lost much in losing him. How did he die?"
"He held the line against the Freys. When they tried to break through, he tried to stop them. Witnesses say he piled up a whole mound of bodies around himself. In the end they lifted him on their spears… and then cut off his head."
"I knew him since childhood… Bastards!" Jaime turned away and stared for a long time out the window toward the distant forest. One of the harnessed horses whinnied, and the coachman, it seemed, lashed it with a whip. The sounds brought Jaime back, and he took another few swallows of wine.
(End of Chapter)
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