“A King should know better than this!” the man said as he lifted his gear. The leather was old and cracking, the metal of the armor dented and rusted in spots. The tunic was stained and soiled in places, its colors faded from long days in the sun and the elements. As he tied the laces in place a companion looked at him and smiled.
“You’ll be needing new before too long.”
“They’re never meant to last very long anyway,” another added.
The warrior looked at the dwarf, who had spoken first, then to the elf who had added to the opinion.
“One more campaign and we can afford to relax for a while,” he told his friends.
“Sure, and that’s what you’ll always say,” the dwarf became taciturn. “When does one more turn into one too many?”
“When you don’t survive it,” the elf answered. They had heard the dwarf’s objections time and again. It was an old tirade.
“Well, that will never come to pass with you two to watch my back,” the warrior chuckled with infectious mirth. The other two glanced at one another and couldn’t help but join in the laughter. Once breastplate, greaves, forearm brace and harness armor were all in place he finished off his ensemble with a large brimmed hat of dark purple felt. It was so dark as to appear either indigo or black. It was plain hat, short crown with only a wide black belt around its circumference. No feather adorned it as so many fops were want to do.
The Elf clapped the dwarf upon his broad back.
“Come, Albee Aventure. Let us find a tankard before Kembro here leads us to our death!”
“Aye, Sterio,” the dwarf Albee responded, “A draft of something to bolster the courage, as it were!”
They exited the tent assigned to them as decorated veterans and made their way toward the pavilion that sheltered the kegs. Around them the many tents of canvas, stretched-taught, creaked in the stillness. A fold of cloth rustled as it hung loose: some entrance flap not tied secure. Off in the distance fading calls of night birds could be heard, following the retreating dusk. Someone somewhere piped on a flute, the melody soft and plaintive, halting and timid with the tune as if it was just but then being learned. People coughed in the morning air, clearing sleep from throat and lungs, some called to their servants for food and drink. Silvery jingles of harnesses and buckles chimed as the army began to move restlessly, dressing, pacing, idly standing about; all waiting for the eventual commands.
Points of light sparkled like earth-bound stars, daylight will-o-the-wisps, as the sun was caught on burnished metal, armor rubbed to reflective brightness: a helmet, a shield, or a gauntlet. Elsewhere hardened leather, oiled and polished to a slick smoothness to reduce surface friction and ward of slices and biting cuts, glinted and gleamed like an insect’s chitenous armor creaking as it stretched and bent with the wearers’ movements.
Above the camp a clearing sky showed growing patches of lemon brightening to pale azure as the day orb burned off the mists of the night. The underside of the clouds turned pumpkin gold and corn yellow, ignited by the rising sun. A slight breeze played about the massive encampment; now stirring tendrils of tenacious fog, ghostly whips of evening’s cooler air, but once the full effect of the sun was brought to bear the day could turn still and stifling. Even though it was the sixteenth day of the tenth month in the long course of the year, the day’s heat could get unbearable.
The ground was marked during the many days that the army had mustered and gathered in the valley, scarred by the many boots that had trampled the grass into nothing, replacing it with dust where it was dry and churned mud where the loam was damp. The only areas where the green growth still showed was along the sides of the tents and pavilions where the walls had been secured to the earth and no traffic was permitted. The broadest of the avenues led to the keg tent. A queue had already formed but when those gathered caught sight of the legendary trio they quickly stepped aside and motioned for the three to precede them.
“Methinks our reputation exceeds us!” Albee called into the air waving at familiar faces here and there.
“Yours anyway,” Sterio replied, the intimacy of camaraderie replacing the bite of his words. “I’d nay come twixt your axe and a tapped keg.” His Keltic accent was strong with humor.
“Awpp!” the dwarf countered.
“Now, now, Albee Aventure,” the warrior Kembro countered. “Your capacity defies description, and you know it.”
“Well,” the dwarf responded in chagrin, a broad smile lighting his bearded countenance, “a man gets a thirst on! Be it beer, ale, whiskey, or stout…”
“No wine?” Sterio interrupted.
“Well,” the dwarf paused. “Only if that’s all there is.”
“Then after you, fair dwarf,” Kembro said as he gave as courteous bow as any courtier in any palace, hiding a smile as he ducked his head, pointing the way as he bowed with a sweeping left hand and flourishing his hat with his right.
The three then laughed at their own humorous mood and moved to the enormous barrel that lay on its side. In the bung a large tap had been forced and now its spigot dripped invitingly with golden nectar. As those behind them licked their lips in anticipation the three filled their mugs, drained them in one long draught, and then, filling them again moved toward the exit of the large tent.
“So, who’s got His Majesty’s bloomers in a bunch this time?” the dwarf asked his companions.
“Yes, Kembro, for what ideal do we endeavor now?” the elf added.
“For a whim,” he answered dryly. “I’ve not heard the particular details. ‘Tis gold in our belts, though.”
He dissembled and they both knew it. They also knew that when the time was right he would give them the information they wanted. He didn’t want the rookies and untried warriors about him becoming nervous. He was not one to keep intelligence to himself if it could give advantage to his comrades.
“Right enough,” replied Albee dismissive as he lingered over the keg-strewn table.
The three left the canvas behind, the dwarf protecting his other arm beneath his cloak behind him as if in trying to ward off the chill of the morning. The three were as dissimilar as any group of friends could be.
The dwarf came to half the height of the man yet his girth, all toned and hardened muscle was equal to his friend’s if not a little more expansive. He wore leather trappings and looked like he’d be more at home in some cavern or mine than out in the open air. His presence denied the superstitious rumors that “their kind” turned to stone in the sunlight. He was full bearded with braided grey mustachios ending in gold ornaments, braided black, grey and white hair hanging beneath a sturdy iron helmet. His dark brown-black eyes keen and piercing beneath the shaggy brows, his nose tanned dark and scarred, protruded above his mustache like a large pitted potato. His mouth though often turned down in a scowl was just as quick to split in a large grin. At one side hung a lethal hatchet and on the other a forbidding battleaxe.
The elf was trapped out in natural cloths of greens and golds woven by his people. A tunic hung long and was belted about his waist. Soft breeches were tucked into calf length boots. At his belt in matching scabbards hung a gilded dagger and a sword. The hilts of each showed wear and one knew instantly that they had seen much use. The carriage of the elf, the tilt of his shoulders, the set to his back showed also that he knew well their use and how best to employ them. His face was open and honest. Upon his forehead the raised eyebrows and the ears pointed and sweeping back were concrete evidence of his heritage. If these did not belie his blood, his grace and lithe poise would have been a giveaway also. His auburn eyes gazed with such understanding he appeared at times supernaturally psychic. His expression never varied far from the serious countenance yet there was ever laughter in his glance. At his back was slung a bow and a quiver of straight arrows. The look of wilderness was about his accoutrements; apparent that he was at home in deep woods.
The man looked like he would have been at home anywhere, among the ranks of soldiery about him, with the dwarf in some deep cavern, or with the elf in emerald tinted groves and copses that were unwelcomed to man. Everything about him looked dangerous. The off-centered curl of his smirk, the gloved hands that constantly twitched ever reaching for some weapon’s hilt, the cat-like stride to his measured deliberate steps, the way his slate-blue eyes drank in every minute detail of his environment. Disconcerting was the steely indifference set upon his countenance. He took in all of his surroundings with nary a flicker of emotion, nary a glimpse to what his thoughts or impulses were; nothing to show what was in his mind. This one was a coldly calculating individual, constantly weighing everything all about him; judging each situation. This one was a brutal survivor. And yet for all of his indifference, he truly cared for the two who were his constant companions. His life could, would be forfeit for the two in an instant. This is what truly made him most dangerous: that his life was nothing to him if it could be spent in the preservations of others. His reckless disregard for himself when it came to his friends is what both foe and ally feared in him most.
“Hosarphat Kembro Robaversa!” a grizzled voice shouted from the edge of the camp. “As I live and breathe, Kembro! I figured you long dead by now!” A veteran of many battles, as belied by the map of scars on his face, hurried forth from the gloom. He strode quickly yet awkwardly for his left leg appeared shorter and disfigured. A slight twist at the calf showed the pale line of an old wound badly healed. Still the leg supported him and he favored it none.
“Konnen!” Kembro shouted back in greeting. “Konnen! What brings you to this sorry excuse for an army?”
“Why, its sorry excuse!” the newcomer replied with barely restrained mirth. “The King hired me to whip his liveried midwives into some semblance of soldiers! Mayhap I can wean them from their wet nurses and turn them into fighting men. What’ve you been at?” The elderly acquaintance stood as tall as the other man but he was wider in shoulder and chest and his greying black hair hung long in the rear, down to his back. He had simple breeches on and a wide leather belt held the scabbard of his massive broadsword. This Nemedian looked the very veteran of many a foolish campaign. Scars graced his face, his limbs, and his chest. His hands, his arms, his chest were massive and steely with cables of competent muscle playing beneath sun-leathered flesh. His eyes, grey-blue, though sharp and piercing, looked as if they viewed one too many a battlefield. On his arms were fore-arm greaves that even though were thick and trusty, bore the nicks of many a skirmish, their original ornamentation and design lost beneath the marks of battle. About his neck hung a leather thong threaded through three large medallions that bore a stylized “M” identically on each that appeared more a silhouette of a raptor or predatory bird than the letter of some tribe’s alphabet.
Finishing off his mug Albee replied, “We’ve only just come from the ale tent. Best you hurry if you want any.”
“And who do you think tapped yon bonnie keg at first light this morn?” Konnen answered, thumping his broad chest in prideful mirth.
“Well, lest we go thirsty,” Albee responded bringing his arm from beneath his cloak. In his sturdy grasp was yet another keg, a diminutive cousin to that which was tapped within the ale tent. Sterio chuckled and slapped his friend soundly upon his back.
“’Tis a good thing you are on our side. I would nay want to have your wits and blade against me!”
“Nor I,” the other two admonished as one, before all broke into unrestrained laughter. Then they moved to a secluded spot at the edge of the King’s expansive encampment to empty their small charge.
“So, Konn, is this a stand up or a sit down fight?” Kembro asked the giant elder.
“I’m thinking it’s to be a stand up fight.”
“Ah, good!” exclaimed the dwarf. “I don’t sit in the saddle too well. I prefer a stand up fight. Either side have any giants or trolls we should know about, ogres or behemoths, dragons or manticores?”
“I haven’t heard. They usually don’t join a throng until the day of battle. They can make even a veteran nervous. But I’ve been over most of our camp this morn and I spied none on our side, lest our genius King has them hidden in reserve.” The manner in which the statement was made attested to the disbelief in the sentiment of royal intellect. “And why do you fight this side?” the Kelt asked the others, bold curiosity ever the habit of barbarian races, the tactful diplomacy left to more civilized gentry.
Kembro gathered his thoughts before answering for his friends. “I wish I could say ‘twas the merit of honor or loyalty but truth of the matter is this is the first side made a decent offer. A better coin and we might be facing off on the field today instead of sharing a drink.”
“Aye, ‘tis bitter mead otherwise. I know Sulla Koyne sits in a tent on t’other side. Likewise awaits Scarlet Brigit in opposition. I wandered over to their camp last night and shared drinks with Sul and Brigit. Raulff Kathar, Dafyd Ayveness and even Taratzen of the Border Jungles were there. I shared a few drinks and a couple tales with them all as the night grew late. I fear we face old friends as well as new foes today.” The Nemedian looked thoughtfully at his full tankard and then with a shrug of his shoulders he quaffed it in one gulp.
The names of old acquaintances caused memories to stir. “What about Baren? He was never one to miss a skirmish. Or Tug-Gutbuster, or Adam the dragon protector, they’re not around?” Kembro queried.
Konn scratched at the stubble on his lantern jaw. “Not that I know of. I think Baren was off on some outworld quest again after he assaulted Krahm’s mountain and never reached the pinnacle. T’others I’ve heard nothing of for quite some time now. Could be they no longer give battle.” It implication was obvious. “Could be they’ve already fallen in battle,” went unvoiced. He grew quiet then and stared at the dregs in his cup.
Albee offered the keg to fill it again but the large barbarian islander was sinking into one of his melancholies. He responded with a shake of his head and muttered, “I’d better see to my troops,” and then left the trio to wander off in search of his men.
“Well…!” Albee Aventure exclaimed in shock over the thought of someone turning down a drink.
“No, let him go,” Sterio said softly. “Methinks he has more than battle demons warring in his mind. He’s about to face friends on the field of strife and no doubt will lose men, friends and companions this day and that is something we each handle in our own way.”
This warranted thoughtful silence as the three rose and meandered off in no particular direction following Kembro’s unspoken lead. The sun was not yet high in the sky. Towards the foothills of the mountains where the camp butted up against its ramparts there were still clinging wayward tendrils of fog and mist. Small crimson capped spires rose above the mists as the sun painted them with its early morning artist’s brush. Most of the steeds were picketed here, the arroyos creating natural barricades. The jingle of metal buckled trappings could be heard as the mounts stamped and moved about in restless anticipation. Kembro knew well the stables of the King and he was sure their own horses were being well treated. Whether or not this might be a mounted battle he was confident in the care of his stallion.
He moved away from the animals and the other two followed. They were simply spending time, filling empty moments with aimless wandering and followed their companion’s lead as the vagaries of his mood led him.
They moved into an area occupied by other mercenaries. Some faction of the King’s supporters employed these warriors for hire. Most lounged about slowly coming to wakefulness. Bleary eyes and red rimmed they struggled with steaming cups of the brew made from the brown bean or teas of strong leaves. Some grumbled, some cursed; others joked and laughed. Some bore the disheveled look of guilty pleasures, of self-indulgences as they sought to fill the empty waiting hours of the night before with grog or gambling or meaningless intimacies. Knowing that it might very well have been their last evening each sought to savor that which most occupied his or her tastes.
“Courtesans’ mustering.” Kembro quietly muttered to his friends.
They agreed, “Needless waste of energy,” Albee replied.
“Each to his own hunger,” Sterio countered. “Look, they’re all young yet, young and untried. They survive this one they’ll know to take their time with their pursuits at the next mustering.”
“Let’s hope they get the chance,” Kembro finished. They paused and looked over the gathering. Some eyes sought theirs in what? Understanding? Acceptance? Encouragement? They reflected the inward focus of minds dwelling on the immediate future. Uncertainty gleamed as they looked out upon the camp around them, bravado echoing in their every movement yet a touch of fear in their glances.
To those Kembro smiled and gave a curt nod of encouragement, of reassurance, as if to say, “You’ll acquit yourself well this day.” Following his example his two comrades smiled or nodded acknowledgement at the youths encamped about them, bolstering spirit and courage with their actions. This seemed to satisfy and so the three mingled and made polite conversation before moving on.
“If I know the fist of the gold-grubbing Coin Pinchers they’ll camp close enough to keep a tallying eye upon their investments.” Kembro muttered as they moved past the mercenaries and conscripted indentured recruits.
As foretold, courtiers occupied the next area with rich merchants who wanted to make a show of their allegiance. Fancy brocaded tents with expensive fabrics were erected with special care, attention given to how they might look against which backdrop or would the rising sun gleam off a golden tassel or whether this one or that one was visible to the King from his tent. Not a single thought was given to logistics, strategies. None ensconced even considered whether their pavilion, thus positioned, could be well defended. The jumble and alignment of this area of tents would prove a shambles should the day not pass well and their camp become overrun. The three moved quickly though this area, not wanting to call attention to themselves, content in leaving the stiflingly perfumed garish grotesqueries behind.
Beyond the affluent region of the encampment stood the tents of the kitchens and the smithies. They were on the bank of a stream. This rivulet burbled down to join the river that separated the two armies. In some of the taller banks could still be seen openings. Ousted from their homes the local Halflings had to vacate their dwellings and head for safer ground. Little thought had been afforded them in the King’s forthcoming debacle. Sad, this had been an idyllic scene before the arrival of the armies. It was a locale in which it would have been good to be a Halfling.
Channeled and funneled by the watercourse a breeze pulled much of the smoke from the forges and ovens and carried it away from the camp proper. Up wind and on an island in the middle of the wide stream stood the King’s tent. Right now it was all but obscured by the milling throng of humanity that sought to catch the King’s eye. The smell that came from the kitchen tents and the forges was a blend of savory flavors and acrid metallics. The melding was not wholly unpleasant, a bouquet bringing to mind many encampments, many campaigns, nostalgically recalling a first battle. Apprenticed cooks and smiths scrambled as they went about their errands; white coats and brown aprons hurrying in an interweaving dance of hectic and manic service.
Beyond the ovens, stood the tent of the healer and surgeon. One side of the canvas construction had been rolled completely up and tied in place, leaving a length of wall open to the air. Upon a table sat the master weapon smith. His skin was burnt dark from long hours over forge and fire. Stripped to the waist, his barrel chest and massive arms showed corded, granite muscles from his many years of labor. A healer of some experience stood beside the man, his hair and beard grey with years. He was applying soothing and rejuvenating ointments and salves to the mighty thews of the smith. The acrid smell of pepper salve and camphor rubs came from the large bucket beside the healer. He dipped fists gloved in special sheep bladder coverings into the vat and scooping out handfuls of the thick oily substance would slather it upon the spent arms of the smith. The metal worker had labored long and hard for the last three days, seeing to the edge and care of every weapon and piece of armor that came within the camp. Though deemed unnecessary even by the King the smith had his reputation to uphold and no one could satisfy it but himself. The three companions had to put up with his withering rebukes as he put new edges on their well-used blades their first night in camp. They were but the first of many. Now he was suffering for his art as the healer gently rebuked him as he saw to his tired and sore muscles. The master smith would not see battle today. His was a station too important to send into conflict. Yet his was as usual the first casualty of such a meeting.
They tarried just briefly to watch healer and laborer both long time friends berate each other in good humor. Then Kembro headed toward the front of the encampment veering to the left and the mountains that bordered that side. They passed more mercenaries and groups of paid warriors hired by the various interests involved in the upcoming battle. Each wore the livery, the colors of whichever force they represented. There were friendly faces and countenances with which they were acquainted just as there were scores upon scores of those they had never set eye on before, some there were with whom they had crossed blades before, standing on opposing sides in past battles. The three greeted each and all with respect and encouragement. Veteran and recruit alike deserved such.
“I want to climb that bluff there,” Kembro told the other two as they made their way through the throng of humanity busily girding for war. “I want to get a look at their layout.” “Their layout,” of course meaning the enemy encampment.
An altercation made them pause in their passing. A zealot, by the drab look of him, was berating a youth for some small transgression. The elder, dressed in non-dyed coarse-spun was dusting at a patch of mud that had been splashed upon his boots.
“Lout! Watch where you trample! I could have you whipped.” He was an unkind dour looking man, drooping mustache, and unkempt beard. The youth wore the same style of tunic and trousers. They both had on side weapons and strapped to their backs a small shield with a simple icon emblazoned in silver in its center denoting their particular flavor of faith.
“As a matter of fact I think a whipping will teach you your place among your betters!”
“I think not.” Kembro had stepped forward and interposed himself between the two zealots, youth and man.
“By Gilkin’s Bones!” the dwarf muttered.
“Wha’?!” the outraged elder was beside himself. Turning toward the dwarf he shouted, “Blasphemer!”
“I think your tongue has stung enough,” Kembro said, returning to the original subject. “No need for the lash.”
“Who do…?”
“I am Hosarphat Kembro Robeversa. Mayhap you’ve heard of me?
“Hosar…” the man stammered. “I beg your pardon, your grace!”
“I’m no man’s grace, just a simple soldier. And my pardon you will earn if you are able to pardon this youth. Look at him again. But as you see him this time, see also your future. If you survive the day unscathed he is still your future. If by all that is holy in your beliefs and you survive all conflicts your order crusades for, by the time you are in your dotage this young man will be keeper of your cup and board. How kindly and generous will he view your acts of today? Should you take injury and become invalided in this day’s battle, what then? How kindly and generous will he repay all your deeds thus far? Have you acquitted yourself to your future generously, with honor? Will he accord you as generously as you have accorded him? Or, though by your teachings, will he turn you out and have you to fend in the elements of an uncaring world?” The exchange was delivered in cold dispassionate objectivity. To this temper it was all the more biting.
“Think, man! ‘Tis why you have a mind! Should we pen you with the other beasts of burden? I know you are a man of the Order, a man with a calling. Consider this lesson this day and change your sermon. Forbearance, charity, forgiveness should be your message.”
“I...” the man stammered.
“I care naught to hear it.” Kembro dismissed with casual wave of his hand. Totally chagrinned the man had no comeback. The youth looked at both in shocked amazement. Kembro turned his back on the scene and continued on his way toward the rocky foothills. His companions having nothing to add followed silently.
They had reached the bluff that the warrior had wanted to scale and tightening the gloves on their hands they started their ascent. It was a relatively easy rise. With barely a sweat they had reached its summit, tree root and rock affording purchase, and stood looking out over the vale in the morning sun. The autumn nights had started the leaves on their golden journey towards freedom when they would loose their grasp of limb and twig to flutter bat-like in defiance of gravity until pulled by its inexorable force they would flutter to the green, becoming nourishment for a new season’s growth. Here and there a conifer stood out in dark jade relief against the softer hued leaf bearers. Crimson maples and auburn oaks showed brightly from the far side of both encampments. The valley wore an amber crown with scarlet and emerald jewels. Upon the far side of the river stood the opposition. From the tones, shades, tints and hues of the livery, tent and pavilion Kembro and Albee and Sterio could tell that they would be facing those they had fought with side by side in previous skirmishes. Also, however, were the colors of those against whom they had ever fought. And then here and there stood companies of men that had ever been their enemies. But then again, looking at their own camp, they could also see the pennants and banners of those they had fought against before.
“By Gilken!” Albee exclaimed and both Kembro and Sterio turned to look at what upset their diminutive friend.
Coming up to the rear of their encampment was a score of unmistakable forms. Ogres! Dressed for battle the squad marched in as much precision as they could muster. The three could feel the force of the footsteps from their vantage point.
“Seems the king can afford special help,” Sterio offered dryly.
“He’s not the only one,” Kembro added, pointing to the opposite side of the river. Rising above the other encampment strode two towering figures. “Hill Giants! Or worse yet Mountain Giants,” he continued. “So much for an even footing for the men!” he all but spat.
The three watched as ogre and giant moved to the fore to stand at the ready, intimidation key in their positions. Kembro rocked back on his heels as he hunkered down. He crouched there for long moments as if awaiting the arrival of other such monstrous forces but as none showed, he rose and motioned towards the climb down. Having satisfied nothing but their own curiosity they returned to the valley floor.
“Well, that was pointless,” the dwarf Albee pointed out to no one in particular.
“It’s spent an hour,” Kembro countered. “Didn’t mean to do more than waste time anyway.”
“Suppose we should be getting to the fore,” Sterio mused.
"Right,” Kembro agreed. “Enough wool gathering.”
They moved now with more purpose but with no undue haste. Their stride was steady, focussed, not hurried. They saw that others had begun to form ranks, as they instinctively knew that the time was drawing near for the advance. The three found a spot they deemed acceptable. It was towards the center, just off to the right slightly, but giving them the advantage of a more respectable ford through the intervening river. They also chose a position that was up wind from the new arrivals. Ogres could be quite ripe in the heat of things.
Across the way the other force had begun to array itself. From the gathering the three could plainly see familiar faces, friends and comrades of old, but now by the vagaries of fate in opposition to them. Some waved and called greetings but the distance was too great for any discernable word to reach. They returned the gestures and nodded in greeting. The giants stood taciturn and emotionless. There was no way to tell from this distance what tribe they might have been from, mountain or hill.
Albee, ever the taciturn dwarf, said into the morning air as he planted his feet to wait, “I’m beginning to feel what Konnen was feeling.”
“’Tis life.” Sterio replied. “But I know of what you speak.”
“Don’t think about it lads. Live for the moment,” Kembro advised.
The dwarf stirred. “So, you never said. What’s the reason for this morning’s skirmish?” Albee all but whispered into the expectant air. Kembro could feel the eyes of his friends on him but he didn’t change his stance at all.
“Someone stole the king’s prize three boars. We fight for pigs this day, boys.” Kembro replied. His two companions harrumphed their displeasure. Then all three grew silent. They now simply waited on two prescribed events.
The first was not long in coming.
“Huzzah!” roared from behind.
Turning they saw the King had exited his pavilion. All ritual and observance finally out of the way, his holy men performing whatever rite and invocation meant to secure a success to the day, the King was now free to appear before his people. He was astride a magnificent beast. It had been curried and brushed until its coat fairly gleamed in the morning sun. Yet eclipsing the sheen of the horse was the King’s own armor. Polished to such a surface it reflected back every bit of light it caught from every source. Crimson cloak wafted gently behind him, brilliant blues and violets hung in streamers from his epaulets. Like some mythical blessed being he seemed to radiate his own iridescence. A roar went up from the gathered throng, a thundering roar from the ogres, and even the three companions found themselves joining their voices to the tumultuous “Huzzah!” It wasn’t through any sense of loyalty or love for the monarch, they were simply caught up in the excitement of the moment, compelled by the rush of emotion washing over the keyed up spirits of the army, carried along by the spirit of the throng.
Then the fanfare of the King’s trumpeters blasted the morning air and they turned in readiness. Once the trumpets spoke and the army came to disciplined attention. An answering fanfare came from across the river. Twice the trumpets called and the army turned to face the opposing force. Its twin again came from across the way. A third time the morning air was shriven by the strident notes of the brass instruments, both horns sounding at once, and the three companions squared their shoulders and roaring their battle cry rushed to clash with friend and foe.
