In moments he was riding towards his own men, who had quickly readied themselves and either taken up pre-arranged battle positions in the secret trenches they had dug the previous night, or fallen into their own formations outside the camp. His officers were already briefing men on how to use the defensive canon hidden within the trees bordering the easterly side of the ridge. Soon, they would set off around a back trail and begin preparing the canon for battle. One of Connovar’s more imaginative generals had come up with the idea of packing the canon with a ‘grapeshot’, hundreds of tiny musket balls would be poured into the canon mouth and then fired into the enemy ranks, disembowelling enemy mounts, infantry and musketeers.
He himself rode straight past all these men to the other side of the camp, where one thousand men on horseback specially trained and picked by Connovar himself were awaiting him. Most people knew them as ‘Connovar’s Wolves’! They were known for their superb talent on the battlefield. Connovar knew however that it was going to take more than a good reputation to overcome the odds that would soon be facing them. He knew that by the end of the day, most of his men, and perhaps even he himself would be lying in a ditch somewhere with a sword or musket ball in their side.
However, Connovar’s life had been riddled with loss ever since that day back in the Draugh Mountains. Today was not going to be another loss. Today he and his men were going to lead a charge to the flank of the enemy and destroy their primary attack force.
After briefing his own men, Connovar walked back through the camp, watching as other men readied themselves for the coming battle. Some were saying prayers, others checking muskets or swords. Like him, most knew that they would either die in the coming battle, or be captured by the enemy and subjected to excruciating pain in a Varlet dungeon some place far over the border. Because of this, all the men were willing to fight to the death and would not even dream of running. This was one of the few advantages they had over the enemy.
Whilst his Wolves made their way into the cover of the woods on the westerly side of the ridge, Connovar himself rode over the hilltop giving the men a final check. A few minutes later he was at the head of his men awaiting the charge.
Suddenly there was the boom of canon fire as the enemy opened fire on the hillside. Connovar’s men were not shaken and stayed in formation awaiting the enemy charge. As salvo after salvo ripped into the hillside he waited. Then came the charge. Three thousand red-garbed infantry armed with muskets, swords and pistols ran up the hillside. Unfortunately for them, the canon fire had caused half the hill to fall away making it very hard to scale. As the enemy got closer and closer, Bucklin, one of Connovar’s senior officers, gave the order for the first line of musketeers to fire. A volley of lead ripped into the front of the enemy formation causing many to fall. It also drove them to open fire upon the defenders. However, many missed due to rushing and tripping up the hill. Bucklin signalled for the second line to fire. As the volley soared into the enemy a stream of smoke rose from the muskets, under this cover, the six thousand awaiting men charged down the hill into the dazed enemy. The result was horrific, in a matter of seconds the Varlet soldiers were pummelled into the ground. The only remaining evidence of them was the blood soaked cloaks left on the floor.
The he heard the roar of trumpets behind the enemy lines, then a great tremor shook the valley floor as no less than five thousand mounted Varlet topped the enemy hill and came charging down the hillside.
As they started to climb the opposite hill, up towards Connovar’s camp, he hoped that his men had the nerve to hold fire until the right moment. Closer and closer they got when suddenly the canon hidden in the opposite forest fired their grapeshot’s, deep into the rank of the enemy. From where he stood he could not tell how much damage they had done.
As the remaining mounts continued to climb up the hill, Connovar saw the line of musketeers rise from the hidden trenches, bring their weapons to bear, and fire into the enemy. In the confusion that followed, Connovar charged his own men into the behind of the enemy flanks. Loosing the single shot from his two pistols Connovar dropt them and swiftly drew his gigantic cavalry sabre. Without paying a single thought to what was going on around him, he tore into the enemy sending sprays of blood and entrails everywhere. He continued for several minutes when all of a sudden he felt a deep sensation in his side. He turned and saw an enemy soldier pulling his own sabre back out of his side. Before he had a chance to even look at who he had stabbed, his head had dropped to the floor, all signs of life drained from him. Connovar now took a second to look around; he was met with a scene of total and utter carnage.
They had won the battle, but there was still a war to come, that however was to be fought in the Capital and had little affect on Connovar. Quickly he gathered his remaining men and rode back into the camp.
Once again he stood silhouetted atop the hill. At the back of his mind he still felt a small pang of guilt for the brutal loss of life suffered on both sides. He thought to himself; yes they may have one the war, but what have they really accomplished. Ten thousand men will not be able to fight in the coming battles. But was that a real gain? Or was it a loss? He continued to think over and over the matter as he walked towards the horizon.
Then he came to the conclusion, loss was infinite. Life itself was one big loss. Everyone dies; many people loose things, whether it be wealth or meagre positions, in the end they had to be lost.
No one can everything, and yet no one can have nothing. The spirits of the men slaughtered on the battle field
