of here waiting for us to come after the trebuchets, but be careful. The rest of your boys, Bertrand, can make sure Karls don't get anyone behind us. Archers on the ridge till we need them somewhere."
Imperial discipline brought order fast. Three legions formed, down and south towards the next ridge, its archers, the hidden engines. Ivor's column went west at a gallop. The rest of the cavalry, heavy and light, formed up in two bodies, one west of the camp with its right flank on the river, one east with its left flank on the river, the supply wagons and the bridgehead protected between them.
One of Ivor's men yelled, pointed. A figure had broken from cover, was running down the slope towards the flag pole on the next ridge, the men around it. Ivor slanted left, led his column down the slope, up. Five hundred heavies against four Karls—five counting the runner—and a flagpole. It looked to be a one-sided battle.
A mile east the legions were moving up the slope. Gavin, his horse abandoned as too good a target, was with them. The rain of arrows from the ridge slowed, stopped. The legions broke into a trot, long spears coming down as they reached the ridge, came over it. Below them the trebuchets, abandoned, a mass of mounted archers—Gavin guessed a thousand or more—fleeing south. Something odd about the engines. One of the horses was dragging something—a long pole. The throwing arm. The legions came over the ridge, down. Men swarmed around the trebuchets, taking them apart under the orders of the legion engineers, loading the pieces on men's backs.