Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Holy shit!” Beazeley yelled.

  Mason looked around. Another band of Westmen were coming across the ridge to his left.

  Dien Bien Phu, hell, Mason thought. It looks more like Little Big Horn.

  31

  Ganton felt reassured when he had completed his inspection of the army. Camithon had arrayed the host well. The men were dismounted to rest the horses. Above every approach to the hill stood a band of crossbowmen protected by the shields of men at arms. Behind them were walking wounded to reload, and dismounted knights taking their ease. From this height a bolt could slay a Westman’s horse before his own arrow could pierce armor, and a Westman on foot was no fair match for a Drantos warrior.

  Ganton wasn’t worried about a fair match. He wanted the Westmen dead, or at least driven from his land. If he could have slain them all with his Browning, he would have done so.

  “Ha. And what of your love of battle?” Morrone said. “Glory for your bheromen. What of that?”

  “I had not realized I was speaking aloud,” Ganton said. “And there is precious little glory here . . .” He used his binoculars to look across the valley. Mason had retreated to where the balloon had been tethered and hauled it down. There was still no sign of the Romans. Had they taken a defensive position somewhere out of sight, or had they left the battle entirely? If they had run away, then Ganton’s army would never leave this valley.

  He moved on toward the end of the ridge, and now arrows fell more thickly around him. As he drew near to Camithon’s banner, he saw why. The end of the ridge rose higher than any other part, but also jutted out toward the river like the prow of a ship. It was too steep to allow crossbowmen to perch on it, and the Westmen could ride in close enough to fire their arrows and receive only a few crossbow bolts in return.

  Ganton dismounted. He had to scramble along the ridge to reach Camithon, who stood partially protected by guardsmen’s shields.

  “Majesty, this is no safe place for you!”

  “It is no more dangerous for me than for you, my lord general. Now—what is your counsel?” When the Westmen first struck and the Drantos horses began to tire, Ganton had not objected when Camithon brought the troops up this hill and set them in a defensive perimeter. Doubtless the general had a plan in mind. Now, though, it was time to learn it. “We are safe and in good order for the moment, but we are not eagles to make our homes here.”

  Camithon grinned and waved the ancient battle-axe he had carried into every battle since his youth. “First, Majesty, let us get off this knife-edge.” He led the way back along the ridge. “As to counsel, I would know better if I could see what you see.”

  “Ah,” Ganton lifted his binoculars to hand them to Camithon. “First, though—” he said. He swept them along the river bank, then up to where Mason’s banner stood with Caradoc’s. A waving orange flag, invisible without the binoculars, caught his eye. “Ho! A signal! Fetch the scribes!”

  A runner dashed down the ridge and returned with three young acolytes.

  “I am Panilos, senior acolyte, Majesty,” one said. He looked scarcely old enough to shave; the others were even younger.

  “Take these, lad,” Ganton said. He handed over his binoculars, noting that Panilos had no difficulty in using them. “Read me that signal from the Lord Mason.”

  “Aye, Majesty,” the boy said. “Laran, make the signals. Wannilos, are you ready?”

  One of the scribes held wax board and stylus. “Aye,” he said. The other waved his flags while Panilos peered through the dust.

  “R-O-M-A-N-S D-U-E N-O-R-T-H O-F H-E-R-E STOP,” he called.

  Panilos called off the message and Wannilos wrote it on the board, while the third acolyte acknowledged each word. They worked quickly, too fast for Ganton to follow. When they were done, Wannilos read it off.

  “ROMANS DUE NORTH OF HERE. THE ROMANS HAVE TAKEN HEAVY LOSSES BUT ARE IN GOOD ORDER. WE HAVE LOST MORE THAN HALF THE ARCHERS. BALLOON DISABLED. STAR WEAPONS LOW ON MISSILES. SUGGEST WE WITHDRAW.”

  “If the Romans are due north of Lord Mason, they must be there,” Ganton said. “Beyond those hills. There is enough dust there.” He handed the binoculars to Camithon.

  The old general held them gingerly. “Majesty, the Romans are not where I expected them to be. Now the Westmen will move to cut us off from the Romans. We must hasten to decide what to do. First, I will examine the battlefield. I wish to see the Romans.”

  The Roman position was north and east. Sight of them was cut off by trees as well as dust. From further south on the prow of the ridge they might be visible. Camithon took the binoculars and moved gingerly out along the knife-edge. Ganton wanted to call him back, but that would not be seemly. Instead he followed.

  They had gone half the way when Camithon straightened and cried out. Ganton ran forward. Camithon was falling when Ganton reached him, and only then did he see the arrow sticking out of the general’s left eye. Blood poured down over his scar. Ganton leaped to hold him, but the old man’s dead weight was too much. They fell off the ridge and rolled down the hill.

  “Rally!” Morrone screamed. He leaped down the hill to get below his king. “Guards! Shieldsmen!”

  Other knights jumped down from the ridgetop to form a shieldwall. Behind them king and captain lay together on the ground.

  Ganton heard none of this. With his ear practically against Camithon’s lips, he strained to listen to the man who had been more to him than his father ever had.

  “Make them stay together, lad. Use them well. And not too early—” The voice faded out.

  “My Lord Protector. My friend,” Ganton whispered.

  The voice came from lips flecked with blood. “Lad—” Then only a final rattle.

  Ganton raised the dead form and laid his general’s head in his lap. He bent to kiss the bloody lips. Then he stood. A shower of arrows fell around them, and he realized it was his golden helm that drew the Westmen. Had his vanity killed his oldest friend? “Bear him upslope with honor,” Ganton said quietly.

  Then he saw Camithon’s fallen battle-axe. He pointed to it. “I will carry that,” he said quietly. A knight handed it to him. Ganton slipped the thong about his wrist and whirled it until it blurred, remembering the hours Camithon had made him spend in the courtyard attacking wooden stakes.

  There were shouts from above. Shouts and moving banners, with panic in some of the voices. “The Wanax has fallen,” someone shouted.

  Ganton scrambled furiously up the crumbling sides of the slope. It was steep, and his armor was heavy. The battle-axe hampered him, but he held it grimly. No one else would carry that axe, not today and not ever. Camithon had no son . . . no son of his body, Ganton corrected himself. He has son enough today.

  They had rolled farther down the slope than he had thought, and the climb was exhausting. His chest heaved with the effort. Then two guards leaped down from the ridgetop. One extended his hand and pulled Ganton up. It wasn’t dignified, but it helped him get up the slope.

  “My horse!” he called to his orderly. “Bannerman! With me!” He spurred the horse to ride back along the ridge, hearing the cheers of his bheromen and knights as they saw the golden helm. “I am unhurt,” he shouted. When he was certain there would be no panic, he returned to the southern tip of the ridge.

  “Majesty, dismount,” Morrone pleaded. “If you are hurt—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. With Camithon dead, there was only one person the knights would follow.

  Will they follow me? Ganton wondered. An untried youth, who has fought in one battle, one part of another; who has led them onto this hill of dusty death . . . what did Camithon intend? He had a plan, but I know it not.

  And it matters not. It is my battle now, mine alone, and that is all I may consider now.

  Some of the knights were standing by their horses. A few had mounted. Ganton rode toward them. “What means this, my lords? I have heard no trumpet!”

  “We need no trumpet to tell us what to do.”


  It was difficult to know who spoke, but from the shield markings and scarf Ganton thought it must be Bheroman Hilaskos, an important lord who led many lances to battle.

  “And what would you do, my lord?”

  “Cut through the enemy!” Hilaskos said.

  “And then?”

  “And return to our homes.”

  “You would run away, then?” Ganton kept his voice low and calm, though it took a great effort to do that.

  “No man calls me coward. But what honor is there to perch on a ridgetop until we die of thirst? The battle is lost, sire. It will not save my lands nor yet the realm for my lances to be lost with it.”

  “Your lances will not be lost, nor yet will you,” Ganton said. “It is your Wanax who commands here. Dismount.”

  Hilaskos hesitated. “Dismount,” Ganton said. “Or by Vothan I will take your head in sight of your knights. Dismount and kneel!”

  One of Hilasko’s squires came forward to hold his master’s bridle. The baron hesitated a moment more, then got down from his horse. “Aye, sire,” he said. He knelt. “I see we have gained a true Wanax this day.”

  The others dismounted, and Ganton rode again along the ridge. This time there were more cheers, and no dissenters.

  “And what will we do now, sire?” Morrone asked when they were out of the others’ earshot.

  Ganton continued to scan the battlefield. “I do not know,” he said.

  * * *

  Art Mason watched the priest of Yatar place the guardsman’s beret over his face and signal to the acolytes who were acting as stretcher-bearers. They picked up the dead man and carried him to the line of bodies already laid out just below the crest of the hill. A long line, too damned long, Art thought, and not all the guards’ dead were in it.

  And the priests had armed themselves with fallen guardsmen’s daggers. For Westmen? Or for the wounded if they had to retreat? For the hundredth time Art wondered what Captain Galloway would do.

  The situation looked sticky. There were only two qualified signalmen, and it would be a waste to send them up in the balloon even if they could get it repaired. The damned low hills would let the Westmen get close enough to shoot the balloon observers before the basket could rise out of range. Because of the hills there were thousands, tens of thousands of Westmen out there in a killing ground, but no way to kill them. Not enough ammunition, no clear fields of fire; they were down to four bombs for the mortar and no more than a dozen rounds for the 106.

  Running low on ammunition, but not low on Westmen. Not at all.

  He looked across at the Drantos forces again. They seemed intact, almost no losses, but they sat there on top of their damned hill. They’d acknowledged his message suggesting withdrawal, but they weren’t doing anything about it. The Romans weren’t acknowledging signals at all, which wasn’t surprising; they were only visible for short intervals when the dust cleared. They’d only had one semaphore expert with them, and he was probably lost.

  “So what do we do, Art?” Murphy asked quietly.

  “Wait.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know, but you got a better idea? If we pull out—” He pointed to the low sunshade awnings the priests had erected to give shelter to the wounded.

  “Yeah, I got that picture,” Murphy said.

  “Besides—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell, Ben, I don’t think we can pull out.” He pointed to the north. “A mess of ’em disappeared in that direction. More went east. Not enough to worry about, if that was all of ’em, but enough to ambush us good while we’re trying to hold off pursuit.”

  “Well, we gotta do something.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll think of it,” Mason said. “Crap, Ben, you know I’m no mucking officer.”

  “Maybe not, buddy, but you’re all we got now,” Murphy said. He took a flask from his pocket. “Shot?”

  “Yeah—no. Not just now.” He lifted the binoculars again.

  * * *

  Arrows fell around Ganton, but none got through his armor. Three knights held shields around him as he stood at the very tip of the ridge. From here he could see almost all of the battlefield.

  The three groups of the Alliance formed a right isosceles triangle with the Romans at it apex. Across the valley, on the other side of the river, stood the Captain-General’s banner with Lord Mason’s. Caradoc’s stood close by them. Due east of Ganton and almost due north of Mason, the Romans held two more hilltops. He was separated from the Romans by a southward-jutting finger of the woody ridge that formed the north bound of the Hooey Valley.

  I am the only one who sees all this, now that the balloon is gone, he thought. Knowledge is power, Lord Rick says. To know what the enemy does not know—what is it I know that they do not?

  I know where all the Westmen are, and none of them can know this, for they are separated from each other by the low hills in the river valley. Even those on the tops of the knolls see only to the next hill.

  And they were divided. The two largest groups face Lord Mason and the Romans, and those two groups are separated by the river. While below facing us—

  Below were perhaps five thousand Westmen. A formidable number, but nothing for the host of Drantos to fear. Small groups of Westmen rode up and down their line, shouting to their comrades, and from time to time riders went toward the enormous bands facing the Romans.

  If the Alliance forces were out of—supporting distance, as the starmen called it—so were the Westmen. And the Westmen had no wanax, no single commander.

  “Stay here. They must believe that I will return,” Ganton ordered the shieldmen. He moved back along the ridge to Morrone. “Send messengers,” he said. “Water the horses. The host is to make ready to mount. I want no trumpets to sound until we are ready to ride. The squires and walking wounded will stay to protect the wounded and priests. The rest will prepare to charge. Go quickly now.”

  Morrone grinned like a wolf. “Aye, sire.”

  Ganton looked up at the vault of the sky. Father Yatar, give me clear sight. Is this right action?

  There was no answer. Or was there? Far away he thought he saw an eagle circling above the valley. Almost he raised his binoculars, but then he let them dangle.

  It is an eagle. It is an answer, he told himself. It is enough.

  Morrone came up. “All is done as you ordered. Now let me aid you with your armor.”

  “Aye. Stay with my banner,” Ganton said. “And if I fall, lead the host.”

  “Where, Majesty?”

  “There.” Ganton pointed southeast. “Through yonder band of Westmen. Ignore all the others. You and I will be at the left of the host. The others will form to our right. We break through that line, and ride eastward along the valley to there.” He pointed again to where the finger of ridge and trees separating them from the Romans jutted down into the valley. “As soon as we have rounded that small hill, then charge northeast.”

  Morrone frowned. “Away from the Lord Mason?”

  “Yes.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Is all in readiness?”

  A shout rippled down the line. “LONG LIVE WANAX GANTON!”

  “MOUNT!” he ordered. He swung onto his charger. “Morrone, stay with me. I want nothing save my armor closer to my back than you!”

  “With my life, Majesty!”

  “Sound the trumpets!”

  The wild notes of the cornets blared up the line. Kettledrums added to the din. The Westmen down below looked up, startled. Ganton whirled the ax above his head. “FOR DRANTOS. FOR CAMITHON AND DRANTOS!”

  The line of heavy cavalry moved ponderously forward, until there was no sound but the thunder of hooves and the call of trumpets.

  32

  Mad Bear had once seen the side of a hill fall when the earth shook. Boulders the size of men had rolled toward him faster than a horse could trot, and dust went up until it seemed it must reach the Father’s feet.

  He remembered that now. Th
ere was dust in plenty, and it was as if the hill had fallen upon him—but now, each boulder was a man dressed all in iron, mounted on a horse so tall it seemed that a Horse People’s stallion could pass under its belly, and those great horses wore iron!

  The hill was alive with banners, and the earth shook to the thunder of hooves. Trumpet calls rent the air, trumpets and kettledrums and the triumphant shouts of the Ironshirts as their great lances came down.

  Mad Bear had fought Ironshirts before, but always on an open plain. He had never imagined such a host of them coming directly toward him. He knew that he saw his death, his and all the Horse People who had stood with him. Somewhere downriver were more of the Horse People, but not enough had come, and now—

  Now there was nothing save honor. The Warrior would see that Mad Bear could die as a man, and that was all he could hope for.

  He wasted no time with words. The thunder of the charging Ironshirts was too much. No one would have heard him. Instead, he counted his arrows. A hand and one more. Not enough, not nearly enough. Well, that would have to do also. He would shoot his arrows and ride away. Perhaps the Ironshirts would scatter as they followed. He nocked an arrow to his bow and tried to aim at flesh, not iron.

  * * *

  “For this was I born!” Ganton spurred his charger ahead. The line of Westmen had turned to face him, and they shot arrows as swiftly as they could. Here and there they struck home and a horse went down, causing others in the lines behind to swerve and stumble; but the host swept on inexorably.

  “For this was I born!” he shouted again.

  His lance took the first Westman in the throat, spitting him like a boar. Ganton let the lance dip and sweep behind so that his motion pulled it from the fallen enemy. He barely had time to raise it again before it struck home in a Westman pony. Ganton let it go and took the axe which hung by its thong from the saddle horn. As he swept past another enemy the axe swung to crash through a bear tooth and leather helmet and split the skull below it.