Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “And there is a rider coming to tell us anyway,” Ganton said. “I do not doubt that, even though the Lord Rick commands Tamaerthon independent of me.”

  “You have a plan, Frugi,” Publius said.

  “Yes, Caesar. Send the foot to menace the High Road. I will keep the survivors of the Fourth, and the cohortes equitates, to support Wanax Ganton. The Seventeenth will stay between your command, ready to move either way, and we will see who first can advance.”

  “A good plan,” Publius said. “I agree.”

  “Thank you, Caesar,” Ganton said. And you too, Titus Frugi. I reward my friends, and you are a true friend.

  * * *

  Three arrows thrummed past Matthias. Two of them found targets, one in a centaur’s belly and a second in the thigh of one of his guards. The man reeled in his saddle but said nothing. The centaur screamed until its rider dismounted and cut its throat.

  “Retreat,” Matthias ordered. “Fall back. Carefully, carefully.” He rode up and down the line, making certain that this was a retreat and no rout. Whatever the skills of the Tamaerthan hillsmen, whatever Ganton of Drantos had learned, the Romans at least would know the value of the High Road, and must have troops poised to take advantage of any disorder here.

  I could lose this battle in an hour, and Phrados the False Prophet does not even know. A fool. He looked to the sky for a sign from Vothan. Am I to be chosen today? Or have you more work for me?

  They withdrew out of bowshot from the forest. For the third time they had ridden up the High Road to test its defenses, and for the third time the Tamaerthan archers had warned them against going too far.

  “It’s hopeless.” The mercenary captain spoke in a low voice so that only Matthias could hear. “We need infantry to clear out those woods.” He pointed to more than three hundred bodies, men, centaurs, and horses, that littered the road and its ditches. “Cavalry will never get through alone. We need infantry.”

  “We have none, Captain Marikos. The Prophet, praise his holy name, has ordered the foot he sent here to stand fast and protect the road.”

  “If they’d attack, they could keep the damned kilties busy enough—”

  “But they cannot attack. They have orders from the Prophet himself. Praise to the gods.”

  Marikos looked at Matthias quizzically. “As you say. You could ask for a change in orders. Or more infantry.”

  “I have sent messengers to ask that,” Matthias said.

  “But they have not returned,” Captain Marikos said.

  “Yes—”

  “Killed by the Defenders as deserters.”

  Matthias frowned. “I would hope not—”

  “You know they were. The Defenders are mad, and the Prophet as well. A child could have won this battle, but instead of a child we had Phrados.”

  “That is blasphemy—”

  Marikos waved airily. “My troops are closer than yours. But you’re no believer. You never have been. You’re an orthodox priest of Vothan.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I have eyes. I see where you look for signs. And what you wear under your armor. I’ve heard how your servants address you. Honorable, I’m surprised the Defenders didn’t find out.”

  As am I, perhaps. “I see. And what now?”

  “We save what we can. I’ve got men watching behind us. When the Defenders are engaged—and they will be, today or tomorrow—I’m taking my troops out of here.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Anywhere. North. I’ve heard Prince Strymon can use good soldiers. I’ve got two thousand cavalry.”

  “And their families?”

  “Already alerted. Unlike yours, my messengers really were deserters. They got through. And one returned. He saw your messengers killed by the Defenders. No message you sent the Prophet ever got to him.”

  “How do you propose to get past our own foot soldiers, who stand between you and freedom precisely to keep you from running away?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “I see. And what do you want of me?”

  “Nothing. Stay out of my way. But since you’ve been a friend, I’ll give you warning. Three blasts of the trumpets followed by two more. If you hear that, save yourself, and your men. If you can.”

  “Thank you.” What more can I do? It would be folly to warn Phrados. There are no Defenders here, and Marikos is surrounded by his officers and loyal men. It was the act of a friend to warn me. Now I must think how to make use of that warning.

  A cloud of dust rose from the hill beyond the narrow area of the road. A sizable enemy force was approaching. He turned to see that the commander of foot soldiers had seen it also and was placing his men.

  * * *

  The horseman spurred straight at Art Mason. He wielded a heavy battle-axe and was screaming praises to the gods. Mason shot him twice with his .45 Colt, and even then had to dodge the axe. One of the Guardsmen brought his own axe solidly onto the man’s head, and another seized his horse.

  “No ransom for these fanatics,” the Guard sergeant said contemptuously. “But some of them have good horses.”

  “Yeah, sure. Now let’s ride.” He signaled Teuthras to advance with the light cavalry.

  Amazingly, the enemy melted away into the cultivated land west of the river.

  “From that last chap I’d have thought they’d fight like tigers,” Mason said aloud.

  “My lord?” his orderly prompted.

  “Nothing.”

  The enemy light cavalry retreated, with Teuthras and the Hussars in pursuit. Mason was about to signal recall when he saw that Teuthras had halted his pursuit, set pickets to watch to see that the enemy didn’t return without warning, and was coming back.

  Well done, Mason thought. More locals learning to think ahead. Not long ago they’d have chased that enemy cavalry forever.

  “Messenger from the balloon,” his orderly called.

  “Right.”

  The man had ridden hard. Both he and his horse were lathered. He held out a square of paper.

  “Thank you. Orderly! Wine for the messenger. A groom to walk his horse.”

  “At once, Lord.”

  Art read the message aloud as Teuthras rode up.

  WARNING TO BATTLE GROUP DRUMOLD; ENEMY CAVALRY PRESENT ON WEST BANK OF RIVER CLOSE TO HERDSMAN’S FORD.

  Teuthras grinned. It probably would have hurt too much to laugh; he was riding in a sort of corset of bandages to keep his cracked ribs in place. The priests had wanted him to stay in bed, but nothing short of a direct command from Yatar could have kept him out of this battle.

  “Was it not Lord Rick’s intention, that the men in the balloon should see what others could not and give warning? If all they can tell us is what we have seen for ourselves . . .”

  “Yeah, that can happen. But remember Pirion. The balloon saved our asses there.”

  “I do. I also remember the Hooey River.”

  So did Mason, and so did the captain. That was why the balloon was so far back, so its anchor and ground crew wouldn’t be overrun. The Westmen had done that, killing not only the ground crew but the aeronauts. It took a long time to train those crews, not just technicians for the balloon but competent observers.

  All very well, but it would be nice to have more information. And who was antsy about being an officer? Yeah. A corporal who got promoted over his head, and too late to think about that now.

  The rest of the Tamaerthan arrived at a fast walk. Drumold was in sight, and so was his son Balquhain, in that tent-sized green cloak he’d adopted in order to be recognized in battle.

  Just as important, so was the Carl Gustav recoilless and its crew. Time to get the troops deployed.

  * * *

  “Stand by to fire,” Mason said.

  Rudolf Frick grinned like a wolf. He knelt, and Doug McQuade knelt behind and to his left. Three Guards brought ammunition from the pack mules.

  Mason stood in his stirrups and looked up and down the
river line. The Tamaerthan chivalry were arrayed three deep, lances erect, armor gleaming.

  They looked more impressive than they were. Tamaerthon was mountainous land, poor horse country at best. Its real strength was in its infantry, especially longbowmen, and now the disciplined pike formations Colonel Galloway had trained. And none of that made any difference. The nobility of Tamaerthon wore armor and tried to make believe they were as good as the Drantos ironhats.

  “All I got,” Art muttered to himself.

  After it crossed Herdsman’s Ford the road led through a draw between two low but steep-sided hills. The enemy cavalry commander had bunched up his forces there. He’d also put archers on the hilltops, and in front of the archers was a line of infantry forming a shield wall. It wasn’t a very solid shield wall, but it would be good enough to shake up Tamaerthan cavalry.

  Well, first things first. That enemy cavalry force made a beautiful target. Hadn’t those idiots ever heard of star weapons? “Six for effect, Rudy. Concentrate on the cavalry. Fire when ready.”

  “Yo!” Frick took aim.

  “Stand clear behind!” McQuade shouted and rammed a load into the small shoulder-fired recoilless.

  “Fire in the hole!” The Carl Gustav roared, and flame belched from both ends of the recoilless. The shell slammed right into the middle of the enemy horsemen, twenty yards to the right of the CO’s banner. The second shell took out the banner.

  By the time the fourth shell was on the way, the first rank of the enemy cavalry had broken. They turned on the troops behind, so that the entire force was in disarray. Mason turned to his trumpeter. “Sound the charge.”

  He was only just in time. The sight of enemy backs was too much for the Tamaerthan heavies, and not even Drumold and Balquhain could hold them. They’d already begun to move when the trumpets sounded. In seconds they were waist-deep in the water.

  Two upstream cavalrymen suddenly screamed as translucent tentacles reached up and around them. The men slashed wildly with their swords as their horses bolted in panic. The other cavalry spurred onward. Some emerged with half a dozen foot-long hydras clinging to the horses. Their comrades smashed at them with sword flats. The hydras dropped off and were trampled.

  Now the heavies were in extreme archery range of the troops on the hilltop. They hadn’t lost a man crossing, but now Mason saw three fall. Then two more horses were down.

  Frick slammed four more rounds into the retreating enemy cavalry, then turned to harass the shield wall on the hill to his left. Three rounds, and the first of the infantry threw down their weapons and ran. By the fifth round they were all running, and carrying the archers with them.

  Teuthras was just crossing the river. He saw the hill cleared and led his light cavalry across the rear of the charging heavies and up the left side hill. It was tough going on the steep hillock but there was no opposition and soon he’d outflanked the enemy cavalry in the draw below.

  On his own initiative, too, Mason thought. We got ourselves some decent officers, by God!

  The Tamaerthan heavies lowered their lances and charged home into the enemy cavalry in the gap. The enemy was already in retreat. Now it became a headlong rout. The infantry on the right-hand hill threw down their weapons and knelt. Some held up charms, of Yatar and Vothan, as tokens of surrender. A quarter of an hour after the first round was fired there wasn’t an armed enemy to be seen.

  Drumold and Balquhain held up their banners, waited until their troops had rallied and were in formation, and led the way into the gap.

  And that tears it, Mason thought. We’re well beyond any intelligence I’ve got. There was supposed to be one hell of a lot of enemy here. So far it’s been easy. Too damned easy.

  * * *

  Drumold’s banner had reached the head of the draw when Mason saw it stop. Art spurred his horse ahead along the column, but the rough ground on either side of the road slowed him. As he came in sight of more open ground the Defenders began their move, but between them and the Tamaerthans was a solid mass of cavalry coming on at a trot.

  Drumold stood in his stirrups. “Spread out! Get in line!”

  “That’s where they were,” Mason muttered. “Frick! Follow me! Guards, rally here!” He turned to scramble up the left side hill. “Get up here and set up! Your target is the oncoming cavalry. Fire at will!”

  We’re in time, he thought. Just. But they sure act like nothing can stop them—

  Skin-clad figures seemed to sprout like mushrooms from the scrub to Mason’s left. He shot one, hacked through a spear-wielding arm with his sword. He caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye, then a sling stone smashed into his helmet. He saw blood-red fireworks against a black sky and barely had time for one thought as he toppled out of the saddle.

  Maybe that enemy commander was right in thinking he couldn’t be stopped.

  * * *

  Ganton focused the binoculars, and the banner on the hill by Herdsman’s Ford sprang into clear sight. Lord Rick’s plan had worked well so far; the Tamaerthans were in the rear of the Defenders and in no small strength.

  Yet the Defenders had cavalry aiding them. Together might not the enemy’s strength be too much for Drumold and Lord Mason? It very well might be, and then whether the battle was won or lost, Tamaerthon would be a long time recovering from the loss of its knights and archers.

  I owe Titus Frugi much, and that is good and sufficient reason not to shame him without cause. I owe the Tamaerthans more—my very throne, indeed. But is that cause enough to risk shaming Titus Frugi, to say nothing of quarreling with my wife’s father?

  Only Yatar or His Son could be certain. I only know this: I will not have it said that the Wanax Ganton of Drantos was like his father, without honor. That he let the chivalry of Tamaerthon be cut to pieces when his aid could have saved them.

  “Morrone!”

  “Majesty?”

  “Sound the trumpets and advance the banner of the Fighting Man. We ride to aid the Tamaerthans!”

  If Morrone’s grin had been any wider it would have met at the back of his head. “As you command.”

  “Oh, and send a messenger to Lord Rick.”

  “And one to Publius?”

  “To Publius, of course. But send the one to Lord Rick first.”

  * * *

  The Drantos heavy cavalry took up all the space between the hill and the forest, so the Romans had to follow them. Rick saw that Ganton was taking his time, too. The heavies moved at a walk until they were on level ground, and even a little farther, until they were on ground that wasn’t littered with bodies from the earlier attacks.

  Then the knights of Drantos shook out their lines, and even from the top of the Great Redoubt Rick could see Ganton’s golden helmet take its place in front. They worked up to a trot, and at a trot they rolled across the rear of Phrados’ host, straight toward the Defenders and the cavalry around the Tamaerthans.

  That solved one of Rick’s biggest headaches, and without his having to say a word. Just as well, because Publius must be about ready to have a stroke. He might not risk insulting his son-in-law, but his son-in-law’s captain general?

  And isn’t that thinking a lot like a medieval politician—like your wife, in fact?

  A moment later he saw the Romans move out. The Praetorian Eagle led the way, but the Fourth was close up behind it, and the Eighth brought up the rear in a really beautiful formation.

  A messenger rode off, with a signal for the balloon to send: TO TAMAERTHAN ARCHERS ON HIGH ROAD; PREPARE TO ADVANCE DOWN HIGH ROAD IN SUPPORT OF SEVENTEENTH LEGION WHEN SEVENTEENTH ADVANCES.

  If Publius had the brains God promised little white mice, he’d move his own pikemen and foot archers out of cover to stiffen up the cavalry cordon he would soon have drawn around the enemy’s infantry. Then the Tamaerthan archers could leave their cover and stiffen the Seventeenth, and the enemy’s whole center would be surrounded—Tamaerthan and Romans on two sides and the river on the third.

 
Close off the Redoubt and they’ll be surrounded—provided of course, that I can retake the Great Redoubt. Time to fight again.

  Rick sent off another messenger to the heavy weapons, then rode down to First Pikes and stood in his stirrups. “First Pikes, Guardsmen, gunners! Follow me! Let’s clean these vermin out of our house.”

  He drew his sword to signal the advance. Suddenly the men to either side dropped their pikes and bows and ran forward to grab his bridle, his stirrups, even his horse’s tail. Shouts rose.

  “Go back, Lord Rick!”

  “Stay back, Lord Rick!”

  “We won’t advance until you’re safe, Lord Rick!”

  Then: “Lord Rick to the rear!”

  —and everybody picked up on that and shouted it until Rick’s head ached.

  Elliot rode up grinning like an idiot. “Captain, looks like you’re outvoted. They think you’re their good luck charm. Maybe you are.”

  “Elliot—”

  “Think about it, Colonel. They’ll follow you, all right. But if you buy it, this outfit’s finished, and we all know it. For Christ’s sake, sir! You don’t have to prove anything.”

  I don’t have to prove anything? “All right, Sergeant Major. Carry on.”

  “Sir!” Elliot rode out in front of the pikemen, fired a burst into the air from the Ingram, and shouted, “Okay, you crazy bastards! Do you want to live forever?”

  Cheers rose, pikes followed, and the counterattack charged down the hill. Mortar and recoilless rounds fell among the enemy. In the center of the line rose two giant figures, the Great Ark swathed in ammo belts and Gunner Pinir with a barrel of powder under one arm and a rammer over his shoulder.

  The enemy troops in the Redoubt stood for a moment. Then someone raised a shout. “The Defenders! The Defenders are running away.”

  It was true enough. Ganton’s chivalry had struck the Defenders in flank even as they were closing on the Tamaerthan knights, and the Defenders dissolved into uncoordinated groups. Some stood and fought like demons. More turned and ran as they realized their gods had forsaken them.

  “They run! The Defenders run!” The shout rang through the Redoubt.