by Brian Daley
Prince of Coramonde, true Pretender to the Throne of the Ku-Mor-Mai, nominal Commander of the joint expedition, fainted dizzily into cordially receptive darkness.
* * * *
When he awoke again he could hear Gil speaking. “—not unknown in my own world. The eye’s a funny thing, y’know . . . ” He sounded very unsure of himself.
Andre answered. “You must stop this distressing habit of yours of trying to explain away the workings of higher powers. Haven’t you seen enough since you’ve been in Coramonde?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just that I’d rather not see us misconstrue a simple freak of nature for divine intervention.”
There was amusement in the wizard’s voice. “I’ve yet to see a simple freak of nature, Gil.”
The driving rain was loud and steady. Springbuck blinked in the gray predawn, and though his head hurt and he was stiff and bruised, he was generally whole. He was lying beneath a densely leaved tree, sheltered from most of the downpour, the other leaders around him.
Gil noticed he was awake. “Glad you’re through sluffing off,” he said briskly. “Reacher’s back and we’ve got trouble. Here, take some water; but don’t take much.”
The Prince gulped greedily from a drinking skin, but forced himself to stop after a moment. A wave of nausea threatened him. “What trouble do we have?”
“Take your pick,” Gil said.
Andre explained. Reacher had scouted and found that the balance of the original force under the late Ibn-al-Yed had been separated and moved, under Legion-Marshal Novanwyn, through the Keel of Heaven to lay siege to Freegate, leaving a holding unit in the mountain pass. The information had come in part from guerrillas in the mountains, which meant that there were two barriers between them and the Free City. The contingent under Novanwyn had swung up and around from the south, combing for guerrillas and so missed the allies by chance as they came down the Western Tangent.
The son of Surehand sighed. Now they were trapped with the only usable pass defended and the second army doubtless in pursuit soon. He cursed the endless manpower of his homeland, not for the last time.
Gil nodded in agreement. “As prevaricating Uncle Gladstone used to admonish me: ‘It never hits the fan a little at a time.’ Know what I mean?”
Springbuck didn’t, nor did he care to be enlightened.
Gil went on cheerfully. “What I figure is, since the holding element’s dug in and made themselves a redoubt in the pass at the Keel of Heaven—and isn’t all that big—we’ll draw them out and hand ’em their ass. Then we’ll sucker our way past Novanwyn’s main body at Freegate.”
The Prince laughed weakly. He supposed the American didn’t know how difficult it would be to take high ground from a unit of the Legions.
Gil forged on. “Stand up and walk around a bit, that’s right, and I’ll show you how we’ll do it. Hey, you, send that courier over here!”
Gil had selected from among the remaining light cavalry a former courier. With the captured writing materials and official seals from Ibn-al-Yed’s tent, and Bonesteel’s help, he concocted a strongly worded, authentic-looking movement orders letter, instructing the officer in charge of the redoubt to come at once with his entire unit to the Hightower, with mention of a general uprising.
The fraudulent messenger had been outfitted with a close, makeshift approximation of a proper uniform. Mud and wear would account for the minor flaws. The plan startled the Prince so much that he forgot his headache.
“Uh-huh. Shocked Bonesteel, too,” said Gil. “He said something about revamping the military dispatch system when this is over. It’s really all quite simple, buddy; but no one around here ever thought too hard about authenticating messages.” He paused and reflected for a moment. “Matter of fact, I got myself in quite a jam that way once.”
Springbuck slowly regained his equilibrium. The American elaborated on the details of the plan. Their primary worry was how soon Bey would realize that the force in the Hightower was drastically smaller than he’d thought.
“We have to leave in short order,” Gil warned. “Man, if we can just buy ourselves another crummy day or so; if this cloud cover breaks, Bey’ll come buzzing around and see what we’re doing. The second army’s probably at the Hightower already. Hope we’ll be able to come up with an idea to take the pressure off Sordo.
“Anyway, it’ll be a buster getting to Freegate if the storm is as bad on that side of the mountains. Mud’s tail-high on a tall bear.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We will either find a way . . . or make one.
—Hannibal
The rain had stopped. The ground was mud, offering untrustworthy footing, but that had made it easier to erase their tracks. They stood in a narrow draw off the Western Tangent, where it threaded the pass through the Keel of Heaven, and waited as they had since noon. The air was chilly and men clamped numb fingers beneath their arms and stamped their feet, since fires were out of the question.
Springbuck, shivering in his cloak, had to give the enemy officer credit. The message had said “all speed,” and it was barely a half-half hour after the courier had been sent up to the redoubt when the sound of hoofbeats and marching drums reached their ears. But the commander, in haste to obey orders, had neglected caution. No outriders came to scout the pass ahead of the main body, though if they had, they’d have been silenced and made no difference.
Through the latticework of brush and scrub they’d drawn over the mouth of their hiding place, the Prince and Hightower watched the mounted troops move by smartly. Springbuck glanced nervously over his shoulder to make sure every man in his band was out of sight around a bend in the little ravine. Each had been ordered to stand to his horse to ensure total silence. Since the requirement for armored men was great in this element of their ambuscade, Springbuck had most of the men of Freegate with him, along with some of the Horseblooded.
Route drummers were beating quickstep for the infantry moving down the pass. The Prince smiled. The infantry would be in the rear, as hoped, the first to be hit. Excellent!
When the last rank had passed their position, he and his men quickly tore away the camouflage, mounted and hurried to form a column, ready to execute their share of the trap.
* * * *
A mile farther down, around several turns in the Tangent, Bonesteel, Dunstan and the remainder of the men of Freegate stood patiently behind their abatis and piles of stones. The old Legion-Marshal spoke little to the Berserker. He didn’t like this gloomy, unpredictable man and felt ill at ease in his presence. He hoped the fellow would observe some sort of discipline.
From a vantage point on the cliff overlooking the pass, Gil and Reacher saw the engagement shaping up. The American signaled Bonesteel that their enemy was close, then hoped Springbuck and Hightower would have their timing right.
Archers on the cliffs to either side pulled back at his order, lying out of sight and concentrating all their attention on listening for the signal to rise again. Some, jittery, were counting the shafts in their quivers by finger touch or testing their bowcords.
The enemy halted behind their captain when they came around a final turn and saw the barricade barring their way. The captain was confused as to how this emplacement had come to be here in such short time, since the dispatch rider who’d brought Ibn-al-Yed’s message to him hadn’t seen it—or at least hadn’t mentioned it. He assumed that the rider, to whom he’d given word of his immediate compliance and sent on his way, had been taken or killed.
Then he saw the fradulent courier standing with the others behind the abatis, his bright red tunic open now and a makeshift pike in hand. The captain’s fury was broken by the sounding of a trumpet by the Wolf-Brother, atop a cliff to his left, blowing with all his extraordinary vim and producing, to Gil’s mind, a doomsday wailing.
Hearing this, Springbuck and his men broke into a full trot; then seeing the tail of the enemy column, a full charge carried them to the flanks of their foes.
Swords flew
and once again the son of Surehand failed to understand how any man could hope to come unscathed through such deadly havoc.
The opposing captain was no fool. Unaware of the attack behind, he ordered a withdrawal until he could assess his predicament. The maneuver turned to confusion and he learned that a battle was being fought at the rear of his column, a little over one hundred yards away, and that he couldn’t get to it; his own men were falling back and blocking his way.
Boldly, he determined to carve an escape for his men. Turning back to the abatis, he threw off his ornate cape; drawing his saber, he ordered his trumpeter to sound the charge. As he swept forward with his men to fall upon the barricade, Gil stood and fired a single shot with his carbine.
The tenor of the conflict changed instantly. What had looked to be a close-quarters fight for life became a rain of death against which the captain had scant defense, as archers on cliffs at either side poured a steady, merciless shower into the tightly confined cavalry. Most of the bowmen were Horseblooded, and their moaning arrows sowed fright and turmoil along with injury and death.
To the rear, Springbuck and Hightower were hewing their way through the massed infantry, which had no chance to establish a line, form shield lock or otherwise fight except as individuals—disaster for foot against mounted men.
Gil surveyed the carnage with an expression of stone. Bonesteel attempted to offer terms to the trapped contingent but was refused, and the fighting continued undiminished.
Reacher hurled an occasional rock into the milling men below, but the American didn’t lift his carbine. He knew he didn’t need to; he’d planned this ruse well and the enemy had small chance of survival.
The enemy captain, assailing the barricade with no success, fell back. A courageous, duty-bound man, he obeyed orders without question, a valuable officer liked by his men and known to do the job allotted him. He’d suffered a wound in his calf from a pike but didn’t think about it as much as about the agonizing certainty that he’d led his command to its death. Of course, he wouldn’t surrender. He’d been told by Legion-Marshal Novanwyn that tortures and humiliations were inflicted on prisoners by animalistic rebels. He reined back viciously and studied the hemming cliffs and faceless walls of the trap.
With a shout, he brought his charger around and got the attention of his standard-bearer with cuffs, then led him to a spot along the ridge where a partial landslip and a slightly easier incline provided what might be their road to salvation. It was a short way from the place where Gil and Reacher stood looking down.
The American saw it all and bit off an obscenity. He’d hoped the slip would be too steep to negotiate—he knew he would never want to try it—but the captain was a superb horseman and his men were old campaigners. Many of them, taking the path he set them, fell back. But many swarmed on. If they got to high ground, Gil knew, they’d sweep it clean, mowing down the dismounted archers easily, and might turn the tide of battle.
The Wolf-Brother had sprung to the lip where slope met cliff top, poised to defend it. Gil impatiently shoved him aside, took up a stance and waited with his face stiff and stern.
When the enemy cavalry and their churning mounts were within yards of the crest he raised the carbine to his shoulder almost involuntarily. Feeling the cool press of wood against his stock-welded cheek, he fixed them in his sight and began firing. Men dropped from their saddles, only to be replaced by desperate comrades.
The first magazine went quickly, the noise and fire of the carbine and its devastating effect stabbing panic into those below. But they were fighting for their lives, willing to face even apparent magic for a chance to live.
The American was sickened. He tried to reconcile himself; not to have fired would have invited disaster and death for his side. But that made the cold killing no less repugnant. He changed magazines and squeezed the trigger as quickly as he could, but more and more men were following their commander up the slope.
Now more archers were concentrating their fire on this sudden advance. Just as the men below began to fall back, their captain, who had miraculously lived through the gunfire, threw a mace he’d carried on his saddle bow.
Gil saw it coming and ducked to one side, but the lip of the crest was eroded and gave way. He fought for a second to get his balance over empty space, then pitched forward an instant before Reacher spotted his dilemma and grabbed for him. He lost his carbine as he went skidding past the enemy captain, who barely missed a cut at him.
Sliding and tumbling, he managed to drop to the floor of the pass with a minimum of damage, but would undoubtedly have lost most of his skin had he not been wearing armor. His steel cap was gone, and he threw back his coif and looked around him.
The place was like a scene out of the Hell he remembered so well. Men and animals were feathered through with arrows. Some of the panic-stricken soldiers were still trying to hack their way through the abatis but most were attempting to retreat back up the pass, pushing at those blocking them and trampling those beneath, adding to the crushing pressure on the infantry facing Springbuck and Hightower.
No one on the floor of the pass had yet noticed Gil. He picked himself up groggily and pulled out his pistols, weighing his chances of either fighting his way to the barricade or scrambling back up the slope. Having witnessed one such battle already, he knew that his chances in such a riot were damned poor in spite of his firearms. He glanced back to size up the slope, but saw that the captain was bearing down on him, fell and fey, saber raised, thoughts of escape submerged by the lust for vengeance.
The Browning clutched to his chest, Gil raised the Mauser and trained careful aim on the plunging, charging officer. When the man was within a few yards he fired. The pistol report startled the horse and picked his target out of the saddle. There was a neat black hole in the captain’s corselet and surprise on his face.
All the archers on both cliffs had concentrated on the group attempting the slope and eliminated the threat of a coup de main. But it was still no safe place to be, Gil knew. Even if he managed to get to the top—a doubtful venture in armor—he’d likely be arrowed by a careless bowman from his own side.
The enemy had taken advantage of the redirected archer fire to charge the barricade again, hacking at it with swords and sending arrows, javelins and toss darts through and over it.
Gil blasphemed. He had a choice between downright stupidity and suicide. His one shot had been noticed and several troopers turned toward him, closing with their swords high for the butcher blow.
He skipped backward to the cliff face, bracing his back against it, and began to use his pistols judiciously. He knew he’d never get a chance to reload.
* * * *
Springbuck and his men pushed hard. They did well, although their opposition was trapped and fighting for life.
But in the van of the attack was Lord Hightower.
His sight returned, his nerve and confidence restored and whatever demon of depression that occupied him gone, he was venting all the cyclopean energy so long and unwillingly curbed. He swung his greatsword without pause or check. His iron-rimmed shield, covered with many plies of tough hide, turned aside any blow or missile and buffeted many men from their feet.
Soon all who would have been in his way and with whom he’d have closed shied away and turned in another direction in the melee. He threshed deeper into their ranks and at length was alone, a solitary reaper harvesting foemen. Though the Prince and his men did their best to follow, Springbuck began to think that Hightower would carry the day all by himself. With the return of his sight had come a renewal of his strength in combat. Last of his puissant, long-lived line, he made this his hour and there was no man who could stand before his arm or overbear him.
Those who saw him coming could only fall back in dismay and fear that some harsh, frost-haired deity of the distant north had contracted to ride with the Prince of Coramonde.
* * * *
Gil crouched, nerves taut, by the foot of the cliff and watch
ed the riders circling in front of him. He’d driven them away once, but now the Browning’s slide was locked back, magazine empty. He dared not turn his attention to reload it for worry that a stray arrow or aimed spear would come in his direction; he’d already dodged two javelins.
Somehow the men sensed that he hesitated to shoot. Though his weapons were frightening, they knew now that this man was no wizard. They meant to kill him before they themselves were killed.
He didn’t take his eyes from them as he let fall the Browning, switched the Mauser to his left hand and drew his sword. He condemned his luck at not being able to grab a stray horse, but they wouldn’t let him near with the smell of gunpowder on him. One man rode in on him, fast and low, a long iron throwing dart in his hand and his shield protecting him. Without a clear shot Gil was forced to pick the horse out from under him.
It took the last round in the Mauser.
He tucked the pistol into his belt rather than let it hang by its lanyard or take the time to fumble it back into its holster, and dropped into an uneasy guard.
The man whose horse he’d shot sprang to his feet, sword out, and rushed him. Gil found that his own blade, a replacement for the one he’d left pinning the scorpion banner to the ground and one he’d considered rather heavy and awkward, was now weightless. A small part of him knew it for adrenalin.
His antagonist had a shield still on his arm, but was shaken from his fall, despite his quick recovery. Gil snatched the big trench knife from his belt to use as a parrying blade, as he’d seen Springbuck do.
They began their duel.
He’d expected to be on the defensive but found himself as much the aggressor as his opponent, with a dexterity he hadn’t known he possessed. Their swords cut and parried and diligent drill was repaid with survival. Unlike his foe, he didn’t shout or mock and insult. A half-dozen times he blocked cuts that promised to lift his head from his body or sever him at the chest. The trench knife wasn’t adequate to stop full strokes of the other’s blade, but its threat helped even the match.