Clash of Eagles

by Alan Smale

  Their fellow Iroqua braves came on, swerving around the fallen. Their blood-chilling battle cries never wavered.

  Marcellinus could see the faces of the front-running Iroqua braves now, their eyes wide in fury. His own men shuffled their feet, straining at the leash as they waited for the order. But his First Cahokian would not expend their energy in running across a field. They would stand firm and not be winded, and they would slay their enemies with precision and icy rigor.

  “First Cahokian, prepare arms!”

  His front rank of archers raised their bows, pulled back the bowstrings.

  “First Cahokian, fire!”

  A black cloud of arrows hurtled across the narrow space that separated the Cahokians from the howling mob of Iroqua.

  “Fire!” came Akecheta’s distant call from much farther down the battle line. A second wave of arrows sped across the field.

  Marcellinus stepped back a dozen paces. Despite his almost overwhelming urge to kill Iroqua, the melee that was about to break was not for him. In his last major battle it had been different; in fighting with the Romans against Cahokia, his forces had been overwhelmed. Here he must keep a clear head and direct the battle as a commander should in the hope that at least some of his orders might be obeyed.

  Half a mile away in the flanks of his army, unrestrained by the cool discipline of the First Cahokian, the auxiliaries were rushing forward to meet the Iroqua charge. Hand-to-hand fighting had begun there, and the dust that they kicked up made it hard to see past them. But in the murk beyond the Cahokian line Marcellinus was sure he could see the shadowy forms of more Iroqua war parties moving eastward.

  The First Cahokian would be flanked after all, but whether the Iroqua would attack his forces from the side or run on past to spread death in the city, Marcellinus could not tell. That would have to wait.

  A dozen Catanwakuwa flew over him, some firing arrows into the Iroqua horde and others tossing pots of liquid flame to break up the charge. They looped back quickly—no pilot would risk coming to ground behind enemy lines and being carved into bloody meat a moment later—but behind them came another wave of Hawks. High above them all, four Catanwakuwa wheeled and fluttered, sending aerial intelligence down to the Hawk clan members who stood behind Marcellinus, ready to brief him on significant developments. If there was any time for that. At present, there was not.

  “Third rank, step forward. Second rank: set pila, fill in!”

  The line of men with spears stepped in front of their comrades. A wall of spears dropped into place in close order in front of the rushing Iroqua warriors, many of whom were now hurling spears of their own. Even at a run their aim was sure, and many a Cahokian fell, his place in the rank immediately taken by the man or woman behind. But their Roman breastplates and greaves had mostly kept them safe. So far, Cahokian losses were minimal.

  “Well,” said Marcellinus, startled. For the Iroqua were not attempting to engage the Cahokian spear wall. Instead, they swung away after flinging their spears and ran back to regroup.

  On the edges of his army, auxiliaries were going down. There the Iroqua front line was pushing back the Cahokians. The battle line was bending.

  “Merda.” His right flank was about to break. Marcellinus signaled to the message keepers behind him. They in turn signaled up to the Hawks wheeling in the air above, one of which broke off and streaked back toward Cahokia. And so the message was sent back: another Wakinyan assault—now—to the right.

  The first Thunderbird had reached the farthest extent of its run, off to the east of the battlefield. Marcellinus watched it turn, guessing it had enough height for only a short pass along the Iroqua battle line before it would have to steer back over Cahokian territory. Probably it would not make it even as far as Marcellinus. That would have to be good enough. Perhaps it could still sow enough confusion in the eastern Iroqua flank to Marcellinus’s left that the Cahokian auxiliaries could do something about the Iroqua who were now past them and racing into the city.

  “Second rank, arrows!”

  If the Iroqua would not engage his front line, then his second line should be peppering them with arrows—

  Marcellinus had almost looked away when it happened. The flutter of a bizarre movement pulled his eyes back.

  The first Thunderbird flipped upward as if it had suddenly transformed into a sparrow. It gave a shudder and skidded violently in the air. As its giant wings folded up altogether, it crashed to the ground.

  Time stood still. The deafening howls of the warriors of both sides dipped in shock.

  Something hard and fast flew toward Marcellinus, and he instinctively ducked. It slammed into a house fifty feet behind him. Wood, thatch, and soil exploded into the air, but there was no fire: this was a rock, pure and simple, a giant rock that bounced out of the wrecked house and rolled farther into the city.

  A rock that could only have been fired from an onager. Either the Iroqua had already captured a Cahokian throwing engine or they had built one of their own after the Cahokian model. But an onager could never have brought down a Wakinyan, especially from such a distance, and could not have been reloaded so quickly.

  Somewhere in front of Marcellinus was an Iroqua ballista as well, and unless the shot that had brought down the Wakinyan had been uncanny beginner’s luck, they could use it with devastating accuracy.

  Once again everything had changed.

  Where were they? Where were the Iroqua siege engines?

  Marcellinus faced the line of battle again. The Iroqua were falling into a more compact formation, their battle chant swelling. Far to Marcellinus’s left the Cahokian auxiliaries had broken and were fleeing into the city, pursued by Iroqua war bands. The shock of seeing the sacred Wakinyan tumble out of the sky had already taken its toll.

  The effect on the Hawks was equally dramatic. As one, they banked back toward the Cahokian line as if they, too, could be magically swatted out of the air. In front of Marcellinus, a shiver went through the First Cahokian.

  “Stand firm!” he cried. “Stand firm!” But the Iroqua chant was drowning him out.

  Another large rock smashed into the Cahokian line not forty yards to his right, bowling men like skittles.

  Damn! Whose side were the gods on today?

  Not Marcellinus’s, obviously. But perhaps that was understandable.

  He strode into the ranks of the First Cahokian, still shouting. “Stand firm! Arrows!”

  Too late. The massed Iroqua were charging.

  “Set spears! Set pila!”

  Training paid off. Few of his men could hear him, but the archers were stepping back anyway in an orderly fashion, to be replaced with the pila men. A forest of wood and steel again dropped down in front of the First Cahokian.

  This time, the charging Iroqua hit the wall.

  Some enemy warriors, unable to control their berserk run, spitted themselves on the Roman spears. Most, nimble and unencumbered with armor, swerved past the waiting spear points and swung their clubs and axes at the Cahokians behind.

  The Cahokians had steel on their side, in their discipline as well as their armor. The Iroqua had momentum, numbers, and a species of wild anger that Marcellinus had rarely witnessed. The Iroqua could have been the Huns or Magyars of years gone by. Their ferocity was daunting, and the Cahokian line had been dragged dangerously thin.

  “Cahokia!” Marcellinus stepped forward, his height and reach serving him well, and swung his gladius blade into the neck of a Seneca brave. Blood spurted, and the Seneca’s head lolled to one side. His ax flew into the air.

  A hand grasped Marcellinus’s shoulder, and he wheeled, almost lunging again with his gladius. But it was a Cahokian who held him, one of the men tasked with keeping his chariot nearby.

  “Back,” the warrior said. “You not fight.”

  “Back be damned!” Marcellinus threw off the warrior’s hand and strode behind the Cahokian ranks. The clamor of battle filled his ears. An Iroqua spear flew past his head.


  Not fight? Great Sun Man’s order, perhaps?

  Marcellinus could no longer see Akecheta and could no longer relay his commands along the battle line anyway. His centurion would be in the thick of it by now, as incapable of giving sensible orders as Marcellinus. The melee would play out without further direction.

  The second Thunderbird had reached the right flank of the Cahokian army, but battle there had been joined long since. The bird’s path seemed tentative to Marcellinus, not penetrating deeply enough into enemy lines. “Farther on!” he shouted at it ineffectually, but it was already retreating back over the Cahokian lines.

  On his left flank the Iroqua were still rolling up the Cahokians. The death toll among his auxiliaries must be horrific. The trickle of Iroqua surging past his line and into the city had turned into a flood. Marcellinus’s fear had been that they would curl around to attack his army from the rear, but clearly they had other intentions.

  A single bolt from a single siege engine had turned the tide of the battle against them. No further rocks came from the unseen onager, nothing from the Iroqua ballista.

  At least the Cahokian center was holding. The Haudenosaunee had not yet broken the First Cahokian. But his braves were going down right and left.

  From behind him, screams. He risked a glance back over his shoulder—his honor guard was looking, too—and saw a Cahokian woman being dragged by her hair by a man in the headdress of a Mohawk, not fifty yards away. And through the dust and the smoke Marcellinus saw more figures beyond the Mohawk, running through the streets of Cahokia. Great gods, they were still at battle on two fronts and the Iroqua were already sacking the city …

  The warriors Great Sun Man had left behind to guard the Great Mound, Wahchintonka’s men, would not come out to protect the people. They would stay at the palisade of the mound, as they had been ordered.

  To Marcellinus’s left the Cahokian auxiliaries were in rout, but by some miracle the Cahokians on the right flank had apparently overcome their Iroqua foes, for now they ran in to lend aid against the central Iroqua. Marcellinus could not fathom it. The Iroqua forces had seemed so much denser at that end of the battle line. But a moment later he saw the reason: those right-flank Iroqua had disengaged and were running back toward the trees, firing arrows back over their shoulders.

  Not a miracle, then, but a strategy. This was no retreat. The auxiliaries now whooping and pounding into the fray in front of him had not defeated their section of the enemy. This was a planned withdrawal; the Haudenosaunee were ducking away, perhaps called off to fight to the west, where oily clouds still drifted across from the Mizipi.

  Marcellinus would not let them all escape. “Forward! March and slay! Hold your line!”

  In front of him the arriving Cahokians had turned the tide of battle, and the Iroqua were in genuine trouble. Marcellinus marched his men forward with pilum and sword while the archers in the third rank fired over their heads at the retreating Iroqua.

  “Don’t chase after them! No run! No run!”

  Because that was obviously what the Iroqua wanted: to break the line, have the Cahokians storm after them to mop up, then turn and fight under much more equal terms. Marcellinus would not fall for that, and for the most part his men kept discipline.

  Hawks whizzed by overhead. Marcellinus wiped sweat off his face. Was he missing anything? He wasn’t. Many men were still locked in hand-to-hand combat, but by and large the action had broken here with startling swiftness.

  And as with so many military engagements, it was impossible to tell who had won. In terms of sheer slaughter the edge had to lie with the Cahokians as a result of that first strafing run of liquid flame and their massed fusillades of arrows. But tactically, Marcellinus had a sour feeling that this part of the battle had gone as the Iroqua had planned and that whatever was happening even now to the west was of greater significance.

  For all the signaling between the Hawks in the air and the men behind him, Marcellinus had not received a single piece of useful intelligence. Turning on them, he read their expressions in an instant. “Well? What the hell’s going on?”

  Eyes brimming with fear, they told him.

  “Giant canoes on Mizipi. Another Iroqua army, three times this one. A battle. There too, the Iroqua throw stones and big arrows from throwing engines.”

  Marcellinus tried to control his breathing. “Big arrows” confirmed that the Iroqua had ballistas as well as the onager that had thrown the rocks so close to him. But: “Giant canoes?”

  “Like houses that float on water. With broad walls. Ten, perhaps twelve, breathing fire. More fires behind them.”

  That made no sense. “Speak plainly. What are like houses? The canoes?”

  The other warrior was still reading the hand-talk from the latest Catanwakuwa to fly in above them. “Great Sun Man sends his words. You must go to the Mizipi, Wanageeska. We must take you.”

  Giant canoes? More mighty stone-hurling engines? Marcellinus’s mind whirled.

  A hundred yards away Akecheta had reappeared and was already reforming the men into lines, glancing his way.

  Somewhere in front of them, just a few hundred feet away, were at least two Iroqua throwing engines. It would be impossible for the Iroqua to carry them away at a run. They would have to either defend or abandon them. Marcellinus would rather capture them now than have them firing on Cahokians again later. He made three large, terse warrior-talk signals and pointed, and Akecheta nodded.

  His centurion had this in hand. Marcellinus stepped up to the war cart. “All right, take me there. Get me to the Mizipi!”

  The war cart rocked and bounced across the streets of Cahokia. Two more warriors ran alongside the chariot, each carrying a spear in one hand and an ax in the other.

  They passed a hut with its thatch ablaze; outside it, two Onida warriors hacked down a Cahokian. Marcellinus nocked an arrow and sent it into the heart of one of the Iroqua. The other yanked the Cahokian’s body around to provide a living shield, his flint knife already hewing at the screaming man’s forehead. Marcellinus’s second arrow flew wide. The Iroqua grinned him a toothy smile as the cart rushed by.

  “Go back!” Marcellinus shouted, but his warrior escort surged on grimly. In their wake, the Cahokian perished.

  Fires were burning. Men and women ran in all directions. Chaos and panic had claimed the city. It was the same chilling scene that Marcellinus had experienced six hours earlier, except better lit.

  Ahead of them a hundred Iroqua attacked the Master Mound, firing arrows at the defenders and shooting upward rather optimistically at the steady succession of Hawks that were being launched from behind it.

  They swung around the mound to the right, bringing them under the covering fire of the Cahokian force, and ran through a gauntlet of Cahokian braves to the small protected side gate in the palisade.

  Even as they bounced and bumped into the sanctum, the right wheel of the war cart twisted and locked in place. The chariot skidded and fell onto its right side, dumping Marcellinus out onto the ground.

  He stood, legs shaking, just as the three warriors who had pulled the cart dropped to their hands and knees. They had run full out for three miles, towing him behind them.

  Two men of the Hawk clan hurried to Marcellinus’s side and pushed him forward. “What? No, wait …”

  Again nobody paid him any heed. They hustled Marcellinus toward an Eagle, where another man and woman grabbed him and strapped him in under the right wing.

  Terror threatened to consume him. Marcellinus had never flown an Eagle; they were still only half tested. Dangling under a Thunderbird as one of twelve crew members, even one of six or eight, he could do little damage. But aboard one of the much smaller Eagles, however much he tried to help the pilot, any error he made might bring the craft crashing down to the ground.

  And besides, the Eagles were not fixed-wing craft like the Thunderbirds. They launched furled, like the Hawks.

  But he could have escaped his fate only by doing g
rievous bodily harm to his fellow pilots, and it was too late now. The man lifted the woman into place while she fastened her own straps, and a warrior of the ground crew did the same for the man. The ground crewman did a quick check of all three of them and then shoved hard to send them over backward. The Eagle wing curled up around them, blocking out the light …

  “Merda!” Things were moving much too quickly.

  He forced himself to think. The woman was the lead pilot, and Marcellinus was under the right wing. So when the Eagle unfurled and when—if—the three of them managed to stabilize the thing, their next action would be an immediate right bank to take them west toward the Mizipi. That meant he would have to push his bar gently but steadily to the left …

  Was the Sky Lantern still aloft? Which way was the wind blowing now? Where would its cable be? “Shit.”

  Unseen hands hoisted the Eagle. Marcellinus fought to breathe. The Eagle should be stable enough as long as he kept his wits about him … but perhaps it was a mercy that he could not see anything right now.

  It felt like a mule had kicked him in the small of the back. His gut dropped away. They were falling free, airborne in an instant. The ball that was the Eagle rolled lightly in the air. Marcellinus heard himself wailing aloud and clamped down on his throat.

  He was about to throw up. After that, he had no idea what would happen.

  The wings unfurled. He dangled in space a thousand feet above Cahokia. The woman in the lead-pilot position let out a war whoop.

  The Eagle’s wings spread and locked. The craft swung level. A few inches in front of Marcellinus’s chest was a wooden bar. He quickly followed the movements of his copilots, easing the bar to the left and shifting his weight. The wing billowed, and the Eagle jolted and slid sideways in the air. Too much?

  No, just enough. The lead pilot straightened up, and Marcellinus did the same.

  He could not tell whether the hissing rush in his ears was the air flowing past or the blood pounding in his head. His heart was beating too fast. He exhaled and tried to relax. After all, the idea of the Eagle, a craft midsize between the solo Hawk and the massive Thunderbird, had been his. He had only himself to blame.