King David's Spaceship (codominion)

by Jerry Pournelle

  On the night before the army was to go forth, MacKinnie held another conference. He looked intently at his officers seated at the thick wooden table in front of him, and nodded in satisfaction.

  “Mr. MacLean, what of my infantry?”

  “Better than when we went out last, Trader. They’ve seen the way it’s done now, and Stark sweated them until they’re hardened up. Not like veteran troops, but they’ll hold. Doubling the rations didn’t hurt any.”

  “That was the Trader’s doing,” Mary Graham said. “He found someone who could be bribed at the warehouse.”

  MacKinnie shook his head. “Stark again, though I thought of it. I’ve never seen a commissary yet that didn’t have a couple of people on the take in it.”

  “I hope there are none in mine,” Mary said indignantly.

  “There are, lady, there are,” Stark interjected. “Just hope their price is high and they’re scared enough of you not to fill up the grain wagons with sand. It’s been done to campaigns before.”

  “And your knights, Vanjynk?” MacKinnie asked.

  “They drill well, they wheel to the trumpets, but they still do not like turning from the battle. Nor do I, but I see it must be done.” Vanjynk lifted his cup and gulped the wine. “You fight strangely on your world, star man.”

  “Lay off that talk,” Stark muttered. “We have enough trouble with the Temple people without that.”

  MacKinnie nodded. “Hal’s right. But tell me, will the knights obey the trumpets?”

  “I believe so,” Brett answered. “They have little wish to be killed by barbarians. But there is no fear of death in these men, only of dishonor.”

  “Aye, so Brett made a song about foolish knights who abandoned their commander and were shamed forever,” MacLean said. “Silly thing, but catchy. Seems to have helped.”

  “If songs help, sing your lungs out,” MacKinnie told them. “The key to this whole battle is getting the heavy cavalry to bear on the barbarians while they’re bunched up. Nothing on this world can stand up to a charge from those armored ironheads, but as soon as they lose their momentum and scatter, the maris can pick them off with no trouble at all.” He turned to Mary Graham. “Do you have all the supplies we ordered?”

  She nodded. “We’ve made thousands of bolts for the crossbows, and the grain wagons are ready. You don’t really have very many provisions, you know.”

  “I know. You’re rolling plenty of empty wagons, though. Either we find something to put in them, or we’ll come back home for more supplies. This formation’s slow enough without heavy transport gear in the square.”

  “Then we’re ready,” Mary Graham said.

  “Not you. You aren’t going,” MacKinnie told her.

  “Yes I am. It’s no safer in here than out there. If your battle is lost, the city is lost as well and you know it.” She looked around the room at the other men from her world. “I have a right to his protection, and I choose that he exercise it personally. Don’t I have that right?”

  “An interesting point,” Longway said. “You cannot abandon her without finding a substitute guardian,” the Academician told MacKinnie. “And doubtless she is entitled to someone of her own world. Who will you leave with her? Scholar Kleinst remains in the city, but for all his great value he is hardly a suitable guardian.”

  “I appear to be outmaneuvered, although why you should want to accompany an army in the field is beyond me, freelady.” MacKinnie looked at her expectantly.

  “I see no reason to stay here,” she told him. “There are few enough on this godforsaken place that I can talk to, without being left with the Temple monks. Besides, I can be useful, or can you spare anyone else to manage your commissary?”

  “The point is made.” Well made, he thought. She’s been nearly as useful as Hal. No one else could have organized the logistics half as well as she has. But—

  He turned back to the council. “Our whole purpose in this expedition will be to either force the plainsmen into battle on our terms, or destroy their base of supply. Either will be sufficient, although I doubt they will let us simply march out and burn their harvests without a fight…” He indicated the map spread out on the table. “As far as we can tell from watching their movements, they’ve been harvesting the crops for the past three weeks. The nearest big concentration of grain is here, about thirty kilometers from the gates, assuming they use the roads and village structures. I rather think they will. From what I’ve been able to learn they often do that. We’ll make straight for that and burn what we can’t load up.”

  “Then what?” MacLean asked.

  “We see if they’ll fight. If they won’t, we keep marching from place to place until they’re short of rations. But they’ll fight, all right.”

  “You may get more battle than you expect,” Longway said. “You’ve hurt their pride and your last expedition, and they’ll want to prove it was an accident. Next time, they’ll press home their charge with everything they have.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for,” MacKinnie answered slowly. “It will take them time to gather for the battle, and more to decide who leads it. By that time, we should have got to our objective and set up camp. They’ll gather troops all night, and probably try to wipe us out in the morning.”

  “Then you’re trying for one big battle,” Mary said.

  “Yes. One turn of the wheel, freelady. We haven’t a lot of time.” He glanced significantly at the Makassarians at the table, then stood to dismiss the meeting. “Rest well, and be ready tomorrow. They may not let us get to the first village.”

  * * *

  The army formed outside the city walls after first light. MacKinnie placed his men in a triangular formation again, but this time the broad base of the wedge faced forward, its point to the rear. He doubled the men on the right leg of the wedge, using all the left-handed troops he could find for the forward elements of that line, and placing a large reserve force at the rear point. When he was satisfied with his arrangements, the drums beat the slow march, and the army moved forward.

  Clouds of maris rode madly around, darting toward them, withdrawing, waiting for any opening in the shield walls, patient in the knowledge that the city army could never pursue them. The slow cadence continued, wagon wheels creaked and men shouted at the oxen drawing supply wagons, while the knights in the center impatiently led their mounts. Kilometer after kilometer they marched toward the enemy camp, as more and more barbarians joined the forces riding around them. They were completely surrounded.

  “Reckon the city can hold with what we’ve left them?” Stark asked, looking back at the city in the distance. “You didn’t leave them much.”

  “They’ll hold,” MacKinnie replied. “The enemy has no heavy siege equipment, and as long as the walls are manned the barbarians can’t do much. Give them enough time and they could throw up ladders or even stack their saddles against the walls, but the defense can slow that down, and I don’t intend to give them any time for stunts like that. We seem to be attracting most of them to us, anyway. What’s Sumbavu doing?”

  “He’s riding with the knights, Colonel. Keeping an eye on those pretty uniformed swordsmen and archers, too. He doesn’t trust you much.”

  “I don’t blame him, Hal. I wouldn’t trust me much either if I were him. But what else can he do? Keep a sharp eye on him; I can’t have him interfering.”

  “Yes, sir. You didn’t make much protest about his coming.”

  “Maybe I didn’t mind him coming. Now watch him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The march continued, drawing to within a kilometer of the enemy tents. MacKinnie looked closely at the cluster of enemy in front of him. “They’re trying to make up their minds. They don’t want to give up all that grain without a fight. Watch that group there,” he said, pointing. “Here they come! Beat the alarm!”

  The drums thundered, then went back to their steady pace. The column continued to advance until the enemy was within bow-shot. “Pre
pare for attack,” MacKinnie said quietly, measuring the distance to the nearest of the plainsmen. “Form the wall.” The drums beat again, and the Temple archers rushed to the perimeter, firing into the packed enemy. The charge hurtled toward the broad front of the wedge, then wheeled around to strike the left end of the line. Pikemen rushed to the corner as echelon after echelon of the enemy plunged against the left leg of the inverted wedge.

  The shield wall held. A few of the barbarians leaped over the first rank to land among the pikemen, their shortswords slashing, but Temple guardsmen moved forward to cut them down. The battle was short, and when it was finished hundreds more of the enemy lay in front of the column. The men raised a cheer, cut short by the drummers’ commands to resume the march.

  “Not much of a battle,” Stark commented. “Thought they’d try more than that.”

  “Testing us out,” MacKinnie said. “They’ve found a way to get a few men into our lines now. They’ll try that one again. Adaptable beggars.”

  “They have to be,” Brett said from behind him. MacKinnie turned to see the singer walking patiently. “I left my mount with Vanjynk,” Brett said. “You understand that there will be many more battles, each different from the last?”

  “I understand. But how many more there will be depends on more than their intentions. For now, we take their supplies.”

  The enemy camp was deserted. They had carried away their tents, but they had left huge piles of harvested grain. The grain piles had recently been covered with hides, but now the food was left to blow about in the wind. They had also fouled some of the harvest with excrement. Graham’s commissary workers began the tedious task of bagging and loading the harvest.

  The scattered refuse of weeks of enemy life lay about them; there were also signs of what had happened to villagers unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the maris. Stark sent burial details to dispose of them.

  Father Sumbavu examined the remains of a young girl. “Monsters,” he said. “Not human at all. They deserve extermination.”

  “We will hardly be able to do that,” MacKinnie said. “But we may yet surprise them. Your pardon, Father, I must see to our defenses.”

  Ditch, ramparts, and palisade rose around the campsite while the commissary workers began cookfires. A dozen singers strolled about. MacKinnie moved through the camp, speaking to little groups of men, encouraging them, testing their morale. It was hard to believe that only months before these had been the sullen slaves and beggars of the streets of Batav. Now they roared lustily at his jokes, shouted defiance at an enemy they could not see, and grimly held their weapons as if half afraid someone would take them. MacKinnie pitied anyone foolish enough to try.

  The night was a turmoil. When both moons were high and bright, masses of barbarians stormed forward, some mounted, most on foot, probing to find a weak spot in the perimeter, constantly attacking to keep the men aroused, withdrawing from opposition but coming again and again. MacKinnie sent small detachments of his troops to the center of the camp, replacing them with others, so that each man was able to rest for part of the night. Toward dawn the attacks died away, and he let the men sleep until late in the morning. The Temple swordsmen had borne the brunt of the night attacks, and were most in need of rest. MacKinnie did not call them to breakfast until everyone else had been fed.

  A mass of barbarians formed a kilometer from the camp. They were strung out in a vast semicircle between

  MacKinnie’s army and the city, and MacKinnie had never seen so large a group of plainsmen before. Stark joined him as he stood atop the commissary wagon for a better view of the enemy.

  “This going to be it, Colonel? “the big sergeant asked.

  “Possibly. Let’s see if we can get out of this camp. They figure to hit us as soon as there are enough outside the gates to make it worthwhile.” MacKinnie shouted orders, formed the men into ranks, then motioned to a trumpeter. The notes rang out, calling his officers to him. Moments later, the main gate opened.

  MacKinnie sent a heavy detachment of shieldsmen angling forward and to the left from the camp gate. A second group angled off to the right, while others marched out to form a line between them, its ends anchored with the hard-marching groups of picked men. When the left-hand group had left a large enough opening inside the wedge, the knights were sent forward until they were just behind the shield wall, at the extreme left corner of the inverted wedge the army was forming. Then MacKinnie sent the Temple archers forward, a line down each leg of his triangular formation, leaving none in the center. Whenever the maris approached the two legs of the formation, a shower of arrows greeted them, forcing them away. The enemy clustered around, moving toward the center where the resistance was least.

  MacKinnie nodded in satisfaction. “Now comes the hard part,” he muttered.

  A charge of the barbarians struck the center of the triangle directly in front of the camp gates. The shield wall held, but gradually fell back, stretching thinner and thinner, bowing inwardly toward the gate as the heavier formations at the ends of the line held fast. More troops were sent forward to fill the gaps, keeping a continuous line, but still the enemy pressed forward, forcing them back, back, as more of the maris joined the attack. The formation bowed still more, resembling an enormous “U” with its base almost at the palisade. Hundreds, a thousand, four thousand barbarians pressed forward toward the camp gates.

  “Now!” MacKinnie shouted. The trumpet notes sounded above the shouts of battle, drums thundered. The knights formed inside their bastion; then, as the formation opened, they charged down the wing, rolling up the flank of the enemy. The shield wall quickly closed behind them; then the ends of the U drew together. Archers faced inward now, firing into the ranks of the enemy, while the heavy cavalrymen thundered over the barbarians, riding them down, breaking up all signs of organization until they rode directly into the camp gate.

  MacKinnie signaled frantically to Brett. “Form them up again and be ready to protect the outer flanks!” he shouted. “The archers and spearmen can deal with the one we’ve trapped.”

  The field in front of the gate was covered with blood. Barbarians pressed closer and closer together as the shield wall, bristling with pikes, closed in on them. Temple archers continued the rain of arrows into the helpless enemy, too crowded together even to use their weapons properly, the inner group not able to strike a blow. A few raced frantically out the end of the trap before the heavy knots of men MacKinnie had sent out first made contact with each other and closed all avenues of escape.

  The remaining enemy outside the trap attempted to aid their fellows, to be stopped by shieldsmen facing outward slowly moving back as the inner lines moved forward. Concentrations of the enemy were broken up by charges of cavalry, the knights thundering over them and around the ends, wheeling back to enter the camp and regroup, while the Temple swordsmen defended the ramparts of the camp itself. The huge mass of doomed men in the trap could have broken through the thinner lines of the camp, or even the outer defenses of the trap, but they could not escape to fight, while the smaller numbers remaining outside were unable to help them, frantically falling upon the spears of the shield wall or trampled beneath the knights while their luckless fellows were relentlessly cut down.

  The slaughter continued until midafternoon. At the end, hapless groups of the enemy threw themselves on the spears or clawed their way up the ramparts to be impaled by the swordsmen at the top, screaming desperately, their courage melted by the faceless mass of swords and the rain of arrows. As the pikemen passed over the dead, camp followers slit each throat and removed the arrows, passing them back to be fired again. Captive beasts were led through the lines into the camp to be tethered with the commissary oxen. The lines came closer together, closer, then touched. There were no more enemies in the trap.

  * * *

  “What do you propose for tomorrow?” Sumbavu asked the council clustered around MacKinnie’s campfire. “You have left thousands dead on the field, more cut down
in flight by our knights. We can return to the city.”

  “No.” MacKinnie stood, a cup of wine in his hands. “Until their supply base is destroyed, there is no safety for the city. We must continue to burn their grain.”

  “It is not their grain, but ours!” Sumbavu snapped. “You cannot burn this great harvest. It must be carried back to the city. Surely this march can be delayed for a time to allow us to provision the Temple! The faithful are hungry, and they should be told of this great victory.”

  “You forget, there are many more of the enemy than we have killed,” MacKinnie reminded the priest. “And we must not give them time to rest. We must pursue them endlessly until they go back to their wastelands in fear.”

  “I forbid this,” Sumbavu said quietly. “We must take these stores of grain to the city. You will not burn them.”

  “Then I suggest you take them yourself, Your Worship,” MacKinnie told him. “Now that we have thinned their ranks, I believe we can do without the Temple swordsmen. I will need some of the wagons to transport grain for the army, but you may have half of them, and three hundred of the camp servants as well. It is only thirty kilometers; each can carry half a hundredweight of grain. That will leave little to burn.”

  “So be it. We set forth immediately.”

  “At night, Your Worship?” MacKinnie asked. “Is that wise?”

  “Wiser than being caught by them in the daytime. I see that you will not escort me with your army, though it would involve only a day’s march. I will so report to the council.”

  “Two days’ march, Father,” MacKinnie said quietly. “One each way. Not to mention the disorganization as each man ran in to tell his fellows of the glorious victory. We would lose many days, and for what? If the enemy is to be driven from the city, it must be done now.”