Just like Senlac. And Harold Godwinsson led an army of militia from Wessex too, and the Norman commander was named William. God, I know You’re an ironist, but isn’t this going a bit far?
“Enemy breakthrough,” she snapped to Hendriksson. “We’re going to contain it.” Or so I hope. “Follow me.”
The Americans formed up smoothly, moving off at the double-quick. Ahead of them was a growing roar.
“Ask me for anything but time,” Walker quoted angrily to himself, then took his temper in an iron grip.
“No, father and lord,” he said to Daurthunnicar. “You must stay here with the last of the reserves. I and my handfast men will strike the enemy from the rear, and then they will give way. You must strike then, to push them into rout-when they start to run, to flee in terror, then we can slaughter until our arms grow tired. But it must be at the right time.”
Daurthunnicar hesitated, shirting in his chariot. The framework creaked; he’d put on a good deal of weight over the last six months. “Honor is with the foremost,” he protested. “How can men obey me as high rahax if my spear is not red and my ax is still bright?”
Oh, fucking Jesus Christ on a skateboard. “Honor is in victory, father and lord,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “When all men see your banner sweeping the enemy into flight, honor will be yours.”
After a long moment the Iraiina chieftain shifted his eyes, not convinced, but giving way to his son-in-law’s superior mana. “I hear your word. Go and take the victory, chieftain who shares my blood.”
“All right,” Walker muttered, raising a hand in salute. “Let’s go.”
His eyes were fixed to the north. Right on target. That Shaumsrix. is a smart cookie. Pretend to run away, take ‘em when they got scattered in pursuit, then follow up with a nice brisk attack of your own-the Iraiina had caught on to the idea like it was a religious revelation. Just two things were needed to turn it into the battle-winner it deserved to be.
He turned in the saddle to look at his men. They were gripping their weapons and leaning forward, their longing eyes trained on the great heaving scrimmage up along the crest of the ridge.
“Listen up!” The helmeted faces turned to him. “We’re going there-” he pointed northwest-“and we’re going to kill them all. Limber up those guns, and keep in good order-any man who breaks ranks, dies like a dog. This is the ax blow that will decide this fight, and I mean to hit hard and straight.”
They cheered him, roaring out his name. “Cheer after the victory, not before. Let’s go!”
He led off, keeping the horse to a fast walk; the men behind him were on foot, and no matter how fit you were, you started puffing and blowing pretty fast if you tried to run in armor. No use at all getting there with the men too exhausted to fight. The field guns rumbled along behind him, and he grinned at the sound, looking down at a map drawn on deerhide with charcoal held across the horn of his saddle. Most of Alston’s army was sheltering on or just behind this long ridge, with a broad smooth stretch of open country just beyond. If he could get the cannon setup there at the north end of the Fiernan line, they’d have enfilade fire right down the whole enemy force. Alston wouldn’t have any choice-she’d have to come to him. All the men would have to do would be to guard the guns, and when the enemy rushed them��� well, that was why God and William Walker had invented grapeshot.
The ground ahead was littered with wounded, and he was only a couple of hundred yards from the rear of the Sun People’s array as he hurried toward the right flank. Most of the injured here had arrows in them; they were lying and crying for water or help or crawling slowly back toward the host’s lines. A few of them tried to grab at the boots of Walker’s band as they passed, and were kicked aside. Eastward was a long dry valley, filled with scrub and second growth; they’d trampled paths through it that morning, marching to the battleground.
I’ll really have to organize some sort of medical corps someday, he thought. It was wasteful to allow useful fighting men to die unnecessarily. His own band had a horse-drawn ambulance to take their wounded back to Hong.
He bent his head again over the leather map. Just as he did so something went through the air where his head had been, with a flat vicious whiplike crack.
Walker’s men stopped and milled in puzzlement as their leader’s uptime reflexes threw him out of the saddle and flat on the ground. He peered through the nervously moving legs of the quarterhorse and saw a puff of smoke from a clump of bushes two hundred yards away.
“There!” he roared, pointing. “Kill him! There, you fools!”
He scrambled upright, gripping at the reins to keep the horse between him and the unseen sniper, reaching over the saddle to grope for the Garand in its saddle scabbard. “Keep still, Bastard,” he hissed, but the stallion was rolling its eyes and laying back its ears, spooked by the smell of blood and the noise.
A second later there was another crack, this time accompanied by a ptank and a tremendous sideways leap-surge of the horse; that knocked Walker flat, still gripping the reins as Bastard reared. An ironshod hoof came down on his shoulder, and he shouted at the hard sharp pain as a thousand pounds of weight shifted for a second onto the thin metal protecting muscle and bone��� and yielding to the weight. He hammered his right fist into the horse’s leg and scrambled upright again, sick and dizzy with the waves of cold agony washing outward from the wound. All he could do for a moment was cling gasping to the saddle; when he tried for the weapon again his fingers found a splash of still-hot lead across the receiver, and crushed parts below that.
Anxious hands gripped him. “They’ve caught the evil one, lord-are you all right?”
He moved his left arm, snarling at the sudden streaking fire. “You��� grab my arm. Ohotolarix, hold me steady. Get ready. Pull.”
They were all familiar with putting a dislocated shoulder back in action. Walker clenched his teeth; you couldn’t show pain with this gang if you wanted to keep their respect, at least not something this minor. Minor. Jesus Christ. By the time he could move the arm again, two of his troopers were dragging up a third limp figure. One covered in a net cloak, the cloak stuck all over with twigs and bunches of grass.
“Here, lord,” one of the men said. He held up a rifle. “This evil one had a death-magic, but weak compared to yours.” The little finger of his left hand was missing, the stump bound with a leather thong. “All it made was a big noise and this small hurt, and we speared this one like a salmon in spawning season.”
“Let me have it,” Walker said tightly, examining the action. Oh, that’s clever. Westley-Richards, but in flintlock. Good thing you couldn’t make more of these.
He took the satchel of paper cartridges and the horn of priming powder and slung them over his own shoulder. The landscape went gray for a second. God, I’m not that badly hurt��� oh. A glance upward showed thickening cloud sliding in from the west, and a welcome coolness in the breeze.
“Let’s get going,” he said. Ohotolarix made a stirrup of his hands to help him into the saddle; the left arm was mobile, but it would be weeks before it was first-rate again. “Now! Go, go, go!”
“Halt!” Alston shouted. The false retreat had caught the Fiernan left well and truly, and they looked thoroughly smashed. “Fall in beside us! You’ll just die if you run!”
Swindapa joined in, but it was probably the sight of the ordered American ranks that stopped the fugitives. Many fell in on either side of the Americans, readying bows and spears or snatching up rocks from the ground, gasping as they tried to recover their breath.
Alston looked left and right. The ridge was sharper here to the east, the country flat and open to the west. They’ll come straight down, try to hit us in the rear. The ground to her right was too steep for easy footing, far too steep for a chariot-chances were they’d avoid it.
“Open order,” she said, heeling her horse a dozen paces to the left. She looked upward; it was typical English weather, utterly unpredictable. Right n
ow it looked as if it might rain soon. Just what we need. Damp bowstrings.
The first chariot came around the east-trending bend of the ridge just behind the hoof-thunder and axle-squeal herald of its passage, horses galloping with their heads down. She was close enough to see the goggle-eyed look of surprise on the driver and warrior-chief, just before Hendriksson snapped an order and a spray of crossbow bolts hit the two horses. They went down as if their forelegs had been cut out from under them, and the pole that ran between them dug into the dirt and flipped the chariot forward like a giant frying pan. Driver and warrior flew screaming through the air to land with bone-shattering thumps. Behind the chariot came panting a group of fighters on foot; they sensibly took one look and pelted back around the curve.
“Here’s where it gets hands-on,” Alston said grimly, swinging her leg over the horse’s neck and sliding to the ground with a clatter of armor.
“I’m glad I’m with you, Marian,” Swindapa said, dismounting and handing the banner to the color party.
Alston touched her shoulder for an instant. “Me too, ‘dapa.” Their eyes met. But I’d rather we were both back home, lying in front of the fire and making love. The thought passed without need for words.
She reached over her left shoulder and drew the katana, drawing a deep breath and then letting it out slowly, pushing worry and confusion with it, letting the first three-deep file of the reserve company trot past her.
“Runner,” she said calmly. “Message to Commander Rapczewicz. I need some archers here, and backup on my left; also a catapult. Lieutenant Commander Hendriksson, we’ll advance at marching pace from here. You have tactical command.”
The high ground swung away to her right. This time the enemy came in mass, two hundred of them at least. They all seemed to have iron weapons, though; quite a few had helmets, and there was a scattering of the chain-mail suits. The chiefs dismounted from their chariots, sending them to the rear-that was one of their standard tactics, and it meant they were planning on a serious fight. For a moment men milled around their lords, shaking their weapons and shouting. A couple of the iron-suited leaders drew their swords and threw the sheaths away; if that meant what she thought it did���
The cowhorn trumpets blatted, and the mass of kilted clansmen howled and began to trot forward, their yelps rising into a screaming chorus as they broke into a headlong rush.
“Company��� halt,” Hendriksson barked. “Spears��� down.” The points came into line, the crossbows spread out like wings on either side, pointing a little forward as if they were the mouth of a funnel.
“First rank.. .fire.”
WHUNG.
“Reload! Second rank.. .fire.”
WHUNG.
The steady sleet of bolts shook the easterners’ charge, but it couldn’t stop it. Alston could see the set contorted faces of the clansmen, a glare of exaltation like the homicidal equivalent of a Holy Roller’s trance. She spared a glance for the Nantucket troops; faces set and hard, teeth clenched between the covering cheekguards, tiny shifts as they braced themselves for the impact.
WHUNG. WHUNG. WHUNG.
A sleet of flung spears and axes came in the last second. Americans went down, still or kicking, and their comrades closed ranks over them; metal rattled off metal with a discordant clatter. A long slithering rasp went on either side as the crossbowmen slung their weapons, swung their bucklers around, and drew the short swords at their right hips with a snapping flex of the wrist. They feel sound, she thought. Something down in the gut told her; some intangible border had been crossed, in the months of marching and skirmishing and drilling. These were veterans now.
So am I, I suppose, she thought with mild surprise. Which doesn’t mean we can’t get wiped out.
“Fair fights are for suckers,” she muttered. Circumstances seemed to have forced her into one. “This way!” she said aloud, moving off to the left where the barbarians might overlap the American line.
That put her and the dozen in the color guard party behind the left-flank crossbows-fighting at close quarters, now. She saw an American sink his gladius into a tribesman’s belly with the short upward gutting stroke he’d been taught, then stagger back as a tomahawk slammed into the side of his helmet. A relief from the second rank stepped forward into the hole, stooping and slamming the edge of her shield into the ax-man’s foot while he was off-balance and then into the side of his head as he bent in uncontrollable reflex.
“Give ‘em the Ginsu!” she shouted, crouching and taking her place in line. The half-stunned American fell into the second rank shaking his head and wobbling a bit as he recovered from the blow.
“Here’s our part of the job,” Alston said as they came to the end of the line.
A man in a mail hauberk was leading a dozen warriors at the vulnerable end of the ranks, where two Americans were fighting back to back. He yelled frustration as the dozen swords of the color guard swung into place and blocked him.
Beside her Alston heard Swindapa gasp. “Shaumsrix!” she screamed.
That’s a name-an Iraiina name-wait a minute, wasn’t that the one who she said-
“Remember me, Shaumsrix!” the Fiernan girl shrieked.
The Iraiina turned, rattlesnake-swift. His spear lanced out. Swindapa’s katana was in jodan no kame, up and to the right. It snapped downward, slashing through the tough ashwood just behind the iron wire that bound the shaft for a foot behind the head. The metal spun and tinkled away; his shield boomed under her second stroke.
“Remember me, Shaumsrix! Remember the Earther girl!”
“Oh, hell, ‘dapa-forward! Forward!”
Shaumsrix was staggering back on his heels as the katana blurred at him, backed by a cold, bitter rage. Alston moved by the girl’s side, let a knee relax as an ax flashed by to bury itself in the turf, took the wielder’s arm off just below the elbow, whipped the long sword up to knock aside a spear. The Iraiina chief had recovered his balance and unshipped his ax, a copy in steel of the old charioteer’s weapon. His sworn men closed in on either side, meeting the Americans of the color guard shield to shield.
Alston lunged one-handed, using the katana like a saber. The man on the end of the point hadn’t been expecting that, and he ran right into it. The blade sank in, then stuck in bone. The warrior folded around it, and someone stabbed at her from behind him. She ignored it, ducking her head, and the spearpoint slid from the helmet as she put a boot on the man’s body and pushed. The layer-forged steel sliced through a rib and came free; the sprattling corpse tripped the spearman behind.
She ignored him as well, as he struggled to regain his balance. Instead she let her right knee go slack and turned as she went down, striking hard and level and drawing the cut. It slashed through the tough leather binding around the Iraiina chieftain’s left calf. Fair fights are for suckers, especially if you’re a woman, she thought, and brought her sword up to guard position just in time to deflect another ax. The impact jarred through her wrists, but beside her Swindapa screamed again:
“Remember!” and lunged two-handed past the chieftain’s falling guard. The point jammed into the bone of his face. She ripped it free, and he fell to his hands and knees, helmet rolling free. The next stroke went across his neck.
Wailing, the fallen man’s followers cast themselves on the American points, and died, while Alston and her companion stood guarding each other. She saw sanity seep back into the Pieman’s eyes.
Thack. A spearman fell backward, his face a red mass. Alston’s head swiveled. Fiernans were running along the ridge to the east, nimble on the steep turf. One of the first was a slinger; he waved his leather thong over his head at her, and then reached into his pouch for another round. More archers and slingers came behind him, moving forward and shooting over the Americans’ heads, into the growing mass of easterner warriors jammed against their line. Alston could feel the pressure on that line waver as the shafts and lead bullets whistled into them. Spear-armed Fiernans were trotting up as
well, fanning out on the open flank of the Nantucketer force.
Alston spat to clear her mouth of gummy saliva and reached for her canteen. The motion froze as she recognized the banner behind the enemy mass. Walker. Walker, and his special goon squad, marching in step and in line. And behind them, the cannon.
“Christ,” she whispered. We can’t run. They’d be all over us like flies on cowshit. And if they stood���
Even at a hundred yards’ distance, the muzzles of the cannon looked big enough to swallow her head as the crews unhitched them and wheeled them around.
William Walker laughed, despite the nagging ache in his shoulder. “Oh, how surprised you must be, Skipper,” he chuckled. “What a sad end to the day. How fucking tragic. Christ, this feels even better than I thought it would!”
He turned to his men, hand around the stock of the rifle, letting it fall across his shoulder. “We’ll move off to the right, away from the ridge,” he said. “When they break, we’ll move in and take a new place for the guns. And get those fools ahead of us out of the way!”
The gun crews were busy, grunting with effort as they rammed the grapeshot down the barrels of the bronze fieldpieces. His men were drawing off to one side with him, except for the ones he’d sent forward to get the tribal levy out of the way-it was tempting to just fire anyway, but that would be really bad politics. He chuckled again at the thought.
It was never easy to get the Sun People fighting men to give way, but they’d all acquired a healthy superstitious dread of gunpowder weapons. A minute, and they were backing away from the American line; then they turned and ran, to get out of crossbow range as fast as they could. The Nantucketers didn’t fire, although the growing mass of Fiernan archers and whatnot up on the slope to his left did. The retreating warriors halted behind the guns, panting and glaring. Walker called one of the chiefs over.
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