The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  The thought had hardly crossed his mind when the portcullises began to rise. They did not move smoothly; one, indeed, warped by the heat of the burning wall, stuck in its track with its spiked lower edge about four feet off the ground. That did not keep hundreds of armed Halogai from ducking under it as they filed out of Pliskavos. More of the big blond warriors came through other gates.

  “They don’t look like men about to yield,” Mammianos said.

  “No, they don’t,” Krispos agreed glumly. The leading ranks of Halogai carried big shields that protected them almost from head to foot. Behind that shield wall—almost a palisade in itself—the rest of the northerners began to deploy. Krispos swore. “If we had all our men in place, we could break them before they got set up themselves.” He scowled at the Halogai. “By the good god, let’s hit them anyway. With us mounted, we can choose when and where the attack goes in.”

  “Aye, Majesty.” Mammianos opened his mouth to shout orders, then stopped, staring in amazement at one of the gates where the portcullis had gone all the way up.

  Krispos followed his gaze. He started, too. A company of Halogai on horseback was coming out. “I didn’t think any of them were riders,” he said.

  “I didn’t, either.” Mammianos made a noise half cough, half chuckle. “By the look of them, they aren’t too sure themselves.”

  The Halogai were on Kubrati ponies, the only sort of horses they could have found inside Pliskavos. Some of the blond warriors so outmatched their mounts in size that their feet almost brushed the ground. They brandished swords and axes as they formed a ragged line. From his own experience in the courtyard of the High Temple, Krispos knew a foot soldier’s axe was no proper weapon for a cavalryman.

  “They do try to learn new things, don’t they?” Mammianos said in a thoughtful tone. “That makes them more dangerous, or rather dangerous in a different sort of way, than, say, the Makuraners, who do what they do very well, but always in the same old way.”

  “If they want to learn, let’s see that they pay for their first lesson.” Krispos turned to a courier. “Order Bagradas to send one of his companies out into the ground between our army and the barbarians. We’ll find out what sort of riders they are.” The courier grinned nastily as he hurried away.

  Bagradas’ troopers, a band of archers and lancers about equal in numbers to the mounted Halogai, rode into the no-man’s-land. There they stopped and waited. After a moment the Halogai understood the challenge. They yelled and spurred their horses toward the imperials.

  The Videssians also raised a shout. They urged their horses forward, too. The archers used their knees to control their mounts as they let fly again and again. A couple of Halogai fell from the saddle. More ponies were wounded and went bounding out of the fight, beyond the ability of their inexperienced riders to control.

  But the archers could account for only so many of their foes before the two companies came together. Then it was the lancers’ turn. Their long spears gave them far greater reach than the northerners. They spitted Halogai out of the saddle without getting close enough for their foes to strike back. The imperials had also mastered the art of fighting as a unit rather than man by man. The Halogai fought that way afoot, but had never practiced it on horseback. As Krispos had been sure they would, they paid dearly for instruction.

  Finally, however brave they were, the Halogai could bear no more. They wheeled their horses and fled for the protection of their comrades on foot. The imperials pursued. The archers accounted for several more men before they and their comrades turned about and rode back to their own lines. The Videssians cheered thunderously. The Halogai, with nothing to cheer about, advanced on the imperial army in grim silence.

  “They must be getting desperate, to challenge us mounted when they can barely stay on their horses,” Mammianos observed.

  “Our cavalry’s beaten them again and again, first south of the mountains and now up here,” Krispos answered. “If they are desperate, we’ve made them that way. And now, remember, they don’t have Harvas to help them anymore.” I hope they don’t, he added to himself.

  “Aye, that’s so.” Mammianos cocked his head to one side. “From what I hear, we have the lady Tanilis and you to thank for it, Your Majesty.”

  “Give the lady the credit,” Krispos said firmly. “If it had just been me, you’d be looking for a new Emperor right now, or more likely in too much trouble to worry about finding one.”

  Companies of horse archers cantered forward to pour arrows into the oncoming Halogai. They could not miss such a bunched target, but did less damage than Krispos had hoped. The first ranks of northerners had those head-to-foot shields; the men behind them raised their round wooden bucklers high to turn aside the shafts. Some got through, but not enough. Inexorable as the tide, the Halogai tramped forward.

  The Videssian archers withdrew into the protection of their line. The musicians sounded the charge. Lancers couched spears, dug spurs into horses’ flanks. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, they rumbled toward the Halogai.

  “This isn’t going to be pretty,” Mammianos shouted over the thunder of hoofbeats.

  “So long as it works,” Krispos shouted back. The two lines collided then. Videssian horsemen spitted northerners, using their mounts to bowl over and ride down others. Unlike the cavalry fight, they did not have it all their own way, not for a moment. At close quarters, the axes of the Halogai hewed down men and horses alike; those big, swift strokes bit through mail shirts to hack flesh and split bones.

  The battle line did not move twenty yards forward or back for some time. Halogai pressed forward as their comrades were killed. They blunted charge after charge by fresh troops of lancers. Each side dragged its wounded to safety as best it could. Dead horses and soldiers hindered the living from reaching one another to slay some more.

  Shouts of alarm rose from the far right as the northerners, borrowing from the Videssian book, tried to slide round the imperial army’s flank. After a few tense minutes, a messenger reported to Krispos. “We’ve held ’em, Majesty, looks like. A good many bowmen had to pull out their sabers before we managed it, though.”

  “That’s why they carry them,” Krispos answered.

  The imperials shouted his name over and over. They also had another cry, one calculated to unnerve the Halogai. “Where’s Harvas Black-Robe?” The northerners were not using the wizard’s name as their war cry. When they shouted, they most often called the name Svenkel.

  Krispos learned soon enough who Svenkel was. An enormous Haloga, tall even for that big breed, swung an axe that would have impressed the imperial headsman. No one came within its length of him and lived. After he felled a Videssian with a stroke that caved in the luckless fellow’s chest, all the northerners who saw cried out his name. He had presence as well as strength and warrior’s skill: before he went back to battle, he waved to show he heard the cheers.

  “Shall we send one of our champions against him?” Mammianos asked.

  “Why risk a champion?” Krispos said. “Enough arrows will take care of him. Give the archers word to shoot at him till he goes down.”

  “That’s not sporting,” Mammianos said with a laugh, “but it’s the right way to go about war. Let’s just see how long Svenkel the hero lasts.”

  But along with being a warrior bold even by Haloga standards, Svenkel the hero was far from a fool. When three or four arrows in quick succession pincushioned his shield and another glanced off his helm, he knew he was a marked man. Instead of drawing back among his comrades, as most might have done, he led a wedge of northerners into the center of the imperial line against his countrymen who warded Krispos. They were axemen like himself; when they tried to slay him, he could strike back.

  The imperial guards had seen hard fighting in all the clashes since the campaign began south of Imbros. The Halogai who were hale still fought as fiercely as ever, but their ranks had been thinned. Svenkel’s wedge punched deep. If it broke through, it would cut t
he imperial army in half.

  Krispos drew his saber. He looked at Mammianos. The fat general also had his sword out. He shrugged. “Ah, well, Your Majesty, sometimes we have to be sporting, whether we want to or not.”

  “So we do.” Krispos raised his voice and cried, “Videssos!” He spurred Progress toward the sagging line of guardsmen. Mammianos rode with him. So did the couriers who had congregated around them.

  By then, only a handful of Halogai in imperial service stood in Svenkel’s way. He must have seen victory just ahead. His mouth flew open in a great snarl when horsemen rode up to aid the guards. Then he realized who led the makeshift band. In Videssian, he shouted to Krispos: “Leader to leader, then!”

  It didn’t quite work that way; war was too chaotic a business to conform to anyone’s expectations, even a hero’s. Krispos got into the battle a few feet to Svenkel’s right, against a Haloga almost as big as the northern chieftain. The fellow swung up his axe to chop at Progress. Before he could, Krispos slashed at his face. He missed, but made the Haloga shift his weight backward so his own stroke fell short. Krispos slashed again. This time he felt his blade bite. The Haloga howled and reeled away, clutching a forearm gashed to the bone.

  Seeing Krispos in the fight made his surviving guardsmen redouble their efforts. Svenkel’s men still battled for all they were worth, but could push forward no farther. The guards threw themselves at Svenkel, one after another. One after another he beat them back. His strokes never faltered; he might have been a siege engine himself, powered by twisted cords rather than flesh and sinew.

  As the guardsmen sought to cut down Svenkel, so his warriors went for Krispos. Krispos fought desperately, trying for nothing more than staying alive. He knew he was no great master of the soldier’s art and was very glad when Geirrod came up to stand by Progress’ right flank and help him beat back the foe.

  Step by step, some of Svenkel’s men began to give ground. Others, stubborn with the peculiar Haloga stubbornness, preferred dying where they stood to falling back. Die they did, one after another, along with the imperial guardsmen and Videssian troopers they slew before they went down.

  There at the forefront of the fighting, what scholarly chroniclers would later call a line hardly deserved such a dignified name. It was more like knots of grunting, cursing, sweating, bleeding men all entangled with one another. Krispos struck and struck and struck—and knew most of his strokes were useless, either because they clove only air or because they rebounded from mail. He did not much mind; no one in that crush could have hoped to do better.

  Then he saw a Haloga close by swing up an axe to chop at one of the guardsmen. He lashed out with his saber. It cut deep into the northerner’s wrist. The axe flew from his hand. The Haloga bellowed in pain and whirled around.

  Krispos was startled to see it was Svenkel. Svenkel looked startled, too, but was neither too startled nor too badly hurt to raise his shield before Krispos could cut at him again. But that did not save him for long. Geirrod’s axe bit into the shield, once, twice…on the third blow, the round slab of wood split in two. Geirrod struck once more. Blood sprayed. Svenkel’s armor clattered as he fell.

  The imperials raised a great cheer. The Halogai still fought ferociously, but something at last went out of them with their chieftain’s death. Now the fighters in the wedge that had been his drew back more quickly. As they did so, Geirrod turned to Krispos and said, “Out of the line for you now, Majesty. You did what was needful; we’ll go on from here.”

  Krispos was not sorry to obey. He’d never been an eager warrior. He’d also learned that the Emperor, like any other high-ranking officer, usually was more useful directing the fighting than caught in the thick of it.

  He looked round for Mammianos and was relieved to see the general had also got out of the press. But Mammianos had not come through unscathed; he bared his teeth in a grimace of pain as he awkwardly tried to tie a strip of cloth around his right forearm. The cloth was soaked with red.

  “Here, let me help you,” Krispos said, sheathing his saber. “I have two free hands.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. Aye, get it good and tight. There, that should do it.” The fat general shook his head. “I’m lucky it’s not a bloody stump, I suppose. Been too long since I last tried trading handstrokes.”

  “What was it you said? Sometimes we have to be sporting? But trooper’s not your proper trade anymore.”

  “Too right it isn’t. And a good thing, else I’d long since be dead.” Mammianos grimaced. “As is, this arm’s the only thing that’s killing me.”

  Shouts rang out, far off at the end of the imperial army’s left wing. Krispos and Mammianos both stared in that direction. For the moment, that was all they could do—their couriers were still battling to drive back Svenkel’s men. Some of the shouts were full of excitement, others of dismay. From several hundred yards off, Krispos could not tell which came from the Halogai, which from the imperials.

  He kept his neck craned leftward, fearing above all else to see the Videssians driven back in rout. He saw no soldiers fleeing on horseback, which he took as a good sign. All the same, he fidgeted atop Progress for the next several minutes, until at last a rider came galloping his way from the left.

  The horseman’s grin told him most of what he needed to know before the fellow began to speak. “Majesty, we’ve flanked them! Sarkis got his scouts round their right and now we’re rolling ’em up.”

  “The good god be praised,” Krispos said. “That’s what I most wanted to hear. Go back there and tell all the officers on that wing to pour as many men after Sarkis as they can spare without thinning their line too much.”

  “Majesty, they’re already doing it,” the messenger said.

  “They’re good soldiers, most of them,” Mammianos put in. The rider’s news banished pain from his face. “A good soldier doesn’t wait for orders when he sees a chance like that. He just ups and grabs it.”

  “It’s all right with me,” Krispos said. His grin stretched wider than the one the messenger was wearing. “In fact, it’s better than all right.”

  Faster even than he’d dared hope, the Haloga right came to pieces. The northerners faced a cruel dilemma. If they turned at bay and formed an embattled circle, nothing would keep the Videssians from simply riding into Pliskavos. But if they fell back toward the gates, they risked fresh breakthroughs as the imperials probed flimsy, makeshift lines.

  Some turned at bay, some fell back. The Videssians did break through, repeatedly, forcing more and more Halogai to make the unpalatable choice. Sarkis could easily have seized Pliskavos. Instead, with even deadlier instinct, he urged his men—and the other imperials in their wake—all around the rear of the Haloga army. Krispos traced their progress by the panic-filled yells that rose first from the northerners’ shattered right, then the center, and then their left—the imperial right. A few minutes later, the imperials on the right yelled, too, in triumph.

  “By the lord with the great and good mind, they’re in the sack,” Mammianos said. “Now we slaughter them.” He did not sound as if he took any great joy in the prospect, merely as if it was a job that needed doing. The imperial headsman plied his trade in that matter-of-fact, deadly fashion.

  The Videssian army went about its business the same way, methodically using bows, lances, and sabers against the northerners. As Mammianos had said, it was a slaughter. Then all the Halogai suddenly turned round and rushed against the Videssians who stood between them and Pliskavos. That part of the imperial line remained thinner than the rest. Shouting wildly, the northerners hacked their way through.

  “After them!” Krispos yelled. Quite without orders, the musicians played Charge. They were soldiers, too, and out to grab the chance.

  The Videssians surged forward in pursuit of their fleeing foes. Here and there a Haloga stood and fought. Those who did were beset by several men at once and quickly fell. Many more were cut down or speared from behind. And more than one, rather than dyin
g at the imperials’ hands or doffing his helm in token of surrender, plunged a sword into his own belly or a knife between his ribs. The way the northerners so deliberately killed themselves chilled Krispos.

  “Why do they do that?” he asked Geirrod.

  “We Halogai, we think that if a man be slain by an enemy, he serves him in the world to come,” the guardsman answered. “Some of us, we would liefer live free after we die, if you take my meaning, Majesty.”

  “I suppose I do.” Krispos sketched the sun-sign over his heart. He wished the Halogai could be persuaded to follow Phos. Every so often zealous priests went to preach the good god’s doctrines in Halogaland. If they were fearless men, the northerners generally let them live. But they won few converts; the Halogai stubbornly clung to their false gods.

  Such reflections ran through his mind and then were gone, lost in the chase. Now he wished Sarkis had sent men to secure Pliskavos’ gates. A few Videssians made for them, but the rush of Halogai overwhelmed the riders. The big blond men streamed into the town. More turned at bay, to give their comrades the chance to save themselves.

  Krispos swore. “If we had ladders ready, we could storm the place. It would fall at the first rush.”

  “Aye, likely so, Your Majesty,” Mammianos said, “but ladders aren’t of much use in a pitched battle, which is what we were set to fight. This isn’t one of those minstrels’ romances, where the bold hero always thinks of everything ahead of time. If it were, I wouldn’t have this.” He held up his bandaged arm.

  The imperials charged again and again at the Haloga rear guards. Then some of the northerners gained the walls of Pliskavos and began shooting at their foes and pelting them with stones. Under the cover of that barrage, most of the Halogai managed to withdraw into the city. Portcullises slammed down in the Videssians’ faces.

  Only when the fighting finally died away did Krispos notice how far toward the east his shadow stretched. The sun was nearly set. He looked over the battlefield and shook his head in wonder. Softly he said, “How many Halogai are down!”