by Alan Smale
He realized that there was, after all, a shape to the Mongol formation. They were flying over the leading edge of an immense curve. The forces of the Khan were arranged in a loose circle. Within that circle, a massive but meandering group of Mongol horsemen formed a vanguard. Marcellinus’s Thunderbird had already flown over the front of the left wing of the Mongol army, and far in the distance he could see the right. Interspersed between the groups of horsemen were foot soldiers, perhaps their Hesperian allies.
Somewhere in the center of this group would be the Keshiks, the thousand-strong personal guard of Chinggis Khan. But they were still too far away to be seen.
His fellow Wakinyan pilots had fallen silent. The wind soughed gently in the sinews and spars of the craft. For several minutes they had flown straight, taking in the scale of the army beneath. Only now did Marcellinus realize with a shock how much easier it had become to distinguish individual horses and riders. They were only, what, a couple of thousand feet above the army?
“Enough,” he said. “We should go back. Chenoa?”
In a low tone, Chenoa gave the orders. The Thunderbird made a series of gentle turns in the air as she rode the complex breezes to sustain their altitude, and they turned east to ride the waves of air back toward the Roman lines.
None of the other pilots seemed concerned that they might lose too much height and be forced to land close to the Mongol army. Just a little earlier Marcellinus had felt safe, insulated from danger by thousands of feet of altitude. Now he felt incredibly vulnerable. What if they suffered a piloting error, a shift in the tension of the thin skins that made up the wing or the sinews that kept it taut? What if the winds changed? Marcellinus wanted to be away from here, back on the ground, surrounded by the allied forces of Roma and Nova Hesperia.
And then the reason his instinct for danger had clicked in became apparent. With shocking speed, Sintikala’s Hawk shot past them and curved upward, waggling her wings.
“Firebird,” Taianita said calmly. “Two. Back left.”
The frame of the Thunderbird jerked. Chenoa glanced at Marcellinus in irritation, although he was sure it had not been his fault; his hands were loose around the control bar. “Sorry,” Luyu said.
Two Mongol Firebirds were arcing up behind them at a speed that seemed impossible, side by side, still gaining height. Marcellinus could not see the light hempen cables that pulled them skyward, but he could certainly see the horses on the ground that were towing them aloft: two groups of a dozen horsemen riding in a close four-by-three formation. A lane opened up in front of them as other horsemen and Hesperian warriors moved aside.
Chenoa snapped orders. Marcellinus obeyed instinctively as she tightened the angle of the Thunderbird against the air, pointing the nose slightly downward, and then felt another jolt of alarm. Chenoa was putting the Wakinyan Seven into a shallow dive to increase its speed, but surely that would diminish the amount of time the bird could stay in the air…
Kimimela flew by, far above them and to the right. Marcellinus was relieved to see that she was leaving the area, streaking east. Either the wind currents at her altitude were stronger or his daughter was somehow fueled by terror.
The Mongol Firebirds were already a thousand feet higher than their Wakinyan and still gaining altitude. The squad of horsemen towing them aloft was slowing. “Cables dropped,” Demothi said, although Marcellinus could not see them falling back to earth.
Luyu’s pots of Hesperian liquid flame and her bow and arrow would be of use only against targets on the ground. They were powerless to protect them from the Firebirds.
“Something else launching,” Taianita said. Some remote part of Marcellinus’s brain admired her calm even as he looked back. Two other squads of horsemen were advancing at speed, this time much larger than twelve cavalrymen each. The nearer squad was at a canter, the farther one overhauling them at a full gallop, and as the two groups met, the nearer squad dropped away, its horses blown.
“Handoff,” said Demothi.
Was that possible? Could the two Mongol groups really have passed something between them?
Yes. A cable. And now they could see the aerial craft that cable was hauling up from the ground.
They were looking at a new type of winged vehicle, one they had never seen before, several times longer than the Firebirds.
The larger Thunderbirds of Cahokia were twelve men wide. This craft looked as if it were a dozen men long, as if four Firebirds had been attached in a row, equipped with larger wings, and thrown aloft. It rippled sinuously, writhing into the skies, and its provenance was clear in its coloration of red, gold, and green.
“Damn,” Marcellinus said.
A flash came from high in the sky ahead of them, then another and a third. “And what’s that?”
“Kimimela signals Roma,” Taianita said. “Summoning help for us.”
“Good.” Because, gods knew, they needed it.
The Firebirds were above and behind them now. The new snakelike aerial craft was gaining speed and height so rapidly that it was overtaking the Mongol squad that hauled it aloft.
It was much closer now, and the way it undulated combined with Marcellinus’s fear to make him nauseous. Its resemblance to the feathered serpent of Yokot’an Maya iconography was obvious. Its lead pilot was wearing a gray mask and a bright feathered headdress.
This new creation looked and breathed Maya. They were being attacked by a flying craft of the People of the Sun, a craft they had not even known existed.
“Options?” Marcellinus said.
Chenoa ignored him. She was peering to the left and right of them with a look of absorbed distraction.
“Fly away fast,” Demothi said. “No other choice. Now hush, Wanageeska.”
They were passing over the front line of Chinggis’s army, but with yet another pulse of fear Marcellinus saw that several squads of skirmishers were trotting out ahead of it, following the Thunderbird’s direction. Right now the Wakinyan was outpacing them, but for how long?
“Left, follow me,” Chenoa said. Marcellinus and the others noted the position of her hands and smoothly followed her motions. The right wingtip tilted up sharply as they caught some invisible air current that only Chenoa could see. “Woo,” said Luyu, whose stomach must have just dropped away from her. And then, “Oh…”
“Shit!” Marcellinus shouted.
A Mongol Firebird swooped by just thirty feet away. Arrows whistled past Marcellinus’s face, and the Wakinyan lurched as something heavy thumped into the wing just above Demothi. He and Chenoa both jerked to shove the craft back onto its original bearing. The rest of the pilots held steady.
From the other side came the Hawk of Sintikala, streaking from left to right a hundred feet higher. She, too, was shooting arrows, although Marcellinus was too busy to see if any hit the Firebird.
They were now out in front of the army of Chinggis Khan, and once again Marcellinus could not tell how high above the ground they were. He would just have to trust Chenoa and Demothi.
The Feathered Serpent craft writhed, two hundred feet above them but dropping toward them at an alarming rate. Eight men flew it, tugging on cords rather than control bars but lying supine just as the crew of the Thunderbird lay beneath their own craft. Interspersed between those eight hung four other warriors, men whose sole job appeared to be to hurl missiles at the Wakinyan.
These missiles came thick and fast now: small rocks mostly, sent on their way by slings. At first they flew safely past the Thunderbird. Then, as the Serpent loomed closer and matched the Thunderbird’s speed, the rocks bounced off the taut material of its wing, each sending a sickening quiver through the craft.
Then one of the missiles exploded with the crack of the Jin black powder that was becoming ever more familiar.
They have our range! Marcellinus wanted to shout to his fellow pilots, but he would just be stating the obvious, and they all had their hands full.
From their right came another Firebird. For a few
gut-clenching moments it looked as if it would deliberately smash into their Wakinyan, but at the last moment it looped away and dropped below them.
The Firebird had been trying to drive Sintikala away, but she was too nimble. Now she swooped up beneath the Serpent. She loosed an arrow, and it smacked squarely into the chest of the Serpent’s lead pilot.
The warrior recoiled but did not scream or release his hold on the steering cords. The arrow had lodged in his armor but failed to pierce it. Nonetheless his violent motion sent the whole Serpent rippling to the right as his fellow pilots had to match his course or face disaster.
The Thunderbird wallowed in the air. Marcellinus risked a look back. They were well in front of the Mongol army, which had not changed its pace from a slow amble. He had no idea where the skirmishers were.
Beneath them another pot of Jin salt erupted into flame. Taianita screamed, a sound that she quickly cut off. Like Luyu she murmured, “Sorry,” and shook her head.
The two Firebirds were losing height. Perhaps they were not as sleek as the Cahokian Hawks or their pilots were not as skilled, but apparently they could not use the unseen air currents to claw back altitude in the way Sintikala and Chenoa often did, and that even Kimimela sometimes could achieve.
“Here she comes,” said Luyu, as if she had heard Marcellinus’s thoughts.
Sure enough, Kimimela was approaching again from the east, just a few hundred feet above the ground. She could not remain airborne much longer. Why had she come back? What was she playing at? Marcellinus’s stomach lurched.
Above them, Sintikala and the Feathered Serpent continued their deadly duel. Marcellinus could not easily see what was going on past the Thunderbird wing, but he was sure that Sintikala’s agile harassment of the Maya craft was all that was saving the Thunderbird from being blown out of the air. The crewmen of the Serpent were still hurling their pots of black powder on what must be suicidally short fuses, but timing the explosions accurately enough to set fire to the Thunderbird would be difficult with Sintikala disrupting their aim.
An arrow came through the deerskin of the wing. Marcellinus barely saw the arrow itself, but he heard the whoosh of its passing, heard the cry of the man beside him, saw the bright tear that suddenly opened up in the wing. The rip lengthened. “Chenoa?”
“I see it,” she said. “Prepare—”
An explosion came directly above them. Flame scattered across the deerskin wing.
“Dive, dive!” Chenoa shouted.
Marcellinus swung his head to look downward so quickly that he pulled a muscle in his neck. He could see small bushes below them now, a stream. The ground was still maybe five hundred feet below them, but the other pilots had pulled their control bars into their chests, and the Thunderbird was dropping out of the sky.
A stream of Roman invective poured from his mouth. He could not help it.
“Gods, shut up!” Taianita shouted.
“Feet,” Demothi said laconically. “Gaius? Feet.”
The wing was burning. The ground was coming up fast. Belatedly, Marcellinus kicked free of the retaining bar that his ankles had rested on and swung in his harness, his boots now pointing to the prairie grass beneath them. “Futete…”
He heard Kimimela scream from close by, and then Chenoa’s voice cut through it: “Push. Now pull. Push!”
The nose of the Thunderbird came up. Burning splinters were falling onto Marcellinus’s neck now.
“Legs up-up-up!” For the first time on this whole flight, Chenoa was screaming.
Marcellinus was almost too late in bending his knees up and away from the impact and forcing himself to relax and not brace. The craft was dangerously unbalanced now. The Thunderbird’s nose flipped upward into the air, throwing them all forward, and the wing crumpled. Marcellinus swung up and found himself looking at sky, and then his feet slammed into the ground and the rest of the burning craft collapsed onto him.
The earth seemed to be moving under him, and he felt a strong desire to vomit. His fingers were fumbling at the straps even as he heard a snapping crack next to his head. Luyu and the male Wakinyan pilot whose name he didn’t know were breaking him free from the wreckage of the Thunderbird. Marcellinus staggered forward on wobbly legs, brushing chunks of flaming wood from his neck and shoulders.
“Now run,” Chenoa said.
He started running without even knowing why, following the others but quickly falling behind. Taianita glanced back, shook her head in frustration, and slowed to wait for him. “Mongols, Wanageeska! Come!”
Indeed. Still half a mile away but coming on at a fast trot were the Mongol skirmishers.
Jove…Suddenly, Marcellinus found himself capable of running much faster. The tallgrass of the prairie tugged at his boots, trying to trip him.
He glimpsed movement ahead of him and risked a glance up. A few hundred yards away a Cahokian Hawk landed untidily. Kimimela. Damn it.
A pot bounced on the ground to his left and exploded with a bright flash and a crack. He glanced up in time to see the ripple of the Feathered Serpent as it curved in the air above his head. Shit. He swerved left and then right to make himself a harder target, and arrows thwacked into the ground around him. They were shooting at him specifically, he realized; none of the others running through the prairie around him were coming under fire. Did the Mongols somehow know who he was? Come on, gods. Give me a break here.
He sucked air into his aching lungs, but it was quickly becoming hopeless. He looked up again just in time to see Sintikala shoot two arrows into the Serpent from above. The first missed, but the second passed right through the Serpent’s feathered wing, and he heard a satisfying scream of pain as the arrow found its mark.
Too low, the Serpent was already swinging back toward the Mongol line. But the horses of the skirmishers were closer. Shit and shit again.
“More right! That way!” They had reached Kimimela, who was bouncing on the balls of her feet in frustration. “No, follow me.” She set off at a fleet run but had to slow down immediately; even Chenoa and Luyu were panting now.
Sintikala flew over them, waggling her wings. On foot ahead of them, Kimimela adjusted her direction to follow the course her mother indicated. At long last, Marcellinus allowed himself to feel some hope.
For yes, here came the cavalry. Galloping directly toward them across the tall grass were the horsemen of the Chernye Klobuki, the elite light cavalry of the western Asian steppe. Their harnesses jangled and some of them still used their whips, but once they caught sight of the running fugitives, they slowed to a trot. The first turma passed them and took up position between them and the approaching Mongol cavalrymen. The second curved out to the left at a canter, either seeing an enemy in that direction or threatening to flank the skirmishers.
The third Chernye turma trotted up to them. Thank the gods, they had brought spare horses.
Sintikala landed next to them, unstrapped her wing in two quick urgent movements, and ran to join them. “You came back?” she demanded of Kimimela. “Stupid, stupid!”
“You landed!” Kimimela shot back. “Stupid?”
Sintikala looked exasperated. “I ran out of air.”
“And I knew you’d stay and fight until you did. Was I going to leave you both out here? No!”
Wearily, Marcellinus pulled himself onto the nearest horse. It eyed him balefully, as if wondering whether to bite him. “Ladies. Can’t this wait?”
“I’m with you.” Kimimela took his arm and pulled herself up behind him rather than take a horse of her own. She had been on horseback only a few times before and clearly did not relish it now, especially not with one of the spirited and dangerous Chernye mounts. Still shaking her head angrily, Sintikala also mounted a horse. With varying degrees of agility and assurance, the remaining Wakinyan crew members climbed aboard mounts.
The decurion snapped out orders. Behind them the first and second turmae of the Chernye Klobuki merged and began to charge, nocking arrows. Beyond them and just a
few hundred yards distant, perhaps fifty Mongol horsemen approached in a broad line. Once they achieved a full gallop, the front of the column curved to the left. The Chernye warriors braced themselves half out of the saddle in caracole formation and began to loose arrows in an attempt to hold the Mongols back. Marcellinus took stock. “Cahokians, we have to move. Chenoa?”
Reluctantly, Chenoa stepped into a stirrup and dragged herself aboard a horse. The horse resisted her, tossing its head, but its master leaned forward to knock his whip against its ears in warning. Despite her unfamiliarity with the four-legs, Chenoa maintained her tone of command. “Wakinyan crew? With me. Ride.”
“Let’s go,” Marcellinus said to the impatient Chernye decurion. The nomad cavalry pulled their whips from their boots and leaned forward in the saddle. The Cahokians’ borrowed mounts high-stepped and snorted, ready for the race home. “Hold on very tightly,” Marcellinus added quickly to his crew. “This ride may be even scarier than the last.”
“So we shall not rule the air after all,” Decinius Sabinus said moodily. “Do the gods curse us?”
“Hush,” said Marcellinus, although the only other person within earshot was Enopay. “Treasonous talk is punishable by death.”
Sabinus stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “I meant that as wry humor,” Marcellinus said quickly. “Gods’ sakes, Quintus…I withdraw it.”
“Humor poorly placed, sir.” Shaking his head, Sabinus walked to the door of his Praetorium tent and frowned out over the camp.
It was dawn the next day, and Sabinus had been so critically busy the previous evening that he was only now hearing about the Feathered Serpents for the first time.
“We know nothing yet,” Enopay said. “Pretty snakes in the air? Can they carry anything beyond four archers apiece? Probably not. Our Thunderbirds can rain fire. Those Serpents sound awkward and ungainly; a single mistake by any pilot pulls them all aside. Our Thunderbirds are elegant. So their horses can pull their Firebirds into the sky? Surely our towers can throw our Hawks higher and faster.”