Horses screamed and thrashed on the stakes. Many a rider, thrown from an impaled horse, was himself impaled in falling. Those who made it to the ground safely and rose died by Altaii arrows.
The attack had degenerated into a milling mass, swirling at the bottom of the ridge. Volley upon volley we fired into it at point-blank range. Some of them tried to use their horse bows, but so fierce was our fire that not an arrow of theirs reached us.
In a twinkling they broke. One instant they were still trying to fight, to force a way through the stakes, and the next they were streaming back across a field strewn with their dead and dying. From the other ridges also, broken remnants of the attack flowed back to safety in the center of the valley. And all the way, until they were out of bowshot, our arrows pursued them. Salvation rests on the bow.
The Lantan officers rode up and down their lines, exhorting their men, rousing them to fever pitch. They would have to carry the attack now. The Morassa might be induced to charge again, but for the present they would have to carry the battle. Carry it they might. Even with the valley floor covered with Morassa dead, they outnumbered those of us who stood to face them by more than ten to one.
“Orne,” I called, “any sign?”
He grunted. I knew as well as he did that the signal we awaited hadn’t come. “They’re late,” he said.
“They’ll come. They’ll come.” I flexed the fingers of my right hand. With so much use the bowstring was cutting them.
“They’d better come soon, my lord. Almost half of our arrows are gone, and I doubt we’ll have a chance to recover even those at the foot of the slope.”
“They’ll come,” I repeated.
They’ll come. I wasn’t as sure of that, myself, as I had been. But then, they had to come. If the signal was never given we couldn’t hope to hold. But the wind was quickening. It whipped at our cloaks and rippled the grass that hadn’t been trampled in waves toward the entrance of the valley. Toward the entrance. An omen, perhaps. They would come.
In the valley the infantry was moving to the fore. The Lantan horse mingled with the Morassa in an attempt to stiffen them again. If their commanders had thrown off all of the frustration, if battle had cleared their heads, we could be in trouble.
If the infantry was concentrated against my formation in the center, and the horsemen were massed and set at my flanks, the open spaces between my warriors and those on the other ridges, they might succeed in isolating most of my men from the fight. Did it happen, the men with the horses had orders to move to the open areas and use their horse bows. And there were stakes there, also. But the horse bows hadn’t the power or range of the longbow. They’d force a way through the stakes eventually. We’d be forced to mount our horses to avoid being overrun. It wouldn’t be a defeat, but a great mass of Lantans and Morassa would still be at large, sweeping south. Would the signal never come?
The Lantan infantry split into three parts. I heaved a small sigh of relief. Mayra’s charm still worked. The desire to get at those who had eluded them still fogged their minds.
Each formation moved to face a ridge. Their death-walkers were out again, dancing and whirling the tundun. The thrumming noise was loud enough where I stood. Precisely, as if on a drill field, the formations divided, and again, until they were in squares of no more than a hundred men each.
Some thinking had gone on, although in a fog of anger and frustration. Units of that size would be easier to maneuver through the stakes. They expected losses, when the stakes made too many breaks in a shield wall, but they also expected to reach us this time.
Twenty thousand infantry stepped off toward us, the death-walkers prancing between the formations. At a command, each rank in every formation, excepting the front rank, lifted their shields overhead to form what they called the turtle. Every single shield flashed up at the same instant, as one. And they came on, their steps steady and measured.
With the turtle they’d taken away the plunging fire we’d used before. The falling arrows would strike the angled shields and be deflected. They’d march right up to us in safety under a roof of shields, these infantry.
The death-walkers danced more furiously. The tundun seemed solid blurs in the air. They danced the glory of our deaths, the glory of killing us. The shining disks that covered their shins were plain, now, and the fur bands they wore instead of helmets. I could even make out individual saratai feathers hanging from their wrists. They danced the joy of battle.
At two hundred paces I drew shaft to cheek. Along the ridge others did the same.
A rhythmic grunt of cadence could be heard, and the slap as twenty thousand sandals struck the ground on one beat. The death-walkers leaped high. They danced the drinking of our blood.
At one hundred paces my shaft joined two thousand others and more, and the Lantans learned that a Lantan shield could stop a longbow shaft at that distance no better than the Altaii shield on the post in front of my tent so long ago. Salvation rests on the bow.
As grass before the scythe the first rank fell, and those behind, their shields raised, exposed, were swept away as well by the flights that followed. In the space of moments, in the time it took to fire ten arrows as fast as they could be fired, the first row of formations ceased to exist.
The others continued their slow advance. Their steps never faltered or slowed. The death-walkers danced harder, leaped higher. They danced revenge for the blood we shed.
The second row of formations came, and at one hundred paces they died. As the last snow under the first rainfall, they melted away. Their bodies added to the pile stretching across the foot of the ridge.
In the third row, short of the hundred paces, all lowered their shields. They were too close to be affected by the plunging fire. With a cry they rushed to climb over the mound of bodies and close with us.
Their shields weren’t any harder, though, than those who’d come before. A shield, pinned to its bearer’s arm, dropped slightly, baring his throat, and he died. A man with an arrow growing out of his helmet’s eye slit fell back, and falling grabbed the shield of the man behind him, baring his chest to death. As the others had fallen, so these fell, and now the heaped bodies were so high that the last rank broke trying to scramble over them.
Our fire continued unabated, and suddenly the survivors of those under our bows broke. They washed back into the next line, breaking into formations, tearing open shield walls, carrying panic in their hands. The holes they opened made a way for our arrows, and the combination was more than the men could take. Their comrades fleeing, or our fire, either one they could’ve taken alone, but not together. They broke as the others had broken, and all fled back into the rest of the attack, breaking it in turn.
Our arrows pursued them as they ran. Many a Lantan, his shield thrown away so he could run faster, died with the sight of safety in his eyes and the breath of panic in his throat.
The field before us looked like a slaughterhouse built by a mad god. The tall grass was all trampled, held down by the bodies of men and horses. Had I desired such a thing, I could have walked nearly to the enemy on a carpet of flesh, never once touching the ground.
Lord Dunstan came to me, his cloak wrapped around him against the wind. “The arrows are almost all gone, Wulfgar. It was a grand plan, but we’ll not stop them again.”
“I know,” I sighed. “I’d hoped, Dunstan, that—” I studied the enemy and shook my head. Already the infantry, what was left of it, was beginning to re-form. And the Morassa had recovered enough to be arguing with the Lantan horsemen. “Three to our one still alive and unhurt. Perhaps four. It looks like we’ll have to face them, just the same. Dunstan, if you’ll—”
“My lord, the signal,” shouted Bartu, pointing.
Across the valley, from the crest near the opening out onto the Plain, an arrow rose into the sky, an arrow tipped with flame.
“Drummers,” I called, “the second signal. Orne, the prisoners. Quickly, for your lives.”
The wa
r flutes fell silent as the drums shifted from battle rhythm to a message. On the other ridges the Altaii there faded over the crest, and on mine all excepting myself, Orne and a hundred men. I stood, watching the entrance to the valley, as Orne and the others raced down through the stakes to begin searching among the bodies there. If they took too long I would have to call them to hide where they were.
The enemy appeared confused. To all appearances we’d been winning. Now we seemed to retreat. Their arguments grew fiercer. They were on the point of drawing weapons.
The men hunting among the dead hurried back up the ridge. Some now carried burdens, bodies slung over a shoulder or dragged between two men. They disappeared behind the crest, and I followed.
“How many?” I asked.
“Fourteen Lantans,” Orne replied. “Eleven Morassa. And all sound enough to survive the march south.”
We crept back up to look at the valley. Only the enemy was there. In some way their formation looked like a huddle of men on the edge of breaking completely.
Then, through the entrance to the valley sped riders, Altaii riders. Three, five, nine, a dozen. I breathed deeply and relaxed for the first time in a long time. All of them had made it. I’d not liked what I asked them to do, but they’d all returned, and that made it better.
The riders split, riding in two great arcs around the enemy force. They came on the run, slowing only to make their way through the stakes, and pounding over the ridge. They were young men, all men not so far from youth as to have forgotten how to do what they’d been asked to. When they rode in among us, the warriors raised a cheer, both mine and those from the other ridges, joining us on the backslope.
Some of the Lantan officers, curious as to where those young riders had come from, rode out to the valley entrance. Perhaps they thought that these were the first of our reinforcements. When they saw the reinforcements the riders had brought, their screams could be heard behind the ridge where we were.
Into the valley poured Runners. And more Runners. And still more Runners. Like the sands carried by the wind they came, an endless blue stream. As they sighted the Lantans and the Morassa their chants rose in pitch, the cadence increasing. Without stopping, or even slowing, they waded into the northern army that had come to found an empire. Their great clubs and war hammers swung, and the screams of our enemies were almost loud enough to drown their chants. In minutes the entire floor of the valley was a cauldron, seething with combat, and from this battle there would be no human survivors.
The Runners fear almost nothing that lives, but even so fanghorns fear less, and they’re harder to kill. For that reason the Runners don’t come north, where the fanghorn’s numbers are greatest, until the cold comes and the fanghorns are sleeping the winter away in their dens. Then they come in countless numbers. As the fanghorns seem to need the cold, so too do the Runners, but for what no one can say.
The young men who’d brought them had been sent for that purpose, but their task had been harder than simply running a pack of Runners. They had had to find as many Runner packs as they could, run each of them, maneuver them toward the valley, and yet, by using relays, keep them following in their tireless run until my message that we brought the enemy was relayed to them. If they’d cut it fine, I wouldn’t complain. The singers would make songs about them.
The lances were mounted and waiting. All ignored the sounds drifting over the ridge. I lifted my hand, and we rode away without looking back to the valley where our enemies were dying. This battle was past. There was another waiting in the south, and we might yet see defeat and death for our people.
XXIX
TO COME SO FAR
When we rode into Bohemund’s camp, no little bedraggled from a hard march, we were greeted with cheers and shouts. Women ran out to hold their children up to see us, and men waved banners. Boys ran alongside our horses, strutting as if they, too, were part of our force. Drums and flutes played to welcome us.
We weren’t far in before the mass greeting us had pressed in to merge with us. Garlands were hung from saddles, and girls tied flowers in the horses’ manes.
I was more interested in what I could learn from the camp. For one thing, it was farther north than I’d hoped it would be. The king must have had trouble in slowing the southern force of the enemy. For another thing, the camp was larger than I’d expected it to be. Much larger.
I managed at last to break away from the celebration and ride to King Bohemund’s tent. He was waiting when I swung from the saddle, him and Mayra.
“It’s good to see you, Wulfgar.”
“And you, also, my king.” I started to ask if there was news of Harald, then let the question die unasked. If news there was, he’d tell me. If not, I’d not prod his wounds.
“And me, Wulfgar?” asked Mayra. “Are you glad to see me?”
“You know I am. Why should I not be?”
“There are reasons.”
“Let’s discuss this inside,” said Bohemund. “Shout things to the wind and anyone may hear.”
Bohemund waited until his servants had brought us chairs and cups of wine, then sent them away. “What Mayra says is true, I suppose. It’s known. Soon it’ll be known to everyone.”
“What is known?” I asked.
Mayra studied the wine in her cup. Her hands wove a symbol in the air. There was nothing there, but I blinked for some reason, and behind my eyelids I could see the symbol glowing darkly, as an afterimage of fire. “Three times in less than a year, Wulfgar, you’ve been the nexus and the focus of powers that most males aren’t allowed close to once in a lifetime.”
“You think it might be dangerous? It doesn’t matter. If it’s needed, I’m not afraid.” I lied when I said it, and I think she knew I lied. A threat I could face I wouldn’t fear, but these unnamed powers were something else.
She sighed and leaned back. “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you, yes or no, but I don’t know. It’s affected you already. Whenever I cast the rune-bones for you now, the patterns are hard to read. There are strange things in them, portents that defy any interpretation I can think of.”
And Moidra had said she was the most powerful Sister of Wisdom among the Altaii, one of the most powerful in this part of the world. If she couldn’t interpret my rune-bones—I could see she wasn’t finished. “What else?” I asked hollowly.
“You’ve been affected physically, too,” she began slowly. “You don’t look any younger, but you move like a youth in the first flush of his adult manhood.”
It was how I’d felt when she and I faced Daiman and Betine below the Palace of the Twin Thrones.
“You’re stronger, too, or else you recover more quickly. The men who rode in with you look like they’ve fought hard and traveled the length of the Plain, riding hard all the way. A year ago you’d have looked the same. Right now you look as if the hardest thing you’ve done in the last tenday was tell Sara to bring more wine.”
“Those I can live with.” I laughed. “In fact, if that’s all there is, I recommend every warrior go through it.”
“And then there’s the matter of your eyes,” she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. She sounded troubled, more so than before. “They look the same, unless you stare into them. I noticed it first before you left Lanta, but it wasn’t until I became aware of the other things that I realized what it might mean. When I stare into those eyes it’s as if there’s something behind them, a tunnel stretching off into forever, a feeling of limitless space and endless time.”
“And what does all of that mean?” The hollow tone was back.
“You’ve become a link, Wulfgar, a connector between this world and powers beyond. I’m not saying you have any powers of your own,” she added quickly. “You’re not the first male to become a Sister of Wisdom, or would it be brother, but I’ve never heard of a male being such a link before. You’re going to be the focus of events, and not always events of your choosing or liking. You’ll be a catalyst, setting off things by your mere
presence, even if you do nothing.”
“Considering that, will it be safe for me to ride with the lances in the battle to come? Could my presence turn the tide against us in some way?”
Bohemund spoke before Mayra could. “If you’re stuffed with enough magic to draw lightning bolts at every step, I still want you with me. I’m beginning to think that, that Harald is dead, though Mayra says she can find no sign of it. But if they’ve taken the son of my blood from me, I still have the son of my raising.”
“And the son of your raising won’t bring defeat to the Altaii rather than stay away from battle,” I said gently. “And I swear to you, I’ll return the son of your blood to you or bring you the head of him who killed him.”
“Before you go any further,” Mayra broke in, “it will have no effect that I can find on the outcome of the battle. If you’re there or somewhere else, we still have small chance of winning.”
We sat in silence on that. There wasn’t anything to be said. Mayra looked tired, and Bohemund seemed resigned. If I looked the way I felt, I looked worse than either of them: To come so far and through so much, and still find that it might not be enough.
Bohemund sent for the other commanders, and they arrived with Moidra, who swept to a seat beside Mayra. We sat in an arc in front of the map table, Dunstan and I, Bran and Shen Ta, Otogai and Karlan. Bohemund faced us grimly.
“Since we all met last, there have been changes in what we face. The Lantans have stripped every guardsman from every post and garrison they have.” He smiled tightly. “It’d be a time for raiding, with none but boys and old men to stop us. But we’re not raiding, and the men they’ve pulled away have joined the army. That army now numbers more than six hundred thousand.”
There were involuntary gasps. At the Heights of Tybal both armies together had not been so many. None of us had ever heard of an army that large, not even in Caselle or Liau.
Warrior of the Altaii Page 23