The wizards and their friends had all gathered in one place, less than half the morning’s ride from the camp. It was a place the Horse People knew well, a valley of rolling hills. At its bottom snaked a wide stream no deeper than a stallion’s knees, and there were no hydras in the muddy waters. And there the wizards had halted—
Do they challenge the Horse People? Mad Bear’s heart rose within him, and he leaped upon his greatest stallion. “My people! Have we not said that those the gods will destroy are first driven from their senses? The sky gods are no friends to these wizards! The wizards await us, in a place we know well, in a place where we will triumph! We shall have the battle the Warrior desires, and this day we shall send many of the wizard-people to the Warrior’s Lodge!
“For what do we face? Men of the Iron Houses, and this in a place we would have chosen! Have they not always been easy enough to kill?
“To arms! Fill the waterskins, and send for all the Horse People who camp through the plains and hills! Summon all the clans! All the clans shall fight as one this day, all the Horse People as brothers, for is this not the will of the Warrior? Come, come, we shall fill the Warrior’s Lodge!”
30
Private Hal Roscoe shaded his eyes and stared down the valley in wonder. “Jesus Christ, Major, where’d they all come from?”
Mason waved him back into action without answering. Damn good question, Art thought. There must have been fifty thousand of the mothers, two or three times as many as Mason had expected, and they swarmed all across the valley of the Hooey River, on both sides and in the river itself, shooting as fast as they could, then closing in with lances and lariats and those goofy bronze swords. Anyone with a dead or hurt horse was a goner. Not even the mercs could cover him.
The whole operation had gone sour. “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,” Captain Galloway had told Mason; and Lord God was that true! Westmen had come boiling in from all directions, and despite everything the pieces of the Alliance army had got separated.
Now Mason’s troops held the top of a hill only a little higher than the rest of the knolls that sprinkled the Hooey Valley. The visibility was lousy. Too much dust, and too many of those damned little hills. Mason cursed again as he scanned the valley with his binoculars. The Drantos ironhats were across the river on another hill, facing their own share of Westmen. And everything flowed! Caradoc’s Mounted Archers had stayed with the mercs. Now they were out in front of Mason’s troops, and the mercs didn’t dare fire because the archers and the Westmen were all mixed together.
Vothan alone knew where the Romans had got off to. Mason looked down the valley toward the balloon. They’d set it up in a strong place, where the Hooey Valley narrowed and flowed between much higher hills. He’d left Beazeley and a hundred guards to babysit it. The whole army of Drantos was between it and the Westmen. It ought to have been safe enough.
Ought to have been. The balloon was aloft, but the observers weren’t paying any attention to Art Mason. Why hadn’t they seen just how many Westmen there were? Every goddamn war, on every goddamn planet, the skyboys fight their own battle and let the grunts carry the can! Too damn late now. Art swept his binoculars along the limits of his vision. He couldn’t see too far because of the damned low hills—but there was more dust rising in the west, which meant more Westmen.
Mason cursed. This could get sticky.
Across the river the mass of Westmen facing the Drantos knights thickened, churned, and split off a detachment. They cantered into the river, throwing up a cloud of spray and gravel.
“Murph!” Hell, I’m screaming, Mason thought. Scared spitless. Well, maybe I got a right to be. Wonder, if we buy it, will we go to Vothan’s Hall? Or Heaven? Or someplace else, and would someplace else be better’n nowhere at all? “Murph! Put a couple rounds in the river!”
“Roger!”
The recoilless spewed flame. The first round was white phosphorous. Steam puffed up where the burning bits hit the water. Then a high explosive round took out nearly a score of Westmen. That slowed them enough to let some of the calivermen reload, and when the Westmen came on they were hit by a rolling volley, each man firing as soon as he heard the gun of the man next to him, fire rippling down the line with the one remaining four-pounder to punctuate the end of the volley.
It wasn’t enough. There were too many Westmen trying to cross that river, and they could shoot even with the water up to the bellies of their horses. The arrow-hail came down again, and suddenly there weren’t enough Mounted Archers to stop them. For the tenth time that morning Art wished the other four-pounder hadn’t been abandoned with a broken carriage axle.
“Hey, Art!” Murphy called.
“Yeah?”
“Hell, I know we were supposed to make ’em mad enough to fight, but goddamn, this is ridiculous!”
Three of the troopers laughed, but it sounded a little hollow. Down below, the Westmen came on. A lot of the calivermen were down, and the rest were shaky. One platoon broke and ran. Caradoc, his red Roman cloak streaming out behind him, rode in to rally them. Some of his personal guards leaned from their saddles to collect guns. Then the whole crowd began to pull back, with the Westmen’s arrows following them. Three men and a horse went down around the four-pounder, and the remaining gunners abandoned it to scramble higher up the hill.
By now the Mounted Archers had retreated far enough that the Guards and mercs would pretty soon have a clear field of fire. Mason sidestepped his horse and unlimbered his own H&K before he thought better and slung it again. Thinking like a corporal again, Art, he told himself, he rode around to check the position of the other mercs.
They were set up about as well as they could be. On the left flank, Walbrook had the mortar, with Bilofsky nearby with the light machine-gun. “Take care of that thing,” Mason shouted. “That LMG may be all that’s ’tween us and Vothan’s hall!”
“Right-o!” Bilofsky answered. He grinned cheerfully. “Don’t worry about a thing, Major.”
Murphy and the one-oh-six were in the center of the line. There was a problem about the mortar and the one-oh-six. They’d used most of the ammo in the bombardment of the camp. Now there wasn’t enough left to defend themselves. Maybe that’s justice, Mason thought. Frig that. He used his binoculars to watch the situation develop. Now they had a clear shot.
“First Guards. On my command, IN VOLLEY—FIRE! Fire at will!” The platoon of guards let fly with their calivers. Meanwhile the other mercs blazed away with rifles. Most fired single shot. Somewhere a trooper had switched to rock and roll. He’d be out of ammo pretty soon.
They all fired low, as they’d been taught, and the volley emptied few saddles, but it did dismount a lot of Westmen. They leaped from their falling horses—and kept coming. Soon they were in among the dismounted archers, using spears and knives and a few swords, and small axes like tomahawks.
“God Almighty!” Private First Class Roscoe yelled. “Those are mean little mothers!”
“Kinda my sentiments too,” Murphy said. “Art, we going to get out of this?”
“We can sure as hell try.”
The LMG got in the act, bringing down nearly a hundred Westmen, and Art began to breathe a little easier. The mortar chugged away, lobbing WP and HE into the advance, and suddenly the Westmen didn’t look so confident—but they were still coming. It wasn’t going to be enough.
“Stand by to pull out!” Mason shouted in English, then switched to Tran dialect. “The First Guards will withdraw! Trumpeter, sound ‘Boots and Saddles.’ Rendezvous at Point Blue One.” That was the mouth of the valley where Beazeley’s squad was guarding the balloon and the reserve ammo. A strong place. Maybe not so easy to get out of, but easy to hold. Mason shook his head. Wish the captain was here. What would he do? Don’t matter. What I’m going to do is get my shit together. Then we can make a stand or run like hell, depending. That’s what the Drantos troops have done. Got a strong place across the valley where they can think things over. Wond
er what they intend doing?
There were more arrows, and suddenly Bilofsky rolled over, staring at an arrow sticking out of his chest. The damned fool wasn’t wearing armor! His number two, Private First Class Arkos Passavopolous, took over, but the belt ran out a long time before the Westmen did. Mason rode over. “Hey Ark! Get Bilofsky onto a horse!”
“No hurry about that, Major. Best I save the gun first.”
“Shitfire. Okay, do it, fast!” Then his horse spooked, and while it was bucking another flight of arrows came in. The horse screamed and reared, and Art threw himself out of the saddle before it could fall on him. He went one way and the H&K went another, and now there was nothing left but the Colt. Mason held it in both hands and squeezed off rounds. One Westman down. Another, and another, but more were coming up, trampling over the dead and dying, lots more than he had rounds for the Colt, and Mason decided he hadn’t really wanted to live forever. . . .
A great black horse loomed up behind the advancing Westmen, and a sword whirled and came down. A Westman tried to keep going with one arm off, and didn’t make it. Another fell headless. The horse trampled two more, and then calivermen and Tamaerthan troopers were among the Westmen. The calivermen used bayonets with effect, and a few had reloaded and were able to fire. More of the Tamaerthans charged in, and the Westmen began to thin out. Then there weren’t any at all.
Mason stood up as Caradoc rode up the hill. “Thanks.”
Caradoc grinned and pointed with his bloody saber. Squads of troops moved off to deal with dismounted Westmen. The Archer captain waved again, and another trooper brought Mason a fresh mount, and now they had a few minutes breathing spell, but it was still going to be close.
Then he looked up and saw a new army of Westmen come over the ridge, and Art Mason wondered how many would make it to Point Blue One.
* * *
There was no water on the hill where the fighting men of Drantos were gathered. Wanax Ganton had been about to drink when a young staff officer brought the news from Camithon. “The spring was filled with dirt and dung, Majesty. It will be long before it flows again.”
Ganton thrust the plug into the mouth of the waterskin and handed it back to Morrone. So be it. “From this moment, the water is for the horses,” he said. “Tell the captains.”
“Aye, Majesty.” The young officer hesitated, then set his lips. “Lord Camithon bids me say we have above two hundred men-at-arms killed, and another five hundred have been given to the care of the priests of Yatar.”
“That many,” Ganton mused. He straightened. “Tell Lord Camithon I will join him soon, and meantime he is to do as he thinks best. And tell all about the water.”
“Aye, Majesty.”
When the messenger had gone, Morrone whistled through pursed lips. “An eighth, more than an eighth of our strength lost, and now we are at bay, trapped upon a hill without water. What will we do?”
“I do not yet know,” Ganton said. “First we will show ourselves to the soldiers. As we do, we will discover how it fares with them, and whether they will fight. And then we will take counsel of Lord Camithon. He has seen more battles than I have of years. Doubtless his advice will be good.” And if not, I must yet listen. The Lord Rick has often told me that battles wander far from what we plan, and by Yatar this one has done so! Now we need harmony among the captains, and they must not believe I quarrel with Camithon.
He rode along the ridge with only his banner bearer and Morrone. Sometimes he stopped to hear a wounded man’s message, or to praise a deed he had seen or been told of; and always he listened as he rode past. They cheered him yet, and he felt glad. They would follow him.
Across the valley the thunder of star weapons grew, then died. He climbed higher on the ridge and used the binoculars. There was no doubt of it. The Lord Mason was retreating, taking with him all the mounted archers and other Tamaerthan warriors as well as the starmen. Ganton was shocked at how few Tamaerthans remained.
Yet there were no instructions from the balloon. It floated high above the battle, but Ganton could not see the men within it. Had they been killed? Despite all his warnings, the forces of the Alliance had become separated, and the balloon left guarded only by a few. No one had desired it, but the Westmen had poured from behind every hill, across every ridge and through every valley, more Westmen than anyone believed possible, and bands of them had got between the host and the balloon.
Perhaps there would be no messages from the balloon.
He recognized Caradoc’s scarlet Roman cloak, and saw figures in starman uniforms. Some lay still, lashed across saddles. The towering soldier they called “the Great Ark” rode a captured pony so small that his legs nearly touched the ground. Others had rigged poles out behind their horses and had lashed equipment onto them. They retreated in good order, fighting their way toward the balloon.
The valley below was a cauldron. Ganton swept his binoculars across the land again. The Westmen seemed divided in counsel. Some rode after Mason. Others milled about, shouting at each other.
And meantime there was nothing to do but wait, while the day grew warmer. Ganton cursed softly and once again looked toward the futile balloon. Where were the Romans? Were they gone as well?
* * *
Mad Bear was trying to keep his horse from drinking the foul waters of the river when Hinuta rode up. He had a score of Silver Wolves—and as well a hundred Two Rivers, and dozens more from other clans.
“Rejoice, Mad Bear, your deeds have been told throughout the Horse People, and many clans would follow you.”
“Ah.” Mad Bear looked again. There was one missing. “Where is Tenado, my son?”
“He turned his back on a dead Ironshirt,” Hinuta said simply.
“Aiiiy.” But this was no time for lament.
“I have brought the Ironshirt’s hair. You may offer it to the gods,” Hinuta said. He handed over a bloody bundle.
“You have my thanks,” Mad Bear said. He looked around the valley. “The Ironshirts are worthy fighters. They die well.”
“Many of them have not died at all,” Hinuta said. “And many of the Red Cloaks have gone off down the river, where they hold the small hills near the trees.”
“Ah.”
“Let us gather our people and go join the battle against them. Tens of tens of tens would follow Mad Bear—”
“Nay.” Mad Bear shook his head and pointed to the southern ridge covered with the horses and banners of Ironshirts. They had dismounted, and hid their horses behind their great shields. There were many of their archers as well. Ironshirt archers from the stone houses used a strange bow with metal parts to do the work of a man’s strength. The bows would not shoot so often, but they ranged nearly as far as those of the Horse People below them.
“Those have not died either, and their chief of the golden hat rides among them. Kill him and the others will flee,” Mad Bear said. He rode over to be near Hinuta. The loss of Tenado ate at his heart, but he could never show that. Instead he clapped Hinuta on the shoulder. “It is a great day!”
“A great day for the Warrior,” Hinuta agreed. He eyed the encamped Ironshirts and grinned. “It was well that we stopped the spring on that hill. And if the Ironshirts will stay long—”
“Their horses will go mad. If the Horse People can fight as one, then we will send them all to the Warrior,” Mad Bear completed. “Despite their wizard-fire.” They both had seen the Mountain Walkers struck down by the wizards’ thunder. “Go among the Horse People, and say that Mad Bear will lead them against the Ironshirts, as many as will follow.”
Only the oath-bound warriors of his band had to obey; but many had heard of the deeds of Mad Bear, and many would come, would follow him. Soon there would be tens of tens of tens. Mad Bear would lead them toward the Ironshirts, then pretend to retreat. The Ironshirts would charge as they always did, and this battle would end.
And that would be well.
* * *
They had to fight their way into P
oint Blue One. It took four rounds from the one-oh-six and a full belt from the LMG before the last of the Westmen were driven out. Mason shouted orders and the troops began setting up a perimeter, leaving Art to deal with what had been the headquarters area.
The balloon crew was dead. Flyboys and ground crew, all bristled with arrows, the airmen lying huddled in the bottom of their wicker basket. Near the wagon was Ski, big scar and all, with a dozen arrows just for him, and his scalp and ears cut away as well. The Tamaerthan and Drantos riggers had been hacked with swords, and the acolytes of Yatar literally dismembered. Art looked at the bloody scene and grimaced.
Just like the king said, Mason thought. A roving band. Something. Christ, who’d have thought they could get past all of us? Or that there’d be so many of the little mothers—
One of the piles of dead began to move. Mason had the safety off the .45 when Beazeley’s bloody face popped out of the heap of bodies.
“I’ll be dipped in shit! Welcome back, buddy,” Mason said.
“Feel more welcome if you’d point a different way,” Beazeley said.
“Guess you would.” Mason didn’t holster the weapon. “Know where the Romans went?”
“Last report they were over that way.” He pointed off to the north. “But about then we had other things to worry about.”
“When’d you duck?”
“I was about the last one,” Beazeley said. “Figured there was no point in standing up, so I dove in, with my friend here in my mouth just in case . . .” He showed his pistol, then looked at the hacked and mutilated bodies of Ski and the priests and shuddered.
“Okay,” Mason said. “Back to the line. Wait.” He took out a flask. “Have a belt.”
“Thanks. Ah, McCleve’s finest. Must be a month old. Good stuff.” He drank again.
Mason scanned the area with his binoculars. Over to his far right there was a lot of dust, and a sound that might have been Roman trumpets. Between them and the Drantos Ironhats a band of Westmen was crossing the low ridge, headed north and east. It looked as if they were trying to get behind the Romans.
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