Murphy shaded his eyes and watched the last of the Drantos heavies vanish into the dust, then turned back to picking off advancing Westmen. "I sure hope you're right," he said.
Julius Sulpicius, primus pilus of the Fourth Legion, rode up to Titus Frugi and saluted. "Those scouts we sent forward are late coming back," he said. He could have said that it was unlikely that they would return at all; but there was no need for that. One didn't work up to First Centurion of a legion by chattering at generals of Titus Frugi's years and experience.
Frugi cursed under his breath. That was the fourth scouting party he'd sent upriver. One had returned, unable to pierce the combination of Westmen and dust. The other three had not come back at all.
From time to time Titus Frugi had made out a gleam on the tip of a ridge far up the valley; a gleam and what seemed to be a banner. The sketch maps the frumentarii had made of the Hooey Valley showed that point as part of a defensible ridge, and Frugi wondered if the army of Drantos had taken refuge there.
Certainly the starmen and their Tamaerthan allies were holding another hilltop across the river.
"Third Cohort says the barbarians are thickening up toward the rear," Sulpicius added. His fifteen years of following the eagles gave him the right to say more, but with Titus Frugi that wasn't needed. His tone made the implied question clear enough: isn't it about time we get the hell out of here?
It was, but that didn't much appeal to Frugi. Withdrawing without orders would endanger an alliance that was all that stood between the Westmen and the Roman borders-if the legends were right, these Westmen had once come all the way to the gates of sacred Rome herself! No. Better to stand here, even if it cost the legion.
But-are we doing well? he wondered. We have taken positions here, and none will come past us, but what good do we do? From time to time the Westmen would try the Romans' mettle, but when they found they could not induce the Romans into futile wild charges they soon abandoned the sport. Now there were thousands-perhaps tens of thousands-of Westmen somewhere out in front of the legion, but they would not stay to receive a charge. Titus Frugi had fought many enemies in his service to Rome, but never one that he could not find! Yet between the dust and the hills that was precisely the difficulty; and if he thrashed about in that dust searching for the enemy, the horses would tire, and then he would indeed be lost.
Trumpets sounded at the forward outposts, and now the decurion and men he'd stationed out there as a screen were galloping back toward the main lines. More trumpets. "TO HORSE!" they sang, and if the centurions ordered that without asking Frugi's permission, the enemy was in sight! As he rode forward, the first of the Westmen came over the brow of the small hillock in front of the Roman lines.
The centurions knew their business. The cohortes equitates came forward with their shields and spears to protect the horse archers, while the cataphracti shot the Westmen down- Shot them down, and the Westmen hardly resisted!
"This is no charge!" Titus Frugi shouted.
"Legate, you are right!" Sulpicius shouted. "They flee! But-what?"
Could it be a trick? No. The Westmen were clever, even devilishly clever, but they had not the discipline to sacrifice so many as a ruse. No, they fled an enemy behind them, fled in terror "Trumpet to arms!" Titus Frugi called. "Sound the 'Make ready.' The legion will advance! Fifth and
Sixth Cohorts to the wings to cut off enemy escape." A cheer rang down the lines. Even the iron disciplined Romans hated standing in place to be shot at.
"At the walk!"
The Roman line moved forward, down the slope and up the next, into the dust beyond. As they did, more Westmen poured out. The centurions hastily put men with shields and lances in the front ranks, spacing them so that the archers in the next rank could shoot between them. The cohortes equitates clung to the saddles of their mounted comrades; when the Westmen charged they moved expertly forward with spear and shield to catch the Westmen from below while the cataphracti threatened them from horseback. More Westmen died.
Then they were over the brow of the hill. The narrow valley below was a cauldron of dust and noise, trumpets of Drantos mingled with the screams of the Westmen and their horses. The Westmen were bunched together, trapped in the small valley so that they could not use their weapons, and with the Drantos force between them and the river, and the Romans coming in from behind, they could not run away.
The legion moved forward to crush Caesar's enemies.
Ganton whirled the ax around his head, for now it was work for axes and swords. There was not room enough for a charge. None was really needed. The Westmen tried to flee, only to pile upon their fellows; then they turned to face the host of Drantos, but when an unarmored man with a bronze sword faced a steelclad knight with longsword or ax, there could be only one outcome.
"They do not flee!" Morrone shouted. He hewed down another enemy.
Ganton was as blood-spattered as Morrone. His Browning was long since emptied, and he had not time to reload. Also, sometime during the charge he had lost his hatred of Westmen. Now he wanted only for the battle to end. I know what Lord Rick must feel, he thought. There can be enough killing, enough and more than enough. Yet we do what we must do. "It is the Romans," Ganton answered.
A Westman warrior broke through the leading ranks and dashed at Ganton, thrusting with a captured Drantos lance. The lance crashed against his upraised shield. The wooden shield cracked through the middle, but as it did it caught the Westman's lance. Ganton swung the ax to cut through the shaft, raised the ax and swung it again. His wrist had long ago tired, and the ax twisted as he struck so that only the flat smashed against the steel cap the warrior wore, but that was enough. The man went down, but there was another behind him, and Ganton's shield was gone. Desperately he tried to avoid the stroke- Morrone charged forward and spitted the man with his sword.
Ganton waved acknowledgment. By now they had saved each other more times than either could remember.
"The Romans?" Morrone asked.
Ganton frowned. What was this question, and why should he answer questions at all? His head pounded with the sound of horns and drums, and he was exhausted. A council chamber with too many offering advice seemed an ideal place; but he knew he must keep his head.
What of the Romans? Ah. He remembered what he had said before the Westmen had attacked him.
"They are ahead there," Ganton said. "I had hoped they would have sense enough to charge when we drove the Westmen toward them, and it seems they have. And could I but get to them-"
What would I do? I had a thought, and now it is gone, yet I think it was important. Could I get to the Romans-?
Ah. He stood in his stirrups. "Morrone!"
"Sire!"
"You command until I return. The Great Banner remains with you, and you speak with my voice. I must go to the Roman commander. Lord Epimenes!"
"Sire!"
"I give you command of my household. Join your men with mine and let us be off, for there are yet great things we may do ill can but speak with the Romans."
"Majesty! Command me!"
He must know how many will fall if we batter our way through that mass, Ganton thought. Yet he is eager to come. That is more brave than sensible. Aye, many of my bheromen are that way. Armored from head to foot and from ear to ear. But loyal, and today I need loyal men. Today they obey me as they would Lord Rick! For today I have given them the kind of battle they pray for through long winters, the battle they have dreamed of since first they couched a lance. Yatar-aye, Yatar and Christ! — grant that their loyalty continues.
He let himself be surrounded by Guards and the knights who followed Epimenes. Then they lowered their lances and charged toward the Westmen. "For Drantos and Camithon!"
The tribune Geminius rode up to Titus Frugi and saluted. "A party of Drantos nobility approaches, Legate. They have cut their way through the Westmen."
"Aid them."
"That is done, Legate."
Frugi nodded acknowledgment. Dr
antos warriors were not noted for their cooperation with others, but whoever was coming had risked much.
A headquarters optio rode in at the gallop. "Centurion says it's the banner of the Fighting Man!" he shouted.
"That's the Wanax himself!" Geminius exclaimed. "But why has he come? He has come without his royal banner!"
"I am aware of that," Frugi said impatiently. "Prepare to give him the proper honors and spare me your chatter. We will know soon enough why he has come."
That didn't stop the junior officers from making guesses, but at least it kept them from distracting him with them. Meanwhile, Sulpicius had reports from the cohort commanders.
Then the Drantos party rode in.
"Hail, Majesty!" Frugi called.
"Hail, Legate. We must speak, and quickly." The young Wanax gestured, and one of his squires leaped down to hold his horse as he dismounted.
Frugi noted the others in the royal party. Knights and bheromen, seasoned veterans all, carrying bloody weapons. They had come through much to get here-it was significant that veteran warriors would follow this boy king. Frugi wearily dismounted.
Ganton drew his dagger, knelt, and in the hard ground began to draw a map of the battle. It was not the best map Frugi had ever seen, but it would do. Aye, Titus Frugi thought. A map drawn by a lad who had never thought of maps as a weapon until the starmen came; it will do well enough indeed.
"We have nearly half the Westmen trapped between us," Ganton said. "As their ranks thin they will begin to escape; but we will kill enough, I think." He used his dagger to draw a circle around that combat area.
"The rest of the Westmen are here, across the river from us, encircling the Lord Mason. They face only star weapons, but so long as they do not attack the Lord Mason, they have little to fear because of the hills. There are not enough starmen to go seeking them."
Frugi nodded. "What know you of the balloon?"
"It does not rise," Ganton said. "I do not know why. But because it does not rise, the Lord Mason knows little of where the Westmen are. Yet they are here, and here, and-"
"I see," Titus Frugi said.
"The Lord Rick has taught me not to send all my forces into battle at once," Ganton said. "To hold what he calls reserves. I believe it is also the Roman way."
"Yes," Frugi said. He looked thoughtfully at the young Wanax. There were many more years behind the boy's eyes than there had been when they planned this battle.
"If you will divide your reserves into two parts, and send them here and here, then much can be accomplished," Ganton said. He drew lines on the map to indicate positions flanking the mass of Westmen facing Mason and Caradoc. "For in no more than a Roman hour the slaughter here will be finished, and the army of Drantos will be able to charge again. If we charge across the river, we will take the remaining Westmen from behind, driving them into sight of the starmen. Your reserve force will prevent them from escaping to the sides, and the star weapons will finish the task, I think."
"Unless the Westmen dislodge the starmen."
"No," Ganton said. "True, I have not spoken with the Lord Mason-but I do not need to do so. I know the Lord Mason and the Lord Caradoc. They will have a strong position. They will not be driven out by Westmen fleeing in panic."
"Umm," Frugi said. "Will your horses be able to make a second charge?"
"Aye. I have sent the-support troops-to the river for water. Our horses are well fed, thanks to Lord Rick and the Roman scribes who aid him."
He has indeed grown, Titus Frugi thought. And would be a formidable enemy to Caesar "For I have learned," Ganton said with a rush. "Neither I nor my knights, nor Lord Camithon himself, ever before dreamed how important it would be that a bushel of oats travel from a farmer's field to the belly of a war horse on the high plains. But I have learned. Aye, Legate, our horses are strong, and soon they will have water. They will charge truly."
Titus Frugi shaded his eyes and stared into the dusty valley below. The Wanax is right, he thought. An hour should see the end of that slaughter. Barbarians not fighting under one chief are not known for their readiness to come to the aid of doomed comrades. The reserve will not be needed to meet a rescue attempt. One cohort can hold the rear, and if this lad truly knows the position of the enemy we can yet have a decision this day.
"I suggest further that Drantos take the center," Ganton said. "The chivalry of Drantos is best employed in a single striking mass; your legionaries are better at maneuver. And we will strike directly here-" He used the dagger to draw a thick arrow.
"You have tested the depth of the river, then?" Frugi asked.
"I have seen the Westmen crossing it," Ganton said. He held up his binoculars. "With these. At the crucial places the water comes to the bellies of the Westman ponies."
"Ah." Titus Frugi straightened from where he had bent over the map. The headquarters officers leaned forward eagerly. Frugi hesitated another moment, then asked, "What think you, Primus Pilus?"
"I think well of it, Legate," Julius Sulpicius answered.
"And there is no need to ask you, Tribune Geminius. Either you approve or you have adders under your breastplate. Very well. Tribunes, go and ready the cohorts. Wanax, how will you alert your own forces?"
"I will ride with you until we reach them," Ganton said. "If that is acceptable to you."
"More than acceptable." And I am glad enough to have you as Caesar's friend, for you would be a formidable enemy. Our military handbooks will need revision after this day, for they say that Drantos is a barbarian kingdom-and that is true no more.
33
Pfc. Passovopolous had just finished reporting the LMG back in action when Mason heard war-horns. They grew louder. A hundred Westmen rode at a gallop out of the dust across the river. Then, suddenly, the Royal Banner of Drantos burst from the dust-cloud behind the Westmen. In another moment, the opposite bank of the Hooey was alive with banners.
"Murph!" Art shouted. "Use that one-oh-six! Targets of opportunity-"
"Rog!"
"Ark! Get ready with the LMG. Looks like they'll drive the bastards right out in front of us."
"Right," Passovopolous said.
"Reckon you were right," Murphy said. "Fire in the hole!" The 106 roared, and a white phosphorus shell burst among a cluster of Westmen trying to organize at the river bank.
"Right about what?"
"Kid knew what he was doing."
"Yeah," Mason said. He sure did.
The LMG chattered, joined by the crackle of fire from H the Westmen's abortive attempt to rally at the river bank dissolved before it was fairly begun.
Then everything happened at once. The dust-cloud erupted warriors, Drantos knights and Roman cataphracts. They charged down the river bank and straight on into the shallow river, slowing for a moment there but building momentum again. By the time they had crossed the river, the Roman and Drantos forces had mixed, clumps of Romans intermingled with the Drantos knights, both groups led by the mixed headquarters troops of both armies. It was hard to tell which crossed the river first: the golden helm of Wanax Ganton, or the scarlet cloak of Titus Frugi.
The Westmen made another attempt to rally, this time at the top of the knoll above the river bank, but a fresh group of Romans, both horsemen and cohortes equitates clinging to their bridles, appeared on their flank. The Roman infantry locked shields and advanced slowly while the cavalry sat their horses and shot down the Westmen. Meanwhile the combined force of Drantos knights and Roman lancers completed their river crossing. They dressed lines, and their officers rode up and down the line shouting. Then the wild war horns sounded, and Romans and knights alike spurred to a canter.
The Westmen couldn't stand the combination of arrows from the flanks and lances from the front. Their line buckled, then dissolved. The Allied forces charged on, and the whole battle swept out of Mason's sight into a fold in the hills.
"They'll be coming over that hill pretty quick," Mason said. "No shooting at 'em on the ridge. Wait until they're ju
st below us. That way we're sure of what we're shooting at." He sent a runner with the same message for Caradoc.
And now we wait, he thought. But this time we know what we're waiting for. It's all over but the mopping up.
Mad Bear's surprise at getting across the river after the first charge of Ironshirts was beginning to wear off when the Ironshirts charged again. Even then he was not afraid. The Horse People could win against the Ironshirts, even Ironshirts with wizard allies.
"Stay with me!" he shouted. "We can yet win. The Ironshirts can be led into charge after charge until their horses tire, and then they are easy to kill. Stay with me!"
He was still shouting this when he saw Red Cloaks on both flanks of the Ironshirts, and more Red Cloaks at the mouth of the valley. Then he knew. The Father and the Warrior had indeed turned their backs on~ the Horse People.
The Red Cloaks came out of the dust behind their arrows and their terrible war horns, and Mad Bear knew that all the history of the Horse People would henceforth be divided by this day.
"To me!" he called. "If we cannot win, we can yet die as the Warrior expects! Let us all go up hill and kill the servants of the wizards!"
But few listened. The never-ending storm of Red Cloak arrows fell among the Horse People, and the Ironshirts hewed their way uphill. Their lances spitted the warriors, their great horses trampled the Horse People's mounts beneath their hooves, and their terrible iron swords and axes cut down even those who had found armor.
An arrow struck his horse in the neck, and as it reared two more took it in the chest. Two Ironshirts and three Red Cloaks cantered up the hill. They pointed at Mad Bear and spurred toward him. As they came they — shouted something to him.
Mad Bear leaped upon a rock, bow in one hand and captured sword in another. He answered the shouts of his enemies with his own war cries. Then he nocked his last arrow and took careful aim at a Red Cloak. The man ducked behind a shield, and Mad Bear hastily changed his aim point to the chest of the nearest Ironshirt. At that range it went through the man's armor, and Mad Bear shouted in triumph, but then it was too late. His enemies came on. Something struck his head. He was vaguely aware that he had dropped his sword and was falling.
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