* * *
Two days south of the Oasis, the Imperial army—two legions, five hundred crossbow men, sixteen wagons—drew to a halt. To their right, the western plains, slightly rolling, low grass, farther west patches of sand merging to desert. Left, the mountains, rising out of the plains in an irregular line of low cliffs. At the base of one of them, two men.
"Make camp here. Lagio, a squad to our friends over there. Take down the stone wall they're standing in front of. If nothing has gone wrong, there are ten barrels of water behind it. Take the water, use it; leave the barrels. We'll need them again. Kiron, go with him."
Disassembling the dry stone wall exposed a row of barrels against the cliff face, a trickle of water down it, a tent, a small fire. The two legionaries in charge helped Lagio transfer the contents to smaller containers; men lugged them out to where the legion's camp was going up.
Later, sitting around a fire outside the staff tent, the commander explained:
"There are streams up in the mountains that come over the edge and vanish—not enough water to make a river. We have four collection points; this is the first. Just a trickle, but they've been filling those barrels for two weeks. Tomorrow morning the wall goes back up; makes it less likely rumors get to our friends south. Kiron here did his sums, worked out by the time we got to Northflood we would all be dead. This, some wells I know about, are what he left out. No baths till we get to the river, but if nothing goes wrong, we make it."
For the next two days, nothing went wrong.
* * *
The end of the fourth day, tents going up. Kiron saw some of the legionaries pointing west. Horsemen. Quite a lot of horsemen. Nomads. He turned to Giorgio.
"Ours?"
"Scouts. All of them."
Fintal walked out to talk with the Ravens, came back to the commander.
"They need water. Eagles are holding the wells."
"Can't they drive them off—how many are there?"
"Five or ten at each well. Our boys can drive them off all right—did, twice. No water."
One of the staff officers cut in:
"They poisoned the water?"
Fintal looked shocked.
"Drank it. Good well gives maybe fifty, hundred gallons a day. Ten men, their horses—never gets full."
The commander held up his hand for silence, thought a moment.
"How many wells west of the road, next fifteen miles?"
"Three near, two farther."
"Say we give them water now. They take those wells. Nomads can carry a day's water. A well supplies ten horses and men, take it with twenty, leave half. The other half take all the water, take the next well. Hold a day, then shift everyone a day's ride farther south, in range of Northflood, join us there. We'll be pretty thirsty, them too, ought to all make it. The extra scouts stay with us."
"Think it works; I'll check with Finnvar. Can I tell him they can have water from our wagons for men and horses now? Some of them need it pretty bad."
"Yes. We'll be on half water ration next two days. Officers walk—easier on the horses. Tomorrow we start at dawn."
* * *
Late afternoon, two days later, the river in sight, its far bank lined with earthworks. Artos halted the army well out of bowshot.
"Pass word to watch the horses; they can smell water." He turned to Kiron, walking beside him:
"They've fortified the ford. If we have to fight for the water, might as well do it where they can get shot too."
Staff, senior officers of the legions, gathered around the commander while the soldiers stood resting, staring at the river—and the enemy. Plans made, trumpet calls, the army surged into motion, slanting west. On the other side of the river riders streamed west as well, dismounted, set up pavises; others led horses back out of range.
A quarter mile from the ford, just out of range of the far bank, the army halted, reformed. A double line of legionaries with shields, behind them crossbows, forward at a trot. A hundred yards from the river they stopped, front line on their knees, back standing, a solid wall of shields nearly six feet high, crossbows behind.
While the front line traded bolts for arrows, a second double line advanced behind them, took up position. The men they sheltered were armed not with bows but shovels. By nightfall their work was done, the legions—and their wagons—sheltered behind walls of earth. From their camp they could see the river, smell it. The commander being busy, Kiron put the question to Giorgio.
"What do we do? Fetch water at night, hope they don't see us, hear us, start shooting?"
"That's one answer. He'll have a better one."
* * *
On the other side of the river, Knute, watching the Imperial encampment as the light faded, put the same question to Harald.
"The men can sneak down at night with shields, with any luck manage to get a drink; the moon won't rise till near dawn. But how the hell do they plan to water the horses?"
"Asking the wrong man. Artos knew we'd be here. Didn't have an answer, wouldn't have come."
Dawn showed it—a trench from the river to the Imperial camp.
Return Visit
Wealth is won by the swift
By noon, the pattern was clear. The trench provided the camp with water. From the camp, a long earthen wall was rising, slanting away from the river towards the road.
"How does he get his men to the ford?"
Harald turned to answer Niall's question.
"If he's in a hurry, he marches them there at night, pushes across night or early morning. Risky. More likely, another wall east, archers, engines opposite the ford, covering fire for a push across. We do what damage we can, if need be fall back—main force south, couple of cacades up into Newvale to hold the neck of the vale. Make sure everything worth eating gets uphill first—started already. Speaking of which..."
Harald turned to cut a chunk of mutton. Before taking a bite, he turned back to Niall:
"My question is where Artos got water to bring that many men after you dealt with His Highness's pool. Also," he spoke in a louder voice, "when is that idiot boy going to show himself?"
"Where the hell...?"
"That stand of grass; figured he'd get hungry one of these days."
Asbjorn ignored both his uncle's surprise and his grandfather's lack of surprise.
"And I have two answers." Asbjorn looked at Harald, waited.
"What's the other?"
"Streams come down off the mountains, go over the edge of the cliff. Donal thinks they help feed the wells. Imperials have a couple of men under the trickle, lots of barrels, rock wall to hide them. Heard them talking; they never looked up. They figured the barrels would be full by the time the army came by. I spotted two streams, might be more. Thought you'd want to know."
"Yes. Show me where."
Asbjorn drew a roll of thin leather from the wallet slung over his shoulder. Unrolled, it was a carefully drawn map. Harald spent a minute looking at it, following his grandson's explanation, spoke:
"Arinbjorn Hrolfsson's camped off that way with his cacade—see the pennon from here. Find him, bring him. Work for both of you."
The boy helped himself to a chunk of mutton, a slab of bread, took a bite from each, set off in search of his cousin. Niall turned to his father.
"I thought you planned to keep 'Bjorn home."
"How—tie him up? Lower slopes north of here the safest place I could think of. Legions don't climb if they can help it; not even Westkin ride up cliffs. Artos doesn't have any Bashkai. Wildcats, bear, fall off and break his neck. Can do that at home too. Hasn't yet. Besides, things I wanted to know. Took a couple of friends. Boy's no fool."
When Asbjorn returned he was accompanied by Arinbjorn.
"Uncle. Little 'Bjorn says you want me."
"You and your boys have been looking bored. Need thirty men used to mountains, no horses. Easy part involves keeping an eye on our friends over the river. Hard part keeping my grandson from breaking his neck. He's y
our guide."
* * *
After a week of watching men dig, Kiron was getting bored:
"Looks like the sand garden at the summer palace before the gardener had smoothed it out again. Only we didn't have a river to play with."
Giorgios, stretched out in the shade of the earth wall, opened his eyes.
"It's the legions' best weapon."
"The shovel? Slow."
"But sure. Can't put an arrow through two feet of dirt. Not even a bolt from a siege bow. Have to go up against two or three thousand archers, might as well get cover close as we can first."
"I thought we were in a hurry."
"In a hurry, we would be on the other bank by now. Some of us. Commander's waiting for something. My guess, cavalry. While we wait, we dig." Giorgios pointed out over the growing earthworks.
A staff runner:
"The Commander sent me to fetch you, sir."
Kiron and Giorgios followed him to where the road bent around a spur of rock. Beyond, out of sight from the river, a dozen wagons, horses. The commander turned, spoke to the runner:
"Tell Second to start sending his boys, small groups. He knows."
Then to Kiron:
"What am I doing?"
Kiron looked at the wagons curiously:
"Water barrels. Part of getting the cavalry here? Two weeks to base, then the cavalry has to come back. Besides, not enough wagons."
"The cavalry left base yesterday, if everything went right. They have wagons with them for the first part, water caches, like we had. Due to meet these thirty miles this side of the Oasis—enough water to get them the rest of the way."
"You're sending part of the Second as escort?"
"Four hundred men, some archers. Fifty Ravens for the first day. Past that, they should be safe, but I'm not taking chances—gods know how much of Eagle clan Harald has, and they may have tricks, know water holes I don't. Giorgios says you're bored. Eight days to get the cavalry here, escort and wagons back. Then we move."
"You need cavalry to force the ford?"
"I could do it today, assuming no surprises. I need cavalry to protect our supply lines after we cross, make the enemy keep together. Besides, once they arrive we have to move—nothing this side of the river for the horses to eat."
Kiron looked curiously at the commander.
"You haven't been a farmer. Harald grazed horses and sheep on this side of the river till we came. The grass is eaten all the way down. We could graze our horses farther west, but there might be fords and they'll know where. Too far from the legions gets risky. Once the cavalry comes, we push across."
* * *
Night time, four miles west of the ford. Harald peeled off his war coat, spoke to the men around him.
"Supplies on the rafts, armor, anything might sink you or the horse."
The first raft loaded, he called across the river. The rope leading into the dark went taut. Men pushed the raft into the stream; it drifted down and across.
"By decades, when your gear is loaded. Anyone can't swim, ride a raft."
He led the mare into the water.
* * *
"Now we wait for the horse boys to show up. Tomorrow if we're lucky. Keep your archers with the wagons while my people dig—less likely to get in the way."
"Lot of work—haven't seen an enemy since we left the river."
"Always a first time. Matter of fact ... those ours or theirs?"
The captain commanding the escort started shouting orders; the legionaries traded shovels for shields and javelins, formed up in a line two deep. The archers took position behind the shield wall, strung their crossbows.
"Ravens went home three days ago; besides, we don't have that many. This is it. Wish they'd given us another two hours."
More orders bent the line into a long rectangle, two shields deep on the outside and ends, one on the long side towards the wagons and, just beyond, the cliff edge. Behind the shields, crossbow men. At the center of the formation, surrounding the standard, the reserves. The nomads charged, released a cloud of arrows, split left and right and streamed away. Most of the arrows fell short. One crossbowman shot back.
"Not without orders; till they get closer they're bluffing."
A second charge, this time a little closer. Closer still. The third time the force wheeled right, rode out of range, stopped. Started to move.
It was Kalios' first battle. On one knee in the front rank, shield up, javelin ready, two more clutched in his shield hand. Voices behind him; he knew enough not to turn:
"This may be it. Don't throw till they're in range."
From his left a torrent of riders, some shooting, others flat to the far sides of their horses. Still out of javelin range.
"Archers, at will."
Click of trigger, twang of bowstring behind him. More. Arrows poured from the riders; one glanced from his helm, two hit the shield. Behind him someone cried out. In front, the nomads a continuous stream, half hidden in their own dust.
A panicked voice: "Behind us. Archers on the cliff." A rattle of orders, men shifting position. Kalios held, facing the horsemen, waiting orders, hoping someone was covering his back. The riders kept coming, shooting. The last horse passed, a last few bolts flew after it.
"Gods."
The lancers came out of the dust straight at the line of infantry. As time froze he saw a bolt glance off the chest armor of one of the horses. Kalios drew back his arm to throw. A lance point—shield up to block. Something hit the shield, hard enough to knock him over. Arms and legs in, shield over. Thunder of hooves.
Kalios came to his feet, felt a sharp pain, looked down; an arrow. Looked up. Hundreds of nomads, sitting their horses just out of javelin range; he raised his shield against their arrows. Turned his head left, right.
Where the legionary line had been was a ruin of dead and wounded, mostly theirs, a few enemy lancers, horses.
A desperate trumpet call. What had been the center, a cluster of men around the legion's standard, long spears, a few archers, the space around them empty save for bodies. Kalios limped back to join them, went to one knee in the front rank. The javelin he was still clutching was broken; he dropped it, drew his sword, waited.
The nomads had stopped shooting, the lancers—cats—reformed, sitting their horses some distance off. One rode forward, empty right hand raised.
"Don't shoot; it's a parley. Anyone speak their jabber?"
The rider stopped just beyond javelin range, called out in Tengu:
"Willing to offer you terms; send someone out."
From behind Kalios, the captain's voice.
"Terms hell. Try again, this time we do some of the killing."
The rider hesitated, lowered his hand, pointed.
"Long way home."
Kalios followed the pointing finger. The cliff. Between it and the remnants of the escort, the road was bare. The wagons—food, water, gear—were gone.
* * *
Andros was enjoying the quiet. Also the leisure of guarding the gate while much of the Oasis garrison was busy cleaning up. A thousand men, twelve hundred horses packed in and around a small fort for a night made a considerable mess. Now they were gone, south towards the river, the army, the enemy.
Above his head, someone was yelling. Out the gate, in the distance, a cloud of dust. Cavalry coming back?
By the time they were close enough to recognize, half the small garrison was by the gate staring out, the other half on the wall. Forty or fifty legionaries, marching in something well short of their usual rigid order, two pairs carrying stretchers. One wagon.
"Something's gone wrong."
As they came near, more shouts from the wall. A second cloud of dust, moving faster. Mounted men. A lot of mounted men.
"Cavalry's back."
Bugle calls, orders. The crowd inside the gate thinned out, vanished, as men went for weapons, manned the wall.
"What's the Commander worried about?"
From above, some
one answered him.
"Nomads. Not sure they're ours. A lot of them."
By the time the tired legionaries reached the gate, the uncertainty had gone; the cavalry was shooting at them. One of the men fell, lay still.
"Get that damn wagon clear; we need the gate closed."
Harald-ARC Page 22
