Analog SFF, April 2010 (4 page)

Tyndall saluted, turned to face the cavalry, and bellowed his commands. “Company B, dismount! Form line of battle, first platoon front, second platoon rear!” The commands echoed along the cavalry ranks, the cavalrymen pulling their Sharps carbines from their saddle scabbards and dismounting. One of every four took control of four horses, leading them back a ways to where the wagons waited, while the remaining three soldiers fell into two long, open lines facing the enemy, the front rank kneeling and the second rank standing, each man about a yard from the men to the left and right of him. Less than a minute after Tyndall had shouted the orders, the cavalry was arrayed for battle.

Benton remained on his horse, riding slowly along the line. “Uncase the colors.” Canvas tubes came off the swallow-tailed guidon of the 5th Cavalry regiment and the flag of the United States of America, the banners unfurling to flap proudly in the breeze.

The oncoming horsemen were less than half a mile away, increasing their speed to a gallop. “They're going to wear out them horses, charging that hard that far,” Tyndall observed, apparently unconcerned. He'd fought at Gaines’ Mill in the War of the Rebellion, and since then in dozens of other battles and skirmishes. This was just one more.

Benton raised his empty hand again. “Halt! We are United States Cavalry.” He doubted those charging toward the cavalry could hear him over the sound of their own horses, and in any case the attackers seemed oddly unconcerned by the steady lines of carbines facing them.

Drawing his pistol, Benton waited as the horsemen grew closer, the earth shaking from the pounding of their horses’ hooves. “Mark your man and aim your shots,” he called, riding slowly across the back of the second line of dismounted cavalry. “Standby. First Platoon, fire!"

The kneeling rank fired their weapons in a rippling volley, immediately afterward breaking open their carbines to eject the spent cartridge from the breech and reload as Benton called out his next order. “Second Platoon, fire!"

The shortest pause to allow the first rank to finish loading. “First Platoon, fire!"

"Second Platoon, fire!"

The volleys crashed out and the horses of the attackers went wild, bucking frantically, bolting and panicking. Armored men fell everywhere, some dead or wounded from hits by the heavy .50 caliber carbine bullets, other losing their seats and being hurled from the saddle by horses gone berserk. The attack had dissolved into total chaos, the survivors of the first four volleys fleeing as fast as they or their mounts could tear across the landscape.

"Company B, cease fire!"

Sergeant Tyndall stared at the remnants of the attack, shaking his head. “It's like those horses had never heard a shot fired, cap'n.” His horse, like all cavalry mounts, had been trained not to flinch at the sound of gunshots. “And why can't those men keep their seats?” Then his expression cleared. “They don't have stirrups. Just like Indians. But those ain't any Indians I ever saw."

Looking past the ruin of the mounted charge, Benton could see the infantry that had been assailing the city frantically coming down off of their ladders and running through their camp, not to form a defensive line but away from the cavalry, joining their mounted comrades in panicked flight.

Sergeant Tyndall watched the rout, scratching his head. “Well, I'll be damned. I guess we won. Now what do we do, cap'n?"

Benton wished for a moment that he had someone superior in rank to ask that same question. But there seemed only one realistic course of action. “Company B, mount up.” He waited until the soldiers in the rear had brought forward the horses and the cavalry once again formed two mounted lines. “Bugler, sound advance. Let's go get a better look at that city. Sergeant Tyndall, make sure the wagons close up with us."

They rode at a walk, wheeling the lines to bypass to one side of the dead and dying horsemen, but close enough for Benton to get a good look at some of them. He saw blond hair, brown hair, and black hair, skin and facial features that seemed mostly European but sometimes Asian, and weapons and armor that seemed out of the early middle ages or late Roman Empire.

This was all inexplicable, yet Benton knew he had to lead his company through whatever was going on. Already a bit emotionally numb, Benton focused tightly on the routines and procedures that needed to be followed now.

As the cavalry lines approached the city, they rode through the empty tent camp of the former besiegers, who were still visible in the distance but running for all they were worth. On the walls of the city, defenders were waving swords, spears, and axes over their heads and cheering. “Company B, halt! I guess we'd better find out who these people are and where we are, sergeant. Lieutenant Garret, hold the company here while the sergeant and I go parley."

Benton rode toward the walls, Sergeant Tyndall on his horse just behind. Spotting a cluster of figures near some blue banners embroidered with many-pointed stars, Benton headed that way, assuming they would be the leaders of the defenders. Holding up his right palm again, Benton checked his horse just under the walls. Still skittish from the battle, his horse danced sideways as more cheers erupted from overhead.

Looking upward, Benton called out. “I am Captain Ulysses Benton, United States Cavalry. I wish to speak to your commanding officer, leader, or chieftain."

A babble of noise broke out above in which Benton couldn't make out a single familiar word, though some of the words teased at him in the way of sounds which share the same root as a word in a known language. Then the shouts died down rapidly as one of the defenders stood up on the rampart, gazing down a good twenty feet at Benton. This person wore a chain-mail shirt, with more mail forming a hauberk around the neck, what appeared to be leather trousers, and heavy leather boots that came up to the knee, almost meeting the mail shirt where it hung down. The chain mail was torn in several places where the blows of swords or axes had struck home. On the defender's head, a bright helm topped with a white horse-hair plume shone in the sun. Raising one hand to mimic Benton's gesture, the defender called down a long sentence, not one word of which Benton could understand.

But that wasn't why he stared up, momentarily shocked into silence. The leader of the defenders, face streaked with sweat and dust, sword still wet with blood, had spoken in the unmistakable voice of a woman.

All right, then. The leader of the city was a woman. Compared to the disappearances of Fort Harker and Ellsworth, that was a relatively easy thing to accept.

Behind Benton, Sergeant Tyndall made a baffled sound. The captain turned in the saddle, facing the sergeant. “Did you recognize anything she said?"

"Sir . . . cap'n . . . that's a woman!"

"It seems so, sergeant, now tell me if you recognized her language. Is it in any way related to Cheyenne or Arapaho?” He already thought he knew the answer. It hadn't sounded a bit like a plains tribe language. If anything, some of the words had sounded vaguely European.

"No, sir.” Tyndall shook his head. “Not them, and not Sioux or Pawnee. I've talked to some of the civilized tribes down south, Cherokee, Choctaw, and the like, and it didn't sound like none of them, neither."

"I think I'd recognize Shoshone,” Benton said. “It's not Crow, either. Did it sound a little Spanish?"

"Maybe a little, sir,” Sergeant Tyndall agreed. “But it's not.” He scrunched up his face. “And I ain't never seen a señorita like that, cap'n."

Looking closely, Benton could now make out the feminine features under the helm. Unless he was mistaken, as many as half of the other defenders might be women as well. “Amazons. In Kansas. Maybe that's Greek they're speaking.” The idea was absurd, but no more so than what he was seeing. “Lieutenant Garret!"

Garret rode up, saluting.

"You know some Greek, don't you?"

"Classical Greek, yes, sir. From Homer. Just a little."

Benton gestured upward. “Try it on her."

Gazing at the Amazon, Garret hesitatingly spoke a few words. The woman spread her hands to show she didn't understand and called down again. “Captain, I—That's strange. It almost sounds like a lot of languages, but it's none of them."

Benton tried again. “We're from Fort Harker, in the state of Kansas, United States of America.” He didn't need a translator to see that no one on the wall recognized any of those names.

The woman called once more, gesturing in a way that conveyed she wanted them to wait, then hopped down inside the wall and disappeared from view. After a few minutes, the sound of heavy objects being moved came from behind the walls, and then the massive gates of the city swung open and the woman came out riding toward the cavalrymen astride a horse that seemed part Arabian and part plains pony. Behind her came a small party of other mounted fighters from the city, both men and women, though those all stopped perhaps fifteen feet from the cavalrymen while the woman came on until she reined in close to them.

"No stirrups,” Sergeant Tyndall murmured. “Just like the others."

Benton checked, having been distracted just watching the Amazon ride up, seeing that her saddle did lack stirrups and had high ridges in the front and back, doubtless to help the rider keep a seat during battle.

"Be careful, cap'n,” Tyndall added in a low voice. “Women can be tricky."

The woman crossed her arms over her chest and bowed in her saddle, speaking again in a way that conveyed authority, then held out her hands to show what she held. “Bread and salt,” Garret said in a surprised voice. “That's an ancient gesture of hospitality, captain."

"She's welcoming us?"

"Yes, sir, welcoming us as guests. You're supposed to take a little of both to show you accept the hospitality."

Benton kneed his horse forward a couple of paces, coming within easy reach of the Amazon. This close he could finally judge her age, thinking she was probably in her mid-to-late thirties, not all that different from Benton himself. Reaching carefully, Benton grasped the bread and took a bite, tasting a hearty loaf with a strange nutlike aroma, which didn't match any wheat variety he had encountered. With his other hand, Benton rubbed a finger in the salt, feeling the warmth of the woman's palm under it, then raised the finger to his mouth and licked it.

She turned to hand the bread and salt to another woman who rode up hastily. This Amazon was a bit older, stouter, her armor bearing signs of long wear and careful maintenance. Something about the way she carried herself and answered the first woman's instructions made Benton glance at Sergeant Tyndall. “I think we've found the leading sergeant here."

Tyndall looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be scandalized or fascinated. But he could surely tell that Captain Benton was willing to accept the idea, so the sergeant seemed ready to follow his captain's lead here as he had so many times before.

The leader of the city pointed toward Benton again. No, not just toward him, but to his uniform blouse and trousers, and then upwards before inclining her head respectfully toward him.

"Any guesses what that's about, lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

The Amazon swept off her helm, revealing dark hair cut short above her shoulders and making it easier to see that her eyes were the blue of a stormy sea. No, definitely not an Indian, but not Greek, either. Pointing to herself, the woman said two words. “Odwan Freya."

"Her name?” Garret speculated.

"Maybe name and rank,” Benton replied. “She seems to be in charge.” He saluted her. “Captain Benton, ma'am."

Pointing at him, the woman repeated the words. “Kiptin Bintin-miim.” Sergeant Tyndall coughed, doubtless covering up a laugh.

"It's just—” Benton paused, then pointed to himself. “Captain Benton."

She nodded. “Kip-tan Bin-ton.” The woman extended one hand toward the city and said, “Astera."

Turning once more, the Amazon gestured out to where the fleeing enemy could still be seen, shaking her head. She covered her eyes, made a series of motions mimicking someone coming stealthily this way, then drew a flat hand across her throat and pointed toward the enemy again. “She thinks those fellows might come back tonight when they can't be seen and cut our throats, cap'n,” Tyndall remarked. “We'll have to post a lot of sentries."

But the woman was pointing toward the gate, then made a gesture encompassing the entire company of cavalry, before indicating the gate once more and nodding vigorously. “Achates,” she declared, once again gesturing toward the cavalry and then at everyone with her and on the walls.

"Friends?” Lieutenant Garret wondered. “She's inviting us inside, sir."

Benton thought about that. He knew what could easily happen to his troopers inside the streets of a strange city. That wasn't cavalry terrain at all, and his soldiers would be badly outnumbered by the people living here.

But they needed stables and forage for the horses, food and water and shelter for the men. The sun wasn't far from setting, and having the city walls between the cavalry and those hostiles wouldn't be a bad thing, either.

The Amazon looked steadily into his eyes, no trace of deception or hostility apparent. Drawing her sword slowly, she held it out hilt-first toward Benton.

That gesture of peaceful intent was impossible to mistake. Benton noted approvingly that the woman had obviously wiped the sword blade clean of blood before returning it to its scabbard. She knew how to take proper care of a weapon. He nodded at her, studied the width of the gate for a moment, then turned to Garret. “Lieutenant, form the company up into a column of fours, then lead the column here. We will enter the city."

"Yes, sir.” Garret saluted, a gesture the Amazon watched with interest, then galloped back to the cavalry. A moment later the bugler sounded the signal, the clear tones echoing from the walls of the city, and the cavalry moved quickly from their two lines into a column, four men abreast, first platoon to the front and second platoon to the rear, the wagons taking their places in the center of the column again.

The woman had resheathed her sword and now watched the cavalry form up, an approving smile appearing on her lips. Holding up her arms, she made a fist with one hand and pounded it repeatedly into her other palm. “Extos!” she cried.