Lord of Janissaries (73 page)

* * *

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 Point 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.

“Holy shit!” Beazeley yelled.

Mason looked around. Another band of Westmen were coming across the ridge to his left.

Dien Bien Phu, hell, Mason thought. It looks more like Little Big Horn.

31

Ganton felt reassured when he had completed his inspection of the army. Camithon had arrayed the host well. The men were dismounted to rest the horses. Above every approach to the hill stood a band of crossbowmen protected by the shields of men at arms. Behind them were walking wounded to reload, and dismounted knights taking their ease. From this height a bolt could slay a Westman’s horse before his own arrow could pierce armor, and a Westman on foot was no fair match for a Drantos warrior.

Ganton wasn’t worried about a fair match. He wanted the Westmen dead, or at least driven from his land. If he could have slain them all with his Browning, he would have done so.

“Ha. And what of your love of battle?” Morrone said. “Glory for your bheromen. What of that?”

“I had not realized I was speaking aloud,” Ganton said. “And there is precious little glory here . . .” He used his binoculars to look across the valley. Mason had retreated to where the balloon had been tethered and hauled it down. There was still no sign of the Romans. Had they taken a defensive position somewhere out of sight, or had they left the battle entirely? If they had run away, then Ganton’s army would never leave this valley.

He moved on toward the end of the ridge, and now arrows fell more thickly around him. As he drew near to Camithon’s banner, he saw why. The end of the ridge rose higher than any other part, but also jutted out toward the river like the prow of a ship. It was too steep to allow crossbowmen to perch on it, and the Westmen could ride in close enough to fire their arrows and receive only a few crossbow bolts in return.

Ganton dismounted. He had to scramble along the ridge to reach Camithon, who stood partially protected by guardsmen’s shields.

“Majesty, this is no safe place for you!”

“It is no more dangerous for me than for you, my lord general. Now—what is your counsel?” When the Westmen first struck and the Drantos horses began to tire, Ganton had not objected when Camithon brought the troops up this hill and set them in a defensive perimeter. Doubtless the general had a plan in mind. Now, though, it was time to learn it. “We are safe and in good order for the moment, but we are not eagles to make our homes here.”

Camithon grinned and waved the ancient battle-axe he had carried into every battle since his youth. “First, Majesty, let us get off this knife-edge.” He led the way back along the ridge. “As to counsel, I would know better if I could see what you see.”

“Ah,” Ganton lifted his binoculars to hand them to Camithon. “First, though—” he said. He swept them along the river bank, then up to where Mason’s banner stood with Caradoc’s. A waving orange flag, invisible without the binoculars, caught his eye. “Ho! A signal! Fetch the scribes!”

A runner dashed down the ridge and returned with three young acolytes.

“I am Panilos, senior acolyte, Majesty,” one said. He looked scarcely old enough to shave; the others were even younger.

“Take these, lad,” Ganton said. He handed over his binoculars, noting that Panilos had no difficulty in using them. “Read me that signal from the Lord Mason.”

“Aye, Majesty,” the boy said. “Laran, make the signals. Wannilos, are you ready?”

One of the scribes held wax board and stylus. “Aye,” he said. The other waved his flags while Panilos peered through the dust.

“R-O-M-A-N-S D-U-E N-O-R-T-H O-F H-E-R-E STOP,” he called.

Panilos called off the message and Wannilos wrote it on the board, while the third acolyte acknowledged each word. They worked quickly, too fast for Ganton to follow. When they were done, Wannilos read it off.

“ROMANS DUE NORTH OF HERE. THE ROMANS HAVE TAKEN HEAVY LOSSES BUT ARE IN GOOD ORDER. WE HAVE LOST MORE THAN HALF THE ARCHERS. BALLOON DISABLED. STAR WEAPONS LOW ON MISSILES. SUGGEST WE WITHDRAW.”

“If the Romans are due north of Lord Mason, they must be there,” Ganton said. “Beyond those hills. There is enough dust there.” He handed the binoculars to Camithon.

The old general held them gingerly. “Majesty, the Romans are not where I expected them to be. Now the Westmen will move to cut us off from the Romans. We must hasten to decide what to do. First, I will examine the battlefield. I wish to see the Romans.”

The Roman position was north and east. Sight of them was cut off by trees as well as dust. From further south on the prow of the ridge they might be visible. Camithon took the binoculars and moved gingerly out along the knife-edge. Ganton wanted to call him back, but that would not be seemly. Instead he followed.

They had gone half the way when Camithon straightened and cried out. Ganton ran forward. Camithon was falling when Ganton reached him, and only then did he see the arrow sticking out of the general’s left eye. Blood poured down over his scar. Ganton leaped to hold him, but the old man’s dead weight was too much. They fell off the ridge and rolled down the hill.

“Rally!” Morrone screamed. He leaped down the hill to get below his king. “Guards! Shieldsmen!”

Other knights jumped down from the ridgetop to form a shieldwall. Behind them king and captain lay together on the ground.

Ganton heard none of this. With his ear practically against Camithon’s lips, he strained to listen to the man who had been more to him than his father ever had.

“Make them stay together, lad. Use them well. And not too early—” The voice faded out.

“My Lord Protector. My friend,” Ganton whispered.

The voice came from lips flecked with blood. “Lad—” Then only a final rattle.

Ganton raised the dead form and laid his general’s head in his lap. He bent to kiss the bloody lips. Then he stood. A shower of arrows fell around them, and he realized it was his golden helm that drew the Westmen. Had his vanity killed his oldest friend? “Bear him upslope with honor,” Ganton said quietly.

Then he saw Camithon’s fallen battle-axe. He pointed to it. “I will carry that,” he said quietly. A knight handed it to him. Ganton slipped the thong about his wrist and whirled it until it blurred, remembering the hours Camithon had made him spend in the courtyard attacking wooden stakes.

There were shouts from above. Shouts and moving banners, with panic in some of the voices. “The Wanax has fallen,” someone shouted.

Ganton scrambled furiously up the crumbling sides of the slope. It was steep, and his armor was heavy. The battle-axe hampered him, but he held it grimly. No one else would carry
that
axe, not today and not ever. Camithon had no son . . . no son of his body, Ganton corrected himself. He has son enough today.

They had rolled farther down the slope than he had thought, and the climb was exhausting. His chest heaved with the effort. Then two guards leaped down from the ridgetop. One extended his hand and pulled Ganton up. It wasn’t dignified, but it helped him get up the slope.

“My horse!” he called to his orderly. “Bannerman! With me!” He spurred the horse to ride back along the ridge, hearing the cheers of his bheromen and knights as they saw the golden helm. “I am unhurt,” he shouted. When he was certain there would be no panic, he returned to the southern tip of the ridge.

“Majesty, dismount,” Morrone pleaded. “If you are hurt—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. With Camithon dead, there was only one person the knights would follow.