Lord of Janissaries (74 page)

Will they follow me? Ganton wondered. An untried youth, who has fought in one battle, one part of another; who has led them onto this hill of dusty death . . . what did Camithon intend? He had a plan, but I know it not.

And it matters not. It is my battle now, mine alone, and that is all I may consider now.

Some of the knights were standing by their horses. A few had mounted. Ganton rode toward them. “What means this, my lords? I have heard no trumpet!”

“We need no trumpet to tell us what to do.”

It was difficult to know who spoke, but from the shield markings and scarf Ganton thought it must be Bheroman Hilaskos, an important lord who led many lances to battle.

“And what would you do, my lord?”

“Cut through the enemy!” Hilaskos said.

“And then?”

“And return to our homes.”

“You would run away, then?” Ganton kept his voice low and calm, though it took a great effort to do that.

“No man calls me coward. But what honor is there to perch on a ridgetop until we die of thirst? The battle is lost, sire. It will not save my lands nor yet the realm for my lances to be lost with it.”

“Your lances will not be lost, nor yet will you,” Ganton said. “It is your Wanax who commands here. Dismount.”

Hilaskos hesitated. “Dismount,” Ganton said. “Or by Vothan I will take your head in sight of your knights. Dismount and kneel!”

One of Hilasko’s squires came forward to hold his master’s bridle. The baron hesitated a moment more, then got down from his horse. “Aye, sire,” he said. He knelt. “I see we have gained a true Wanax this day.”

The others dismounted, and Ganton rode again along the ridge. This time there were more cheers, and no dissenters.

“And what will we do now, sire?” Morrone asked when they were out of the others’ earshot.

Ganton continued to scan the battlefield. “I do not know,” he said.

* * *

Art Mason watched the priest of Yatar place the guardsman’s beret over his face and signal to the acolytes who were acting as stretcher-bearers. They picked up the dead man and carried him to the line of bodies already laid out just below the crest of the hill. A long line, too damned long, Art thought, and not all the guards’ dead were in it.

And the priests had armed themselves with fallen guardsmen’s daggers. For Westmen? Or for the wounded if they had to retreat? For the hundredth time Art wondered what Captain Galloway would do.

The situation looked sticky. There were only two qualified signalmen, and it would be a waste to send them up in the balloon even if they could get it repaired. The damned low hills would let the Westmen get close enough to shoot the balloon observers before the basket could rise out of range. Because of the hills there were thousands, tens of thousands of Westmen out there in a killing ground, but no way to kill them. Not enough ammunition, no clear fields of fire; they were down to four bombs for the mortar and no more than a dozen rounds for the 106.

Running low on ammunition, but not low on Westmen. Not at all.

He looked across at the Drantos forces again. They seemed intact, almost no losses, but they sat there on top of their damned hill. They’d acknowledged his message suggesting withdrawal, but they weren’t doing anything about it. The Romans weren’t acknowledging signals at all, which wasn’t surprising; they were only visible for short intervals when the dust cleared. They’d only had one semaphore expert with them, and he was probably lost.

“So what do we do, Art?” Murphy asked quietly.

“Wait.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, but you got a better idea? If we pull out—” He pointed to the low sunshade awnings the priests had erected to give shelter to the wounded.

“Yeah, I got that picture,” Murphy said.

“Besides—”

“Yeah?”

“Hell, Ben, I don’t think we
can
pull out.” He pointed to the north. “A mess of ’em disappeared in that direction. More went east. Not enough to worry about, if that was all of ’em, but enough to ambush us good while we’re trying to hold off pursuit.”

“Well, we gotta do
something
.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll think of it,” Mason said. “Crap, Ben, you know I’m no mucking officer.”

“Maybe not, buddy, but you’re all we got now,” Murphy said. He took a flask from his pocket. “Shot?”

“Yeah—no. Not just now.” He lifted the binoculars again.

* * *

Arrows fell around Ganton, but none got through his armor. Three knights held shields around him as he stood at the very tip of the ridge. From here he could see almost all of the battlefield.

The three groups of the Alliance formed a right isosceles triangle with the Romans at it apex. Across the valley, on the other side of the river, stood the Captain-General’s banner with Lord Mason’s. Caradoc’s stood close by them. Due east of Ganton and almost due north of Mason, the Romans held two more hilltops. He was separated from the Romans by a southward-jutting finger of the woody ridge that formed the north bound of the Hooey Valley.

I am the only one who sees all this, now that the balloon is gone, he thought. Knowledge is power, Lord Rick says. To know what the enemy does not know—what is it I know that they do not?

I know where all the Westmen are, and none of them can know this, for they are separated from each other by the low hills in the river valley. Even those on the tops of the knolls see only to the next hill.

And they were divided. The two largest groups face Lord Mason and the Romans, and those two groups are separated by the river. While below facing us—

Below were perhaps five thousand Westmen. A formidable number, but nothing for the host of Drantos to fear. Small groups of Westmen rode up and down their line, shouting to their comrades, and from time to time riders went toward the enormous bands facing the Romans.

If the Alliance forces were out of—
supporting distance
, as the starmen called it—so were the Westmen. And the Westmen had no wanax, no single commander.

“Stay here. They must believe that I will return,” Ganton ordered the shieldmen. He moved back along the ridge to Morrone. “Send messengers,” he said. “Water the horses. The host is to make ready to mount. I want no trumpets to sound until we are ready to ride. The squires and walking wounded will stay to protect the wounded and priests. The rest will prepare to charge. Go quickly now.”

Morrone grinned like a wolf. “Aye, sire.”

Ganton looked up at the vault of the sky. Father Yatar, give me clear sight. Is this right action?

There was no answer. Or was there? Far away he thought he saw an eagle circling above the valley. Almost he raised his binoculars, but then he let them dangle.

It is an eagle. It is an answer, he told himself. It is enough.

Morrone came up. “All is done as you ordered. Now let me aid you with your armor.”

“Aye. Stay with my banner,” Ganton said. “And if I fall, lead the host.”

“Where, Majesty?”

“There.” Ganton pointed southeast. “Through yonder band of Westmen. Ignore all the others. You and I will be at the left of the host. The others will form to our right. We break through that line, and ride eastward along the valley to there.” He pointed again to where the finger of ridge and trees separating them from the Romans jutted down into the valley. “As soon as we have rounded that small hill, then charge northeast.”

Morrone frowned. “Away from the Lord Mason?”

“Yes.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Is all in readiness?”

A shout rippled down the line. “LONG LIVE WANAX GANTON!”

“MOUNT!” he ordered. He swung onto his charger. “Morrone, stay with me. I want nothing save my armor closer to my back than you!”

“With my life, Majesty!”

“Sound the trumpets!”

The wild notes of the cornets blared up the line. Kettledrums added to the din. The Westmen down below looked up, startled. Ganton whirled the ax above his head. “FOR DRANTOS. FOR CAMITHON AND DRANTOS!”

The line of heavy cavalry moved ponderously forward, until there was no sound but the thunder of hooves and the call of trumpets.

32

Mad Bear had once seen the side of a hill fall when the earth shook. Boulders the size of men had rolled toward him faster than a horse could trot, and dust went up until it seemed it must reach the Father’s feet.

He remembered that now. There was dust in plenty, and it was as if the hill had fallen upon him—but now, each boulder was a man dressed all in iron, mounted on a horse so tall it seemed that a Horse People’s stallion could pass under its belly, and those great horses wore iron!

The hill was alive with banners, and the earth shook to the thunder of hooves. Trumpet calls rent the air, trumpets and kettledrums and the triumphant shouts of the Ironshirts as their great lances came down.

Mad Bear had fought Ironshirts before, but always on an open plain. He had never imagined such a host of them coming directly toward him. He knew that he saw his death, his and all the Horse People who had stood with him. Somewhere downriver were more of the Horse People, but not enough had come, and now—

Now there was nothing save honor. The Warrior would see that Mad Bear could die as a man, and that was all he could hope for.

He wasted no time with words. The thunder of the charging Ironshirts was too much. No one would have heard him. Instead, he counted his arrows. A hand and one more. Not enough, not nearly enough. Well, that would have to do also. He would shoot his arrows and ride away. Perhaps the Ironshirts would scatter as they followed. He nocked an arrow to his bow and tried to aim at flesh, not iron.

* * *

“For this was I born!” Ganton spurred his charger ahead. The line of Westmen had turned to face him, and they shot arrows as swiftly as they could. Here and there they struck home and a horse went down, causing others in the lines behind to swerve and stumble; but the host swept on inexorably.

“For this was I born!” he shouted again.

His lance took the first Westman in the throat, spitting him like a boar. Ganton let the lance dip and sweep behind so that his motion pulled it from the fallen enemy. He barely had time to raise it again before it struck home in a Westman pony. Ganton let it go and took the axe which hung by its thong from the saddle horn. As he swept past another enemy the axe swung to crash through a bear tooth and leather helmet and split the skull below it.

“Sire, let us pass!” Two guards rode alongside. “We have lances. Let us lead.”

Almost he cursed them; then he thought again. If I fall, the day is lost. Morrone cannot do what must be done. And that is not right, battles and kingdoms should not stand and fall by one life, but today it is so. “You have my thanks,” he shouted, and waved the Guards past. More drew alongside, and soon he was surrounded. Not by Guardsmen alone, he saw. Bheromen and knights, all eager to ride between him and danger.

If my father could have lived to see, he thought. And I live through this day, the throne is safe. Throne? Dynasty! Our children, mine and Octavia’s, will hold this land forever!

Wanax and followers rode on until they were through the lines of Westmen.

“Trumpets,” Ganton called. “Sound the rally. Bring the host toward me.”

The trumpets sang as his bannermen raised high the Royal Banner of Drantos and the Fighting Man. Then a dozen Westmen galloped past. They lay flat to their horse’s necks, their quivers empty. They were pursued by a score of Drantos horsemen thundering along behind the banner of Lord Epimenes. “Hold!” Ganton shouted. “HOLD!”

“The cowards flee!” the bheroman shouted.

They must hold, Ganton thought. He drew the Browning and fired toward Lord Epimenes’ banner. There was no knowing where the bullet went, but the sound was heard even in the din of battle. “HOLD!” Ganton shouted again. “Lord Epimenes, stay with me! We have better work than tiring our horses in pursuit of empty quivers! Leave them for the esquires, for we have work worthy of bheromen and knights!”

Epimenes reined in. It wasn’t clear whether he had been won over by Ganton’s words or by the axe and pistol the Wanax carried, but the futile pursuit was stopped.

“Trumpets, sound the walk,” Ganton shouted. In a more normal voice he spoke to the group around him. “We have broken through the first line. When we reach the top of yonder rise, we charge again. Morrone!”