The next morning, as the legions broke camp, Gavin summed up the situation for his officers.
"We know they have Ladies, maybe five hundred. Scouts saw a couple of hundred heavies before our lights broke off yesterday. Maybe thirty cats. If they had a lot of cats, Ivor and his boys would be pushing up grass—as it was, the damn Ladies cost us fifty men, more horses. They might have had a lot of heavies waiting farther back, been baiting a trap." He turned to the scout commander.
"Last time you saw them, their main body was south and west of us. How far?"
"About five miles at sunset. My boys get too close, cats drive them off, but at least they aren't coming this way."
Gavin thought a moment.
"The castle we're here to take is south and east, in the hills, maybe twenty miles from here. One long day's march if we didn't have the damn wagons. Say two days. If we can get there before they do, if there isn't much of a garrison . . . We'll have to take it fast if their main army is loose behind us—no supplies from home. If they cut over to defend it—they can move faster than we can—makes the castle harder to take, but then their field force is bottled up, we can take our time. Comments?"
Silence for a moment; the Belkhani commander broke it.
"Leatherbacks out ahead of us. We might lose a few scouts but at least there won't be any surprises."
Kyro looked at Ivor in surprise, said nothing. Gavin nodded. "Yes."
An hour later, scouts at the top of the next ridge, legions beginning to move out, heavy cavalry flanking them, the commander and his second watching from below the abandoned camp.
"Looks like someone's got another magic trick."
Kyro looked at his commander curiously.
"Ever seen a cautious Belkhani before?"
Kyro thought a moment, shook his head.
With two legions and the light infantry at the top of the next ridge, Gavin sent the wagons to join them, then the third legion and the Belkhani. He repeated the maneuver at the next ridge, heading south and east. By noon the force had covered three miles. The next ridge was defended, abandoned as the legions approached. Three days and two minor skirmishes later, the sixth legion pitched camp in sight of Markholt. The next morning, Gavin called council.
"Sixth, what did your boys see?"
"Lot of horses ahead of us—mud thirty yards wide. Their rear was still going into the castle when we made camp. Nothing but Ladies, far as we could see—the track that cut south five miles back might be the Karl heavies. Hell of a lot of archers behind those walls."
"More mouths—we aren't the only ones short of supplies this time of year. With the Order locked in the castle and the Karl heavies south of us, the northern plains should be ours for a while. Siege. Legion engineers can go to work—there's lots of timber—make life interesting for the Karls."
Ivor caught his commander's eye. "What do you want me and Bertrand and our boys to do while the turtles are sieging?"
"Watch our back. I'm leaving one legion camped on the road in, just to play safe. Bertrand's boys patrolling the plains five or ten miles out to let us know if the Karls turn up with an army, threaten us or our supplies. Your boys are backup, in case it's a small army. If it's a big army, fall back on the legions. In a day or two, escort empty wagons home, full wagons back—four hundred lights, two hundred heavies should do it."
By late afternoon all three legions were dug in—the sixth west of the castle, the seventh northwest, the tenth blocking the road in. That left the south, under the looming shoulder of the mountain, for the Bashkai. They were still making camp, setting up tents, starting cooking fires.
"How does anyone find anything?"
Gavin looked up and down the colorful chaos. "Slowly. Tent banners give rank, clan. Look long enough . . ."
"What if someone attacks them?"
"Ant nest. But mostly they run forward, not back. Ever see a Bashkai without his weapons?"
"In the bath?"
"Ever see a Bashkai in a bath?"
Kyro thought a moment, shook his head.
"What the hell . . . ?"
Gavin was pointing at an arrow quivering in the ground. Voices were yelling. Someone ran past. Someone else staggered, fell clutching his belly, an arrow. Gavin reached down, grabbed the shield the Baskhai had dropped, looked around for the enemy. Beside him Kyro yelped. The feathered end of the arrow sticking out of his shoulder pointed up. Gavin looked up, around. Many of the Bashkai had shields raised, mostly against the castle. He saw one of them stagger, fall. That wasn't it—too far. He turned, looked up to where the lower slope of the mountain rose almost vertically from the edge of the camp, pointed, yelled. One of the Bashkai saw, called out something in his own language, raised his shield against the arrows sleeting down from above. Where the slope above flattened out, Gavin could see figures outlined in black against the eastern sky.
Gavin recognized the banner on a tent. "Arkhal! Out here, shield, get your damn people into cover in the woods."
There was no answer. He stepped to the tent door, looked in. The blue carpet bristled with arrows. So did the man lying on it.
"Back to the trees! Back to the trees!"
Someone else had figured it out. Voices yelling in Bashkai, men pointing up at the mountain, more running for the shelter of the forest behind them. Most made it.
Gavin's tent, a single lamp—outside dark. The commander, the legion commanders, the Hetman of the Bashkhai, a bloody bandage on his arm, a ferocious scowl. Gavin spoke first.
"Karls got a hell of a lot of archers up on that hilltop without us any the wiser. Any guesses how?"
He looked at the commander of the sixth. The officer thought a moment before responding.
"We saw them go into the castle last night before dark. They could have come back out again after; the castle wasn't surrounded. South along the bottom of the hill, into the forest somewhere, up. Stayed back out of sight."
Gavin turned to the Hetman, spoke slowly.
"Do you know how many men you lost yet?"
"Too many. Morning climb mountain, chop archer women, feed black birds."
The tent door opened. Kyro came in, shoulder neatly bandaged, spoke:
"Might not be a bad idea, sir. I wouldn't fight Baskhai in the woods. Not with a bow."
Sitting by a fire, less than a mile away as the crow flies, Caralla expressed much the same opinion.
"If all my Ladies could move like Kara and fight like you, what's left of the Bashkai would be a fair fight. I don't like fair fights. The first three tataves are moving already, the rest follow. I'm leaving you four octaves. Kill anyone, that's fine, but your job is to scare them, make them move slow. Lose any of your Ladies, very unhappy with you. Get yourself killed, very unhappy with Kara."
Elaina thought a moment.
"The last week on a smaller scale? Where it's clear, ambush, one flight, run?"
"And don't take chances. Think about fighting in the woods against a thousand Karas. It's not like the legions."
The next morning, the edge of the woods, watching the bare shoulder where they had spent a day and part of two nights. Noises the other side. Kara nocked an arrow, Elaina lifted her whistle, waited.
Out of the woods a line of big shields. Elaina blew, nocked, released.
Kara's voice was urgent. "It's legionaries. Bashkai move faster. Out of here."
Elaina hesitated only a moment, lifted the whistle again, two short blasts. Turned back towards the path. A nightmare face ahead of her, streaked red and yellow. She thrust left-handed at the face with her bow, snatched right for the dagger at her belt, stepped in. The Bashkai blocked the bow with the axe in his right hand, grunted. She stepped back, he threw, she knocked the axe aside with the bow. Both hands over his belly, scarlet, he took a slow step forward, buckled.
"Run."
She started forwards. Another, farther ahead. She threw the bow like a javelin, stepped sideways. He turned to block it, looked down in surprise at the feathers sprouting from his side. Her sword was out, struck, past. Another, no space to let Kara shoot. The arm came down, the axe spun. Elaina stepped forward into it, felt the shock of the haft on her left shoulder, struck with the sword. He stepped back clear of the blow, in, long knife in his left hand, right reaching for another axe. She thrust, felt the shock run up her arm, pulled the sword free.
"Run."
She ran, found the path, along it. Shouting behind. She yelled.
" 'Laina and Kara!"
Out of the woods into the small clearing, through. At the far side, turned. Kara came out of the woods at a run, through the clearing. Two Bashkai after her. Arrows sleeted from the woods, they dropped. Yells.
"Here."
She turned. Kara handed her her bow. More Baskhai, more arrows. Elaina put the whistle to her mouth, two short blasts, waited a moment to let the others get to the path. Kara loosed blind across the clearing into the woods, Elaina imitated her. They turned, ran.
Two hours later they came out of the tree line. On the slope above them, thirty or forty Ladies were sitting around fires cooking dinner. Elaina spotted Caralla at one fire, yelled.
"Get out; they're coming."
"Shut up and have dinner, sister."
Elaina's mouth fell open. Kara caught her by the sleeve, spoke quietly.
"Do what she says."
Five minutes later, as Elaina was trying to choke down a bit of bread, the Bashkai burst out of the woods, charged uphill yelling.
"Down."
The Ladies at the fire went to their faces; Elaina heard the hiss of arrows over them. A lot of arrows. When she looked back, most of the Bashkai were down, the last few vanishing back into the woods. The slope uphill was alive with archers. Caralla's voice.
"The real camp, the horses, another mile. How many did you lose?"
Elaina glanced around, where the Ladies were standing up, dusting themselves off. She counted again.
"Nobody."
"Congratulations. You get to do it again."
A week after the attack on the Bashkai camp, Gavin was watching the trebuchets come into action. He liked trebuchets, counterweighted monsters throwing rocks a man could barely lift from safely out of arrow shot of the target. The Karls had smaller engines up on the walls, but rough log walls shielded his teams from most of what they could throw. He turned to Kyro.
"They're slow, building them is a pain, but they're safe—and with enough time and rocks no wall can stand against them. Including that one. Any word of the supply train yet?"
"Any day now. What are we short of?"
"Beer. Three of the damn barrels had leaks."
Kyro gave his commander a quizzical look.
"Didn't say where the leaks came from."
"Commander!"
Gavin turned. It took him a moment to recognize the figure.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Four days through the mountains with the Hetman and his people, two days more getting back. Didn't Hanno get here?"
Gavin shook his head.
"Damn. Fastest runner I had."
"What did you lose, what did you kill, where is the enemy?"
"Didn't lose anyone, sir, saving Hanno if they got him. Couple of scratches. Hetman lost people. Didn't get any of the enemy that I know of, sir—they kept running."
"Where are they?"
"They came out of the woods two days north of here, sir. Last I saw of them. They had horses, we didn't."
"Gods. Where are the Bashkai, chasing them over the plains?"
"No sir. Hetman doesn't like plains—too easy to shoot people. Coming back through the woods along the base of the hills. Longer, should be here soon."
Gavin looked at Kyros, said the obvious.
"Whole damn Order between us and the bridge. Guess we do without beer for a while."
The trebuchet's weight came down, the long arm up, the sling whipping above. Four hundred yards away they heard the crack of the rock hitting the castle wall. Gavin went over to talk to the engineers. Enough time might be a problem.
Fifteen miles north, Caralla was arguing with two of her captains.
"How do you propose we carry them—slung under the horses' bellies?"
"Hide a few barrels in a gully, send the rest with the wagons up into the hills."
"And spend the next week tied to your beer. No. Sisters can drink some now, fill up water bottles for later, but the barrels go with the wagons. Mound for 'Riana, mound for the three beggars that earned it. Horses too if there were time—I wouldn't have charged us. Rest of the bodies the Imperials can take care of when they find them. Wagons up to Stephen's people in the hills, Lyra on the litter. We've been here too long already."
Kara, in the ring of Ladies listening to the argument, said something to Elaina, Elaina spoke.
"We could take one barrel in a litter, dinner, breakfast tomorrow."
"Do it. The two of you—your idea. One barrel."
A week later, Gavin called his officers to council.
"The stone throwers are doing fine, but they aren't bringing down the wall today or tomorrow. If they did, better hope the Karls have lots of food, because we don't. Two supply trains taken that we know of and I'm not counting on a third. Time to go home. Bring back all of the legions, most of the cavalry, some of the Bashkai—not what we hoped, but a hell of a lot better than last time. Comments?"
"Bertrand and I could take our boys north, bring the next supply train back with us."
"Might not be one. Might not get back. Karls have had three weeks and more. Might be six or seven thousand heavies out there, two thousand lights. Your boys are good but I don't like those odds."
He looked around; nobody said anything.
"Break camp, move out, three hours. Engineers spend what time they have throwing lots of little stones over the wall, see if we can hurt someone. Tenth and sixth lead with Bashkai, seventh guards the rear. Archers, wagons, wounded in between. Leatherbacks scout all directions—including behind us once we're clear of the woods. Rest of the cavalry on both sides. Both of you remember they have more cavalry than we do, so don't chase. Bertrand, a report from your scouts before we move."
Three hours later the Sixth Legion formed up beside the seventh, outside the latter's camp. Trumpets blew, drums beat. The army was going home.
A day and a half later, forty miles north, sixty feet higher, Marcus was staring south across the river when he heard boots coming up the narrow ladder.
"Consider yourself relieved. Anything out there?"
"Seventy-three million five hundred and ninety-seven thousand four hundred and seventeen blades of grass. One hundred and thirty-three ant hills. Twenty poor bastards under cover at the far end of the bridge. Six leatherbacks watering their horses at the river and thinking up excuses for not scouting. From what I've heard the last few days, can't say I blame them. No armies—ours or theirs."
"What's raising dust at the top of the ridge?"
"Don't know—maybe one of the scouts is scouting."
The two men, crowded into the top of the fort's single observation tower, watched.
"It's a wagon. Coming fast. Like someone's chasing it."
Marcus lifted the horn to his lips, sounded the alarm. The single wagon was coming down the slope towards the bridge. On the ridge above, one of the escorting leatherbacks clutched at something, fell off his horse. The rest of the troop followed the wagon down. Now the ridge was black with riders. More of the leatherbacks were falling. The wagon rumbled onto the bridge, stopped. The guards at the south end were behind their earthworks, crossbows ready. On the ridge, riders had been replaced by figures on foot. It was too far to see arrows, but Marcus had no doubt why the guards were under cover; the Karl archers had demonstrated before their ability to reach the south end of the bridgehead from the nearest point of the ridge. He looked down at the wagon. The driver was gone; a head bobbed in the river. Marcus hoped the man could swim. The leatherbacks were all down, their bodies spotting the slope. Below him, archers lined the fort's wall.
"What the hell. Look at that. Damn wagon's burning."
The plume of smoke rose into the air; in the fading daylight, Marcus thought he could even see a tongue of flame. In the fort below, men were yelling. The gate opened, a couple of legionaries with buckets ran for the bridge. Neither of them made it across. In front of the gate a group formed up—eight men with shields, a turtle formation four wide and two deep, behind them four with buckets—and moved onto the bridge into the rain of arrows. Smoke from the burning wagon—and the planks under it—blew back up the slope where the dead leatherbacks were coming to life, running for the ridge.
By full dark they had the fire out. The Order archers, with nothing to aim at, stopped shooting.
"Hard to say how much damage till morning, sir. Maybe eight, ten feet of planking gone. Whatever was in that wagon burned fierce."
The garrison commander thought a moment before putting the next question.
"What about the beams? Harder to replace."
"Doubt the fire got that far. "
"We'll have to send a boat in the morning to check from underneath. Anyone know how much spare planking we have?"
An officer with a gray beard spoke from the back of the room. "Not much."
"Send a messenger to the Prince's man in that village up north, get people to work. The Karls may have more tricks—a couple of spare beams would be nice too. By the look of that wagon, size of that army, I don't think Gavin's been getting his beans and beer lately. Might be coming home in a hurry."
He looked around the room; the officers were silent.
"Two jobs. Patch that bridge. Protect it—against five or ten times our number of Karls. How?"
There was a brief pause; the commander of the garrison's archer company broke it.
"From the walls, my men can reach almost halfway to the ridge, the engines a little farther. We have a hundred archers, a dozen engines. If the Karls try to storm the bridge, take it apart, use it for firewood, we can make things pretty unhealthy for them."
The graybearded officer spoke from the back: "They might be willing to give up a little of their beauty sleep. How do you hit them in the dark?"
"Half moon tonight, waxing."
The commander shook his head.
"We can't count on the moon—all it takes is one cloudy night. Besides, they could wait until it was down. Get the engines sighted in now, spear throwers at the far end of the bridge, stone throwers a little farther—no point smashing the bridge ourselves. Stack a couple of big piles of straw south of the bridgehead; if the troops on the far side can't fire them, you can use fire arrows. Enough light to shoot at an army."
The older officer spoke again.
"When we repair the end of the bridge, leave planks loose, tie them in place. Take them up at night. Eight foot gap. If they get to the end of the bridge all they can hack up will be the ends of the beams. If it's dark, some of them might find out the hard way."
The commander looked around. One of the legionary officers spoke.
"We have twenty men on the far side of the bridge. Dangerous but useful. Have them build up the earthworks in front. Behind too. If Belio's boys are shooting blind . . ."
"Messenger north tomorrow morning. Boat under the bridge to check the damage. Belio sees to getting the engines sighted in. When he's done, we send out tortoises, engineers, to start fixing the damaged bit. If there aren't enough planks to do all of it, half width, space out planks if we have to. Once that's done, send loads of straw across for bonfires. Orders to the troops the other side to build up earthworks in front, behind, best they can manage—they may need them. See to tying shields to one of the boats so we can get people across that way if we can't use the bridge. Word up and down the river to send more boats just in case. What have I forgotten?"
The answer was drifting downstream through the night. Egil put his question in a whisper.
"How do you stop one of these things?"
"Pole. Anchor. Run into a bridge."
"My pole's a quarter mile upstream; hadn't let go I'd be there too. Happen to see His Excellency Lord Stephen again, tell him to send two men next time. "
"You said you knew how to swim."
"Held onto the damn pole I'd have proved it. Doesn't mean I can steer a raft."
"Don't worry. A bridge is hard to miss."
He was right. An hour later the garrison commander woke up to horns, someone pounding on his door.
"Are they attacking?"
"The bridge is burning."
From the ramparts he could see the whole scene. The middle section of the bridge was a mass of flames. Men were running out the gate, shields up, buckets instead of swords. One of them was down. An arrow struck the rampart.
"That wasn't from the ridge; they've come downhill in the dark."
"Damn little we can do about it." He yelled down. "Gate is in range of their archers. Shields up when you come out."
He turned to the officer next to him.
"Time to rewrite my dispatches. We're going to need a lot more planks."
"Damn."
Kyro turned in the saddle to look at his commander. The bridge, its center a scorched ruin, was not what they had been hoping to see over the final ridge. Four days of half rations, harassment by archers, the continual threat of thousands of heavy cavalry, and now this.
Gavin sat his horse for a few minutes, looking down at the bridge, the river, the fort on the other side, then turned to his second.
"The legions on the ridge—full field fortifications. Cavalry, Bashkai on the flat by the river. Archers in the legion camp. At least the terrain is on our side—not counting that damn river. I'm going down there to talk to the idiots responsible. Tell Ivor to give me a squad for escort. A banner, too—I'd rather not be shot by my own people. Suggestions?"
"If they can't patch the bridge, can we ford it? What everyone did before."
"Not this time of year they didn't—look how high the river is. We might swim it with ropes to help, but we'll lose people, horses. Not to mention leaving most of our gear behind. We might get across on boats. Eight thousand men, three thousand horses, hell of a lot of boats. And the Karls won't be sitting on their hands. Not so bad if we weren't short of food."
The first good news was that the men guarding the bridge didn't shoot him. The second was a boat. On the far side the garrison commander was waiting.
"My boys are hungry. What do you have and how do we get it to them?"
"We've been accumulating supplies, waiting for more wagons. Seven or eight loads. The boat you came in, one more, are all we have. I sent riders upstream, downstream, but no more boats so far. The bridge needs one section of long beams, a lot of planks. I sent a rider to the Prince's town up north; no word back."
"Two boats aren't much, but better than nothing. Supplies over, wounded back. Start with a couple of barrels of beer. How long ago did you send the rider?"
"Two days. Should have been back today at the latest."
"Send again. With an escort; this isn't the only ford. The same thing up and down river for boats. Let me get a look at the bridge."
Two miles south, Caralla rode into the royal camp, ignored a dozen banners, found the pennon she was looking for. As she dismounted, her mother came out of one of the larger tents. Caralla turned to her.
"Three killed, twenty-four injured, four badly."
"Supplies?"
"Five days for the Ladies—resupply courtesy of our friends. Even brought us beer. Horses have grain for two days; we're grazing them now."
"And I already have your estimate of their losses. Doubt your father could have done better."
That silenced Caralla. Her sister's arrival provided a change of subject.
"Couldn't have done it without Egil. Kara too. 'Laina took half a tatave, brought them all back. She'll do."
"If she doesn't get herself killed first."
"Mother! I didn't even get wounded."
"Better than last time. Learn to be careful; you're good, but I've buried better. Don't have a lot of daughters. Council in the tent yonder."
Before following her, Caralla turned to Elaina.
"Get Father talking sometime—his trip this side the mountains during the troubles."
"Bergthora told me the part she saw, when the Wolves almost killed him. Said she had never seen anyone fight like that."
"When things go wrong. Mostly he makes sure they don't. That's the part you need to learn."
The next afternoon yells, men pointing south. Down the slope a line of wagons, heavy cavalry as escort. Elaina recognized the banner, turned to Caralla.
"What's Stephen bringing?"
"Something someone left behind."
Three of the wagons stopped in the camp to unload supplies. The rest continued over the ridge, down the other side, up; they came to a stop just below the top of the ridge that separated the camps of the two armies. The riders dismounted, started unloading. Two hours later the pile of lumber was gone; where it had been stood two trebuchets, just downhill from the archers on the ridge.
Elaina turned to her sister.
"Monsters. Where did Stephen get siege engines?"
"From a siege. Small engines get disassembled for the parts. Trebuchets are mostly wood, heavy to carry. They didn't get around to burning all of it."
The engines assembled, Caralla rode over to talk to Stephen.
"Brother says you damn near got him drowned."
Stephen looked up. "Did it work?"
"Whole middle section out."
"And Egil got a bath. Don't see what you're complaining about."
The next morning, Gavin woke to voices near the tent. When he came out, Kyro and a cluster of legionaries were staring at the opposite ridge.
"Archers still there?"
"Yes. Something new. At the west end—look."
The flagpole was almost a mile west of the enemy position. As Gavin watched, a flag ran up it, blew out in the wind—red. It dipped, came up again, down. A minute later it was followed by a pale blue flag; that one dipped twice. Then red again.
"Who the hell are they signaling to?"
Ten minutes later, the pattern was clear—two different flags, varying numbers of dips once the flag was up. Gavin shook his head, looked up and down the enemy position—nothing. Hoofbeats.
It was Ivor.
"Splashes. In the river. I think they're throwing at the bridge. Don't know where the engines are, how they're aiming them."
Gavin watched the flagpole a moment longer, turned, stood watching the river. A minute later he saw the splash, a little upstream from the bridge. A minute later another, downstream. He turned back to his officers.
"They must have trebuchets just the other side of the ridge—any farther they'd be out of range. Someone in cover farther west on this ridge, beyond our lines. He signals where the splash is, flags relay. Get Bertrand, the Hetman, tell the legion commanders to start their men forming up, then come here."
The three legion commanders showed up first.
"There are trebuchets just the other side of that ridge, trying to smash the bridge we plan to go home on. You're going to take them. Karls aren't fools; they have to know we're coming. Might be six or seven thousand heavies waiting for us; do it by the book. Lights to guard the flanks. Get close to the ridge, long spears down."
He turned to Ivor.
"The Karls have someone watching the fall of the rocks, signaling. Has to be on this ridge to see the river. The flagpole on the next ridge relays. Take five hundred heavies in case of trouble, down the ridge, catch the observer if you can, take out the flag pole. Circle back, maybe block their retreat if we break them. My guess is their army is south of here waiting for us to come after the trebuchets, but be careful. The rest of your boys, Bertrand, can make sure Karls don't get anyone behind us. Archers on the ridge till we need them somewhere."
Imperial discipline brought order fast. Three legions formed, down and south towards the next ridge, its archers, the hidden engines. Ivor's column went west at a gallop. The rest of the cavalry, heavy and light, formed up in two bodies, one west of the camp with its right flank on the river, one east with its left flank on the river, the supply wagons and the bridgehead protected between them.
One of Ivor's men yelled, pointed. A figure had broken from cover, was running down the slope towards the flag pole on the next ridge, the men around it. Ivor slanted left, led his column down the slope, up. Five hundred heavies against four Karls—five counting the runner—and a flagpole. It looked to be a one-sided battle.
A mile east the legions were moving up the slope. Gavin, his horse abandoned as too good a target, was with them. The rain of arrows from the ridge slowed, stopped. The legions broke into a trot, long spears coming down as they reached the ridge, came over it. Below them the trebuchets, abandoned, a mass of mounted archers—Gavin guessed a thousand or more—fleeing south. Something odd about the engines. One of the horses was dragging something—a long pole. The throwing arm. The legions came over the ridge, down. Men swarmed around the trebuchets, taking them apart under the orders of the legion engineers, loading the pieces on men's backs. Some way to replace the missing arms . . .
Over the ridge behind them a rider, yelling. Face and leather armor splotched with blood.
"Karl heavies. Behind us. Thousands."
Gavin shouted orders. The legions reversed in place, started back up to the ridge, reached it.
The next ridge, where the legions had been camped, was spotted with bodies, the space between the two ridges a confusion of mounted men and archers fleeing south towards the legions. Gavin saw a runner stumble and fall. One of the Belkhani angled across, up to where Gavin was standing by his banner. His lance was gone, shield broken.
"Where's Ivor?"
"Gods know. Behind the ridge, thousands of them. We were coming up the slope."
The man turned, pointed.
"Smashed us, came along the ridge, smashed the archers. Their archers up there now."
"What happened on the other side of the ridge?"
The man shrugged.
"Wasn't looking that way."
More orders. The legions moved north, up to the final ridge, broken troops rallying behind them. Beyond was the slope, the river, the space between scattered with the bodies of men and horses. Gavin thought he could see heads in the water, horses too.
At the bridgehead a knot of men in the water, some swinging axes, some with shields raised against archers on the fortress wall. Gavin turned, spotted the Hetman, yelled, pointed. The Baskhai streamed down the slope.
From the west along the river a rider, low to the horse's back, more horses behind. The men at the bridgehead mounted, rode east. As Gavin watched, the south end of the bridge, cut from its anchors to the shore, swung in the current, broke free.
Gavin took a long breath, looked around. His legions at least were still safe. The Bashkai. Some archers, some cavalry, had rallied to the legions, some no doubt had made it across the river. Defeat, not catastrophe. In the long run, it was the legions that mattered.
He looked again. Between him and the river, where the wagons of supplies had stood, the slope was empty.