Back | Next
Contents

And Turn

A bear's play, a breaking wave, one night's ice
Are never safe—let no man trust them.

Behind them, someone was yelling. Anton hesitated, turned in the saddle. A scout, forcing his way through the ranks of heavy cavalry towards his commander.

"Cats, sir. Behind us. Thousands and thousands of them."

"Vija. See what the hell it is. If the Karls start shifting west to get across the river we charge; as long as they don't we can afford to wait."

The scout commander pushed his way back. In the rear ranks he could see men pointing backwards, hear the rising clamor. He spent most of a minute looking before turning, moving again through the lines to the commander's side.

"What is it? There can't be thousands and thousands of cats—whole damn host is only two thousand. Your boys supposed to be watching for them."

"The whole damn host is here—west and north of us, moving this way. They brought some friends."

Anton gave him a puzzled look. "More Karl heavies?"

Vija shook his head.

"Nomads decided to come after all. Two or three thousand of them. The numbers don't look so good any more."

Anton looked south. The Karl cavalry in battle formation facing him was beginning to move, heavies center and right, lights on the left. One last order to his trumpeter. He lifted his lance from its socket, swung it down as the notes of the charge rang out. In the middle of the enemy line he recognized the banner of the Karl king, aimed his horse for it. Faster and faster.

Center and left met center and right, five thousand heavy cavalry on each side at the charge, a tangle of men and horses. On the royal left the Order, outnumbered four to one, wheeled, fled south and west. Trumpet calls on the Imperial right called back pursuit, swung the lighter forces to fall on the royal center from behind. The Order swung round in turn, dissolved into a line of archers on foot shooting into the rear of the enveloping force.

James, lance shattered, pulled out his sword, pushed forward. A big man, beard sticking out under his visor, struck two-handed; the blow drove the King's shield back into his face. He backed his horse, saw his guard captain catch a second blow on his shield, strike back. Something hit his shoulder with numbing force. He wheeled the horse, the next mace blow on his shield, return blow blocked. Forward against the enemy, tried to get in a second blow. More around him, a pain in his side, his own guard coming up on his right. Another blow on the armor. The bearded man again. He tried to raise his shield, half made it, felt the blow on shield and helm. The two-handed sword again. Slow as a dream, the sword drifted up. James tried to raise his shield, knew he would never make it in time. Red hair on the pillow.

Anton, shield raised against a Karl sword, felt a sharp pain in his back, another in his leg. Struck, blocked, struck. Something was wrong with his arm. He looked down. An arrow point sticking out of it. The Karl had pulled back; Anton turned in his saddle. Fifty yards behind him a solid line of mounted archers, pouring arrows into the rear of his dissolving line. Filled with fury, light as air, he wheeled his horse, charged them.

Harald lowered his bow, turned to Donal beside him.

"Thought so; they're digging."

He pointed beyond the ruin of the battlefield. A mile farther south, where the advancing line of the Imperial legions had been, a shorter line—a wall of freshly dug dirt.

Justin leaned on his shovel, wiped the sweat from his eyes, wondered when the last time was a senior legion commander had helped move dirt. All things considered, more digging and less commanding looked like a good idea.

"Sir. Karl to talk to you."

At the front entrance he stopped, looked back. The wall was up to four feet; with luck the enemy couldn't see the rear rampart, where men were still working furiously. He didn't know how many the Karls had out there, but with a legion and a half to hold them he needed all the help he could get.

"Want an escort, sir?" He shook his head, walked through the gateway.

The man waiting for him was a cat, dismounted, one hand on his horse's neck. Not young. Should have brought a translator. But surely the man they sent would speak at least some Tengu.

The cat said something to his horse, looked up, gave the commander a friendly nod.

"Figure your boys could use a rest. Must have been up all night getting here."

Justin said nothing, waited.

"Field ours. Lot of wounded out there, both sides. Truce till dark, free to bandage them there, carry here, we don't interfere, your people don't get in our way doing the same. Lend you some horses to help. Wounded prisoners who can ride we keep, can't ride, give us their word not to fight, yours. Too badly hurt, village west of here, you don't try to get them back. After sunset no promises either way. Agreed?"

Justin thought a moment, searched for hidden traps, failed to find any.

"Very generous. I'm the senior commander, can accept for our side. You have authority for yours?"

"His Majesty isn't in shape to agree to things just now. Leaves me."

He reached out a hand, Justin took it.

Three hours later, Harald plunged arms, face, into a pool at the forest edge. As the ripples died his reflection looked back. A little less like a butcher. He straightened, sore muscles complaining, whistled. The mare trotted over. Blood, his or other people's, was nothing new.

Riding back to the field, he noticed a body of cavalry, dismounted, disarmed. A smaller number of cats were guarding them, one talking with one of his prisoners.

"Hedin. Friends of yours?"

"One of them—three years ago."

"Interested in another try—starting now?"

"Empire might have hostages."

"I don't speak Belkhani. Put it to them, welcome to come over to our side, any that can without getting kin killed, reasonable terms, let me know. Can't promise them help afterwards, do what we can—no province I'd rather see out of the Empire. Fight for us, at least get back horses, arms, can go home when it's done."

He took one more look at the prisoners—three hundred men, most of them still on their feet—rode back to the battlefield.

Just before dark, he spoke with Justin again, this time on the field where tired legionaries were carrying away a last few men too badly wounded to walk.

"I don't suppose you want to extend the truce till morning?"

Harald responded with a friendly smile, shook his head.

"Emperor decides to go home, leave me and my friends alone, sleep all you like. Not just now. Sun sets, hope you don't get killed, do my best to see you do."

By the time the camp came in sight, gold flag flying as bravely as when they set out, Justin was stumbling with exhaustion. He called a halt to dress ranks; however tired, he would come home in good order. The ragged mass of cavalry, horses, wounded, was past his power to deal with. At least the legions were still unbroken.

The gate was closed; half a legion made only a skeleton garrison, but the junior commander should at least be able to find sentries who could see. Now it was opening. Behind him he heard a scout, something about the cavalry behind them. Justin didn't bother to turn around; without looking he could feel the weight of the army that had followed them all day, never attacked. Soon it would lift. Harald had been unwilling, even against exhausted men, to risk storming last night's camp, unwilling to attack in the open in daylight. Two legions, behind walls, would be safe. He could sleep. The morning, the report to the Emperor, what followed . . . For now, sleep was enough.

The gates swung closed. The ramparts were black with heads. Under the rain of arrows the front ranks, eyes on the ground, shields on their shoulders, melted. Justin turned. Arrows from the other side as well, cats finally closing. Archers in front, archers behind. The trumpeter next to him was staring at his horn, frozen in panic. Justin snatched it from his hand, raised it. Square, what was the call for form square? Something struck him in the throat. He tried to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye the banner staff coming down, reached out to catch it, stumbled, fell.

Justin tried to close his eyes against that final picture, his legion's banner, falling, around it a chaos of dead and dying. Close—his eyes were closed. He forced them open.

A low cot in a tent full of bodies. One moved, another moaned—wounded men. He tried to form words, say something. One arm bound to his body; he lifted the other. His neck was wrapped in bandages. He closed his eyes. This time behind them was dark.

He woke to someone lifting his head, water dripping into his mouth.

"Swallow. Know it hurts but need to drink. Arrow through the neck, missed the artery. Out now."

He opened his mouth, swallowed. The voice was right. Swallowed again, again. Sank back into the familiar dark. Sleep.

 

Back | Next
Framed