By noon, the pattern was clear. The trench provided the camp with water. From the camp, a long earthen wall was rising, slanting away from the river towards the road.
"How does he get his men to the ford?"
Harald turned to answer Niall's question.
"If he's in a hurry, he marches them there at night, pushes across night or early morning. Risky. More likely, another wall east, archers, engines opposite the ford, covering fire for a push across. We do what damage we can, if need be fall back—main force south, couple of cacades up into Newvale to hold the neck of the vale. Make sure everything worth eating gets uphill first—started already. Speaking of which . . ."
Harald turned to cut a chunk of mutton. Before taking a bite, he turned back to Niall.
"My question is where Artos got water to bring that many men after you dealt with His Highness's pool. Also," he spoke in a louder voice, "when is that idiot boy going to show himself?"
"Where the hell . . . ?"
"That stand of grass; figured he'd get hungry one of these days."
Asbjorn ignored both his uncle's surprise and his grandfather's lack of surprise.
"And I have two answers." Asbjorn looked at Harald, waited.
"What's the other?"
"Streams come down off the mountains, go over the edge of the cliff. Donal thinks they help feed the wells. Imperials have a couple of men under the trickle, lots of barrels, rock wall to hide them. Heard them talking; they never looked up. They figured the barrels would be full by the time the army came by. I spotted two streams, might be more. Thought you'd want to know."
"Yes. Show me where."
Asbjorn drew a roll of thin leather from the wallet slung over his shoulder. Unrolled, it was a carefully drawn map. Harald spent a minute looking at it, following his grandson's explanation, spoke:
"Arinbjorn Hrolfsson's camped off that way with his cacade—see the pennon from here. Find him, bring him. Work for both of you."
The boy helped himself to a chunk of mutton, a slab of bread, took a bite from each, set off in search of his cousin. Niall turned to his father.
"I thought you planned to keep 'Bjorn home."
"How—tie him up? Lower slopes north of here the safest place I could think of. Legions don't climb if they can help it; not even Westkin ride up cliffs. Artos doesn't have any Bashkai. Wildcats, bear, fall off and break his neck. Can do that at home too. Hasn't yet. Besides, things I wanted to know. Took a couple of friends. Boy's no fool."
When Asbjorn returned he was accompanied by Arinbjorn.
"Uncle. Little 'Bjorn says you want me."
"You and your boys have been looking bored. Need thirty men used to mountains, no horses. Easy part involves keeping an eye on our friends over the river. Hard part keeping my grandson from breaking his neck. He's your guide."
After a week of watching men dig, Kiron was getting bored.
"Looks like the sand garden at the summer palace before the gardener had smoothed it out again. Only we didn't have a river to play with."
Giorgios, stretched out in the shade of the earth wall, opened his eyes.
"It's the legions' best weapon."
"The shovel? Slow."
"But sure. Can't put an arrow through two feet of dirt. Not even a bolt from a siege bow. Have to go up against two or three thousand archers, might as well get cover close as we can first."
"I thought we were in a hurry."
"In a hurry, we would be on the other bank by now. Some of us. Commander's waiting for something. My guess, cavalry. While we wait, we dig." Giorgios pointed out over the growing earthworks.
A staff runner: "The Commander sent me to fetch you, sir."
Kiron and Giorgios followed him to where the road bent around a spur of rock. Beyond, out of sight from the river, a dozen wagons, horses. The commander turned, spoke to the runner.
"Tell Second to start sending his boys, small groups. He knows."
Then to Kiron: "What am I doing?"
Kiron looked at the wagons curiously.
"Water barrels. Part of getting the cavalry here? Two weeks to base, then the cavalry has to come back. Besides, not enough wagons."
"The cavalry left base yesterday, if everything went right. They have wagons with them for the first part, water caches, like we had. Due to meet these thirty miles this side of the Oasis—enough water to get them the rest of the way."
"You're sending part of the Second as escort?"
"Four hundred men, some archers. Fifty Ravens for the first day. Past that, they should be safe, but I'm not taking chances—gods know how much of Eagle clan Harald has, and they may have tricks, know water holes I don't. Giorgios says you're bored. Eight days to get the cavalry here, escort and wagons back. Then we move."
"You need cavalry to force the ford?"
"I could do it today, assuming no surprises. I need cavalry to protect our supply lines after we cross, make the enemy keep together. Besides, once they arrive we have to move—nothing this side of the river for the horses to eat."
Kiron looked curiously at the commander.
"You haven't been a farmer. Harald grazed horses and sheep on this side of the river till we came. The grass is eaten all the way down. We could graze our horses farther west, but there might be fords and they'll know where. Too far from the legions gets risky. Once the cavalry comes, we push across."
Night time, four miles west of the ford. Harald peeled off his war coat, spoke to the men around him.
"Supplies on the rafts, armor, anything might sink you or the horse."
The first raft loaded, he called across the river. The rope leading into the dark went taut. Men pushed the raft into the stream; it drifted down and across.
"By decades, when your gear is loaded. Anyone can't swim, ride a raft."
He led the mare into the water.
"Now we wait for the horse boys to show up. Tomorrow if we're lucky. Keep your archers with the wagons while my people dig—less likely to get in the way."
"Lot of work—haven't seen an enemy since we left the river."
"Always a first time. Matter of fact . . . those ours or theirs?"
The captain commanding the escort started shouting orders; the legionaries traded shovels for shields and javelins, formed up in a line two deep. The archers took position behind the shield wall, strung their crossbows.
"Ravens went home three days ago; besides, we don't have that many. This is it. Wish they'd given us another two hours."
More orders bent the line into a long rectangle, two shields deep on the outside and ends, one on the long side towards the wagons and, just beyond, the cliff edge. Behind the shields, crossbowmen. At the center of the formation, surrounding the standard, the reserves. The nomads charged, released a cloud of arrows, split left and right and streamed away. Most of the arrows fell short. One crossbowman shot back.
"Not without orders; till they get closer they're bluffing."
A second charge, this time a little closer. Closer still. The third time the force wheeled right, rode out of range, stopped. Started to move.
It was Kalios's first battle. On one knee in the front rank, shield up, javelin ready, two more clutched in his shield hand. Voices behind him; he knew enough not to turn.
"This may be it. Don't throw till they're in range."
From his left a torrent of riders, some shooting, others flat to the far sides of their horses. Still out of javelin range.
"Archers, at will."
Click of trigger, twang of bowstring behind him. More. Arrows poured from the riders; one glanced from his helm, two hit the shield. Behind him someone cried out. In front, the nomads a continuous stream, half hidden in their own dust.
A panicked voice: "Behind us. Archers on the cliff." A rattle of orders, men shifting position. Kalios held, facing the horsemen, waiting orders, hoping someone was covering his back. The riders kept coming, shooting. The last horse passed, a last few bolts flew after it.
"Gods."
The lancers came out of the dust straight at the line of infantry. As time froze he saw a bolt glance off the chest armor of one of the horses. Kalios drew back his arm to throw. A lance point—shield up to block. Something hit the shield, hard enough to knock him over. Arms and legs in, shield over. Thunder of hooves.
Kalios came to his feet, felt a sharp pain, looked down; an arrow. Looked up. Hundreds of nomads, sitting their horses just out of javelin range; he raised his shield against their arrows. Turned his head left, right.
Where the legionary line had been was a ruin of dead and wounded, mostly theirs, a few enemy lancers, horses.
A desperate trumpet call. What had been the center, a cluster of men around the legion's standard, long spears, a few archers, the space around them empty save for bodies. Kalios limped back to join them, went to one knee in the front rank. The javelin he was still clutching was broken; he dropped it, drew his sword, waited.
The nomads had stopped shooting; the lancers—cats—reformed, sitting their horses some distance off. One rode forward, empty right hand raised.
"Don't shoot; it's a parley. Anyone speak their jabber?"
The rider stopped just beyond javelin range, called out in Tengu.
"Willing to offer you terms; send someone out."
From behind Kalios, the captain's voice.
"Terms hell. Try again, this time we do some of the killing."
The rider hesitated, lowered his hand, pointed.
"Long way home."
Kalios followed the pointing finger. The cliff. Between it and the remnants of the escort, the road was bare. The wagons—food, water, gear—were gone.
Andros was enjoying the quiet. Also the leisure of guarding the gate while much of the Oasis garrison was busy cleaning up. A thousand men, twelve hundred horses packed in and around a small fort for a night made a considerable mess. Now they were gone, south towards the river, the army, the enemy.
Above his head, someone was yelling. Out the gate, in the distance, a cloud of dust. Cavalry coming back?
By the time they were close enough to recognize, half the small garrison was by the gate staring out, the other half on the wall. Forty or fifty legionaries, marching in something well short of their usual rigid order, two pairs carrying stretchers. One wagon.
"Something's gone wrong."
As they came near, more shouts from the wall. A second cloud of dust, moving faster. Mounted men. A lot of mounted men.
"Cavalry's back."
Bugle calls, orders. The crowd inside the gate thinned out, vanished, as men went for weapons, manned the wall.
"What's the commander worried about?"
From above, someone answered him.
"Nomads. Not sure they're ours. A lot of them."
By the time the tired legionaries reached the gate, the uncertainty had gone; the cavalry was shooting at them. One of the men fell, lay still.
"Get that damn wagon clear; we need the gate closed."
Instead the lead legionaries attacked the gate guards. Men behind pulled bows and quivers out of the stretchers, started shooting at archers on the wall. The front rank of the pursuing cavalry split, nomads circling the wall, pouring in arrows. Behind them a long column of cats through the gate at a trot. The defenders, surprised, outnumbered ten to one, caught between archers inside and outside the wall, surrendered or died. In a few minutes it was over.
Konstantin felt hands on his body, a stab of pain. He opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in one of the bunk houses; someone was leaning over him.
"Arrow's out. Lie still. Don't want to start the bleeding again."
"Who. What . . ."
"Surprise attack; Oasis is ours now. Artos won't be happy. Don't worry; we don't eat prisoners."
"You're speaking Tengu."
"Wake up to someone pulling arrows out of me, helps if they speak something I understand. Here."
The commander drank down the water, closed his eyes a moment, opened them.
"Artos won't be happy with me. How'd you get here?"
"Rode."
"Water?"
"Artos sent water wagons north to meet his cavalry. We used them instead. He took Eagle clan oasis, now we've taken his. When the war is over we can trade, everyone goes home. Fair man, won't blame you. Rest."
The next time the commander woke it was almost dark. Noise of wagon wheels on stone pavement, voices. The door opened. By the light through it he could see that the bunk room held half a dozen wounded. The man coming through was medium height, broad. Lamellar armor.
"Awake again? Water wagons just came in. Between them and what you have, shouldn't die of thirst any time soon. Might even get your cavalry home alive, with luck."
"I don't understand."
"Cavalry you sent south this morning. We dodged them coming north. Wagons did too, not so easy. Artos sent troops with his wagons, folk we borrowed armor from to get through your gate. About now the cavalry is meeting what's left of them. Three days to the river—they don't have the water, not even close. One day back here. Ravens might scatter, head west. Run into some friends of mine if they do. Rest of the cavalry should show up here late tomorrow. Thirsty. My problem, theirs, not yours any more."
"You're Harald."
"And you're Commander Konstantin. Easier for me; we don't use rank badges. You guested my foster son two months back, spoke well of your hospitality. Impressed by your pool, too. Told me all about it."
"And you . . ."
"Green fish, nothing like that around here, sounded like something belongs in salt water. My boys, clan brothers, couple of Ladies, dropped by one night to deliver."