Ogham by Lug’s spear. For now they hold, though?”
“Yes, my liege. The infantry are standing off the horse-archers but the Grand Constable says she doesn’t have enough cavalry left to rock them back on their heels long enough for the infantry to break contact. She had to keep this many to cork the bottle while the rest of her force got away.”
“A hard choice the Grand Constable had, but she made the right one,” Rudi said. “Best to risk some than lose all.”
His hand caressed the crystal hilt of the Sword. Time and force and space… maps and symbols moved before his eyes.
Decision formed. “Matti, you’ll be in charge of the Protector’s Guard. We’ll take all of them. Edain, mount up the High King’s Archers, the lot of them also. And… Viscount Chenoweth.”
“Your Majesty?”
“Your menie?”
The eldest son of Conrad Odell nodded; a squire was behind him with a sheet of paper, but he didn’t need it.
“One thousand six hundred, and ready to move immediately.”
“Leave the spearmen; just the lancers and mounted crossbows.”
“A thousand then, Your Majesty.”
“Get them here. Fast.”
He bowed his head, turned, and was in the saddle within three paces. Ignatius was already handing a note to his own aides.
“The ambulances will be moving by the time you leave, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Good.” Good man, he thought. “My lords, ladies. I suggest you go prepare a welcome for our guests.”
Edain was near, leading a horse. It was a mare, seventeen hands of night-black sleekness, deep-chested, arch-necked. She was middle-aged for a horse, especially a warm-blood-but the more closely you looked the less like an ordinary warm-blood of the destrier breed she looked, and even experienced horsemen would have taken a decade or so off her total if they were asked.
“My lady Epona,” Rudi said to her, blowing into her nose in the kiss of the horse-kind. “Are you ready to dance with me this day?”
“Sure, and she’d stamp you into mush if you didn’t,” Edain said, grinning at him. “For didn’t she travel all the way to the Sunrise lands with you and back.”
“Riding in a horsecar on the rails most of the way back,” Rudi said lightly.
And glad I was of it. The strain was showing on her. Now she looks splendid.
He swung into the saddle.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“They’re charging again,” Alleyne Loring said. “Here.”
Rudi took the heavy binoculars in one hand. Their picture was uncannily sharp, some art of the ancient world that prevented the picture that leapt to his eyes from wobbling and the magnification made little of the near two thousand yards’ distance.
The Yakima infantry were deployed in a triangular formation on a low swale. It was the best position around, chosen with a good eye for ground; the eastern side was shielded by a steeper section of rising earth, almost like a bank. Rain or no, dust hung over them where hooves and wheels and thousands of hobnailed boots had torn the thin bunchgrass, and he hoped they’d had a chance to fill their water wagons. He could taste the dry papery flavor of it on his lips now, along with the salt of sweat. This was better fighting weather than high summer, though.
The formation on the rise bristled with pikes; the front four ranks had theirs down into the prepare to receive cavalry position, the front row on one knee and bracing each butt against a boot, the next three at shoulder or chest or waist height, a forest of sharp points. Behind them the next three stood with the weapons upright, and behind them was a double rank with glaives ready to stop any breakthrough.
It took strength to hold the sixteen-foot weapons like that. And a cold considered courage to spit on your hands and brace the pike and stand under arrows and bolts, closing up the holes as men fell silent or screaming and the earth shook under the charging hooves. The crossbows were interspersed between the blocks of pikes, three deep-prone and kneeling and standing. The silent menace was less showy, but just as real. So was that of the springalds and scorpions that were spaced along the lines.
“Cavalry in the center for now,” Rudi noted. “Now that is a position I would not care to assault, Alleyne.”
“They have been, though, Sire.”
He nodded agreement without taking the binoculars from his eyes. You could see the bodies of men and horses scattered back from each side of the triangle, out several hundred yards but thicker as you approached up to a wavering line at fifty yards or so, then a thinner scattering and a few right under the pike points. Some lying still, others still moving. He could see one man crawling away, legs motionless and a bolt standing in his back.
War, he thought. Not a pretty sight nor a pretty thing, for all that we dress it.
The enemy were going to try again, though. He could see them dispersed across miles around; most where in clumps around trains of packhorses.
“Filling their quivers. Rancher levies from the far interior, I make them for the most part, but not altogether savages.”
Alleyne nodded. “Sire. Ah, there they go.”
The horsemen from over the mountains moved towards the ranks on the hill. It was like watching water spatter on a pane of glass, but running backward so that the clots and streams flowed together, building around banners that bore odd spiky sigils-the brands of their Ranchers-or the rayed sun of the Church Universal and Triumphant, gold on scarlet.
Rudi looked over his shoulder. The solid block of the Protector’s Guard waited, black armor and bright lance heads, the Lidless Eye on every shield and pennant, five hundred strong. The chivalry of Odell was about as numerous, but in armor bright or dark, each vassal lord with his men. Their lances swayed overhead, a forest of steel. He waved, and three horses trotted up the slope to pull up beside him.
“Now, my King?” Erard Renfrew said.
“Not quite yet, my lord Viscount,” Rudi said. “Timing is all. But better to labor to restrain the stallion than prod the mule. Edain, when we go we’re going in straight.”
The clansman looked a little unhappy, but he couldn’t be at the High King’s side in a horseman’s fight, and the best way he could safeguard Rudi would be to get the fight won, and as quickly as possible.
Rudi held out his left fist, then extended the little finger on that hand. “You like this, and the Odell crossbowmen with you. Turn the enemy back towards the lances. My lord Alleyne, you and your Rangers will screen our right.”
The fair man in black nodded. “You’re depending on… the Grand Constable to do the right thing,” he said neutrally.
Ah, put the feud aside, man. Yes, she wished your Astrid dead these fifteen years and more, but she had no part in her end. The which was like something from her Histories, and just exactly as she would have wished, poor lady.
“She has so far. Now to your places, all of you.”
“And mine’s by you,” Mathilda said.
Their hands touched in their gauntlets. Below the plainsmen were moving to the attack, slowly, which was wise. You saved the speed for when it was needed. Then there was a stir, an eddy, and they were in motion towards the point of the triangle on the hill, spreading around it in a swirling mass, and even across the distance you could hear the hooves.
And the chorus of yelping war cries, Cut! Cut! Cut!
The artillery spat at them, bolts and round shot; there were blackened patches on the grass, but no globes of fire went out. Then the little horizontal flicker of the crossbow bolts, and the ripple in the dun mass of the horsemen as each rose in the saddle to draw his bow…
Mathilda extended a hand. “Huon, lance.”
The lad was there, and the long ash-wood shaft slapped into her gauntlet.
“Now,” Rudi said. He slipped his arm into the loops of his shield and drew the Sword.
