Let the men in iron come, he thought, half blinded as they charge....
“They’re coining, General,” an aide announced.
Distant trumpets called. Dust boiled up as the chargers started forward. “Recall,” el Nadim ordered. “Let them bury their infantry themselves.”
His trumpets sounded. The cavalry fled to the wings. The slave volunteers retreated through the front to form a reserve.
The enemy advanced, armor gleaming through the dust, pennons fluttering boldly. “You’re great, Hawkwind,” el Nadim murmured. “But even you can become overconfident.”
His heart hammered. It was going exactly as he wanted. But would that be enough?
The Wahlig’s light horse followed the heavy cavalry, eager to fall on the scattered, terror-stricken infantry Hawkwind’s charge would leave in its wake.
Both waves went to the gallop.
And when they were two thirds of the way across the lakebed they fell into el Nadim’s trap, the trap suggested by a salt man’s son.
It was no manmade trap. Nature herself had placed it there. Out where the old lake had been deepest a bit of water remained trapped beneath a concealing crust of salt and debris. It was seldom more than two feet deep, but that was enough.
The charging horses, already running shakily on the powdery lakebed, reached the water, broke through the crust. Their impetus was broken. Many of the warhorses fell or dumped their riders. Yousif s light horse hit from behind, worsening the confusion.
El Nadim signaled the advance. His men poured missile fire into the uproar. Selected veterans ran ahead to hamstring horses and finish dismounted riders.
El Nadim’s horsemen circled the confusion and assaulted Yousif’s men from their flanks.
The enemy broke. El Nadim’s horsemen harried them back to their lines, killing scores, then flew back to their stations on their infantry’s flanks, howling victoriously.
“Don’t sing yet,” the general muttered. “The worst is to come.”
The historians would declare the honors even. Casualties were about equal. But the Guildsmen had been hurled back, and rendered incapable of delivering another massed charge.
El Nadim backed away from the brine. “Water for everyone,” he ordered. “Horses too. Officers, get those standards aligned. I want every man in his proper position. See to the javelins. Slave volunteers out front with the shovels.” The breeze was stronger. The sun had turned the lakebed into a gleaming mirror over which heat waves shimmered. He doubted the enemy could see him.
“Come on, Yousif,” el Nadim muttered. “Don’t stall.”
The Wahlig decided to attack before the dust and heat completely debilitated his men. The Guild infantry began its advance.
“Now we find out.” El Nadim moved up to the edge of the brine. When the enemy came in range, he ordered javelins thrown. The Guildsmen took the missiles on their shields, suffering little harm. But the javelins dropped into the water, where they floated haft up and tangled feet. The Guild line grew increasingly ragged.
The slave volunteers used slings to hurl stones over their comrades’ heads, further sapping enemy morale.
“Now, Hali,” el Nadim murmured. “Now is your time.”
And in the distance white boiled out of the rocks and swept down on the enemy’s camp and mounts and reserves. The Invincibles were outnumbered, but surprise was with them. They drove off most of the horses and slaughtered hundreds of unprepared warriors before Yousif forced them back into the shelter of the rocks.
El Nadim was pleased. Execution had been perfect, and the rear attack threat remained.
But now the Guildsmen were slogging up out of the brine. His own men were half ready to flee. He galloped across the rear of the line, shouting, “Hold them! Thirst is our ally.”
The lines met. His men reeled back a step, then steadied up. Only a handful lost their courage. He chevied most back into the line with strokes from the flat of his blade.
The Guildsmen were as tough as ever. Without the heat, the sun in their eyes, the bitter dust, without their thirst, it would have been no contest.
The Guildsmen who had waded the deepest water appeared less than perfectly efficient. They had lost the cohesion of their shield wall, could not get it together again. El Nadim galloped back to his slave volunteers, ordered half to add their weight to that part of the line.
Javelins and stones rained on that sector. El Nadim’s troops pushed forward by sheer body weight. The Guild line bowed. El Nadim signaled his cavalry.
The majority went to challenge the Wahlig’s men, still busy skirmishing with Hali’s Invincibles. A handful crossed behind the Guild line to harass Hawkwind’s reserves and his least steady company.
Slowly, slowly, a fracture developed in the mercenary line. El Nadim bellowed with joy, gathered the rest of his reserves and plunged into the fray.
El Murid tried to follow the battle from a remote perch. He could tell little through the dust and heat shimmer. Nevertheless, it felt right. He gathered his officers and told them. They began placing their men.
The Guildsmen fought as well as ever they had, as magnificently in defeat as in victory. El Nadim could not rout them. But he drove them into their camp, then broke off to rest his men and water his mounts.
The victors laughed and congratulated one another, battered though they were. They had beaten Hawkwind! El
