gaps in their ranks, which immediately closed up, only to be ripped apart again. The Pachaks and the Chuliks roared into action, thirsting not only to earn their pay but also for glory to be won, the possible achievement of the honor of being dubbed
“Hanitch! Hanitch!” screeched the soldiers of Hamal, iron men advancing in their might, yelling their war cries. “Hanitch! Hamal!”
I marked a regiment with flowing colors born on ahead, standards larger than those of the other regiments of infantry, colors that glowed with purple and gold, and so knew them for an imperial regiment dedicated to Queen Thyllis. Above the closer yells and screams I heard this regiment’s deep-toned yells:
“Hanitch! Thyllis! Thyllis! Hanitch!”
My men responded with yells, too, and among all the shouts for “Bormark!” and “Tomboram!” I heard the old familiar cries. When men march forward into battle, their weapons in their fists, their heads down, and their helmets clanging with the steel tips of the birds of war, they tend to forget subterfuges and shout out what they are accustomed to yelling. “Vallia! Vallia!” they bellowed. “Valka! Valka!” And, of course,
“Dray Prescot!”
Most of the mercenaries managed to remember to shout for Bormark and Tomboram. Just as I marked that arrogant purple and gold regiment yelling for Queen Thyllis, I saw Tom ti Vulheim ride out astride a zorca, waving his sword in command. His men released their shafts in a superb display of controlled shooting. I thought Seg would have gained pleasure from that sight. Queen Thyllis’ regiment shrank. The crossbow bolts came back, hard and lethally, but as the armies clashed with the iron clangor of hand-to-hand combat I saw with great satisfaction that, indeed, the superior rate of discharge and the longer range of the longbows had once again played their part.
Dust rose as thousands of booted feet stamped in the throes of conflict. Thraxter and shield clashed with glaive, or with sword and shield. My rapier men fought like leems, sliding in and out, not holding firm ranks but using their mobility and individual skills to the utmost, exploiting the gaps torn by the bowmen. The battle swayed. I surveyed the field and, as always, keyed up to that kind of pitch in which every detail limns clear, and yet the whole is one vast blur of action. Soon the climax would come, soon I must make the decision. Too soon and disaster; too late and disaster.
The noise spurted high into the glowing air. A flight of mirvols swooped over the struggle, their riders attempting to shoot down, and a savage flight of flutduins followed them, mercilessly feathering them from the air. Men reeled from the fight, torn and bloodied. The noise grew to a prodigious long, drawn-out howl. And still those Hamalese cavalry wings circled around us, not drawing in yet, biding their time.
“Xarmon,” I said. “I will ride Stormcloud now.”
“Here, Majister.”
I hopped off Snowy with a pat to his sleek white neck and took a grip on the harness of Stormcloud. He was a splendid steed. He was not a vove — one of those glorious russet mounts of the Great Plains of Segesthes, chargers full of fire and spirit, all horns and fangs and pumping hearts that would never surrender save in death. Stormcloud was a glossy black nikvove, a half-vove, smaller than a true vove and without the fangs and horns. But he did have the eight legs of the vove and a loyal heart; he was a king’s steed for any man.
Delia had given me a rich set of trappings for Stormcloud over the schabracque of zhantil skin, and first- quality lesten hide studded with bronze and scarrons. The rich gleam of the bronze and the brilliant sparkle of the scarlet scarrons, all matched and perfect, against that jet coat made an inspiring and martial picture.
I saw the high polish on my black boot as I stuck it into the stirrup, and I saw a little ant crawling there. I mounted up and sat firmly, and I let the ant take his chances on my boot. He and I would ride together today.
Any general must have a corps of aides and messengers. To young Nath Byant, who was an Elten in his own right, his father being a Trylon of Vallia, I said: “To Chuktar Erling. My compliments. He may begin his advance. Tell him from me, may Opaz ride with him and all his men this day.”
Elten Nath Byant, who rode as an aide out of sheer zest for adventure, bashed his right arm across his breastplate in salute and yelled, his voice rather shrill, “At once, my Prince!” and was off like a shaft from a Lohvian longbow astride his zorca. The left-hand squadrons would commence their charge at the vital moment, led by Chuktar Erling.
Turko had mounted up astride his nikvove. Also riding closer on a nikvove was Planath Pe-Na, my personal standard-bearer who had been with me since the affair of the Burned Man at Twin Forks.[2]
Planath, being a Pachak, could carry the standard and also swing a mean sword at the same time. As for the standard — as I say, the old scarlet and yellow remained at home in Esser Rarioch. I rode beneath a confection of blue, green, and crimson with a great deal of gold bullion for tassels. It was a gaudy object, but it would serve its purpose and identify my position in the field. As for the great flag of Bormark, that was carried into action alongside my own color by a specially selected Hikdar from the regiments. The honor he achieved was great. These are high and serious matters in any army which fights hand to hand. The chief of the corps of trumpeters was now Kodar ti Vakkansmot, for old Naghan had contracted an eye infection and had been unable to march with us. Kodar had been with me at the Battle of the Crimson Missals.
So it remained only to don the Mask of Recognition.
Xarmon handed the blazing golden mask up. I fitted it in place beneath my helmet brim, covering my features, the sights and breaths less than adequate but providing a discomfort I would have to put up with. This great mask might afford some slight protection against a shaft; I tended to doubt that. Its main function was to make me instantly recognizable to my men. An auxiliary function and one which I valued was to conceal my features from those who did not know me.
All these preparations assumed a heightened significance.
The tall and heavy lance with its golden pennon slanted in the rays of the Suns of Scorpio. I said, the words booming and hollow: “We ride to victory. Opaz is with us.”
“Aye,” said Turko, with that mockery clearly evident. “And you stay close to my shield. I have made a promise.”
No need to ask who had taken that promise willingly given.
We wheeled to the right. The right-hand squadrons of nikvove cavalry saw me riding to lead them and let rip an enormous cheer. This heartened me. I pointed at the enemy cavalry, at the junction with the infantry flank about to come into action against our right flank consisting of Rapas. The enemy clearly intended to roll us up from the right, and yet his left wing cavalry persisted in advancing against us. Either the general in command was a goodly way off, was a fool, or was dead. I did not think he was either of the first two, and so that cheered me up no end.
“Forward!” I shouted. My voice clanged resonantly. “Follow me!”
This is no way for a general to behave in a battle. I know.
The only regret I had as we smashed in a mighty avalanche of flesh and blood and steel into the roaring racket of the charge was that my own flag, Old Superb, did not wave over me and I did not wear the old brave scarlet.
I saw two regiments of Hamalese cavalry — they were zorcas, a crime in itself — haul out to face us and we went through them as — to say like a hot knife through butter is to give no adequate picture. For the poor zorcas simply sprayed away from our charge, like chips ripping from a buzz saw. We smashed on with such thorough ground-shaking power that we scarcely noticed the zorcamen. They bounced and were whiffed away.
Beyond them three regiments of totrixes attempted to stand. For a space their courage held and a wild excitement of whirling brands and piercing lances ensued; then they broke and we roared on, unstoppable. And we rode only nikvoves!
My men followed me as we carried out the tricky operation of changing front in a charge. The angle was not great, a mere partial wheel to the left, and it was carried out to perfection. We hit the Hamalese infantry in their left flank and we began to roll them up as the furniture men roll up a stair carpet. That proved the turning point of the battle.
The moment chosen was the correct one. An earlier charge would have exposed us to the crossbow bolts of unbroken infantry — a prospect to send shudders down any cavalryman’s spine — and against uncommitted cavalry. A later charge would just have been too late. Our left wing also enjoyed success and then — then — it was the turn of the zorcamen to go in and pile on the agony in the flying pursuit, not allowing infantry to reform and stand, catching stragglers, routing any and everything Hamalese that had fought on the field of Tomor Peak.
