whipped away by the wind. “But I’ll never live to see the day when zorcas can outscout flutduins.”
I forbore to suggest that, perhaps, this night, he had lived that long.
“Those oafs we will fight tomorrow have flying fluttrells. Not many. But you’ll need to look sharp to drive ’em off.”
“And, strom, since when has a fluttrell had a chance in hell of matching a flutduin?”
Well, by Vox, that was sooth, and we both knew it.
So the pandemonium continued, and slowly and in the end surprisingly, order and quietness came out of chaos. The army bivouacked and the sentries were posted and the patrols went out. If we were not outscouted, we could set down all fair and square. I did not think we would outscout our opponents, for they had the advantage of the terrain. And, as the night progressed and the reports flowed in we understood that on the morrow we would advance to battle with a good idea of the strength and location of the enemy, and that they in their turn would know of our strengths and positions. There were some cavalry clashes during that night. The army was up and breakfasting and on the move early. The wind had dropped; but we judged three burs or so would have to pass before the weather was fit for aerial cavalry. In that time we formed and marched forward. The commander of the local forces came in with a remnant of exhausted totrixmen. They had been pushed back by the first onslaught over the Great River and had subsequently harried the invaders as best they could.
“The whole situation was completely quiet,” the commander told me. He was a waso-Chuktar, Orlon Turnil, and he looked worn out. “But they will not expect so quick a reaction, majister. Truly, the flying ships are marvels.”
That was the trouble with the current mess in Vallia. Our enemies pressed in on all sides and we had to leap from here to there to repel each attack. It was strange to think that not so far away we had friendly forces quite cut off from us by enemy occupied territory. We had to build our strength so as to be able to field enough armies of sufficient power to handle each trouble spot. That was taking the time, and, by Zair, it was tiring me out.
“You had best take your men and see them bedded down,” I said.
Chuktar Turnil looked at me.
“I think, majister, I did not hear you. We shall, of course, ride with you this day and fight in the line.”
I did not smile. “I think, Chuktar Turnil, you did not hear me aright.” And then I added: “You are right welcome. May Opaz ride with you.”
As he cantered off to rejoin his men, the six legs of his totrix going floppily in all directions, I gave orders that his little force should ride with the cavalry reserve.
During a regulation break in the line of march we spread the maps and studied the tactical situation. Up until now it had been strategy and operations. Now we got down to the sharp end of planning.
“At the moment,” said Karidge, thumping the map, “they must at least have reached this line of trees.”
His headgear glittered with gold thread, his feathers bristled. He was a light cavalryman from the tips of those feathers to the stirrup-marked boots. I had chosen his zorca brigade and joyed in the choosing.
“And is this river fordable?” I pointed.
“Aye. The men will get wet bellies; but they can cross.”
“By the time we reach there, the enemy will have set down less than an ulm off. I think that will do.”
Nath scratched his nose.
“You mean to fight with a river at our backs?”
“A fordable river, Nath. You and the Third Kerchuri. The churgurs and archers will come in from the right flank. The woods there will screen their initial moves and by the time they are out in the open-”
“By Rorvreng the Vakka!” broke in Chuktar Tabex, commanding the heavy cavalry. “Then I will put in such a charge as will sweep them away!”
“I would prefer,” I said mildly, “for Nath to chew them up a trifle before that, Chuktar Tabex.”
“Aye, majister. But, I pray you, do not keep us under your hand too long!”
The regulation halt was up and the men were stirring and falling in. A bunch of slingers from Gremivoh were yelling back insults at the Deldars who were bawling them up. Undisciplined and unruly, slingers; but fine fighting men. The suns were lifting into the sky and the breeze was dropping away. The long files formed and the men shouldered their weapons and marched off.
They made a splendid sight and I forced the ugly truths from my mind and concentrated on thinking as an army commander. There would be many dead men and weeping women before Vallia could breathe freely again.
There was time for a last look at the map. A rounded hill was shown beyond the little river and it was my guess the enemy would station their cavalry there so as to get a good run in for their charge. The flanks would be more cavalry, with the infantry positioned in solid blocks interspersed with connecting lines. That seemed a reasonable guess; but you never can tell in dealing with paktuns who have years of campaigning under their belts. Even if the enemy formation was entirely different, I felt we had set down in such a way as to be able to meet them with the force we chose at the spot we chose. There seemed to me no chance that they would refuse battle. Our object was to get forward as quickly as possible and by hitting them in the flank, roll them up onto the pikes of the Phalanx. After that I could let slip the heavies with Chuktar Tabex in the van.
Delia had not insisted on bringing any of those ferocious Jikai Vuvushis, Battle Maidens, that I now knew to be a real part of her secret life. Jilian was still recovering from her wounds, and I had not seen much of her, to my own sorrow. Now Delia spurred up as I mounted and called across.
“I shall ride with you, at your side, Dray.”
I nodded, and lifted into the saddle. Korero was there, a golden shadow at my back. I half-turned and opened my mouth, and the Kildoi said, “It is understood, majister.”
I felt the quick flush of pleasure. By Vox! What it is to have great-hearted blade-comrades!
And here came Nath, another blade-comrade, and his face froze me.
“Majister!” he called as he galloped. Karidge was belting along to catch him, lathering his zorca, which made me understand with a shiver of dread that the news was bad.
“Those Opaz-forsaken louts!” Nath shouted. He hauled his zorca around and the animal’s four spindly legs flashed nimbly as he turned. “They have sucked us in!”
“Aye,” said Karidge, reining up, his face a single huge scowl. “By Lasal the Vakka! I trust in Opaz we have not scouted them too late.”
“Spit it out!”
Scouts had come in, and their latest reports contradicted what we had hitherto believed. We had thought there were fifteen thousand foemen. There were more than twenty-eight thousand — infantry and cavalry. A reinforcement had reached them from Opaz-knew-where. I felt my face congeal. Doggedly, I heard out the report, beginning to refigure the entire coming contest. I said, “We are near enough thirty. So the odds are even — weighed in our favor still. The plans stand. We go forward and attack. We cannot shilly-shally about now.”
Then it was a question of listening to reports of the composition of the new forces arrayed against us.
“Masichieri, majister. Damned thieving no-good vicious riff-raff, masquerading as mercenaries. But they can fight, and there are fully six thousand of them.”
Well, masichieri — bonny masichieri, I have known them called — yes, they are the scum of mercenaries. But in a battle they are fighting men and their rapaciousness drives them on with the lure of gold and plunder and women just as much as the ideal of patriotism drives on other men.
“And? The cavalry?”
“Aragorn, majister. Slavers, come to inspect their wares, aye, and fight for them, too.” Karidge drew his gauntleted hand over his luxuriant moustaches. “There are Katakis among ’em, may they rot in Cottmer’s Caverns.”
“It seems we will be honored by foemen worthy to die by the rope rather than steel,” I said, conscious of the turgidness of the words, but conscious, also, that they were true for all that.
“Also,” said Karidge, and he looked disgusted, “there are at least four regiments of sleeths.”
Nath banged a fist against his pommel. “Sleeths! Two-legged risslacas[2]suitable for — for-” He paused, and gazed about as though seeking the suitable word. It was a nicely calculated performance. One or two men among the aides-de-camp laughed. For, indeed, to a zorcaman the sleeth is something of a joke. Despite that, they can run and they can give a zorca a run for his money. And four regiments, if the usual regimental organization was followed, meant fifteen hundred or so.
