“Is that all?”
“Dermiflons and swarths.”
The dermiflon is blue-skinned, ten-legged, very fat and ungainly, and is armed with a sinuous and massively barbed and spiked tail. He has an idiot’s head. The expression “to knock over a dermiflon” is a cast-iron guarantee of success. They’d have howdahs fixed to their backs and half a dozen men or so would be up there, shooting with bows and hurling pikes. I said: “How many swarths?”
“Around a thousand, three regiments, weak regiments.”
I let out my breath. The swarth is your four-legged risslaca with the cruel wedge-shaped head and the jaws, with the scaled body and the clawed feet. He is not very fast. But he has a muscular bulk and he can carry his rider well and, a jutman must admit, is a nasty proposition to go up against. They were relatively rare in Vallia and Pandahem; but I had been told that the Lohvian armies put much store by them. And that stupidly mad and imperious Thyllis, Empress of Hamal, had been busily recruiting swarth regiments for her armies of conquest.
“We will keep a weather eye open for the three swarth regiments. I think our nikvoves will knock them over.”
“That is something that old Vikatu the Dodger would be well clear of,” said Karidge.
“Indisputably. And the dermiflons?”
“Ten of them. But I think, majister,” said Nath, “we will be able to handle them with our javelin men. When they get a shower of pikes about them they’ll panic and run. At least, that is the theory.”
I rather liked that airy confidence.
“We will put the theory into practice. But you said twenty-eight thousand. There remain two and a half you have not accounted for.”
“Irregulars,” said Karidge. “Spearmen, half-naked and barefoot. They can be whipped away.”
“Be careful there, Karidge. Irregular spearmen can be a nasty thorn in the heel if they scent blood that is not theirs. We cannot just ignore them, like some levies.”
“True. But the aragorn and the swarths are what must exercise our muscles.”
“And our minds.”
Not for the first time I contemplated the large number of men locked up in the Phalanx. Perhaps as foot soldiers they might be spread to cover more ground and thus present a wider frontage. I set great store by the sword and shield men, and wished to increase their numbers, creating a powerful central force of super heavy infantry. But there was no gainsaying the might of the Phalanx. Once the pikes went down and the soldiers charged there was little that would stand before them. A half dozen saddle-birds lined out, curving against the blue sky where the last clouds we would see this day were wafting away with the breeze. They slanted in steeply, their wings stiff against the air, and made perfect landings. Tyr Naghan Elfurnil ti Vandayha unstrapped his harness and jumped down with an affectionate pat for his bird. He walked across to me.
“You have had the report of the reinforcements, majister?”
“Aye, Naghan.”
“If my saddle-birds could have been allowed to fly last night-”
“Little difference, Naghan. What do you see now?”
“They have positioned themselves before that low rounded hill, as you said they would. Here are the dispositions.” He handed me the paper with the scrawled squares and the scribbled notations. I studied it. Just where each enemy formation was located was important, for it was vital to place suitable forces opposite those they could handle. Cavalry in the center, cavalry on the wings, the infantry lined out. Yes. By rapidly executed flank marches the enemy commander, whoever he might be, could compress or extend his front, and swing cavalry or infantry across to plug gaps at will. I thought for a moment or two and then nodded to the waiting aides-de-camp. Quickly, they took their orders, saluted, and galloped off. As our army marched up to the stream and woods they would be marshaled so as to deploy according to my instructions.
By Zair! I just hoped that what I was doing was correct. The whole situation was likely to slide out of hand. Once the fronts locked in combat and all hell broke loose it would all be down to those initial dispositions and the sheer fighting ability of the men in the ranks. The orders were to go on. We would appear and attack. There would be no waiting. This was no defensive fight. This was onslaught,
The brilliant golden Mask of Recognition was affixed over my face. Cleitar the Standard and Ortyg the Tresh shook out their banners. Volodu the Lungs closed up and Korero, as always, hovered a golden shield at my back. Delia rode close, and Korero knew his duty there. In a little group we rode forward and so came to the last stand of trees. The sheen of the suns lay across the grass, the little stream and the rounded hill beyond.
Ranked before us, line on line, mass on mass, the waiting formations of the enemy seemed to fill all the space and overflow in a blinding brilliance of color and steel.
Taking out my sword I lifted it high and then slashed it down in a vehement gesture, the point aimed at the heart of the foemen.
Silently, the leading ranks of our men plunged into the stream.
Chapter Six
Thus began First Kanarsmot.
The feel of the zorca between my knees and the close confinement of the helmet and the Mask of Recognition, the itch of war harness on my shoulders, the brilliance of the splashing water drops as we forded across the stream — all these sensations in one form or another must have been felt by all the men in that little army. All, except the Mask of Recognition. The thing served a purpose, although I doubted if it would stop even a short-bow’s shaft. As we came up on the far bank a sudden and sweet scent of white shansili filled our nostrils. The familiar scent must have brought aching-memories of familiar homes and dear faces to the men for those lovely flowers are often grown in trellises over the doors of Vallian homes.
In advance ran the kreutzin, lithe limber young men, raffish and wayward; but thirsting to get their javelins and arrows into play. Half naked, some of them, fleet of foot and agile, they raced forward to be first in action.
Scrambling my zorca — who was faithful old Grumbleknees — up on the opposite bank I rode forward far enough to allow space for the Sword Watch to form at my back.
The enemy were already moving. Their masses came on steadily, and I looked to see who would make first contact.
From the enemy’s right they were drawn up thusly: the swarth force of a thousand; two dense masses of paktuns, five thousand each arrayed one behind the other; the central body of totrix and zorca cavalry, five thousand strong; the irregulars a little in advance and already beginning to race onward; the six thousand masichieri, who hung a little back; and, finally, on the left wing, the two thousand zorca-mounted aragorn. Ordered in two sections of five each, and out in front, the dermiflons lifted their stupid heads and brayed. The glitter of the suns smote back from the weapons of the men in their armored howdahs — armored castle-like structures the warriors of Kregen call calsaxes — and the dermiflon handlers ran yelling and pushing around the enormous beasts as they sought to force them into their clumsy stumbling run.
The main strength of the enemy, therefore, lay in his right wing. I did not discount the aragorn; but they and the masichieri would fight only for as long as they could see slaves and plunder coming their way. Already our bowmen were loosing at the dermiflons.
Once we had seen them off, the real fight could begin.
Equally, massive and impressive striding citadels of war though dermiflons truly are, they must not attract all a commander’s attention and he must not allow them to deflect him into wasting too many of his precious resources on them.
From the left we were arrayed thusly: the totrix cavalry division attached to the Phalanx; the Phalanx itself; the Tenth Brigade of Archers; the First Cavalry Brigade of zorcas with the Fourth slightly to their right. I lifted in the stirrups and looked across to the right toward the woods that masked the backward-curving bend of the river. There
