With a shout,
he brought his charger around and got the attention of his standard-bearer with
cuffs, then led him to a spot along the ridge where a partial landslip and a
slightly easier incline provided what might be their road to salvation. It was
a short way from the place where Gil and Reacher stood looking down.
The American
saw it all and bit off an obscenity. He’d hoped the slip would be too steep to
negotiate—he knew
he
would never want to try it—but the captain was a
superb horseman and his men were old campaigners. Many of them, taking the path
he set them, fell back. But many swarmed on. If they got to high ground, Gil
knew, they’d sweep it clean, mowing down the dismounted archers easily, and might
turn the tide of battle.
The
Wolf-Brother had sprung to the lip where slope met cliff top, poised to defend
it. Gil impatiently shoved him aside, took up a stance and waited with his face
stiff and stern.
When the enemy
cavalry and their churning mounts were within yards of the crest he raised the
carbine to his shoulder almost involuntarily. Feeling the cool press of wood
against his stock-welded cheek, he fixed them in his sight and began firing.
Men dropped from their saddles, only to be replaced by desperate comrades.
The first
magazine went quickly, the noise and fire of the carbine and its devastating
effect stabbing panic into those below. But they were fighting for their lives,
willing to face even apparent magic for a chance to live.
The American
was sickened. He tried to reconcile himself; not to have fired would have
invited disaster and death for his side. But that made the cold killing no less
repugnant. He changed magazines and squeezed the trigger as quickly as he
could, but more and more men were following their commander up the slope.
Now more
archers were concentrating their fire on this sudden advance. Just as the men
below began to fall back, their captain, who had miraculously lived through the
gunfire, threw a mace he’d carried on his saddle bow.
Gil saw it
coming and ducked to one side, but the lip of the crest was eroded and gave
way. He fought for a second to get his balance over empty space, then pitched
forward an instant before Reacher spotted his dilemma and grabbed for him. He lost
his carbine as he went skidding past the enemy captain, who barely missed a cut
at him.
Sliding and
tumbling, he managed to drop to the floor of the pass with a minimum of damage,
but would undoubtedly have lost most of his skin had he not been wearing armor.
His steel cap was gone, and he threw back his coif and looked around him.
The place was
like a scene out of the Hell he remembered so well. Men and animals were
feathered through with arrows. Some of the panic-stricken soldiers were still
trying to hack their way through the abatis but most were attempting to retreat
back up the pass, pushing at those blocking them and trampling those beneath,
adding to the crushing pressure on the infantry facing Springbuck and
Hightower.
No one on the
floor of the pass had yet noticed Gil. He picked himself up groggily and pulled
out his pistols, weighing his chances of either fighting his way to the
barricade or scrambling back up the slope. Having witnessed one such battle
already, he knew that his chances in such a riot were damned poor in spite of
his firearms. He glanced back to size up the slope, but saw that the captain
was bearing down on him, fell and fey, saber raised, thoughts of escape
submerged by the lust for vengeance.
The Browning
clutched to his chest, Gil raised the Mauser and trained careful aim on the
plunging, charging officer. When the man was within a few yards he fired. The
pistol report startled the horse and picked his target out of the saddle. There
was a neat black hole in the captain’s corselet and surprise on his face.
All the archers
on both cliffs had concentrated on the group attempting the slope and
eliminated the threat of a
coup de main.
But it was still no safe place
to be, Gil knew. Even if he managed to get to the top—a doubtful venture in
armor—he’d likely be arrowed by a careless bowman from his own side.
The enemy had
taken advantage of the redirected archer fire to charge the barricade again,
hacking at it with swords and sending arrows, javelins and toss darts through
and over it.
Gil blasphemed.
He had a choice between downright stupidity and suicide. His one shot had been
noticed and several troopers turned toward him, closing with their swords high
for the butcher blow.
He skipped
backward to the cliff face, bracing his back against it, and began to use his
pistols judiciously. He knew he’d never get a chance to reload.
Springbuck and
his men pushed hard. They did well, although their opposition was trapped and
fighting for life.
But in the van
of the attack was Lord Hightower.
His sight
returned, his nerve and confidence restored and whatever demon of depression that
occupied him gone, he was venting all the cyclopean energy so long and
unwillingly curbed. He swung his greatsword without pause or check. His
iron-rimmed shield, covered with many plies of tough hide, turned aside any
blow or missile and buffeted many men from their feet.
Soon all who
would have been in his way and with whom he’d have closed shied away and turned
in another direction in the melee. He threshed deeper into their ranks and at
length was alone, a solitary reaper harvesting foemen. Though the Prince and
his men did their best to follow, Springbuck began to think that Hightower
would carry the day all by himself. With the return of his sight had come a
renewal of his strength in combat. Last of his puissant, long-lived line, he
made this his hour and there was no man who could stand before his arm or
overbear him.
Those who saw
him coming could only fall back in dismay and fear that some harsh,
frost-haired deity of the distant north had contracted to ride with the Prince
of Coramonde.
Gil crouched,
nerves taut, by the foot of the cliff and watched the riders circling in front
of him. He’d driven them away once, but now the Browning’s slide was locked
back, magazine empty. He dared not turn his attention to reload it for worry
that a stray arrow or aimed spear would come in his direction; he’d already
dodged two javelins.
Somehow the men
sensed that he hesitated to shoot. Though his weapons were frightening, they
knew now that this man was no wizard. They meant to kill him before they
themselves were killed.
He didn’t take
his eyes from them as he let fall the Browning, switched the Mauser to his left
hand and drew his sword. He condemned his luck at not being able to grab a
stray horse, but they wouldn’t let him near with the smell of gunpowder on him.
One man rode in on him, fast and low, a long iron throwing dart in his hand and
his shield protecting him. Without a clear shot Gil was forced to pick the
horse out from under him.
It took the
last round in the Mauser.
He tucked the
pistol into his belt rather than let it hang by its lanyard or take the time to
fumble it back into its holster, and dropped into an uneasy guard.
The man whose
horse he’d shot sprang to his feet, sword out, and rushed him. Gil found that
his own blade, a replacement for the one he’d left pinning the scorpion banner
to the ground and one he’d considered rather heavy and awkward, was now
weightless. A small part of him knew it for adrenalin.
His antagonist
had a shield still on his arm, but was shaken from his fall, despite his quick
recovery. Gil snatched the big trench knife from his belt to use as a parrying
blade, as he’d seen Springbuck do.
They began
their duel.
He’d expected
to be on the defensive but found himself as much the aggressor as his opponent,
with a dexterity he hadn’t known he possessed. Their swords cut and parried and
diligent drill was repaid with survival. Unlike his foe, he didn’t shout or
mock and insult. A half-dozen times he blocked cuts that promised to lift his
head from his body or sever him at the chest. The trench knife wasn’t adequate
to stop full strokes of the other’s blade, but its threat helped even the
match.
The blades
became a blur and he fought by reflex. Then he found himself thinking a move or
two ahead and used compound movements with unconscious smoothness. Time and
again he let learned responses parry ferocious cuts in prime and tierce.
His slash was
shield-blocked by his foe and he managed to take the return stroke on the
knife; if it hadn’t had brass knuckles on its grip he’d have lost fingers. He
avoided a knee to the groin in an incredibly violent corps-à-corps. It was only
by chance that he bobbed to the left as the man gathered a mouthful of saliva
and spat it at him, or he’d have been momentarily blinded and permanently killed.
But in
spitting, his antagonist had cocked his head forward, and the exposed throat
triggered another kind of reflex in the American, who tried to chop at it with
his left hand. Though the blow was clumsy—his hand still held the knife—it
staggered the other and gave Gil a split second to drive the knife blade into
the soft area just in front of his foe’s right ear, below the rim of his
helmet. It took maximum effort, a stroke that only a strong man might use
effectively, but it succeeded and the cavalryman was dead even as he sank to
the ground.
So much for the niceties of combat; chivalry be damned.
Gil
thought it interesting that he’d lived through his first sword fight and very,
very gratifying. During the match, the elements under Springbuck and the
whelming Hightower had broken through. The old hero’s booming voice called for
surrender and was met in moments by a pass littered with weapons. Gil picked up
his Browning and examined it. Doubtless it and the carbine were clogged with
dirt and sand. Cleaning them would be a bitch.
He didn’t see a
dismounted man near him turn, cock his arm and aim a spear at him, but someone
else did.
The man was
slain before he could release his weapon by a stone hurled with bulletlike
speed and accuracy. Gil heard the impact and saw the man slump, skull
shattered. He glanced up to see the Wolf-Brother gazing down calmly. Reacher
hadn’t even bothered to pick up a backup rock.
Overconfident
shrimp,
huffed Gil MacDonald.
And I saw
askant the armies, I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags borne
through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles, I saw them.
WALT WHITMAN,
“When Lilacs Last in the
Dooryard Bloom’d”
“BECAUSE,” Gil said wearily,
“even if we
do
fight our way through the army surrounding Freegate,
there’s another right on our heels, and it’ll seal us in again but good. We’d
be stuck, trapped, static. On the other hand, if we stay outside and organize
the people in the countryside, we might be able to do something useful. Maybe
we could regarrison the pass redoubt before it’s too late or enlist more of the
tribes of the High Ranges and liberate Freegate from outside.”
Reacher was
unconvinced, unconvincible. He meant to go back to his city and lead its
defense; he wouldn’t listen to logic or pleas. His dreams had instructed him to
do so he said, adamant.
“Reacher, my
friend,” Springbuck said. “You understand what our scouts tell us? There is a
large unit outside your gates and an enormous one following us hard. We’ve many
wounded and scarce time. We’re liable to be decimated between two foes. I doubt
seriously if we could hold our own against the first corps alone, if it has all
Freegate at bay.”
The
Wolf-Brother remained solemn, indifferent. “Do not come then. I must go back.”
“And I’ll go
with you!” rumbled Hightower, and he clapped Reacher on the back, staggering
him. “The debt I owe you won’t be paid until I’ve done you a service. Besides,
I don’t like all this talk of skulking and hiding and consorting with peasants
and masterless men. You came when you were needed and aided my kin. Now let’s
bash our way into Freegate and I’ll show you how Hightower can brace for siege.
And when they’ve dented their skulls and worn themselves out on your white
walls, we’ll break ’em and send ’em yelping on their way with a boot to their
cracks.”
Gil muttered
under his breath and wondered why he’d left Philly. Too late to second-guess
now, but the next time anyone tried to tap him for interuniversal service…
Springbuck knew
that Hightower’s remark had been a rebuke of sorts to him. He said to Reacher,
“If this is your wish, ally, then I bow to you; you have been staunch at my
side. Perhaps it is for the best. Many of our men need care.” He was also
thinking that a leader mustn’t be too proud or stubborn to see another’s
viewpoint. Too, he sensed that the Wolf-Brother would never yield. To chivy him
on it would risk an end of their coalition.
Besides,
Gabrielle was still in Freegate.
“Okay, all
right,” Gil conceded. “We’ll do it your way. But we don’t just have to romp in
and slug it out. We must do this fast and sneaky, and maybe there’s a way. Pray
Yardiff Bey hasn’t figured out how we played games with his generals’
communications or had time to warn his other field commanders about it.”
They’d taken up
positions and made preparations by moonrise, two hours after dusk of the day
after the battle in the pass. They’d managed to rest and had avoided contact
with enemy patrols with the exception of one, shortly before sundown. That one
they had destroyed to the last man.
Gil’s plan was
uncomplicated but dangerous. The main body of the expedition formed up and
moved slowly through the woodlands to the southeast of the city barbican,
tracing the rim of the chasm. They made their cautious way toward the bridgeway
with Reacher and the prowlers afoot, eliminating the occasional sentry without
commotion. Since the plateau on which the city stood featured only one
connection to the surrounding lands, the enemy had massed all his forces in
that area, sure that the decisive action would take place there.