To the
northeast, on the opposite side of the encampment from the barbican, Gil, Springbuck,
Hightower and a small group of selected dragoons were poised just beyond the
outermost ring of guards, hidden from sight. Gil was thinking that if
everything didn’t come off fairly simultaneously they could all pack it in.
Springbuck decided it was time to move and said so. Gil gnawed a thumbnail and
turned to the cavalrymen, four of whom were buglers.
“Remember: when
we’re through the first cordon of sentries, start blowing
To arms,
but
keep with us. When I give you the word, switch to
Rally here,
and don’t
fall behind! I just hope those boys bagging
Zs
in the tents can’t
tell you from their regular tooters and follow procedure.”
Speed would be
their only chance. There were fewer than twenty of them.
The American
looked toward Springbuck, difficult to discern in the darkness. The Prince
raised his arm, so Gil clamped his reins in his teeth and drew his pistols, his
heart banging in his chest. If he hadn’t drifted away from his religion, he
would have prayed in that moment.
Springbuck’s
arm dropped. They were off with a rush, brandishing weapons and guiding their
horses with knees and teeth-held reins. Swooping through dimness they rode down
the first line of sentries, who barely had time to cry out in alarm. Gil opened
up with both guns, yelling through clenched teeth. The others were yanking
torches from the ground, riding past tents and slashing ropes, spreading fire
as they went.
Gil waved both
arms over his head and the buglers blared their notes. Men were jolted from
sleep by fearsome explosions and urgent bugles:
To arms!
As trained,
they groped and stumbled to prepare for battle in the midst of what they’d
believed to be a secure camp. Officers were as bewildered as enlisted men, and
none more so than the camp commander, Midwis. The bugled message changed
shortly:
Rally here!
Stand to your banners and rally to us! Still fuzzy
with sleep, soldiers moved to do what was required of them.
The officer in
charge of the watch force maintaining guard on the barbican dispatched a rider
to find out what was going on, then belabored his men to do their job, keep
their eyes on Freegate and stop trying to peer at the excitement behind them.
At the onset of
the action, Reacher and the main force of the allied expedition moved ahead as
quickly as possible. Rolling along the entrenched army’s right flank, sending
their foes reeling and convoying their wounded along as fast as they dared,
they battled time and distance as well as the spears of their enemies.
Some calls for
aid went out now to the camp commander, but most of his men were already
responding to the false bugles and were beyond recall for the moment, charging
to the—to them—alien sound of gunfire and praying that they weren’t going to be
ordered to join battle with supernatural beings.
Leaving a wake
of burning, collapsing tents and mowing down disorganized defenders, the small
band of attackers at the far side of camp had beaten their way to approximately
the center of the bivouac. It was hard to see clearly, though the blazes behind
helped a bit, and Gil was careful not to shoot without making sure it wasn’t a
comrade in his sights. They broke into a parade area and began to rampage
around its periphery. Gil paused to fumble new ammunition into his pistols with
frantic haste, no easy task when mounted, especially with the Mauser.
A score or so
enemy cavalry came onto the parade ground from the opposite side; deducing
correctly that these men in uniforms similar to theirs were nevertheless
enemies, they charged. It took all the rounds in both the Mauser and the
Browning to break that charge.
Springbuck was
laying about him with Bar and thrusting a torch at whatever looked flammable.
Hightower chopped his way through adversaries, thick armor taking dents and
nicks, but the man within apparently indestructible. He threw down his ruined
shield and pulled from his side a mace with a heavy ball and long, wicked
spikes.
Gil drew his
horse up next to a platform of logs, a reviewing stand of some sort. He vaulted
onto it, tied his reins to the rail and pulled his carbine from its saddle
scabbard. Taking stance, he knew the peculiar calm that often came to him at
such times. He began to fire rapidly at the milling riders whose faces he
couldn’t see. He felt something brush his leg and looked down to see an arrow
quivering in the wood near his boot. Archers were casting their shafts at him
from the left. He threw himself prone and continued to fire, dropping several bowmen
and dispersing the rest.
The platform
trembled and he looked around. From nowhere, a fully armored knight in plate
had ridden up to the platform; unable to reach Gil from the saddle, he had
somehow managed to dismount and clamber over the rail. Though ungainly when not
on his charger, the knight lumbered on, sword raised.
Gil brought his
carbine around and pulled the trigger; but its breech was open, the magazine
spent, and the American knew with heart-stopping surety he was to die.
And he would
have died, except that the knight, as was the style in his own circles, wore
sollerets with long, articulated, pointed toes. As he stepped nearer to kill
the outlander, his metal footwear—well suited to stirrups but impractical under
these circumstances—tripped him. He tottered for a second in his heavy plate,
then fell to one knee.
Gil bounced to
his feet, shifted his grip on the carbine and drove its butt under the open
visor, and again, shaking with fear reaction. The knight toppled with a
resonant clang and didn’t move.
Now defense was
becoming organized and members of the raiding party were falling back around
Gil, hemmed in on all sides. Swords flashed in the night like fish in some deep
pool. Gil slung his carbine and plucked from his belt the two fragmentation
hand grenades he’d saved against desperate resort. As if at range practice, he
tore the GI tape from the bodies of the grenades, pulled the pins, let the
spoons fly free and hurled them as far as he could in the direction in which
the party must soon make its way.
The dull metal
egg-shapes arched through the air, timers marking the seconds. They landed in
dense clusters of troops, unnoticed for a moment until the detonations sent
bits of metal through flesh, riddling horse and man. Opposition fell back at
the twin reports, and raiders could see that their way through the smoke was
cleared for the time being.
Gil, reloading
his pistols for the final run, dropped the empty Browning magazine and spent
Mauser clip—irreplaceable, but no time to fiddle with them now—and called for
the others to follow him. He launched himself off the platform onto Jeb Stuart,
returning the carbine to its sheath.
Springbuck,
shaken by the grenade concussions, waved his torch and cried, “No, I shall
lead. Buglers, sound the call as I have told you!”
The buglers,
hearing him, blew four last, baleful notes. They didn’t sound the battle
flourish of the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
but rather “The Crown’s Retribution,” notes
to mark state executions and other occasions of high vengeance. Those who heard
were astounded and afraid. It seemed as if a death sentence had been passed on
them by a phantom monarch come with flame, thunder and sword irresistible.
With Springbuck
at their head, the small party began its reckless dash for Freegate.
With mass and
ferocity, the great Kisst-Haa and his kin—who’d had no chance to participate in
the fight at the pass and were thus more avid for combat—parted the way for the
main force of the allied army as they fought their way along the chasm’s edge
toward the barbican. Once they’d driven the enemy back temporarily from their
objective, Bonesteel arranged his men in an arch to dig their heels in and
hold, while wagons of wounded were trundled across the stone bridgeway, the
vehicles scavenged from the abandoned redoubt after its former defenders had
been disarmed and released.
Foremost of
those who fought the action there was Dunstan who, though he held his place,
met every man who came to him in combat with glad killing-fever.
The bridgeway
was blackened and burned in places; the defenders had been compelled to use
liquid fire against sallies on their gates. Andre, driving the lead wagon of
casualties, stopped at the gatehouse. Holding a torch close by his face, he
called up to the amazed sentries in the bartizan to open for him.
The officer of
the guard, already confused by the distant sound of gunfire and battle,
dithered over whether or not to comply. He was saved by the arrival of the Snow
Leopardess in answer to his previous summons, She stood to the wall and, recognizing
Andre, commanded that the gates be opened.
As the wagons
were being hurried in, Katya got a rapid explanation from the plump magician.
Just then Lady Duskwind, again in armor and wearing a sword, arrived at the
head of a complement of household cavalry. She’d heard the distant noise of
battle and had seen what would be demanded. The tall Princess’s eyes smoldered
with the lust for combat and she called for a horse and quickly ordered them to
ride forth and support those holding at the barbican. The officer of household
cavalry objected and received a short, scathing rebuke, after which he loosened
his sword in its sheath and waited unhappily.
With borrowed
sword and buckler, Katya turned to her troops.
“Sabers,
gentlemen,” she said evenly, as if it were some minor military acknowledgment
she asked. Their swords swept out in avid unison.
Then she
galloped for the gate. It was her way; rather than order them to follow, she
challenged them with bold example.
When it had
first arrived, the host from Earthfast had bested the men of Freegate and the
remaining Horse-blooded in the open beyond the city, and driven them into
confinement. Su-Suru had fallen in that battle, and several of the reptile-men
had been among the many others slain. It had been the Snow Leopardess’ first
major engagement and she seethed for repayment.
But her arrival
didn’t change matters on the far side of the bridgeway very much. The besieging
army was coordinating its actions and driving the allies back to the barbican.
She steered herself into a gap in the ranks with a feline howl; agile and
competent as any Wild Rider, she traded strokes with an amazed soldier and
downed him. Her brother was there, but couldn’t pause to talk to her. He swung
two appropriated swords in a whirlwind around himself, and those whom he
touched died.
Over the tumult
they heard the grenades’ detonations. The King, knowing the others were now
making their last break, began to slash furiously to prepare way for them.
Kisst-Haa crowded next to him and swung his colossal blade with cold,
elliptical precision.
Shot heralded
the arrival of the Prince and his companions. Counting Springbuck, Gil and
Hightower, there were seven left. They were, in this segment of the conflict,
effectively at the enemy’s rear. They barely slowed as they fell on the men of
Earthfast and cut their way ahead, finding it relatively easy to do so. Few
wanted to ride against the terrifying guns of the American or the gory
broadsword of the aged titan beside him.
The first
Springbuck knew that he’d broken through was when he was nearly pared from his
saddle by a screaming warrior-goddess with long, white-blonde hair and
red-stained saber. He parried with his bowie knife and called Katya by name.
She checked her return stroke and laughed for joy.
Now it became a
matter of slowly falling back through the barbican and across the bridgeway.
One by one, all the regular troops were sent dashing back to Freegate,
galloping for their lives, while Reacher and Katya, Springbuck, Hightower and
Gil held shoulder to shoulder along with Dunstan and Bonesteel, who stoutly
refused to leave. Even Kisst-Haa and his fellows were commanded to go; they
were mighty fighters but would slow the final retreat too much. The Lady
Duskwind was told to go by Gil, with an emphatic bellow; but after hanging back
for a minute, she chose to stay near until the American came with her.
Bonesteel was
met by a far younger man and could no longer find energy to match him. He was
thrown down with a death wound, but lived long enough to see Dunstan, suddenly
come to sanity at this tragedy, slay the man who’d dealt him his last injury.
And when the Berserker tenderly took up the old general to bear him back to the
city, Bonesteel, beyond pain, had just enough time left in his life to wonder
why he’d so mistrusted this man, had never taken time to make him a friend, and
to be sorry for it.
The Princess’
horse whinnied in terror and agony as an arrow found it. She managed to jump
free as it fell, but wasn’t on her feet long. Hightower leaned over; hooking
one hand around the back of her knife belt, he hauled her across his saddle. He
spurred toward Freegate, hot on the heels of Dunstan, with the Snow Leopardess
objecting in the loudest of voices.
Gil, guns
empty, unleashed a cut. He was trying frantically to defend himself and look
after Duskwind. He turned to tell her again that she must go back, and saw her
features twisted in agony; a toss-dart had sped from the opposing ranks and was
lodged in her side. She began to slump in her saddle.
He screamed in
shock and grief. Catching her as she fell, he held her to him and raced for the
gate.
When Hightower,
Katya, Gil and Duskwind were nearly at the entrance to Freegate, Springbuck
called for Reacher to come and disengaged himself from the press. The King told
him to be off, that he would follow, and the Prince went.
As he raced
back to the city, Springbuck heard gunfire from the gatehouse; Van Duyn, come
too late to ride out but contributing his share. Something bright caught the
Prince’s attention; with a rush of panic he spied Yardiff Bey’s aircraft
hovering off to the right on streamers of red demon-fire.