“Filling their quivers. Rancher levies from the far interior, I make them for the most part, but not altogether savages.”
Alleyne nodded. “Sire. Ah, there they go.”
The horsemen from over the mountains moved towards the ranks on the hill. It was like watching water spatter on a pane of glass, but running backward so that the clots and streams flowed together, building around banners that bore odd spiky sigilsâthe brands of their Ranchersâor the rayed sun of the Church Universal and Triumphant, gold on scarlet.
Rudi looked over his shoulder. The solid block of the Protector's Guard waited, black armor and bright lance heads, the Lidless Eye on every shield and pennant, five hundred strong. The chivalry of Odell was about as numerous, but in armor bright or dark, each vassal lord with his men. Their lances swayed overhead, a forest of steel. He waved, and three horses trotted up the slope to pull up beside him.
“Now, my King?” Ãrard Renfrew said.
“Not quite yet, my lord Viscount,” Rudi said. “Timing is all. But better to labor to restrain the stallion than prod the mule. Edain, when we go we're going in straight.”
The clansman looked a little unhappy, but he couldn't be at the High King's side in a horseman's fight, and the best way he could safeguard Rudi would be to get the fight won, and as quickly as possible.
Rudi held out his left fist, then extended the little finger on that hand. “You like this, and the Odell crossbowmen with you. Turn the enemy back towards the lances. My lord Alleyne, you and your Rangers will screen our right.”
The fair man in black nodded. “You're depending on . . . the Grand Constable to do the right thing,” he said neutrally.
Ah, put the feud aside, man. Yes, she wished your Astrid dead these fifteen years and more, but she had no part in her end. The which was like something from her Histories, and just exactly as she would have wished, poor lady.
“She has so far. Now to your places, all of you.”
“And mine's by you,” Mathilda said.
Their hands touched in their gauntlets. Below the plainsmen were moving to the attack, slowly, which was wise. You saved the speed for when it was needed. Then there was a stir, an eddy, and they were in motion towards the point of the triangle on the hill, spreading around it in a swirling mass, and even across the distance you could hear the hooves.
And the chorus of yelping war cries,
Cut! Cut! Cut!
The artillery spat at them, bolts and round shot; there were blackened patches on the grass, but no globes of fire went out. Then the little horizontal flicker of the crossbow bolts, and the ripple in the dun mass of the horsemen as each rose in the saddle to draw his bow . . .
Mathilda extended a hand. “Huon, lance.”
The lad was there, and the long ash-wood shaft slapped into her gauntlet.
“Now,” Rudi said. He slipped his arm into the loops of his shield and drew the Sword.
Shock
ran through the world.
And over his voice, the high call of the oliphants. Behind him a rising thutter of hooves, as the lancers crested the rise a thousand strong.
“Morrigú!”
he screamed.
“Artos and Montival!”
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“Very neat timing,” he gasped a half hour later, and forced his breathing to slow.
The ground beneath them was actually muddy with blood; he'd heard of that in songs, but never seen it before, and the smell was rank and metallic. Men were stabbing downward with their lances to give the mercystroke, mostly to wounded horses. Tiphaine d'Ath reined in across from him, limned by the morning sun; her mount snorted at Epona, then tossed its barded head aside, eyes rolling beyond the brow ridges of the steel peytral that warded its head as the big mare ignored him.
Rudi raised his voice a little to carry as he leaned over and extended his hand.
“Well done, and very well done, Grand Constable. I gave you a task, and you did it. Very well done indeed.”
They gripped forearms for a moment. “The main column, Your Majesty?” she asked. “I had Lord Rigobert in command of it while I held the rear.”
“Safe and back to our lines by now, eating barley bannock and bean soup by the field kitchens.”
A very slight sigh.
Don't be overwhelming me with shouts of joy, now,
he thought. Another man came up beside her, the commander of the Yakima foot.
“Brigadier Wheedon, an impressive display of courage and cool discipline from your troops. Get your men on their bicycles and moving right now. Directly west will do, it's not steep.”
“My wounded, ah, your lordship High King?”
“I've brought up a column of field ambulances. But waste no time. Abandon any gear that can't follow quickly; goods we can replace more easily than brave men. Move!”
“Yessir!” he said, and went off at a run.
Rudi looked at the tattered ranks of the knights behind the Grand Constable. One man had a helm with half an ostrich-feather plume, the rest sheared away; he recognized the olive face of the Count Palantine of the Eastermark when the visor was raised and the splintered shield's heraldic symbols:
Or, a tree vert with a wolf passant sable, on a tree brun
.
“My lord Count Felipe,” he called. “Well-met. There's news from Walla Walla via the heliograph net. Your good lady is a notable war-captain; they beat off another assault there from the enemy yesterday, and inflicted heavy loss.”
The man beamed. Rudi turned to the others. “Colonel Vogeler, Lord Alleyne, Rick, you'll screen the heavy horse. They'll be at us before we're back. Make them bunch and we'll punch at them again; or if they don't, we'll keep withdrawing.”
Three Bears was grinning beneath his black-and-white war paint; he'd stopped with three strings of scalps, and they dripped onto the hide of his horse.
“Damned if we didn't finish off every third one, Strong Raven,” he said.
“Damned if they won't come on again anyway,” Rudi said grimly.
He glanced around for Matti, and his heart lurched when he saw her destrier standing empty-saddled, but then he realized Huon Liu was holding it. She was on foot, and a man knelt before her. It was Conrad's youngest son.
“. . . arise, Sir Ogier!” she finished.
He did, managing a tired smile. Rudi leaned, and Epona pivoted. Nobody was left on the rise the pikemen had held, nobody but the dead. Far above a glider turned, the near-noon sun flashing from its polished canopy, a brightness among the black wings of the carrion birds.
And eastwardâ
He gasped, and then shook his head as the others looked at him. His hand clasped the hilt of the Sword.
“He is coming,” he heard himself say. “The Prophet. Sethaz is coming.”
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ALSO BY S. M. STIRLING
NOVELS OF THE CHANGE
ISLAND IN THE SEA OF TIME
AGAINST THE TIDE OF YEARS
ON THE OCEANS OF ETERNITY
DIES THE FIRE
THE PROTECTOR'S WAR
A MEETING AT CORVALLIS
THE SUNRISE LANDS
THE SCOURGE OF GOD
THE SWORD OF THE LADY
THE HIGH KING OF MONTIVAL
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NOVELS OF THE SHADOWSPAWN
A TAINT IN THE BLOOD
THE COUNCIL OF SHADOWS
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OTHER NOVELS BY S. M. STIRLING
THE PESHAWAR LANCERS
CONQUISTADOR