Lord of Janissaries (105 page)

“Yo!” Frick took aim.

“Stand clear behind!” McQuade shouted and rammed a load into the small shoulder-fired recoilless.

“Fire in the hole!” The Carl Gustav roared, and flame belched from both ends of the recoilless. The shell slammed right into the middle of the enemy horsemen, twenty yards to the right of the CO’s banner. The second shell took out the banner.

By the time the fourth shell was on the way, the first rank of the enemy cavalry had broken. They turned on the troops behind, so that the entire force was in disarray. Mason turned to his trumpeter. “Sound the charge.”

He was only just in time. The sight of enemy backs was too much for the Tamaerthan heavies, and not even Drumold and Balquhain could hold them. They’d already begun to move when the trumpets sounded. In seconds they were waist-deep in the water.

Two upstream cavalrymen suddenly screamed as translucent tentacles reached up and around them. The men slashed wildly with their swords as their horses bolted in panic. The other cavalry spurred onward. Some emerged with half a dozen foot-long hydras clinging to the horses. Their comrades smashed at them with sword flats. The hydras dropped off and were trampled.

Now the heavies were in extreme archery range of the troops on the hilltop. They hadn’t lost a man crossing, but now Mason saw three fall. Then two more horses were down.

Frick slammed four more rounds into the retreating enemy cavalry, then turned to harass the shield wall on the hill to his left. Three rounds, and the first of the infantry threw down their weapons and ran. By the fifth round they were all running, and carrying the archers with them.

Teuthras was just crossing the river. He saw the hill cleared and led his light cavalry across the rear of the charging heavies and up the left side hill. It was tough going on the steep hillock but there was no opposition and soon he’d outflanked the enemy cavalry in the draw below.

On his own initiative, too, Mason thought. We got ourselves some decent officers, by God!

The Tamaerthan heavies lowered their lances and charged home into the enemy cavalry in the gap. The enemy was already in retreat. Now it became a headlong rout. The infantry on the right-hand hill threw down their weapons and knelt. Some held up charms, of Yatar and Vothan, as tokens of surrender. A quarter of an hour after the first round was fired there wasn’t an armed enemy to be seen.

Drumold and Balquhain held up their banners, waited until their troops had rallied and were in formation, and led the way into the gap.

And that tears it, Mason thought. We’re well beyond any intelligence I’ve got. There was supposed to be one hell of a lot of enemy here. So far it’s been easy. Too damned easy.

* * *

Drumold’s banner had reached the head of the draw when Mason saw it stop. Art spurred his horse ahead along the column, but the rough ground on either side of the road slowed him. As he came in sight of more open ground the Defenders began their move, but between them and the Tamaerthans was a solid mass of cavalry coming on at a trot.

Drumold stood in his stirrups. “Spread out! Get in line!”

“That’s where they were,” Mason muttered. “Frick! Follow me! Guards, rally here!” He turned to scramble up the left side hill. “Get up here and set up! Your target is the oncoming cavalry. Fire at will!”

We’re in time, he thought. Just. But they sure act like nothing can stop them—

Skin-clad figures seemed to sprout like mushrooms from the scrub to Mason’s left. He shot one, hacked through a spear-wielding arm with his sword. He caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye, then a sling stone smashed into his helmet. He saw blood-red fireworks against a black sky and barely had time for one thought as he toppled out of the saddle.

Maybe that enemy commander was right in thinking he couldn’t be stopped.

* * *

Ganton focused the binoculars, and the banner on the hill by Herdsman’s Ford sprang into clear sight. Lord Rick’s plan had worked well so far; the Tamaerthans were in the rear of the Defenders and in no small strength.

Yet the Defenders had cavalry aiding them. Together might not the enemy’s strength be too much for Drumold and Lord Mason? It very well might be, and then whether the battle was won or lost, Tamaerthon would be a long time recovering from the loss of its knights and archers.

I owe Titus Frugi much, and that is good and sufficient reason not to shame him without cause. I owe the Tamaerthans more—my very throne, indeed. But is that cause enough to risk shaming Titus Frugi, to say nothing of quarreling with my wife’s father?

Only Yatar or His Son could be certain. I only know this: I will not have it said that the Wanax Ganton of Drantos was like his father, without honor. That he let the chivalry of Tamaerthon be cut to pieces when his aid could have saved them.

“Morrone!”

“Majesty?”

“Sound the trumpets and advance the banner of the Fighting Man. We ride to aid the Tamaerthans!”

If Morrone’s grin had been any wider it would have met at the back of his head. “As you command.”

“Oh, and send a messenger to Lord Rick.”

“And one to Publius?”

“To Publius, of course. But send the one to Lord Rick first.”

* * *

The Drantos heavy cavalry took up all the space between the hill and the forest, so the Romans had to follow them. Rick saw that Ganton was taking his time, too. The heavies moved at a walk until they were on level ground, and even a little farther, until they were on ground that wasn’t littered with bodies from the earlier attacks.

Then the knights of Drantos shook out their lines, and even from the top of the Great Redoubt Rick could see Ganton’s golden helmet take its place in front. They worked up to a trot, and at a trot they rolled across the rear of Phrados’ host, straight toward the Defenders and the cavalry around the Tamaerthans.

That solved one of Rick’s biggest headaches, and without his having to say a word. Just as well, because Publius must be about ready to have a stroke. He might not risk insulting his son-in-law, but his son-in-law’s captain general?

And isn’t that thinking a lot like a medieval politician—like your wife, in fact?

A moment later he saw the Romans move out. The Praetorian Eagle led the way, but the Fourth was close up behind it, and the Eighth brought up the rear in a really beautiful formation.

A messenger rode off, with a signal for the balloon to send: TO TAMAERTHAN ARCHERS ON HIGH ROAD; PREPARE TO ADVANCE DOWN HIGH ROAD IN SUPPORT OF SEVENTEENTH LEGION WHEN SEVENTEENTH ADVANCES.

If Publius had the brains God promised little white mice, he’d move his own pikemen and foot archers out of cover to stiffen up the cavalry cordon he would soon have drawn around the enemy’s infantry. Then the Tamaerthan archers could leave their cover and stiffen the Seventeenth, and the enemy’s whole center would be surrounded—Tamaerthan and Romans on two sides and the river on the third.

Close off the Redoubt and they’ll be surrounded—provided of course, that I can retake the Great Redoubt. Time to fight again.

Rick sent off another messenger to the heavy weapons, then rode down to First Pikes and stood in his stirrups. “First Pikes, Guardsmen, gunners! Follow me! Let’s clean these vermin out of our house.”

He drew his sword to signal the advance. Suddenly the men to either side dropped their pikes and bows and ran forward to grab his bridle, his stirrups, even his horse’s tail. Shouts rose.

“Go back, Lord Rick!”

“Stay back, Lord Rick!”

“We won’t advance until you’re safe, Lord Rick!”

Then: “Lord Rick to the rear!”

—and everybody picked up on that and shouted it until Rick’s head ached.

Elliot rode up grinning like an idiot. “Captain, looks like you’re outvoted. They think you’re their good luck charm. Maybe you are.”

“Elliot—”

“Think about it, Colonel. They’ll follow you, all right. But if you buy it, this outfit’s finished, and we all know it. For Christ’s sake, sir! You don’t have to prove anything.”

I don’t have to prove anything?
“All right, Sergeant Major. Carry on.”

“Sir!” Elliot rode out in front of the pikemen, fired a burst into the air from the Ingram, and shouted, “Okay, you crazy bastards! Do you want to live forever?”

Cheers rose, pikes followed, and the counterattack charged down the hill. Mortar and recoilless rounds fell among the enemy. In the center of the line rose two giant figures, the Great Ark swathed in ammo belts and Gunner Pinir with a barrel of powder under one arm and a rammer over his shoulder.

The enemy troops in the Redoubt stood for a moment. Then someone raised a shout. “The Defenders! The Defenders are running away.”

It was true enough. Ganton’s chivalry had struck the Defenders in flank even as they were closing on the Tamaerthan knights, and the Defenders dissolved into uncoordinated groups. Some stood and fought like demons. More turned and ran as they realized their gods had forsaken them.

“They run! The Defenders run!” The shout rang through the Redoubt.

First Pikes came at a steady lope, pikes aligned into a forest of advancing points, in step as if on parade. A few of the bombard gunners ran ahead of the pikemen to beat the last of the Prophet’s men from their guns, then wrestled the bombards back into action. Three were actually firing at the retreating enemy when the Seventeenth Legion marched out of the forest followed by Tamaerthan archers.

* * *

Art Mason woke to a thundering head and a sharp pain in his leg. He tried to sit, but was restrained. It was a struggle to open his eyes. Somewhere nearby a man was screaming. Many men.

The first thing he saw was the smiling face of Yanulf’s sidekick, Apelles.

“Praise Yatar the healer,” Apelles said. He turned and shouted to an apprentice. “Carry the word to the Lord Rick.”

“At once.”

So the Colonel’s alive too. We’re getting too old for this.
He listened, and heard distant sounds of guns, but not nearly enough.

“Can you count the fingers I hold up before you?” Apelles asked urgently.

“Fingers? Four. No.” He tried to shake his head and that hurt. “Two.”

“Good.” He wiped Mason’s face with a wet cloth. “The Lord McCleve has been summoned.”

“To hell with McCleve. Who’s winning?” Mason demanded.

“All is well.”

“Talk, damn your eyes!”

“You should rest—very well.” Apelles wiped Mason’s forehead again and held a cup of water to his lips. “Drink. Then I will talk.”

The water was bitter.

“Where to begin?”

“The goddamn cavalry was about to grind up my troops!”

“Ah. The captain of that cavalry had arrayed his men without telling Phrados. Phrados thought he was deserting. He ordered the Defenders to attack.

“When the Defenders advanced, Lord Balquhain held his forces and waited until the Defenders had finished their work. Then he charged.”

“Good man.” Mason tried to grin, but it hurt.

“Then our gracious Wanax Ganton most honorably led the host of Drantos against the Defenders! He smote them to the ground! They never rose again!

“Publius Caesar, envious of our king’s glory, led his legions against the enemy’s center, and the Lord Rick retook the Great Redoubt and the Guns.

“The day is ours.”

The day is ours.
His head buzzed. There had been something in that water. He closed his eyes to sleep, and a smile drifted to his lips.
Survived again.

* * *

The Prophet’s tent stood. The interior was stripped bare. The great wheeled altar lay on its side. Holes gaped where there had once been bronze handles and silver fittings.

Matthias turned away. He handed his torch to a guard and mounted.

Captain Pharikos rode up. “It’s like this everywhere, sir.” He shrugged. “At least one thing’s for the best. If they don’t find Phrados’ body, anyone can claim to be him. If Drantos has to fight a new Phrados every year, they’ll get a bellyful of fighting. If we send all those Prophets silver and arms—”

“Peace. The gods have judged Phrados. It is not for us to question their judgement.”

Matthias knew that he had spoken sharply, but not why. He turned his horse away and waved his band forward out of the camp.

Screams echoed behind him. Screams of both men and women. Matthias was glad of his two hundred armed and mounted men.
Men I can trust. There are few enough honest men left here.

It was not until the camp was several stades behind that Matthias thought of his harsh words to Captain Pharikos.
The strategy is sound. It would rob the starmen of much of the profit of today’s victory.

He rode on in silence.
No. To harass the starmen with false Prophets will strengthen their alliance with the city-states. The men who would rise in that alliance will not be those of the old blood who honor the old ways. Mercenary captains, merchants. New men who will multiply like lamils in the breeding time.

And that is what I must tell Issardos, yea, and the high Rexja Toris himself.

He would not speak of the judgment of the gods to any but Vothan.

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