But there was worse yet to come. Half a score of horses stampeded in panic and trampled his tent. Mad Bear knew that not all his warriors and few of his women had got out safely, and he cursed these foul enemies, wizards so evil they would turn the Horse People’s mounts against them!
In time the wizard-thunder died away, and the Horse People were left to count their losses. From one trampled tent alone Mad Bear’s band pulled out a warrior and three women, two of them slaves, who would not see dawn. Another warrior had been thrown from a horse and struck his head. He lay mewling like a baby, and he fouled himself. All across the great camp it was much the same, and the toll among the horses was worse.
But the sky brightened as the Father Sun approached. Soon the night watchers came in.
There would be a battle. Riders who had followed the retreat of the wizards brought words that made that certain. There were many who followed the wizards. Grey Archers, devils in women’s skirts who could shoot as far and as straight as the Horse People. There were also many Riders of the Red-Cloak Chiefs, who fought as though one man’s thoughts guided all the horses and men of their war band. It was no shame to the riders that they had not dared follow closely. Yet they had followed.
The wizards and their friends had all gathered in one place, less than half the morning’s ride from the camp. It was a place the Horse People knew well, a valley of rolling hills. At its bottom snaked a wide stream no deeper than a stallion’s knees, and there were no hydras in the muddy waters. And there the wizards had halted—
Do they challenge the Horse People? Mad Bear’s heart rose within him, and he leaped upon his greatest stallion. “My people! Have we not said that those the gods will destroy are first driven from their senses? The sky gods are no friends to these wizards! The wizards await us, in a place we know well, in a place where we will triumph! We shall have the battle the Warrior desires, and this day we shall send many of the wizard-people to the Warrior’s Lodge!
“For what do we face? Men of the Iron Houses, and this in a place we would have chosen! Have they not always been easy enough to kill?
“To arms! Fill the waterskins, and send for all the Horse People who camp through the plains and hills! Summon all the clans! All the clans shall fight as one this day, all the Horse People as brothers, for is this not the will of the Warrior? Come, come, we shall fill the Warrior’s Lodge!”
30
Private Hal Roscoe shaded his eyes and stared down the valley in wonder. “Jesus Christ, Major, where’d they all come from?”
Mason waved him back into action without answering. Damn good question, Art thought. There must have been fifty thousand of the mothers, two or three times as many as Mason had expected, and they swarmed all across the valley of the Hooey River, on both sides and in the river itself, shooting as fast as they could, then closing in with lances and lariats and those goofy bronze swords. Anyone with a dead or hurt horse was a goner. Not even the mercs could cover him.
The whole operation had gone sour. “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,” Captain Galloway had told Mason; and Lord God was that true! Westmen had come boiling in from all directions, and despite everything the pieces of the Alliance army had got separated.
Now Mason’s troops held the top of a hill only a little higher than the rest of the knolls that sprinkled the Hooey Valley. The visibility was lousy. Too much dust, and too many of those damned little hills. Mason cursed again as he scanned the valley with his binoculars. The Drantos ironhats were across the river on another hill, facing their own share of Westmen. And everything flowed! Caradoc’s Mounted Archers had stayed with the mercs. Now they were out in front of Mason’s troops, and the mercs didn’t dare fire because the archers and the Westmen were all mixed together.
Vothan alone knew where the Romans had got off to. Mason looked down the valley toward the balloon. They’d set it up in a strong place, where the Hooey Valley narrowed and flowed between much higher hills. He’d left Beazeley and a hundred guards to babysit it. The whole army of Drantos was between it and the Westmen. It ought to have been safe enough.
Ought to have been. The balloon was aloft, but the observers weren’t paying any attention to Art Mason. Why hadn’t they seen just how many Westmen there were? Every’ goddam war, on every goddam planet, the skyboys fight their own battle and let the grunts carry the can! Too damn late now. Art swept his binoculars along the limits of his vision. He couldn’t see too far because of the damned low hills- but there was more dust rising in the west, which meant more Westmen.
Mason cursed. This could get sticky.
Across the river the mass of Westmen facing the Drantos knights thickened, churned, and split off a detachment. They cantered into the river, throwing up a cloud of spray and gravel.
“Murph!” Hell, I’m screaming, Mason thought. Scared spitless. Well, maybe I got a right to be. Wonder, if we buy it, will we go to Vothan’s Hall? Or Heaven? Or someplace else, and would someplace else be better’n nowhere at all? “Murph! Put a couple rounds in the river!”
“Roger!”
The recoilless spewed flame. The first round was white phosphorus. Steam puffed up where the burning bits hit the water. Then a high explosive round took out nearly a score of Westmen. That slowed them enough to let some of the calivermen reload, and when the Westmen came on they were hit by a rolling volley, each man firing as soon as he heard the gun of the man next to him, fire rippling down the line with the one remaining four-pounder to punctuate the end of the volley…
It wasn’t enough. There were too many Westmen trying to cross that river, and they could shoot even with the water up to the bellies of their horses. The arrow-hail came down again, and suddenly there weren’t enough Mounted Archers to stop them. For the tenth time that morning Art wished the other four-pounder hadn’t been abandoned with a broken carriage axle.
“Hey, Art!” Murphy called.
“Yeah?”
“Hell, I know we were supposed to make ‘em mad enough to fight, but goddam, this is ridiculous!”
Three of the troopers laughed, but it sounded a little hollow. Down below, the Westmen came on. A lot of the calivermen were down, and the rest were shaky. One platoon broke and ran. Caradoc, his red Roman cloak streaming out behind him, rode in to rally them. Some of his personal Guards leaned from their saddles to collect guns. Then the whole crowd began to pull back, with the Westmen’s arrows following them. Three men and a horse went down around the four-pounder, and the remaining gunners abandoned it to scramble higher up the hill.
By now the Mounted Archers had retreated far enough that the Guards and mercs would pretty soon have a clear field of fire. Mason sidestepped his horse and unlimbered his own H&K before ho thought better and slung it again. Thinking like a corporal again, Art, he told himself, he rode around to check the position of the other mercs.
They were set up about as well as they could be. On the left flank, Walbrook had the mortar, with Bilofsky nearby with the light machine gun. “Take care of that thing,” Mason shouted. “That LMG may be all that’s ‘tween us and Vothan’s Hall!”
“Right-o!” Bilofsky answered. He grinned cheerfully. “Don’t worry about a thing, Major.”
Murphy and the 106 were in the center of the line. There was a problem about the mortar and the 106. They’d used most of the ammo in the bombardment of the camp. Now there wasn’t enough left to defend themselves. Maybe that’s justice, Mason thought. Frig that. He used his binoculars to watch the situation develop. Now they had a clear shot.
“First Guards. On my command, IN VOLLEY— FIRE! Fire at will!” The platoon of Guards let fly with their calivers. Meanwhile the other mercs blazed away with rifles. Most fired single shot. Somewhere a trooper had switched to rock and roll. He’d be out of ammo pretty soon.
They all fired low, as they’d been taught, and the volley emptied few saddles, but it did dismount a lot of Westmen. They leaped from their falling horses— and kept coming. Soon they were in among the dismounted archers, using spears and knives and a few swords, and small axes like tomahawks.