There was no answer. Or was there? Far away he thought he saw an eagle circling above the valley. Almost he raised the binoculars, but then he let them dangle.
It is an eagle. It is an answer, he told himself. It is enough.
Morrone came up. “All is done as you ordered. Now let me aid you with your armor.”
“Aye. Stay with my banner,” Ganton said. “And if I fall, lead the host.”
“Where, Majesty?”
“There.” Ganton pointed southeast. “Through yonder band of Westmen. Ignore all the others. You and I will be at the left of the host. The others will form to our right. We break through that line, and ride eastward along the valley to there.” He pointed again to where the finger of ridge and trees separating them from the Romans jutted down into the valley. “As soon as we have rounded that small hill, then charge northeast.”
Morrone frowned. “Away from the Lord Mason?”
“Yes.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Is all in readiness?”
A shout rippled down the line. “LONG LIVE WANAX GANTON!”
“MOUNT!” he ordered. He swung onto his charger. “Morrone, stay with me. I want nothing save my armor closer to my back than you!”
“With my life, Majesty!”
“Sound the trumpets!”
The wild notes of the comets blared up the line. Kettledrums added to the din. The Westmen down below looked up, startled. Ganton whirled the ax above his head. “FOR DRANTOS. FOR CAMITHON AND DRANTOS!”
The line of heavy cavalry moved ponderously forward, until there was no sound but the thunder of hooves and the call of trumpets.
32
Mad Bear had once seen the side of a hill fall when the earth shook. Boulders the size of men had rolled toward him faster than a horse could trot, and dust went up until it seemed it must reach the Father’s feet.
He remembered that now. There was dust in plenty, and it was as if the hill had fallen upon him—but now, each boulder was a man dressed all in iron, mounted on a horse so tall it seemed that a Horse People’s stallion could pass under its belly, and those great horses wore iron!
The hill was alive with banners, and the earth shook to the thunder of hooves. Trumpet calls rent the air, trumpets and kettledrums and the triumphant shouts of the Ironshirts as their great lances came down.
Mad Bear had fought Ironshirts before, but always on an open plain. He had never imagined such a host, of them coming directly toward him. He knew that he saw his death, his and all the Horse People who had stood with him. Somewhere downriver were more of the Horse People, but not enough had come, and now—
Now there was nothing save honor. The Warrior would see that Mad Bear could die as a man, and that was all he could hope for.
He wasted no time with words. The thunder of the charging Ironshirts was too much. No one would have heard him’. Instead, he counted his arrows. A hand and one more. Not enough, not nearly enough. Well, that would have to do also. He would shoot his arrows and ride away. Perhaps the Ironshirts would scatter as they followed. He nocked an arrow to his bow and tried to aim at flesh, not iron.
“For this was I born!” Ganton spurred his charger ahead. The line of Westmen had turned to face him, and they shot arrows as swiftly as they could. Here and there they struck home and a horse went down, causing others in the lines behind to swerve and stumble; but the host swept on inexorably.
“For this was I born!” he shouted again.
His lance took the first Westman in the throat, spitting him like a boar. Ganton let the lance dip and sweep behind so that his motion pulled it from the fallen enemy. He barely had time to raise it again before it struck home in a Westman pony. Ganton let it go and took the axe which hung by its thong from the saddle horn. As he swept past another enemy the ax swung to crash through a bear-tooth and leather helmet and split the skull below it.
“Sire, let us pass!” Two Guards rode alongside. “We have lances. Let us lead.”
Almost he cursed them; then he thought again. If I fall, the day is lost. Morrone cannot do what must be done. And that is not right, battles and kingdoms should not stand and fall by one life, but today it is so. “You have my thanks,” he shouted, and waved the Guards past. More drew alongside, and soon he was surrounded. Not by Guardsmen alone, he saw. Bheromen and knights, all eager to ride between him and danger.
If my father could have lived to see, he thought. And I live through this day, the throne is safe. Throne? Dynasty! Our children, mine and Octavia’s will hold this land forever!
Wanax and followers rode on until they were through the lines of Westmen.
“Trumpets,” Ganton called. “Sound the rally. Bring the host toward me.”
The trumpets sang as his bannermen raised high the Royal Banner of Drantos and the Fighting Man. Then a dozen Westmen galloped past. They lay flat to their horse’s necks, their quivers empty. They were pursued by a score of Drantos horsemen thundering along behind the banner of Lord Epimenes. “Hold!” Ganton shouted. “HOLD!”
“The cowards flee!” the bheroman shouted.
They must hold, Ganton thought. He drew the Browning and fired toward Lord Epimenes’s banner. There was no knowing where the bullet went, but the sound was heard even in the din of battle. “HOLD!” Ganton shouted again. “Lord Epimenes, stay with me! We have better work than tiring our horses in pursuit of empty quivers! Leave them for the esquires, for we have work worthy of bheromen and knights!”
Epimenes reined in. It wasn’t clear whether he had been won over by Ganton’s words or by the ax and pistol the Wanax carried, but the futile pursuit was stopped.
“Trumpets, sound the walk,” Ganton shouted. In a more normal voice he spoke to the group around him. “We have broken through the first line. When we reach the top of yonder rise, we charge again. Morrone!”
“Sire!”
“Ride to the right flank, where Lord Enipses commands, and be certain that he follows where we lead.” He pointed up the valley. “Lord Epimenes will remain to guard me. And return safely—”
“Aye, Majesty.”
Ganton rose in his stirrups and grinned as he saw the heaps of dead Westmen behind them. A few Drantos knights lay among them, and more stood dismounted; but the host was an intact fighting force. He used the ax to point up the hill, and felt a lump in his breast as he thought how often Camithon had gestured with that ax. “Forward,” he said.
The host swept north and east.
“Major!” Hal Roscoe ran up shouting. “Here they come again!”
“Yeah, I see ‘em,” Mason said. He looked up and down his line and prepared to hold off yet another charge from the enemy.
If there’d been more ammo for the mortar—
It’s no friggin’ good. Mentally he counted magazines. Enough to get out of here, he thought. Hold ‘em off until dark and go for it. We’ll lose the wounded, and a lot of the equipment, but I don’t see what else to do. We can’t go after ‘em, and these damn little hills give us too little clear field of fire for the rifles.
“Make ready to shoot!” he shouted. “Rolling volley from the left. Take aim! Fire!”
The calivermen fired and reloaded as fast as they could, and Mason used his own H&K to good effect. No point in acting like an officer now, he thought. I’m not all that good a one anyway, and there ain’t that many orders to give—
“Cross the valley, Art!” Murphy yelled. “For God’s sake, look!”
Mason stared across the river. “Holy crap! Look alive, troops! Looks like our little king’s remembered us.”
The Drantos heavies were coming down the hill. All of them. At least all that had horses. A few had drawn right up to the top of the ridge and set up a shield wall, but damn near the whole army of Drantos was riding down that hill.
The wild charge came down the mountain like a wall. From Mason’s distance it looked like a huge wave that washed across the line of Westmen, leaving a wake of dead and dying behind it as the armored men simply rode the lighter horsemen down.
The front ranks were damned near solid with banners, and right out front on the left wing was the biggest banner of all, the Royal Standard of Drantos, and yeah, that was the golden helm that crazy kid fancied. They were coming straight toward Art Mason.
Then they swerved left, pivoting around the golden helmet.