The plan of battle was simple, but one classic in Llor tradition. The pincher claws of the cavalry would attempt to encircle the enemy and herd them in toward the center where they must face the devastating fire of the Archs. And since S’Tork’s inferior force had been unwise enough to offer battle the rebels saw no reason why the maneuver should fail, for the only answer to it was retreat.
Kana looked around as Mills crawled up to join him. The veteran surveyed the recruit’s choice of position critically before he gave unspoken approval by settling down to pick his own loop-hole in the cloaking foliage. Under the blast of the trumpets there was a low rumble of sound, the deep-throated shouting of the Llor battle slogans. Mills grinned at Kana.
“The flag’s up—here we go!”
Their view of the battle was necessarily limited. And for what seemed like a very long period of time only the distant growl gave any indication that a struggle was in progress. Then came a burst of riders out of a small coppice. They milled about, apparently uncertain. But the color of their trappings was not to be mistaken. These were royalists who had been hunted into the waiting jaws of the trap in which the Terrans were the teeth.
Another group came out of the wood, and in this several mounts ran free and wild, dodging the men who strove to catch their reins. A dismounted Llor ran lightly from cover and behind him hobbled another, using a lance as a crutch. The hesitating troop which had preceded these strays broke in two. One, the smaller portion, dressed ranks, drew swords and rode back into the trees; the other, keeping very little order, came on down the valley. Kana picked his target before the fellow came into reasonable range. Here there were no war trumpets, no battle songs, but the hidden line of the sharpshooters tensed. And, as the party of fugitives passed that outcrop of rock which gave the Combatants a range marker, a withering blast of fire tore them out of their saddles, sending the guen mad with fear. One or two broken figures crawled along the ground, but not a rider passed that rock.
Kana could not close his eyes, though his insides twisted. This proved to be very different from firing at humanoid robots set to dash and dodge across a carefully marked rifle range—which had been his only test of marksmanship before. A second ago he had fired at a good target—that was all the squeeze of the trigger had meant to him then. The Llor he had centered his sights upon had had no identity as a living creature. But—! He gagged and fought against a rising push of nausea. He was given little time to examine his muddled emotion for a second wave of royalists had been beaten out of the woods. This time they were mingled with their pursuers, whirling in a mounted dance of death with a detachment of the rebels who hacked them downslope to the lines of the dead the Terrans had shot. But the enemy were giving a good account of themselves, there were almost as many empty saddles among the rebel band.
“Skura!”
Kana had not needed Mills’ identification. The rebel chieftain was unmistakable as he beat and slashed his way to the leader of the loyalist troop. That officer, as imposing physically as the would-be Gatanu, accepted battle with the same eagerness. And, while their followers struggled around them, the two leaders settled down to expert saber work. The royalist was bleeding from a slash high on one shoulder but it did not impair his efficient swordplay. As yet Skura was untouched.
The ring of tempered metal upon metal carried to the Terrans, but they continued to hold their fire. There was too much chance of shooting the wrong man in the melee. The gu ridden by the royalist attempted to use its teeth on Skura’s mount. And in one such lunge it jerked its rider out of position. Skura’s blade bit deep into the other’s forearm and the royalist’s sword fell from helpless fingers. Skura had just raised his blade to deliver the death stroke when he himself crumpled, collapsing over his gu’s head into the dust.
Perhaps only the Terrans saw that pencil of flame spray from the wood to strike down the rebel leader in the moment of his triumph. The Llor who, seconds before, had been locked in a death struggle were shocked into quiet, all staring at Skura. Then, with a wild wail of horror and despair, his followers attacked, killing ruthlessly. Two royalists escaped into the woods. The rest were dead.
“That was a flamer!” Kana’s voice was swallowed up in the cries of the Llor.
They had gathered up the Chortha’s body and were tying it in the saddle. Then they rode north. Mills got to one knee to watch them go.
“That’s the end of the war,” he remarked.
As if his observation were a signal, the piercing whistle of recall brought the Combatants out of line, withdrawing to secondary positions. Alert and ready the Terrans waited out the afternoon. But what Mills had said at the moment of Skura’s fall proved to be true. The death of the rebel chieftain demoralized his followers, the war was at an end and the Llor avoided the off-world men. The Combatants suspected that minor rebels were trying to make deals. And at that moment the future of the Horde was bleak. However, when such defeats had occurred before in Combatant history, the Horde or Legion retained by the defeated leader had always been given free access to its transport ships and allowed safe conduct off the planet.
Soldiers are largely conservative, ruled by custom, and since custom was now on their side and they were freed from an entanglement most of them had come to regard as risky, there was a feeling of relaxation, of “Well, the worst is now over,” in the Horde camp that night. They kept a patrol about the environs of their position, and there was no slacking on guard. But the death of Skura, who had left no heir to rally his men, absolved them from their pledged support. And now, with something of a holiday lightheartedness, they looked forward to a speedy return to Tharc where the transports waited.
The only gloomy reaction to the events of the afternoon was the realization that the shortness of the campaign would mean only basic pay. But Kana and some others sensed that the future might not be so bright.
The recruit noted that Yorke, the three Swordtans, and some veterans, including Mills, did not drag out their bed rolls that night. And when he was roused for second guardpost duty in the very early morning he saw the light still shining in the small tent where the officers had gathered.
Skura had been killed with a flamer—which meant that at least one more illegal weapon was in the hands of the enemy. Who had brought the arms to Fronn and why? Kana puzzled over that as he took his post. The chill black of the Fronnian night was alive with sounds which might or might not signal danger. But a circle of guard lamps set at intervals around the camp made a barrier of light.
Flying things attracted there and blinded by the radiance beat around the lamps, making a funnel of winged bodies down to the very lens. Hunting these bemused tidbits came larger creatures, some on four legs and some on two, others skimming on wings themselves. This was rich feasting and not a few vicious quarrels ensued.
Suddenly the low-hanging branches of a bush were pushed aside and a man stepped out into the full beam of the light, halting as if he wanted to be recognized. And the newcomer was no Fronnian.
Kana’s rifle went up until its sights covered that swaggering design of crossed rockets on the breast of the stranger’s tunic. A Mech—in full uniform! Kana whistled for the guard and snapped:
“Stand where you are—hands up!”
The other laughed. “Not planning to do anything else. I’ve a message for Yorke.”
5 — Morning After
A slap across his sleeping bag shocked Kana into groggy wakefulness some hours later. Mills towered over him.
“Hit dirt,” the veteran commanded brusquely. “We’re pulling out.”
Pulling out they were and with unusual speed. Kana had barely time to throw his bag on a cart already moving. And he was still rubbing the smart of sleep out of his eyes as he fell in with his team. They were marching in “hostile country” order he noticed—scouts out on the wings. And Terran drivers, not Llor, prodded the baggage guen into action. In fact in all that winding column there was not a native Fronnian to be seen. Nor were they headed back into the mountains toward Tharc, but instead following a trail which led away at right angles, north along the foothills.