Clan and Crown

"Aye, Majesty," the boy said. "Laran, make the signals. Wa

One of the scribes held wax board and stylus. "Aye," he said. The other waved his flags while Panilos peered through the dust.

"R-O-M-A-N-S D-U-E N-O-R-T-H O-F H-E-R-E STOP," he called.

Panilos called off the message and Wa

"ROMANS DUE NORTH OF HERE. THE ROMANS HAVE TAKEN HEAVY LOSSES BUT ARE IN

GOOD ORDER. WE HAVE LOST MORE THAN HALF THE ARCHERS. BALLOON DISABLED. STAR WEAPONS LOW ON MISSILES. SUGGEST WE WITHDRAW."

"If the Romans are due north of Lord Mason, they must be there," Ganton said. "Beyond those hills. There is enough dust there." He handed the binoculars to Camithon.

The old general held them gingerly. "Majesty, the Romans are not where I expected them to be. Now the

Westmen will move to cut us off from the Romans.

We must hasten to decide what to do. First, I will examine the battlefield. I wish to see the Romans." The Roman position was north and east. Sight of them was cut off by trees as well as dust. From further south on the prow of the ridge they might be visible. Camithon took the binoculars and moved gingerly out along the knife-edge. Ganton wanted to call him back, but that would not be seemly. Instead he followed.

They had gone half the way when Camithon straightened and cried out. Ganton ran forward. Camithon was falling when Ganton reached him, and only then did he see the arrow sticking out of the general's left eye. Blood poured down over his scar. Ganton leaped to hold him, but the old man's dead weight was too much. They fell off the ridge and rolled down the hill.

"Rally!" Morrone screamed. He leaped down the hill to get below his king. "Guards! Shieldsmen!"

Other knights jumped down from the ridgetop to form a shieldwall. Behind them king and captain lay together on the ground.

Ganton heard none of this. With his ear practically against Camithon's lips, he strained to listen to the man who had been more to him than his father ever had.

"Make them stay together, lad. Use them well. And not too early-" The voice faded out.

"My Lord Protector. My friend," Ganton whispered.

The voice came from lips flecked with blood. "Lad-" Then only a final rattle.

Ganton raised the dead form and laid his general's head in his lap. He bent to kiss the bloody lips. Then he stood. A shower of arrows fell around them, and he realized it was his golden helm that drew the Westmen. Had his vanity killed his oldest friend? "Bear him upslope with honor," Ganton said quietly.

Then he saw Camithon's fallen battle-ax. He pointed to it. "I will carry that," he said quietly. A knight handed it to him. Ganton slipped the thong about his wrist and whirled it until it blurred, remembering the hours Camithon had made him spend in the courtyard attacking wooden stakes.

There were shouts from above. Shouts and moving ba

Ganton scrambled furiously up the crumbling sides of the slope. It was steep, and his armor was heavy. The battle-ax hampered him, but he held it grimly. No one else would carry that ax, not today and not ever. Camithon had no son… no son of his body, Ganton corrected himself. He has son enough today.

They had rolled farther down the slope than he' had thought, and the climb was exhausting. His chest heaved with the effort. Then two Guards leaped down from the ridgetop. One extended his hand and pulled Ganton up. It wasn't dignified, but it helped him get up the slope.

"My horse!" he called to his orderly. "Ba

"Majesty, dismount," Morrone pleaded. "If you are hurt-" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. With Camithon dead, there was only one person the knights would follow.

Will they follow me? Ganton wondered. An untried youth, who has fought in one battle, one part of another; who has led them onto this hill of dusty death… what did Carnithon intend? He had a plan, but I know it not.

And it matters not. It is my battle now, mine alone, and that is all I may consider now.

Some of the knights were standing by their horses. A few had mounted. Ganton rode toward them. "What means this, my lords? I have heard no trumpet!"

"We need no trumpet to tell us what to do."

It was difficult to know who spoke, but from the shield markings and scarf Ganton thought it must be Bheroman Hilaskos, an important lord who led many lances to battle.

"And what would you do, my lord?"

"Cut through the enemy!" Hilaskos said.

"And then?"

"And return to our homes."

"You would run away, then?" Ganton kept his voice low and calm, though it took a great effort to do that.

"No man calls me coward. But what honor is there to perch on a ridgetop until we die of thirst? The battle is lost, sire. It will not save my lands nor yet the realm for my lances to be lost with it."

"Your lances will not be lost, nor yet will you," Ganton said. "It is your Wanax who commands here. Dismount."

Hilaskos hesitated. "Dismount," Ganton said. "Or by Vothan I will take your head in sight of your knights. Dismount and kneel!"

One of Hilaskos's squires came forward to hold his master's bridle. The baron hesitated a moment more, then got down from his horse. "Aye, sire," he said. He knelt. "I see we have gained a true Wanax this day."

The others dismounted, and Ganton rode again along the ridge. This time there were more cheers, and no dissenters.

"And what will we do now, sire?" Morrone asked when they were out of the others' earshot.

Ganton continued to scan the battlefield. "I do not know," he said., '

Art Mason watched the priest of Yatar place the Guardsman's beret over his face and signal to the acolytes who were acting as stretcher-bearers. They picked up the dead man and carried him to the line of bodies already laid out just below the crest of the hill. A long line, too damned long, Art thought, and not all the Guards' dead were in it.

And the priests had armed themselves with fallen Guardsmen's daggers. For Westman? Or for the wounded if they had to retreat? For the hundredth time Art wondered what Captain Galloway would do.

The situation looked sticky. There were only two qualified signalmen, and it would be a waste to send them up in the balloon even if they could get it repaired. The damned low hills would let the Westmen get close enough to shoot the balloon observers before the basket could rise out of range. Because of the hills there were thousands, tens of thousands of Westmen out there in a killing ground, but no way to kill them. Not enough ammunition, no clear fields of fire; they were down to four bombs for the mortar and no more than a dozen rounds for the 106.

Ru

He looked across at the Drantos forces again. They seemed intact, almost no losses, but they sat there on top of their damned hill. They'd acknowledged his message suggesting withdrawal, but they weren't doing anything about it. The Romans weren't acknowledging signals at all, which wasn't surprising; they were only visible for short intervals when the dust cleared. They'd only had one semaphore expert with them, and he was probably lost.

"So what do we do, Art?" Murphy asked quietly.

"Wait."

"For what?"