Страница 105 из 156
Chapter Sixteen
Near West Salem, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 5th, 2008/Change Year 9
"N ow this is going to be awkward," Mike Havel said grimly, looking up at the sun.
It was late afternoon now. Out on the field before them the A-listers charged again; enemy infantry stopped in a sudden bristle of spears. Once more the flicker of arrows showed as the Bearkiller cavalry reversed and rode away shooting. Once more crossbow bolts harvested some of them.
More bright, eager young kids who half killed themselves to get that scar between the eyebrows, Havel thought. Cost of doing business. Christ, I decided I didn't like being a soldier before the Change, then I had to go and become King afterwards.
The northern men-at-arms waited behind their footmen. Out on the right, towards the river, the Protectorate's crossbowmen were slugging it out with their Bearkiller equivalents, and not enjoying it; there were twice as many of them, but the Outfit's shooters were firing three or four times as fast, and didn't have to stand up to do it. The spearmen there edged closer under the cover of that exchange, but they were leaving a trail of dead and writhing wounded to do it. Stretcher parties moved behind their line as they did behind his. Right now they were paying higher than he was, but the tables would be turned when they came to within arm's reach.
"Trumpeters, signal cavalry withdraw left," Havel said. Wish it would rain, he thought; but the weather stayed obstinately nice, mixed sun and cloud.
The A-listers obeyed the trumpet signal, breaking off and returning to their position beside and a little behind the artillery. The six pieces still in operation opened up again. Three roundshot smashed into the upraised shields of the spearmen on the enemy's west flank, but the infantry ignored their losses and kept coming. They were only five hundred yards from his own front now;
Havel could hear the shouting of officers keeping them under control, keeping them to a steady marching pace against the impulse to run forward. The whole formation edged towards the river to get away from the throwing engines, though, which put them in the path of more crossbow bolts.
"All right," he said to the commanders of his militia. "Our job now is to get out of here without turning a setback into a disaster. We back up to Brush College Road. The crossbow companies get on their bikes and belt out of here, west, and make for Larsdalen. The pikes will retreat through the ruins-the cleared road's narrow enough we can't be flanked. The A-listers will hang on their flank so their lancers can't pursue."
Bicycles could outrun horses, but only if they got a bit of a start, say a mile or two.
"Ah: Lord Bear, that leaves all of them and just four hundred of us," the commander of the pike phalanx said. "What do we do then?"
"That's going to be the awkward bit," Havel said. "Signe, you oversee the withdrawal of the crossbows."
She was white about the lips, but she nodded.
"I'll stay with the pikes, of course. We'll back up Gle
But their crossbowmen will shoot us to shit, he didn't say aloud. With a little luck, we might be able to get half of the pike companies away. We can turn on them a couple of times, make them use mainly spearmen to follow us up. Those crossbows of theirs can't stop a charge by firepower alone.
"Ready?" he said, and saw grim nods. "Then-"
Signe waved to get his attention, and then pointed to Chapman Hill. He looked south to the lookout station, and managed to keep his face calm while he read:
Two thousand repeat two thousand bicycle-borne troops approaching from the southwest along Doaks Ferry Road. Forward scouts on Glen Creek Road.
It couldn't be his reinforcements. They wouldn't be anything near two thousand strong. The blinking heliograph continued; it was as unemotional as ever, of course, but somehow it seemed to have a tone to match the clamping feeling in his lower belly.
Force does not properly reply to my request for code of the day. Will continue to signal as long as possible.
"Serious pucker time," he murmured to himself.
Some of the militia captains were gaping at him; he relayed the message. "Signe," he went on. "Inform Eric of this, will you? And tell him you're in command."
So he won't do something nobly suicidal, he thought. The kids need a mother and an uncle, because they're not going to have a dad, not after this. Maybe California is a good idea. Be a while before the Protector gets down there.
He had the enemy to the front, what could only be more enemy behind him, and the river to the east. If he tried to run west they'd be all over him like ugly on an ape.
"You all know what this means," he said quietly, as his wife spurred her horse westward towards the only force mobile enough to break out of the trap. "The only thing we can do for our families now is kill as many of the enemy as possible before we go down. I take full responsibility. We'll form a half circle with our backs to the river-the swamp will cover us. Any questions?"
A few hasty swallows. Someone raised a hand.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not limber enough to kiss my own ass good-bye, especially wearing this fucking breastplate. Anyone care to do it for me?"
"By rights, that ought to be my job," Havel said, feeling a flush of pride as a grim chuckle ran around the half circle facing him. "But you can ask Lord Alexi to do the honors. Let's get going. Hakkaa Paalle!"
"Hakkaa Paalle!"
Near Castle Todenangst, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9
"Whoa, girl. Whoa, pretty lady! Where did you come from?"
Sir James Wickham raised his eyebrows at the mare that had jumped the fence to join the herd. He'd cursed the roll of the dice that gave him this duty-looking after the reserve destriers was important work, but deadly dull, and there was a girl among the castle staff who'd given him a sidelong look. Here he was stuck with the smell of horseshit, keeping strange horses trained for aggression from fighting for dominance when they were pe
Now he forgot the serving-girl and his own a
Big 'un, he thought as she cantered around the edge of the crowded meadow.
A few of the other horses nickered challenge at her, but she ignored them with lofty disdain. Big and beautiful. Christ and the Saints, that one's fit for the Protector's stud! She took a seven-board fence as if she were stepping over a dead man. And wouldn't I love to have her myself!
Sixteen hands and a bit, warmblood with a strong dash of Arab, and young-four or maybe even a little less, early teens in horse years. Enough muscle and bone to carry a man in full armor, but a floating gait like thistledown. Spring sunlight brought out the gloss of her black coat and mane, where mud hadn't spattered up her legs and onto her belly and chest. Some idiot had left her saddled for far too long, and it was an odd-looking saddle as well, a tiny thing.
"Any of you recognize her?" he asked sharply.
"No, my lord," the head groom said respectfully, shaking his head. "Never seen her before in my life, and I think I'd remember; that's a fine horse. But there's a lot of bloodstock here with the army."
Wickham nodded in turn. The groom was a decade and change older than the knight, nearly forty, and very good at his job-otherwise he wouldn't be working at the Protector's principle country residence. Instead of replying the younger man walked further on the dung-littered, close-cropped grass of the paddock, extending a hand and talking soothingly.