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I wish they'd put some of their bare-ass miniskirt militia there, he thought. Still, I can't expect them to be that stupid.
"Nothing on the left as yet, my lord. As I said, not all the scouts have returned from that direction."
"Probably still sniffing around the road on the other side," Piotr said. "Let's get going. All three columns are supposed to be over the Santiam by nightfall. Speed is why we're traveling in separate bodies."
A hesitation. "My lord, shouldn't we wait for the Grand Constable and his escort to get back?"
Piotr felt himself flush, hot blood darkening his skin from the mail collar of his coif upward. "Count Odell is in overall command, but I'm in charge of this column!" he snapped. "Do you dispute that, Sir Ernaldo?"
"No, my lord," he said dutifully. "We can make them scatter from beyond bowshot, if we set up a couple of the catapults."
Piotr shook his head. "That would delay the march for hours. We should be able to reach the Santiam today, that's the objective."
"My lord, their archers are good. And a solid line of spearmen and halberdiers is no joke. We only outnumber them by three to one on this field, and we'll be the ones attacking. It will cost us."
Piotr made an impatient gesture. "Yes, yes. But there aren't enough of the rabble to hold us up, and we can afford the losses more than they. Spearmen are easy enough to replace."
"Still, we could work men over the hills to either side. Then they'd either have to withdraw or be surrounded."
Piotr considered, then shook his head. "We'll have to fight them sooner or later anyway. They're obviously here to delay us while their militia gets mobilized. I won't risk a destrier's legs on them, though. Send in the foot. Spearmen on the left, centered on the roadway. Crossbows on the right; they should be able to drive off half their number of bowmen. Lancers to hold themselves ready for pursuit."
Piotr smiled at the thought. Once they turned their backs on mounted lancers, foot soldiers were so much meat to be shishkebabbed. Some of them might get away if they ran up into the forested hills, but most would probably just panic and try to escape and bolt down the road leading southward. His knights and their menie of men-at-arms would spear them from the saddle as if they were wild boar. He reached back to pull the padded weight of his mail coif over his head, fastening the lower part across his chin, then snapped his fingers. His squire rode forward to be ready with helm and shield and lance.
Juniper Mackenzie hugged the tree and peered around its trunk; the dark furrowed bark of the Douglas fir was rough under her free hand. The branches were thick with blunt, thin-stalked needles an inch long, green and whitish on the underside. Twigs of the same breed had been thrust through the loops that made her war cloak shaggy, turning her into a part of the forest; the strong resin smell of the sap was heavy in her nostrils, and it made sticky spots on her gloves. More needles obscured her vision when she leveled the binoculars, for the branch she stood on was fifty feet up on the pillar-shaped trunk. The column of Protectorate troops shifted as she watched, the spearmen and cross-bowmen dismounting from their cycles and quick-stepping forward, spreading out from a thick marching column to a four-deep line as they moved. The black-and-scarlet ba
Her stomach knotted. Those were her friends and neighbors and clansfolk waiting on the road to lure the Protector's men forward. And leading them was Nigel Loring. It made sense-he had his suit of plate armor, and he was an experienced commander-but she still didn't like any of it.
On the other side of the tree, Sam Aylward was watching as well. "Taking the bait," he said quietly, his deep, slow voice calm. "At least the first bite of it. Impatient bugger, 'ooever's in charge-good thing Eilir and Astrid drew Renfrew off. Now things get lively.''
That was a curiously antiseptic way of talking about people dying, but every trade had its jargon. And it's a business I'm in, like it or not, she reminded herself.
"I'd better get down and help things along," Aylward said stolidly. "Remember, Lady-only if they send in the lancers. Otherwise, we all just sod off on our bicycles."
"Yes, teacher," Juniper said, and gave the older man a smile. Then more seriously: "Merry meet, and merry part-"
"And merry meet again," he replied, giving her a thumbs-up.
Then he reached out for the rope that was fastened to a branch above their heads, took an expert half hitch around his blocky armored torso and slid swiftly downward, landing as lightly as a man stepping out of his own home. Even knowing who was where, she was a little surprised when three figures rose and followed him, trotting silently between the great trees. That was reassuring. If she couldn't see them, it was unlikely their foemen could.
She looked back out over the open field. The lancers were in a single block a hundred strong now, waiting, a flashing ripple above their heads as the honed steel moved and caught the sun. The Protectorate foot soldiers double-timed forward.
The spearmen broke into a trot as they approached, their booted feet hitting the broken asphalt in a uniform pounding thump that Nigel Loring could feel through the soles of his steel shoes, their mail coats jingling and clashing as the skirts swirled around their legs. The enemy crossbowmen were fa
"Haro!" the enemy shouted. "Haw! Portland! Molalla! Haro!"
They came with their big kite-shaped shields up under the eyes that glared from either side of the helmet nasal bars, the front rank holding their spears underarm, the second and third raised in an overarm stabbing grip, the ones behind slanting theirs upward; they'd add weight to the attack with their shields pressed against the backs of the men in front.
"Ready!" Nigel called to the men around him.
It was mostly men, in the front rank, you needed a fair bit of weight and heft to swing a Lochaber ax, or the war-hammers or broadaxes some of the others carried. He swung his visor down with the edge of his shield, and the day darkened to a single slit of light through the bucketlike steel dome of his sallet.
"On the mark: now'"
They surged forward with a shriek, whirling their huge polearms up to the ready position. Nigel strode forward with them, his own shield up and his longsword held over his right shoulder with the hilt forward and the point back. Others followed behind them with spears ready to stab over their shoulders or around them. It was best not to let the enemy charge strike home while you stood still.
Closer, closer, oiled mail and black shields and whetted iron reaching for his life A spearpoint flashed towards his eyes. Sir Nigel Loring caught the ugly glint of sunlight on honed steel as it drove at the narrow slit of his visor and ducked his head; the twelve-inch blade scored a groove across the smooth enameled metal of his sallet helm, a painful thumping blow even with the steel and padding, but then the dangerous point was past. He snarled behind the face-covering combination of visor and bevoir and cut over the top of his shield, aiming at the man's neck. The spearman's eyes went wide with alarm, and he raised his own shield and ducked, slapping sideways with the shaft of his spear. The ashwood bounced off the side of Nigel's helmet, staggering him; his own sword struck wood and metal, not vulnerable flesh. Then the hook on the reverse of one of the Lochaber axes snagged the enemy's shield and yanked him forward. He came with it, attached by his left arm in the loops and by the leather guige attached to the shield that ran over one shoulder like a bandolier. A spearpoint eeled past Nigel and stabbed the Protectorate soldier in the face, not a killing blow but enough to break teeth and bone and make him stagger back, shrieking.