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"Yeah," Signe said. "Last year, while Arminger and Renfrew were taking over the Pendleton area. He beat the League's muster in an open-field battle just north of the Horse Heaven Hills, then stalled in front of the walls of Zilla- you know, they're on the edge of that bluff-and spent a fair amount of time devastating the countryside and breaking down the irrigation ditches to soothe his frustrations. That really hurt them. The Protector wasn't serious about taking any territory there yet; it was more like a warning to the Yakima League not to push at Walla Walla or Burbank or Richmond while he was busy getting a hold on Pendleton. It'll probably keep them out of this fight, though."
"OK, so Alexis not as hot on the throttle as his kid. Let's see what sort of a general he thinks he is," Havel said.
He'd have to be a pretty piss-poor one to lose a battle where he outnumbers the other side three to two or better, he thought. He's got a good five, six hundred knights and men-at-arms there, too. I've got a bad feeling about this.
He looked aside at a sudden deep tung sound and a chorus of startled obscenities as a crossbow bolt whistled up from the second rank of the company to his left. The careless militia soldier stood at rigid attention, a red flush gradually filling in the space between her freckles. A noncom's snarl-he was probably a well-to-do tenant farmer or bailiff or craftsman back home-followed the accidental discharge:
"Angie, you dim, thick bitch, what the fuck do you think that is you're holding? It's a fucking crossbow trigger, not a cow's tit or your boyfriend's dick! Do us all a favor and point it up your own ass next time, not at Wendy's! Christ crucified, if the Protector's men don't kill you I'll have you digging latrines from now until the last gray hair falls out of your crab-crawling-"
Well, you can tell our original noncoms were Marines like me, Havel thought, suppressing a grin at the corporal's inventive vocabulary.
The glares and mutters of her neighbors, who were her neighbors and relations back home in the village, probably hurt just as much; and the knowledge that the reaming was abundantly deserved-the bolt could just as easily have hit someone in the back of the head. Silently, she reloaded: gripping a pivoted lever set into the forestock of her weapon and pumping it six times. There was a ratcheting sound as she did, and the string drew back and the heavy steel bow made from a car's leaf spring bent, until the trigger mechanism engaged with a click. Still red-faced, she pressed the quarrel into the groove and stood with the weapon at port arms, point skyward and finger carefully outside the trigger guard this time.
That new crossbow is really going to help, and with a little luck it'll be a nasty surprise to the Protector's men. Bless you, esteemed father-in-law.
The cocking mechanism built into the forestock was made from cut-down car jacks salvaged from the trunks of abandoned vehicles and auto-supply stores, and it shortened the reloading time from just over twenty-five seconds to around eight or nine; still not as fast as a good archer, but a lot closer. And you didn't have to practice incessantly with a crossbow the way an archer did; you could learn to use it well in a couple of months, and keep it up practicing once a week. Plus this model could be loaded easily lying down:
All in all it's a lot better than the Rube Goldberg thing with chains and cranks the Corvallis people keep working at, simple and sturdy is better when it comes to things that get you killed if they break down. On the other hand, better is better too. I think the Protector hasn't pushed his R amp;D types for an equivalent because he doesn't want a weapon that gives a footman too much of a chance against a lancer. That'll teach him to be such a snob.
"Messenger," he said, giving another close look at how the enemy was advancing. "Polearms rest in place, missile troops on the left swing in about ten degrees."
The youngster galloped off. A few moments later the long double line of crossbows on the left began to move-those closest to him marching in place, those out at the end of the line double-timing until the whole formation slanted forward a little. It looked as if the enemy were going do it hey diddle diddle, straight up the middle, and that would give his people enfilade fire.
The barons' men were closer now, barely a half mile, well within catapult range; the light horse on both sides scurried off to the flanks. Before he could signal Sarducci to begin the curled trumpets screamed again, and the Protectorate's force came to a halt in three well-drilled paces. Silence fell, or what felt like it without the ground-shaking thudding of men and horses moving in mass. He looked over; Sarducci's crews had their catapults cocked and armed, and behind each a pumping apparatus on a wheeled cart with two men on each end of the lever and an armored pipe ru
The artillery chief evidently thought he'd get a chance to do some serious reach-out-and-touch-someone, and he was gri
"Quant' e bella giovinezza
Che sifugge tuttavia!
Chi vuol esse lieto, sia!
Di doman' non c' e certezza"
Havel gri
A glance at his watch when he reined in beside Signe and the ba
Ten o'clock. This is all taking longer than I expected. OK, they want to wait, we'll wait. This is a delaying action, after all. If I had the rest of our Field Force here, I wouldn't be worried – not at even odds. Of course, that's only about a fifth of their army there, and what I've got here now is half of mine. Where are the other eight thousand men Arminger can field? Are they all over on the east side of the river, taking on Mount Angel and the Mackenzies and my wife's lunatic little sister? Or are they going to send another couple of thousand down between the Eola Hills and the Coast Range, swarm Will Hutton under and bugger us for fair, as Sam would put it? That's what I'd do in his shoes:
He still kept an eye on the Chapman Hill lookout post now and then; they could tell him if Stavarov was trying to get fancy, working a force west around his flank through the hills, or if his own reinforcements were in sight. Instead the next move from the Protector's ranks came as a surprise.
"What's he doing?" Signe asked.
A knight had spurred out from the block of men-at-arms, his plumed helmet and the forked pe
"Gyro
"At a guess, that guy's folks were gangers, not Society types," Havel said, gri