Aldora agreed to adopt his plan, adding. “Wind guard you, young Linstahk. The Confederation cannot afford the loss of men such as you.”
While his lieutenants and sergeants formed up their half-strength units, Gaib and his bugler and color bearer sat their mounts with an outward show of calm, ignoring alike the incredible tumult and confusion of the milling, bleating, dying noncombatants and the feathered death still falling from the clear, sunny skies.
Thoheeks Kahr’s nobles were strung out in position barely in time. The leading elements of the Vawnee cavalry struck their thin line of steel with the sound of a thunderclap and the line bowed inward, inward, inward at its center, until Gaib was certain that it must snap and let the screaming horde of Vawnee through to pour over the mostly unarmed throng of servants, cooks, smiths and wagoneers.
But like a well-tempered blade, the line slowly commenced to straighten, helped by the yelling lancers and, unexpectedly, by fifty unmounted sappers armed with a motley of long-handled spades and sawbacked engineer shortswords. Witnessing the valor of these support troops, Gaib vowed that never again would he either engage in or tolerate the sneers and snickers when a “dungbeetle”—which was what his peers called sapper officers—entered the mess.
The ringing, clanging blacksmith symphony raged on, with the superior weight of the Vawnee bearing the defenders back and back. But Thoheeks Kahr was nought if not true to his word, for every foot was hotly, bloodily contested and the meager gains of the rebels were dearly bought. In spite of their being stupidly proud, supercilious amateur soldiers, Gaib flushed with pride that his veins surged with the same rich blood as these men, for they, one and all, fought with the tenacity of the best professionals.
Then the squadron sergeant-major was saluting him with a flourish of gleaming saber. “Sir, the troops be formed on squadron front Half the High Lady’s guards ride with us. I posted them to Thehltah Troop on the left flank.”
Gaib nodded stiffly. “Very good, sergeant-major. The High Lady is away then?”
“Yes, sir. At the gallop. She should be well up the road by now.”
Gaib slowly drew his saber and smilingly saluted the grizzled noncom. “Well, then, Baree, let us see what these rebels know of saber drill. Or had you expected to die in bed?
“Bugler, ‘Walk, March,’ if you please. Then, ‘Draw Sabers.’ ” Dropping his reins over the pommel knob, Gaib first raised his beaver, then lowered his visor, sloping the back of his saber blade against his epaulette in the regulation carry. The troop buglers echoed the ordered calls and a chorus of metallic zweeps behind him coincided with the first steps of his well-trained charger, who probably knew cavalry drill as well as any man in the squadron.
Panicky, the noncombatants were, but not so panicky—especially since the death-dealing arrows and darts had slackened off—as not to recognize what was now coming and to stir their stumps to avoid being ridden down by charging kah tahfrah ktoee.
When his path was relatively clear, Gaib signaled the bugler. “Trot, March” rang out and the familiar jingling rattle of armor and equipment penetrated even Gaib’s closed helm. As always, at such a point in an action, his chest felt constricted and his guts were a-roil, his mouth was dry as dead leaves and he knew that his bladder must soon burst. Drawing himself up straighter in the kak, he began to sing, his voice booming in the confines of the helm.
“… Oh, let us sing our battle song, Of saber, spear and bow, Clan Linstahk, Clan Linstahk, Your courage we’ll show.”
Noting the decreasing distance, Gaib gave another signal, and “Gallop, March” pealed from his bugler’s instrument, being taken up by the troop buglers halfway through. He mindspoke his stallion, Windsender, “I know you lack that shoe, and I’m sorry,, brother, but this must be. We must fight ere I can see to you.”
“Your brother understands,” the horse beamed back. “It is not very uncomfortable, and a good fight does not happen every day.”
At the moment he gauged best, Gaib raised his saber high over his head, then swung it down and forward, swiveling his arm so that the keen edge lay uppermost. Five bugles screamed the “Charge.”
To his credit, Drehkos managed to get away with a little better than half his original force, but, even so, he knew that their raiding days were now done. The very flower of the rebel cause lay trampled into the gory mire on the eastern fringes of the Confederation camp. Worse, he had failed to secure the supplies Vawnpolis needed so desperately. Nor had he succeeded in wiping out the service troops and burning the wheeled transport, which last would have been a crippling blow to so large an army so deep in hostile territory. If only the plan had worked, if only Danos had started the arrow-storm at the proper time … Danos!
But Drehkos could no longer feel anger at the archer. He was just too weary. And it was not just a physical weariness born of the exhaustion of battle. No, it was a weariness of Soul, a desire for nothing more than a long, long sleep, a sleep which would not be disturbed for the rest of eternity. Perhaps in such a sleep he could forget. Could forget the idiocy of so much sacrifice and suffering in the name of a lost rebellion and an antique god, could forget the never-ceasing loneliness—which persisted even in the heart of an overcrowded city; whose chill he suffered in the heat of a sunny day even while chatting with these men who would bleed and die for him.
And, to Drehkos, that was the irony and tragedy of this insanity within which he was trapped. These strong, brave, vibrant men, all loving life yet going down into bloody death; while he, who would welcome death, since she who once had been his life was now long years with Wind, rode unscathed through ambush and battle, raid and retreat. Of course, he died a little with each man he lost, but these small deaths were only a deepening of sorrow, not the surcease he so craved.
When the wounded had been afforded what little could be done, he gathered his battered band and set them on the long, circuitous return to their city, wondering if he had bought any time or respect with almost five hundred lives.
He had. It took Milo over two weeks to sort out the shambles of that last attack, to replace the sappers and cooks, sanitarians and smiths, artificiers and wagoners killed or wounded or missing. He also sent for the prairiecats, ruefully admitting his mistake in underestimating the temper and talents of the rebels.
In the conference chamber of his pavilion, still pitched where it had been that hellish morning, he reiterated his error to the assembled nobles, Aldora and old Sir Ehdt, adding, “I would not plan on being home for harvest, gentlemen, nor even for Sun-birth Festival. And if Myros fights the city, with its vastly improved defenses, as well as he has fought the countryside, you will be lucky to be home for spring planting.”
“But, my lord.” Bili Morguhn wrinkled his brow. “Those few prisoners we have taken all say the same: Drehkos Daiviz, not Myros of Deskahti, is their leader.”
“And,” put in Sir Ehdt, foregoing his introductory harumph, this one time, “I would doubt that Myros conceived that devilish attack or planned those masterful withdrawals. He’s simply not got the mind for such.”
Thoheeks Kahr shifted his bandage-swathed body into a more comfortable position in his chair, then demanded, “Now, dammit, sir, you spent most of our last meeting a-chortling over the way he’s altered Vawnpolis and assuring us all he’s the best thing since stone walls. Now here you be, saying he don’t have the brains to fight nor run!”
“My lord duke,” said the siegemaster with evident restraint, “it has long been known that Myros of Deskahti possessed enviable talents at the twin arts of defense and siegecraft. The wonders he has performed on Vawnpolis are but additional proof of those talents. But, my lord duke, worthwhile and admirable though those talents be, they be the only ones he owns, militarily speaking. When it comes to marshaling troops and performing any sort of maneuver calling for split-second decisions on alternate strategies, his head might as well be filled with horse turds.”