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 running to clip under the carriage of the split-trail fieldpiece. Relays were running light horse-carts back to the main supply wagons and piling up extra ammunition-four-foot javelin-arrows, six-pound iron roundshot like smallish cannonballs and larger glass globes full of napalm with gasoline-soaked fuses of twisted cloth wrapped around them.
The artillery chief evidently thought he'd get a chance to do some serious reach-out-and-touch-someone, and he was grinning like a devil Satan had assigned to stoke the furnace holding Arminger's soul. Havel cantered his horse up and down behind the line one last time, checking and finding nothing to quarrel with. As he passed the artillery their commander stood on one of the berms, waving his arms and making taunting gestures at the enemy and singing exuberantly:
"Quant' e bella giovinezza
Che sifugge tuttavia!
Chi vuol esse lieto, sia!
Di doman' non c' e certezza"
Havel grinned at the sound; the war-engine crews were laughing, but with their commander and not at him, which was a good sign. A leader had to show the troops he knew his business, but after that the odd larger-than-life gesture didn't hurt at all.
A glance at his watch when he reined in beside Signe and the banner again:
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 pennant on his lance fluttering in the wind. He tossed the lance over his head, whirling the eleven-foot weapon like a baton, shouting something not quite understandable at this distance and putting his horse through fancy footwork. His kite-shaped shield was divided into wedges of gold and black with their points meeting in the center, and a purple motorcycle wreathed in flames painted over it.
"Gyronny or and sable, a Harley purpure," Signe said, reading the blazonry.
"At a guess, that guy's folks were gangers, not Society types," Havel said, grinning despite himself. "It has a certain style. I used to really like my Harley in high school."
"That's the Wereton family," Signe said in a quelling tone. "Of Laurelwood Manor, up near Chehalem Mountain; they hold it by knight-service from the Barony of Forestgrove. Lord Harrison Decard's their liege. And Mr. Motorcycle out there is challenging all and sundry to single combat. Stavarov's going to let his hotheads work off some steam. Idiots."
Havel felt his grin spread wider; here was something besides the tangled complexities and haunting fears of high command:
Speaking of gestures: and I'm not forty yet, he thought. Besides which, this is a delaying action. Playing at El Cid is delay, all right.
He ignored Signe's horrified yelp and brought Gustav up in a rear that turned into a gallop as he shot ahead, north down River Bend Road. A roar went up from the assembled Bearkillers, turning into a rhythmic chant from a thousand throats as they punched their weapons in the air:
"Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Lord Bear!"
A swift glance showed his wife's mouth moving too, but he suspected she wasn't cheering. Her brother would be cursing enviously over there on the right, but he was too well disciplined to try anything on his own.
There's method in my madness, alskling, he thought, and then: I hope.
The Protectorate knight drew up, raising his lance and letting the butt rest on the toes of his right boot, and trotted towards the Bearkiller leader. Havel slowed down likewise, turning left off the treacherous surface of the road's broken asphalt. As they drew closer :
Aha, he thought, looking at the painfully young face behind the helmet's nasal bar, and the way his eyes went wide as they darted to the snarling bear's head on Havel's helmet. Thought so. That's a young guy's stunt, and for more reasons than what my charming wife calls testosterone poisoning.
The man was at least as tall as Havel and broader built even allowing for the effect of the hauberk and gambeson, but his light brown beard was scarce and tufty. The hazel eyes were fearless and delighted; this boy would have been a year shy of ten when the Change happened, and those golden spurs on his boots were a very recent acquisition. The horses halted, mouthing their bits and tossing their heads and making the spikes of their chamfrons glitter, pawing at the turf of knee-high grass and glaring at each other. Wet, dark soil showed where the steel-shod hooves broke through the sod, the rich, meaty green smell blending with horse sweat and leather, the old-locker-and-dirty-socks scent of gambeson padding and the slightly rancid canola oil that glistened on the mail and metal gear of the two warriors. The challenger undid the mouth-covering flap of his mail coif and let it hang free while he spoke.
"You do me great honor by meeting me lance to lance, Lord Bear!" the young knight said, grinning from ear to ear.
"Damn right I do, boy," Havel replied. "But hell, it's a nice day for a spanking and I always did believe in corporal punishment for delinquent youth."
The youngster looked a little affronted and more than a little bewildered. "My lord, I am Sir Jeff Wereton of Laurelwood, by rank a knight, and the son of a knight."