There were better than three thousand men and nearly a hundred chariots all up, though, and from their roaring cheers when Raushapa harangued them in Hurrian they seemed enthusiastic enough.
"Translate for me," he said when she'd finished, stepping up into the chariot beside her. Sabala's leash was tied to the railing, and the hound barked hysterically until Raupasha called him sharply to heel.
"Men of Mitanni," he began. That brought another long cheer. "Men of Mitanni, your kingdom has been restored, now that Asshur is thrown down."
This time he was afraid the cheers would make somebody pop a blood vessel; a couple had fainted, although that might be the heat.
"We were traveling to Dur-Katlimmu to enthrone your queen." Impatient, he held up a hand. They can certainly cheer; can they fight? "Now a force of the Hittite rebel Kurunta of Tarhuntassa approaches, to deny you that."
This time the sound was a low growl. The Assyrians were hated bitterly, but the Hittites had left plenty of grudges as well.
"With him march men of the Wolf Lord of Ahhiyawa," he said, watching their unease. Rumors had penetrated this far, at least. "He has strong weapons and powerful magic, but so do your allies. Watch, and see."
A shiver of anticipation ran over them; they'd all heard what happened to the Assyrians. Hollard jumped down and walked over to the baggage train. The Islander section of it was mostly huge wagons pulled by twenty pair of camels; the beasts were groaning and complaining, as usual.
A squad of Marine technicians had stacked their rifles and were hard at work assembling the ultralight that had come in with the latest shipment from the Island. As he watched they gave a unified hup-ho! and heaved the arrowhead-shaped wing up on top of the three aluminum struts above the little teardrop-shaped fuselage. That creaked on its tricycle undercarriage and creaked again as they busied themselves with the bolts. The pilot was going over the engine that drove the prop behind her seat, but came to her feet as he drew near.
"Sir!"
"At ease, Kayle," he said. God, she looks pathetically young. "How does it look?"
"It's a nice simple little engine, sir," the Guard pilot said. "I double-checked the filters to make sure no sand had gotten into it. And, ah, sir…"
"Yes, Kayle?"
"Sir, we're not fitting the bomb racks?"
"Kayle, this is a scouting mission. I want information, capiche?"
"Sir, yessir."
Kayle pushed her goggles back up on her forehead, threw her scarf over her shoulder, and climbed into the tiny cockpit. She tested the controls-essentially a set of wires that warped the wing-and chopped her hand forward. The crew bent and pushed the wing onto a stretch of open ground with no large rocks and turned the nose of the ultralight into the wind. The engine coughed, sputtered, then began its insectile drone.
The crew kept hold of the wingtips until the pilot shouted to them to release, and the little aircraft bounced forward. Faster, with dirt and dust trailing back in a broad plume, and then on the fourth bounce it was airborne, banking up into the cloudless aching-blue sky.
A long soft sigh of wonder came from the Mitannians as the eagle-painted wings banked and headed northwest to where the camel scouts had brushed the enemy patrols. Raupasha sighed herself as she stood beside him.
"To fly like that!" she said. "The Emancipator is a wonder, but that would be like having the wings of your Eagle god, Lord Kenn'et."
"It is fun." He found himself grinning at the girl's eagerness, and then a thought struck him like ice water injected directly into the stomach.
"It will make me feel much safer, when I lead my people into the fight," she said sunnily.
Oh, shit.
Captain Chong smiled behind the slit of the sandbagged observation bunker, one of dozens built along Troy's wall. The rising sun was behind them, giving a good view of the shoreline a half mile away; the city would be only a jagged black outline against a ball of fire to observers there. The Ringapi camp sprawled between, its campfires hazing heaven with their smoke. He cranked the field telephone sharply and pressed the Send button.
"Up two," the Marine said. "Ranging round, fire!"
There was a whump from the Citadel, a long droning whistle, and then a slamming crump from the beach. Dirt and sand gouted skyward.
Ian Arnstein raised his glasses. The cannon were still being towed shoreward on rafts from the Achaean ships anchored offshore. Not many black hulls pulled up on the beach, he thought, watching the doll-tiny men straining at their oars. The ships Walker had built were too big to do that; many of them were three-masters. There were a few of the traditional long, low penteconters, and he saw one that looked like a late-medieval Venetian galley, huge oars pulled by four men each and a brace of big guns pointing forward. That chilled him a little; it was just like Walker to commission a vessel of the sort that had made galley slaves common. Before then rowers were almost always free men.
"The ships are just out of reach," Chong said. "Three rounds, for effect!" And then "Cease fire!" regretfully, as the boats towing the rafts turned around and began thrashing the water toward the ships they'd just disembarked from.
"Then they can't get their guns close to the walls?" Ian said hopefully.
"I didn't say that, sir," Chong said. "They just can't land them here. We're on the highest ground around, so we can hammer them as they come ashore. They'll have to take them out of range and then bring them within range of the walls by night one at a time. It'll cost them heavily, but I've got only four tubes and my ammunition is limited. Eventually they'll get the guns in protected positions close enough to hit us."
"What then?" Arnstein asked, licking dry lips.
The Chinese-born officer buckled his binocular case with a snap. "Then they pound us into dust," he said quietly.
Arnstein nodded. But we're buying time, he thought. It was a little comfort; not much, but a little. Walker doesn't deal with frustration well. If we stand him off, he'll get mad and stay longer than he should. Probably he just showed up to get things started.
The bulk of the renegade's troops were obviously elsewhere, judging by the numbers he could see. Doing what? he wondered-and then wished he hadn't.
You wanted adventure and travel, Mandy Kayle thought, licking lips dried by the airstream. All right, Ms. Hotshot Pilot, you've got it. Endless deserts full of homicidal locals.
The tawny landscape rolled away beneath her, with here and there a line of greener vegetation to mark a watercourse or arroyo. The wind blew past at forty-five miles an hour, barely a crawl up here at two thousand feet. She could see the dust plumes now.
"Eagle Eye II here," she said; it was a pilot's privilege to pick her own call sign. "Eagle Eye II. I have the enemy under observation."
"You're coming through loud and clear, Two."
"Enemy are three miles to your northwest, proceeding in two columns of unequal size. Estimate the larger column to consist of"- she juggled control stick and binoculars, tipping the Eye to the right to improve her view-"local troops, chariots one-fifty, repeat one-fifty, infantry three thousand, archers and spearmen, with oxcarts and pack donkeys to match. Over."
"Excellent work, Eye. Over."
Details sprang out at her: a charioteer's long black hair spilling from under his helmet, ax flashing as he gestured with it; the plodding pace of infantry, breathing their own dust; a ripple of light on spearheads through the dust. The other column…