More smoke, now in front, then to the right, puffs igniting, small white plumes. Several of the men cocked their carbines, reined in, took aim even though the range was absurdly long. He shouted for them to hold fire.
More smoke, white plumes curling up, then laying flat out in the wind. All across the front curls of smoke were igniting, flaring. He saw a flicker of fire, and within seconds it was a wall of flame rising up, spreading out, leaping before the wind.
“Halt!”
The first whiff of smoke was already upon them, the sweet scent of dried grass burning, strangely triggering a memory of autumn days at the country home, burning leaves.
The crackling roar of the spreading inferno could be clearly heard. His mount shied, snickering with fright, ears lying back.
For several long seconds he sat there, dumbfounded, not sure what the hell to do next. He looked back over his shoulder. The line was still advancing, the men lower down in the hollow, but surely they had seen. He caught a glimpse of dust to his left, sliding down the butte-a wave of riders several hundred strong.
He looked forward again. Beyond the rising wall of flames he saw the standard bearer, up in his stirrups, red pennant held high, waving back and forth.
“Back!” Abe swung around, pointing to the rear. “Back to the hill at a gallop!”
As he spurred his mount, it reared up, nearly throwing him. It turned around, and for a mad second he thought it would race off straight at the wall of fire, which was now leaping before the wind, flames dancing high, a front of fire half a mile wide raging across the plains as fast as the wind.
He viciously sawed his mount around, leaned forward, and dug in his spurs. The horse shied again, then fell in with the rest of Abe’s troopers, who were off at a gallop, racing straight back toward the rest of the line.
The other four companies were coming up out of the hollow, but the line was slowing. Some of the men were standing in their stirrups to see what was ahead. Those on the left flank were pointing toward the butte to the north, where the expanding line of riders were storming down.
He headed straight for Agrippa.
“Lieutenant, what the hell?” Agrippa screamed, and then he looked past Abe, eyes wide. “Bugler, sound retreat!”
Men were already turning, not even waiting for the call. Abe screamed for his troop to stay with him, but everyone was jumbling together, forward companies falling back into the second line, men turning about, several losing their saddles. A trooper in front of Abe, riding flat out, suddenly tumbled as his mount stepped into a hole, snapping its leg. The man crashed down, his screaming horse rolling over on top of him, crushing him.
He looked back. The fire was leaping with the wind, actually gaining. Hot embers were swirling around them, smoke blanketing the ground like a fog, blinding him.
Coughing, eyes stinging, he focused all his attention forward. He weaved around another pileup where two horses had collided, throwing their riders. One of the men was obviously dead.
In all the confusion, he suddenly felt a bizarre sense of detachment, wondering what he was doing, why this was happening, what was he supposed to do next.
The unfurling wall of smoke made everything look dreamlike, surreal, with shadows moving to either side. Then he heard a strange fluttering sound, the air hissing. Directly ahead he saw a man jerk, half rising out of his saddle, then slump over, ever so slowly falling, left foot catching in the stirrup, his face a bloody pulp.
They’re shooting at us?
Is this what it is like? he wondered. Strange, he felt no fear, just a curious surprise that someone was shooting, trying to kill him. Did Jurak order this? Ten days ago I was in their camp, I sat with them, talked, and now this.
He saw another man go down, horse screaming, rearing up in mid stride, twisting in agony, rolling. The rider tried to kick free of his stirrups, then disappeared beneath the writhing mass. The sickening crunch of their hitting the ground snapped him out of his dreamlike state.
All command was broken down. Everything was mad panic and chaos.
He caught a glimpse of a larger shadow to his left. A team of four horses raced past, one of the precious gatlings. The limber wagon and piece were bouncing and careening, gun crew atop the limber desperately hanging on.
He edged over toward them. “To the butte!” he screamed. “Follow me!”
He weaved in front of them, looking up, catching a glimpse of the pale, red sun visible through the smoke, nearly directly overhead and slightly to his left.
Keep the wind directly on your back, he realized. We were riding straight into it before.
As he rode straight on, time seemed to stretch out. He could feel his mount beginning to slow after a hard morning’s ride and now this mad gallop.
“Come on, damn it, come on!” He raked his spurs in again.
A shadow emerged from his right, hard to distinguish for a second. It was bigger, far bigger than a trooper.
A Bantag rider burst out of the smoke, scimitar raised, grinning, roaring a wild battle cry, coming straight at him. Wide-eyed, Abe saw him coming, his fingers still tightly clutching the reins, carbine dangling from his shoulder sling, slamming uselessly against his hip.
The Bantag closed.
Abe ducked, heard the hissing whistle of the blade slashing the air…and then the Bantag was gone, disappearing into the smoke, riding on.
The ground started to rise. Grass gave way to rocky slope, and as he gained a few precious feet of altitude, the smoke seemed to miraculously part. He was above it, at the base of the butte. He reined in hard, turning, nearly losing his seat again as his mare’s back legs nearly collapsed.
All around him was chaos. Troopers were coming up out of the boiling white ocean of smoke. Several were dismounting. Down in the confusion below he saw hundreds of men riding, most coming straight toward him, others veering off to the left and right. On both flanks a disciplined wall of riders were hemming them in, closing the ring. Rifle shots echoed, flashes of light in the swirling smoke.
Another bullet zipped past, kicking up dust on the rocky slope behind him. He could see half a dozen Bantags less than a hundred yards off. One of them armed with a rifle had just, fired, aimed straight at him.
The others had bows and were firing flaming bundles into the confusion.
A bugler came up out of the smoke, hat gone, eyes wide with panic.
Again the sense of detachment. Am I frightened? What the hell do I do?
He stood up in his stirrups. “Major Agrippa!”
Even as he shouted for his commanding officer, he realized the absurdity of the gesture. Wherever the damned fool was, screaming for him wasn’t going to help.
“Bugler!”
The man was kicking his mount, trying to urge him up the steep slope of the butte.
“Damn you, bugler! Over here!”
The bugler slowed, looking at him.
“Over here, damn you!”
He swung around, came up, and in a gesture that struck Abe as ridiculous he came to attention and saluted.
“Blow recall! Blow it and keep blowing it!”
The man looked at him as if he were speaking in an alien tongue. He wondered if he even understood English. He appeared to be Rus, but he wasn’t sure.
“Recall!”
There was a nod of recognition. The man spat, wiped his lips, and raised his instrument.
At nearly the same instant Abe’s horse reared up again, this time shrieking in pain. It turned, trying to run in panic. He regained control, felt the limping walk and saw the fathers of an arrow, the shaft plunged deep into his mare’s chest, just inches from his right leg.