The high clarion call of the bugle echoed, and Abe moved close to the man’s side. Standing in his stirrups, he pulled out the scimitar, which had been a gift of Jurak’s, and waved it back and forth over his head.
More men were coming out of the smoke, looking around in confusion. Hearing the bugle call, they spotted an officer and started toward him.
“Up the slope, men! Up the slope as far as you can ride, then dismount and set up a covering fire!”
A sergeant major, obviously an old trooper, picked up the cry, riding back and forth along the rocky slope, repeating Abe’s command, urging individual men and small clumps of riders forward, driving them up the slope.
The gatling crew came out of the smoke. The lead horse had its foreleg nearly shot off, blood spraying with every agonized step. The driver reined in, and the gun slewed around, nearly upending. It was obvious that there was no way in hell that it could go any farther. Abe rode down to them. “Unlimber that piece! Push it as far up the slope as possible.”
He spotted a half a dozen troopers, following a lieutenant and moving in some semblance of order.
“Lieutenant, have your men dismount. Get this gatling and ammunition boxes up the slope!”
Without waiting for a reply he turned away. Riderless horses came out of the smoke. A flurry of shots erupted to his right, and he saw a score of mounted Bantags were coming up around the flank of the Butte, having circled round.
God, if they are on the crest above, we’re dead.
The sergeant major, who had been detailing off men looked up and saw the threat. Abe rode toward him.
“You better get some men on top, sir!” he shouted. “I’ll feed them up to you as they come in!”
Abe nodded, and the sergeant screamed for the knot of troopers gathering around him to follow the lieutenant.
Abe started up the rocky slope, feeling a moment of anguish over the labored gasps of his dying mount, which seemed to somehow sense what still needed to be done before giving up.
He zigzagged up the rocky incline, passing several dozen men deploying on a narrow plateau. Several of them were firing and reloading, shiny brass cartridge casings scattered around them.
He looked back. A score or more troopers were following him up the slope.
He was momentarily aware, yet again, that bullets were smacking into the rocky ground, kicking up plumes of dust, exploding shards of rock. An arrow whistled past, striking sparks as it hit a boulder.
He caught a glimpse of an adder, coiled up, hideous looking, head raised, mouth opened and ready to strike. An hour ago, the sight would have filled him with terror. He ignored it, riding within half a dozen feet of it, then pushed on.
The slope seemed nearly vertical, and a narrow trail, a beaten path left by mountain goats, was the only way up. He felt naked, exposed as he looked down to his left.
The entire panorama of the madness was laid out below. The fire was sweeping past either side of the butte. The ground back across nearly two miles was blackened, hot spots still smoking. Dozens of fire-charred bodies littered the plain, a ghastly sight. Dying horses, flesh smoking, staggered about, shrieking in agony. Curled-up bodies of dead troopers lay in the smoking ashes. A rippling explosion, sounding like a string of Victory Day firecrackers, detonated, followed by a dull whooshing explosion. One of the gatling limbers was burning. An ammunition wagon was upended nearby, its four horses still trapped in their traces, down on the ground, kicking and thrashing.
The Bantags to either flank had drawn back to let the fire pass, but were now circling back in. Down at the very base of the butte a wild melee was being fought, the most daring of the attacking host having pressed right into the middle of the smoky confusion. Abe could see the flashes of scimitars rising and falling.
The trail ahead switched back yet again, and directly above he saw the crest. His poor mount, gasping for breath, blood frothing, struggled the last few feet.
He heard the click of a rifle being cocked, and looked straight up into the muzzle of a gun.
“By all my ancestors,” Togo gasped, “get up here, damn it!” He lowered his weapon and disappeared. Seconds later Abe heard the gun go off.
He pushed the last few feet, came over the crest, and saw Togo leaning over the other side of the butte, which at its crest was less than thirty yards across.
“They’re coming up from behind!” Togo shouted, even as he levered in a fresh round, leaned over, and fired again.
Abe swung off his mount. Uncasing his carbine, he grabbed a bandolier of ammunition secured behind the saddle.
The next trooper in line came up behind him, and before he was even dismounted he had his revolver out, leveled it, and fired, dropping a Bantag who was trying to ride up onto the crest.
Abe looked back down the trail. More than a dozen men were still following.
“Come on!” he screamed.
He loaded his weapon, turned, and started toward Togo. The sergeant screamed something incoherent in Japanese. Abe wanted to ask Togo how the hell he had gotten up to the top of the butte ahead of everyone else, but kept silent.
He gained the edge on the other side and looked down. Several hundred Bantag had circled in behind the butte, which acted like a wall, blocking the fire that was sweeping along with the wind to either flank. Some of the Bantag were trying to ride up, but their horses were simply too big and cumbersome to mount the slope; that was the only thing that had saved the troopers on top from already being overrun.
Most of them were dismounting, starting up through the rocky ground, climbing hand over hand.
Togo fired again, and Abe clearly saw the bullet smash into the upraised forehead of his target, blood exploding, Togo grunting with delight.
Abe lowered his weapon, took aim, and then, amazingly, he found he simply could not squeeze the trigger. He had his target clearly in sight, a young one, frame not yet filled out, bow slung over his shoulder, face down as he climbed, not even aware that death was closing in.
“Lieutenant?”
He gladly turned away, looking back. A corporal had gained the crest. “Where the hell do you want us?”
“Over here. Drive those riders back.” He turned away from the crest. “Sergeant Togo, deploy the men out on this line as I feed them in!”
He ran back to the other side. For a second he felt a wave of horror.
Two hundred feet below was pure chaos, no sense of command. The smoke from the fire around the base of the hill was beginning to clear, replaced by yellow-gray puffs from carbine fire.
Intermingled, swarming in around them, were scores, a hundred or more Bantags, most using scimitars, some armed with bows, a few carrying old bolt-action rifles from the war.
A war, he thought. Damn it, this is war.
Several dozen troopers broke from the flank of the butte, trying to ride around it to the west, instinctively heading back the way they had come. From around that side a score of Bantag charged. In seconds it was over, blades flashing, bodies tumbling, all the troopers dead.
Amazingly, the bugler he had ordered to blow the recall was still at it. But no one else was left out on the burnt plain except for the dead and dying.
As more troopers rode up the slope, the sergeant below grabbed men, pushing them up.
“Who’s in command here?”
It was Agrippa, gaining the crest on foot, face puffy and scorched, breathing hard, eyes dilated.
For a second Abe looked around, caught off guard, waiting for someone else to answer. Then he looked back. “I am.”
“I’ll take over, then. Get these men mounted and ready to follow me. I’ve lost my mount, so find one for me as well.”
The bugle below fell silent. He looked back over. The man was falling out of his saddle, a Bantag rider withdrawing his scimitar from the trooper’s back.
“Lieutenant, do you hear me, mount up.”