The roar turned to a shuddering mass gasp. "Victory!" she shouted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
September – October, Year 2 A.E.
"Well this is it," Alston said.
Christ on a crutch, that's inane, she thought. Her mouth was dry, despite a swig from the canteen, and the morning's bread and meat had settled under her breastbone in a sour lump. Too much. Too fuckin' much depends on this.
The command group was placed on a slight rise behind the long ridge. All along the reverse slope stood-and squatted and sat and lay-the Fiernans and Americans. Five thousand four hundred thirty-three as of this morning. There might be a hundred more or less by now; the locals still had a tendency to come and go as they pleased. About a thousand of the Fiernans in Nantucket-made armor, and the rest in their native linen tunics; at least now everyone had a short sword and knife, the spears all had steel heads, and the archers had steel arrowheads and the slingers lead shot.
Scattered clouds went by above, pushed by a freshening wind out of the west cool enough to make sweat feel a bit chilly. Patches of shade went with it, throwing the host into shadow. When they passed, sunlight glinted on edged metal, on unit banners, on the crouching shapes of catapults and flamethrowers. Her eyes flicked back and forth to make sure; reserves, solid blocks of archers and spearmen, heliographs and mounted messengers ready…
Up. Her gaze came up, and fixed on the host of the easterners, bending slightly to look through the eyepieces of the big tripod-mounted binoculars. About our numbers- probably a little less. That confirmed what Toffler and the scouts and spies had estimated.
Turning the traversing wheel put blurring jumps between moments of clear vision. Ordinary herdsmen-warriors in leather kilt and tunic, their hair twisted into braids… but most of the spearheads and axes flashed with the cold brightness of steel, not the ruddy warmth of bronze. Here a grizzled patriarch came trotting, ax over his shoulder and six sons around him, from a solid bearded family man down to a fresh-faced youth barely old enough to raise a fuzz. There an iron-armored chief in a chariot bright with paint and bronze and gold, throwing up his spear and kissing it, laughing as his stocky ponies pranced in their bedizened harness. Here, there,-thousands upon thousands of them, coming to battle as eagerly as to their bridal nights. A haze of dust marked their coming, stretching from south to north nearly a mile; and all along it light sparkled and broke and glittered on point and edge, rippling like a field of stars as they marched.
Where… ah. There in the center of the enemy, four or five hundred men marching in a solid block, every one of them armored in chain mail, with conical helmets and metal-faced shields. Most of the shields bore the same emblem, a fanged wolfs head in red on a black background. One or two figures in Nantucket-made plate suits, beneath the banner with its wolf's-head flag and aurochs horns. A huge man in a chariot following behind; that must be Daurthunnicar himself, accompanying his son-in-law. Spies and prisoner-of-war interrogations had given them a pretty fair assessment of the enemy command structure.
And behind him, two metal shapes on wheeled carts, each pulled by six horses. The cannon, dammit.
"Ian, Doreen," she said. "You'd better get back to the aid station. This isn't goin to be so… neat and tidy for long. Not with these armies."
The Arnsteins grinned at her; a little stiffly, but they did it. "No, I think we'll hang around for a while," Doreen said.
Ian nodded. "Priceless opportunity for a historian," he said. "Besides, we've got these shotguns, if worse comes to worst."
Alston nodded, and took a cup from Swindapa's offered hand. "A toast then. Ladies, gentlemen-let's kick their butts back to the Channel!"
She knocked back the whiskey. The Americans in the command staff cheered; so did the Fiernans, as the translators gave them the words. The glasses tinkled and crashed on a rock as they all emptied theirs and threw, and then she motioned to the signaler:
"Phase one, execute."
Flags went up all along the line-Old Glory in the center, flanked by the crescent Moon the Fiernans had chosen when they grasped the concept of a national banner. It was silver on green, the same as the traditional flag of Islam; even then she spared a brief instant's cold inner laughter at how the Muslims would have hated that. Slave-trading, woman-hating bastards. And better still, odds are you'll never even exist here.
There was a massive rumbling sound, thousands of feet pounding the dry short grass. The front ranks of the allied force crested the hill and went a few steps beyond it; she could see the easterners halting in ragged clumps as they saw the ridgeline before them sprout armed men. Meanwhile all along the allied front warriors were at work, pounding short stakes with iron points at either end into the ground; swine feathers, they'd called them in Europe back in the old days. Planted at a forty-five-degree angle, they were just the right height to catch a horse in the chest. The blocks of archers started planting shafts in the dirt at their feet, ready to hand, and moving their quivers from their backs around to their waists. Alston turned and checked; cartloads of bundled shafts were moving up in the low ground behind the line, ready to replenish as needed.
"What are they doing?" Swindapa asked, nodding toward the enemy. Her voice was a little husky, but calm.
"Maneuvering," Alston said. "Their center's hanging back, flanks are moving."
Head and horns formation, she thought. Evidently she wasn't the only one who'd studied the Zulu Wars. Damn, and here I get to play the British. Life's little ironies.
"Messenger. Unit commanders are to repeat the standing orders; when the cannon points at you, fall flat. Keep lookin' at it, and when the flash is over, get up again."
That wouldn't work if the other side had more guns… hell, it might not work now with only two.
The thunder of feet from the enemy host grew, and the squealing of ungreased wooden wheels. The sound drew her eyes over to the right, where the barbarians were moving in.
"Here we go." Here's where I find out if they were really listening to what I said.
Merenthraur felt his heart swell with pride. Fifty chariots! Fifty chariots followed him. He looked upslope toward the Earther host. Many, many… but the sons of long-speared Sky Father were many, too, and the gods fought for them. Not much of a slope. Smooth grass, not enough hill to really slow a team.
A swift-footed youth ran up, panting. "The rahax commands-take your men, smash those of the foe on the end of their line, there," he said, pointing to the southward. "If you prevail, the host follows, and great will be your reward."
"I hear the word of the rahax."
Word of Hwalkarz, in truth, but that is as good. Better. Daurthunnicar was a good rahax for the tribe in the old way, but Hwalkarz would make the Iraiina lords of all the earth.
If we win this fight, he reminded himself, looking back. The chariots were ready-Iraiina, and allies. The footmen waited behind. He waved his spear, then blew three blasts on the cowhorn war trumpet.
His knees flexed automatically to take the jerk of the chariot starting forward, moving from a walk to a trot. Earth hammered at his feet. "Keep it slow," he commanded. "No more than a trot to just outside bowshot range, then fast as they'll go."