"Ready… second… throw!"
The second rank lofted their throwing spears into the heaving mass, and then the third, and then the first rank used their second javelin. The volleys kept punching out until the spears were gone.
"Companies… charge!"
The Boise soldiers moved in unison again, to a huge crashing bark of: "USA! USA!"
Each sword hand snapped down to the hilt of the stabbing blade slung at each right hip, and then flicked it out and forward in a movement beautiful and deadly and swift. Then they smashed forward into the Prophet's men, swarming at them like ants-punching with the bosses of their heavy shields at the horses' faces, club bing with the edges at the legs of mount and rider, holding them up to turn the strokes of the long shetes. And stabbing, stabbing…
The Cutters' trumpet wailed from higher up the slope. Every horseman who could turned his mount and spurred out of the melee, while the Boise infantry slaughtered those who couldn't.
"The Prophet's Guard don't run like that," Ingolf said.
Rudi's skin prickled, with a nervousness that had only a little to do with the edged iron flying about. Then something caught the corner of his eye. Pure instinct moved him: he turned on his heel even as he drew the clothyard shaft past the angle of his jaw and shot. One of Thurston's guard threw himself aside with a yell as the fletching brushed his neck.
The general wheeled just in time to see the spear drop from another's hand where it had been driving for his back. Surprise froze him an instant, and then he snatched at his own sword as the would-be assassin plowed into the ground face first in a clatter of strip armor with an arrow driven up under the flare of his helmet. Sergeant Anderson was already between them, sword and shield ready; Rudi could see his mouth working in soundless curses as he looked around at the other guards.
Rudi had drawn and loosed again before the first man struck the ground, conscious that Edain had gotten off his first shaft less than a second later than his. Another man among the guards pitched backward with a Mac kenzie arrow standing in his face, and then a third went down-the bodkin points of two arrows driven through his armor and into gut and chest. His target had been a man near the general; that one struck as he spun, slashing open the assassin's throat to make three death wounds before he had time to collapse.
Then Rudi threw down his longbow and flung his hands in the air; barely twenty seconds had passed since the first shaft left his string.
"Peace!" he cried, pitching his voice to cut through the roar of noise around him. "They were trying to kill your general! Peace!"
An instant later Edain did the same, and the others of their band froze very still; there were probably a dozen weapons trained on them, and fingers trembling on triggers or ready to loose strings. Rudi felt a wash of cold liquid fear in his gut until Thurston himself bellowed,
"Hold!"
The last of the Cutters were out of range, sped on their way by bolts from the Boise fieldpieces. Thurston stared down at the body lying so close to his feet and then clashed his unmarked sword back into the scabbard. Men were beginning to shout and turn as word spread from one individual to the next-most had had their eyes fixed firmly on the retreating enemy.
"Silence in the ranks!" Thurston bellowed.
And a sort of silence did fall; even through his own fear Rudi admired the discipline of it.
"Officers, get your men in hand. Now! "
The beginnings of chaos died. A long moment later Thurston waved a couple of aides aside and walked over to Rudi; they'd been only a hundred feet apart. Two men followed him, the others who'd been saved from blades in the back by a ripple of Mackenzie archery. Rudi's eyes skipped over them; both had transverse crests on their helmets, and as they took them off…
Yes, they're his close kin, from the looks. Their skin was lighter, toast-brown rather than near black, and their short hair loose curled rather than woolly, but oth erwise the cast of features was the same. Sons, from their years-one's a bit more than my age and the other's about Edain's.
Thurston halted within arm's reach. Their eyes met for half a minute or so, and then he extended his hand. Rudi shook it.
"That was damned quick work," the Boise ruler said. "You saved my life there, you and your man… and saved my sons, too," he went on, confirming Rudi's guess. He glanced at them. "Martin, Frederick. .. Captain Thurston and Lieutenant Thurston, respectively."
Martin was the older; he extended his hand too, and then Frederick did as well. The younger son was grinning.
"Pretty fancy shooting," he said, and touched Edain's longbow with a finger. "That yew tree didn't die in vain!"
His older brother was more sober. "And how the hell did the Prophet get men into the presidential guard detail?" he snapped.
His father made a quelling gesture. "We'll have to find out. They were ready to strike without a chance in hell of escaping, too… and at a guess, this whole attack was aimed at giving them an opportunity. Goddamn, I thought the Change at least got rid of suicide killers. Wish we'd taken one alive."
He turned back to Rudi: "I now owe you two a considerable debt," he said. "Enough for an escort to the New Deseret border, no questions asked-but this area's not safe, with the Prophet's cavalry loose in it. We'll return to Boise. You need to do some planning and I need to do some investigating. Maybe some of the Cutters know what's going on."
A glance back at his frozen command group. "And that was some fancy shootin', given the angles and the time you had."
A few yards away, a Boise officer who'd been question ing a wounded Cutter swore and jerked his head back. The man had bitten off his own tongue, and spit it at the questioner in a spray of blood as he bent to hear an answer. He was laughing with a thick gobbling sound when a soldier jammed a spearhead through his throat; then he choked, kicked and died.
"What shall we do with the others, Mr. President?" an officer said, white faced with shock at the assassination attempt but too disciplined to babble.
Thurston removed his helmet and sighed, rubbing a hand across his dense cap of tight kinked hair; he looked his age then. "We're heading back to Boise. We'll take them along. They can talk, or they can join the infrastructure maintenance battalions. Have their wounded treated as soon as ours are OK."
Then he looked over at Rudi and Edain. "I've got some good archers," he said, to the younger Mackenzie this time. "But none like that. I could use a longbow corps; maybe you could teach some of my men if you're interested in a job… What's so funny?"
The last was a snap that dampened the smile on Edain's face. Still, he was a free clansman of the Mackenzies, and he spoke boldly.
"I was just thinking of how my father trained me, General."
At his raised brow, the young man went on: "When I was six, he gave me a stave cut to my size. I'd hold it out until my arm ached.. . and if I let it droop then he'd wal lop my backside. I learned to hold it as long as he liked… so then he gave me a thicker stave. When I got a real bow, I practiced an hour a day and longer on weekends, and that's not counting archery classes at school; I learned to care for my string, my bow, my arrows, to cut my own feathers and fletch my own shafts. I practiced shooting in calm, breeze, and strong wind, at still marks, moving marks, targets on the flat and in the air, and dropping fire on hidden ones, and all of them while I was standing… or kneeling… or running… or jumping."
Thurston looked as if he'd like to interrupt, but Edain continued: "Even shooting blindfolded at a target that rattled! Not to mention hunting. I dropped a running buck through thick brush at a hundred paces the year I turned thirteen, and he said I just might make a bowman worthy of the name. At sixteen I nailed a squirrel to a tree at the same range and he allowed that sure, I'd gone and done it. And that, General Thurston, sir, is how you make a Mackenzie archer!"