“That is true,” Alisande said, “and confirms the verity that I feel within me. But how can an army so distant be a threat to my Merovence?”
“Because it contains so many soldiers,” Matt said grimly, “and all of them are horsemen. Worse, they’re fanatics. They seek loot and plunder, but they think they ride in a god’s cause, and that they’ll go directly to a reward of extravagant pleasure if they die in his service.” Thinking of the Huns, Turks, and Mongols of his own universe, he assured her, “No, my dear, there’s no doubt—anything riding in off the plains of Central Asia is a very real threat, not only to the Arabian empire, but also to Europe.”
“In fact, one could find room to wonder why the Arabian empire still holds,” Ramon mused, “and has not yet fallen to the Turks.”
“I can only think that the Turks have not ridden west-till now,” Jimena said, “though it seems they are subservient to the Mongol barbarians.”
“You must tell me of these barbarians another time,” Alisande said, frowning. “For the moment, we must decide whether to march, and with how large a force.”
“Doesn’t the size of the army depend on how many Allustria, Ibile, and Latruria will send?” Matt asked.
“Even so,” Alisande confirmed. “I cannot leave my country defenseless if my neighbors keep all their armies home. Well then, we must send to King Richard in Bretanglia, Frisson the Regent in Allustria, King Rinaldo in Ibile, and King Boncorro in Latruria. But we must send some force to the Holy Land, I can feel the necessity in my bones.”
In a universe in which, when the country was in danger, the monarch’s bones ached, that was no small evidence. Alisande was queen by Divine Right, which created a bond of enchantment between herself, her people, and her land. She instinctively knew what was right or wrong for Merovence, and ignored her intuition at all their peril.
“I shall ask you to be castellans and regents again, lord and lady,” Alisande said formally to her in-laws. “Must you lead the army yourself, my dear?” Jimena asked anxiously.
Alisande hesitated.
Matt read her expression of doubt correctly. “Not until you’re sure your sibling monarchs won’t try to invade, is that it?”
“It is.” Alisande flashed him a quick look of gratitude. “I shall send my expedition under Lord Sauvignon’s command, then ride posthaste to join them if I am certain I am not needed here.”
“Should you invite the Witch Doctor to ride with them?” Ramon asked.
“Saul was never too enthusiastic about the Muslims,” Matt said. “His fascinations lay farther east.”
“India and China, you mean?” Ramon nodded. “Still, we speak of him as a wizard, not a scholar.”
“I am loath to tear him again from his wife and babes,” Alisande said.
“Why not make use of Saul here, then,” Matt said, “after you are gone and I’ve ridden ahead?”
The throne room was very quiet.
Then Alisande exploded. “I knew this would come! Am I so boring, husband, that you must take to the high road at every chance of adventure?”
“Never,” Matt said, looking directly into her eyes, “but you are so precious to me that if I can stop a threat before it reaches you, I will.”
Alisande met his gaze, but only held it about ten seconds before she melted and reached out to grasp his hand. “It seems, though, that you are forever leaving me!”
“Never willingly.” Matt returned the pressure. “And never for more than a few months every year or three. It’s just bad luck, darling, that you were born to be queen at a time when the powers of Hell are making a very good try at dragging down all the nations of Europe. Sure, we’ve managed to win the lands back so far, but they’re still trying to set us against one another.”
Alisande looked deeply into his eyes, searching for reassurance, and when she found it, closed her eyes and lowered her chin in assent. “You speak truly, husband. Nay, I must let you go forth again.” Her eyes flew open and she glared at him in command. “But only to gather information, mind you! You must not risk yourself unless it is absolutely necessary!”
“Only to protect the weak,” Matt assured her. “I may have to travel a long way to find out what lies behind this invasion, though.”
“Be of good heart, my dear,” Jimena consoled. “Lord Sauvignon and your army shall be following, if there is any real threat.”
“Even a week can be far too long a time,” Alisande countered, “when my love is in peril.”
“Hey, I’ll be safe as long as I’m behind the Caliph’s lines,” Matt cajoled. “I’ve always wanted to see Jerusalem, anyway.”
The question, though, was whether the Caliph’s lines would hold.
Holes suddenly caved in all along the eastern wall of Baghdad, and barbarians boiled out of them, small hard-muscled men with flowing moustaches and ugly hairless heads ridged with scar tissue. They shouted war-cries as they charged the inside of the gate, slashing with short heavy sabers—but they ran with a bow-legged, ungainly gait.
Archers on the wall spun about and sent flights of arrows into the attackers. Dozens of barbarians fell, but dozens more jumped clumsily over their bodies and flailed at the gate guards. The porters swung their pole-arms to block, then to counter. Two of the four fell , but a score of Arabs came pounding up to aid them, small round shields up to block the Mongols’ blows, scimitars flashing. Unlike the attackers, they hadn’t lived all their lives on horseback, and were far quicker runners.
But fifty more Mongols clambered out of the tunnels and ran toward a corral of Arabian mares. It wasn’t guarded—who would need to ward horses within a city? Too late, Arabian soldiers saw them coming and shouted in anger, running to cut them off—but the Mongols caught the horses’ manes and sprang high, landing on their backs as though they had been there since birth, then leaned down to cut the horses’ tethers with single strokes of their curved swords. They whirled their mounts and rode down the Arabs, screaming their war-cry.
The Arabs sprang aside, though, and hurled swords, shields, anything they had, at the invaders. A dozen hit their marks, a dozen Mongols fell, but the rest charged into the fray around the gates, screaming like demons and laying about them with their swords. Their own men parted to let them through.
With cries of anger and despair, the guards set their pole-arms so that the Mongols’ prized horses ran upon the points.
The horses screamed and reared, then fell. The Mongols sprang from their backs in the nick of time and turned to face the scimitars of the Arabs with their own yataghans—to little effect; Damascus steel cut through their untempered blades. One or two Arabs fell, but more of the Mongols.
Their companions, screaming in frustration, tried to force their mounts through to the gate, but couldn’t get them over the fallen horses. They wheeled to ride away so they could turn and gallop back with enough momentum to hurdle the dead, but a squad of Arab cavalry rode down on them with howls of rage. Mongol met Arab in their natural element, the backs of horses, and proved very quickly that they were evenly matched when mounted.
“The slope!” cried the captain of the guard. “Ward the slope!”
Half the archers on the wall turned to see a thousand barbarians gallop up the scree toward the gate. Bows thrummed on both sides, but the horsemen were too far away, and their arrows fell short. The Arabs, though, with longer bows, had longer range, and the front rank of barbarians fell. The second rank hurdled them as though they weren’t there and charged on toward the gate, only six abreast, but with thousands of reinforcements behind them.
More archers came running; more bowstrings sang of death and blood. The barbarians fell in windrows, and at last their captain, convinced of the futility, turned his men and rode away.