Edain grunted. “Where’s that battery of field catapults when you need them?” he said.
Rudi grinned. “Why not wish for that band of McClintocks we were offered when we guested at their Chief’s hall south of Ashland? Likely lads and lasses they looked, if a bit. . rambunctious and independent, as you might say.”
“Or a pack of drunken fookin’ savages. . as you might say. Covered in tattoos, as well. But I wish we had them, Chief, that I do.”
High King Artos heeled his horse a little forward and turned as he stood in the stirrups for a second, speaking to carry:
“Strangers have come with weapons in hand to make war on Montival’s land. It’s the King’s work to ward his folk from such. Are you with me, brothers and sisters?”
“Artos and Montival!”
Órlaith found herself shouting as loud as the rest, and echoing the growl within the cry. Her father raised a hand, and silence fell.
“All right, let’s be about it. Hellman, move out. Edain, follow at fifty yards.”
The light cavalry reined about. Edain wet a finger and held it up, then called to his command.
“The wind will be in our teeth and a little from the left, but not too bad. Remember you’ll lose ten paces range and correct for drift. We’ll start dropping shafts on their heads at ten-score and fifty paces and advance with walking fire; use your bodkins first and we’ll clear a path for the lobsters. They need it, the puir darlin’s.”
Many of the High King’s Archers grinned, and some of the men-at-arms scowled. Lobster was Mackenzie slang for the plate-armored heavy cavalry of the Association, and not a compliment.
Edain went on: “Shoot fast and listen for the word. Take surrenders if they’re offered at the last but don’t take any risks about it. Now follow me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
County of Napa, Crown Province of Westria
(Formerly California)
High Kingdom of Montival
(Formerly western North America)
April 29th, Change Year 46/2044 AD
The High King’s force slid south. Time seemed to pass with shocking speed for Órlaith though she was achingly conscious of every second; she made herself let her shield drop a little so the guige-strap could take its fifteen-pound weight and keep that arm limber for when she needed to move it swiftly. She could see a plume of smoke now from ahead and to the left, dirty-brown wisps rising and blowing towards them; that must be the burning ship the scout had mentioned.
“I wonder why it is that folk always set things on fire during a fight?” her father mused calmly. “Because they do, so. Whether there’s a reason or not. I’ve seen horizons afire from one edge to the other, rick and cot and tree, when armies passed through.”
Then they were past the last roll of land-even what looked like flat terrain could be deceptive that way-and the clamor of voices and a hard banging clatter came on the wind. She could see the strangers as they turned west, a cluster of tiny figures at the end of a long alley of trampled tall grass no more than a bowshot across. A chant was building amid a rhythmic clash of wood and metal, probably the attackers nerving themselves for another rush. . though she couldn’t be sure.
It’s confusing, she thought. Well, thank the Crone and the Keeper-of-Laws I’m not in charge. Twenty minutes ago all I was looking forward to was a Beltane feast at Dun Barstow and findin’ out what roast ostrich tastes like!
Órlaith thrust her right hand out.
“Lance!”
The squire who’d armed her father pushed the lance into her palm. She closed her hand around the ashwood of the grip below the dish-shaped guard, the hide binding rough even through the leather palm of her steel gauntlet, resting the butt on her thigh with a click of metal on metal. The sound and the feel of the tapering twelve-foot shaft were familiar, but everything was strange, as if she were seeing the world clear yet distant through a sheet of salvaged glass.
“Noisy bastards,” Heuradys said quietly to her side, as Toad tossed his head and champed at his bit until foam drooled from his jaws. “But this is good ground for a knight’s battle. Very good. Auntie Tiph always said picking the right ground was half way to winning.”
Her father made another gesture with his left hand and called: “Now, Hellman.”
The horse-archers all dropped their knotted reins on their horses’ necks, reached over their shoulder for a shaft and leaned forward. Their mounts rocked up to a canter and then a gallop, abruptly shrinking away forward. Another shout of Artos and Montival! went up from them, and then a chorus of yelping, yipping cries, like mad coyotes or files on metal or both.
The High King hadn’t taken his lance yet, and used that hand to raise binoculars to his eyes. He barked a laugh.
“Da?” she said, startled.
“They’re just now noticing us. There’s a Haida chief in a sealskin jacket sewn with iron rings running up and down shouting at them to look to their rear. . yes, and kicking their backsides too, by way of getting their attention.”
Even Sir Aleaume, who was a bit stiff, chuckled at that.
“So sorry, are we interrupting something private and intimate?” Heuradys added, and there were more harsh barks of amusement.
They were closer now, close enough to see the enemy formation writhe and shake as the first flight of arrows from the horse-archers slashed into them, just as they tried to turn their attention to the rear. The light horsemen rose in their stirrups and went into a fast nock-draw-loose rhythm as they charged.
The war cries from the strangers were suddenly interspersed with shrieks of raw pain as arrows driven by the springy horn-and-sinew bows slammed down out of the sky; and the beleaguered group in the ruins rose and started shooting at their foemen again too. The horse-archers broke to the right at fifty yards from the enemy front-you could only aim ahead, behind and to the left from horseback-and raced down their ranks, loosing with flat aimed shots at close range in a ripple that emptied their quivers. Arrows came back at them, but few and hasty; then they were turning away, twisting in the saddle to shoot a last shaft or two behind them. They thundered by the rest of the Montivallan party to the right, whooping triumph and waving their bows in the air, looping around to refill from the packhorses led by the varlets.
“Nicely done, almost like a drill,” her father said judiciously. “Hellman knows his business.” A little louder: “When you think the range is right, Bow-Captain.”
Another dozen paces, and Edain’s voice cracked out: “Draw!”
His command halted and the yew staves bent, the Archers sinking into the wide-braced, whole-body, arse-down style that the Clan’s longbowmen practiced from the age of six, what they called drawing in the bow. The points of the bodkins glittered as they rose to a forty-five-degree angle, and the drawing-hands went back until they were behind the angle of the jaw. Behind the Archers their piper cut loose with the keening menace of the “Ravens Pibroch”; bringing along a battery of Lambeg drums would have been excessive with less than a tenth of the guard-regiment here, but you wouldn’t find forty Mackenzies without at least one set of bagpipes.