“Make them Regulars.”
Joab stared incredulously at Abel. To any other, it might appear a white rage. But Abel knew that look.
I’ve got him; he’s given in, thought Abel. And Law and the Land help Fleming Hornburg if he gets in Mahaut’s way.
“Thrice-damn it, all right,” said Joab. “And now, since you’ve gotten what you want, might I bother you to take care of a little item for me?” said Joab.
“Yes, sir.”
“The sluice headgates must be opened by priests. They have the turning keys and know the proper prayers of blessing. Zilkovsky is putting together a contingent, but they’ll need mounts and an escort guard. I want Scouts. Arrange it.”
“Yes, Commander.”
2
Three days and nights of patrol in the fields south of the Road and nothing.
Abel was tired of the endless stretches of farmland, treeless, with few rocks or distinguishing features for leagues on end. Only unending rows of harvest fields, some lying fallow, some being made ready for the next planting-a planting that had occurred twice a year in this place for three thousand years.
The only exception: the years of nomad slaughter.
If Zentrum and the Blaskoye had their way, this would be one of those years.
I am bored with the Land, Abel thought more than once. I miss the desert.
This is the breadbasket of Treville, Raj told him. It may bore you, but to control it is to control the stomachs of the people.
I know, but could there be just one outcropping, one winding stream, instead of all this dipping and rolling over one hill that looks the same as the others and the endless irrigation-channel hopping?
You think you’ve got it bad? Imagine the poor Militia, laughed Raj. Joab has them marching back and forth on the Canal road, beating drums and shooting all the way to Talla bridge, then making an about-face and countermarching all the way back to Hestinga again. To a footman it must seem like the biggest bunch of lunacy he’s ever taken part in. And he may be right.
On pre-dawn patrol of the third morning, he received his distraction. Kruso, on point, was the first to hear it to the southeast. He signaled, and Abel called a halt. It was difficult to miss the thunderous hoof fall of ten thousand donts on the move.
The Blaskoye horde had exited Garangipore. Had they taken the bait?
Kruso was already off his dont, his ear to the ground. Abel waited patiently for the old Scout to make his judgment. He stood up.
Even in the wan light of the crescenting of the smallest moon, Levot, Kruso’s crooked smile told Abel all he need to know.
“They’re turning north?”
Kruso nodded. “Tham all, ut sunds like, too.”
In the distance, they heard the bone horns blow.
The Blaskoye timed the Canal road ambush just before sunrise, and it came off as planned.
Give that to them, thought Abel. They are a magnificent light cavalry.
The Blaskoye adjusted their attack on the run as they swept up from the south toward the road. The Militia was strung out for about a quarter league, although the captains, forewarned, had done their best to keep the marching order compressed. It was in the nature of the beast of a marching line to straggle out no matter what, it seemed.
They must have outriders reporting in on where the ends of this Militia worm are, Abel thought.
Undoubtedly, Center said. And they are most impressive. Even though it is clearly an intuitive move, they’ve chosen almost the exact center to attack.
His Scouts had given fair warning. At the first sign of the Blaskoye move, they charged north toward the Militia with news of the coming storm.
In addition, one rider was sent east and the other west to spread the alarm along the Road. Later in the day, wigwag and flashing glass could serve the purpose faster, but in the wan pre-dawn light, flags were impossible to see at any distance, and mirrors were useless, as well. Abel had ordered the Scouts to construct a series of watchfires along the road at thousand-pace intervals. Each had a two-man scout team manning it and would be lit later when it was certain where the Blaskoye were heading.
The Militia still managed to be taken by surprise, at least some of the troops. But for the most part the line in the road, two abreast, formed into squares, as they’d been drilled to do for the past sixty-two days. The squares were ragged, especially where they sloped down from the road and into the flax fields, but they would do.
All they need to do is get a couple of volleys in and retreat, Raj had said. If they were too effective, the Blaskoye might pull back, and the whole plan go to seed.
Raj didn’t have to worry about the amateurish nature of the Militia squares. Three deep, not able to move at a quick pace in any direction, forward or backward. But deadly to dontback riders, all the same.
Abel was through the line with his lead group of Scouts and galloping at breakneck pace toward the distant levies. Center provided him with a vision of what was happening behind his back, however.
Observe:
The Blaskoye moved toward the Canal road like an approaching wave. Some fanned out to right and left so that they would hit the lines obliquely. The Militia riflemen waited. And waited.
The watchfires were lit, and Abel’s remaining Scouts scrambled back behind their line.
The Blaskoye skirted the fires and kept coming.
I would estimate a force of ten thousand two hundred on dontback, Center put in. It is a huge gathering of nomads that the Blaskoye have managed to summon into the Valley. Very impressive. And deadly. Our forces on the Road are under four thousand. Total forces are at five thousand three hundred fifty-two.
But as soon as the donts passed the first of the watchfires, another signal was given among the Militia. Rifles were raised. Aimed.
The cry of “Ready!” and a front row of muskets were taken from shoulders and aimed into the morning gloom. Behind these, another group lowered rifle butts to the ground and prepared for a volley as soon as the front troops had complete theirs and knelt down to reload.
“Aim for the donts, thrice-damn you!”
First the horns, the eerie bone horns of the Redlands.
Then the thunder came, the thump of the horned feet of donts on the stubble-filled fields. The dusty cloud rising now, an approaching whirlwind.
And standing ready and afraid, yet ready-
Abel, in the split vision of the approaching Blaskoye and his own headlong gallop, felt pride in these Valleymen.
Observe:
They will stand. We are not a decadent, useless people. The Redlanders truly are the enemy of civilization, of what is good in men, or at least that which elevates us above savagery, good or not, and makes us twice, no, ten times the savage as the savage himself. And yet also, twice as productive, able to see our creations to fruition.
Perhaps even worthy of those ships from the stars when they come, as Center and Raj had promised they would. Worthy, at least in this moment when a terrifying horde of deadly warriors gallops toward them and they do not break, but stand and-
One hundred paces away.
Seventy-five.
Fifty.
“Fire!”
Crackle of muskets. And the Blaskoye are in range, as well, with carbines, perhaps not as accurate, but deadly, deadly.
Charging all in an uneven line bunched a half league long and ten, sometimes twenty, donts deep. Most are armed in some fashion-armed with powder and muskets that were the bloodgeld of Cascade and Progar-and make their shot. A bit too early for the carbines, perhaps. A bit too far away for the unrifled barrels. But many balls strike their targets.