Those behind ran up against that wall of kicking flesh and halted, rearing, or slowed to pick their way between the bodies… and still the arrows fell out of the sky in a pulsing, hissing sleet. Three thousand of them in the time a man could count to ten…
The party around Martin was silent as the survivors turned and fled as fast as they could flog their horses; men followed them on foot, running or staggering or crawling. A mass of human and horseflesh lay where the arrowstorm had struck, some of it still twitching or writhing or screaming for its mothers… or simply screaming and moaning. Only when it stopped did you realize how loud the sheer rush of arrows had been.
"You know, sir, I'm sort of glad you wanted the northern part of the line," Thurston's aide said. "Even if the ravines are steep off there."
Martin Thurston grinned. "Courier! To the most holy Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant; I respectfully suggest that he try to work around their flank."
The party of Boisean officers chuckled. Martin went on: "Now, gentlemen, this allied army has three commanders-which means it's a disaster waiting to happen. But we do outnumber the enemy by two to one, so let's get to work. To your units!"
He looked to his front; there were the Portlander infantry, blocks of spearmen and crossbowmen, and beyond them the knights, sitting ready.
"Colonel Jacobson!" he said.
"Sir!"
The cavalryman was standing at the head of his horse. "You keep those lancers in play. I don't expect you to beat them, but keep them busy while we chew our way through their foot."
He saluted and vaulted into the saddle. Martin Thurston looked down at the solid disciplined ranks of Boise infantry, standing easy with the lower rims of their big curved oval shields resting on the ground. He raised his hand and then chopped it downward, and the signalers raised their tubae. The brass bellowed out the order ready ; the men picked up their shields by the central grips, each holding an extra heavy javelin there too. Their right hands hefted the first pila, the long iron shanks sloping forward.
Then: "Advance!"
Two thousand men stepped off, an audible thud through the hard ground as the hobnails struck. Ahead of them the Eagle standard swayed, carried by a man who wore a wolfskin over his helmet, and along the lines the upright hands on poles that marked the battalions.
"The game begins," Martin Thurston said. Then: "Courier!"
His brain was busy with distances and numbers and contingencies, but behind that was an image of his wife and the son just born to them.
My son, he thought. From sea to shining sea… and every bit of it will be yours!
TheScourgeofGod
CHAPTER TWELVE
Knowledge waits beneath the snows
As flowers wait the spring
Chance some call such meetings
That bear fate as women bear a child From: The Song of Bear and Raven
Attributed to Fiorbhinn Mackenzie, 1st century CY
"The fever has broken," someone said.
Rudi Mackenzie opened his eyes, conscious of cleanliness and warmth and a faint odor of incense beneath the more familiar hint of woodsmoke… pine of some sort. He was lying in a bed with brown linen sheets and blankets of some lustrous fabric that had the warmth of wool but less weight. Father Ignatius was standing at the foot of his bed, looking less drawn than Rudi remembered and in his dark Benedictine robe; beside him was a shaven-headed man in a saffron-colored wrap that left one shoulder bare, lean and middle-aged and wearing a stethoscope as well. And another man in the same odd dress, but far older-his flat high-cheeked brown face was a mass of wrinkles that nearly swallowed his narrow black eyes when he smiled, which he looked to do often.
The younger shave-head lifted Rudi's head and trickled water into his mouth from a cup with a spout. The young Mackenzie recognized a healer's bedside manner; he felt weak, but clearheaded…
"I'm very hungry," he said, and was a little shocked at how faint his voice was.
When he tried to move the physician clucked at him, and Father Ignatius shook a finger-but he was smiling, obviously in relief. The shooting pain in Rudi's right shoulder was what stopped him; he looked down and saw that it was bandaged, and the wasted arm strapped across his chest. In a few moments another robed attendant came in, younger still than the physician, with jug ears on either side of his shaved white dome of skull and friendly blue eyes.
He carried a steaming bowl and a kettle and a cup on a tray, and Rudi gratefully accepted the smooth warmth of the bean soup. The tea was stranger, with salty butter added to the herbal infusion, but it made a welcome warmth in his belly, and eased aches he hadn't noticed much until they were gone. When it was finished he felt stronger.
"My thanks for your hospitality," he said.
The room came into clearer focus; the walls were plastered fieldstone, he thought, and undoubtedly whitewashed. One bore a colorful circle of abstract designs, a mandala, but none that his folk used. A small tile stove in a corner kept it comfortable.
"Where am I?"
"You are in the Monastery of Chenrezi, in the Valley of the Sun," the old man said. "Or in the old terminology, in the Rocky Mountains of western Wyoming."
His voice had a trace of another accent under the plains-and-mountain English.
"I am Rimpoche… in your language, teacher… here and my name is Tsewang Dorje. You are our guests, and you must rest and grow well, and your sister likewise."
Rudi's brows went up. Ignatius answered: "Mary was seriously injured fighting the Cutter scouts, but she's on the mend now too, God be thanked. They are excellent physicians here, and we are safe from pursuit for now, thanks to her and Ritva. Everyone else is fine, although Edain and the Princess have been haunting your bedside! What you need most now is food and rest."
The physician spoke: "The infusion will help you sleep and lessen pain. You should sleep as much as possible for the next several days."
Rudi nodded. The abbot smiled again and made a gesture of blessing with the palms of his hands pressed together, and everyone left.
"Thank You for the shelter of your wings, Lady," Rudi said into the silence. "And you, Wanderer."
There were glass windows in the side of the room opposite the mandala; double-glazed and aluminum-framed, obviously salvaged. They gave on a courtyard, where flagstones had been swept clear of snow, and a few trees stood in pots. Folk were at exercise there, some monks or nuns of Chenrezi, others more ordinary-looking, though the older ones who gave instruction all had their heads shaved. All wore practical boots and trousers and jackets, and some had helmets and practice armor of boiled and molded leather.
Must be cold out there, Rudi thought; their breath showed in white plumes, and the bright sunlight had that pale look that went with a hard freeze. From the length of the shadows it was in the afternoon.
Some of them were using quarterstaffs, thrusting and sweeping in unison or sparring with a clatter of wood on wood; others practiced with spears, or halberds, or swords much like the Eastern shete, or arcane weapons that looked like bladed hooks on chains, or bows. A half-dozen pairs drilled in unarmed combat, their movements fluid and sure, throwing and grappling and striking. He recognized some of the techniques, but others were strange to him. The focusing shouts-the exhalation from your center-were loud enough to be heard faintly through the thick walls of his sickroom.