Harald (18 page)

"He knew. Could have sent her back. Didn't."

"Think I can see through a steel cap?"

She shook her head. "You can count."

Elaina looked puzzled. Harald nodded.

"Said I sounded like your mother. So do you."

The next time he joined the column it was next to Leonora.

"Bright girl 'Laina had."

"Kara? Yes. Only reason my Elaina hasn't gotten herself killed yet."

"Rode south with Anne three across. Knew I'd see. Knew I saw."

She closed her eyes. He leaned over, put one arm around her waist; she let her head rest a moment on his shoulder as they rode. He spoke softly.

"Would be proud of her."

They rode together, saying nothing. After a while he fell out of the column, trotted back to the King.

Two days later they reached the long valley that led to Eston and the royal castle. Anne and the wounded, with a small escort of the King's guard, took the turn. The rest continued north, moving slowly to let the horses graze. When they reached Stephen's hill another army was camped below it—the rest of the levy of the two border provinces. The combined force moved north, spread out on a ten mile front, waited.

Early morning. The King, bored and curious, followed Harald and Egil out of camp. They reined in on a low hill, both facing west. The morning sun caught the peaks above the high pass, struck sparks. He had almost come up with them when Harald wheeled the mare, spoke.

"What's your count?"

"Four thousand from the provinces. My people . . . the Maril, Andrew's guard, almost balance our losses—twelve hundred. Four hundred crossbows and pikes."

" 'Nora has twelve hundred and change. Egil takes the cats out today, make sure no surprises. The rest move tomorrow."

The next day the army moved north and east to a ridge a day's ride south of the river. From time to time a scout arrived, spoke to Harald, went off again. Late that afternoon he shifted the whole force half a mile west. The Order set up pavises along the crest of the ridge, crossbowmen to their right where it rose to a small hill. The cavalry made camp on the next ridge back, cats at the bottom of the slope between. A little before dark scouts came in to report the Imperial army encamped some three miles north.

"Have a count?"

"Banners of three legions, about as many lights. Cavalry, not a lot, ten cacades, maybe less."

"Commander's banner?"

"Stripes, red and gold."

"You're sure?"

The cat nodded.

"May get you back to your wife in one piece. Me too."

The King gave Harald a puzzled look.

"You know who the commander is?"

"Who he isn't. Second Prince must be on the outs again; Artos is his man. Best they have. Got the army back across the river after Fox Valley."

"Not good enough to keep you from beating him."

"Battle started, junior legion commander. Before dark, highest rank officer left. Morning, we surrounded the earthworks—nobody there but a few wounded too bad to move. Trail of bodies north—but he got most of them home. Good man. Hope he's safe in bed, farther the better."

That night the men ate their fill. The next morning they formed up. The ridge top was archers—Order center and left, crossbows on the right. Harald and the King were at the right end of the line; someone had set up an extra pavise for them. Partway down the slope behind them, the royal guard waited to protect the right flank—or the King. The main body of heavy cavalry, under Stephen's command, was massed along the lower slope of the next ridge south, sheltered from arrows, positioned to charge down that, up the battle ridge, and over. North was another long ridge, another beyond it.

A dozen cats came over the ridge to the north, riding hard for the right end of Harald's line. Behind them, a mass of Imperial light cavalry. Seeing the line of archers along the crest of the next ridge they slowed, spread out, stopped well out of arrowshot; from their center a rider back over the ridge.

On the far ridge more men. Three bodies of infantry—a tight block in the center, looser formations at each side. Cavalry on the flanks. As they moved down the slope the cavalry in front of them split, moved. By the time they came to a stop halfway down the slope, there were only two bodies of cavalry, one covering the right flank, one the left. Over the ridge more infantry, behind them a small cluster of mounted men, banners. Harald turned to the King.

"See the center, tight formation? Ninth legion on the right, twenty-second left, sixth between. A thousand men each—three thousand Imperial heavies. Either side light infantry—Bashkai by the look of them. Fast, fierce. Not fond of taking orders. Medium cavalry, some light for scouting. The crowd farther back is archers—Norlander, mostly. Behind that, commander, staff, messengers."

The infantry began to move downhill, drums beating time. From the top of the battle ridge, arrows. The legions' shields came up. The Bashkhai on the right were pulling ahead of the legions; trumpets. They slowed, stopped, moved forward again.

"They're coming at a walk—why?"

"Fair way to go, still at long range. Big shields; arrows don't do much to a formed legion. Have to break them first. Bashkai'll suffer some, worse if they arrive by themselves."

The legions had reached the bottom, started up the long slope towards the archers. Behind them their own archers formed up. A few fell, most got pavises set up, took position behind them, started shooting uphill. An arrow buried itself in the dirt a few feet in front of the pavise sheltering Harald and the King. The crossbows shot back, range lengthened by the advantage in height.

Harald signaled to Egil. The cats moved out to the right, came over the ridge, down, shooting as they rode, pouring arrows into the flank of the light infantry on the Imperial left. Harald watched the Imperial cavalry, massed well out of range of his archers. It didn't move.

"Harald!"

He turned. The King was pointing east, beyond the cats.

The newcomers were nomads, moving at a trot, heading for the rear of the cats. Behind them a banner—blue bear on gold—a cluster of more heavily armed riders. Already cats were falling. Harald stood up, called something, signaled.

The King went down the back slope at a run, yelling to his guard. The column of heavy horse formed, moved out, the King at its head. The nomads saw them coming, wheeled, scattered east. Trumpet calls. The guard slowed, came back. A few arrows followed them. The cats were already back behind the ridge. Egil nodded to the King as he came by, went back to bandaging a wounded arm.

By the time the King got back to where Harald still watched the battle, the legions were halfway up the slope, still formed, a few bodies marking their path. The Bashkai left and right of them had lost more but were still coming steadily. Harald called something down to Egil, readjusted the shield on his left arm, drew an arrow from the quiver at his belt, aimed high, released. Again. Watching, James saw that the arrows were short; Harald was drawing the point behind the bow, using the shield now covering his wrist to guide it. Dismounted cats were forming up along the ridge, shooting at a high angle. The legions kept coming.

In the Imperial command group on the far slope, something was happening. A horse ran wild. The group was moving back, farther up the slope.

Harald sheathed his bow, looked along the ridge. The legions were a little more than sixty yards from the line of archers. He signaled; somewhere a horn call, whistles. The Ladies, abandoning their pavises, turned and ran down the back slope of the ridge towards the massed cavalry. The crossbowmen were moving back as well. The army was retreating. He turned to the King.

"Cavalry to get ready to charge."

"Charge? The legions aren't broken. You said . . ."

"Do it."

The King spoke to the trumpeter downhill; the trumpet call rang out, was echoed. The lower slope of the ridge to the south came alive, men mounting, lances.

The King felt Harald's hand on his shoulder, turned, looked. Behind the Imperial army, a line of mounted men came over the ridge, started down. A second line. A third.

Downslope of them, where the command group had been, was a tangle of bodies.

"Hrolf's back."

The King stepped clear of the pavise to see better. Harald pulled him back.

"They still have archers. Not much longer."

On the Imperial left their cavalry, attacked from behind, men falling, fled east out of the battle. The riders on the right wheeled, charged into a storm of arrows, made it halfway to the advancing cats before what were left broke and fled.

The front line of cats was moving down the slope faster and faster, lances lowered. Behind them the second and third lines, shooting as they came. Too far to see arrows, but the Imperial archers were chaos. The line of lancers hit what was left of them, went through, shifted to bows, poured arrows at short range into the rear of the Imperial infantry. The second and third line, halfway down the slope, shifted targets. Under the rain of arrows the light infantry broke formation, ran for the ridge. In the center, shrill trumpet calls. Three legions, precise as on the drill field, reversed in place, each man facing about, raised a shield wall against the rain of arrows. Long spears, passed forward to what was now the second rank, coming down to face the cats. Another trumpet call; the legions moved forward over their own dead.

The King never saw the signal for the charge, but he heard the thunder as five thousand heavy cavalry came over the ridge. Left and right they smashed through what was left of the Imperial light infantry. The center, lances down, horses at a gallop, hit the rear of the legions.

Still the Imperial center did not break. What had been the middle of the formation, now the rear, reversed again, started pushing back. Trumpet calls, shouts; Stephen pulled his men back uphill, beyond javelin range. What was left of three legions reformed in a rough square, perhaps as many as a thousand men still standing.

Everything slowed. The Imperial heavies were a triple line of shields, front rank kneeling. On the ridge above them archers were again forming up, interspersed with blocks of heavy cavalry. On the opposite slope the cats had for the moment stopped shooting. Harald and the King, mounted, picked their way through the bodies that littered the slope.

Harald stopped just out of javelin range from the Imperial line, held up his empty hands, waited. In a few minutes the line opened enough to pass an Imperial officer. He held one arm up, hand empty; the other dangled useless by his side. Harald dismounted. After a short conversation he mounted again, rode back to the King.

"They surrender on terms. Wounded go home, wagons for the ones who need it. The rest camp our side the river, personal weapons only, until the Emperor pays head money. Could finish them, but it would cost. This way's better."

The King looked around the field.

"Yes."

Harald rode back to the Imperial officer.

By sunset, dead sorted from living and each other, wounded dealt with, men could rest. The surviving Imperials made camp in the flat between the two ridges. Egil, having seized the Imperial supply train while his father was negotiating the surrender, contributed tents and bedding. Just before dark, he came back with two more wagons—one loaded with food, one with barrels of beer.

The legionaries thanked him profusely. One of the surviving Bashkai muttered something in his own language. Egil looked down at him from the wagon, grinned.

"I think this fellow is afraid I've poisoned the beer. Just to prove I haven't . . ." He filled a mug, drained it. One of the legionaries fed him the next line.

"Maybe you poisoned a different barrel."

"Wouldn't want you to think that. Only eight barrels. I can manage."

On the ridge, Harald's decade, Hrolf, around a fire toasting sausages. A figure moving through the Kingdom camp towards them, stopping along the way.

"James. Join us."

The King came up to the fire, held out his hands.

"I have two questions."

Harald looked at him.

"The first is where the hell did you find firewood out on the plains? There's not a tree for miles."

"Your folk broke a lot of lances this morning."

"Second question. Are you the luckiest man alive?"

"Anyone else ask that question, answer's easy. Leonora, then Gerda, yes. But considering what's waiting back at your castle . . ."

"If Hrolf had showed up half an hour later, we'd be dead. Half an hour earlier, a lot of Imperials would still be alive. Birds can't find an army on the march—besides, you didn't have any. How did you do it?"

Harald looked at Hrolf.

"Told you."

Hrolf stood up, looked around, nodded. Harald spoke again.

"North peak, thousand feet or so above the high pass, there's a ledge. Couple of friends with good eyes, lot of warm clothes. Sheet of bronze so wide, polished like a mirror. Weather's good, they can see right across the plain. Man, maybe not, but an army's big. Sunlight off that bronze, be surprised how far you can see it. Got me to one side of the Imperial army, Hrolf the other. After that scouts."

"The Imperials had scouts too. One or two men I understand, but how did they manage to overlook eighteen hundred?"

"Light cavalry see a few cats, don't go looking for what's behind them, not if they want to come back."

"They saw cats. Whose did they think they were?"

"Mine. No reason my scouts have to be the same side of them as my army. Sometimes aren't. Egil had lunch with Hrolf day before yesterday."

Harald handed the King a sausage, stuck another on the point of the javelin. The sausage finished, the King rose, thanked Harald for the use of his fire, headed back towards his own camp. Harald watched him go. When he turned back to the fire Hrolf met his eye, nodded.

A servant in the royal livery.