Legacy (28 page)

Then the guttural Visigothic roaring rose in pitch and beat on the Britons from all sides in waves of noise. The thinned ranks of enemy archers parted as massive columns of infantry charged forward, crashing against the British hedgehog.

Sarnac braced as the charge impacted on his part of the perimeter. Barbarian bodies were thrust onto bristling spearheads, as much by the pressure of their massed comrades as by the battle frenzy for which they were renowned. Standing in the front rank, he just held his ground. He would have preferred to be in the rank behind; they could at least use their lances for stabbing. Then, after a timeless interval of hell, the enemy hosts drew sullenly back like an ebbing tide, leaving a wrack of bodies. The Britons hadn't given an inch.

"Well," said Kai, removing his helmet and mopping his brow, "that was just a test. Next they'll try a cavalry charge. The important thing will be to hold formation." He replaced his helmet, laced the cheekpieces together under his chin, regrounded his lance, and . . . waited. Looking around, Sarnac saw nothing but steadiness.

Then shouting spread along the ranks from their left. Artorius was approaching, as he rode the circuit of the British hedgehog, calling out to men by name, and laughing.

"Kai! That's a rare fine pile of dead Visigoths out there! I see you're managing to hold this section, even though you've got old Hamyc here! Are you sure he's not too decrepit to remain standing without being propped up?"

Laughter began, growing louder in response to Hamyc's grousing about cocksure young innovators who lacked the respect for one's elders that had characterized his own generation in the days of his youth. Then it came to Sarnac.
It's an act! The men have gotten so used to it that when they hear it they assume everything must be S.O.P. I'll bet Artorius and Hamyc rehearse it. But no, they've been doing it so long they don't need rehearsals. They could do it in their sleep!

Artorius joined in the laughter, beaming. Then he spotted Sarnac. "Bedwyr," he called out, then leaned down from his saddle and spoke more quietly. "I know you don't like standing in ranks any more than the rest of them. But we'll be riding out against the bastards soon, I promise."

Sarnac had never understood the readiness of the High King of the Britons to confide in him, a newcomer. Now he realized that the question answered itself. He
was
a newcomer to the tangled web of interrelationships that permeated any long-established organization, but a newcomer who had won respect. Artorius could talk to him with an openness that was not possible with men who had followed him for years. So he played a role that filled a very real need for the High King—and he suddenly felt a need of his own, to play that role to the hilt.

"Ah, this formation isn't so bad,
Pan-Tarkan
," he drawled. "At least you've got us facing outwards in all directions so the Visigoths can't get
behind
us. I've heard they've been in this land so long they've picked up some of the Gauls' habits, if you take my meaning!"

Artorius laughed with pure pleasure. "I'm glad to know, Bedwyr, that you've been listening to everything I've been telling the men about the Visigoths," he said after catching his breath. Then he leaned lower and spoke for the two of them alone. "Of course, there are a few things I haven't chosen to emphasize. Like the fact that those"—he pointed at the serried ranks of armored horsemen beyond the Visigothic archers—"are the men who just conquered Spain in two campaigns, and whose grandsires trampled the Legions into the mud at Adrianople!" A quick, dazzling smile, and he was gone, riding along the lines and acknowledging cheers. Sarnac was left gaping after him, with barely enough time to settle back into his position in line before the shrill, barbaric horns sounded again and the Visigothic cavalry broke into a charge.

Spreading his feet wider apart and waiting to receive heavy shock cavalry, Sarnac subvocalized—sheer habit, in this rising thunder of hooves—into his implant communicator.

"Tylar, I'm sure you've got the situation well in hand. But whatever you're planning, now's the time!"

There was no reply. He made the motion that activated the comm link, confirming that it was already activated.

"Tylar, this isn't funny! Talk to me!"

Dead silence inside his skull.

"Tylar?
Tylar!
"

Then the Visigoths were on them.

It wasn't as bad as he had expected—the worst never is. It
would
have been, had the Visigoths come at them with couched lances. Instead, they used the traditional overhand lance technique, which of course blunted the impact. But it was bad enough.

Sarnac staggered backward as a Visigoth was impaled on his lance by sheer momentum. The falling rider dragged the lance downward, and Sarnac, unable to keep it upright, sank to one knee, lowering his shield. At the same time, another Visigoth reared his horse, and flying hooves lashed out over the British shields. One of them caught a man's head with what Sarnac imagined would have been a sickening sound if it could have been heard in this universe of hideous noise. The Visigoth regained control of his horse and forced the animal into the small gap that had been torn open.

Like lightning, Kai stooped, and then came up, too close for the enemy rider to use his lance, and jabbed upward with his
spatha
. With an ear-tearing shriek, the horribly wounded horse reared, throwing his rider, then toppled over, continuing to bellow in agony.

"Fall back!" Kai roared. They did so, reforming their shield wall. Sarnac had to watch the horse die in front of him. But then the attack resumed, and he could think of nothing except fending off the stabbing lances and flailing hooves as the armored horsemen beat on the British formation like the hammers of some giant, demonic blacksmith. He didn't know how many times his impact armor had saved him; he couldn't stop to think about it—or anything else.

Then, with disorienting suddenness, there was no more pounding or stabbing, and the Visigoths were drawing back. The British ring of steel had contracted a little, and altered its shape, but it hadn't broken.
If the Visigoths had any notion of how to use their infantry and cavalry in conjunction
, Sarnac thought,
we'd be dead meat.

He sank to one knee, using his shield and lance to prop himself up, and took stock. He was wearier than he had ever imagined possible; every muscle in his body seemed to scream at him in protest. He wondered dispassionately if sheer exhaustion was what was keeping his throat-stinging thirst from driving him mad.

A boy from the baggage train came around with water and he took a drink, grateful for it and for the artificially bestowed immunities, without which he wouldn't have dared to drink water that didn't come straight from the source of a stream. Then he looked out across the field, where Visigothic riders were swarming about in disturbed anger, as their leaders harangued them.
They've never been stopped before
, he realized.
And they've decided they don't like it much.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder. "Come on, Bedwyr," Kai said. "We've been recalled—we're going to mount up and launch a counterattack."

Sarnac knew his jaw was hanging loosely open, and couldn't help it, or even care. A counterattack? In his current state of exhaustion? But Kai was already headed toward the center of the shrunken formation, and he saw the other Artoriani moving in the same direction. He could only lever himself to his feet with his lance and follow.

As he mounted his horse alongside Kai, he saw that the idiot was actually grinning. "This'll be different—we've never fought other heavy cavalry before. The
Pan-Tarkan
wants to catch 'em off balance as they're beginning their next charge. And
this
time we have a little bit of a slope in our favor, so I'm glad you're here to see it!"

That makes one of us
, Sarnac thought with a kind of groggy incredulity. Then he remembered that Tylar ought to be around here somewhere, inside the perimeter. He looked around frantically and called silently via his implant communicator. No contact.

Then Artorius rode slowly forward to the head of their formation, alone save for the standard-bearer, and an odd hush fell. Sarnac, standing in his stirrups and gazing over the heads of the infantry ranks, saw that the thousands of Visigothic horsemen had stopped their bee-like swarming and were starting to move, as though with one purpose. At that instant, Artorius lifted his lance high, then brought it slowly down until it was pointed forward. Commands rang out, the perimeter parted, and in a thunder of hooves and voices the Artoriani charged.

The Vulgarian war cry on his lips, Sarnac charged with them.

The Visigothic cavalry, caught completely by surprise, were unable to alter the direction of their advance in response. The Artoriani thundered down the slope in a tight wedge-shaped formation, with the blood-red dragon arrowing overhead like some supernatural bird of prey. They struck the enemy masses at an angle, bowling over horses, and spitting men in a deafening chaos of blood and agony.

Sarnac managed to stay in his saddle as he smashed a horse and rider to the ground, letting go of his lance as he felt it snap and pulling out his
spatha
. Then they were in the midst of a disorganized crowd of Visigothic cavalry, whose formation had disintegrated under the impact of heavy lancers who used lances the way they were supposed to be used. Most of the Artoriani were wielding swords now, and they hewed their way steadily through the Visigothic battle-mass.

Sarnac exchanged a couple of blows with an enemy rider before battering the man's shield aside, and slashing the throat beneath a blond beard, severing trachea and muscles. Blood fountained past the head that flopped loosely, now attached to the body by little more than the spinal column. Sarnac spurred his horse on, not waiting to watch the man fall, and all at once they were past the Visigothic horse and among infantry that fled from the trampling hooves and whetted steel. He fought his way on, and the universe narrowed to a kind of tunnel of horror down which he moved, striking muscle-shocking blows whose effect he usually couldn't see, then drawing a gasping, whistling breath and striking again.

Finally, he was in the clear, and saw Artorius ahead of him. He also saw that they were alone, except for the standard-bearer, who appeared to be wounded, but was keeping the saddle. Ahead of them, a fresh formation of Visigothic infantry advanced toward them.

He heard renewed shouting from behind. Turning in his saddle, he saw columns of enemy cavalry arrive from elsewhere on the field, cutting them off from the rest of the Artoriani, who they were pressing hard.

"Back," Artorius roared. "Fall back!"

The Artoriani obeyed, fighting all the way. But now additional infantry were moving in to complete the High King's isolation. And Visigothic archers were nocking their arrows at a range from which even
they
couldn't miss.

A richly accoutered Visigothic noble rode up alongside the archers and barked a guttural command. Bows were raised, and Sarnac, wheeling his horse around, saw no way out.
Well, the impact armor will stop the arrows, but then they'll overwhelm me, and I don't think I want to be taken alive by these guys.
So he removed his helmet to give them a clear shot at his head—the heat of the damned thing was killing him anyway—and closed his eyes.
Farewell, Tiraena.

But no arrows came . . . and he became aware that it had grown oddly quiet. He opened his eyes, and saw that Artorius was calmly facing the Visigothic noble and holding his
spatha
up in a kind of stately sword salute. For a long moment, the Visigoth—a huge man, almost a giant in this era—gazed back. Then, without a word, he motioned his men's bows down, raised his sword in a gesture that mirrored the High King's, and applied his spurs, sending his horse plunging forward.

They met with a clanging impact of swords, then were past each other, reining their horses around and clashing again. Suddenly, as though recoiling from the fury of their meeting, they separated, circling each other warily. Then, with the same deliberation with which he had issued his wordless challenge, Artorius hung his shield from his saddle bow, gripped his three and a half foot
spatha
with both hands, and raised it over his head. The Visigoth stared for an instant, and plunged forward again with a roar.

Too quickly for the mind to grasp, he was level with the High King, and Artorius brought the
spatha
down on his enemy's right shoulder with a force that sheared through mail, leather, flesh and bone, continuing halfway down to the left hip. For a split second the tableau held. Then, with a convulsive jerk, Artorius wrenched the sword free—and, following it out, came a jet of blood from the severed heart. Sarnac had seen an old-fashioned fire plug knocked open; this was like that, only in dark scarlet. Artorius was drenched with it, and a collective gasp arose from the masses of men around them. As if in slow motion, the almost bifurcated Visigoth slid grotesquely to the ground.

A screamed command in the Visigothic tongue from a group of richly dressed men on a hill behind the enemy's ranks brought Sarnac out of shock. The archers, moving slowly and fumbling, raised their bows. Sarnac composed himself for death again . . . but Artorius nudged his horse forward and began to move at an unhurried walk along the line of archers, running his eyes over them, as though in an inspection—and, as he passed, bows lowered in silence. Then the High King looked up at the group on the hill and, for what had to be several heartbeats, locked eyes with the most richly dressed of them all, a rather paunchy, full-bearded man who stood frozen.

Finally, Artorius turned with his affable smile. "Come, Bedwyr." And he started back toward the British army, followed by Sarnac and the standard-bearer. The Visigoths opened ranks to let him pass. The signs they made with their hands were not Christian.

It wasn't until they had reached the cheering British perimeter that Sarnac saw that not all of the blood that covered Artorius belonged to others. He had taken a wound in the left thigh.