A Life for Kregen

Chapter Twenty

Drak had not returned so far from Faol. Jaidur had not been released by the Sisters of the Rose from whatever deviltry they were egging him on to. And Zeg had not as yet responded to the call to leave Zandikar where he was king. As for the distaff side of the family, the babies, Velia, and Didi — the daughter of Gafard, the King’s Striker, and our daughter Velia — were growing apace but not yet old enough to cause us the kind of pangs their elders were so good at. Lela, presumably with Jaidur, was off adventuring. And Dayra — ah, well! No word had come from Barty telling me how he fared in his renewed search for Dayra, and I fancied that Ros the Claw would lead him a merry dance, by Zair, yes!

And, as you will instantly perceive, Delia had not returned home.

I mumped about the city, and in between brooding over the unkind cuts of Fate got on with rebuilding the army.

There were a few burs to spare for lighter moments and Jilian proved a tough and cunning opponent at Jikaida. She had a most devilish way of cutting in from a flank when you were sure everything on that side was battened down tight. Also, of course, her person was such as to distract the most hardened old misogynist from the board and the marching ranks of model men.

“By Vox, Jak! As Dee-Sheon is my witness something addles your brains. You’ve let my left-flank Chuktar in — and, see-” and here Jilian did the most diabolical things to my model men. “Do you bare the throat?”

“Aye. Aye, I bare the throat.”

We sat on a snug balcony bowered in moon-blooms and with a table handy loaded with silver flagons of wine. The night was cool and refreshing, and She of the Veils smiled down serenely, her fuzz of pink and golden light shedding a mellow roseate glow over the rooftops and battlements of the palace spread out below. Jilian yawned and covered her face with her hand, and then stretched.

“You had your girls hard at it today.”

“And every day. But I wish I had been able to lay that cramph Colun by the heels.”

“He’ll turn up again,” I said, comfortably. “That sort of villain always does. The only trouble is-”

“He’ll turn up when it’s most damned inconvenient, I know!”

Jilian wore one of Delia’s loose lounging robes all of white sensil and she shimmered like an ivory flame in the moonlight. During the day she strode about among her girls and although she did not crack and snap her whip, she carried the ugly thing looped up around her arm.

The Enevon walked onto the balcony from the room beyond, rubbing his eyes, bringing fresh problems to be sorted out.

The exact spot at which we would like to meet Zankov and his wild clansmen had been chosen. If Opaz smiled, then the enemy would choose that route. In order to encourage Opaz to make up his mind I’d sent high-speed forces out to cut the bridges of alternative routes and to harass Zankov enough to make him swing, like a bull, to face the fancied threats. If he was prepared to follow the guidelines I had set for him, he would — Opaz willing — pass across the stretch of land known as the Kochwold. If he did, as we prayed, we would be waiting for him. And this waiting came as a vast and unexpected reprieve. Mind you, as a wild and hairy clansman myself I should have anticipated what was occurring up there in Jevuldrin. Clansmen are clansmen, accustomed to the airy sweeps of the Great Plains. When they ride through hamlets and villages, seeing the spires of cities rising before them, they feel all the itchy-fingered avarice of your true reiver. Plunder was retarding the onward march of Zankov’s hired army. And, that very plunder was the hire money. I raged and fumed and could not, in all conscience, following the sad example of King Harold, allow the enemy to devastate the country. A policy of scorched earth would have served, perhaps; but the country up there was generally in the hands of that rast Ranjal Yasi, Stromich of Morcray, the twin brother to the strom, Rosil Yasi. Zankov was having either to fight or come to terms with his old ally.

So the Kochwold it was to be. Zankov was clearly aiming to march to the east around the mountains, known as the Mountains of Thirda to some folk, rather than the west of them. That way would force him to make too many river crossings. East about he would have fewer major rivers to bar him. Kochwold extended its sweep of moorland on the southern borders of Jevuldrin and the northern borders of Forli. The last I had heard of Lykon Crimahan, the Kov of Forli, was that he was fighting desperate guerilla actions, with the help of us Valkans as promised, and slowly, painfully slowly, regaining some of his province, the Blessed Forli. Now, all that was, if not irrelevant, then of far less importance than the rampaging invasion of ten thousand wild clansmen.

Oh, yes, ten thousand. A further four thousand had been disembarked. And, again, that explained the disembarkation point still further. The ships from Zenicce were engaged in ferrying men and voves across, and the passage between Zamra to the south and the islands below Vellin to the north afforded relatively sheltered waters. No doubt they were making a third trip even now. So that, starkly, was a most potent reason why our waiting, useful as it was, must be curtailed.

“Come on, Jak! For the sake of Vox’s Arm! You look as though your zorca’s run off and you’ve found a dead calsany.”

“I was wishing Delia was here.”

Jilian smiled. “So do I. From all I know of the empress she would have my girls trimmed up in no time at all.”

“Oh, aye. Mind you, I don’t think she ever went through Lancival. Although, everything is possible with that lady.”

“Everything, Jak. Everything.”

She spoke in so knowing a way that my old head snapped up. But Jilian just smiled her smile, her dark hair low over that broad white forehead, and her red mouth arched, so that I knew I was beaten. Jilian was not prepared to let me into her secrets — not just yet, anyway.

While we awaited certain news that Zankov and the clansmen had chosen the route we wanted, we labored hard and long. The army was built up again. The remnants of the force almost destroyed at Sicce’s Gates had come in and formed cadres. Nath was fiercely determined on having three full phalanxes, and the veterans of the First and Second were slogging away teaching the newcomers to the files. The brumbytes worked willingly, with the triumphs of the Third to guide them. Spearmen, archers and churgurs filled the regiments of the infantry, along with axemen and double-handed swordsmen and the rest. The cavalry was not, to their baffled fury, unduly expanded. But they worked hard, damned hard, and I concentrated strength on the armored nikvove regiments. This was obvious sense to anyone who knew what was going on in Filbarrka. A message had been sent to Filbarrka telling him that instead of six there were now ten Divisions to be dealt with. His reply was typical. I could imagine him entangling his fingers and bouncing up and down as he dictated it to his stylor. “A better target for the dartmen and archers, majister! They’ll be so confused, being so many, they won’t know which way to run or what is hitting them.”

Well, it was comforting to know someone was so confident.

Enevon sought assistance from the army in gathering the third mergem harvest and this was done. Mergem, a capital all-purpose foodstuff, would be vital in the campaigns. Farris reported that the new ship construction proceeded well, although: “Ships!” He pulled his lip.

“Mere rafts.”

“Exactly, Farris. And functional.”

The production of silver boxes which would lift the new ships was well advanced. So I had said we would simply construct huge raft-like structures, open-sided, railed in and five or six storied. Each one would be propelled by a rig of the utmost simplicity: foresail, mainsail and mizzen. With the silver boxes exerting their lifting power and extending their invisible keels into the lines of force, we could sail and tack and steer a course. When it rained, well, we’d get wet.

But, with these flying chicken-coops we could transport the army.

I may add that there were very few forests left for dwaburs around Vondium. On three separate occasions I saw the gold and scarlet hunting bird of the Star Lords circling above me. I took no notice. If the Everoinye switched me away to some other part of Kregen now — or, horribly, banished me back to Earth — there would be a struggle and I might win or lose. As of now, as they say, the defense of Vondium and the uniting of all Vallia obsessed me. Every day we heard fresh stories of atrocities committed in those areas occupied by any of the various invaders. We all felt, unshakably, that we had to ensure that the new flag of Vallia floated over a free country. Trite, chauvinistic, opportunistic — maybe. But it was not me, not Dray Prescot, not even Jak the Drang, who alone held this point of view. Nothing could have been done if the people were not every one fully dedicated and committed.

So, mentally committing the Gdoinye and its masters to the Ice Floes of Sicce, I stuck doggedly to the task at hand.

A regiment of my Valkans flying the superb flutduins eventually reached us, and they were greeted with roars of pleasure. Everyone regarded these splendid flyers with great affection and treated their riders right royally, a very different situation from even a few seasons ago when most Vallians regarded saddle flyers as birds of the devils of Cottmer’s Caverns.

Came the day.

At last.

Zankov was reported as definitely taking the route that would lead through to the Kochwold. Imagine a miles wide area smothered in men and animals all loading aboard vast and creaking five-story rafts, like a bedlam of the Ark in monstrous proportions. Dust, yelling, smells, the neighs and whinnyings of animals, the choleric bellows of Deldars, the snapping of whips, the creaking of wheels. And, over all, the forest of masts and yards. Well, somehow or other the mass was loaded and the ships — the flying chicken-coops — lifted into the air.

Wearing the blazing golden and scarlet Mask of Recognition specially made for me, I stood in the bows of a small voller and watched the departure. The ships rose and spread their wings. The wind zephyred them along. One by one, three by three, squadron by squadron, they took up their stations. Sailing orange boxes flying through thin air. Railed rafts loaded down with men and animals, with artillery and weapons, stores and fodder. They excited enormous sensations of disbelief, and wonder, and sheer jumping excitement.

This excitement thrilled through the air, leaping from man to man, bringing the color up, lending a sparkle to the eye, making every conversation bright and meaningful. Off they sailed, off to war, off to fight the Kregen-renowned and ferocious clansmen of Segesthes — off to find their destinies. When the voller landed back at the palace, for there was still work to be done before I could leave -

always there was work — Jilian waited for me to wish me Remberee.

She looked stunning. Her black leathers clung to her, molding her figure, and her long legs seemed to go on and on for ever. She carried her bronze-mounted balass box under her left arm, and rapier and main-gauche were scabbarded to her narrow waist. Also, she carried a drexer at my wish. Her hair was covered by a helmet in which crimson feathers tufted bravely. She smiled.

“So it is Remberee, Jak the Drang.”

“Aye, Jilian. Remberee.”

Her voller was waiting. The mingled streaming lights of the Suns of Scorpio fell about us, drenching us and the landing platform in ruby and emerald fires. The air smelled sweet with that pungent, unique, glorious Kregen sweetness.

And then she surprised me. Still smiling she leaned forward and kissed me. I was stunned. She stepped back, observed the fantamyrrh of her voller and climbed aboard. She lifted her arm in final salute.

“Remberee, Jak. I do not forget what help you have given a poor girl from a Banje shop.”

“You mean a wild tiger-girl, do you not? Remberee, Jilian the Claw.”

The voller lifted away. I wondered if I would ever see her again.

Work — well, there is always work. The army was commanded by men whom you have met in my narrative, and others I have not so far mentioned. But all, I felt, were competent, brave and loyal. To be anything less in those dark days for Vallia was a species of crime. Nath had taken his three Phalanxes. Farris commanded the air. He would have nothing of remaining in Vondium to be the imperial Crebent-Justicar. The Presidio would run things in Vondium. If we failed, of course, there would be nothing for them to run, except — to run themselves. Seg stood by me and we would fly up together, he to command the vanguard as ever.

Most of my choice band had gone; but about fifty of them remained to escort Seg and me, enough to fill the voller we would use. And, in these last days I had discovered what their secret was. Many a time, when one or the other of them should have been off duty I had stumbled across them on duty at my door or the flap of my tent on campaign. Slowly I realized that after the assassins’ attempts on me they had, privately, formed a kind of purely personal bodyguard. This was something I had never encouraged, for palace intrigues can breed in this kind of Praetorian Guard, this Imperial Guard, this Life Guard syndrome. But they insisted, and, to be truthful, I knew every one of them and fancied every one a true comrade.

They called this new bodyguard the Emperor’s Sword Watch.

They all wore a yellow scarf tucked in around the corselet rim. Also, I noticed that their crimson trappings tended more to the scarlet…

Left in Vondium were a few regiments so new the armory grease still clung to their weapons and their uniforms were not marked by a spot, and a convalescent regiment of men recovering from sickness or wounds. All the rest flew northeast. We followed and I, at the least, had thoughts of Armageddon plaguing my mind.

The armada was blessed with favoring winds and we lost only two of the sailing chicken-coops, the vast rafts crashing in splinters but not harming the men in them. These last, I know, raved frantically and then set about repairing their ungainly craft. The rest of the army set down safely. The details of the campaign need not be gone into at length, suffice it to say that by luck and planning we contrived that the army should be drawn up in proper array on the ridge we had chosen, with the Kochwold about us, in good time. Zankov’s scouts had reported our presence. The enemy host drew in and concentrated. They possessed such sublime confidence in their own invulnerability that we anticipated a wild and reckless clansman’s charge which, they supposed, would settle the issue once and for all.

Filbarrka, brought by a flying collection of rafts and chicken-coops, landed his zorcamen. At once I rode out to inspect them. I rode Snowy, that coal-black zorca, and I was dressed in my usual fashion. The brave old scarlet glowed under the suns. I carried a longbow, a quiver of arrows fletched with the rose-red feathers of the zim-korf of Valka, a Krozair longsword, a drexer and a rapier and main-gauche. Also, strapped to the saddle swung an axe. Not overdressed, not carrying a ridiculous over amount of weaponry, I fancied. This was the Kregen way. Not as many weapons as a man can carry — no. As may weapons as are needed for the job in hand — yes. That is the Kregen way. Accompanied by aides-de-camp and escorted by the chiefs of the Emperor’s Sword Watch, we cantered out to the place where Filbarrka, radiant, immense in armor, had drawn up his brand new zorca force for inspection.

And, indeed, they looked splendid.

“Let ’em bring on their ten thousand,” said Filbarrka, twitching his fingers. “We’ll dart ’em and feather

’em and then you lot can have a go.”

Our sailing rafts had taken the equipment asked for out to the Blue Mountains and so the zorca force was accoutered as I expected and as Filbarrka had suggested. Also, a contingent of the Blue Mountain Boys was present, extraordinarily ferocious and many of them armed with the great Sword of War. Korf Aighos was there and I greeted him as an old friend and kept a wary eye on my own equipment.

“Although,” said the Korf. “What is going on in the Blue Mountains now I do not like to think.”

“Why, Korf! I’m surprised anything remains for anyone to want to take away.”

“You would, majister, be surprised. And we have some Black Mountain Men with us, although not many. They are hard pressed up north.”

“All in good time.”

He did not mention Delia and so I knew she had not been to her province of the Blue Mountains. She hadn’t been in Delphond, either. I remember I said to myself something like where the hell can the pesky woman be? and immediately felt aghast at the thought. What the Sisters of the Rose got up to would make even Korf Aighos scratch his head.

The ground over which the coming battle would be fought was surveyed again most thoroughly. Hundreds of lads were out spreading their caltrops, and the chevaux-de-frise were stacked ready and waiting to be run out onto the flanks as required. That night the sky glowed with the reflections of campfires.

As a general rule I do not believe in Councils of War and I saw no need to make an exception now. We gathered, the Kapts and the chiefs, and there was little talk of what to do on the morrow. Every one knew his task. So we drank in moderation and cracked a few silly jokes and sang and then sought our beds. If they slept I did not inquire. I made the rounds of the campfires and was aware of the hovering shadows of the men of the Sword Watch. One of the songs that was currently popular kept breaking out from this group or that clustered about their fire. “She lived by the Lily Canal” the song was, a sickly sentimental ditty of very little musical worth; but somehow it got to the men, and they warbled it over and over, almost obsessively. Yes, I can never hear that old song now without a powerful pang of remembrance of that night before the Battle of Kochwold, among the campfires of the army, the sizzle of the flames, the smells of animals and dust, the tang of leather and sweat and oil. Well, a battle is a battle, as I have said, and they are all the same and all different — as I have said… Well before dawn the host was astir and breakfasting mightily. Then we moved forward from the camp area and took up our battle positions. Patrols reported that the clansmen were doing exactly as we anticipated and were moving forward for the confrontation that daylight would bring. Nothing would stop them from putting spurs in and charging. It was our job to stop that charge. Perhaps one day a full and detailed account of the Battle of Kochwold will be given to you by me, for it was a fascinating battle and deserves commemoration. Enevon committed all the salient facts to paper; but it needs a military historian to sort them out and make sense of them. Very many fine poems were written and there are countless songs marking this or that incident. At the time and to most of us engaged, it was a huge sprawling untidy mess.

And, to be sure, the message I received half way through did not make understanding any easier. The initial stages went as we had planned — almost.

The sprawling untidy mess occurred, as in many fights, after the initial movements of each side, being completed, had achieved or failed to achieve their objectives. Our first requirement was to stop that charge. That objective had been required by many a fighting host before us, and most of them were long a-moldering.

But the clansmen of the Great Plains of Segesthes, among whom I am proud to be numbered as a member, although not in my own eyes skilled enough to be dubbed a Clanner, are not your stupid brainless illiterate barbarians. They are not like the Iron Riders, the radvakkas whom the Phalanx had so signally overthrown.

“By Vox!” said Seg, at my side just before he left to take over his position with the vanguard. “The cramphs!”

“Aye, Seg,” I said. “Clansmen are clansmen. It will be a bonny fight.”

For the tremendous dark mass of the vove cavalry halted, a plains-filling concentration of men and animals, silent, awe-inspiring, totally menacing in their appearance. And forward trotted the archers. These were men who were the occupiers of the land hereabouts, Ranjal Yasi’s men, and so I knew the Kataki Stromich had come to terms with his old friend Zankov. Perhaps the sight and sound and stink of ten thousand clansmen and their voves had had a deal to do with that… Also, of course, in these nation-wide struggles for power, the double-dealing would always go on. No doubt Phu-Si-Yantong kept a close observation on what went on and had advised his lieutenant, Ranjal Yasi, to appear to acquiesce in the rebellious plans of Zankov, who had been disowned by the Wizard of Loh. That, at least, would be in keeping with the character of the participants. Whatever accommodations had been reached, in addition to the ten divisions of vovemen we faced a host of other cavalry and infantry. They were mercenaries, hired by Yasi to keep the country in subjection, and they had been earning their hire. We men of Vallia vowed to make them rue their wages this day of battle.

“Better clear them away with your cavalry, Seg. But I shall keep the nikvove regiments under my hand for a space.”

“Yes, my old dom, and make damned sure they nip in quick when they’re needed. By the Veiled Froyvil! I really think this is going to be a battle that will be remembered to the end of time.” He walked with me toward the four-place voller he required as a commander and which he would quit for a zorca or nikvove when he reached his battle line. “This is going to be a big one, Dray!”

“Aye. Would to Zair it was not necessary.”

In the voller waited his pilot, his trumpeter and his standard bearer, all old friends to whom I spoke a few words. Then Seg Segutorio took off, flying forward into battle. Would I ever clap eyes on my blade comrade again? That kind of thought always occurs to me, always tortures me, and is always a stupid nonsense. When Zair crooks his finger, then up you go, my friend, and nothing will detain you on Kregen…

It was time for me to perform what later generations would call the Public Relations Stunt. Mind you, I do not denigrate the value of thus showing myself, as the commander, and the flags. Mounted on as large a nikvove as we could find, a superb charger called Balassmane, and clad in a brilliant golden armor, emblazoned with scarlet, I rode along the forward face of the army. The blazing Mask of Recognition glittered in the light of the Suns or Scorpio. Scarlet feathers fluttered. I lifted the drexer high in salute. Following me trotted Cleitar the Standard bearing the flag with the yellow cross on the scarlet field, Old Superb. With him rode Ortyg the Tresh proudly lifting the new red and yellow flag of Vallia. Volodu the Lungs rode to hand and his silver trumpet, much dented, gleamed like a leaping salmon. At my back and on the side nearest the enemy rode Korero the Shield. It would take a very great deal to shift him from that devoted position. Others of my Sword Watch trotted in that imperial cavalcade, glittering with light, colorful with uniforms, proud, eager, nerved to the occasion, men you have met in this my narrative, men I am proud to call comrades.

As we passed down the lines the roar of approbation swelled and the men in the ranks lifted their weapons, a swirling forest of blades, and cheered. The answering shouts from our foes drifted in, thin and attenuated. But, then, all our bellowing would reach them as a mere whisper beside their own war chants.

“By Aduim’s Belly!” said Dorgo the Clis.

“I never thought to see a day like this,” said Targon the Tapster.

“Nor me,” said Naghan ti Lodkwara.

Their words were lost and blown away in the swelling cheers from the army. By the time that morale-boosting and flag identification exercise was over and we had returned to our positions, the first clashes had taken place. The archers had been sent forward by Zankov to prepare our mass. He must, then, have a great deal of control over the unruly clansmen. But Seg would have none of that and he would not sit on his hands when there was shooting in the wind. His advance guard cavalry swept out, screeching, long lines of glittering figures bounding over the moorland. They tumbled the enemy archers over and Seg’s mounted Bowmen roared forward. He had so few Bowmen of Loh to hand that he reserved them for the special occasion, the point d’appui. But the compound reflex bows of our men spat. The range to the enormous mass of clansmen was far too far; but the confused fighting between the two ranked armies slowly sorted itself out, and then the recalls were blown and our men, triumphant, rode back.

Of course, the discomfiture of that ploy of Zankov’s would merely make the grim Chuktars of the clansmen say in their savage way that he should not have bothered with all this fancy strategy and tactics. Let the clansmen charge. That would be the end of it.

Our position on that little ridge must have worried Zankov. I had not formed any great opinion of his qualities as a military captain; but something must have alarmed him at the sight of those massed ranks and files of men, silent and motionless in their crimson and bronze. Perhaps he had heard of the fate of the radvakkas against the Phalanx.

Looking about, I’ll admit I missed the warm and eager presence of Barty Vessler. Nath Nazabhan cantered over and instantly wanted me to order the advance. I looked at him and he said: “Well, majister, by Vox!”

“Once Filbarrka has been at work for a space, then you may advance, Nath. But you will not move until you have my personal word. Is that clear?”

“It is clear and it makes sense, as we planned. But it is damned hard standing still with a pike in your fist at a time like this.”

“Agreed. You saw their bowmen?”

He ducked his head, eager, alive, vehement. “I did. I may have spoken harsh words against the Kov of Falinur in the past, when I did not know him. No one could have cleared our front as well as he has just done.”

That, I may say, pleased me enormously.

The clansmen with the failure of their missile men were not as foolish as the knights at Crecy. There was no Comte d’Alencon in their ranks to bay out: “Kill me this rabble! Kill! Kill!” and go spurring down on his mercenary allies. They waited calmly for the outcome of this first encounter and when it went against them they waited for the ground to clear. Again, that made sense, for even a vove in the midst of a charge may stumble over a wounded man or a wounded and terrified zorca or totrix. So we watched them and the ranks held and the suns crawled across the sky and I knew Filbarrka was bringing his torrent of zorcamen up on flanks and rear.

Whether the clansmen charged before or after he hit them, I knew, made little difference to Filbarrka. Except that if they attempted to charge afterwards their onslaught would be a little dinted… For myself, I would prefer the vove charge to begin and then for Filbarrka to hit them, as they rode bunched, knee to knee.

A certain amount of aerial activity took place. Our flutduin regiment had done splendid work in scouting; but there were too few of them to affect in any greatly material way the outcome of the main battle. But, at least, it was better they fought for us than against us. I saw them swooping down and shooting into the ranks of the vovemen, and presently a mirvol-mounted force of aerial cavalry flew up and tried to chase them off. The aerial evolutions were pretty to watch. But my Valkan flutduinim had been well-trained by Djangs who are past-masters at the art of aerial combat, and they both held off the mirvols and continued to attack the army below.

Those mirvols — they wore gaudy trappings and their riders no less gaudy uniforms. Uniforms, I fancied, I had last seen in Fat Lango’s army.

Abruptly, Nath rapped out an oath. “I am for the Phalanx, majister. They move! See! The clansmen move!”

And, indeed, the front ranks of the vovemen were in motion, leading out, beginning to stretch forward into the charge.

So — the moment everyone waited for, hoped for and dreaded, had at last arrived.

“Stand like a rock, Nath!” I bellowed after him, and he half-turned in the saddle and flung up his hand in parting salute.

I could tell to the mur when Nath arrived with the three Phalanxes. From every Jodhri the battle flags unfurled and broke free, thirty-six Old Superbs, to add a special luster to the display of heraldry and defiance flaunting in the breeze.

Cleitar the Standard grunted and shook his own flag, Old Superb, making it ripple and glisten.

“It is a right they have earned, Cleitar.”

“Aye, majister. And, anyway, the Jodhri banners are smaller than your own personal standard. As they should be.”

And I had to smile.

Where one caltrop will bring a four-legged animal crashing to the ground, a vove with his eight legs will carry on until he is a veritable pincushion with the vile things tangling him. I do not like caltrops or chevaux-de-frise as a cavalryman; as an infantryman they are gifts from the gods. The vovemen moved. They advanced. Their banners fluttered. Their pace increased. Like the irresistible ocean, like the Tides of Kregen themselves, like — like a charge of vovemen! — like nothing else in Creation, they charged. The drumming hoofbeats battered the ground. The ground shook. The onward surge consumed the senses. On trampled the vovemen. On thundered the sea of steel. Forward they came. Six thousand in that first charge. Six thousand monstrous beasts. Six thousand ferocious warriors. On they rode, onward, ever onward, cantering into a gallop, racing full stretch, pouring resistlessly on, on, roaring down on the grim compact masses of the Phalanx.

How they rode! How they rode, those wild shaggy clansmen of the Great Plains!

Timing their attack to coincide with that great charge, the enemy’s vollers crested forward above that sea of tossing heads and flaring pelts, of horns and fangs, of clansmen gone wild. But our own airboats rose, reserved for this stratagem, and soared up and forward to tangle in a wild melee above the onrush below.

And now the clansmen shrilled their warcries. Onward they rushed.

Onward, a torrent of monstrous beasts and savage men, onward in a tempest of steel. Silent, motionless, solid, the Phalanx awaited the shock.

By Zim-Zair! I admit to it. The fire scorched into my blood. I have ridden in many a vove charge and thrilled to the mad onward rush when all the world blurs into a flowing frieze of color. When you know nothing and no one can stand before you and live. The sheer bulk of the vove beneath you, the solidity of him, the square impact of his eight hooves beating the ground in unison, the smooth flowing onward rush, the steadiness of the lance couched and pointed, its steel head sharp and glittering, bearing on, bearing on!

These vovemen had shattered and destroyed two Phalanxes already. We had rebuilt, and there was the Third. But, but. . Oh, yes, by Vox, I sweated apprehension, tension — and fear. Six thousand in that first wild charge. And the other four thousand? The spyglass confirmed it. They were circling out on the flanks, two Divisions each, like horns, like pincers, raking forward to encircle and crush us.

But a stir was visible in that onrushing riding horde on either flank. The vovemen were in disorder there. And, at the rear of the great main charge a further disturbance attracted the attention of my men. Filbarrka was in action.

His zorcamen, light-armored, swift, deadly like wasps, darted in and out, maddening, pirouetting, curvetting, slaying. In orderly groups they fought with intelligence and cunning and high courage. Their archery shot coolly and methodically. Their dartmen raced in, flung their barbed weapons, and withdrew. The darts were poor at penetrating armor; but against unarmored parts of men and animals were highly effective and unpleasant. They penetrated deeply and were hard to remove. They caused constant pain as they flopped about in the convulsive movement of the voves, maddening the animals and causing them to disorder the formations still further.

The long slender twelve-foot lance was employed against man or animal. Then the mace — the vicious, heavy-headed mace, unerring — crunched with bone-smashing power. The zorcamen were nearer the ground than the vovemen. Many a clansman felt that stunning smash against his thigh or pelvis, toppling, his armory of weaponry flailing the air over the aggressive zorcaman, falling, being hit again as he fell. Oh, yes, Filbarrka’s Lancers and Filbarrka’s Archers wreaked enormous havoc and confusion as the vove charge poured across the plain and narrowed the gap.

And that gap itself proved a deadly obstacle to the voves. Liberally we had strewn the ground with caltrops and chevaux-de-frise, with narrow, wedge-shaped ditches. Many voves pitched to the ground, all their eight legs unable to cope with the obstacles. And our own dustrectium flayed them. Shaft after shaft sailed across the narrowing gap. Our archers shot well on that day, thanks be to Opaz. The steel-tipped birds of war thinned the onrushing mass. But still they came on, upborne with pride, with knowledge of their own invincibility, and, by Krun, my heart rode with them, for they were clansmen. Following them rode the mass of totrix and zorca cavalry put into the field by Zankov and Stromich Ranjal. Their infantry waited in dense masses for the outcome. But the charge, the charge of the voves -

that was the battle winner!

Watching, lifting in my stirrups, I saw the way the leading masses roared up the first of the slope to the ridge. Would nothing stop them? On and on they raged, beating on and up, and the pikes all came down as one, and the trumpets pealed, and the crimson and bronze stretched out, taut and thin to my eye, firm and like a rock in a raging sea.

The three Phalanxes had been arranged with the First on the right of the line and the Second on their left and half of the Third, the Fifth Kerchuri, on the left of the line. The Sixth Kerchuri stood fast in reserve to the rear. All the emotion of two worlds concentrated down for me in that impact. I was aware of the flanks surging on and of churgur infantry and spearmen clashing on the wings. I was aware of the ceaseless flights of arrows. I was aware of the cavalry fights taking place all over the plain. But the impact, nearer and nearer, took my attention and I could not tear my eyes away from that enormous collision.

Irresistible and immovable objects? No, by Krun, not quite. For the Phalanx had been bested before by the clansmen, and the clansmen knew nothing of defeat. The impact, when it came, racketed such noise, such clamor, such soul-searing horror, that I felt the salt taste of blood on my lips. That was where I should be, down there, in the front rank of the files with the faxuls, down there, wielding my pike against that onrushing host. And I sat my nikvove and watched and could only judge the time to send forward the Sixth Kerchuri and order in the churgurs and the spearmen. The Hakkodin were slashing and slicing away, the front swayed, locked, striking in insane fury. Incredible, the ferocity of the charge and sublime, insane, the solidity it met.

The Second swayed.

The Second Phalanx swayed and its front crumbled.

I saw the yellow and red flags go down.

Voves began to pour through a narrow gap that rapidly widened. At my instant order Volodu blew Sixth Kerchuri; but Nath was before me and I saw the Sixth moving up, solid and dense in their masses, the crimson and bronze shouldering forward to plug the gap. The Second recovered. The officers down there were raging and bellowing and the files reformed and the pikes came down again, all in line. But the lines were thinner, now.

The confusion down there tantalized me. The voves recoiled and came on again. The Phalanx held. I saw the rear markers going up, the Bratchlins urging the men on. I saw the swaying movement as though the very sea itself sought to pour on and over a line of rocks. And the zorcamen were in among the voves now, prancing around on their nimble steeds, striking and sliding return blows. The state of flux might continue, or it might break on an instant.

Zankov flung his infantry in, before they had time to decide if the day was lost or won, hurling them on intemperately to support the charge, to get in among the Phalanx. Our own infantry moved to mask the flanks, channeling the attack onto the melee. The Hakkodin now had fresh targets for their axes and halberds and two-handed swords.

This was the crucial moment.

Even when he fights in the melee a clansman is an opponent greatly to be feared. Even when he does not hurl forward in the charge, he is a fighting man of enormous power. The slogging match had begun. At that instant a troop of zorca riders flew up the long slope to my left side, riding hard, and I saw they were girls, Jikai Vuvushis.

Some of the Emperor’s Sword Watch angled out to halt them; but I saw the leader, drooping in the saddle, saw the arrow in her shoulder.

“Let her through!” I bellowed.

Jilian hauled her lathered zorca up before me. Her pale face was so white I fancied she had no blood left at all, and knew that was not so, as the blood stained around the ugly shaft in her shoulder. She tried to smile and the pain gripped her.

“I am sorry to see you in such case, Jilian.” I spoke with anger. “I had thought you in the reserve where-”

“Where you ordered my girls, aye, Jak, I know. But I have had another zhantil to saddle. My regiment is in the reserve and will go forward with the victory.” She swayed and I leaned down from the nikvove and got a hand under her armpit. “But there is no time. You must fly-” Her gaze flicked to the reserve troop of flutduins who waited beside Karidge’s Brigade, in the reserve, under my hand. Her girls were there, brilliant and chattering, and every eye fixed on that titanic fight going on along the face of the ridge. I looked there, alert for any change; but the slogging match continued and the Phalanx had not moved and the clansmen had not retired. Men were dying down there, dying by the hundred.

“The empress. .” Jilian swayed and I was off the nikvove and hauled her off her zorca, and held her, looking down, and my face must have appeared like a chunk of granite.

“What of the empress?”

Jilian caught her breath. And I saw she bore an axe wound in her side, gashing and horrible, exposing pink and white ribs.

“That is nothing, Jak. The empress needs assistance — the Sakkora Stones-”

“I know it.” I placed her down, gently, for she was a great spirit, and bellowed at my company of brilliant aides. “Send to Seg Segutorio, the Kov of Falinur, commanding the vaward. My compliments. He is now commanding the army.” I was running toward the flutduins as I shouted, and each one of the great birds ruffled his feathers, as though asking me to pick him. “Tell the Kov to send in the reserve the moment the line wavers. Not before, not afterwards. He will know.”

Then I was hauling the flutduin Jiktar off his bird and mounting up, disdaining the straps of the clerketer. Everyone was yelling. Shouts of consternation broke from the Emperor’s Sword Watch. The flutduin troop gaped. I cracked the bird and he rose at once, his wings wide and gorgeous and of immense power. Together we rose into the air.

Below us a tremendous battle raged. Thousands of men were locked in hand-to-hand combat. I barely saw the red horror of it, barely heard the screeching din.

Over the clangor, over the blood, over the agony and death below I flew. I left the battle in the culminating moments of victory and defeat. Headlong, caring for one person and one person only in all of Kregen, I flew like a maniac across the gory battlefield of Kochwold. Delia…