Sunrise Lands

Chapter Twenty

Snake River Plain, East Of Wendell

Near The Boise/New Deseret Border

July 21, CY23/2021 A.D.

"Good looking farming country, but too hot and dry for my taste," Edain said.

Rudi nodded silent acknowledgment, hear ing the effort it took the younger man to sound casual. The Snake River plain was flat here, flat and rich with wheat and alfalfa and potatoes and orchards where the fruit swelled towards ripeness, wherever the irrigation canals from the old-time dams still stretched; silvery-gray sagebrush-filled fields had gone out of cultivation for lack of hands to work them or pumps to raise the precious fluid. Much still endured, tilled by the soldier farmers whose earth-and concrete walled villages dot ted the land, grain turning gold under the hot sun, nearly ready for the reapers.

But the fields looked empty today, nobody at work, the livestock driven within the walls for safety or to the distant hills on the edge of sight northward. The gates of the farm towns were tightly barred now, with families and older re servists anxiously atop the fighting platforms watching the army of the Republic march by… and their sons and husbands and younger brothers joining it, trickles that joined together to swell the endless river of green and brown and steel-sheen that passed, with a rumble of boots and wheels and hooves, a trail of dust and the strong smell of sweat and oil and metal.

Edain lowered his voice: "I'm a bit worried about Garbh, Chief. In a battle and all, a big one."

The big mastiff bitch looked up at her name, grinning and wagging her tail slightly, then going back to plodding in the dust.

"If it's any consolation, I don't think we're going to do any of the fighting. It'll be a spectator's position for us, like the watchers at a baseball game."

Cavalry patrols made their own trickle plumes of dust at the limits of vision, with sometimes a blink of light off the edged iron of a lance head. A glider hovered high overhead, riding the summer thermals and occasionally heading northward to climb again on the updraft over the rugged country there; it bore Boise's USAF blazon. Nobody seemed to know if the Church Universal and Triumphant had any aerial scouts, and if they did they weren't here now.

Mounted couriers or ones on cross-country bicycles dashed up to the command party now and then. The refugees from New Deseret straggling along the sides of the road or off in the fields to either side told their own story, and had since the day's march began. Rudi felt his inwardness wince slightly as a mother sitting on the bundle that must be all her household's goods watched him pass with dull beaten blue eyes, mechanically jog ging the infant that cried against her breast. Two older children sat beside her, and a white-bearded man who was probably her father slept on the hard dry ground limp with utter exhaustion.

Rudi saw his fellow clansman's eyes skimming over the refugees.

"Worried about Rebecca, too, eh?" he said-not teasing, but a real question.

"Well, we were friends," Edain agreed. "I'm sorry for all these folk, true I am, but it's different if you know someone in particular."

Another courier drew up with a spurt of gravel and dust from under his mount's hooves.

"Mr. President!" he said, saluting and pointing south eastward."The Saints' command group is about half a mile that way, with a couple thousand troops following. They're in pretty rough shape, sir-a lot more of their civilians and a lot of wounded, and they say their rear guard pulled out of sight of Twin Falls three days ago. The enemy's snapping at their heels."

"Thank you, Corporal," Thurston said. "Please give my compliments to their commander-"

"Bishop Nystrup, sir. Civil official."

"To Bishop Nystrup, and tell him we'll be with him shortly."

Rudi saw Edain's ears prick up at the name. Ragged tent camps appeared, set up by the civilian refugees and the Red Cross from Boise, and shapeless masses of exhausted people lying where they could in pasture and fallow land. More crowded around a field hospital and the advance guard of the main Boise force, who were handing out buckets of water and big loaves of hard dark bread from wagons.

But they're not trampling the standing grain, Rudi thought with sympathetic approval. That takes a special type of decency, it does, when you're hungry and hurt and fleeing for your life.

Just then Edain's head came around, a swift move ment like a hunting wolf's. He reined his horse aside and heeled it up into a canter, over to the field hospital, then leaned from the saddle and spoke to one of the helpers. When he came back, he was grinning, if a little lopsidedly.

"That was Rebecca! The Mother's hand is over her, and that's the truth!"A scowl. "They have some bad en emies, Chief. Those people aren't just hurt and hungry. Some of them…" He shook his head.

"Regiments… halt!" Thurston called, in a flat unmusical tone like angle iron hit with a hammer, as a dark thread grew visible on the road ahead.

The trumpets brayed, relaying the order down the long snake of men and animals that filled the old inter state for miles behind them. The marching regiments did halt, from the back of the column forward and in a ripple that brought the whole to a stop in less than a minute, without any of the collisions or stop and-start you could have expected among ten thousand troops on foot and half as many horses and mules.

"Command group, follow me!"

They legged their horses into a canter, the flag beside the ruler of Boise flapping in the hot wind of their passage; nobody had complained at Thurston's whim of allowing the youngsters from the farthest west along, though they got the occasional glance. A group of mounted men sat their horses at the head of the troops ahead, beneath another banner-dark blue emblazoned with a golden bee. Rudi recognized the Mormon leader who'd bought the horses from Rancher Brown, looking

…

Terrible, he thought. And I don't think he recognizes me… just doesn't have the attention to spare.

The bishop sat his horse among several other soberly clad bearded men, and a clutch of what were certainly soldiers and from their years most probably officers. They all wore olive-green uniforms and steel breast plates, mail sleeves, armguards, and round bowl helmets fronted with the golden bee. The armor was dinted and worn, and the square shields some carried were hacked and splintered, a few showing the stubs of arrows. Several wore bandages as well, some seeping red. As he watched one had to scrabble out of his saddle as his horse col lapsed. The stink of dried sweat from them was powerful even by the standards of soldiers in the field, and their faces were thickly covered with sweat-runneled dust.

"Thank you… Mr. President," Bishop Nystrup said as Thurston drew up, his commanders and aides beside him and the golden eagle and Stars and Stripes lofting above.

He spoke humbly; and unless Rudi was wrong, it was a difficult task for a proud man.

The army behind him was still proud too, but it was beaten, even the unhurt. A ragged bristle of pikes stretched backward in clumps that were not really units, mingled with archers and crossbowmen and a single field catapult that he could see; you could sense the weary shuffle that had brought the broken companies this far.

There were wagons full of wounded interspersed among those still walking, their moans and cries a soft threnody of pain below the sound of hooves and wheels on the broken gravel-patched pavement of old US 84. Supply columns from Boise were doing their best to feed them and take care of the injured.

"We'll do whatever we can," Thurston said, swinging down from the saddle and taking the man's hand as Nystrup clambered down stiffly. "And we'll do our best to get your people what you need."

"Thank you," Nystrup said again. "We've already gotten the food and medical supplies you sent, and…"

He fought his face to stillness. Thurston turned his own gaze aside for an instant, to let the man recover his self-command.

Nystrup swallowed. "Our rear guard has broken contact with the Corwinites, but they're close behind us."

One of the Mormon officers spoke. "We'd have had to turn and fight to keep them off the civilians within a day or two."

His eyes met Thurston's, sharing the same thought: And been massacred to the last man.

"Then we'd better coordinate our efforts," Thurston said, his face like brown iron.

"We're willing to consider your terms-" the bishop began again.

"My only terms are that we fight together to put down this madman," Thurston said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Startled, Nystrup blurted: "That's a change!"

Thurston shrugged. "I've made mistakes, but I try not to make them twice… and three times is excessive. I do ask for the military command, but we'll leave the poli tics for when that's been done. I intend to restore your people to their homes, and the US government won't ask for any territory-for anything that your people don't freely grant by their own unforced vote."

He spoke firmly, and loudly enough that both his own officers and the party from the east could hear him. Some of the Mormon military officers behind the bishop blinked in surprise at that, startled out of their exhausted dejection. A few looked suspicious; many glanced at one another, and there was a murmur as the words were repeated backward down the line.

Well, I've never heard a man confess a fault quite that smoothly, Rudi thought, letting one corner of his mouth quirk up. Sure, and I'll have to make a note of that for future reference, unless the gods give me the gift of infallibility.

And a few of the officers behind Thurston exchanged glances as well-doing it with a discreet flicker of eyes rather than any movement of the head.

"Let's get your wounded seen to, your troops fed, and your officers can brief me on what you've got available," Thurston said briskly. "There's a good defensive position about three miles east of here that would do nicely, and shelter these civilians until we can get them west and behind walls."

"Do you think the enemy will attack today?" Nystrup asked; his voice was calm now.

"No," Thurston said; several of the Mormon officers were shaking their heads in unconscious agreement. "Not today. But tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.

They've got their peckers up."

His smile was broad and cruel. "That's the easiest time to trim them off."

"I don't like it," Rudi said quietly, as the sun came fully over the eastern horizon ahead of them.

I don't, for sure and all. Something… something makes me itch. Or gives me a wee bit of a chill on a summer day, and it's not just the prospect of a fight in it. A fight I don't mind, and I have the beginnings of a grudge against this Prophet fellow, don't I just, by the horns!

He stood holding Epona by the bridle a little way from Thurston's command group, behind the Boise line, his companions around him. The grumbling, rum bling clatter of white noise, voices and armor clashing and feet thudding, made it possible to speak privately if you wished. Garbh was lying with belly and chin flat to the ground, ears cocked, quiet, but bristling in rippling waves.

But Thurston himself seems confident enough. Of course, he'd be acting that way in any case, eh? And he's taken a liking to me, right enough, enough to let us hang around, and to tell me his thoughts now and then. Well, and so have I to him and his sons. A hard man, yes, but not so hard as he's been painted. I think he's seen all he's done as… needful, even when it hurt him to do it.

Mathilda spoke quietly beside him as she stroked the nose of her charger. "The game of thrones, the game of swords… I don't like what they do to people. The ones who have to play them."

Rudi looked over at her in surprised affection. "It seems your thoughts are running with mine again, Matti. Well, you may not be liking it… but our host yonder seems a natural at it."

Mathilda shook her head and leaned on her tall kite-shaped shield. "I like him," she said.

"Me too."

"And I was thinking of how much happier he'd be running a big farm and breeding horses… or maybe something like a sawmill or a bunch of riverboats or… he's got the gift for organizing; he reminds me of Count Conrad that way. Him and his lady and their kids, mak ing a home, doing something… really useful, not just necessary, the way ruling is."

There was a wistfulness to her voice. Rudi nodded ruefully.

"I know what you're driving at." He hesitated. Still, when better to say it? This probably won't be our last day before the Summerlands; but then again, it might.

"I've been glad to have you along on this journey, Matti."

She gave him a quick glance, concerned; he could see her brown eyes narrow under the mail coif. At that he laughed.

"No, I'm not fey and hearing the screecher. I'd say so if I were." She relaxed in relief. "I am glad to have you with me, even though it's fair selfish of me. For you're my oldest friend, and you know my mind without my having to speak it all, and I yours, and that is a comforting thing."

She put an arm around him. "You are too, Rudi… remember that night at Finney's farm, back during the war, just outside Corvallis? I was so lonely, and so home-sick, and you and Juniper were about the only ones who were nice to me at first. We were ten, and you told me I was your best friend then. You're still mine. And I'll tell you something else; I'm glad to be here."

He nodded, then grinned slyly. "And while then you were a skinny little thing with a scab on your knee, now you're easy on the eyes, sure, even in a hauberk and greaves."

She snorted and thumped her gauntleted hand on his arm. "Men!"

Rudi jerked his chin towards Thurston, serious again. "Still, someone has to stand between the farms and mills and those who would burn them and kill the folk or carry them off slaves."

She sighed wordlessly and turned her face towards the east whence the Prophet's men would come, as if to say: From them.

They were on a slight rise, with much dry pasture and a few wheatfields that were nearly ripe behind and more of the same ahead; this ground had been too close to the old border to be densely settled. The lay of the land let him see the way the regiments flowed out of their encamp ments to take up their positions with unhurried speed. Messengers waited, and others manned an arrangement of lever mounted mirrors on tripods.

That's a cunning device, so it is, but it won't be useful for long, Rudi thought.

This soil was fertile but light, and it was dry-still a little cool with night, but you could tell it was going to be hot, too. It would come up like fine dust under hoof and boot. There was already dust from the light volca nic soil in the air; he could taste the slightly salty alka line bitterness of it on his lips, and it made him want a drink from his canteen. He resisted the impulse until he looked over his shoulder and saw light water tanks on wheels stationed behind the battle line, along with the ambulances and supply wagons full of spare javelins and bundled arrows and stacked shields.

There was more dust ahead eastward, much more-a plume growing wider as he watched.

Odd, Rudi thought. They could go around this army, sure and they could. Battle is like dancing, in its way; the partners really have to agree for it to happen. They may not send messengers and set out a time and place, but everything short of that, yes.

Ingolf spoke quietly, squinting into the rising sun under a shading hand: "They're shaking out from column into line. Moving fast, too. A lot of horsemen in that army, more than the Boise folks have. Three, four thousand, maybe even five."

"Any knights or men-at-arms?" Odard asked with in terest; he was in full lancer's panoply. "Thurston's people don't seem to have any, just light horse."

Ingolf shook his head. "There's the Sword of the Prophet-like the ones we saw at the ambush, noth ing heavier than that. Most lighter, like those men of Rancher Brown's."

He kept his eyes eastward, blinking in the sunlight. After a moment: "They're going to overlap our line a bit. Could be a lot of them, or they could be dragging brush to make it look that way, trying to spook us out of position. This is good ground-rises a bit towards us, and we're closer to water."

Ignatius nodded somberly. "There will be much more dust before sundown. As the crops are trampled and destroyed… what a waste war is. Men sweated to plow and plant here. I hate to think of their children hungry, because the work of months is spoiled in hours."

Edain spoke: "It's a slight on the Mother, is what it is."

His voice went quiet. "Back home they'll be up early to get the last of the wheat in. Pancakes and bacon, and Brigid's crosses hanging in the kitchen. Folk'll be think ing of the festival, and the feasting, and getting the gear ready for the fall plowing, and maybe taking some elk if Cernunnos grants, and the Lughnasadh games. I took the Silver Arrow last year, second time in a row. Dad was that pleased."

The homesickness on the square open face turned to a reminiscent smile. "He said he'd never shot better at his best! And after he had a beer or two at the tent he sang that old song that he had from his grandfather and his grandfather had from his… you know it, Chief?"

"And hasn't he sung it at Dun Juniper, now and then?" Rudi said; it was good to speak of homey things for a moment.

And we'll all drink together

Drink to the gray goose feather

And the land where the gray goose flew!

The twins were silent for once; he gave them a curious glance, and there was a spark there. Rudi's brows went up; his half sisters were uneasy too, and more so than they should be, more so than anything he could point to and name justified.

Mathilda spoke up, her voice a little distant:"The sun will be in our eyes."

Ingolf nodded."For a while. If it's a long battle, it'll be in their eyes. And it's the end of a fight that counts, not the beginning."

They all fell silent. A gap in the noise let them hear what Thurston was speaking to his officers:

"… so this will be a meeting engagement; they'll push us hard, to see if they can keep barreling west. Let them advance to contact; we've got the good ground and they'll break their teeth on us. You'll hold the sixth in reserve, Colonel Moore, with the seventh and twelfth. Any questions?"

His eldest son spoke: "Sir, any more news on the enemy's dispositions? This isn't his whole field force we're facing, not from the look of the dust."

The elder Thurston shook his head, but Rudi could hear the pride in his voice at the quick accurate guess: "Nothing new, Captain. Half Walker's men are still encamped around Twin Falls, which is holding hard. The rest are facing us-about our numbers, say ten thousand counting the Saints who've joined us. They're heavy on cavalry; his foot are mostly in the siege works. Say half-and-half horse and foot on their side, so watch your flanks carefully. Anything else? No? Then take your positions, gentlemen. It's going to be a long day."

Odd, Rudi thought eight hours later. A whole battle, and I've not drawn blade nor bow, done nothing but watch and wait and move forward or back a little. And yet I still feel tired.

Neither had Thurston touched his sword; in fact, he'd spent the entire engagement nearly motionless save for his eyes and the hands holding his binoculars, bending to consult a map, speaking now and then to send out his messages by flashing mirrors or courier. A few ar rows stood in the shields of his guard detail, and a field-catapult battery was dug in not far away, lofting six pound iron round shot and long javelins at the enemy whenever they came in range.

Right now it was an enemy they could hardly see; the world had closed in, gradually at first and then more swiftly as the armies churned talc-fine volcanic soil and the rising wind sent it over their heads in tawny drifts. The sound of combat rolled up and down the front line-voices human and equine shouting and screaming, the whistle of arrow and dart, now and then the rattle clang-thump of close quarter fighting building to a crescendo and dying away.

"Odd to hear more of a fight than you can see of it, and that in daylight!"

Several of the others made noises of agreement; the twins were ostentatiously playing mumblety-peg to show how relaxed they were, and occasionally coming too close to their own toes. Twenty or thirty yards ahead he could see the backs of the nearest Boise troops, three staggered ranks waiting on one knee with their shields propped up against their shoulders, a line that stretched out of sight to either side.

He knew there was another triple rank a little farther forward, but the dust-fog swallowed sight. The sharp edge of battle had swayed back and forth here; there were dead men and horses of the Prophet's forces lying, their blood drunk by the thirsty soil; no wounded, luckily, any such among the fallen Corwinites having been given the mercy stroke. The unfamiliar dry acrid sharp odor of the dust drank most of the smells of death, but there was an iron-and-sewage undertone to it that was all too universal.

As he watched a trumpet call rang, relayed down the whole front. The resting soldiers stood, raised their shields and trotted forward. As they faded into the war made fog the three ranks that had held the front for the last half hour came walking backward into sight; most were walking, at least. Their breath came harsh, eyes stood stark in faces darkened with a paste of dust and sweat, and the pungent musky smell of them was strong even through hundreds of feet of dry air.

Some were using their long javelins as crutches, some were helped along with arms over the shoulders of un wounded comrades, and a few were carried on shields used as stretchers. Mule-drawn ambulances dashed forward to take the wounded; the hale gulped water from the carts that followed and then sank into the same formation as the men who relieved them. Each file sent men back to pick up bundles of fresh pila for their comrades.

"That's a good trick, switching the ranks like that," Odard said thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Ingolf agreed. "Keeps the men fresh… well, sort of fresh. Fresher than the other guys, I'd bet."

Rudi nodded, though that hadn't been uppermost in his mind. It was true, though. Fighting was brutally hard muscle work, worse than digging earth or cracking rocks with a sledge, especially when you did it in armor. The man who got tired and slow first was nearly as helpless as a sheep held for the butcher's knife. With the differ ence that an enemy wouldn't take trouble to make it painless or apologize to your spirit.

What I was thinking of was how difficult that was to do, and no mistake! Just a bit wrong, and the enemy would smash you up while you were at it like a hammer on an egg.

Another light water cart came up to supply the command group.

"My turn," he said, and everyone handed him their canteens.

Thurston came over to the water wagon as the Mackenzie tanist filled his friends' canteens and put his own under the other tap; despite knowing that half of leader ship was showmanship, Rudi was a little impressed at the casual confidence that showed.

"Disappointed?" the older man said.

He spoke through a mask of dust and sweat; even the red-white and-blue transverse crest of his helmet was nearly khaki. His dark eyes still twinkled a bit.

"Not in the least," Rudi said, truthfully. "I'm not so in love with handstrokes that it grieves me to miss a fight, and I don't enjoy watching men die. And I've learned a good deal from following how you managed the battle, sure."

The corner of Thurston's mouth curved up in a smile. "Maybe I shouldn't have let you. I might have to extend the nation's writ out west, someday."

"In your dreams… sir," Rudi said cheerfully, and they shared a smile.

"What's your appraisal, youngster?" Thurston said, a considering look in his eye.

"Well, you're beating them, so far. It's been like watching a man try to batter down a wall by running at it with his face, so."

Thurston nodded. "It's nearly over, though they may give one last hard heave; they've got an uncommitted reserve somewhere; I can feel it."

Thurston peered eastward into the dust, rubbing water over his face and then taking a long drink. "Damn this dust, though. It makes my gliders useless, and I had to land them back around noon."

"There's that airship of yours," Rudi said. "The good father was most impressed with it. Like something out of the ancient times, he said."

"Yeah, on a nice calm day close to home it's a world-beater," Thurston said."The rest of the time, it's me trying to explain why I wasted the public's hard-earned money on it. Hanks is too damned persuasive and he makes like that pedaling platoon of his is a diesel engine…"

"It would be useful here now," Rudi said. "The airship, that is, not the easel."

"Diesel-" Thurston began, then snorted laughter. "You know perfectly well what a diesel is-was."

The noise of fighting began to die down a little, enough so that you noticed how loud they remained. Thurston's voice was meditative.

"If they weren't so stubborn, it would have been over hours ago. They've got better infantry than I expected, and horse archers are always a pain in the ass, but they don't have a hope of breaking us and they can't go around us."

"Why not?" Rudi asked. "It's a spacious landscape you have here, to be sure. I was thinking just now that it was as if you and they had agreed to fight here."

"Go around?" Thurston's grin was feral. "Yeah, with fortified villages in it like raisins in a cake, and my army across their line of communication ready to corncob them. And they must have lost two, three thousand men today-they weren't expecting our field artillery, not a bit. I've kept it out of sight the last ten years-no big pitched battles where I really needed it."

"What will you do next?"

"I can beat them, but I can't catch them if they back pedal and don't want to fight; they've got more cavalry. So I'll just march towards Twin Falls in battle order. Then they can either fight with the city as the anvil and us as the hammer-and get broken completely-or they can lift the siege and pull right out of the Snake River plain, losing everything they've fought for three years to get. After that… we'll see."

The general's head came up, looking westward towards his reserves. The dust made it difficult to see, and the huge roaring surf of combat cut hearing, but it looked as if men were moving. He waved Rudi aside and strode back to his subordinates.

To an aide, he snapped, "Get to Moore and find out what's happening there!"

A minute later the young man came galloping back. "Sir, Captain Thurston reports-"

"Captain Thurston? Where the hell is Colonel Moore, then?"

"Dead, sir. He went to contain an enemy break through-stray arrow in the eye. Captain Thurston says that he had to shift the twelfth and four batteries of the artillery reserve to contain it."

Thurston grunted. "Sergeant Anderson!"

The tall silent blond man came forward. "Captain?"

"Go see what the hell is happening with Martin and why he's senior man there-or acting like it. Get back here soonest."

The noise to the front died down then, almost to si lence. The wind rose slightly; Rudi could feel trickles of it on his neck, stealing down to leave tormenting bits of comfort in the greasy, itchy sweat that accumulated under armor. He filled his helmet before the water cart trundled off, and then dumped it over his head; it ran down into the padding beneath his brigandine and mail, a flush of delicious coolness. His friends were silent as he handed out the canteens, their eyes fixed eastward.

Dust parted before them, though everything was still blurred by a brown-gold haze. Through it the foot sol diers of the Church Universal and Triumphant could be seen, pulling sullenly back in a thick dark mass of large round shields edged with steel spear points. They parted in the center like a door opening.

Beyond that was a line of glittering metal points of light over red brown… the lance heads of the Sword of the Prophet, three thousand horsemen strong. The line of light rippled and flashed as the butts of the lances were lifted out of the scabbards; it would be cold steel now, not long-distance play with arrows.

Thurston grunted as if he'd been punched in the belly. "Christ! Well, now we know where their reserve was. Courier! Courier! Get spare pila forward-"

Rudi stepped back as Thurston's voice rapped out in a string of orders and men exploded outward like a covey of geese spooked from a pond. Off to the north the dug-in artillery batteries were in a flurry of activ ity too, crews pumping like madmen to send water through the armored hoses to the hydraulic jacks that cocked their actions. More field catapults galloped up from north and south and deployed as he watched, and their loaders dashed back and forth to the ammunition wagons, staggering under loads of four foot javelins and hundred-and-twenty-pound rope bags of round shot. Others broke out bundles of beehive-wicked-looking six-inch finned steel darts, needle-pointed and heavy.

His friends tightened girths and set their helms on their heads; you left that for the last minute if you could. Wearing a helmet for hours at a time gave you a headache, as sure as a blow from a mace.

"For what we are about to receive-" Ingolf said.

"-may the Lord make us truly thankful," Odard fin ished, then kissed his crucifix, tucked it back under his hauberk and crossed himself; Mathilda and the big easterner followed suit, and Odard's servant Alex.

"Lady of the Ravens, fold me in Your wings," Rudi murmured. "Antlered One, God of my people, You whose voice is heard on the mountainsides, lift Your hand over us. To both of You I dedicate the harvest of the unplowed field."

His skin was prickling as he stripped the cover off a shield to let the world see the antlers and moon blazon of Clan Mackenzie. Edain gave him a grim nod as he strung his longbow and then started working his right arm in circles, loosening the thick muscles; he looked very much like his father just then, which was comforting.

A silence fell along the line-silence save for the screams of those too hurt for anything but the rending of their bodies to have meaning. The dust drifted westward, and they could hear the low endless rumble of twelve thousand shod hooves striking the ground; hear it, and feel it through the soles of their feet, first as a low vibration and then a shaking like a stationary earthquake as thousands of tons pounded the flesh of the Mother in every instant.

Epona tossed her head and snorted, ears forward; the other horses shifted uneasily, and Macha Mongruad squealed in rage, the leather-backed steel plates of her barding clattering.

Odard thought having two destriers ready was being extravagant. I don't think so.

A human sound rose through the hooves. The Sword of the Prophet were chanting as the lance heads fell level: "Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!"

The fighting men of the Republic replied, a long Ooooooo-rah that rolled up and down the ranks, a deep snarling shout full of guttural defiance and threat. A sharp bull bellow of "Come, ye Saints!" from the New Deseret troops off southward.