A Meeting at Corvallis (44 page)

“Big fight,” he said cheerfully to Signe; the gallopers and staff here had to see the bossman confident. “Biggest we've had so far.” Then, to the trumpeters: “Sound
stand easy
.”

The brass throats of the instruments screamed. The block of pikes and glaives in the center let the butts of their polearms rest on the dirt and leaned on them; those with crossbows checked their weapons once again. Light wagons advanced until they were a suitable distance behind the line; ambulances, medics—including Aaron Rothman, despite loudly voiced claims that violence made him queasy and faint—vehicles with bundles of crossbow bolts, ammunition for the artillery, bandages and disinfectants. A little forward of that and just behind the main line was the clump of his headquarters staff; the brown-and-crimson bear's-head banner, mounted messengers, signalers and a block of seventy picked infantry with glaives. The messengers were mostly teenage military apprentices, which was a measure of just how desperately thin they were stretched.

I'd like to have a bigger reserve,
he thought; it was amazing the number of things a CO could find to worry about, which was one reason he felt nostalgic about the days the Outfit was smaller, or even the time…

Christ Jesus, is it nearly twenty years since I was a corporal in the Gulf? Going on eighteen years, at least. Another world, and probably everyone there's dead, and who cares about the fucking oil now? Nowadays people fight over horses and cows and wheat. And people…so that
hasn't
changed.

He shook his head and went back to wishing he had more troops waiting behind the line to patch holes if—when—the enemy punched through.

But I just don't have enough on hand. This line's nearly a mile long as it is and it's too damned thin for comfort, but the Protector's men will overlap it. On the west, at least. The only good thing about it is that they have to get by me to get at the bridges and support their gunboats…they have to go
through
me. If they tried to loop around I could punch the A-listers at their flank while they were in column. It'd take days for them to do it safely and by then the rest of my militia would be here for sure.

Commanding a battle like this was uncomfortably like a knife duel…and he'd always despised those, because they guaranteed even the victor got cut up pretty badly.

More signals flickered in from the hilltop to his rear; the Protector's glider went by again, its heliograph stuttering. And beyond the skirmishing scouts came a long flashing, twinkling ripple across the fields to the north; a ripple of sunlight on thousands of steel points and edges, like summer at the lake when he was a kid, and light flickering off a wave. But this wave was human, an army's worth of men walking shoulder-to-shoulder, riding boot to boot. With it came a hammer of drums, the shriller scream of the long, curled trumpets the Association used, and the endless grumbling, rumbling sound of hooves and booted feet striking the soft earth. Havel leveled his binoculars.

“Well, shit,” he muttered to himself, doing a quick count.
Let's see, a yard per man, formation's four ranks deep…
“You were right, honey. Two thousand men, or a bit more. That's bad odds. Four, five hundred knights and men-at-arms. That's
real
bad odds. He's got as many lancers on this field as we've got pikemen.”

“Told ya, told ya,” Signe said, without taking her own eyes from her field glasses. “Did you ever hear of that study they did before the Change, when they found out that only the clinically depressed had a realistic view of the world?”

Havel looked over his left shoulder at the depressingly empty roads from the south and west. The rest of the Bearkiller militia would be on the road to him here…which did him very little good right now. Then Signe hissed.

“Look,” she said. “Look at the banner in the middle of their line.”

Many fluttered there; the Protector's force was moving with its heavy horse in the center, and every tenant-in-chief and baron had his own flag. One drew his eye, on a tall crossbar next to the Lidless Eye, its white background conspicuous in that company.

“Argent, double-headed eagle sable,” he said. “No cadet baton. It's Alexi Stavarov.”

“Alexi Stavarov, Baron Chehalis, Marchwarden of the North. Even Arminger isn't crazy enough to send little Piotr out with a force that size,” Signe said absently, still counting banners and reading their blazons. “I see a lot of his vassals, and some from the other baronies over the Columbia—Pomeroy, Alequa, Vader. More tenants-in-chief and their followings from up in the northwest part of the Valley, the Yamhill country, and the Tualatin valley. None of the Protector's household troops, I suppose they're with Renfrew. It's a baron's army with a baron in charge.”

“Refresh my memory,” Havel said. “Alexi's the Protector's point man north of the Columbia. He was in command in that last brush with the Free Cities of the Yakima, wasn't he?”

“Yeah,” Signe said. “Last year, while Arminger and Renfrew were taking over the Pendleton area. He beat the League's muster in an open-field battle just north of the Horse Heaven Hills, then stalled in front of the walls of Zilla—you know, they're on the edge of that bluff—and spent a fair amount of time devastating the countryside and breaking down the irrigation ditches to soothe his frustrations. That
really
hurt them. The Protector wasn't serious about taking any territory there yet; it was more like a warning to the Yakima League not to push at Walla Walla or Burbank or Richmond while he was busy getting a hold on Pendleton. It'll probably keep them out of
this
fight, though.”

“OK, so Alexi's not as hot on the throttle as his kid. Let's see what sort of a general he thinks he is,” Havel said.

He'd have to be a pretty piss-poor one to lose a battle where he outnumbers the other side three to two or better,
he thought.
He's got a good five, six hundred knights and men-at-arms there, too. I've got a bad feeling about this.

He looked aside at a sudden deep
tung
sound and a chorus of startled obscenities as a crossbow bolt whistled up from the second rank of the company to his left. The careless militia soldier stood at rigid attention, a red flush gradually filling in the space between her freckles. A noncom's snarl—he was probably a well-to-do tenant farmer or bailiff or craftsman back home—followed the accidental discharge:

“Angie, you dim, thick bitch, what the fuck do you think that is you're holding? It's a fucking crossbow trigger, not a cow's tit or your boyfriend's dick! Do us all a favor and point it up your
own
ass next time, not at Wendy's! Christ crucified, if the Protector's men don't kill you I'll have you digging latrines from now until the last gray hair falls out of your crab-crawling—”

Well, you can tell our original noncoms were Marines like me,
Havel thought, suppressing a grin at the corporal's inventive vocabulary.

The glares and mutters of her neighbors, who
were
her neighbors and relations back home in the village, probably hurt just as much; and the knowledge that the reaming was abundantly deserved—the bolt could just as easily have hit someone in the back of the head. Silently, she reloaded: gripping a pivoted lever set into the forestock of her weapon and pumping it six times. There was a ratcheting sound as she did, and the string drew back and the heavy steel bow made from a car's leaf spring bent, until the trigger mechanism engaged with a
click
. Still red-faced, she pressed the quarrel into the groove and stood with the weapon at port arms, point skyward and finger carefully
outside
the trigger guard this time.

That new crossbow is really going to help, and with a little luck it'll be a nasty surprise to the Protector's men. Bless you, esteemed father-in-law.

The cocking mechanism built into the forestock was made from cut-down car jacks salvaged from the trunks of abandoned vehicles and auto-supply stores, and it shortened the reloading time from just over twenty-five seconds to around eight or nine; still not as fast as a good archer, but a lot closer.
And
you didn't have to practice incessantly with a crossbow the way an archer did; you could learn to use it well in a couple of months, and keep it up practicing once a week. Plus this model could be loaded easily lying down…

All in all it's a lot better than the Rube Goldberg thing with chains and cranks the Corvallis people keep working at; simple and sturdy is better when it comes to things that get you killed if they break down. On the other hand, better is better too. I think the Protector hasn't pushed his R&D types for an equivalent because he doesn't want a weapon that gives a footman too much of a chance against a lancer. That'll teach him to be such a snob.

“Messenger,” he said, giving another close look at how the enemy was advancing. “Polearms rest in place, missile troops on the left swing in about ten degrees.”

The youngster galloped off. A few moments later the long double line of crossbows on the left began to move—those closest to him marching in place, those out at the end of the line double-timing until the whole formation slanted forward a little. It looked as if the enemy were going do it
hey diddle diddle, straight up the middle,
and that would give his people enfilade fire.

The barons' men were closer now, barely a half mile, well within catapult range; the light horse on both sides scurried off to the flanks. Before he could signal Sarducci to begin the curled trumpets screamed again, and the Protectorate's force came to a halt in three well-drilled paces. Silence fell, or what felt like it without the ground-shaking thudding of men and horses moving in mass. He looked over; Sarducci's crews had their catapults cocked and armed, and behind each a pumping apparatus on a wheeled cart with two men on each end of the lever and an armored pipe running to clip under the carriage of the split-trail fieldpiece. Relays were running light horse-carts back to the main supply wagons and piling up extra ammunition—four-foot javelin-arrows, six-pound iron roundshot like smallish cannonballs and larger glass globes full of napalm with gasoline-soaked fuses of twisted cloth wrapped around them.

The artillery chief evidently thought he'd get a chance to do some serious reach-out-and-touch-someone, and he was grinning like a devil Satan had assigned to stoke the furnace holding Arminger's soul. Havel cantered his horse up and down behind the line one last time, checking and finding nothing to quarrel with. As he passed the artillery their commander stood on one of the berms, waving his arms and making taunting gestures at the enemy and singing exuberantly:

Havel grinned at the sound; the war-engine crews were laughing, but with their commander and not at him, which was a good sign. A leader had to show the troops he knew his business, but after that the odd larger-than-life gesture didn't hurt at all.

A glance at his watch when he reined in beside Signe and the banner again…

Ten o'clock. This is all taking longer than I expected. OK, they want to wait, we'll wait. This
is
a delaying action, after all. If I had the rest of our Field Force here, I wouldn't be worried—not at even odds. Of course, that's only about a fifth of
their
army there, and what I've got here now is
half
of mine. Where are the other eight thousand men Arminger can field? Are they all over on the east side of the river, taking on Mount Angel and the Mackenzies and my wife's lunatic little sister? Or are they going to send another couple of thousand down between the Eola Hills and the Coast Range, swarm Will Hutton under and bugger us for fair, as Sam would put it? That's what I'd do in his shoes…

He still kept an eye on the Chapman Hill lookout post now and then; they could tell him if Stavarov was trying to get fancy, working a force west around his flank through the hills, or if his own reinforcements were in sight. Instead the next move from the Protector's ranks came as a surprise.

“What's
he
doing?” Signe asked.

A knight had spurred out from the block of men-at-arms, his plumed helmet and the forked pennant on his lance fluttering in the wind. He tossed the lance over his head, whirling the eleven-foot weapon like a baton, shouting something not quite understandable at this distance and putting his horse through fancy footwork. His kite-shaped shield was divided into wedges of gold and black with their points meeting in the center, and a purple motorcycle wreathed in flames painted over it.

“Gyronny or and sable, a Harley purpure,” Signe said, reading the blazonry.