The Battle for Skandia (30 page)

He turned and shot at the thin line of Temujai shooters, drawing a brisk shower of arrows in return. Behind him, he heard the thrumming noise of another volley arcing away toward the main battle. He shot again, picking a target and seeing him fall. Then he felt a surge of excitement in his chest as the small group of riders began to move.

“Horace! They're pulling back!” he yelled excitedly. He pointed wildly to the line of shooters. Less than twenty of them remained and they were gradually falling back from their exposed position. Gradually at first, anyway—as they moved farther, they moved faster and faster, none of them wanting to be the last one exposed to the accurate shots from the Skandian lines.

He gripped his big friend's arm and shook him with excitement. “They're turning it in!” he yelled. Horace nodded soberly, jerking his thumb toward the hard-pressed line of Skandian defenders below them.

“Just as well they are,” he said. “Because these ones aren't.”

Below them, the Temujai swordsmen, dismounted now, were pouring through a gap they had forced in the Skandian lines.

NIT'ZAK, FIELD COMMANDER OF THE TEMUJAI FORCE ATTACKING Will's position, had poured his men into the attack with reckless disregard. As the Kaijin engaged the archers, his lancers and swordsmen hurled themselves against the line of Skandian axmen protecting them.

Nit'zak had sensed that this attack was a final throw of the dice for his commander. If they couldn't break through this time, he knew Haz'kam would order a general withdrawal, unwilling to take further casualties in this campaign. The thought of withdrawal, of failure, was anathema to Nit'zak. He urged his men on now, willing them to break through the Skandian line and destroy the small but highly effective force of archers who sheltered behind it.

The ground in front of the Skandian defenses was littered with the bodies of his men and horses. But gradually, they were driving the wild northerners back as their numbers were depleted and the defensive line became more fragile. Dismounted now, the Temujai swarmed up the earth slope, slashing and stabbing with their long-bladed sabers. Grimly, the Skandians fought back.

“General!” One of his staff grabbed his arm and pointed to a small group of riders angling away from the battle. “The Kaijin are withdrawing.”

Nit'zak cursed them as they rode away. Pampered and privileged, he thought. He knew they regarded themselves as elite members of the Temujai force. Kaijin shooters were excused the dangers of direct combat so they could sit back and pick off enemy commanders in relative safety. Now, faced with accurate and deadly return shooting for the first time in their lives, they had broken and deserted him. He made a vow that he would see them all die for their cowardice.

But that would have to wait. Now, he realized, the Skandian archers were launching flight after flight of arrows into the rear ranks of the main attack once more. They had to be stopped. The sudden resumption of the deadly volleys could well tip the balance of the battle.

Haz'kam had remarked that his deputy had no sense of the bigger picture when it came to warfare. But Nit'zak had an ability that made him a superb tactical commander. He could sense the crucial moment in a battle—the moment when everything hung in the balance and a determined effort from either side could make the difference between victory and defeat. He sensed such a moment now, watching his men struggling with the Skandians, seeing, for the first time, an element of uncertainty in the enemy. He drew his saber from its scabbard and turned to his own personal bodyguard, a half-Ulan of thirty seasoned troopers.

“Come on!” he yelled, and led them in a charge toward the Skandian line.

Nit'zak's instincts were accurate. The Skandians, exhausted and bleeding, their numbers depleted, were hanging on with their last reserves of strength and will. The Temujai numbers seemed never-ending. For every one who fell before the Skandian axes, it seemed another two rushed to fill his place, screaming their war cries and slashing and stabbing with their sabers. Now, as a fresh force drove into the line, dismounting and scrambling up the earth berm, the balance tipped. First one, then another Skandian gave way. Then they were retreating in groups, as the Temujai drove through the gap they had finally forced, striking down the fleeing Skandians as they tried to escape.

Nit'zak waved his saber toward the line of archers, still pouring volley after volley at the main attack.

“The archers! Kill the archers!” he ordered his men, and started toward them.

 

In the command position, Horace threw down the bulky, clumsy shield he had been using and grabbed up his own round buckler. His sword slid from its sheath with an expectant hiss as he swung his legs over the parapet.

“Stay here,” he told Will, then headed down the slope to meet the first group of Temujai as they clambered up toward him. Now it was Will's turn to watch in awe as his friend went on the attack. His sword moved in bewildering patterns, flicking in and out, overhead, backhand, forehand, thrust, as he cut down the attackers. The first attack was driven back and now a larger group of Temujai moved toward the tall warrior. Again there was the clash of steel on steel, but now, as they threatened to encircle him, Horace was forced to give ground. Will looked down at his arrow bin. There were five arrows left and he began shooting: steady, deliberate shots to pick off the Temujai who tried to surround his friend.

He glanced toward the archers. The shield bearers had grabbed up their own weapons and were moving to protect them. In addition, some of the retreating Skandians had regrouped at the archers' position. Evanlyn was still calling the volleys, he noticed.

“Keep it up!” he yelled, and she glanced around, nodded and turned back to her task.

Horace was almost back to the elevated command position now, still fighting off the determined attacks from the Temujai. He was fighting alone, however, and vulnerable from the rear. Will, his stock of arrows finally exhausted, drew his two knives and moved to protect his friend's back.

 

In the center of the Skandian line, Erak sensed a similar moment of opportunity. The Temujai were fighting hard, but the savage intensity had gone from their attacks.

Weakened and demoralized by the regular downpour of arrows from the right flank, their support ranks were withdrawing, and leaving those troops engaged with the Skandian line without the regular reinforcements that they needed to maintain the rhythm of their attack.

He cut down a Temujai captain who had come screaming over the earthworks, and turned to look for Halt. The Ranger was positioned behind him, standing on a parapet and coolly picking off the Temujai as they came forward.

Haz'kam's tactic of stripping his Ulans of their shooters was working against the Temujai here. For a change, it was they who were losing their commanders to accurate, aimed shots, while the Skandian leaders continued to devastate anyone who came within range of their whirling axes.

Disengaging himself, Erak vaulted up beside Halt. He gestured to the Skandian left wing, so far uncommitted.

“I'm thinking if we hit them from the flank, we might finish them,” he said. Halt considered the idea for a moment. It was a risk. But battles were won by taking risks, he knew. Or lost. He came to a decision.

“Do it,” he agreed, and Erak nodded. Then he looked beyond Halt and cursed. The Ranger swung around to look in the same direction and together they watched the Temujai breaking through the line below Will's position. They both knew that if the rain of arrows stopped, the Temujai rear ranks might well recover their cohesion and their moment might be lost.

Now was the time to act.

“Bring the left flank in,” Halt said briefly. He grabbed up a spare quiver of arrows and started to run toward Will's command post. Erak watched him go, knowing that one man wouldn't make any difference. He looked around desperately, his gaze lighting on Ragnak, standing in the middle of a circle of fallen Temujai. The Oberjarl's eyes were wild and staring. He had discarded his shield and was swinging his massive ax two-handed. Blood streamed from half a dozen wounds on his body, but he seemed oblivious. He was on the point of berserking, Erak knew. And he also knew that one man like that might make all the difference in the world.

Erak cut his way through to the Oberjarl, winning a brief respite as the Temujai fell back from the two huge warriors. Ragnak looked up, recognized him and showed his teeth in a triumphant, savage grin.

“We're destroying them, Erak!” he yelled, his eyes still wild. Erak grabbed him by the arm, shaking him to make him focus his attention.

“I'm bringing in the left flank!” he yelled, and the Oberjarl smiled and shrugged.

“Good! Let them have some fun too!” he bellowed. Erak pointed to the battle raging on the seaward side.

“The right wing is in trouble. They've broken through. The Ranger needs help there.”

It seemed odd to be giving orders to his supreme commander. But then he realized Ragnak was incapable of directing the flank attack in this state. He was good for only one thing—a devastating, crushing attack on any enemy who stood in his way.

Now, as he heard Erak's words, Ragnak nodded repeatedly.

“That sarcastic little know-all needs help, does he? Then I'm his man!”

And with a roar, he charged off after Halt, followed by his retinue of a dozen axmen.

Erak breathed a quick prayer to the Vallas. A dozen men might not be a lot, but with Ragnak in this near-berserk mode, it could be enough. Then he shoved the troubles of the right flank to the back of his mind and began yelling for a messenger. The right flank would have to look after itself for a few more minutes. Right now, he needed the left flank to hit the enemy from the side.

HORACE SENSED THE PRESENCE OF SOMEONE DIRECTLY BEHIND him and pivoted rapidly, his sword swinging back, ready to cut side-handed. Seeing the slightly built form of his friend there, grimly engaging a Temujai swordsman with his two knives, he widened his stroke and laid open the Tem'uj's forehead with the point of his sword. The trooper staggered away, hands to his face, sinking to his knees.

“What do you think you're up to?” Horace yelled, in between parrying another attack from the front.

“I'm watching your back,” Will told him, as he blocked a thrust from another Tem'uj trying to take Horace from the rear.

“Well, next time let me know,” Horace said, grunting as he side-stepped a lance and hammered the hilt of his sword into its surprised owner's skull. “I nearly cut you in half just then!”

“There won't be a next time,” Will replied. “I'm not enjoying myself here.”

Horace flicked a rapid glance over his shoulder. Will was using the Ranger's double-knife defense to parry and block the Tem'uj's saber. But it wasn't a form of fighting he was particularly skilled in. Besides, it had been over a year since he and Horace had practiced the moves in the hills of Celtica. The Temujai swordsman was having the better of the exchange and in that quick glance, Horace had seen blood seeping through the left arm of Will's shirt.

“When I tell you, drop to your knees,” Horace said.

“Fine,” Will replied grimly. “I may even do it before you give the word.”

In spite of himself, Horace grinned. Then, as he drove two attackers back, he called over his shoulder: “Now!”

He sensed that Will had dropped to the ground and, flicking the sword into a reversed grip, he thrust backward and heard a startled cry.

“You all right?” he called, reversing the sword again and deflecting that persistent lance once more. For a moment, there was no answer, and he felt a sudden jolt of fear that he had just stabbed his friend. Then Will answered him.

“Very impressive. Where did you learn that?”

“Made it up just now,” Horace said, then grunted in satisfaction as the lancer stepped a little too close and took the point of his sword in the shoulder. As the man sank to the ground, Horace withdrew the sword, flicking it into a whirling overhand cut at another Tem'uj. The cavalryman's thick felt helmet saved his life as the sword crashed down on it. But there was still enough force in the blow to knock him to his knees, concussed and cross-eyed.

For a moment, they had a brief respite. Horace stepped back and studied his friend.

“Is that arm troubling you?” He nodded toward the widening seep of blood on Will's sleeve. Looking down, Will seemed to notice it for the first time.

“I didn't even feel it,” he said in some surprise. Horace allowed himself a grim smile.

“You will later,” he told him. Will shook his head doubtfully.

“If there is a later,” he said. Then, from the lines behind them, they heard the thrum of bowstrings and the hissing flight of another volley. They looked at one another in amazement.

“It's Evanlyn,” said Will. “She's still got them firing!”

Horace gestured to the swarming Temujai, surrounding the thin line of defenders who were keeping them out of the archer's redoubt.

“She won't for much longer,” he said. The Skandian line was already beginning to buckle. “Come on! Watch my back and yell if you get in trouble.” And with that, he bounded down the slope, his sword rising and falling as he drove his attack into the rear of the Temujai. Startled at the ferocity of his assault, they gave ground for a few seconds. Then, seeing that the new assault consisted of only two men—one of them armed only with knives and small enough to be a boy—they rallied and drove forward again.

Horace fought grimly, gathering the few remaining defenders around him. But the enemy numbers were beginning to tell and now individual Temujai were bypassing the small knot of defenders and dropping into the trench itself, where the archers were still sending their volleys into the main Temujai force.