Robert Adams - Horseclans' Odyssey

Hari smiled, showing teeth worn down almost to the gums. “I think you exaggerate, war chief. I know, I know, you carry your duty to husband the tribe’s warriors, so your intentions are good. But our horses can easily outdistance these dirtman breeds, can run rings around them. And our bowmen…” “Hari,” put in Milo, “recall the breed of horse that the chiefs of the traders ride, the tall ones with the long legs and (he small, fine heads. You’ve observed races between them and clansmen on our horses, haven’t you?” At the bard’s nod, he went on, “Well, have you ever seen a Horseclans mount win one of those races?”

“Yes,” answered Hari slowly, trying to bridge the gap of years. “It was a… young subchief of Clan Makinnis, I believe.”

Milo snorted derisively. “All right, one win out of how many races, eh? Those horses, Hari, are of the eastern breed of warhorses, but those of the traders are far from the best ‘examples; those are either culls, rejects from war training or retired warhorses. Even so, they are invariably faster than our own short-legged, big-headed breed over a short stretch. Also, being bigger and bulkier and heavier, they will be able to bowl over our mounts as easily as a prairiecat knocks over a lance-horn buck.

“As regards our bowmen, and the maiden archers, they’ve inflicted frightful losses on those scantily armored wretches, true enough. But properly equipped heavy cavalry are going to be armored from knee to pate, Hari, and all of steel, mind you—mail or scale or plate, but steel, none of this leather boiled in wax and, perhaps, covered with thin sheets of brass. Now, Hari, I would stake great odds that nine out of every ten arrows in this camp are tipped with either chipped stone or fired bone, both of which materials are cheap and first-rate for hunting; and, loosed at the proper angle and at close enough range, they’ll even pierce good-quality leather armor.

“But, my wise and musical friend, a clansman or maiden could loose such shafts at a steel-armored man all day and still do him no harm; both bone and stone shatter against steel plate or scale, as I know of experience in the far south among the Mehkskuhn tribes.

“’So pray start informing the chiefs not to try to make a stand or play any of their bloody games against any new bands of warriors they encounter. You’d better also tell them to get every smith in this camp to the task of forging every available scrap of iron or steel or even bronze into arrowheads.” Hari said drily, “The mighty war chief speaks, the aged and most humble bard obeys.”

“Humble, you?” Milo chuckled, then licked the grease from his fingers and began stuffing his pipe.

The squadron of heavy cavalry—for all that they were well-disciplined veterans, splendidly equipped, masterfully led by hard bitten and intelligent officers and sergeants, and mounted on fresh, big, powerful warhorses—accomplished far less of a positive nature than Alex had hoped. Within a week in action, they had taken casualties of near a hundred killed and wounded and had lost at least a half of that number of their highly valuable chargers to death, serious wounds or capture. The squat, beetle-browed, very muscular commander, Captain Sir Jaik Higinz, in conference with Duke Alex was crushingly blunt. “Yer grace, I knows you ain’t too pleased with my boys and me, and I cain’t fault you none, rightly, ‘cuz I ain’t no way pleased with the sitch’ation my own se’f. So I tell you what I’ll do: I’m contracted to the grand duke till the end of this month. He done sent us here to fight fer you, and I’ll “bide by my sworn word till the time runs out. But that’s gonna hafta be it, Yer grace. God knows, I’ll like as not be down to half a squadron or less, in thet little time. I’s to sign on with you fer any longer, them screechin’, howlin’ little bastids on their ugly, runty hosses will’ve most like kilt us all.” Duke Alex nodded stiffly, though he had the overwhelming urge to hang his head in despair. He knew that the fine, fresh troops had done their best, all that could reasonably be asked of men and horses. He was getting the nagging thought more frequently as disastrous day followed disastrous day that nothing could or would stop this horde of nomads—not him and all his horsemen, not the infantry or the walls of Traders-town, not even the Great River. Knowing in advance that it was hopeless, still the unhappy duke made a try. “If it is a matter of stipend, captain, fortunately I can afford to pay a higher figure for your serviced than could my esteemed cousin… ?” “No, yer grace.” The captain shook his shaven head. “The squadron ain’t afeered of no civilized troops on either bank of the whole damn Ohyoh Valley, but what we’re up ‘gainst here is another kettle of fish, and I’ve done had to hang or stripe some deserters a’ready.

“And I’m not the onliest one, neither, yer grace. My old comrade Captain Barnz, his contract with you expires ‘bout the same time as mine with the grand duke does. Him and me figgers to merge what’s left of our troops by then and sail downriver to the Kingdom of Mehmfiz where a civilized war’s going on. “Now, yer grace, I ain’t a edjicated man; I thinks God give all the brains to my older brother, along with the title and all, but in near on twenny-eight years of sojering, I done learned me a few things here and there. Fergive me fer patting it like this, yer grace, but you done got your parts in a crack and them Horseclanners are “bout to lop ’em off. “But yer grace ain’t the only one’s almost eyebrows deep in the shit, ‘cause we took us a wounded nomad las’ week and afore he died, he tol’ me that all of them clans, forty or fifty of ’em, means to cross the Mizipi—what you folks ‘round here calls the Great River—and then they means to march on due eas’ till they gets to the salt sea, living off any lands they come onto and killing anybody tries to stop ’em.

“And so, yer grace, it seems to me—a poor, iggerant wight of a perfeshunal sojer—that you should oughta mend yer fences with yer brother-in-law, ‘crost of the river, and let him know what-all’s going on down here ‘fore it’s too late for him or anybody elst to help you out.

“If the two of you’s to fight together, mebbe you can stop them scrawny devils or at least head ’em in a diffrunt direck-shun. Seems to me it’s come up a question of hang together or hang one at the time… no disrespect meant, yer grace.”

Tcharlz had as quickly, if not as painfully, learned just ‘ how difficult it was to bombard the fortress he had built. He knew better than to try to dig emplacements in the Lower Town, of course, recalling the cofferdams that had been necessary in order to get the walls and foundations down to bedrock. Therefore he tried to add to and improve upon the charred ruins of the semicircular protective wall that had brought a disaster to Duke Alex’s abortive siege.

There was no wood to be fired in Tcharlz’s construction, but this did not deter Captain Martuhn, nor did it save the duke’s siege engines. After raining a few bushels of small stone over the emplacements to keep the engineers pressed close to the wall and away from their own engines, the massed engines of the citadel accurately hurled large crocks of oil to burst and soak the engines, then followed these in short order with blazing spears and fire arrows. From the Upper Town, Tcharlz watched his engines burning merrily and cursed them because he could not yet bring himself to curse Martuhn, for all the man’s rank insubordination and disloyalty to him.

When first he had arrived before the citadel at the head of his troops, Tcharlz had sent in a messenger with a letter of demand that Captain Martuhn come out, unarmed, and bringing with him the two boys, whose adoptive father had accompanied the army.