S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

"What's horns-on-head trying to do, Mike?" Signe asked, jerking her head after the departing enemy.

Havel cased the binoculars again and took a sip from his canteen-not too much, since taking a leak while wearing the armor required contortions.

"The one with a crap-brown beard? He's trying to disengage," he said. "He's still not thinking in terms of mounted combat. If he only had Woburn's men to worry about he'd be home free. All they could do was follow him until he got back to St. Hilda's. Mounted infantry can't force each other to fight, because the other side can just trot off. But we can make him fight, because we don't have to stop and get off our horses to shoot."

"Not just a rat, but a stupid rat," Signe said. Her expression was grimmer than his, if anything. "I hope those farmers, the Clarkes, can watch from wherever they are."

"What goes around, comes around," Havel replied, nodding. "Sound: pursuit at the canter. Let's go!"

The Devil Dogs were galloping off, but they couldn't keep that up for long-not without more remounts than they had along. Carrying a heavy man in armor was hard work for a horse, the more so if he rode badly. Havel set a loping pace, letting the enemy draw ahead. Any chase was going to be from behind, here; the land was open and the Devil Dogs had been cutting fences all over the place precisely so they could move without running up against one.

Don't want to catch up to them too soon anyway, he thought. Not until Will rejoins. Let brown-beard-horns-on-head relax in his illusions for a while.

Then the Devil Dogs stopped, milled around, turned further south; they had to, if they wanted to keep from being caught between the two Bearkiller forces. Havel gave Will a high thumbs-up sign, and got a wave in return.

So far, so good. We've cut them off from home. Now for the hard part.

The muffled thunder of hooves seemed to drum inside his head and chest, beating like his heart. Even forty or fifty horsemen gave you a surprising sense of power, of irresistible momentum, as if so many hooves and so many tons of muscle and bone could ride down anything.

This is why so many brave idiots were in the cavalry, he thought.

He looked around carefully-the helmet and neck guard cut down on your peripheral vision-and waved a hand in summons. Woburn turned his horse until he was cantering knee-to-knee with the Bearkiller leader.

"Slick!" he said, grinning. "I dropped off a couple of men to look after the prisoners we got back-and all that stock."

"Thanks," Havel replied-by the terms of the contract, most of it went to his folk.

To himself. Slick? We shot three hundred-odd arrows at them and knocked out three men and one horse!

He went on aloud: "What I'd like you to do, Sheriff, is push them, since most of your people are riding lighter than mine."

Havel waved ahead towards the fleeing enemy. "Don't try to engage them, just get their horses lathered and blown, and stay on their right hands so they've got to keep heading south instead of right for St. Hilda's."

Woburn settled the Bearkiller-style helmet he'd bought. "That we can do," he said.

Whooping, he rode over to his men and shouted to them. They spurred their horses, pulling ahead of the double column of armored fighters, closing rapidly. The Devil Dogs flailed at their own mounts with their heels and the loose ends of their reins, pulling ahead again.

The whole clot of horses and men disappeared over one of the long low swellings; there wasn't much dust, but the rumble sounded loud through the warm air. A canter made enough wind to dry some of the sweat that runneled down his body, but not enough to get through most of the quilted padding under the armor.

Time crept by at a walk-trot-canter rhythm; he started to wonder whether he should step up the pace himself.

No. Remember the horses. They're not Humvees and ours are carrying a lot of weight.

Over the next rise, and a black clump showed in the distance. Down another shallow dip in the prairie, through fields of clover that smelled candy-sweet when crushed underhoof-that required a little discipline, because the horses saw no pressing reason not to stop and eat-and through a shallow creek fringed by pines, and then up another swale. The tracks of the Bearkillers and Woburn's men showed clearly, black against the poplin-green of wheat and the crimson-starred clover. This time they could see both parties; the Devil Dogs had slowed to a jog-trot.

Closer still, and he could see the streaks of foam on the necks and flanks of their horses, hear the wheezing bellows panting. They were tiring quickly; not in as good condition as the Bearkiller mounts to begin with, and badly ridden. Havel slowed, dropping down the column.

"Be careful when we catch up," he repeated over and over. "Remember, we don't want to let them close in too soon. Listen for the signals and keep alert."

"Yes, Mother," Eric muttered.

Havel rang the knuckles of his armored glove off the younger man's helmet.

"Hey!"

"Shut up!" Havel said. The white noise of the hooves would cover the words. "People are going to start dying right about now."

That won't work, he thought. This kid's still eighteen. He's seen people die since the Change but he still doesn't really believe it could be him, not down in the gut.

Inspiration struck: "Luanne there could die."

That got through; he saw Eric flush and then go pale.

"So let's all keep fucking focused, shall we?" he concluded grimly.

Havel tightened his thighs and shifted his balance, bringing Gustav up to a hand gallop. Woburn came alongside when he came back to the head of the line.

"What now?" he asked.

Havel cocked an eye at the sheriffs horse, and those of his posse. Not bad. About as worn down as ours, much less than the bad guys' nags. Woburn's men weren't wearing much armor, and they were a lot easier on their horses than the Devil Dogs.

"Hang back," he said. "You can't help with the next part. Stay in range-get ready to pile in if you have to, or chase 'em for real if they scatter."

"They're going to scatter?" Woburn asked.

"Well, if they don't there won't be any problem," Havel said. "Because then they'll all be dead. It'll take a while, though."

The sheriff peeled off to the loose array of his posse. Havel reached over his shoulder for a shaft and slid it through the arrow-shelf in his bow's riser, thinking hard.

The Devil Dogs weren't riding in any particular order; more like a loose mass that anything resembling his staggered column of twos. Havel waved his right arm and chopped it forward, brought the Bearkillers up level with their opponents and to their right, no more than forty yards away.

A few of the Devil Dogs had loaded their crossbows, and tried to shoot them one-handed like huge pistols; mostly they ended up sinking shafts into the ground at their horses' feet, or in wild arcs up into the air.

That bought a few derisive shouts from the Bearkillers, and elevated-finger salutes. Then they drew their bows. The sound that went up from the Devil Dogs as the first slashing volley of forty arrows arched out towards them was as much frustration as fear, but there was a lot of terror in it too. Two men went down when their horses were struck; the range was much closer this time, and more of the horse-archers were in the firing line.

Havel looked behind. One of the enemy fighters was down under his thrashing horse; the other was crawling on hands and knees, stunned, as Woburn's posse trotted towards him.

Hope he remembers we could use some prisoners, Havel thought. Then he shouted aloud: "Aim at the horses! Dismounting one is as good as killing him!"

Though that had the disadvantage that the horses didn't deserve it and their masters most certainly did-but the world wasn't fair. The Change certainly proved that, if there was any doubt.