S.M. Stirling - Island in the Sea of Time

"What a fuckin' waste of courage," she said quietly, looking at the approaching host. "Now!" The blade slashed downward.

A thousand bows released within a second of each other. The arrows streaked upward, the points winking at the top of their arches as the sunlight caught the whetted metal, then poised for a second and fell. Before they struck, two more volleys were in the air, whistling.

A hundred yards away, the pounding chant of the enemy gave way to a long, guttural howling roar that made the small hairs along his spine struggle to rise under the constricting cloth. Their measured advance broke into a crashing trot, and the rear ranks swept their shields up over their heads. The arrows came down on them like iron hail. Most stuck quivering in the shields, or bounced aside from the tough wood and leather, or glanced from helmets and mail coats. Many went through, and the marching ranks rippled and eddied around bodies still or writhing on the ground.

Again and again, a volley falling every six seconds, but the warriors of the Sun People kept coming.

"Forward the spears," Alston said. Drums and trumpets signaled.

Columns trotted forward, up and over the rise, spreading out with a deep-chested shout mixed here and there with the hawk-shrieks of female voices. These were the Fiernans who'd received Nantucket plate-armor suits and a modicum of training in the last few months. A cannon round struck one six-deep file as it breasted the rise, and a whole row went down in wreck. The remainder closed up and followed, fanning out to meet the Sun People in a bristling array of spearpoints.

God, I can smell it , he thought-like the aid station after the last battle, but here it was in the open air, shit and blood. Like any slaughterhouse, God, I may become a vegetarian after this .

"Open fire, catapults," Alston ordered, her hand clenching on the hilt of her sword.

The second set of machines went into action, throwing arms lobbing globes that trailed smoke. There were four of them; one fell short, trailing fire between the forces. Another overshot, and a splash of orange-red streaked the slope behind the attackers, where arrow-wounded men screamed and tried to crawl out of the path of the sticky jellied gasoline. Two more came down squarely on target, shattering on the upraised shields of the attackers. Men dropped to the ground writhing, or ran tearing and beating at their flesh. The whole phalanx wavered, and then steadied as chiefs shouted and waved their standards.

"Forward!" he could hear them screaming. "Forward with Sky Father! Death-shame for all cowards! Will you turn your backs on women ? Your ancestors will piss on your spirits!"

The Fiernan spears were ready, but their ranks were thinner-had to be, when so many were archers. The shafts kept falling out of the sky, but soon the foremost enemy would be at handgrips, too close to risk blind fire.

Everything seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then the rhythmic shouting gave way to a long roar, and under it the flat unmusical clang and crash and rattle of metal on metal and wood and leather. The Fiernan ranks swayed back a step under the impact, then another… and held. Men gasped and struck, and here and there one would sink down; the front ranks were dropping their spears and drawing shorter weapons, while their comrades thrust over their shoulders. Knives were out, and men were rolling under the feet of others locked shield to shield, stabbing upward. He saw one such take a heel in the face, try to crawl back, and then go down under a half-dozen boots as the line swayed over him and men stamped desperately for footing. Flung spears from the rear ranks of the attackers answered the rain of arrows, and dead men stayed upright in the close press.

Alston was standing like an onyxine statue as she tried to keep the whole long thrashing line of battle in sight, through dust and smoke and confusion. Then something wobbled up out of the enemy ranks, slow enough to be clearly seen-a barrel.

"Down!" she shouted, diving for the earth.

Something jerked Ian's feet out from under him; he went down awkwardly, the air battered out of him through his armor. Something went bwammp 'behind him, and something else went whrit-whrit-whrit over his head, hitting something with a sound like a buzz saw going into wet wood. Blood splashed his face. Then there was a larger, softer whump from behind him, and he felt heat wash over the back of his neck.

Doreen's hands were fumbling at him. "I'm all right," he gasped, kicking in revulsion at the mangled something that lay across his legs. "I'm all right." Which was physically true, he realized, but otherwise a lie. "What happened !"

"Gunpowder, barrel full of gunpowder-it landed right on top of the flamethrower and its fuel. Why didn't you get down , you idiot? I had to pull on your feet-you could have been killed . Meshuggah!" Her voice had a touch of shrillness.

"Oh," he grunted, coming half upright. "Thanks."

He looked back that way and then averted his eyes, wishing he could squeeze out the memory as people braver than he felt tried to haul survivors out of the lake of fire. Alston was on her feet again, listening to a messenger.

"Running?" she said sharply.

The Fiernan messenger grinned. "No, but backing up very fast-that way," he said, pointing. "They don't like our arrows, not as many there have armor, either side."

Alston blinked, looked to her left, to the north, and tried to remember exactly how the ridge curved, and her line with it. "They're backing up to the northeast? Not just east?"

The sound from that direction had altered, a different note to it.

"Yes," he said happily. "Northeast-maybe they want to go home."

"Oh, shit ," she said. "Rapczewicz! Take over! Ortiz, move the second company to face north, refuse the flank, we've got a disaster brewing. I'm taking the first company and doing what I can. Get to it. Now ."

She turned and ran down the hill-the horses were gone, they'd been too near where that barrel of powder had landed, and thank the Lord Walker didn't seem to have more to spare. One of the reserve companies was waiting there, a company of her precious Americans-troops she could really rely on to do as they were told. As she ran her mind's eye could paint the picture. The Sun People falling back, Maltonr-he was the senior Fiernan on that end-going whooping in for glory and vengeance, real redhead stuff. Then the enemy turning out in the open where the Fiernan archers couldn't mass their fire, turning the fight into a melee, sweeping back up the ridge and into the rear of her line…

Just like Senlac. And Harold Godwinsson led an army of militia from Wessex too, and the Norman commander was named William. God, I know You're an ironist, but isn't this going a bit far?

"Enemy breakthrough," she snapped to Hendriksson. "We're going to contain it." Or so I hope . "Follow me."

The Americans formed up smoothly, moving off at the double-quick. Ahead of them was a growing roar.

"Ask me for anything but time ," Walker quoted angrily to himself, then took his temper in an iron grip.

"No, father and lord," he said to Daurthunnicar. "You must stay here with the last of the reserves . I and my hand-fast men will strike the enemy from the rear, and then they will give way. You must strike then, to push them into rout-when they start to run, to flee in terror, then we can slaughter until our arms grow tired. But it must be at the right time ."

Daurthunnicar hesitated, shirting in his chariot. The framework creaked; he'd put on a good deal of weight over the last six months. "Honor is with the foremost," he protested. "How can men obey me as high rahax if my spear is not red and my ax is still bright?"