David Drake - The Gods Return

The trumpeter sounded Advance, followed instantly by the horns of the cornicenes; they'd been waiting for the signal. The reinforced squadron, about a hundred and fifty troopers, trotted up the last of the rise and over it. "Not a man of them but thinks they could do the job themselves without any infantry," Carus said. "I'd think the same.

But speaking as a commander, I'm just as glad of those javelins. If the rats keep their heads and hamstring the horses… and who knows how good troops rats turn out to be?" You and I are going to know in a few minutes, thought Garric as he clucked his horse over the crest.

Which is why we're here. The trumpeter signaled Charge. Again, the horns echoed him-four deep, mellow calls and the blat on the cow horn.

The Ornifal cavalrymen had their long swords drawn; on the right of the line, the Sandrakkan troop couched short lances that were light enough to have thrown if they'd been facing a shield wall. The troopers started downhill, disarrayed at first by the apple trees but not slowed. The javelin men whooped and began loping along after them.

Garric and his guards trotted through the orchard. Beyond spread a broad valley several miles long, with a right dogleg extending it unguessibly farther. Instead of individual homesteads, there'd been a hamlet straggling along both banks of the stream in the middle. A neck-roped coffle of the human residents, fifty or sixty of them, was almost out of sight to the southeast. A score of ratmen guarded the prisoners. Hundreds more of the creatures were scattered by tens and handfuls throughout the valley, rounding up brindled cattle. The horn signals had drawn the narrow muzzles of all the ratmen toward the northwest slope down which the cavalry charged. Lord Waldron was in the center of the line; Ornifal's golden lion on a red field flapped above the standard bearer to his left. The rats were the size of short humans and wore bronze caps and breastplates. They stopped what they'd been doing and drew short swords, then began to trot forward to meet the attack. The nearest clot of ratmen was only two furlongs south of the apple trees through which the cavalry rode. They were directly in front of Lieutenant Monner's troop, but the Sandrakkan unit on the far right of the line was edging over to snatch the kill. Lord Waldron stood in his stirrups screaming abuse at the lancers, and King Carus' hot rage snatched the sword from Garric's scabbard before intellect could restrain him. Nobody seemed to notice. Garric grinned faintly.

Drawing your sword while you watched a battle swirl wasn't the sort of thing that aroused comment. Monner was on the right of his troop and slightly ahead of his men. He held his sword vertical, ready to slash down at the rats, but he was trusting his mount to find its own course as he bellowed at the lancers crowding him. The horse suddenly planted its feet in the cropped turf. Monner went over its head-nobodycould've kept his seat. The horse had stopped as abruptly as if it'd charged into a stone wall, then nearly somersaulted over its rider. Other mounts were going wild also, pitching and bucking. A pair of Sandrakkan geldings collided as they turned toward one another while both trying to flee back uphill; one had already thrown off its rider.

Chittering in delight, the rats-there were six or eight of them-rushed the sudden chaos. They ran on their hind legs, but the way they bent forward suggested they were about to drop onto all fours. Their swords were short, deep-bladed, and almost square-tipped. Several horsemen dismounted or regained their feet after being bucked off. They poised to meet the oncoming rats, but the rhythm of the battle had shifted to the beastmen. A mare reared, then pitched forward; her rider managed to land on his feet though momentum flopped him on his face an instant later. Freed of her burden, the mare charged into the ratmen, whinnying and kicking with all four hooves. A rat went down, its skull crushed, and another flew backward with a dent in the middle of its breastplate. The surviving rats slashed at her, one carving a line of blood all the way down the mare's ribs. The saddle rolled off her back when the cinch was cut. She squealed and twisted back to clamp the rat's muzzle with square, strong teeth. With jerk of her head, she sent the rat flying. Its limbs twitched spastically, and its head lolled from a broken neck. Rats and dismounted cavalrymen met in a clanging melee. One of the humans went down, but thanks to the mare's berserk attack the remaining ratmen were easily dispatched. Bleeding from a dozen stabs and slices, that horse continued to stamp and pivot on what had once been a dangerous enemy. "May the Sister suck my marrow!" Attaper said in furious amazement. "What's happening? It's wizardry! They're bewitching the horses!" The first skirmish was the model for those to follow. Every time cavalrymen bore down on the rats, their horses went out of control-either panicking or-in a handful of instances-attacking the ratmen in a foaming rage. Generally the dismounted cavalry were able to defend themselves until the infantry reached them, but sometimes the rats hacked down a horseman who'd been stunned in mind as well as body by the unexpected turn of events. "It's not wizardry!" Carus said. The face of the ghost was sallow with cold anger. "It's the smell! The stink of the beasts sets the horses off. I've seen it with camels, and it's the same with thesebloodyrats!" There'd been no wind in the forest. A fitful westerly blew on this side of the ridge, bringing not only the high-pitched chatter of the ratmen but their rank odor. Garric's mount shied. Carus' reflexes clamped his knees tight against the horse's barrel and sawed the reins savagely when the beast tried to pivot to its right. The Blood Eagles around him were in similar straits.

Attaper and some of the others were horsemen by birth or training, but half the detachment came from infantry regiments and rode by dint of single-minded determination. That wasn't enough when their mounts began to pirouette and buck. Garric's horse made a sound that was more a scream than a neigh. It thrust its head forward like a battering ram despite Garric trying to haul back on the reins. They thundered downhill with the suddenness of eagle stooping. Duzi. This gelding's one of the handful that the smell drives into a killing rage instead of a panic. "Jump, your highness!" Attaper shouted. "Sister take this Sister-raping horse! Jump!" Some of that must be directed against his own mount, though he probably wasn't any more pleased with Garric's… The bubbling laughter of the ghost of King Carus was infectious. Garric too chortled as he hurtled toward the ratmen. Carus had picked a horse that wanted to fight. Why would that surprise anybody who knew him? The tall gelding galloped through clots of javelin men and dismounted cavalry. Some fighting was still going on, but the horse apparently didn't think it was worth his attention.

Instead he rode straight at about twenty- "Twenty-two," Carus corrected. -twenty-two rats, several smaller groups which had merged and were advancing uphill in a shallow Vee. Garric was too busy to be afraid. Oh, this was a disaster, no question, but there wouldn't be time to worry until it was over-and probably no opportunity then either, of course. He couldn't jump from the galloping horse, not with a bare sword in his hand. Attaper would've known that if he'd been thinking instead of reacting. Nor could Garric sheath the sword: under these conditions, not even Carus' skill could guarantee the point would find the scabbard mouth instead of the flesh of his thigh. Of course Garric could've hurled the sword away before jumping and taken his chances of being able to escape uphill unarmed while the ratmen pursued. He didn't figure that was an option he'd choose in this lifetime-nor would Carus choose it in another thousand years. He might as well laugh. The gelding charged the center of the line of ratmen.