When Asbjorn returned he was accompanied by Arinbjorn.
"Uncle. Little 'Bjorn says you want me."
"You and your boys have been looking bored. Need thirty men used to mountains, no horses. Easy part involves keeping an eye on our friends over the river. Hard part keeping my grandson from breaking his neck. He's your guide."
After a week of watching men dig, Kiron was getting bored.
"Looks like the sand garden at the summer palace before the gardener had smoothed it out again. Only we didn't have a river to play with."
Giorgios, stretched out in the shade of the earth wall, opened his eyes.
"It's the legions' best weapon."
"The shovel? Slow."
"But sure. Can't put an arrow through two feet of dirt. Not even a bolt from a siege bow. Have to go up against two or three thousand archers, might as well get cover close as we can first."
"I thought we were in a hurry."
"In a hurry, we would be on the other bank by now. Some of us. Commander's waiting for something. My guess, cavalry. While we wait, we dig." Giorgios pointed out over the growing earthworks.
A staff runner: "The Commander sent me to fetch you, sir."
Kiron and Giorgios followed him to where the road bent around a spur of rock. Beyond, out of sight from the river, a dozen wagons, horses. The commander turned, spoke to the runner.
"Tell Second to start sending his boys, small groups. He knows."
Then to Kiron: "What am I doing?"
Kiron looked at the wagons curiously.
"Water barrels. Part of getting the cavalry here? Two weeks to base, then the cavalry has to come back. Besides, not enough wagons."
"The cavalry left base yesterday, if everything went right. They have wagons with them for the first part, water caches, like we had. Due to meet these thirty miles this side of the Oasis—enough water to get them the rest of the way."
"You're sending part of the Second as escort?"
"Four hundred men, some archers. Fifty Ravens for the first day. Past that, they should be safe, but I'm not taking chances—gods know how much of Eagle clan Harald has, and they may have tricks, know water holes I don't. Giorgios says you're bored. Eight days to get the cavalry here, escort and wagons back. Then we move."
"You need cavalry to force the ford?"
"I could do it today, assuming no surprises. I need cavalry to protect our supply lines after we cross, make the enemy keep together. Besides, once they arrive we have to move—nothing this side of the river for the horses to eat."
Kiron looked curiously at the commander.
"You haven't been a farmer. Harald grazed horses and sheep on this side of the river till we came. The grass is eaten all the way down. We could graze our horses farther west, but there might be fords and they'll know where. Too far from the legions gets risky. Once the cavalry comes, we push across."
Night time, four miles west of the ford. Harald peeled off his war coat, spoke to the men around him.
"Supplies on the rafts, armor, anything might sink you or the horse."
The first raft loaded, he called across the river. The rope leading into the dark went taut. Men pushed the raft into the stream; it drifted down and across.
"By decades, when your gear is loaded. Anyone can't swim, ride a raft."
He led the mare into the water.
"Now we wait for the horse boys to show up. Tomorrow if we're lucky. Keep your archers with the wagons while my people dig—less likely to get in the way."
"Lot of work—haven't seen an enemy since we left the river."
"Always a first time. Matter of fact . . . those ours or theirs?"
The captain commanding the escort started shouting orders; the legionaries traded shovels for shields and javelins, formed up in a line two deep. The archers took position behind the shield wall, strung their crossbows.
"Ravens went home three days ago; besides, we don't have that many. This is it. Wish they'd given us another two hours."
More orders bent the line into a long rectangle, two shields deep on the outside and ends, one on the long side towards the wagons and, just beyond, the cliff edge. Behind the shields, crossbowmen. At the center of the formation, surrounding the standard, the reserves. The nomads charged, released a cloud of arrows, split left and right and streamed away. Most of the arrows fell short. One crossbowman shot back.
"Not without orders; till they get closer they're bluffing."
A second charge, this time a little closer. Closer still. The third time the force wheeled right, rode out of range, stopped. Started to move.
It was Kalios's first battle. On one knee in the front rank, shield up, javelin ready, two more clutched in his shield hand. Voices behind him; he knew enough not to turn.
"This may be it. Don't throw till they're in range."
From his left a torrent of riders, some shooting, others flat to the far sides of their horses. Still out of javelin range.
"Archers, at will."
Click of trigger, twang of bowstring behind him. More. Arrows poured from the riders; one glanced from his helm, two hit the shield. Behind him someone cried out. In front, the nomads a continuous stream, half hidden in their own dust.
A panicked voice: "Behind us. Archers on the cliff." A rattle of orders, men shifting position. Kalios held, facing the horsemen, waiting orders, hoping someone was covering his back. The riders kept coming, shooting. The last horse passed, a last few bolts flew after it.
"Gods."
The lancers came out of the dust straight at the line of infantry. As time froze he saw a bolt glance off the chest armor of one of the horses. Kalios drew back his arm to throw. A lance point—shield up to block. Something hit the shield, hard enough to knock him over. Arms and legs in, shield over. Thunder of hooves.
Kalios came to his feet, felt a sharp pain, looked down; an arrow. Looked up. Hundreds of nomads, sitting their horses just out of javelin range; he raised his shield against their arrows. Turned his head left, right.
Where the legionary line had been was a ruin of dead and wounded, mostly theirs, a few enemy lancers, horses.
A desperate trumpet call. What had been the center, a cluster of men around the legion's standard, long spears, a few archers, the space around them empty save for bodies. Kalios limped back to join them, went to one knee in the front rank. The javelin he was still clutching was broken; he dropped it, drew his sword, waited.
The nomads had stopped shooting; the lancers—cats—reformed, sitting their horses some distance off. One rode forward, empty right hand raised.
"Don't shoot; it's a parley. Anyone speak their jabber?"
The rider stopped just beyond javelin range, called out in Tengu.
"Willing to offer you terms; send someone out."
From behind Kalios, the captain's voice.
"Terms hell. Try again, this time we do some of the killing."
The rider hesitated, lowered his hand, pointed.
"Long way home."
Kalios followed the pointing finger. The cliff. Between it and the remnants of the escort, the road was bare. The wagons—food, water, gear—were gone.
Andros was enjoying the quiet. Also the leisure of guarding the gate while much of the Oasis garrison was busy cleaning up. A thousand men, twelve hundred horses packed in and around a small fort for a night made a considerable mess. Now they were gone, south towards the river, the army, the enemy.
Above his head, someone was yelling. Out the gate, in the distance, a cloud of dust. Cavalry coming back?
By the time they were close enough to recognize, half the small garrison was by the gate staring out, the other half on the wall. Forty or fifty legionaries, marching in something well short of their usual rigid order, two pairs carrying stretchers. One wagon.
"Something's gone wrong."
As they came near, more shouts from the wall. A second cloud of dust, moving faster. Mounted men. A lot of mounted men.
"Cavalry's back."
Bugle calls, orders. The crowd inside the gate thinned out, vanished, as men went for weapons, manned the wall.
"What's the commander worried about?"
From above, someone answered him.
"Nomads. Not sure they're ours. A lot of them."
By the time the tired legionaries reached the gate, the uncertainty had gone; the cavalry was shooting at them. One of the men fell, lay still.
"Get that damn wagon clear; we need the gate closed."
Instead the lead legionaries attacked the gate guards. Men behind pulled bows and quivers out of the stretchers, started shooting at archers on the wall. The front rank of the pursuing cavalry split, nomads circling the wall, pouring in arrows. Behind them a long column of cats through the gate at a trot. The defenders, surprised, outnumbered ten to one, caught between archers inside and outside the wall, surrendered or died. In a few minutes it was over.
Konstantin felt hands on his body, a stab of pain. He opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in one of the bunk houses; someone was leaning over him.
"Arrow's out. Lie still. Don't want to start the bleeding again."
"Who. What . . ."
"Surprise attack; Oasis is ours now. Artos won't be happy. Don't worry; we don't eat prisoners."
"You're speaking Tengu."
"Wake up to someone pulling arrows out of me, helps if they speak something I understand. Here."
The commander drank down the water, closed his eyes a moment, opened them.
"Artos won't be happy with me. How'd you get here?"
"Rode."
"Water?"
"Artos sent water wagons north to meet his cavalry. We used them instead. He took Eagle clan oasis, now we've taken his. When the war is over we can trade, everyone goes home. Fair man, won't blame you. Rest."
The next time the commander woke it was almost dark. Noise of wagon wheels on stone pavement, voices. The door opened. By the light through it he could see that the bunk room held half a dozen wounded. The man coming through was medium height, broad. Lamellar armor.
"Awake again? Water wagons just came in. Between them and what you have, shouldn't die of thirst any time soon. Might even get your cavalry home alive, with luck."
"I don't understand."
"Cavalry you sent south this morning. We dodged them coming north. Wagons did too, not so easy. Artos sent troops with his wagons, folk we borrowed armor from to get through your gate. About now the cavalry is meeting what's left of them. Three days to the river—they don't have the water, not even close. One day back here. Ravens might scatter, head west. Run into some friends of mine if they do. Rest of the cavalry should show up here late tomorrow. Thirsty. My problem, theirs, not yours any more."
"You're Harald."
"And you're Commander Konstantin. Easier for me; we don't use rank badges. You guested my foster son two months back, spoke well of your hospitality. Impressed by your pool, too. Told me all about it."
"And you . . ."
"Green fish, nothing like that around here, sounded like something belongs in salt water. My boys, clan brothers, couple of Ladies, dropped by one night to deliver."
When the Imperial cavalry got back to the Oasis they found the gate shut. After a few arrows from the walls, one of the riders noticed that what was flying above was no longer the gold banner of the Empire. They withdrew out of range to consider the matter.
The gate opened. A man on foot came out, right hand raised and empty, waited. More deliberation before a cavalry officer dismounted, came to meet him.
"'Fore you and your friends try to get this place back, come in and look around. Six hundred cats, two hundred Westkin. Bows, behind walls. Water. Rather not kill horses if I don't have to. Or men."
When he got back to the cavalry, the rest of the command group gathered around him.
"Not a chance. They have near as many men as we have, maybe more. Mostly cats. We could make a grand charge and die gloriously, but it'll be outside the walls. We can't siege; they have water, we don't."
"We could send a courier back to base for help."
"By the time he got there we'd mostly be dead. Same thing the other direction."
There was a long pause before someone asked the obvious question.
"What terms are they offering?"
"They get horses, armor, gear. We swear not to fight outside the Empire or against Harald or his allies till we're ransomed—leave a few officers as hostages. We get wagons, water—enough to get us home on foot. One horse for a courier to base to tell them to send supplies and more water to meet us."
"Once we give them everything and march north, what's to keep them from coming after? At least now we have armor."
"Die from an arrow in the ribs, die of thirst, not much difference. Besides, it's Harald."
One of the other officers spoke:
"Buddy of mine was in the army he smashed east of the mountains two, three years ago. They surrendered on terms. He got home alive. I say yes."
They set off the next morning, a long column of men on foot, two wagons. The last were scarcely out of sight when the first group of nomads arrived and set up camp—half a dozen riders, Bear clan pennon. Harald went out to meet them, exchange courtesies. By noon, they had been joined by parties from three other clans, each with its own small camp outside the walls.
Konstantin, shaky but on his feet, watched from the wall, tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Nomads on foot were wandering through the herd of captured horses, looking at them, occasionally leading one away from the water troughs to join a small herd next to one of the camps.
"What's going on?"
The cat who had helped him up the stairs looked blank. Konstantin tried again, this time, slowly and carefully, in the speech of the plains.
"What are they doing?"
The cat grinned: "Biggest horse market plains ever saw."
As the day passed, more buyers appeared. Over one camp Konstantin noticed a Raven pennon. Later, having accepted Harald's invitation to join him for the evening meal, he asked about it.