By the time the Imperial cavalry came in sight, the royal army had formed up in a long double line, right crossing the road to the forest beyond, reserves behind. Horn calls rang out on the Imperial side; the advancing force slowed, stopped. On their right, almost out of sight, sunlight caught ripples on the Caldbeck, the river that carried the mountain streams north to Borderflood.
Anton turned to Vija. "Your count?"
The scout commander took one more look, thought a moment.
"More than His Majesty thought, fewer than he feared. Five thousand or so heavies, maybe a thousand lights—mounted archers. Haven't seen any cats, aside from a couple of scouts west of us—I expect the rest are off making life hard for my boys."
"And we have almost nine thousand, more than half of them heavies."
"Looks like they can count too."
The royal army was moving, retreating south along the forest edge. Anton watched for a moment, signaled the trumpeter, turned back.
"I think we have them."
Half an hour later, James turned to the captain riding beside him.
"Other than exercising their horses, what are they doing—trying to chase us a hundred miles south?"
"Don't know. I thought they'd use the fast cavalry to get around, try to force us to battle. Their right wing is pushed a little ahead of the main body, but not much. Something . . ."
As they came over the next low rise and started down the answer became suddenly clear. Less than two miles south of them the river swung in a long bend towards the forest then away. At the narrowest point, from the trees to the river, a solid line of spears, behind them the banners of two legions.
Half a mile the other side of the royal army, Anton gave the scout commander beside him a fierce grin, turned to his trumpeter.
Behind them, someone was yelling. Anton hesitated, turned in the saddle. A scout, forcing his way through the ranks of heavy cavalry towards his commander.
"Cats, sir. Behind us. Thousands and thousands of them."
"Vija. See what the hell it is. If the Karls start shifting west to get across the river we charge; as long as they don't we can afford to wait."
The scout commander pushed his way back. In the rear ranks he could see men pointing backwards, hear the rising clamor. He spent most of a minute looking before turning, moving again through the lines to the commander's side.
"What is it? There can't be thousands and thousands of cats—whole damn host is only two thousand. Your boys supposed to be watching for them."
"The whole damn host is here—west and north of us, moving this way. They brought some friends."
Anton gave him a puzzled look. "More Karl heavies?"
Vija shook his head.
"Nomads decided to come after all. Two or three thousand of them. The numbers don't look so good any more."
Anton looked south. The Karl cavalry in battle formation facing him was beginning to move, heavies center and right, lights on the left. One last order to his trumpeter. He lifted his lance from its socket, swung it down as the notes of the charge rang out. In the middle of the enemy line he recognized the banner of the Karl king, aimed his horse for it. Faster and faster.
Center and left met center and right, five thousand heavy cavalry on each side at the charge, a tangle of men and horses. On the royal left the Order, outnumbered four to one, wheeled, fled south and west. Trumpet calls on the Imperial right called back pursuit, swung the lighter forces to fall on the royal center from behind. The Order swung round in turn, dissolved into a line of archers on foot shooting into the rear of the enveloping force.
James, lance shattered, pulled out his sword, pushed forward. A big man, beard sticking out under his visor, struck two-handed; the blow drove the King's shield back into his face. He backed his horse, saw his guard captain catch a second blow on his shield, strike back. Something hit his shoulder with numbing force. He wheeled the horse, the next mace blow on his shield, return blow blocked. Forward against the enemy, tried to get in a second blow. More around him, a pain in his side, his own guard coming up on his right. Another blow on the armor. The bearded man again. He tried to raise his shield, half made it, felt the blow on shield and helm. The two-handed sword again. Slow as a dream, the sword drifted up. James tried to raise his shield, knew he would never make it in time. Red hair on the pillow.
Anton, shield raised against a Karl sword, felt a sharp pain in his back, another in his leg. Struck, blocked, struck. Something was wrong with his arm. He looked down. An arrow point sticking out of it. The Karl had pulled back; Anton turned in his saddle. Fifty yards behind him a solid line of mounted archers, pouring arrows into the rear of his dissolving line. Filled with fury, light as air, he wheeled his horse, charged them.
Harald lowered his bow, turned to Donal beside him.
"Thought so; they're digging."
He pointed beyond the ruin of the battlefield. A mile farther south, where the advancing line of the Imperial legions had been, a shorter line—a wall of freshly dug dirt.
Justin leaned on his shovel, wiped the sweat from his eyes, wondered when the last time was a senior legion commander had helped move dirt. All things considered, more digging and less commanding looked like a good idea.
"Sir. Karl to talk to you."
At the front entrance he stopped, looked back. The wall was up to four feet; with luck the enemy couldn't see the rear rampart, where men were still working furiously. He didn't know how many the Karls had out there, but with a legion and a half to hold them he needed all the help he could get.
"Want an escort, sir?" He shook his head, walked through the gateway.
The man waiting for him was a cat, dismounted, one hand on his horse's neck. Not young. Should have brought a translator. But surely the man they sent would speak at least some Tengu.
The cat said something to his horse, looked up, gave the commander a friendly nod.
"Figure your boys could use a rest. Must have been up all night getting here."
Justin said nothing, waited.
"Field ours. Lot of wounded out there, both sides. Truce till dark, free to bandage them there, carry here, we don't interfere, your people don't get in our way doing the same. Lend you some horses to help. Wounded prisoners who can ride we keep, can't ride, give us their word not to fight, yours. Too badly hurt, village west of here, you don't try to get them back. After sunset no promises either way. Agreed?"
Justin thought a moment, searched for hidden traps, failed to find any.
"Very generous. I'm the senior commander, can accept for our side. You have authority for yours?"
"His Majesty isn't in shape to agree to things just now. Leaves me."
He reached out a hand, Justin took it.
Three hours later, Harald plunged arms, face, into a pool at the forest edge. As the ripples died his reflection looked back. A little less like a butcher. He straightened, sore muscles complaining, whistled. The mare trotted over. Blood, his or other people's, was nothing new.
Riding back to the field, he noticed a body of cavalry, dismounted, disarmed. A smaller number of cats were guarding them, one talking with one of his prisoners.
"Hedin. Friends of yours?"
"One of them—three years ago."
"Interested in another try—starting now?"
"Empire might have hostages."
"I don't speak Belkhani. Put it to them, welcome to come over to our side, any that can without getting kin killed, reasonable terms, let me know. Can't promise them help afterwards, do what we can—no province I'd rather see out of the Empire. Fight for us, at least get back horses, arms, can go home when it's done."
He took one more look at the prisoners—three hundred men, most of them still on their feet—rode back to the battlefield.
Just before dark, he spoke with Justin again, this time on the field where tired legionaries were carrying away a last few men too badly wounded to walk.
"I don't suppose you want to extend the truce till morning?"
Harald responded with a friendly smile, shook his head.
"Emperor decides to go home, leave me and my friends alone, sleep all you like. Not just now. Sun sets, hope you don't get killed, do my best to see you do."
By the time the camp came in sight, gold flag flying as bravely as when they set out, Justin was stumbling with exhaustion. He called a halt to dress ranks; however tired, he would come home in good order. The ragged mass of cavalry, horses, wounded, was past his power to deal with. At least the legions were still unbroken.
The gate was closed; half a legion made only a skeleton garrison, but the junior commander should at least be able to find sentries who could see. Now it was opening. Behind him he heard a scout, something about the cavalry behind them. Justin didn't bother to turn around; without looking he could feel the weight of the army that had followed them all day, never attacked. Soon it would lift. Harald had been unwilling, even against exhausted men, to risk storming last night's camp, unwilling to attack in the open in daylight. Two legions, behind walls, would be safe. He could sleep. The morning, the report to the Emperor, what followed . . . For now, sleep was enough.
The gates swung closed. The ramparts were black with heads. Under the rain of arrows the front ranks, eyes on the ground, shields on their shoulders, melted. Justin turned. Arrows from the other side as well, cats finally closing. Archers in front, archers behind. The trumpeter next to him was staring at his horn, frozen in panic. Justin snatched it from his hand, raised it. Square, what was the call for form square? Something struck him in the throat. He tried to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye the banner staff coming down, reached out to catch it, stumbled, fell.
Justin tried to close his eyes against that final picture, his legion's banner, falling, around it a chaos of dead and dying. Close—his eyes were closed. He forced them open.
A low cot in a tent full of bodies. One moved, another moaned—wounded men. He tried to form words, say something. One arm bound to his body; he lifted the other. His neck was wrapped in bandages. He closed his eyes. This time behind them was dark.
He woke to someone lifting his head, water dripping into his mouth.
"Swallow. Know it hurts but need to drink. Arrow through the neck, missed the artery. Out now."
He opened his mouth, swallowed. The voice was right. Swallowed again, again. Sank back into the familiar dark. Sleep.
Something was wrong. By the river downhill from the tent, a rising clamor, coming closer. Voice of the guard outside:
"Council, soldier. His Majesty . . ."
"Send him in."
The soldier was out of armor, bare to the waist, half a dozen waterbags slung over his shoulder. He saw the Emperor, saluted.
"Majesty, it's the river. It's dry."
The man looked down at himself, flushed.
"Pardon, Majesty. I thought . . ."
"Pardoned. You were right. The river has stopped flowing completely?"
"Yes, Majesty. There's still water in some of the pools."
The Emperor looked around, thought a moment.
"Twelfth, you aren't doing anything just now. The Karls are damming the river somewhere above Eston. Your job is to find the dam, take it, break it.
"It could be a trick, with an ambush somewhere up slope. Watch for it. Harald's a tricky bastard.
"Gerd, you're in charge of supplies—as of now, that includes water in pools in the riverbed. Fill every barrel we have, guard what's left, don't let some idiot wash in it. All up and down the valley, till you get to where the next river comes in.
"There are big storage tanks in the castle. Empty our barrels into them, send the wagons west, refill at that stream that comes down from the hills, bring the barrels back full. The siege may last a while yet, we could get thirsty."
The Emperor spent the next afternoon inspecting the siege, accompanied by the senior of the three legion commanders conducting it. Eston was ringed by earthworks, behind them archers. Farther back, siege engines, slowly pounding at the city wall.
"I suppose mining is hopeless?"
The commander shook his head.
"Like the castle—the whole thing is built on rock. You can see how the river bent around it. We'll use archers and engines to clear the walls, breach if we're lucky, rams, mostly for the gate, siege towers. The river's shallow—if it fills up again, men on that side can wade it when we go in. They'll still need ladders to get up to the wall—you can see it's almost a cliff—then over it. It isn't going to be easy. Wish I knew how many soldiers were inside."
"Not as many as we thought."
"Your Majesty has someone . . . ?"
The Emperor shook his head, started back to his tent, the commander beside him.
"The garrison of the castle was only five, six hundred—and the King wasn't there. I'm guessing it's the same story here. The last few days we were coming south the army ahead of us was getting smaller, not bigger. It was down to a thousand or so by the time we turned east. Five hundred south of us in the open, where we could count them, five hundred up the valley ahead of us where we couldn't.
"We figured that was the whole army, most of it retreating behind walls. The real army was assembling out on the plains with Harald to lead it. I hope Justin is being careful."
The Emperor stopped. The commander had turned his head, was listening to something. A moment later he heard it too—a dull roar from the direction of the river. It faded. For a moment he thought he could he could hear the noise of running water, then it was drowned out by distant voices.
"Twelfth did it. "
An officer was hurrying up from the river; the Emperor sat down on his chair in the tent, gestured to one of the servants, looked up as the man came into the tent.