“Let’s go!” he shouted, and sprang into the saddle.
The four Islanders swung southwest at a hard pounding gallop, away from the fight, out into more open country—the difference in height was invisible to the naked eye, but there weren’t any trees and the grass got shorter. Giernas kept an eye over his right shoulder at the melee of horses and men, shouts and shots, edged steel and wood and chipped volcanic glass. Right about now that balls-for-brains Tartessian commander was finally going to do the only possible thing—
A trumpet sounded, high and sweet. He didn’t recognize the pattern of notes. The enemy did, turning due west and spurring their horses. With no cover and plenty of room the horsemen could fire and retreat, fire and retreat, until the Indians broke and ran. The Tartessians could even ride far enough away to dismount and fire, then mount again before their enemies could come close.
The Indians gave chase, working at a tireless lope that was far slower than a horse’s best, but which they could keep up much longer. Men in good condition could run down horses or deer, and most of this continent’s hunters did that sort of thing on a regular basis. The Tartessians were at a full gallop now heading due west, pulling away fast; getting a little ahead of the Islanders as well, since they were on diverging courses.
“And about now, they’re going to find out why we picked this place for an ambush, too,” Giernas shouted gleefully, holding the unfamiliar mount on a tight rein.
The first Tartessian horse went down with shocking abruptness; it was the signaler’s, right next to the commander. The pop of breaking cannon bone as the horse’s leg plunged into the ground-squirrel hole wasn’t audible at this distance, but he could see Eddie wincing in horseman’s sympathy. The bugler flew half a dozen paces and hit the ground hard, not looking as if he was going to get up. Then another horse went down, and another, and the Tartessians started to rein in. You couldn’t make horses run into bad ground.
“Down!” Giernas shouted, slugging his own horse to a stop.
It reared but halted, well trained. He kicked his feet out of the saddle and swung his right over the animal’s head, sliding to the ground. “OK, Dobbin,” he said. “Let’s see if you get to live out the day.”
Islander military mounts—and ranger horses—had a certain range of commands drilled in; presumably the Tartessians had copied. He pulled the horse’s head around toward its shoulder and pressed down sharply on its back, pulling to the rear at the same time. It rolled eyes with white showing all around them, then obediently collapsed, hind legs first, lying down to form a living breastwork—a good choice, since he’d have had to shoot it otherwise.
The saddle, too, was copied from the Republic of Nantucket’s military model, a modified Western type. He unbuckled the saddlebag’s flap cover, felt around inside, and brought out a pair of ten-round cloth ammunition containers, ripping them open with his teeth while he scanned the open grassland ahead. He could see the young officer give his orders, and most of his men dismounted and put their horses down in front of them to form a defensive circle. They opened up on the Indians, steady aimed fire that stopped the charge in its tracks and sent the locals to ground.
Two others headed off southwest, moving their mounts at a rapid walk, to take word and bring help.
“Smart, but too late,” Giernas said.
I hope.
“Get ’em!”
He sat, braced his elbows on his knees, adjusted the sights and aimed carefully, raising the muzzle.
Crack.
The others opened fire as well. A horse went down, then rose again, but one leg was useless, too painful for it to put weight on. The rider slid to the ground, threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, then hesitated and put the rifle behind the animal’s ear and fired before running back toward his comrades. Lead slugs clipped grass around the other Tartessian. Then he reeled where he sat; Giernas could see the little cloud of dust where a bullet struck his leather jerkin.
Something went
shrrack!
through the air above Giernas’s head. He threw himself down and returned the favor, reloaded, fired again. It was extreme range, nearly nine hundred yards, but they were a big target. The commander had planted a staff in the ground at the middle of the circle with the Tartessian pennant flying. As Giernas watched a group of Indians made a rush, well spread out. Bullets kicked up grass fragments and dirt at their feet, and one spun and fell backward screaming. The others went to cover again.
Another had worked his way around the circle covered by the Tartessian rifles, all the way to the stalled wagon. He flopped to the ground near Giernas; then the two men looked at each other, realizing suddenly that they had no word in common.
“Jaddi!” he called. “Tidtaway!”
Get the iron tube and its legs from the wagon,
he thought, preparing for the work of translation and ducking slightly as another bullet cut a path above his head. The horse snorted, but kept still as he fired across its flank. Even a light field mortar outranged rifles comfortably.
Bring it back there-
another three hundred yards southward should make a safe firing position. And then ...
Ahead, a faint rhythmic sound came from the embattled Tartessians. It was a moment before he realized it was singing. Jaditwara paused in her leopard-crawl through the grass, her rifle across the crooks of her elbows.
“It is, how you say, a hymn,” she said. “A hymn to the Lady of Tartessos, they ask her to welcome her children home to her.” Giernas’s mouth quirked. The yellow-haired girl went on: “That they are brave does not mean they are not bad, Pete.”
He nodded, sighing. He’d do whatever it took to win, and to win safety for his child and friends, but there were times he didn’t like the taste of it.
The site of the battle was much as Peter Giernas had left it an hour ago, although the locals had gotten tired of jumping around and waving their new knives and swords in the air; a few were dressed in bits and pieces of Tartessian uniform. The captured horses were staked out to a picket line, at least, and his friends had seen that the rifles were collected. Birds were wheeling overhead, buzzards, condors, even a few hawks and eagles—none of them fussy eaters, he knew. The bodies had been piled up into a heap. He sighed as he came close.
“Yeah! Come up there!”
Eddie Vergeraxsson bent, gripped the central tuft of a dead man’s hair, and made a quick circle with his skinning knife, wrenching and pulling as he did. The locals looked on with expressions ranging from awe through horror to fascination; scalping wasn’t a widespread custom in the Americas of this era. It
was
among the Sun People of Alba, though, when they didn’t have a chance to take the whole head home and nail it over the doorway.
More of the Indians were wandering around the heaped corpses, some brandishing captured swords; others were sitting by their own dead, singing quietly in a wailing falsetto,. minor-key laments. They’d lost more men than the Tartessians, even in victory.
“Eddie, cut that out—you’re giving them ideas, goddammit.”
“Okay, Pete,” the other ranger said cheerfully. “Though—I mean, hell, if you want to keep their ghosts down you have to at least ... oh, well, sorry.” He stopped, picked up one of the locals’ darts, stripped off the feathers to make it look more like a spear, and ceremoniously threw it over the mound of corpses, dedicating them to Sky Father and the Crow Goddess.
Giernas nodded.
There isn’t a man in the world I’d rather have at my back in a fight or beside me on a hunt, he thought. You can rely on Eddie, and he’s fun to sit down and have a beer with, too. I love him like a brother. It’s just that sometimes he’s an asshole, is all.
He rode on to the wagon. Sue and Jaditwara were inside, talking as they inventoried the contents:
“... nucleosis you Eagle People are always on about.”
“Monogamy. Mononucleosis is a disease.”
“As I said.”
“Little Jared’s cute as a button; but raising kids sure is easier with an extra pair of hands. We’ll even find a use for you-know-who—”
He could tell by the way they cut off when he reined in that they’d been talking about him.
Women,
he thought.
Grand creatures, but Lord do they like to gossip.
He slid out of the saddle and tethered the horses, taking Jared from his mother and swinging him high until he gurgled and giggled, then handing him back.
“Everything okay?” he asked Sue anxiously.
“Hi, Indigo! Yeah, s’okay, Pete. I talked some with the Tartessian medico—slight concussion, gave her some willow-bark extract—and they’re using the straight Jenner vaccination technique. That cow most definitely has cowpox, too.”
She brought down a wooden box, brown olive wood marked with a device like an inverted pyramid divided by a line, and bound with brass at the comers. Opened, it revealed vials marked in the Tartessian tongue, with English translations, hypodermics, scalpels, probes.
“She’s not a doctor, really, even by their standards—about equivalent to me, sort of, if Jaditwara understands what she said. This is the cowpox serum. Matter from the udder sores, egg medium.” The serum was in little wax-and-cork sealed glass vials nested in individual bolls of cotton, labeled by date.
“I’m using one of my hypos, our needles are finer.” She broke the seals, jabbed in the point of the hypodermic. “We want this just under the skin—putting it in a scratch would do it, but this’ll be faster.”
“And then we will be safe from the sickness, sister?” Indigo asked, looking at the hypodermic with interest. She’d seen them used before, mostly for administering morphia. Everyone had had an injury or two over the past year, and the expedition had doled out a little painkiller now and then to people they were guesting with.
“You may get a few days of feeling ill, light fever, maybe a bit of a rash. Then you’ll be safe forever; from the smallpox, at least, sister.”
Spring Indigo slipped the buckskin shirt down from her shoulder, face impassive at the slight sting, and then held the piece of cotton fluff on the spot until it stuck. When she noticed him watching her milk-full breasts, she rolled the hip she was holding Jared on a little and winked.
The toddler smiled and babbled and tried to grab at Sue as Spring Indigo brought him ’round. His cry of Mama! turned into a wail of betrayal as the needle jabbed his buttock.
“There, there, sweetums,” Sue said. “There there—momma will make it all better.”
Not from the way he’s sounding, Giernas thought, amusement bubbling up under a vast wash of relief.
Nothing wrong with this boy’s lungs.
Startled and angry more than hurt, but loud.
“You’re one to tease us about monogamy,” he grumbled to Jaditwara. “Hell, you stick to Eddie like glue. Even when you’re fighting and you drive him crazy with that cold-shoulder act.”
“I like Eddie,” the ex-Fiernan ranger said. “I want to stay with him and have children together. He just needs to learn that ‘my woman’ isn’t the same thing as ’my horse.’ You Eagle People started his ... how do you say, consciousness lifting ... and I’m finishing it.”
Young Jared’s wails turned into sobs. The three women gathered around making soothing noises; he felt a little of the usual adult-male uselessness that such occasions brought out, and walked over to where Tidtaway and the local chief and Eddie were moving slowly along the line of captured rifles leaning against a log. Their mountaineer guide already had one of the rifles over his shoulder, and a bandolier and bayonet at his waist, he noted. Others of the war band were butchering the fallen oxen and horses.
“Give me a hand for a second, Eddie,” he said.
They unhitched the rest of the ox-team, watching as the big red-and-white beasts lumbered out into the open grass away from the disturbing smell of blood and strange humans. They shook themselves out, milled around, and began to graze. Won’t go far, Giernas thought; he’d worked a fair bit with oxen when he did stints as a timber runner for the sawmills in Providence Base. It helped that there was good grazing and water here. The other ranger nodded agreement.
“All looking good, Pete,” Eddie said. “We’ve got twenty-six horses fit to ride. Six of the rifles really out of commission, but one’s just a hammer sheared off. I think I can fix that from the Tartessians’ kits; they have some spare parts.”
“How much ammo?”
“Most of them had a few rounds left in their bandoliers, didn’t get a chance to shoot themselves dry. Another fifty each in the saddlebags, and more in the wagon, with priming powder to suit. Hey, Jaddi! What’s it all come to?”
The ranger woman looked up from the circle at the tail of the vehicle. “Two hundred eight rounds per weapon, Eddie.”
“Yuk-huk-sau
-hau-hau-hau-hau!
” Eddie Vergeraxsson whooped and shook his own weapon southward toward the Tartessian fort two days’ march away. “We’ve got the mortar, twenty bombs for it, and the rocket launcher and ten rockets.”
“Hmmmm,” Giernas said, lifting the bronze tube.
It weighed about twenty pounds. Nothing complicated, just two wooden handholds fastened to the weapon with rivets, an elementary ring-and-post sight, and brackets where a conical boiled-leather shield could be fastened to protect the user’s face from the backblast. In operation a loader would push rockets up the rear and set off their fuses with a flint-and-steel lighter.
“Well, we’re going to have to use up some of that rifle ammunition showing the locals how to use ’em,” he said. “Say ten rounds or so.”
Eddie nodded; the unspoken thought went between them:
For all the good that’ll do.
It took time to make a rifleman, and a lot of practice at things like estimating ranges. These single-shot weapons weren’t submachine guns, you couldn’t spray bullets in the general direction of the enemy and pray for a hit. They were precision instruments, or they were just noisy clubs. The locals would probably be nearly as formidable with their spear-throwing atlatls; at least they really knew how to use those. But having death-sticks of their own would undoubtedly do wonders for their morale.