"Call the attack!" Otah yelled. He looked for his messengers, but only two of them were in earshot, and neither was Nayiit. Otah gestured to the nearest of them. "Call the attack!"
The charge was ragged, but it was not hesitant. He could hear it when the footmen got word-a loud whooping yell that seemed to have no particular start nor any end. One man's voice took up where another paused for breath. Otah cantered forward. His horsemen were streaming forward as well now, careful not to outstrip the footmen by too great a distance, and Otah saw the Galtic archers falling back, their own soldiers coming to the fore.
The two sides met with a sound like buildings falling. Shouts and screams mingled, and any nuanced plan was gone. Otah's urge to rush forward was as much the desire to see more clearly what was happening as to defend the men he'd brought. His archers drew and fired sporadically until he called them to stop. There was no way to see who the arrows struck.
The mass of men in the valley writhed. Once a great surge on Otah's left seemed to press into the Galtic ranks, but it was pushed back. He heard drums and trumpet calls. That's a good idea, Otah thought. Drums and trumpets.
The shouting seemed to go on forever. The sun slowly rose in its arc as the men engaged, pulled hack, and rushed at one another again. And with every passing breath, Utah saw more of his men fall. More of his men than of the Galts. He forced his mount nearer. He couldn't judge how many he'd lost. The bodies in the mud might have been anyone.
A sudden upsurge in the noise of the battle caught him. His footmen were roaring and surging forward, the center of the enemy's line giving way. "Call them to stand!" Otah shouted, his voice hoarse and fading. "Stand!"
But if they heard the call, the footmen didn't heed it. They pressed forward, into the gap in the Galtic line. A trumpet blared three times, and the signal given, the Galtic horsemen that had held to the rear, left and right both, turned to the center and drove into Utah's men from either side. It had been a trap, and a simple one, and they had stepped in it. Call the retreat, Utah thought wildly, I have to call the retreat. And then from the right, he heard the retreat called.
Someone had panicked; someone had given the order before he could. His horsemen turned, unwilling, it seemed, to leave the footmen behind. A few footmen broke, and then a few more, and then, as if coming loose, Otah's army turned its backs to the Galts and ran. Otah saw some horsemen trying to draw off the pursuing Galts, but most were flying hack in retreat themselves. Otah spun his horse and saw, back on the field, the remnants of his wedges of archers fleeing as well.
"No!" he shouted. "Not you! Stop where you are!"
No one heard him. He was a leaf in a storm now, command gone, hope gone, his men being slaughtered like winter pork. Otah dug his heels into his mount's sides, leaned low, and shot off in pursuit of the archers. It was folly riding fast over mud-slick ground, but Otah willed himself forward. The fleeing archers looked hack over their shoulders at the sound of his hooves, and had the naivete to look relieved that it was him. He rode through the nearest wedge, knocking several to the ground, then pulled up before them and pointed hack at the men behind them.
"Loose your arrows," Utah croaked. "It's the only chance they have! Loose arrows!"
The archers stood stunned, their wide confused faces made Utah think of sheep confronted by an unexpected cliff. He had brought farmers and smiths onto a battlefield. He had led men who had never known more violence than brawling drunk outside a comfort house to fight soldiers. Utah dropped from his horse, took a how and quiver from the nearest man, and aimed high. He never saw where his arrow went, but the bowmen at least began to understand. One by one, and then in handfuls, they began to send their arrows and bolts up over the retreating men and into the charging Galts.
"'They'll kill us!" a boy shrieked. "There's a thousand of them!"
"Kill the first twenty," Otah said. "I'hen let the ones still standing argue about who'll lead the next charge."
Behind them, the other fleeing archers had paused. As the first of the fleeing horsemen passed, Otah caught sight of Ashua Radaani and raised his hands in a pose that called the man to a halt. "There was blood on Radaani's face and arms, and his eyes were wide with shock. Otah strode to him.
"Go to the other archers. "fell them that once the men have reached us here, they're to start loosing arrows. We'll come hack with the men."
"You should come now, Most High," Radaani said. "I can carry you."
"I have a horse," (bah said, though he realized he couldn't say what had become of his mount. "Go. Just go!"
The Galtic charge thinned as they drew into range of the arrows. Utah saw two men fall. And then, almost miraculously, the Galts began to pull back. Utah's footmen came past him, muddy and bleeding and weeping and pale with shock. Some carried wounded men with them. Some, Utah suspected, carried men already dead. The last, or nearly the last, approached, and Utah turned, gesturing to the archers, and they all walked back together. The few Galts that pressed on were dissuaded by fresh arrows. Ashua had reached the other wedge. "Thank the gods for that, at least.
The army of Machi, three thousand strong that morning, found itself milling about, confused and without structure as the evening sun lengthened their shadows. They had fled back past the northern lip of the valley where they had made camp the night before onto green grass already tramped flat by their passage. Some supply wagons and tents and fresh water had been caught up in the retreat, but more was strewn over the ground behind them. The wounded were lined up on hillsides and cared for as best the physicians could. Many of the wounds were mild, but there were also many who would not live the night.
The scouts were the first to recover some sense of purpose. The couriers of the trading houses rode back and forth, reporting the movements of the Galts now that the battle was finished. They had scoured the field, caring for their own men and killing the ones Otah had left behind. Then, with professional efficiency, they had made their camp and prepared their dinner. It was clear that the Galts considered the conflict ended. 'T'hey had won. It was over.
As darkness fell, Otah made his way through the camps, stopped at what cook fires there were. No one greeted him with violence, but he saw anger in some eyes and sorrow in others. By far the most common expression was an emptiness and disbelief. When at last he sat on his cot-set under the spreading limbs of a shade tree in lieu of his tenthe knew that however many men he had lost on the battlefield, twice as many would have deserted by morning. Otah laid an arm over his eyes, his body heavy with exhaustion, but totally unable to sleep.
In the long, dreadful march to this battle, not one man had turned hack. At the time, it had warmed Otah's heart. Now he wanted them all to flee. Go back to their wives and their children and their parents. Go hack to where it was safe and forget this mad attempt to stop the world from crumbling. Except he couldn't imagine where safety might be. The Dai-kvo would fall if he hadn't already. The cities of the Khaiem would fall. Machi would fall. For years, he had had the power to command the death of Galt. Stone-Made-Soft could have ruined their cities, sunk their lands below the waves. All of this could have been stopped once, if he had known and had the will. And now it was too late.
"Most High?"
Otah raised his arm, sat up. Nayiit stood in the shadows of the tree. Otah knew him by his silhouette.
"Nayiit-kya," Otah said, realizing it was the first he'd seen Liat's son since the battle. Nayiit hadn't even crossed his mind. He wondered what that said about him. Nothing good. "Are you all right?"