The battle raged with more intensity at the base of the distant walls, and more and more ladders fell against them. Occasionally, firebombs arced up in high trajectories and fell among the defenders beyond his view. Matt surmised the enemy must have some sort of portable machine or was difficult to tell through his binoculars how well the Aryaalans were holding because of the odd, jouncing gait of his mount. He heard a different note from the horns of the Grik in front of them, one with a kind of strident edge. He thought, incongruously, that they really needed to come up with some means like that for the Lemurians to signal one another. Their mouths were shaped all wrong to blow on a bugle. They had some woodwind-type horns, but they just weren’t loud enough. Maybe the conch-like shells they blew as a warning? Even simple whistles would be better than nothing. He should have thought of that sooner. He wondered how the Grik managed it. The way their mouths were shaped, he couldn’t see how they could do anything with them other than tear flesh.
At three hundred yards, a single command echoed up and down the line.
«Shields!»
The tall, rectangular shields made from bronze plate backed with wood that the first two ranks carried clashed together as they were locked, side to side, overlapping one another to form a mobile wall. Spears came down in unison and rested on the top edges of the shields as the army advanced. It was an impressive display and Matt wondered what the enemy thought. He knew the sight had horrified the enemies of Rome, but he had no idea how the Grik would react. A smattering of crossbow bolts fluttered toward them. Most landed short, but a few thunked into the shield wall. A single piercing scream reached his ears from far to the left. His unlikely mount lumbered mindlessly along with a kind of quartering, rolling motion, following behind the trotting ranks but easily keeping up with its plodding, long-legged pace.
«Halt!» came the cry at two hundred yards, and the advance ground to a stop. For a moment there was a little confusion as the ranks realigned themselves. A runner dashed up from where Shinya had stopped with his staff a short distance away. He spoke in carefully enunciated English. «Lieutenant Shinya sends his respects, sir, and asks if he may commence firing?»
«By all means,» Matt answered. With a salute, the young runner scampered away. Matt glanced down and saw Keje standing with Chief Gray. The Chief was practically supporting him as the Lemurian wheezed and Matt felt a pang of shame. The advance from the barricade had to have been tough on his portly friend. Keje was strong as a bull, but Matt doubted he’d had many occasions to trot as far as he had. «Keje,» he called, «why don’t you join me up here? You can sure see better. There’s plenty of room.»
Keje eyed the beast with suspicion, but gratefully nodded his head. He climbed swiftly onto the platform and settled next to Matt and Lord Rolak’s aide. He was still puffing a little. «I grow too old,» he said, «and my legs are too short for this fighting on land.» He shook his head. «It is unnatural.»
Matt glanced behind them and smiled. «But you didn’t come much farther than the length of Big Sal. Hell, I doubt it was as far.»
«Perhaps, but Salissa does not clutch at your feet as you run, and her decks are flat and you do not sink into them.»
«Batteries, forward!» came the command. «Archers, prepare!» Gaps opened in the shield wall to allow the guns to be pushed through. Their crews immediately raced to load them with fixed charges consisting of thin tin canisters filled with two hundred three-quarter-inch balls on top of a wooden sabot to which was attached a fabric bag of powder. In carefully choreographed, highe had heard the thunder. Not just the thunder from the ships, which he’d begun to hear already, but the thunder that came from the sea folk land force. That was when he had known it wouldn’t be long before they called him, and he stood ready to dash down to the south gate as soon as he saw the flare.
«The wait is. distracting,» came a soft voice beside him. Lord Rolak turned and looked at Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of B’mbaado. She was dressed all in black, from the leather that backed her armor to the long, flowing cape that fell from her shoulders and fluttered fitfully in the breeze. Her fur was black as well — entirely, without the slightest hint of a past mixture that would attest to any dilution of the royal blood. Her bright gray eyes shone like silver in her ebon face and artistically justified her only concession to the dark raiment, which was a form-fitted breastplate made of silver-washed bronze.
She is perfect, Lord Rolak admitted frankly to himself. He was almost three times her age, but he hadn’t grown so ancient he couldn’t recognize fact. It’s no wonder that young fool of a prince would have them fight a war to have her. That war had ended inconclusively, of course, when the Grik had come. As much as she hated Rasik-Alcas, she’d brought six hundred of her finest warriors, her personal guard, to help defend against them. Lord Rolak rather doubted if Fet or Rasik-Alcas would have done the same.
One of those warriors was a massive B’mbaadan, scarred and old as he, who shadowed Queen Maraan’s every move. His name was Haakar-Faask, and Rolak respected him greatly. They had battled often and inflicted their share of scars on one another. After Safir became the Orphan Queen, it was Faask who became her mentor, chief guard, general, and, in some ways, surrogate father. Right now, Rolak wished he would exercise a little more protectiveness. He looked at the warrior and blinked with exasperation, but Faask remained inscrutable. With a growl, Rolak stepped quickly back from the bastion wall, hoping to draw the queen with him. Dressed like that, she had to be a tempting target for the enemy crossbows. Unconcerned, she continued to peer over the side at the roiling enemy below. To her left, some distance away, a great cauldron of boiling water poured down upon the enemy and agonized shrieks rose to their ears. Rolak saw a slight smile of satisfaction expose a few of her perfect white teeth. She turned and stepped from the edge just as a flurry of crossbow bolts whipped over the wall where she’d been. Rolak sighed exasperatedly, blinking accusation at Haakar-Faask. «My dear Queen Protector, you must not take such chances. You must be more careful!»
«Like your own king?» she asked with a mocking smile. Rolak didn’t respond. «Unlike the great Fet-Alcas, I am not only the leader of my people in peace, but in war. That is why I am also called ‘Protector.’ I take that duty seriously. I won’t shirk any danger I ask my warriors to face.»
«I have not seen you ask your warriors to flaunt themselves pointlessly in full view of the enemy, my dear,» Rolak observed with a wry smile as he blinked with gentle humor.
«Have you not? What then do you think they are doing here?» As before, Lord Rolak had no reply.
Shouted voices registered and he looked to the north. To his admitted surprise, the tide of Grik began to ebb, the closer to the harbor it was. The fight below them had not abated, but to the north there was a growing hesitancy. Confusion. The enemy horns brayed insistently, and he ventured nearer the parapet.
«It is working,» he breathed. Below him, the ed overfont>
Rolak’s eyes narrowed. «Yes, Lord King, you must. I am Protector of Aryaal and it is my duty to protect this city. I explained to you the plan this morning. You had no objection then.»
«You are Protector, appointed by the king!» sneered Prince Rasik. «You will do as he says.»
In a calm, patient voice like one would use with a youngling that had just found a sharp sword and was preparing to examine its sibling’s eyes more carefully, Rolak spoke. «Great King, I have made alliance — which is my right — with the sea folk and the Amer-i-caans to defeat the enemy who threatens us. Even now they are fighting at our side as they promised. They have drawn the enemy away from our walls and upon themselves so we can attack from behind. We are moments away from victory, or days from total defeat!»