Their grins disappeared. Their eyes darted. ‘I dunno — how many you got?’ one asked another.
‘How many you got?’ he retorted.
Gods, they're saboteurs already. ‘All right! All right. Let's just put everything we got down here on my shield. OK?’
Eyeing one another sullenly, the youths knelt. Nait unslung his shield. Reluctantly, they dug hands into pockets and pouches and one by one, piece by piece, the extent of their haul was revealed. Nait was thrilled and horrified at the same time. Lad turn away! Eight sharpers, two melters and a collection of smokers! And… Lady's Grace! He ran a hand over the dark gold ovoid. A cussor. They're carrying cussors into battle! So that's what happened.
A band of skirmishers came jogging up, bent over, crossbows held high. Nait's lads threw themselves on top of their treasure. ‘Hey!’ one called, ‘Was that you? We got some too. Show us how you did that!’
Nait waved them in. ‘That was a one-off. We ain't gonna see anything like that again.’
‘You Jumpy?’
Nait raised his fists as if about to grasp a handful of the fellow's shirt. Then he let them fall, his shoulders slumping. ‘Yeah. That's me.’
‘OK! We want some of this.’
‘All right-’ Beyond the lad, from the Gold shieldwall, Nait glimpsed a wave of dark objects flying high out over the crowded ranks of skirmishers. His heart clenched. ‘Down!’ He threw himself on top of the lads and the assembled munitions.
A staccato of punching eruptions burst all up and down the field. Skirmishers shrieked as the jagged slivers packed into Moranth sharpers lanced through their crowded ranks. ‘Retreat!’ Nait hollered with all his strength. ‘Retreat!’
He and the lads picked up the shield and ran. But they could not get far. They quickly bunched up against irregulars firing at the advancing League skirmish-line. Behind them the punishment of Gold munitions continued. Staggered explosions split the air. Smoke wafted over the field in white and black clouds. It seemed from where Nait stood that the skirmishers were being slaughtered between the two lines, and that unless someone did something he'd join them soon enough.
He motioned to the lads to pick up their munitions, then hefted his shield and faced his squad. ‘We're gonna break the skirmish-line here, or die!’ He pointed to the youths. ‘You lot. You're gonna throw when I shout! Then keep throwing at any damned Talians who come running to reinforce. Understood?’ Sweaty pale faces nodded, terror-strained. ‘Good! OK.’ He drew his longsword. ‘Follow me!’
Nait ran for the skirmish-line. As soon as he judged the distance right he yelled, ‘Throw!’ Then, ‘Down!’ and he knelt behind his shield. Moments later sharper bursts buffeted him. Slivers sliced into his shield with high-pitched trills. He straightened in the dense smoke, bellowed, ‘Charge!’ and ran forward. He hoped to Trake that enough stupid and crazy brave men and women were within earshot to follow.
Pushing through the smoke, he suddenly faced a Talian infantryman holding a shattered arm. Nait shield-bashed that arm, raising a shriek of pain, then ran his sword through the man as he lay writhing. Another Talian heavy nearby still held a shredded shield and Nait tried to knock him backwards and though he was obviously stunned by the explosions the broad fellow didn't yield a hair's breadth. He chopped at Nait and the two exchanged blows. Three more Talian heavies straightened from where they'd lain to take cover and Nait knew he was in deep trouble. Over his shoulders and past his elbows crossbow bolts snapped through the air, plucking at his surcoat. One nicked his arm, another his leg. The heavies grunted, raising their shields. Brill and others crashed into them at a full run, overbearing them backwards, long-knives flashing. Nait passed that writhing mob to clash shields with yet another Talian heavy running to close the gap. A thrusting shortsword gouged Nait's side, caught in his hauberk and punched the breath from him. He bowed double, stepping back, and a blade crashed from his helmet. Another fusillade of crossbow bolts whipped around him singing in his ears; something smacked into the back of his mailed hand knocking the sword flying from his grip. The Talian shield-bashed him, sending him staggering backwards. Then a horde of skirmishers trampled both of them. The Talian went down beneath a storm of thrusting blades and the flood continued on. Nait halted, gasped in great lungfuls of the choking, smoky air. They were through. He leaned on his shield, his legs suddenly weak. He sat heavily in the crushed, smouldering grass. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. No, not at all.
Horrified, Ullen watched while the tide of Imperial lights slowly engulfed section after section of the League skirmish-line. Even the Seti column, engaging the heavier Imperial cavalry, could do little to stem the bleeding. At the front, the Gold and Talian phalanx had advanced with the shock of the munition barrages, but a good wedge of the Imperial formation, including the banner of the Sword, yet remained. And that was it; all either side could do. All reserves had been committed on both sides. Soon the irregulars would be free to concentrate their fire once more. As he watched, another barrage of munitions punished the Imperial phalanx facing the Gold, plus the surrounding irregulars. The Imperials refused to break; Ullen had to admire their inspired obstinacy.
After a number of passes the Seti drove the Imperial cavalry from the field. Many bright and shining Untan family pennants had fallen to the man leading the charges. This man, the Wildman, peeled off from the column with a small escort and rode back to Ullen's position. He reined in his mount, hooves stamping. Blood and lather soaked the animal's forequarters. The rider's lances were all gone, as were his javelins. One war-axe was missing, shattered perhaps. His armour was rent across the hips, shiny where blows had fallen, scraping the iron. His helmet was gone and blood sheathed his neck. Blood and gore darkened his gauntlets. The fellow appeared to be ignoring wounds that would have left anyone else prostrate.
‘My thanks,’ Ullen called to him. ‘Though I do not think it is enough.’
The man wiped a handful of bunched cloth across his face, gestured back to the field. ‘It isn't. Let's just call that the settling of old debts.’ He regarded Ullen levelly, his eyes hardening. ‘What will you do? Will you yield the day? Men and women are dying down there for no good reason.’
Ullen was already nodding. Yes, that was all that was left, though he could not bring himself to actually speak it. He gestured to a messenger, swallowed the tautness of his throat. ‘Raise the surrender.’ This messenger glanced about the assembled staff, none of whom spoke. His face paled to a sickly grey but he nodded, kneed his mount forward.
The Wildman inclined his head to Ullen in grudging admiration of what it must have taken to reach that decision, and he turned his mount to descend again to the battlefield.
‘Bala!’ Ullen called, his voice savage.
‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, just as testy. ‘I am still here. Do you think I have fled already?’
‘No, of course not! Send word to Urko, Choss and V'thell. Surrender.’
‘Shall I inform the Imperial High Mage?’
Ullen's clenched stomach lurched. ‘The what?’
‘She's been watching. Had I intervened in the battle she would have struck. And though I do not consider her worthy of the title, her attack would no doubt have eliminated you and your men.’
‘Thank you so very much, Bala,‘ Ullen ground out. He waited for a retort but none came. ‘Bala?’ Silence. Ullen dismounted, walked to the carriage on legs weak and numb from sitting all day. He wrenched open a door and peered in. Empty. Completely empty. Not even a dropped cloth or a fleck of dirt.