The Unforsaken Hiero

XII. BATTLE MORNING

The mist lay cool and curtained over the lake. It was the body of water, perhaps twenty miles in extent, that the Metz called the Lake of Weeping. Some women had died there long ago, supposedly of unrequited love. More important, Hiero thought, was the fact that the lake had a connection through the River of Rains with distant Namcush. The connection was by still another lake, this one called Falling Leaves, a long, slender lake. The Lake of Weeping was deep and shaped like a boomerang, the elbow pointing northeast, though the left arm, which faced almost due north, was the longer.

There were a few small islands in view, some mere stubs of rock and others crowned with trees, whose spires and branches pierced the shifting fogs over the dark water. There was movement out there, Hiero saw. Small craft rowed briskly from one islet to another. The rising mist, burned away by the sun’s coming, revealed the dark shapes of several large sailing vessels, On a number of islands, smoke rose in the morning air. Activity, but not too much activity…

Hiero was sitting astride Klootz on the end of a low promontory which jutted into the Lake of Weeping almost at the angle of the elbow. It was a handy place to be, and he had picked it himself. He was the Commander of the Center under Demero, and the old man had brushed aside any complaints about seniority before they got started. “Who knows the enemy better than you do? No one. Who has encountered more of them than anyone else and still survived? Same answer. Justus Berain says he’ll be glad to serve under you, anywhere, any time. Like to argue with him? I’m giving you Maluin and Sagenay as staff. The two Mantans won’t serve under anyone else, insubordinate devils. The whole army has word of your cats, and they can serve as runners to carry written messages. Maluin has already got a bunch of juniors to handle routine. What’s left? Nothing. Get to work, boy. I’m busy.”

Now Hiero smiled wryly as he watched through his far-looker, the small telescope he carried clipped to his saddle. He could, hear low voices among the group of young officers and NCOs behind him. He was finally beginning to realize that being a living legend was not an unmixed blessing. The awe in the eyes of the young men and women who served under him was annoying, but there was nothing he could do about it. He concentrated once more on the dispositions to his front. He had to use his eyes and those of others, for the Abbey machines had clamped an intense shield over the minds of ail in the area. Presumably the Unclean had done the same for their own forces. Time would tell who possessed the most effective mental protection.

His scouting group had fled southwest at an incredible pace after Gorm had alerted them. They had actually cut off four days on their time going out, and they had been moving very fast indeed then. They needed every minute that they could get, and Hiero had driven them all unmercifully, using Klootz’s broad back to carry those who were the most tired. This was usually Per Sagenay, whose young body was not as tough as the others’ and who resented it but could only comply. But three days out from their front lines, Geor Mantan had sprained an ankle and, cursing horribly, had been made to ride as well. Otherwise they would have left him.

They had bought the Republic and its allies a week. In this struggle, that might be much. For the Otwah League’s troops were still far off and already meeting some resistance as they came. Not all of S’duna’s force had been sent west, and there was apparently a good deal wrong with security in the upper ranks of the League! just because I loathe S’duna’s filthy guts, I shouldn’t make the mistake of underrating his slimy brain, Hiero thought to himself. The bastard can think, and he knows enough to try and bleed off any help we might get, if he learns about it first. Let’s hope there’s some coming he doesn’t know about.

He looked down and saw a young lieutenant at salute. He eyed her approvingly. Save for the short leather skirt, her uniform was identical to his, and he knew his women could use their weapons and brains as well as or better than the men. Besides, she was pretty.

“Message from the Abbot-General, sir. Very hard fighting has started in the deep woods about twenty kilometers north and east. Our screens are giving back slowly, trying to see what’s behind the enemy front. The morse troops have been ordered back because the country is too broken for them. He will keep you informed as he gets more data.”

Hiero grinned down at the snapping black eyes, returned the salute and thanked her, then forgot her immediately.

It made sense to get the cavalry out. One or two might serve as couriers in the depths of the forest, but they couldn’t maneuver as a unit. Demero had stripped the North to get those two mounted regiments, and they must not be wasted.

“Per Sagenay,” he threw over his shoulder. “Bring me the map quadrant that shows the land opposite us and to the west, if you please.”

Together, they examined it. It was bog and drowned land, but not deep in water, containing only shallow, slow-moving streams which kept it somewhat drained. There were few trees, but mostly grasses and rank growths of reed. The whole section eventually sprawled down to the low-lying shore of the lake they were on, over to their left and on the longer of the two arms of the V, The shore simply became the marsh, or vice versa, for a kilometer of total distance. A bad place to put troops, it seemed, but useful for the passive resistance it made, guarding a flank, like a broad, muddy moat. Now the question was, might this fact be too obvious to another keen mind?

Hiero spoke for a few minutes with Cart Sagenay, then sent the young priest back to his own group. He scrawled something on a small belt pad of reed paper and called M’reen over to his side. The sun had cleared the last of the dawn mist off the water now, and the blue sparkle against the green foliage was almost dazzling.

Take this to our old chief the Wise One. Then hurry back. There will be much to do this day.

She was gone like her native wind, all eyes on the slender form until it vanished. Ch’uirsh and Za’reekh waited impatiently in the rear, ready for their own summons.

Edard Maluin strode over and patted Klootz absently. The blade of his billhook tapped the ground as he balanced the huge weapon in his other hand like a wand.

“What do we know about the two flanks, Hiero? The left doesn’t bother me too much. The arm of the lake there bends away from us and can be held pretty easily. The right, now, that’s different. Fallig Leaves Lake is not especially wide and it tapers into Bowstring Creek and the River of Rains. A long line to guard, all the way down to the Inland Sea.”

“The Abbot knows it, you know it, and I know it. Pretty soon, if they don’t already, the enemy will know it. We have four full regiments of Frontier Guards and two mixed regiments of militia whose women are as well trained as the men—not Guards standard, but pretty good. About seven thousand, if you count the auxiliaries, baggage, ammunition carriers, and so on. Two regiments of morse. A strong battalion of Scouts, now falling back in front of the Unclean. Certain aquatic allies, whose performance is still untested. Also what you both see and do not see out on the lake and similarly to east and west. Forget the League. They started too late and are well behind the enemy now. Maybe they’ll get here in a week or so and maybe not. What they find when they do get here is something else. There may be other help closer to hand. I don’t know; nobody knows. Gorm has gone to try and find out, but hell have to go around the fighting and the enemy flanks to do it. All very problematical. And that, my friend, is it. We have nothing else, no reserve, except a small tactical one, taken from the above. This is our first army, just as what you served in was the first navy. We’ve never moved or fought on this scale before. No one in the North has—not the Unclean, either.”

He shifted in his saddle and stared out over the water. Armies had fought in the South, if not here. He suppressed the wish for Luchare, leading a division of lancers on their hoppers, emerging from the southern wood to the rescue. Might as well ask for a flight of angels.

The morning wore on. Reports came in sporadically—estimates of Unclean strength and movements, losses of the Republic’s forces, and whatever seemed of interest. One item was of great interest. Many, many light boats were being brought up. Some were large enough for ten men, others mere kayaks, but big enough for a single person. All the Unclean units seemed to have lots of them, and they were carried well to the fore.

“They must have a pretty good idea of where we are with all that stuff,” he said to Per Sagenay. “Of course, the whole area is full of lakes and streams, but I think this was thought out more carefully. This is no baggage train, but something meant for quick assault. I want the information sent to Berain and the others at once. In fact, tell it to all units.”

M’reen, who had long since returned, came up with her two warriors. The grim faces of the Mantans were just behind.

We can hear the fighting, Hiero. Can you not do so? These two, the men with the dark souls, they can hear it too. They told us with signs.

“That’s right, Per,” Reyn admitted. “Them cats caught it first, but just listen yourself now.”

Hiero listened. There were calls from out on the lake, horns blowing, and the shuffle of moving feet behind him. Even a distant splash of oars from some guard boat came through. The he caught it. It was a hum, a buzzing in the distance. He listened harder. Now he could pick out higher and lower tones like the shrills of far-off insects. There came a very faint series of thuds, no more than vibratory disturbances of the air. It was enough.

“Take charge, Edard,” he said to Maluin. “Sagenay’s your second or what you choose. Remember what I said. No movement until the crucial time. This is going to be a close one.” He turned and looked speculatively at the twins, whose cold, set faces stared back.

“Can you two handle morses? If I can find any? Otherwise you’d be better off staying here.”

Geor spoke for both. “We can. We’ve ridden double, too, case there’s only one. Take us.”

“All right. We’re crossing the lake, down there on the left. I’ll walk Klootz until we get aboard a boat.” He signaled the catfolk to follow. He had no worries about their ability to keep up with mounted troops, and they would have been miserable away from him. He waved to the salutes of the staff and rode slowly down the twisting trail to the west, off the bluff and onto the path along the shore. The five others loped behind him.

In twenty minutes, they came to a tiny bay in which a small rowing barge lay concealed. He led the big morse aboard, and the others clambered after. At a word to the NCO in charge, the ten long sweeps began to move the clumsy vessel out into the lake on a long slant, north and west, to where the marsh and the cleaner fluid of the deep water began to mingle.

All the while, the sounds of the battle had been growing in their ears. Clanging noises of metal came now, and the metallic, piercing sounds of enemy trumpets mixed with the sonorous Metz horns. Screams came as well, and chorused cheering. Hiero knew the orders had been sent and he knew the defense was thickening on orders as the Abbey forces drew near the Lake of Weeping. Yet the sounds of conflict were raging closer at a tremendous rate. The Unclean must be piling in all their strength, heedless of casualties, in order to make such speed. He cocked one eye at the bright sun and consulted his built-in mental clock. It was near eleven, and the timetable had not quite allowed for this burst of enemy speed. He watched the oarsmen strain at the great sweeps as they passed under the lee of a small island. They were three-quarters of the way across now and in plain view of the elbow of the lake, the curve of the northern shore stretching out of sight in both directions.

The din grew as he watched, and he saw the first Metz troops break from the forest and reach the long lines of boats drawn, up on the shore. The skeleton crews who manned them began to help the wounded aboard. The movement was swift and disciplined, and he smiled. No panic here! As each boat pulled out, oar-propelled on this windless day, more men appeared and took their places in the next. He could see through the far-looker that no boat left the shore with an empty place or without orders.

Now he could begin to glimpse the fighting for himself. He saw a rank of veteran archers halt, fire a volley, then run easily back and turn for another. Men fell in their ranks as they fought, but the others closed up. As he watched intently, an eruption of the enemy burst from the forest wall, a small pack of the Plague Hounds, with Leemutes riders screaming on their bony backs. These were Hairy Howlers, apelike brutes, brandishing clubs and axes and hurling long javelins with devilish aim. The hideous dog mutants were man-high at the shoulder and had naked hides, blotched and mottled in shades of orange and red. Their ears drooped, and they had heavy jaws and gaping maws, filled with great teeth.

The archer troop slew more than half of them with one more volley, then dropped their bows as the survivors came on, unchecked. It was close-in fighting now, and the Plague Hounds raged in the Metz ranks, shaking men like so many jackstraws when they secured a grip. The Howlers fought like furies, seeking only to kill and not minding their own safety as they hacked and stabbed. Then it was suddenly over, and a sadly diminished troop fell back again from the heap of reeking corpses. They carried some wounded, but not many.

The battle was fierce all along the shore now, and many of the boats were not rowing, but lying off and giving covering fire. A sheet of arrows flew, and then another. The last Scouts of the defense were scrambling aboard, some having to fight as they did so. Now there were few left. The guard boats, with stocks of ready arrows, redoubled their fire. A pack of the great, scaly-tailed Man-rats, caught in one such blast, went down in heaps.

The boats pulled away from the shore. Many places were empty in these, Hiero noted sadly. The thin metal notes of the Unclean trumpets sounded over and over, and their creatures began to draw back to the shelter of the wood. As they vanished, the guard boats ceased their fire and began slowly to follow the rear of those who had passed on through. Now there was a widening gap and an empty shore, full of dead and wounded.

Hiero realized that his own craft was touching the mud of the shore, and he scrambled aboard Klootz and ran him over the blunt bow. The mud here was a man’s thigh deep, but the big morse made nothing of it. His spreading hooves were designed for this element.

“Hold on to my stirrups,” he told the Mantans. “You’ll get a bit wet, but I can’t help that. You would come!”

The cat people had been wet before this. They didn’t like it, but it was no real problem. As they began to march inland through the tussocks of grass and the sloughs in which they grew, the warrior-priest looked back. The height given by his perch on the morse enabled him still to look down along the shore for some distance.

The Metz rear guard—what remained of it—was rowing away steadily, if slowly. A few other boats, not many, had come out from the chain of wooded islands and were helping the craft which either carried too many wounded or were hampered by lack of men to row. A couple of thin lines of soldiers were visible on the south shore. And a flag waved here and there, showing the green on white of the Republic.

But now the scene changed. The Unclean army, silent and intent once more, poured out of the trees on the north bank. This time they came prepared. Save for the officers, each man or Leemute carried either a small canoe or part of a larger one. Man-rats took to the water like the natural swimmers they were, needing no transportation and carrying their weapons. This, too, was a disciplined move and showed long hours spent in practice, Hiero glimpsed a group of sinuous, brown shapes slide into the lake and remembered the great water weasels he had fought long ago. The Uncleans were indeed using everything they had. Would it be enough?

His view of the battle scene faded, obscured by trees and distance. His little troops were moving deeper into the shallow waters and much of the drowned land. There would be no help from using his mind. He had tried testing his ability continuously. The shields held by both the Unclean and the Abbeys were functioning too well for anything to break through. He could talk to his cat-people at close range, but that was all.

Ahead, he glimpsed a line of black things moving and whipped up the far-looker. This was what he had come to find. Klootz lifted his dripping muzzle and bawled a greeting. In a few more moments, he had reached a mound rising out of the grass and water, and Hiero could greet his new troops.

The two regiments of morse and riders were in line, but loosely picketed. Hiero knew the two colonels, though both men were older. In fact, in the past he had even served under Colonel Saclare and been taught by Colonel Lejus at the Academy. They were typical Metz and could have passed for his own close relations; stocky, bronzed men in their forties riding with the ease of a lifetime in the saddle. With their aides behind, they reined up and saluted. Hiero acknowledged the salute and masked a feeling of some awkwardness.

Saclare disabused him promptly. “We axe delighted to have you in charge. Lejus and I know your past training.” One sardonic black eye drooped in what only those close by could have told was a wink. It was enough. All three broke into broad grins and gripped hands. Command was established and they were as one.

“Yes, I can find a couple of remounts, though we don’t have many,” Lejus said, staring at the Mantan twins with interest. “We all have heard of these two. Who hasn’t? Thought they always fought alone, though. I expect you’ll want to keep them with you. Heard of your cats, too, and what beauties they are. I gather they can look after themselves. But come along, sir. We’re rigging something over there you might want to use. Saclare thought of it.”

A little distance off on the mound, the place an ancient German would have called a Feldherrnhugel, or “general’s observation hill,” men and morses in harness were straining to raise a triangle of extremely long poles. As they locked into place, others lifted a long ladder and began with speed to lash down a rude platform. Ail the material had been precut and dragged through the wide marsh to this point.

Moments later, Hiero and the two colonels had a fresh view of the conflict and were glued to their far-lookers. They could see far along the northern shores, as well as across the Lake of Weeping, and they were barely in time to see another crux of the battle.

The Unclean troops, human and otherwise, still poured from the wood. At least a thousand boats, large and small, all of light weight, seemingly made of hide braced with wood stripping, were beating out in pursuit of the Metz rear guard. These, moving slowly, were still some distance from the southern bank and safety, though many seemed close. Hiero noted that those that were close seemed to contain the wounded, while those which were the most sluggish had none. So far so good, he thought, but, God above, how many of the enemy were still pouring from the forest to the attack! And they still produced more and more boats! The hideous, giant dogs were swimming out in packs also, some with Howler riders to guide the others. Most of the Howlers were in boats, but fresh swarms of the Man-rats still rushed from under the trees and flung themselves into the lake. The water weasels showed here and there as they dived and porpoised in the front of the van. When would the signal be given?

“Put these on, sir,” Saclare said. He was holding a bundle of the laquered battle armor of the morse riders, surmounted by a bronze, visored helmet. He and all the others were already wearing theirs.

Hiero struggled absently with the cuirass, half-sleeves, and greaves, not even noting that the two colonels were lacing them on for him and that his helmet bore the white heron plume of a general. His gaze was locked on the water. The main body of the apparently endless Unclean horde was now at the level of the larger islands, whose tree branches drooped over the lake.

A sudden blare of echoing horn calls rang out over the cries and yelps of the Unclean hordes. Branches fell into the lake, and even some of the great trees were thrown down. Out from their hidden island anchorages swept a flock of ships, the five armored Metz steamboats in the van, belching clouds of smoke as they charged the enemy. Justus Berain was not a man to be hurried; he struck only when he felt the exact time had come! The gun ports of the steamers had been widened and lowered, allowing for point-blank fire. From the great muzzle-loaders burst not solid shot, but masses of broken ceramic tile, mixed with rock and metal scraps, causing instant havoc. Behind the steamers came a fleet of stout rowing barges, wooden mantlets and wicker screens protecting both the complement of archers and the rowers. Volley-fired only by orders, sheets of arrows swept over the enemy, adding to the carnage.

It was not all one-sided. Though blasted and torn, shredded by the crude langrage, the blasting rubble of the war steamers, and devastated by the arrow storm, the enemy fought back. Their metallic trumpets signaled anew from the forest, and fresh masses swept out and into the confusion on the waters.

Here and there in the swarming ranks of the foe, Hiero now caught glimpses of gray-cloaked figures hurrying from one point to the other. The Unclean adepts might be new to open warfare, he realized, but they had come in strength and were fast learners!

He tore his eyes away and looked down at what lay below the observation platform. It made him feel easier. Unconcerned by the uproar in the distance, just under four thousand troopers of the Metz cavalry waited by their mighty steeds, all in four broken lines, stretching across the marsh. The great lances were planted in line, one at the head of each morse, with the troopers lounging in place. The two Mantans, impassive as always, waited patiently at the ladder foot; the three Children of the Wind were beside them. Klootz stood, silent, next to the two morses requisitioned for the hunters.

“Won’t be much longer, gentlemen,” he said to the two colonels. “It looks good here. Downstream on the lower lake, it may be something else. We only have one steamer, the newest, there. But we have other surprises. We should know shortly.”

They all continued to watch the lake even as Hiero spoke. As far away as they could see, until the angle of the lake cut them off, the battle raged, the screams and cries of men and beasts mingling under the veils of smoke with the roar of the guns.

“By the Lord God, I think they are turning,” Saclare muttered. “Even they have had enough. I thought they were never going to stop coming out of the woods. But—look!”

They could all see it now, and Hiero sent a heartfelt prayer up to Heaven. The frightful slaughter had turned back the swimmers and the Unclean boats. The frail craft they had borne so many leagues were no match for the keen arrows and the great guns. The armored ships went where they would, spewing destruction on all sides and grinding any smaller vessels under their angled snouts. Repeatedly, the enemy swarms tried to board and close in, only to be beaten back with heavy losses. The arrow boats followed in the wake of the big five, and the guard boats, which had fled so slowly to the other shore, wheeled and re-entered the fight. Many others darted from the southern shore to join them.

Here and there, some of the great mink mutants sprang aboard a smaller boat or a load of Howlers tried to board. Man-rats also tried the same tactic, but the wicker and plank screens kept most of them out, and the others were quickly slaughtered. The main body of Unclean human infantry was not one of great watermen, and the horrible dogs were completely helpless. There were so many bodies of all kinds floating on the waters of the lake that it almost seemed that one could walk across on them. The massed wreckage of the invasion boats made larger lumps here and there in the sea of corpses.

The Unclean trumpets back on shore rose to a screaming pitch, incessant and shrill. By boat and in the water, the enemy fled for the northern banks. They had begun to do so even before the signal to retreat had rung out. Beaten and demoralized, yet still in great numbers, they swam and paddled for their lives. Not one had come near to setting foot on the farther shore.

The war boats of the Republic moved in behind them, the terrible fire taking a continuous toll. Blasts from the guns swept the shore, and arrows flew through the smoke. Looking at the sun over the reeking clouds, Hiero realized that it was noon and that hardly an hour had passed since the enemy had launched its craft upon the lake. He wondered how the battle to the east was coming. The foe still mustered great strength and would fight hard if given a chance to rally. Would the interpretation of what came next be accurate?

“To your posts, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I want this tower struck at once. The enemy could see it if they came now.”

They went down the long ladder like men possessed. In moments, the tower was disassembled and the three ranking officers were riding slowly along the lines. Saclare dropped off to command the right flank, and Hiero halted in the center; Lejus went on to take over the left. Listening hard, Hiero could hear a slackening of the gunfire from the lake. He could think of no reason for it but one—lack of targets of opportunity. Now only an occasional rumble came from the smoke bank in the southeast.

He turned to the catfolk, who stood waiting by his saddle. I have a task of great danger for you, he sent. We must know if the enemy comes and how fast. Ch’uirsh, go to the left. Za’reekh, you go to the right Try to reach me with your minds, but come back if you cannot. Do not be seen if you can possibly help it. Kill none unless it is death not to do otherwise. I seek knowledge, not bodies. Will you go? M’reen, you will go to my front, but not as far as the others. You can perhaps relay their thoughts.

They did not even answer, but were gone like three marsh sprites, skimming grass clumps and knee-deep water as if they were not there.

“If this were dry ground, I’d send you two on a scout,” he said to the twins. “But I don’t want the enemy to see a single morse, and you can’t move in this muck like those three.” They nodded bleakly and settled themselves at rest in their saddles.

Waiting was not easy. Hiero tried to think about the future; when he found this too depressing, he narrowed it to the immediate future. He had two tasks before him, and they might come quickly, even together. One—break the enemy flank to pieces. Come and be broken, damn you! Two—find and kill S’duna. You’re out there, you filth, I know it. Too many of your dirty renegade humans, too many louse-bitten Leemutes. You threw everything you had into this one and you couldn’t stay behind on Manoon, polluting the sun with your amusements this time!

Behind his back, the long lines shifted and swayed. All the riders were mounted, simply waiting for a word. Where were the cats?

M’reen’s thought came like lightning as he slapped at a cloud of hungry gnats and mosquitoes. We are coming back! My males have found them! They come from the trees, many, many! Be warned!

Hiero hand-signaled as previously arranged, and the ripple of readiness welled away from him in both directions along the ranks.

The Children of the Wind appeared in a clump, running and dodging like the racers they were. Missiles fell around them, but none hit.

The general bore no lance. His white plume dipped as he bent and drew the long, straight sword from its sheath on Klootz’s saddle. The two Mantan brothers ranged up, one on each side, their slender war axes across their saddlebows. The front of the enemy appeared, Leemutes and humans completely intermingled.

Hiero raised his sword high in his gauntleted right hand, then drove it down, and they were off. Come on, big boy, he sent. This is what it’s all about! Beside the three leading morses, the light pads of the cat people spurned the sedges.

Hiero’s fist clenched inside the basket hilt of the cavalry saber as he held it straight forward like a spear. As Klootz gathered speed, his rider could hear the rising splash and thunder of the charging lines behind. He stole a glance to either side. Good! They had learned the orders!

The left wing, the northern line of the morse riders, was swinging slowly past him, never breaking ranks. The right wing was holding back, so that the line was beginning to show an arc. The left would strike first and then roll the enemy up, cutting them off at the edge of the swamp and driving them into the open, away from any cover.

Now there was no time to think at all, and he concentrated on what lay in front. The days and weeks of planning were over, and he was a killing machine and nothing more. Klootz bellowed with battle rage, and his kin answered from behind, a rolling, swelling roar which rumbled from one end of the line to the other.

The Unclean halted, milling in confusion. The Man-rats and the Plague Hounds, those that were left, had made little of the swamp, which hardly slowed them at all. But the men, though disciplined and deadly fighters on solid ground, were floundering, tripping over tussocks and slipping in the pools and mud. A great number of the Howlers were dismounted, and they liked this bog no better than their human allies. As the line of antlered heads and the glitter of the lance points and armor rose before them, many turned to flee. Others, of sterner stuff or with better officers, tried to form a line or at least a shield wall. The result was confusion! Order, counterorder—disorder!

From far left to far right, the terrible cavalry of the North charged home!

Hiero’s sword point split the face of a giant Howler, and he withdrew it as Klootz lunged on. Every lance, seemingly, skewered one of the enemy, front or back, and then, butt lifted high, was withdrawn and leveled once more, seeking fresh prey.

It made no difference whether the Unclean fled or tried to stand. If the riders missed, their mighty steeds did the work, slashing and trampling, pounding the enemy underfoot with their giant hooves, seizing them in their teeth and shaking them off like bits of tattered bark until they fell away, mangled and lifeless.

A monstrous Hound, jaws agape, sprang at Hiero’s bridle hand. Without thinking, he dropped the reins and raised the unbreakable shield, the gift of his strangest friend, to dash the brute aside. A long-handled hatchet swept past his side, and Reyn Mantan’s blow split the creature’s skull.

The impetus of the charge was slowing, but not very much. As all the riders angled to the right, never stopping or allowing the Unclean to form and make a stand, the edge of the deep woods loomed up in front. It was hard fighting now, for the compressed masses of the broken foe were trying desperately to reach that shelter. Enemy crossbowmen and javelin throwers, human and otherwise, shot and hurled their missiles from the trees in a last effort to hold the mounted men back from their quarry. Saddles were being emptied, but the mutated giant moose were no scared beasts when bereft of their riders! They fought on with empty saddles, keeping the lines intact, as they had been taught. If one of the gallant animals fell, the others, with men in the saddle or not, closed the line and kept on to the attack. The extreme left took the heaviest losses, but narrowed in without letup, herding the squalling Leemutes and their fragmented masters out and away from the refuge of the trees.

Hiero was unscathed so far, but his right arm was growing very tired. The beloved creature who bore him bled from a dozen light wounds, of which Klootz took no note at all. His eyes were red with blood lust and he felt no pain. Reyn Mantan and M’reen, her long knife bloody, watched Hiero’s left while the two male cats and Geor Mantan protected his right. The Mantans had produced light oval shields of laminated bark from some pack or other and deftly deflected the missiles of any sort which menaced their leader.

Hiero never noticed, intently only on coldly killing anything that stood before him. He struck and stabbed, hacked and slew, with no compunction at all. Here was the enemy at last, where he could be reached! Here was revenge for the empty months, the loss of his mate, the treachery, and the pain! Death to them! Kill them all in their vileness, until the decent earth was empty of them forever!

It took a strong hand on his bridle to check his pace and a strong voice to penetrate the madness of battle. His lifted sword dropped, and he finally realized that a friend was trying to get his attention. Breathing in great gulps, he saw that Klootz had stopped and was trembling with the aftershock of the melee. Hiero managed to break the fog in his brain and rest, though it was an awful wrench.

“Stop fighting, General! Look, we’ve beaten them. Maybe a quarter got into the woods, no more than that, sir. Look at what is happening now!”

Almost against his will, the Metz turned his head. It was Colonel Lejus who had reined him up, Hiero stared at where the man was pointing, half in disbelief.

The Unclean, beaten back and decimated on the waters of the Lake of Weeping, had been rallied, once they were back on shore and behind the screen of the forest. They were still a hideous and mighty host, and their leaders had turned them into the apparently empty marsh on their right. Here they were supposed to sweep around the defenses of the Republic, turn the long arm of the lake, and strike in the rear of their hated foe.

What had happened was just a little bit different. The wise old Abbot-General and Hiero himself had led the Unclean to conceive of this maneuver, and were waiting with the only cavalry in all the world’s history that could fight in a swamp even better than on dry land! The result lay before Hiero’s sight and was hard to take in, even though he had helped plan it.

Cut off from their rallying places in the woods, harried and shocked by the lances of the morse riders, what remained of the Unclean who had assaulted the marsh was being driven in a grim battle toward the waters of the lake. Stumbling, lurching, and screaming as it was ridden down, the ragged and broken crowd was herded toward the waters. The lines of morse and men had no gaps. The Republic had lost perhaps an eighth of its mounted force, but what remained was more than sufficient. A thin line guarded their backs, but no fresh eruption came from the silent trees to the east.

Out on the waters lay the final death. Silent and watchful, the five steamships waited. Extending their line out of sight, the arrow barges also waited. The late noon sun beat down from overhead on total destruction. Horns blew, and the Metz mounted troops halted and dressed ranks, tightening their formations. They now were a shallow half-moon; within its crescent, the Unclean, a shrieking mob of foul men and foul brutes, were driven inexorably to the place where the shifting foothold of the marsh became no foothold at all.

His lids half-lowered against the glare, Hiero watched, well content. The orders were “No Quarter.” What the enemy would have done in its place was well known. This at least was a clean death. For long years, the attempt of normal and reviving humanity, who wished only to live in peace and happiness, had been frustrated and constricted by these creatures who had been spawned by the Ultimate Dark. This was their reward. They had embraced the Darkness, and that to which they had given their souls was now upon them. Under the high, golden glow of the sun, let them perish. Forever!

The horns of the mounted men of the Republic sounded the charge for the last time. Lances in place, the crescent went in for the kill. It was slaughter. Pierced and ground underfoot in the marsh, the Unclean died if they took to the water. Should any manage to escape by diving under the line of waiting ships, a second and even more alert line of smaller craft waited for them. There were no survivors. Nor were there meant to be any.

Hiero had turned away when the end became inevitable. He looked now both around him and also at the line of morse riders who watched their backs and fronted the green wall of the forest.

He remembered to return his long sword to the saddle sheath. Both of his colonels were now beside him and looking at him in a way he found disconcerting. Why should they look at me this way? These men both taught me! At his stirrup, M’reen tied a piece of rag around the forearm of Za’reekh, while Ch’uirsh tried to scrape mud off his pelt. They looked at him the same way. The brothers Mantan, apparently unharmed, sat their mounts in their usual stolid fashion at the rear, but their eyes were also aglow!

I did nothing, he told himself. A little planning, but it was mostly Kulase Demero. Maybe I helped a little. But I didn’t earn this adulation! He fell back on prayer, looking off into the distance.

Father, preserve the least of Thy servants from the dreadful sin of pride! Besides, he added in a lower key, I really don’t deserve it!

God, or someone deputizing, brought a most welcome interruption. A mud-spattered morse rider pulled up beside them and handed a dispatch to Saclare. He wasted no time in tearing it apart.

“Hah! What is left of those scum is fighting for its life in the forest. They are being driven—driven, mark you—back on our lines! Your plans, sir, are working beyond all belief. 1 congratulate you. Who else would have had troops that no one knew about waiting to pounce, once they were beaten back? Do you realize, General, we have won everywhere?” His native emotion took over. “By the blood of Christ, Hiero, there are none of them left. We have blotted them out!” He withdrew at once, conscious of a gaffe. “Your pardon, General. I forgot myself in the excitement.”

“Troops that no one knew about,” Hiero said in low tones, almost to himself. “We met the main attack here, but what of the lower lake and the eastern, rivers down to Namcush? What of them, Colonel?”

“I have dispatches, sir.” This was a young man, one of Saclare’s mounted aides. Hiero noted that the boy had one arm in a sling. He had been to the wars.

“Let’s hear it, lad.” The Metz hated to see that glow in the boy’s eyes. How many had died for the cause this morning?

“Sir, the lower crossings were hurled back completely. Our ships and the Dam People stopped every attempt to pass. We had one big warship there. It was enough. The Dam People killed the rest. The enemy sent no more than a light wing in that direction.”

“So none crossed. Good news.” Hiero was physically exhausted, but the second task was unfinished. The Unclean mind shields ought to have been either taken or dispersed. Then where was S’duna?

He brought himself back to what the young officer had said. The Dam People! How many of Charoo’s young males and females had died? The lower lake and the upper reaches of the outflow rivers had cost lives. Which kittens would not see their father or mother come back to the lodge? He wept inwardly, then swept the feeling aside.

Something else, something more important, had been told to him! “Troops no one knew about.” Least of ail himself! But he could guess.

“Colonels! Parade the troops!” His voice blared, and he could see the faces wince as he yelled. He tried to become calmer, new allies are coming from the north. I want them received with all courtesy, all honors. The Unclean scum are driven into the water. I want all the troops available in line to receive our guests.”

Funny, The Unclean mind shields were gone, totally gone. He would have thought S’duna would have guarded himself. No, was nothing of the kind. It was nice to know Gorm was coming, though. Even nicer to feel that emptiness in the rear!

The Metz lances, many still bloody, dipped in salute as three figures came out of the forest and advanced in Hiero’s direction. M’reen knelt, her furry arms outthrust, and her two males followed suit. The Children of the Wind had never done this for Hiero, but he didn’t blame them.

Gorm was barely visible behind the other two presences. Huge and ambling, the two emissaries of the bear people who led were larger even than ancient Kodiak or Kamchatkan brown bears.

Only the high foreheads and the longer, more egg-shaped skulls behind the small, furry ears might have set them apart, Their ambling, rolling gait carried them through the muck of the swamp at an amazing pace.

The leader—there was no mistaking his importance—reared up on his hind legs at Klootz’ side. Absently, Hiero noted that the morse showed not the slightest sign of disturbance at the titanic proximity. A rank scent came from his silver fur. I have no name, the huge creature sent. At least until I see more of you men-things. The men you call the Eleventh brothers brought us to war, those creatures of peace. What is peace? Being let alone. Yet we came to fight, and I think not mistakenly.

His fellow Brobdingnagian had simply lain down in a wallow and was rolling. Hiero carefully avoided looking at the smallest of the trio. The Metz cavalry still stood at salute, lances raised.

I gather, the ponderous but powerful mind which lowered down at him went on, that these mentalities are standing thus to do us honor? Such is not necessary. You are the one who took our little cousin to the South. We are in your debt. Your march coincides with that of the Great Dens. What we can bring to the mutual contest, that we shall Produce the gift, little one.

Gorm moved forward. Around his neck and slung over his back had been a sack of some bark derivative. Now he spilled out the contents.

The two shining skins, the two bald pates, the two hating faces, rolled through the surface of the wet grass to Klootz’s feet. One was unknown, but the other could never be forgotten. Obviously torn roughly from the torso, S’duna’s head lay before Hiero, the lips drawn back in the agony of death.

The leader of the bear people was still sending. We thought such vermin should be removed from the world. And we owed you a debt. These are the leaders you sought, Red and Blue. Their Circles are both destroyed. We think you had much to do with that, and our young and, unlicked cub agrees. Someday he may attain wisdom. That is up to him and to you. The enormous head swiveled down to stare at him again. You are flighty by our standards. Never mind. You may be the first of your kind to find enlightenment.

’When Hiero could concentrate next, the two great bodies were vanishing into the woods. He looked down, and Gorm was still there.

They said I could stay, the young bear sent. This is not over. Hiero, where is Luchare?

The unexpected question cut through all Hiero’s fatigue, crumbling the barriers he had forced himself to erect. His brain seemed to gather itself, then to launch a single, explosive thought.

Luchare!