And behind him, two metal shapes on wheeled carts, each pulled by six horses. The cannon, dammit.

"Ian, Doreen," she said. "You'd better get back to the aid station. This isn't goin to be so… neat and tidy for long. Not with these armies."

The Arnsteins grinned at her; a little stiffly, but they did it. "No, I think we'll hang around for a while," Doreen said.

Ian nodded. "Priceless opportunity for a historian," he said. "Besides, we've got these shotguns, if worse comes to worst."

Alston nodded, and took a cup from Swindapa's offered hand. "A toast then. Ladies, gentlemen-let's kick their butts back to the Channel!"

She knocked back the whiskey. The Americans in the command staff cheered; so did the Fiernans, as the translators gave them the words. The glasses tinkled and crashed on a rock as they all emptied theirs and threw, and then she motioned to the signaler:

"Phase one, execute."

Flags went up all along the line-Old Glory in the center, flanked by the crescent Moon the Fiernans had chosen when they grasped the concept of a national banner. It was silver on green, the same as the traditional flag of Islam; even then she spared a brief instant's cold inner laughter at how the Muslims would have hated that. Slave-trading, woman-hating bastards. And better still, odds are you'll never even exist here.

There was a massive rumbling sound, thousands of feet pounding the dry short grass. The front ranks of the allied force crested the hill and went a few steps beyond it; she could see the easterners halting in ragged clumps as they saw the ridgeline before them sprout armed men. Meanwhile all along the allied front warriors were at work, pounding short stakes with iron points at either end into the ground; swine feathers, they'd called them in Europe back in the old days. Planted at a forty-five-degree angle, they were just the right height to catch a horse in the chest. The blocks of archers started planting shafts in the dirt at their feet, ready to hand, and moving their quivers from their backs around to their waists. Alston turned and checked; cartloads of bundled shafts were moving up in the low ground behind the line, ready to replenish as needed.

"What are they doing?" Swindapa asked, nodding toward the enemy. Her voice was a little husky, but calm.

"Maneuvering," Alston said. "Their center's hanging back, flanks are moving."

Head and horns formation, she thought. Evidently she wasn't the only one who'd studied the Zulu Wars. Damn, and here I get to play the British. Life's little ironies.

"Messenger. Unit commanders are to repeat the standing orders; when the cannon points at you, fall flat. Keep lookin' at it, and when the flash is over, get up again."

That wouldn't work if the other side had more guns… hell, it might not work now with only two.

The thunder of feet from the enemy host grew, and the squealing of ungreased wooden wheels. The sound drew her eyes over to the right, where the barbarians were moving in.

"Here we go." Here's where I find out if they were really listening to what I said.

Merenthraur felt his heart swell with pride. Fifty chariots! Fifty chariots followed him. He looked upslope toward the Earther host. Many, many… but the sons of long-speared Sky Father were many, too, and the gods fought for them. Not much of a slope. Smooth grass, not enough hill to really slow a team.

A swift-footed youth ran up, panting. "The rahax commands-take your men, smash those of the foe on the end of their line, there," he said, pointing to the southward. "If you prevail, the host follows, and great will be your reward."

"I hear the word of the rahax."

Word of Hwalkarz, in truth, but that is as good. Better. Daurthunnicar was a good rahax for the tribe in the old way, but Hwalkarz would make the Iraiina lords of all the earth.

If we win this fight, he reminded himself, looking back. The chariots were ready-Iraiina, and allies. The footmen waited behind. He waved his spear, then blew three blasts on the cowhorn war trumpet.

His knees flexed automatically to take the jerk of the chariot starting forward, moving from a walk to a trot. Earth hammered at his feet. "Keep it slow," he commanded. "No more than a trot to just outside bowshot range, then fast as they'll go."

He pushed back his helmet by the nasal; the new headgear gave more protection than his old bone-strapped leather cap, but you couldn't see as well. The Earthers were standing oddly-in a line, the way Hwalkarz taught. In two lines, one just over the crest of the hill, another behind it on the highest ground. More strangeness; on the edge of their line was a clump all with spears, then a larger one only with bows. Foolishness-a man with a spear had some chance of stopping a chariot at close quarters. They were counting on those little spears driven into the earth, but he had a cure for that.

"When we get to flung-spear distance, turn right," he barked to the nephew who drove his chariot. "Take their line at a slant, so."

He pointed with a javelin, and blew the cowhorn again. That way the breasts of the horses would take the sides of the poles, not the points-and now their breasts were protected by armor too. We'll lose some to the arrows, he knew. Perhaps he'd be killed himself. Well, he had sons and nephews enough to carry on his blood, and Sky Father would greet him in the halls of the sun, perhaps grant him rebirth. That was the way for a man to die, at another warrior's hands, not in his sleeping-straw like a woman. He lifted the javelin, ready to cast. And the sun will be in their eyes, anyway.

Nearer. Behind him the tribesmen were snarling, roaring into the hollows of their shields, shaking axes and spears and screaming out threats and the savage war cries of their clans. Now the driver shook out the reins, and the horses rocked into a gallop, the other chariots spreading out on either side of him like the wings of a bird-like the wings of a falcon, stooping on its prey! His heart lifted, but he crouched down slightly and brought his shield forward on the left, ready to protect himself and the driver as well. The javelin cocked back.

The front rank of Fiernans were raising their bows, drawing to the ear… but none were shooting! What is this? The enemy grew nearer, nearer, nearly close enough to cast. Behind him the charge of the chariots was a groaning thunder, the whoops and shrieks of their drivers the howling of a pack.

Then someone shouted on the slope ahead. Arrows rose into the air-first those of the Earthers he could see, then more, impossibly many and all at once, swarming up from the hollow behind the ridge. All headed at him. A deep-toned thrumming rose and died, and over it a wailing, whistling sound.

Arrows cracked into his shield, half a dozen of them, driving his crouch down into an almost-squat. Points jammed through sheet steel and leather and wood, glittering on the inside of the curve. Another whacked off the side of his helmet and skittered away. Three hit the driver, sulking feather-deep into his unarmored torso. Too many to count struck in the frame of the chariot, and as many more into the horses that drew it. Merenthraur was far too shocked to react consciously, but a lifetime's training curled him for the impact as the war-car went over at speed. Still something wrenched with blinding pain in his leg as he landed, an explosion of stars in his head and the taste of blood and dust in his open mouth. He spat a tooth and dragged the shield over him as arrows sprouted in the ground all around him, driving into the turf with multiple shink sounds.

He could see the iron-tipped rain falling on his men. The chariots were mostly down, or wheeling back. Behind them the footmen faltered and stopped, doing precisely the wrong thing-hesitating between courage and fear. Rage filled Merenthraur; what trick was this? Arrows came at you one at a time, as the archer drew and loosed! Not in a single blasting storm, so thick no man could dodge or shield himself.