She turned and ran down the hill-the horses were gone, they'd been too near where that barrel of powder had landed, and thank the Lord Walker didn't seem to have more to spare. One of the reserve companies was waiting there, a company of her precious Americans-troops she could really rely on to do as they were told. As she ran her mind's eye could paint the picture. The Sun People falling back, Maltonr-he was the senior Fiernan on that end-going whooping in for glory and vengeance, real redhead stuff. Then the enemy turning out in the open where the Fiernan archers couldn't mass their fire, turning the fight into a melee, sweeping back up the ridge and into the rear of her line…

Just like Senlac. And Harold Godwinsson led an army of militia from Wessex too, and the Norman commander was named William. God, I know You're an ironist, but isn't this going a bit far?

"Enemy breakthrough," she snapped to Hendriksson. "We're going to contain it." Or so I hope. "Follow me."

The Americans formed up smoothly, moving off at the double-quick. Ahead of them was a growing roar.

"Ask me for anything but time," Walker quoted angrily to himself, then took his temper in an iron grip.

"No, father and lord," he said to Daurthunnicar. "You must stay here with the last of the reserves. I and my hand-fast men will strike the enemy from the rear, and then they will give way. You must strike then, to push them into rout-when they start to run, to flee in terror, then we can slaughter until our arms grow tired. But it must be at the right time."

Daurthunnicar hesitated, shirting in his chariot. The framework creaked; he'd put on a good deal of weight over the last six months. "Honor is with the foremost," he protested. "How can men obey me as high rahax if my spear is not red and my ax is still bright?"

Oh, fucking Jesus Christ on a skateboard. "Honor is in victory, father and lord," he ground out between clenched teeth. "When all men see your banner sweeping the enemy into flight, honor will be yours."

After a long moment the Iraiina chieftain shifted his eyes, not convinced, but giving way to his son-in-law's superior mana. "I hear your word. Go and take the victory, chieftain who shares my blood."

"All right," Walker muttered, raising a hand in salute. "Let's go."

His eyes were fixed to the north. Right on target. That Shaumsrix. is a smart cookie. Pretend to run away, take 'em when they got scattered in pursuit, then follow up with a nice brisk attack of your own-the Iraiina had caught on to the idea like it was a religious revelation. Just two things were needed to turn it into the battle-winner it deserved to be.

He turned in the saddle to look at his men. They were gripping their weapons and leaning forward, their longing eyes trained on the great heaving scrimmage up along the crest of the ridge.

"Listen up!" The helmeted faces turned to him. "We're going there-" he pointed northwest-"and we're going to kill them all. Limber up those guns, and keep in good order-any man who breaks ranks, dies like a dog. This is the ax blow that will decide this fight, and I mean to hit hard and straight."

They cheered him, roaring out his name. "Cheer after the victory, not before. Let's go!"

He led off, keeping the horse to a fast walk; the men behind him were on foot, and no matter how fit you were, you started puffing and blowing pretty fast if you tried to run in armor. No use at all getting there with the men too exhausted to fight. The field guns rumbled along behind him, and he grinned at the sound, looking down at a map drawn on deerhide with charcoal held across the horn of his saddle. Most of Alston's army was sheltering on or just behind this long ridge, with a broad smooth stretch of open country just beyond. If he could get the cannon setup there at the north end of the Fiernan line, they'd have enfilade fire right down the whole enemy force. Alston wouldn't have any choice-she'd have to come to him. All the men would have to do would be to guard the guns, and when the enemy rushed them… well, that was why God and William Walker had invented grapeshot.

The ground ahead was littered with wounded, and he was only a couple of hundred yards from the rear of the Sun People's array as he hurried toward the right flank. Most of the injured here had arrows in them; they were lying and crying for water or help or crawling slowly back toward the host's lines. A few of them tried to grab at the boots of Walker's band as they passed, and were kicked aside. Eastward was a long dry valley, filled with scrub and second growth; they'd trampled paths through it that morning, marching to the battleground.

I'll really have to organize some sort of medical corps someday, he thought. It was wasteful to allow useful fighting men to die unnecessarily. His own band had a horse-drawn ambulance to take their wounded back to Hong.

He bent his head again over the leather map. Just as he did so something went through the air where his head had been, with a flat vicious whiplike crack.

Walker's men stopped and milled in puzzlement as their leader's uptime reflexes threw him out of the saddle and flat on the ground. He peered through the nervously moving legs of the quarterhorse and saw a puff of smoke from a clump of bushes two hundred yards away.

"There!" he roared, pointing. "Kill him! There, you fools!"

He scrambled upright, gripping at the reins to keep the horse between him and the unseen sniper, reaching over the saddle to grope for the Garand in its saddle scabbard. "Keep still, Bastard," he hissed, but the stallion was rolling its eyes and laying back its ears, spooked by the smell of blood and the noise.

A second later there was another crack, this time accompanied by a ptank and a tremendous sideways leap-surge of the horse; that knocked Walker flat, still gripping the reins as Bastard reared. An ironshod hoof came down on his shoulder, and he shouted at the hard sharp pain as a thousand pounds of weight shifted for a second onto the thin metal protecting muscle and bone… and yielding to the weight. He hammered his right fist into the horse's leg and scrambled upright again, sick and dizzy with the waves of cold agony washing outward from the wound. All he could do for a moment was cling gasping to the saddle; when he tried for the weapon again his fingers found a splash of still-hot lead across the receiver, and crushed parts below that.

Anxious hands gripped him. "They've caught the evil one, lord-are you all right?"

He moved his left arm, snarling at the sudden streaking fire. "You… grab my arm. Ohotolarix, hold me steady. Get ready. Pull."

They were all familiar with putting a dislocated shoulder back in action. Walker clenched his teeth; you couldn't show pain with this gang if you wanted to keep their respect, at least not something this minor. Minor. Jesus Christ. By the time he could move the arm again, two of his troopers were dragging up a third limp figure. One covered in a net cloak, the cloak stuck all over with twigs and bunches of grass.

"Here, lord," one of the men said. He held up a rifle. "This evil one had a death-magic, but weak compared to yours." The little finger of his left hand was missing, the stump bound with a leather thong. "All it made was a big noise and this small hurt, and we speared this one like a salmon in spawning season."

"Let me have it," Walker said tightly, examining the action. Oh, that's clever. Westley-Richards, but in flintlock. Good thing you couldn't make more of these.

He took the satchel of paper cartridges and the horn of priming powder and slung them over his own shoulder. The landscape went gray for a second. God, I'm not that badly hurt… oh. A glance upward showed thickening cloud sliding in from the west, and a welcome coolness in the breeze.