"Let's get going," he said. Ohotolarix made a stirrup of his hands to help him into the saddle; the left arm was mobile, but it would be weeks before it was first-rate again. "Now! Go, go, go!"

"Halt!" Alston shouted. The false retreat had caught the Fiernan left well and truly, and they looked thoroughly smashed. "Fall in beside us! You'll just die if you run!"

Swindapa joined in, but it was probably the sight of the ordered American ranks that stopped the fugitives. Many fell in on either side of the Americans, readying bows and spears or snatching up rocks from the ground, gasping as they tried to recover their breath.

Alston looked left and right. The ridge was sharper here to the east, the country flat and open to the west. They'll come straight down, try to hit us in the rear. The ground to her right was too steep for easy footing, far too steep for a chariot-chances were they'd avoid it.

"Open order," she said, heeling her horse a dozen paces to the left. She looked upward; it was typical English weather, utterly unpredictable. Right now it looked as if it might rain soon. Just what we need. Damp bowstrings.

The first chariot came around the east-trending bend of the ridge just behind the hoof-thunder and axle-squeal herald of its passage, horses galloping with their heads down. She was close enough to see the goggle-eyed look of surprise on the driver and warrior-chief, just before Hendriksson snapped an order and a spray of crossbow bolts hit the two horses. They went down as if their forelegs had been cut out from under them, and the pole that ran between them dug into the dirt and flipped the chariot forward like a giant frying pan. Driver and warrior flew screaming through the air to land with bone-shattering thumps. Behind the chariot came panting a group of fighters on foot; they sensibly took one look and pelted back around the curve.

"Here's where it gets hands-on," Alston said grimly, swinging her leg over the horse's neck and sliding to the ground with a clatter of armor.

"I'm glad I'm with you, Marian," Swindapa said, dismounting and handing the banner to the color party.

Alston touched her shoulder for an instant. "Me too, 'dapa." Their eyes met. But I'd rather we were both back home, lying in front of the fire and making love. The thought passed without need for words.

She reached over her left shoulder and drew the katana, drawing a deep breath and then letting it out slowly, pushing worry and confusion with it, letting the first three-deep file of the reserve company trot past her.

"Runner," she said calmly. "Message to Commander Rapczewicz. I need some archers here, and backup on my left; also a catapult. Lieutenant Commander Hendriksson, we'll advance at marching pace from here. You have tactical command."

The high ground swung away to her right. This time the enemy came in mass, two hundred of them at least. They all seemed to have iron weapons, though; quite a few had helmets, and there was a scattering of the chain-mail suits. The chiefs dismounted from their chariots, sending them to the rear-that was one of their standard tactics, and it meant they were planning on a serious fight. For a moment men milled around their lords, shaking their weapons and shouting. A couple of the iron-suited leaders drew their swords and threw the sheaths away; if that meant what she thought it did…

The cowhorn trumpets blatted, and the mass of kilted clansmen howled and began to trot forward, their yelps rising into a screaming chorus as they broke into a headlong rush.

"Company… halt," Hendriksson barked. "Spears… down." The points came into line, the crossbows spread out like wings on either side, pointing a little forward as if they were the mouth of a funnel.

"First rank.. .fire."

WHUNG.

"Reload! Second rank.. .fire."

WHUNG.

The steady sleet of bolts shook the easterners' charge, but it couldn't stop it. Alston could see the set contorted faces of the clansmen, a glare of exaltation like the homicidal equivalent of a Holy Roller's trance. She spared a glance for the Nantucket troops; faces set and hard, teeth clenched between the covering cheekguards, tiny shifts as they braced themselves for the impact.

WHUNG. WHUNG. WHUNG.

A sleet of flung spears and axes came in the last second. Americans went down, still or kicking, and their comrades closed ranks over them; metal rattled off metal with a discordant clatter. A long slithering rasp went on either side as the crossbowmen slung their weapons, swung their bucklers around, and drew the short swords at their right hips with a snapping flex of the wrist. They feel sound, she thought. Something down in the gut told her; some intangible border had been crossed, in the months of marching and skirmishing and drilling. These were veterans now.

So am I, I suppose, she thought with mild surprise. Which doesn't mean we can't get wiped out.

"Fair fights are for suckers," she muttered. Circumstances seemed to have forced her into one. "This way!" she said aloud, moving off to the left where the barbarians might overlap the American line.

That put her and the dozen in the color guard party behind the left-flank crossbows-fighting at close quarters, now. She saw an American sink his gladius into a tribesman's belly with the short upward gutting stroke he'd been taught, then stagger back as a tomahawk slammed into the side of his helmet. A relief from the second rank stepped forward into the hole, stooping and slamming the edge of her shield into the ax-man's foot while he was off-balance and then into the side of his head as he bent in uncontrollable reflex.

"Give 'em the Ginsu!" she shouted, crouching and taking her place in line. The half-stunned American fell into the second rank shaking his head and wobbling a bit as he recovered from the blow.

"Here's our part of the job," Alston said as they came to the end of the line.

A man in a mail hauberk was leading a dozen warriors at the vulnerable end of the ranks, where two Americans were fighting back to back. He yelled frustration as the dozen swords of the color guard swung into place and blocked him.

Beside her Alston heard Swindapa gasp. "Shaumsrix!" she screamed.

That's a name-an Iraiina name-wait a minute, wasn't that the one who she said-

"Remember me, Shaumsrix!" the Fiernan girl shrieked.

The Iraiina turned, rattlesnake-swift. His spear lanced out. Swindapa's katana was in jodan no kame, up and to the right. It snapped downward, slashing through the tough ashwood just behind the iron wire that bound the shaft for a foot behind the head. The metal spun and tinkled away; his shield boomed under her second stroke.

"Remember me, Shaumsrix! Remember the Earther girl!"

"Oh, hell, 'dapa-forward! Forward!"

Shaumsrix was staggering back on his heels as the katana blurred at him, backed by a cold, bitter rage. Alston moved by the girl's side, let a knee relax as an ax flashed by to bury itself in the turf, took the wielder's arm off just below the elbow, whipped the long sword up to knock aside a spear. The Iraiina chief had recovered his balance and unshipped his ax, a copy in steel of the old charioteer's weapon. His sworn men closed in on either side, meeting the Americans of the color guard shield to shield.

Alston lunged one-handed, using the katana like a saber. The man on the end of the point hadn't been expecting that, and he ran right into it. The blade sank in, then stuck in bone. The warrior folded around it, and someone stabbed at her from behind him. She ignored it, ducking her head, and the spearpoint slid from the helmet as she put a boot on the man's body and pushed. The layer-forged steel sliced through a rib and came free; the sprattling corpse tripped the spearman behind.