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That had been yesterday; now he didn t have to command anyone to keep still.
His men were surviving on their last reserves. Before evening, he must make
some decision.
His bolder subordinates counseled storming. But there were no rams, no towers
or ladders or catapults, few archers, a total absence of cover and little
stamina. Still, that was rapidly becoming the only option.
He heard cymbals and shook his head, thinking his hearing had been affected.
They came again on heat-distorted air, with the paying out of heavy chain. He
dragged the silk from his head and got unsteadily to his feet, shaking men
around him and pulling them to theirs.
The gates of Condor s Roost were opening, its drawbridge lowering across the
dry, stake-defended moat. Springbuck went to Fireheel, whose head was lowered
in unaccustomed indifference. The big gray barely responded as his master
climbed clumsily into the saddle. But then Fireheel snorted, and livened
somewhat.
Men were scrambling ahorse now, awkward with haste and depletion. They fell
in, not the same iron warriors who d ridden so fervidly against the Baidii
that first day. Mother Desert had daunted them.
Gabrielle stepped from her tent. Seeing Springbuck, she half-raised her hand,
as if she would have waved, then let it fall. He d had a horse prepared and
left for her, with some water and a few provisions. It made him less
despondent, thinking she, at least, might leave the valley alive. With the
camp so crowded and privacy so scant, he d avoided her. Now he wished, too
late, that they d spoken.
There were more Baidii today, he saw, supposing the garrison was out to end
the siege at one blow. Perhaps Hightower still had the southern route sealed;
Springbuck no longer cared, hoping the old man would find some way to get
south with what was left of his unit.
The Southwastelanders formed ranks more carefully this time, archers at the
rear. Springbuck had his men drawn up, but knew they could never charge. The
horses endurance was gone; they could only save what moment s vigor might be
left, and deal with the Baidii at close quarters.
The Ku-Mor-Mai wondered if the rest of his army, if it still existed, would be
stopped, to end the expedition against Salam entirely. He was bitter; Salam
had done well against him, while he d barely gotten to strike.
The Baidii advanced, undulating eerily in the heat waves. Men of Coramonde
readied themselves, but didn t move. Springbuck took one last look around,
execrating Mother Desert. His shield dragged at his arm; chain mail weighted
him. Men around him hoisted their swords and bucklers; there weren t many
lances left among them.
The Baidii hit like a flash flood into a hapless orchard. For dozens of the
Coramondian chargers it was the last exertion. Unable to cope with heat and
dehydration, their hearts failed and they fell even as they tried to answer
the bit one last time.
The surge of battle sparked hidden remains of Springbuck s endurance. He met
his foe with a good, accurate strike. The man s falling weight dragged the
lance from his hand, and he yanked out Bar. He was glad the enemy hadn t stood
back for an archer s duel; the Southwastelanders wanted to repay their
injuries sword to sword, a transaction Springbuck welcomed.
They filled the plain, losing formation, gathering to this or that banner to
go against some other. The Baidii were darker and leaner than the Occhlon,
burned by centuries in the oven of the desert. They were ready to retest
themselves against the invaders. Men of Coramonde responded with cold
fatalism, taking whatever strokes or wounds they must, patiently waiting out
their chance to lash out again. The Baidii, out to prove they could stand
their ground against the northerners, found that in truth they couldn t. Their
pride and confidence in Mother Desert had brought them to grips with
tenacious, dogged enemies. Springbuck and his men, accepting that they were to
die, were borne up by that terrible emancipation.
Fighting was ferocious and all-encompassing. The Baidii, in their vanity,
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ignored the drums that ordered them back. If they hadn t, archers could have
sent showers of steel-headed death at the northerners. But arrogance won; the
Southwastelanders elected to stay and test their mettle.
Springbuck s arm began to ache, something that hadn t happened to him since
he d been in training as a boy. More and more northern horses were dropping
from exhaustion. Everywhere, men of Coramonde began to show signs of final
fatigue, but struck in heavy, killing blows that clove light desert armor and
dark southern skin. Blood from both sides covered the thirsty sand and
splashed on horses fetlocks.
At last Springbuck drew back, telling his standard-bearer to follow. He meant
to withdraw what men he had left, and form a last line. A cry went up from the
enemy, to see the remaining banners carried back, clustered in desperation.
There were no more than eight hundred northerners against half again that many
Southwastelanders. Springbuck had no brave words, and couldn t have shaped
them through his swollen throat if he had.
The sun seemed to be burning its way through the back of his war mask. With it
came eerie calm. The son of Surehand thought a lobster might feel so, in the
pot where it meets its boiling end. The Baidii came on again, though their
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