"Loose arrows!" Otah called. "Give it back to them! Loose arrows!"
Now that he knew to look, he could see the thin, dark shafts. They rose
up from the Galtic mass, slowly as if they were floating. His own
archers let fly, and it seemed that the arrows should collide in the
air, but then slipped past each other, two flocks of birds mingling and
parting again. More men screamed.
Otah's horse twitched and sidestepped, nervous with the sounds and the
scent of blood. Otah felt his own heart beating fast, sweat on his back
and neck though the morning was still cool. His mind spun, judging how
many men he was losing with each volley, straining to see how many Galts
seemed to fall. They seemed to be getting more volleys off than his men.
Perhaps the Galts had more archers than he did. If that was true, the
longer he waited for his footmen to engage, the more he would lose. But
then perhaps the Galts were simply better practiced at slaughter.
"Call the attack!" Otah yelled. He looked for his messengers, but only
two of them were in earshot, and neither was Nayiit. Otah gestured to
the nearest of them. "Call the attack!"
The charge was ragged, but it was not hesitant. He could hear it when
the footmen got word-a loud whooping yell that seemed to have no
particular start nor any end. One man's voice took up where another
paused for breath. Otah cantered forward. His horsemen were streaming
forward as well now, careful not to outstrip the footmen by too great a
distance, and Otah saw the Galtic archers falling back, their own
soldiers coming to the fore.
The two sides met with a sound like buildings falling. Shouts and
screams mingled, and any nuanced plan was gone. Otah's urge to rush
forward was as much the desire to see more clearly what was happening as
to defend the men he'd brought. His archers drew and fired sporadically
until he called them to stop. There was no way to see who the arrows struck.
The mass of men in the valley writhed. Once a great surge on Otah's left
seemed to press into the Galtic ranks, but it was pushed back. He heard
drums and trumpet calls. That's a good idea, Otah thought. Drums and
trumpets.
The shouting seemed to go on forever. The sun slowly rose in its arc as
the men engaged, pulled hack, and rushed at one another again. And with
every passing breath, Utah saw more of his men fall. More of his men
than of the Galts. He forced his mount nearer. He couldn't judge how
many he'd lost. The bodies in the mud might have been anyone.
A sudden upsurge in the noise of the battle caught him. His footmen were
roaring and surging forward, the center of the enemy's line giving way.
"Call them to stand!" Otah shouted, his voice hoarse and fading. "Stand!"
But if they heard the call, the footmen didn't heed it. They pressed
forward, into the gap in the Galtic line. A trumpet blared three times,
and the signal given, the Galtic horsemen that had held to the rear,
left and right both, turned to the center and drove into Utah's men from
either side. It had been a trap, and a simple one, and they had stepped
in it. Call the retreat, Utah thought wildly, I have to call the
retreat. And then from the right, he heard the retreat called.
Someone had panicked; someone had given the order before he could. His