The people of Porto delivered intelligence enough to show Hecht what he must do to withstand the approaching pagan storm. In numbers that astonished everyone. Somehow, Rudenes Schneidel had gathered almost eight thousand men to throw the Patriarchals back into the Mother Sea.

The local chieftain's son, going by the unlikely name Pabo Bogo, told Hecht, "You destroy this bunch, you've won your whole war, Lord. There can't be many more down south. They say the Sonsans and Platadurans and King Peter's soldiers have cleared two-thirds of the High Athaphile. Only the evil sorcerer's witchcraft keeps them from complete success."

"I'll do what I can." Hecht hoped to use the lay of the land to get the better of an imbalance in numbers.

The transports were gone. Two Plataduran warships anchored close inshore, to be artillery platforms.

The first pagans arrived in the afternoon. They were a wild and ragged lot, reminding Hecht of Grolsacher refugees seen in the Connec. They were overheated from their rush south, and were tired, thirsty, and hungry. Hecht had positioned his visible force with the afternoon sun behind them. The pagans saw only a few men between themselves and the food and water inside the Patriarchal camp.

More and more pagans arrived, as families, clans, and tribes instead of as an army. Some tried rushing in to throw javelins. They met missiles from crossbowmen and archers. The crossbowmen, though few, were very good at what they did.

More pagans piled up. They made a disorganized charge. They suffered scores of casualties and enjoyed no success whatsoever. Even so, they tried again a quarter hour later.

Hecht watched in disbelief from inside the camp, atop a low tower infested by lifeguards. The pagans seemed compelled to do things his way.

"Looks like their big chiefs are arriving, Captain-General." The speaker pointed. A mob including standards and banners had appeared. Followed by a vast mass of pagan humanity. That settled down briefly after some horns blared. When the horns sounded again the pagans all roared and charged as though determined to see who could be first to die. Their sheer weight almost broke the Patriarchal line. Hecht muttered, "I didn't leave enough men out there." He had not anticipated such numbers, so soon.

His modest heavy cavalry force, hidden in some woods to the enemy right, saw the danger. They charged. The warships discharged their ballistae, an effect expected to be more psychological than actual.

The heavy cavalry were supposed to smash through, break free, then wheel for another charge. They lost their momentum instead. The pagans were too densely gathered.

Hecht's best infantry had hidden in ravines behind the heavy cavalry. They came out, in order, as the line protecting the camp did start to give.

Hecht ordered his infantry reserve out. He told his lifeguards, "The fools think they're winning. They don't see how badly they've been trapped. I'm being sarcastic!" he snapped at one puzzled bodyguard.

It looked like even the reserves would not suffice. Pagans kept arriving and rushing into the melee. But the later they showed, the more exhausted they were already.

An hour after the fighting began the pace of the struggle slowed. Hecht's fighters were tired, now, too.

The last of the Patriarchal infantry left cover south of the fighting, double-timing into blocking positions across the enemy's escape route. They went unnoticed till they set on a band of very late arrivals.

The pagan chieftains panicked. Not unexpectedly. Tribesmen were fierce, sturdy fighters individually but lacked team discipline. They did not train to fight as an army.

Hecht signaled light cavalry waiting inside the camp. The pursuit phase was about to begin.

Hecht left the tower. He had no desire to watch the slaughter.

More disaster awaited the pagans if they chose to flee to southern Artecipea. More Patriarchals awaited them where the land narrowed into that tiny, low isthmus.

"A FEW GOT AWAY," CLEJ SEDLAKOVA SAID. HE HAD GOTten into the fight briefly, with the light cavalry, tied into a saddle. "They always do."

"Let's hope we took the fight out of them for this lifetime." The men had counted near five thousand dead. They were still finding bodies.

The chieftain of Porto was aghast at the magnitude. "It's going to be a hard winter in the mountains."

"It'll be a hard rest of their lives with so many hands not there to do the work anymore," Hecht said. "It's bound to be a better world once we get this Schneidel beast. I'm going to walk through the camp and talk to the men."

A lifeguard said, "That wouldn't be wise, sir. If there's a counterattack, there'd be no better time than tonight, when the men are worn out. You should stay here, with the falcons around you." He was worried about the Night.

"I'm going walking through the camp." He needed to burn off nervous energy.

"As you wish, sir." With great unhappiness.

"Yes."

Hecht visited the hospital tents first. The army's few surgeons were hard at work. So were any veterans who could manage minor field surgery. Hecht found everyone cheerful. Some of the wounded seemed grateful as puppies that he had come to visit.

"What are these men doing here?" He meant men from Porto who were being treated, but by gesture expanded the question to include a dozen pagan captives. Why waste resources on men who had been trying to kill him only hours before?

"The locals got hurt helping hunt down fugitives. The pagans are supposedly men of standing. They say they might be willing to change sides."

Hecht's inclination was to have them killed. But if northern Artecipea could be pacified… That would be useful. "Good for now. If they show willing, and aren't lying, we'll work something out. Has anyone seen the Principate? I can't find him."

"The Direcian?" Redfearn Bechter asked.

"Preferably. If we have another one underfoot, he'd do."

"Principate de Herve left with the fleet."

"He did, did he?"

"I assumed you knew."

"And the Witchfinder? Svlada? What about him?"

"Here, Captain-General," Svlada said from the far side of the tent. "Sewing men back together."

"Good. Tell me. Why did de Herve run away?"

"I don't know. Maybe he thought his work was done."

That matched Hecht's suspicions.

Minutes later he reached the area where the animals were tended. He heard a familiar voice. "Bo? That you?"

Biogna jumped as though ambushed by a ghost. "Oh! Sir." He looked at the bodyguards. "You startled me."

"What're you doing out here?"

"Helping Joe. This's when he needs a friend. It breaks him up when the animals get hurt."

"It bothers me, too." Beyond Bo Biogna's small fire Hecht saw Pig Iron, Just Plain Joe's signature mule. Strictly speaking, Joe had broken the rules by bringing the mule to Artecipea. Pig Iron did no work.

"Pipe." Just Plain Joe came into the light. He carried a big copper bowl full of surgical instruments and bloody water.

"Joe. How bad was it?"

"I'm only glad you're not a cavalry type. We haven't had to put too many of them down. But even one is cause for tears."

Hecht felt the sorrow rolling off Just Plain Joe, potent enough to make his own eyes water. He rested a hand on Joe's shoulder while the man cleaned his instruments. Items he had less business having than he did Pig Iron. There would be complaints. The Captain-General would ignore them when they came. "You keep on, Joe. You're the truest man I've got." He left the man to his calling.

Nowhere did Hecht find cause for complaint. The work of recovery was under way everywhere.

He climbed his observation tower, considered the moonless night. To seaward the stars shed just enough light to give hints of breakers rolling in. Elsewhere, torches floated through the woods like will-o-the-wisps. A mortal shriek explained that. Chaldareans from Porto were sending their pagan countrymen to their rewards in order to grab loot not worth whatever they called their fractional copper here.