“You may take as many of your useless mouths as you please. You have made them march with their heads up, but they are not soldiers. They will never be soldiers.”

“I need more than my peasants,” MacKinnie said. “I will require fifty archers of the Temple and fifty mounted men.”

“A fourth part of the archers? And nearly as great a part of the knights? You are mad. I will not permit it.”

“Yet, Father, it is worth doing. We will show you how the barbarians can be defeated. And we will not go far from the walls. The archers and knights can seek shelter there if my men do not hold — and there can be no loss of honor if they retreat because others failed them.”

“Where will you be?”

“With the spearmen at the van.”

“You risk your life to prove these men? You believe, then. Strange.”

MacKinnie looked across the plains, to see another band of barbarians approach the walls. There seemed to be hundreds in the one group alone.

“You will take your men into that,” Sumbavu said. “You will not come out alive.”

“But if we do? It will put heart in the others. Remember, if we do nothing, the Temple is doomed.”

“Yet if you slaughter my archers and knights the doom will fall faster. …” The priest studied the camps below, watching knots of horsemen dart toward the walls, then turn away just outside the range of the archers at the walls. He fingered his emblem, a golden temple with an ebony-black cross surmounting it, and turned suddenly.

“Do as you will. You are mad, but there are those who believe the mad have inspiration from God. It is certain that I have none.” Sumbavu turned and stalked away, age showing in the set of his shoulders.

MacKinnie used a week training the picked men for the sally. Finally Hal reported that they were as ready as they could be in the time they had, and assembled them in the marshaling square just inside the gates. His cloak streaming behind him, Nathan mounted the small dais near the gates to address the men.

“You will win today a victory such as has never been seen on this world,” he shouted. “There will be no end to the songs of this day. Your homes will be saved, and you will come to glory. Besides, what life is there huddled behind walls? What man hides from his enemies when he can go out and kill them? Today you are all men. You will never be slaves again.”

There was a feeble cheer, led by Hal’s picked guardsmen scattered through the ranks.

“It’ll have to do,” Nathan told his sergeant. “They won’t believe much of anything until they see they can hold the enemy. But will they fight long enough to find out?”

“Don’t know, Colonel,” Stark answered. “We’ve done all we could with them, but most of the spirit was beat out of them before we got here. They might.”

“They know what to do,” MacKinnie said. “Now it’s up to us to make them do it. Get them in ranks and open the gate.”

“Yes, sir.”

The army was formed as a wedge, spear and shield soldiers at the edges, the cavalry, archers, and supply wagons inside. Picked men held the point, which was rounded to be as wide as the gate would permit. They were to march out in a column, with the sides moving swiftly on the obliques to make the triangular formation they had practiced on the Temple drill field. The crimson uniforms of the Temple archers and the gaily colored armor of the knights formed a brilliant contrast to the drab leather garments of the pikemen as they stood in ranks waiting for the gate to open. Wherever possible, the men in ranks wore breastplates, helmets, greaves, but there were not enough to equip them all. Some had only spear and shield, with a small dagger in their belts.

MacKinnie looked over his force in final inspection. He swallowed the hard knot that always formed in his stomach before action, and wondered if any soldier ever managed to avoid that tension. Then he waved, and the gate opened.

“Move out!” Stark shouted. “Keep your order. Just like on the drill field. Get in step, there.”

Young drummers scattered through the reserves tapped cadence as the small force sallied out the gate. When enough of the spearmen had emerged to form a shield wall, MacKinnie sent out the cavalry, then strode swiftly through them to reach his post near the point of the formation.

They formed ranks within the protective fire of the archers on the walls. A few of the barbarians charged toward them, but were cut down before they could reach the sallying force. The rest of the enemy stayed well out of range, watching, while thousands more rode swiftly toward the gate.

“Lot of them out there,” Stark remarked. “Looks like all of them. Too bad you don’t have another sally set up for the other gate.”

“There’s few enough troops here,” MacKinnie muttered. He was grimly watching as the last of the army emerged from the gates and swung across to form the base of the wedge. “All right, Hal, move them out.”

Stark signaled to the drummers. The cadence changed, and a drum signal echoed down the line. The men ceased to mark time and slowly marched forward, shields held level, spears thrust forward. Behind each shieldsman were two ranks of pikemen. They marched across the gently rolling plain toward the nearest enemy camp, too intent on looking ahead to know when they had left the range of the protective fire of the city walls.

The maris circled, always keeping their distance, inviting them to come away from the walls. Individual barbarians galloped toward the formation, then wheeled to ride away. They slapped their buttocks in contempt.

The individual riders changed to small groups. Then more gathered just beyond bow-shot. They moved slowly towards MacKinnie.

“Here comes the first bunch,” Stark shouted. “They’re going right around to hit young Todd’s section. Put the archers on them?”

“Two squads, Hal. Let the others fire at high angle to keep the rest away. Todd’s men can hold that group.”

“Yes, sir.”

Volleys of bolts shot from the Temple archers, cutting some of the enemy from their wooden saddles. Then the first barbarians hurtled toward the shield line, not in a wave but in scattered groups.

Before they made contact, Todd shouted orders. The drum cadence changed, and the line of men sank to one knee, spears grounded, the pikemen thrusting over their heads. The maris galloped closer, shouting, cheering.

A barbarian mare screamed as she was impaled on a spear. Other beasts whirled from the thicket of points, getting in the way of men charging behind them, stumbling within range of the thrusting pikes, until the barbarian group was milling in front of the right leg of MacKinnie’s wedge. Archers poured fire into the mass of men and beasts. The enemy shouted defiance, broke against the shield wall again, again.

“They flee, they flee!” someone shouted.

“After them!” MacKinnie heard.

“Hold your positions!” MacKinnie shouted. “By the Temple God, I’ll have the archers cut down the first man that breaks rank! Brett, keep those damned knights of yours under control!”

“Yes, sir,” he heard from among the cavalry in the center of the wedge. The knights were milling about, anxious to give chase to the fleeing enemy. The maris thundered away, wheeled to shout defiance again, then rode off when no one followed.

When calm returned, MacKinnie mounted a wagon. “You’ve driven off one small group. It wasn’t much of a battle, but you see it can be done. Now don’t let them make fools of you. If you break formation or leave the shield wall, they’ll be all over you. Stand to ranks and you’ll slaughter them. Remember, every man’s life depends on each of you. No one may break, not for cowardice, and not for glory. And by God, raise a cheer!”

This time the response was great. As MacKinnie climbed down from the wagon, he saw the driver for the first time: small, dressed in chain mail, and shouting at the top of her lungs.