Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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sound of it struck her chest like a blow. But too many Arkans were looking backwards, or up, watching
a thousand wings make their stand futile.
She could hear the frantic shrilling of the Arkan's command whistles, "Stand. Hold. Stand." The line tore
like a sail in a Lannic storm, one moment whole, the next, useless fluttering rags. Alliance cavalry rolled
over them, throwing them back left and right; Arkans ran pellmell, flinging away shields and helms to run
faster, back toward the city, as if that could help their homes, their families. Here and there a knot eddied
around a group standing fast, circled back to back, shields up; but they were few.
The Slaughterers would go to the Great Gate, the tunneled one, when they were finished here; there, she
saw them thunder away to the west, striking down stray Arkans all the way.Go with Koru, daughter …
Under the lookers her mouth curved in a smile. There wouldn't even be many Alliance casualties. Just
mopping up, then the usual orderly distribution of loot… if Chevenga stuck to his word that there would
be no sacking, that was. She hadn't heard any particularly strong orders against it.Is it that you're aiding
?
Her lips thinned, as she pinched them shut against fear.That won't help my search, Chevenga. That
won't help at all.You gave your word; don't fik me up . A ribbon of smoke rose from beyond the cliff;
not surprising, since the flyers had all had torches.Intimidating as Hatya , she thought,making the
Arkans all think you re going to do it, but there were bound to be some accidents .
Around the upper entrance to the spiral tunnel that was the Great Gate of Arko, bodies lay in windrows,
bristling with arrows or scorched by clingfire. A burning springald rested on its side, one wheel spinning in
the names, the Arkans who'd taken it out resting around it heroic and futile and dead; the inside end of
the tunnel had fallen to A-niah and Yeoli flyers coming from the city. But Arkans still held, between.
"Bows forward!" Bukangkt shouted. "Second battalion in reserve." They rode into the great tunnel, the
arching rock ceiling four stories above Sova's head, the sound like being inside a bucket with someone
beating on the outside with an iron bar. Even with wall-lamps burning, the darkness was thick after
sunlight. Smoke and heat pressed in from above and below, burning her throat and chest, heating her
armor like a roasting pot. Two turns down, past scattered bodies of a dozen nationalities, an Arkan
snieldwall held the twenty-meter width of the tunnel, against Aenir footfighters from the riverside towns
along the Brezhan with great two-handed axes and long spears, locked in a snarling, screaming, grunting
knot. Blood ran down the smooth paving in a continuous thin sheet; the horses' hooves scrabbled at it,
wet clattering. As Sova watched, the whole mass took a single lurching step backward down the slope.
"In line!" Bukangkt screamed. A trumpet called, thin and reedy through the huge clamor; the Aenir
seemed to slow at the second call, backed a few steps and then dashed upslope to either side. Between
the slope and the height of her mounts, Sova could see past the Arkan line to the exhausted ranks
snatching rest before being sent in again. "Draw shaft! Pick target!"
Five hundred horn-backed compound bows rose. The Arkans were less than twenty meters away; at
this range armor-piercing arrows would drill right through a shield. Sova could see their faces as she
drew to the ear, saw one in the third rank close his eyes and move his lips in prayer. But none broke
ranks.
"Loose!"