Conflagration by Mick Farren Page B

above the fray. The battle went on, with or without The Four, and right now, in the early afternoon, it seemed to be moving into a new and crucial phase.
    A lieutenant was cleaning stinking Dark Thing residue from the blade of his saber, and Cordelia decided he was as good as anyone to fill her in on any new developments. “How goes the battle, Lieutenant?”
    “Lady Blakeney?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You didn’t hear?”
    She indicated his sword blade. “I’ve been dealing with those damn black things.”
    The lieutenant looked a little uneasy; the unease of the junior officer presented with the unexplainable. “Will we see any more of them?”
    “I sincerely hope not. But what didn’t I hear.”
    “We took the western ridge.”
    “We did? Well, Goddess be praised.”
    “And now the second half of the assault is going in.”
    “And will that be the end of it?”
    “We surely hope so. Dunbar is making ready to move forward with the cavalry. We have our orders. Up and mounted in fifteen minutes. Maybe you should do the same if you don’t want to be left behind.”
    Cordelia definitely wasn’t going to be left behind; she turned and started for the horse lines. Then the lieutenant called after her. “Lady Blakeney?”
    She turned. “Lieutenant?”
    “It seems there’s a village near here called Newbury. Talk is this will end up being called the Battle of Newbury Vale.”
    “That’s as long as we win, lieutenant.”
    “No question we’re going to win, Lady Blakeney.”
    “I hope you’re right.”
    RAPHAEL
    Even though they weren’t going into direct combat, the pulse-quickening excitement was infectious. Raphael was riding with the cream of the Albany cavalry. Despite all of his reservations, he could only think of the long way he had come from the squalid ranks of the Mosul. Hardware jingled and leather creaked, mounts tossed their heads and snorted, commands were shouted, and all the time the firing went on and on, but with the repetitive bark of repeating Bergman guns predominating, which had to be a good omen. Raphael figured they needed all the good omens they could get. He hadn’t told the others about the glimpse that had come to him as they exited the other place. The vision had been fleeting and less than clear, but he was sure it was the white figures from their collective dreams. The odd part was that he was left with the distinct impression that the figures were strictly observing the engagement between the Dark Things and The Four, rather than taking any part in it, but everything was so nebulous that he was not sure how to explain his suspicions to the others without causing undue alarm and distraction. In any case, no time existed for them to talk as they plunged into the valley of noise, confusion, and death that was now called Newbury Vale. He supposed he should have been frightened, but he found himself carried along by the drama and exhilarated by the spectacle.
    Dunbar himself rode in an open-topped staff car towards the rear of his massed cavalry. He and his entourage were hedged around by a high-stepping thicket of protective horsemen with drawn sabers. No chances were being taken as the four cars carrying the commander and his aides bucked and bumped over the torn-up ground, and swerved to avoid the constant obstacles presented by shell craters. Now that the western ridge had fallen, the Mosul guns were no longer laying down a deadly enfilade, and the second wave of attackers took their fight to the enemy with comparative ease. The bodies of men and horses, and the burned-out hulks of fighting machines that littered the field, bore mute testimony to just how hard it had been for those in the first assault. That leading wave had approached to within two hundred yards of the Mosul forward trenches, and there they had halted, knowing it was impossible to make the final breakthrough without reinforcements. As the second wave rolled forward, gathering momentum with no Mosul fire