Gallagher, Chief of the Ulster and junior co-chief of the Dkota, depended strongly on a young scout named Ngo, also called "Knows-What-He-Sees." At the time of birds returning, Ngo had been the first Gallagher had asked to explore the route to Hasty.
In a culture where literacy is rare, children see and hear differently, especially in a hunting-gathering culture. Sights and sounds register more strongly, are recalled more easily and clearly. In some this is especially strong, and it is they who, if they choose, become scouts.
Thus on the march, when Gallagher wanted to know what lay ahead, and how far, it was Ngo he asked. There'd been no abatises before, but by now Ngo had some sense of where to expect them. Those above and below Noka were strong, but not well laid out. Thus Gallagher's army had lost only half a day and a few lives in working around them.
Where they rode now, the bank above the floodplain was quite high. Ngo, in the lead, came to an abatis along the left side of the road, though there was no indication it was manned: no unnatural sound or movement, no smell of cook fires or tobacco smoke. To the right, downhill through the trees, the floodplain road could be seen, and the mighty river.
He mistrusted the situation, and after signaling a halt, rode back to Gallagher, who came to see for himself. He too was ill at ease, but saw no good alternative to proceeding. Reluctantly he led his army slanting down the slope to the floodplain road. If it led into trouble, they'd at least have the option of taking to the river.
His foreboding eased greatly when the abatis ended with a few trees chopped into, then abandoned. As if some dirt-eater chief had changed his mind, and called off the axmen.
Lieutenant Giao of the Teng-Xian Associated Militias heard a distant raven call; two croaks followed by three. He answered with a single throaty note, followed seconds later by a single croak. Others than the tribesmen know the sounds of nature.
His men knew what to do: lay still behind the abatis being passed. Let the Dkota in, but not back out.
When he came to another abatis on the floodplain, half a mile farther on, Gallagher's misgivings returned, sharpened. There is always the river, he reminded himself. Meanwhile he rode on, at a walk now, his braves following, alert. Again Ngo rode back to him. Ahead, he reported, the abatis ended. Beyond it, instead of strips of trees having been felled, the whole woods had been slashed down!
Warily they rode on, then entered the slashing. Eerie; they'd seen nothing like it before. Why such destruction? Here the river narrowed the floodplain on their side of the river, crowding the road close to the steep slope that backed it. And from some of the fallen trees, many branches had been lopped. Why? Gallagher could see no sense in it, and neither could Ngo.
For another half mile or more, nothing happened. Then thunderous booms erupted from partway up the slope, punching gaps in the column. Gallagher fell dead from his saddle, a grapeshot through his skull. For a long shocked moment, near paralysis prevailed. Then another volley of grape burst the silence beyond recovery. There were screams, howls, cries. The killed and wounded numbered a few dozen, but shock and terror were general, and the Ulster-Yellow Bear army dissolved. Some braves turned back the way they'd come; some rode their horses into the river; some, their horses felled, took whatever cover they could find. Meanwhile the cannon continued, firing now at will. And among the felled trees, groups of archers rose, long drilled for speed of fire as well as accuracy.
Of the braves toward the rear of the column, those not struck down were soon out of the great slashing, but behind the abatis, another rank of dirt-eaters rose, longbows dealing death. Some of the fleeing whipped their horses to run the gantlet. Others took to the river.
Many more tribesmen were struck down by archery than by artillery, though the shock was far less.
By this time fully half the northern invaders were in the water, dismounted, clinging to their horses' tails, or to the saddle, the current carrying them downstream. Where a phalanx of militia bowmen came to the shore to send arrows at swimming horses, floating men.
Those who could, pressed their mounts to swim farther out into the current, trying for safety in distance. These were the designated prey of the 1st Royal Rifles. And here Stephen Nez had shown further foresight: he'd left trees along the bank, against whose trunks the riflemen steadied their long barrels. Now a hundred yards distance gave little safety, the balls killing horses and men. And these riflemen, having mastered the drill of rapid reloading, fired three aimed shots per minute.
Downstream, the rifle fire continued, and in the water, the effort soon became to reach the far shore, where only mounted bowmen sent death. From there, those who survived could find their way home.
That, of course, was the smaller, northern army. Two or three days' ride southwest was another, much larger, with less formidable defenses awaiting it.