Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  When the cavalry action petered out, Rick saw that the enemy was now across his line of retreat up the hill. Ganton needed him as a Captain General, the Tamaerthans and the city-state infantry needed him as a CO. Neither needed him as a casualty.

  “Let’s move, Top!” he called to Elliot.

  “Sir.” Elliot waved commands.

  Twenty Guardsmen moved ahead. Rick had long since got used to that: the elite troopers weren’t about to let him lead the way into combat. They rode across the leading skirmishers of the Prophet’s army. Lances dipped, and rose dripping red. Sabers flashed. Rick, Elliot, and the fifty Guards of his headquarters troop rode through the enemy foot at a gallop.

  When they were past they saw the cavalry.

  “Damn all!” Elliot shouted. He raised his Ingram. “Going to take shooting to get through those.”

  “Right as usual,” Rick said. And we’re getting low on ammo. Should be more in the Redoubt. He smiled to himself. The Great Redoubt. Like Borodino. Ring it with artillery. Fill it with star weapons. And wait. The Prophet would send his troops charging toward it, to be cut down in thousands.

  Good battle plan, Rick thought. Good enough? What the hell is a track star doing in a place like this?

  Elliot’s Ingram sounded like tearing paper as he fired off a full clip into the lancers blocking their path.

  Trouble with those things. Easy to shoot up too much ammo for too little effect. And we’re getting low on nine-millimeter Parabellum—He raised his automatic and shot an approaching cavalryman out of the saddle. How casually you do that. Having fun, Galloway?

  Then they were past. A dozen Guardsmen wheeled behind Rick to cover his retreat. He turned to urge them to follow him, but saw they were needed. The enemy cavalry wasn’t retreating at all. Fanatics. They all fight like fanatics. I guess the rumors are true, the Prophet holds all their families hostage.

  Another fifty yards. He spurred his horse forward. The Guards shouted behind him. “Cover them!” Rick shouted to Elliot.

  “Roger.” Elliot wheeled and rammed a new clip into the Ingram.

  Rick came to the ditch and abatis of the Redoubt. Larry Brentano waved, something like a salute.

  “Help Elliot,” Rick ordered.

  Brentano waved again and ran to the edge. After a moment his H&K chattered. Then Elliot rode in followed by the rest of the Guards.

  “Who’d we lose?” Rick demanded.

  “None,” Elliot said proudly. “Two wounded.” He pointed to the hospital area at the rear. “Get ’em up there, Sarkas.”

  “Sir.” The Guards lieutenant shouted his own orders.

  “Colonel!” Brentano shouted. He pointed downhill.

  The Prophet’s army was moving forward in one vast wave of infantry.

  “You taking command now?” Brentano asked.

  “Right. Just give me a moment to have a drink.” He reached for the wineskin attached to his saddle and tried to look casual as the Prophet’s drums and horns sounded again and again.

  * * *

  Rick hitched one leg up to sit casually atop his horse as he watched the enemy boil forward. Somebody had finally got them organized. As organized as that outfit would ever be. “Forty thousand?” he asked Elliot. He tried to keep his voice calm and casual.

  “Maybe that many,” Elliot said. “Maybe even a few more. How close you going to let them get?”

  “Not much more,” Rick said. He signaled to his signalmen. “Trumpeter, sound the General Alert, then All Units.”

  The notes sang out.

  Gunners stood to their guns.

  “Sound Fire on Command,” Rick said. He reached out to his signalman and took the red and white striped flag, raised it high, and waited as the enemy infantry moved forward. When they reached the clump of brush he’d mentally selected he brought the flag sharply down.

  The Redoubt erupted in fire. Bombards, musketeers, all the mercs, including the mortars and the crew with the Carl Gustav. The mortars were right on target: Rick saw whole squads fall in the center of the enemy ranks. Meanwhile twenty-pound stone balls from the bombards cut lanes from front to as far as Rick could see into the enemy formation.

  The one-oh-six blazed again. White phosphorus exploded just at the enemy first rank. Men screamed in horror and ran trailing smoke.

  “That ought to stop them,” Elliot said.

  “Yeah, it ought to, Sarge,” Brentano said. “But it don’t look like it did.” He raised his H&K and fired slowly and deliberately. “And I don’t reckon we’re going to stop them.”

  * * *

  “Fire in the hole!”

  The one-oh-six roared, and more of the Prophet’s army died.

  Not enough. Rick raised his own H&K and fired carefully and deliberately. Men fell.

  “They just keep coming,” Elliot said. “Goddamn, Colonel, I could sure use troops like that.”

  “Yeah.” With any competent leadership those men could take any army on Tran. Fortunately they didn’t have competent leadership.

  “Defenders,” Elliot muttered. He pointed to a formation at extreme range. “Six thousand, I hear. That’s the damned secret. Everybody in that army knows them defenders will kill anyone who runs. And go back and mop up the village he came from to boot.” Elliot rose in his saddle. “Ernikos! Keep them musketeers loading properly. That last volley was ragged.”

  “Aye my lord!” came the reply.

  “They’re going to get in here,” Elliot said. “Dismount?”

  “No. We’ll need to fall back.”

  Elliot looked at him quizzically but said nothing.

  “I remember a Korean vet,” Rick said. “He said watching men try to put out a fire by jumping into it will give you the willies if you let yourself think about it.”

  “Right,” Elliot said cheerfully. “So don’t think about it.”

  “Sure.” But it took a very experienced soldier not to think about what would happen if that kind of man reached you. Most of the locals weren’t that experienced.

  What the hell, Rick Galloway? Are you that experienced yourself?

  “Sappers,” Elliot said. He pointed. “Masked by the first wave. I thought their infantry wasn’t supposed to get here. Good planning.”

  The leading infantry had taken the casualties. Now, behind them, were several compact formations of men who carried brushwood fascines and axes.

  “They’ll sure as hell get in here, Colonel,” Elliot said. “We got maybe five minutes. No more. And I better see to my gunners.”

  “Right.”

  Elliot rode off. The Guards officers were chanting orders as the Guards musketeers loaded in unison. “Bite your cartridge. Spit. Ram. Return ramrod . . .”

  The Artillerymen were struggling to lower the aim points of the bombards. They’d never been intended to be depressed that low. Then from the center of the Redoubt the LMG opened up. Private First Class Arkos Passovopolous had it, with Gardner as his number-two; it was in good hands. Ben Murphy would have been even better, but he had to ride with the Drantos ironhats if he wanted to hold onto Westrook.

  For a couple of minutes the battlefield was almost silent, except for the mortar and recoilless rounds falling into the sappers and the boss gunner, Pinir son of the smith, roaring at his men. Then the sappers hit the ditch and the abatis, and what they lacked in skill they made up for in numbers. The logs of the abatis seemed to dissolve like the cohorts of the Fourth Legion, and suddenly the whole southern end of the Great Redoubt was open to the enemy.

  “Fall back in order!” Rick shouted. There wasn’t a trumpet command for that. He backed his horse away from the oncoming enemy. At intervals he fired his H&K. Set an example. About all you can do.

  “Get First Pikes up to the northern end of the Redoubt,” Rick shouted to a staff officer. The man rode off and another took his place next to Rick. “Vis infantry to connect with First Pikes. Move them north, and have them connect First Pikes to the Tamaerthan archers. And keep the archers supplie
d.”

  “Aye my lord.”

  And did you understand? I should write orders, but there’s no time. Not with the enemy fifty yards away and closing.

  He fired again and again. Then trumpets sounded behind him. He stood in his stirrups, then turned back with relief. First Pikes hadn’t failed him.

  “Close on First Pikes! Retreat behind the pikes!” He sent messengers down both sides to repeat the orders.

  Elliot rode up. “They’re keeping better order than I’d have thought,” he said. He gestured to indicate the Guards musketeers, who had loaded while retreating and now turned to deliver another terrible volley at point-blank range.

  The battle dissolved in confusion. For a while it seemed that the Redoubt was full of people with every kind of weapon or none at all, trying to run in three directions at once. Rick’s Guardsmen had to draw their swords and hack their way through the enemy’s skirmishers, then prod their way through the retreating musketeers and gunners.

  Gunners drew swords and prepared to die by their bombards.

  Rick rode down the line of gunners. “Retreat! Fall back behind the pikes! We’ll take the guns again, and you’ll use them again! Fall back!”

  They did, although they wouldn’t have if anyone but Rick had ordered it.

  Close one, that. Even my middle-class gunners get the ironhat mentality. Never retreat. Never budge. . . .

  A mob of half-naked men, heads shaved, wielding long knives, poured over the LMG’s pit. Rick mentally awarded the Great Ark and Gardner posthumous Medals of Honor; they’d stayed on the gun long enough to take a big bite out of the enemy.

  Then the mob stopped, churned, and went abruptly into reverse as the Great Ark erupted out of the pit. He held the LMG under his arm and swept it back and forth until the belt was gone. Then he tossed it to Gardner, drew a short sword with one hand and a long-handled mace with the other, and waded into the enemy.

  From the speed of their retreat, it looked as if they’d finally found something that scared them more than the Defenders.

  Gardner and Passovopolous fell back. Halfway to the pikes, Gardner went down with an arrow in his leg. The Great Ark picked up his number-two, machine-gun and all, slung the whole load over his shoulder, and kept on going.

  Rick mentally erased the “posthumous” from the Medals of Honor and added an unlimited line of credit at Madame Echenia’s for the Great Ark and a case of McCleve’s Best for Gardner. They’d probably enjoy that more than the medals.

  Everyone cheered as the Great Ark carried his load into the ranks of the First Pikes. Then they cheered again as Lord Rick rode up. Rick waved his binoculars to acknowledge the cheers, but it took an effort to hold his hand steady as he did. “No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy,” but this one had been a little too short-lived for his peace of mind.

  Or had it? The enemy had spent his energy and most of his ammunition. He held much of the Great Redoubt, but it was a pit of carnage, worthless to the enemy—and they’d made no progress against the pikes at all.

  “Mortars,” Rick called. “Make them regret being in the Redoubt.”

  “Roger,” someone shouted. A pair of mortar bombs fell among the enemy. Dead and living men were tossed about. The one-oh-six added white phosphorus. The interior of the Redoubt was a scene from the Inferno.

  “City infantry’s holding.”

  Rick turned to see Elliot on his right. The sergeant major looked as calm as he did on parade.

  “And the Guards.” Elliot raised his hand and brought it sharply down. A volley crashed out from among the pikemen. More of the Prophet’s troops fell.

  The city infantry on the left were indeed holding, but the enemy was doing no more than skirmishing with cavalry there. The allies’ own cavalry was out of danger too, both the Drantos knights and the two mounted legions, the Eighth and the chewed-up Fourth.

  The trouble was that the enemy’s infantry had pushed so far forward and was massed so solidly that Rick’s cavalry didn’t really have room to charge. Rick had hoped the enemy would jam themselves between the river and the forest like a cork in a bottle; what he hadn’t expected was that they’d do it so fast they immobilized most of his own cavalry. Now the two armies were like two porcupines facing each other in a sewer pipe, neither able to back up without giving the other an advantage.

  “Damn Rudhrig,” Rick said. “If he’d stayed a bit farther back—”

  “Sure,” Elliot said.

  No point in if. “The key is those Defenders,” Rick said. “Eliminate them and the Prophet’s whole army comes apart.” I hope.

  16

  Art Mason looked at the map and nodded. “No question, Colonel. Them Defenders are the key. Get them out of the way and all that infantry will run like blazes. They’re only holding on because they got no place to go.”

  “Good. Glad you agree. Top?”

  “Looks that way to me, too,” Elliot said.

  Mason stood and swept the area with his binoculars. The Prophet’s infantry must have taken at least fifteen-percent casualties; in places the ditch was solid with bodies, some of them still moving. They’d all run if they could.

  “So what do we have to hit the Defenders with?” Colonel Galloway asked.

  Mason thought fast. Good question. “Well, we can’t use the Romans. Or Drantos heavies, for that matter. The only way in there would be the High Road.”

  The Colonel nodded. “Bottleneck. We hold it with minimum forces, but that works both ways. We’ll never get through their blocking force. Unless we can lure them off?”

  Mason shook his head. “Tried. Didn’t work. Whoever’s holding that area knows what he’s doing and has steady troops.”

  “Damnedest thing,” Elliot mused. “How did a madman like the Prophet get first-class troops?”

  Who cares?

  “It’s messed up from here to the Lynos River,” the colonel said. “But south of there is Herdsman’s Ford.”

  “Herdsman’s Ford. Right!” Art said. “Wide enough to send cavalry across in column of squadrons. If—” He frowned.

  “I think we can do it,” the colonel said. “If we can clear off that blocking force on their side of the river and push a couple of thousand horse across we can sure give the Defenders something to worry about. Now who do I send?”

  “Reckon I know,” Mason said. “I’ll round up volunteers. What can I have?”

  “The Carl Gustav for one thing.”

  “Right, I’ll need that. And enough more firepower to clear the river guards. Say a squadron of Guards. Two troops anyway. And for the main body—Colonel, can we borrow some Romans?”

  “Doubt they’d follow you, Major,” Elliot said. “Or that we can get Publius to lend them.”

  “Not without being here until the True Sun comes up,” the colonel agreed. “They used to teach us that ‘unity of command’ was a major principle of war. Hah.”

  “Worse down there,” Elliot said. He waved toward the enemy.

  And that’s for damned sure. Now, who can the colonel order directly? Hah. “Sir, what about Gengrich’s troops?”

  “Nowhere near enough,” Galloway said. “They’re not very reliable just now, either. Need rest and training. No, Art, there’s only the one group we can send. Drumold’s Tamaerthan chivalry. There’s close to three thousand of them.”

  “It’s also the whole nobility of Tamaerthon,” Elliot said.

  “Objection, Sergeant Major?”

  “No objection, Colonel. Just reminding you. Sir.”

  “Thank you. It’s a chance we’ll have to take. Mason, I’ll give you a written order to Drumold. Take your Guards, and our people, and get moving.”

  * * *

  Ganton made a point of studying the messages from the balloon, then scanning the battlefield with his binoculars, before turning back to the Imperial headquarters staff. “The enemy does not know what to do,” he said. “While they argue, we should strike.”

  “How do you know th
ey are confused?” Publius demanded. “If your knights had withdrawn when ordered we would have no doubts about this battle.”

  “We have none now,” Ganton said. “Yet certainly I have cause to be displeased with my knights and barons.” As perhaps you have to be displeased with the Fourth Legion. The legion that hailed me as worthy to lead Romans.

  It had been a heady moment, there after the battle of the Hooey River, when the Roman soldiers hailed him as Imperator. Worthy to command Romans, but not a Roman. I am no threat to Publius Caesar, but can he believe that? Ganton stole a glance at Titus Frugi, who was pointedly studying the battle.

  “Patience is a Roman virtue that I wish my barons would learn. Ever do we seek to ride to the battle and trample our enemies beneath the hooves of our horses. Sometimes that is the best way. Often it is not.”

  “It would seem, Titus Frugi, that my son-in-law has learned much.”

  “Thank you, Caesar,” Ganton said. “Would you care to instruct me further today?”

  Publius looked at him sharply, but Ganton showed no expression at all. It’s true. I have much to learn. More from Titus Frugi than from Publius, but—

  “The High Road,” Publius said finally. “It is the key to this battle.” He gestured, and a headquarters optio came forward with maps pinned to a board. “The balloon reports that five thousand horse and nearly that many foot hold the High Road. They have been blocked by the Tamaerthan archers.”

  This time Publius did wince. It wasn’t hard to know why. Tamaerthan archers and pikemen, aided by no more than two starmen, had defeated a Roman legion and sacked a Roman town. That was years ago, but it was not easily forgotten.

  Ganton pretended to study the maps, but in fact he had memorized the terrain. He had found that Romans were not so well trained as he in that art. They didn’t have to be. They always had maps.

  “Bad ground for cavalry,” Ganton said. He indicated the area along the High Road. “Narrow. Best for foot.”

  “Agreed.” Titus Frugi pointed to the massed troops milling around the Great Redoubt. “You see that Lord Rick sends the chivalry of Tamaerthon toward the river ford. It is easy to guess his plan.”