Tales of Anyar

by Olan Thorensen

  “I like that last part,” said Balwis. “Their 12-pounders’ longer range than our 6-pounders won’t make a difference since the trees will stop most shot anyway. That reduces both sides to canister, grapeshot, and musket. They’d still have an advantage, but not as much.”

  Swavebroke put a forefinger on the map position of the woods four miles to their northeast. “Okay, but what if we dig in near to the back section of these woods? They’d have to deploy and move the half mile with much of their infantry. That’ll leave the rest of the infantry and all the cavalry they brought with them to protect the wagons.

  “Except we won’t seriously try to stop them at the fortifications we dug, but maybe leave one regiment there and the rest of us will attack the wagon train. It’ll be spread out a mile or more on the road. It might also give us a chance to whittle down their cavalry. I have to think their commander would be more cautious in future decisions if he finds himself with little or no mounted support for scouting and security.”

  “I wonder if one regiment will be enough to hold their attention,” said Balwis. “We’d need to draw as much of their infantry away from the wagon train as possible, and then the attack on the wagons would need to be a surprise. We all know what they did to the Moreland clan at the Battle of Moreland City.”

  “So, what do you think?” asked Swavebroke of the other three colonels. He had no problem soliciting opinions. Nycroft answered affirmatively, and the other two nodded.

  “That’s it, then. I’ll be with the two regiments digging in on the far side of the woods coming up. Our job is to stop their advance and keep their attention. Balwis and Erglan, your regiments will move south of the road and look for where you want to launch an attack on the wagon train.”

  Swavebroke then turned to a young man who had been silent thus far. Eflyn Langor was the Selfcell hetman’s younger brother and represented his clan at the meeting.

  “Eflyn, you say your brother has two thousand men twenty miles west of here. No offense intended, but your men aren’t trained in this type of fighting. Not that ours are trained all that much, but better than yours. Ours have had experience in a few actions and have had practice in maneuvering. I don’t want Roblyn to commit your men the same way we will ours. What I’m thinking is that when Balwis and Erglan attack the wagon train from the south, once the Narthani have all their attention focused elsewhere, there’s the opportunity to come upon them from the north. Roblyn won’t have contact with any of our units, so he’ll have to judge how to use your men most effectively and at the right time.”

  A salvo from a dragoon 6-pounder battery to Swavebroke’s left was preceded and followed by the deeper but more distant booms of Narthani 12-pounders. Yet it was different this time, compared to when the Narthani had forced them out of their positions at the forward edge of a forest patch. Now, only an occasional canister or grapeshot ball survived passage through several hundred yards of trees to reach the clansmen’s positions. Most of each side’s cannon batteries were out of sight of each other and firing blind. Swavebroke had had a few 6-pounders pushed forward to get in sight of the Narthani guns, but their crews suffered heavy casualties and were pulled back.

  The frantic building of the defensive line had continued, even when the first Narthani artillery salvo opened. Clansmen ducked or ran at the first firing, then returned to work when they realized only a fraction of the balls reached the fortifications. Not that there weren’t casualties, but clan leaders from squad to battalion urged their men on, yelling their work would save more lives later.

  “The men are working as fast as they can,” said the major commanding the battalion that Swavebroke watched digging.

  “I know, just keep after them.”

  “Here they come!” someone yelled, as men scrambled to drop tools, pick up muskets, and take up positions.

  Swavebroke turned from the major. Through the trees, he saw a rustle of foliage, the remnants of leaves, twigs, and branches not stripped by canister and grapeshot from the clan and Narthani artillery. Several upper torsos appeared at about a hundred yards. Then muskets, more heads, and a wave of Narthani infantry emerged into view.

  “FIRE!” yelled the major, his word relayed by company commanders to the four hundred men in front of Swavebroke. A wall of sound bashed Swavebroke’s ears from four hundred muskets, followed by yells to urge reloading. Gaps appeared in the enemy infantry line, to be filled with men from farther ranks. He couldn’t hear the Narthani, but he assumed commands were being given as the Narthani line raised muskets in unison and momentarily disappeared behind a curtain of gunpowder smoke.

  Swavebroke and most men behind the defenses reflexively ducked. Two men within his sight were too slow and were flung back, as one or more musket balls ended their universes.

  “Hurry, men!” yelled a man with an Adrisian accent to Swavebroke’s right. “Get a shot in while they’re reloading!”

  There was no pretense of mass musket salvos from the clan dragoons. Yozef had instructed them that the shock effect of massed musket salvos required more training and discipline than the clan dragoons possessed. Men were to fire independently as quickly as possible.

  A fifteen-year-old boy, carefully chosen for coolness and sharp-wittedness, watched the Narthani through a narrow space between two fallen tree trunks. As the Narthani raised muskets again, he put the horn to his mouth and blew a long note. Men within hearing ducked once more. When the horn was timed right, most men were protected from the coming storm of musket balls. On the fourth Narthani salvo, the boy’s mouth dried up, and he blew seconds too late. Twenty men were struck, two near the boy, including one of his uncles.

  The shocked trumpeter gasped and began to cry. An officer shook him violently.

  “No time for that now! It’s going to happen! Just do your best. You’ve already saved many lives, and you’ll save more if you brace yourself and do your duty.”

  The boy nodded and went back to his viewing slit, tears on his cheeks.

  “They’re bringing artillery up closer,” said the major calmly. “There, to our left toward the next battalion.”

  Swavebroke looked in time to see two Narthani 12-pounders fire. They swept a section of tree trunks and dirt fortification clear of clansmen. He was about to order the major to redirect musket fire at the Narthani artillery crews when half of the crews fell. Swavebroke couldn’t see who, but somewhere a clan unit commander had anticipated the order. Two other Narthani artillerymen fell, then more. They were replaced, to be felled before firing again. He marveled at their discipline, as the equivalent of several complete gun crews got off a few salvos. He estimated that four complete crews had been felled before the cannon withdrew out of sight.

  “Well, that stopped them,” said the major, “but while the men were firing at the cannon, they weren’t firing at the damned Narthani infantry.”

  A triple line of infantry was sixty yards from the clans’ fortifications.

  “Shit,” said Swavebroke. “They’re about close enough for a final salvo and then a bayonet charge. Damn, we should have had more 6-pounders up here sooner!”

  He turned to the major, but the man had already run to the rear to order more of their horse artillery forward.

  Narthani infantrymen fell, as the dragoons fired as quickly as they could. Yet despite how many fell, there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of replacements. A series of horn blasts echoed along the Narthani line. Two shorts and one long. Swavebroke raised his head again above the tree logs, and his breath caught. In a single motion, the entire Narthani line pulled plug bayonets from scabbards, jammed them into the barrels of their muskets, and lowered the muskets parallel to the ground. Responding to another long horn blast, the entire line surged forward at a run.

  Swavebroke leaped back and landed beside a body with a hole in one eye, the man’s musket lying beside him. Swavebroke grabbed the musket and the man’s cartridge sack and ran back to the line. Every musket was needed. He fired once and was rel
oading when a 6-pounder crew shoved him peremptorily aside and pushed their gun to firing position.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Swavebroke!” yelled the major. “You need to get your ass farther back to keep some kind of order to this pile of shit!”

  “Too late!” answered Swavebroke. “My horse got shot ten minutes ago. I might as well shoot a few of the fuckers before they break through!”

  The major raced to a second 6-pounder coming into position, just as the cannon that had almost run over Swavebroke fired canister at the Narthani, now only fifty yards distant. Farther away from where he could see, another clan cannon fired, then another. Gaps appeared in the Narthani wave. The range was too short for an optimum spread of canister, but instead of one or a few balls hitting a single body, wherever the canister ball cone hit, men were shredded. Even the discipline of the Narthani infantry had its limits, and seeing men only a few feet away turned into clouds of flesh and blood was too much. Narthani on the edge of such carnage hesitated. A few turned and ran to their rear, which accelerated the process. Clansmen kept up a steady musket fire, as more 6-pounders came into play.

  The Narthani bayonet charge, which had seemed unstoppable, stalled thirty yards from the fortifications. Swavebroke watched hundreds of Narthani backs, as they fled to the safety of covering foliage, however far away it was. He was tempted to call a ceasefire, as the Narthani charge turned into slaughter. But he didn’t. Every enemy killed or wounded was one fewer to inflict casualties on the men under his responsibility. Men who lived might somehow affect what would happen at Orosz City. Mercy was not an option.

  “Call them back,” Istranik said to his second-in-command. “Even when we brought 12-pounders forward to suppress their light cannon, we can’t throw enough men at their line to break through and protect the wagon train at the same time. Clan horsemen coming from the south have already cut through the wagon train in two places. They were pushed out again, but every time we lose more wagons.”

  “I thought we’d be able to protect the wagons,” said Istranik’s second-in-command, “until that other attack came from the north. I suspect the latter are Selfcellese, but whoever they are, our infantry is just holding on. Losing most of our cavalry is putting us in a precarious position. The wagon train has the rear infantry units too dispersed.”

  “Colonel Kurum made a mistake,” said Istranik. “He didn’t stay within support range of the infantry and artillery left with the wagons. Although to be fair, I suspect he thought they would pull back and found himself too engaged to retreat. Nor did he expect the attack from the north while he faced the islanders to the south.”

  “Whatever happened, General, we’re down to fewer than two hundred active cavalry. With the casualties sustained trying to get through this last section of forest, I’m obliged to suggest serious reconsideration of whether we can continue toward Orosz City to meet up with Marshal Gullar.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Istranik. “With our losses and the size and determination we’re seeing from the islanders, I think our top priority has to be to protect the wagons and not try to keep moving. It simply isn’t possible to ensure the security of the supplies if we’re strung out along this road so thinly. With a reduced cavalry screen, the islanders can hit the column almost at will. Even if we repeatedly drive them off, it’ll freeze our forward progress.

  “No, I’m afraid Gullar will have to come to us, instead of us to him. We’re only sixty miles from Orosz City. He should just about be there by now, if not farther. Hell, he might even be only a few miles away and we wouldn’t know it, the way the islanders have tightened around us.”

  Istranik consulted a well-worn map covered with written symbols and comments.

  “If Moreland City were intact, I’d think about withdrawing there. Unfortunately, Gullar’s men were too thorough in destroying it. We’ll make an encampment here.” He pointed to a bend in a river. “We’ll have the river providing protection and have the men dig a ditch and berm. We’ll sit there until we get word from the marshal.”

  “Verbal message from Colonel Preddi,” announced an aide to Harmon Swavebroke. “He reports he’s broken off attacks on the Narthani wagon train, as has Colonel Erglan. More infantry keeps showing up, and both regiments are getting increased casualties. He also says his scouts believe the Narthani are about to encamp a few miles southwest of here.”

  “That fits what we’ve seen here,” said Swavebroke. “There hasn’t been any forward movement toward our line in the last two hours. Let’s aggressively scout forward to confirm. If true, we need to send a message to the War Council and see what they want us to do.”

  Clan Defensive Line

  “It’s confirmed,” said Colonel Orlyn four hours later. “The Narthani have pulled back, and their rear units are digging in three miles west of here. I’ve got to believe they intend to stop there; otherwise, why dig in?”

  “If that’s true, then we’ve accomplished our missions,” said Swavebroke. He held up a sheet of paper. “We just got a message by rider from Orosz City. Orders are for us to come there with all speed. The rider bringing this message must have passed our man riding to update the War Council on action here. That means they don’t know the Narthani relief force is stopped for the moment. The message says we must arrive at Orosz City as early as possibly tomorrow .”

  “Tomorrow!” exclaimed Roblyn Langor, the Selfcell hetman. “That has to mean the final battle is about to begin.”

  “I know the men and horses are tired,” said Swavebroke, “but we have our orders. Balwis, your regiment is beaten down the most. You’ll stay here with the wounded and keep an eye on the Narthani, so they don’t realize the rest of us have left.”

  Balwis grimaced at the thought of missing the Orosz City battle, but he recognized the logic. Most of his men wouldn’t keep up with the less exhausted regiments.

  “The rest of us are to be ready to start in one hour. Feed your men and give them overnight water and rations. Every man is to take enough water and feed to keep his horse alive to Orosz City. Other than that, every horse is expendable. If we have to kill them to get to Orosz City, so be it.

  “We’ll also leave all the wagons and cannon with Balwis. As much as we’d like to have the cannon with us, they’ll only slow us down. We’ll take as many extra horses as possible, but any man or horse that can’t keep up will be left behind. If the decisive battle is to be at Orosz City tomorrow, then we have to get there in case we’re needed.”

  No matter the war or the cause, rational men can puzzle over why they are trying to kill strangers they have never met and with whom they hold no personal grievance. Nor is it unknown that when viewing the body of an enemy, even the most indoctrinated person can wonder whether the fallen had had a family.

  When the united clans of Caedellium faced the Narthani army on the plain south of Orosz City, thousands died and thousands lived. Most fighters would never know the names of those they fought. Most, but not all.

  BEST OF ENEMIES

  Munmar Kellen was not a habitual liar—though he did lie on rare occasions. Yet the truth was simply the easiest thing to remember, and he valued other people’s trust in his words. In this case, the trust of one hundred men under his command. Thus, when he addressed his men and assured them of the honor of being chosen to lead the Narthani army to victory, he knew he had lied, even if by omission. That the islanders would be defeated, he had no doubt, but he and his troops had seen the fortifications at Orosz City after arriving the previous day. The “honor” of leading the first assault on these fortifications would be meaningless when most of his company would not survive to feel the rays of the mid-day sun.

  Nor did it occur to him to wonder whether he was a brave man. The men in his family had served in the Narthani army going back centuries, to the time the original tribe had forced other tribes to join them, and this irresistible force had roared out of the northern steppes of Melosia to found a great empire.

  Altho
ugh his family had not garnered estates or had members rise to the highest levels in society, they proudly held to their reputation as an honorable lineage. Thus, when Munmar Kellen reached his fifteenth year (fourteen on Earth), neither he nor any member of his family doubted he would leave for one of the military training centers in Narthon. The first year had been hard, brutal by some standards, but the discipline instilled by the men of his family and the expectations drummed into him from the time he could understand words singled him out from the myriad of other recruits. In the second year, he was deemed ready to leave the training center far earlier than most, and he joined a military unit. Despite his record predicting advancement, the army waited for his immature physique to develop, believing even a talented sixteen-year-old shouldn’t be expected to command men two and three times his age, many of them hardened veterans.

  For four years, he rose slowly in rank. Then, on the day of his twentieth birthday, after reaching his final height and proving tough enough to hold his own with most men, he received a promotion to lieutenant in charge of a platoon of twenty-five men.

  Now, twenty-three years old and captain of an infantry company in Marshall Gullar’s 29th Corps, Munmar Kellen finished his reassuring speech by ordering his company to deploy to positions behind the artillery batteries that would start the assault.

  Then they waited, and his mind turned to thoughts he would never share with another Narthani. Why were they on this remote island he had never heard of and fighting a people toward whom he felt no animosity? Would his and his men’s lives mean anything? Who would mourn him, except his mother and perhaps one of his three sisters? In another life, could he have had a family and worked on building things, instead of destroying them? Would anyone notice his fear?