by David Drake
The earthwork fort holding the north end of the bridge came into view. The sides were gullied with the winter rains and poor maintenance, but it was still occupied, and the enemy had moved heavier guns in. Fortress models throwing forty-and sixty-kilo solid shot, which was a threat to the gunboats.
“Prepare to engage,” he called.
The gunners in the forward part of the hull loaded a round into the mortar, one set for delayed explosion. At the same instant a flash of red showed on the ramparts of the fort. About a second later a plume of water five meters high erupted off the port bow as the cannonball struck.
“Range one thousand. Let go the anchors, engines all stop.” Silence struck ears accustomed to the groan and clank of the engine, broken by the sounds of water and of venting steam from the safety valve. There was an iron clank as a wedge-shaped segment of the deck armor over the muzzle of the mortar was released and swung down.
“Fire!”
“Spirit,” Raj murmured to himself.
POUMF. The field-gun fired again, and the crew cheered as the shell struck just short of the bridge. It hammered into ground covered with men and dogs, gouting up a candle-shape of dirt and body parts. The crowding down there was so bad that the empty space filled at once, pressure from the sides forcing men in like water into a splash-hole. All along the ridge overlooking the narrow ledge of floodplain Civil Government troops stood and fired down into the dense mass, working their levers with the hysterical exultation that a defenseless target brings. The bulk of the enemy were far too closely packed to use their weapons, even if they had the inclination. More guns came up; they’d been slowed by the press of surrendering men and riderless dogs behind.
The fort by the bridge was broken and burning. So was the center span of the bridge itself, the wooden trestle licking up flames that were pale in the bright midmorning sun. The heads of men and dogs showed in the water. The swift current swept most of them downstream, toward the tidal estuary and the waiting downdraggers. More followed them into the water by the minute. . . .
“Cease fire!” Raj shouted.
There hadn’t been much fight in the Brigaderos since they realized the bridge was under attack behind them. A splatgun bounced up, unlimbered and cut loose down the slope into the enemy. A pocket opened for a second, where the thirty-five rounds punched in together.
“Cease fire, Spirit-dammit, sound cease fire!” Raj shouted again.
The bugles sang again and again, and the sound began to relay down the other units. The Civil Government soldiers were packed almost shoulder to shoulder above their opponents as well, and the firing began to die away reluctantly. As the noise died, the movement below did as well. Ten minutes later the cries of the wounded were the loudest sound; he could see thousands of faces turning toward him, toward the Starburst banner amid the guns.
“White parley flag,” he said to an aide. “Find an officer. Unconditional surrender, immediately, but I guarantee their lives and personal liberty if nothing else.” He had better uses for troops this good than sending them to the mines.
“Well, Ingreid’s down to what, fifty thousand by now?” Gerrin Staenbridge said.
“Four thousand dead, four thousand surrendered, from their rearguard—roughly,” Bartin Foley said, looking at his notepad.
The commanders were sitting around a trestle table. Below them squads of prisoners were picking over the field, collecting the dead and the weapons under the supervision of Civil Government infantry. Wagonloads of enemy wounded and plunder groaned up the switchback road, and packs of captured dogs. Artillerymen and artisans from Old Residence were swarming over the railway bridge and repairing the damage; the sound of sawing and hammering drifted back along with the endless rushing sound of the river against the stone pilings. Still more prisoners were at work repairing the earthworks of the fort. Even the artillery might be salvageable; those cast-iron and cast-bronze pieces were hard to damage.
Raj swallowed a mouthful of bread and sausage and followed it with water. “Grammeck, how long on the bridge?”
“Ready by tomorrow if we push it,” the artilleryman said. “No real structural damage.”
Raj nodded. “Kaltin, how many dogs did we capture?”
“More than we can use or feed,” the Companion said. “Eight, nine thousand, not counting the ones who’re better shot. Why?”
He raised a hand. “All right,” he said. The others leaned forward. “As you may have guessed, I don’t intend to give Ingreid a free passage home. If he gets behind the fortifications of Carson Barracks, we could be here for years—and it’d be cursed hard to cut off its communications, not with the river so close.”
Staenbridge rubbed a hand along his jaw, rasping the blueblack stubble. “An open-field encounter?” he said. “Fifty, fifty-five thousand men . . . chancy.”
Raj shook his head and smiled, weighing down the corners of a map with plates and cups. “I’ve no intention of fighting unless he obliges me by attacking a strong position head-on . . . and I think even the Lord of Men has realized that’s a mistake.”
The others chuckled and watched intently as Raj’s finger traced the line of the railway between Old Residence and Carson Barracks, four hundred kilometers to the southwest in the valley of the Padan.
“He has to withdraw along this line . . . well, he could march straight to the nearest riverport on the Padan, but that’s not what he’ll do. This stretch of country along the line of rail is bare and the railway is useless for anything substantial, thanks to Ludwig here.” The ex-Squadrone blushed. “He’ll have to bring in wagon trains from areas with supplies—and at the worst time of year, too.”
“Ah, bwenyo,” Kaltin Gruder said. “A razziah, eh?”
“Hmmm.” Gerrin pursed his lips. “Still, we’d have only six thousand men,” he pointed out. “Difficult to coordinate and not much if we do have to fight.”
“Not nearly enough,” Raj agreed. “We’ll need eleven thousand rifles and all the field-guns as a minimum. Jorg, we’ll take nine battalions of your infantry.”
The Kelden County nobleman looked up, blinking in surprise. “My boys can march,” he said. “But they’re bipeds, mi heneral.”
“Not on dogback they aren’t,” Raj said. That’s why I asked how many dogs we captured.” He held up his hands against the storm of protest.
“I know, I know; it takes years to train a cavalryman, he practically has to be born at it. I don’t expect them to be able to fight mounted, or maneuver, or switch from mounted to dismounted action quickly—I don’t expect them to do anything but stay on the beasts, then get off and form up on foot for infantry action. Mounted infantry, not cavalry.”
Jorg Menyez closed his mouth on the protest he had been about to make and sat silent for a second. Then he nodded. “Yes, they can do that,” he said.
Raj rapped his knuckles on the rough boards. “Spirit willing and the crick don’t rise,” he said. “Pick the best, leave the units that got hardest hit during the assault behind. Put a good solid man in charge, he can recruit up to strength locally. Not likely to be any real fighting around here for the rest of the campaign, anyway.
“We’ll divide into three columns,” he went on. “Gerrin, Kaltin and Ludwig to command, fifteen guns each. Bare minimum supplies, no tents, no camp followers, no wheeled transports except the ammunition limbers for the guns. Put six hundred rounds of eleven-millimeters per man on pack dogs, three days’ hardtack, and that’s about it.”
He drew a straight line on the map along the railway. “That’s Ingreid.” Three X’s, one ahead of the Brigade force and two more on the south and left of it. “That’s us. Just enough skirmishing to keep them slowed down.”
A big army was a slow army anyway, and if they were forced to deploy, they’d be slower still. Every day cross-country increased their supply problems. Raj stretched out a hand with the fingers splayed, then pulled it back toward himself and clenched them.
“We’ll stay close enough toget
her to keep in supporting distance,” he said. “Cut off all foragers, and retreat sharpish if a substantial force tries to attack. If Ingreid stops and lunges for us, we can all close up and pick our spot. Either he breaks his teeth on us by attacking entrenchments front-on, or he has to resume marching toward Carson Barracks—in which case we resume harassment. With any luck, by the time he gets to his capital he’ll be starving.”
“What about their right flank?” Gerrin asked, tracing an arc to the north of the railway line.
“Our good and faithful Colonel Clerett’s up there, burning and killing,” Raj said. “From the reports, I expect him to reach Carson Barracks long before Ingreid does. Also, I’ll put the Skinners on that flank. Juluk will enjoy that.”
“Spirit help the civilians,” Jorg said. Raj shrugged.
“Fortunes of war—and Skinners consider killing civilians poor sport when they’ve got Long-Hairs at hand,” he said. “When we all get where we’re going, we can link up with Clerett, which will give us fifteen or sixteen thousand first-rate troops . . . and Ingreid should be considerably weaker by then. Any questions?”
A murmur of assent. “I want to be moving by tomorrow,” he went on. “Here’s the disposition of units—”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The long gentle ridge above the roadway was covered in peach trees, and the whole orchard was in a froth of pink blossom. The scent was overpoweringly sweet, and rain-dewed blossoms fell to star the shoulders and helmets of the troopers sitting their dogs beneath. Grainfields stretched down to the roadway and rolled away beyond, an occasional clump of trees or a cottage interrupting the waist-high corn or thigh-high wheat. Ploughed fallow was reddish-brown, pastureland intensely green. The sun shone bright yellow-orange in a cloudless sky, with both moons transparent slivers near the horizon. A pterosauroid hovered high overhead, its ten-meter span of wings tiny against the cloudless sky; toothed feathered almost-birds chased insects from bough to bough above the soldiers, chirring at the feast stirred up by the paws of the dogs. Occasionally one would flutter to a stop, cling to bark with feet and the clawed fingers on the leading edge of their wings, and hiss defiance at the men below.
“We look like a bunch of damned groomsmen riding to a wedding,” Kaltin Gruder said, brushing flowers off his dog’s neck. The officer beside him chuckled.
Half a kilometer to the north and a hundred meters below, a train of wagons creaked slowly eastward. Oxen pulled them, twenty big white-coated beasts to the largest vehicles, land-schooners with their canvas-covered hoops; they ranged from there down to the ordinary humble two-wheeled farm carts pulled by a single pair. Kaltin whistled tunelessly through his teeth as he moved his binoculars from east to west. Most of the people with the convoy were obviously natives, peasants in ragged trousers and smocks. More followed, driving a herd of sheep and slaughter-cattle in the fields beside the road—right through young corn and half-grown winter wheat, too.
There were other men on dogback, though, with lobster-tail helmets and black-and-gray uniforms. Riding in columns of twos on either side of the convoy, and throwing out small patrols. One group of four was riding up the open slope below towards the orchard.
“About two hundred dragoons,” he said, and began to give brisk orders. That was just enough to make sure that no band of disgruntled peons jumped the supply train. Not enough to do anything useful today.
A bugle sounded; the Brigaderos scouts hauled frantically on their reins as three hundred men rose to their feet and walked in line abreast out of the orchard. Another two companies trotted down and took up position across the road ahead of the convoy, blocking their path back towards the main Brigade army.
“Now—” Kaltin began, then clicked his tongue.
The Brigade kettledrums whirred. The civilians were taking off straight north through the grainfields; if the commander of the convoy escort had any sense, he’d be doing the same. Instead the barbarians fired a volley from the saddle—not a round of which came anywhere near the Civil Government force, although he could hear bullets clipping through the treetops five meters overhead—drew their swords, and charged.
“More balls than brains,” the battalion commander said, and called to a subordinate.
Further back on the ridge, guns crashed. Shells ripped by overhead and hammered up ground before the charging Brigaderos. At four hundred meters the riflemen cut loose with volley fire. Thirty seconds later the survivors of the Brigade charge were galloping frantically in the other direction, or holding up reversed weapons. All but their leader; he came on, sword outstretched. At a hundred meters from the Civil Government line his dog stumbled and went down as if it had tripped, legs broken by shots fired low.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Kaltin said, touching a heel to his dog’s flank.
He rode up to the fallen man. Boy, he thought. Only a black down on his pale cheeks; on his hands and knees, fumbling after his sword. Kaltin leaned down and swung the point of his saber in front of the boy’s eyes.
“Yield,” he said.
Blinking back tears of rage, the young man stood and offered his sword across his forearm.
“I am hereditary Captain Evans Durkman,” he said, and flushed crimson when his voice broke in mid-sentence.
Down below the troopers of the 7th Descott were proceeding in businesslike fashion. The oxen were unharnessed and driven upslope with whoops and slapping lariats. Men stood in the wagons to load sacks of cornmeal and beans and dried meat and sausages onto strings of dogs with pack-saddles. An even louder whoop told of a wagon filled with kegs of brandy; there were groans as a noncom rode up and ordered the tops of the barrels smashed in and the pale liquor dumped on all the remaining vehicles. Less than five minutes after the action began, the first brandy-fueled flames licked skyward. A few minutes after that, the whole train was burning. Sullen prisoners smashed their own rifles against the iron tyres of the wagon wheels under the muzzles of the Descotter guns.
“You won’t get away with this, you bandit,” the extremely young Brigadero growled in passable Sponglish.
Several of the men around Kaltin chuckled. He smiled himself; not an unkindly expression, but the scars made it into something that forced the younger man to flinch a little beneath his bravado.
“If you mean that force of fifteen hundred men who was going to meet you,” he began.
Just then a faint booming came from the northeast, echoing off the low hills. It took the Brigadero a few moments to recognize the sound of a distant cannonade, and then he went chalk-white under his pale skin.
“—that’s them,” Kaltin finished. “Now your boots, young messer.”
The other man noticed that the prisoners were barefoot; he surrendered his own grudgingly, watching in puzzlement as the footwear were thrown onto the roaring bonfire that had been a wagon a few minutes before.
“We don’t have time or troops to guard you,” Kaltin said helpfully to the hangdog group of prisoners. “And I doubt Ingreid has mounts, weapons or footwear to spare—to say nothing of food. So if you’ve got any sense, you’ll all start walking home right now. I’m sure your mother will be reassured to see you, Hereditary Captain Durkman.”
He sheathed his sword and gathered up his reins. The Brigadero burst into sputtering Namerique; Kaltin spoke a little of that language, mostly learned from his concubine Mitchi. Judging by the terms for body parts, most of what the youngster was saying was obscenities. Several of his older subordinates grabbed him by the arms. They probably understood exactly what the alternative to release was for an inconvenient prisoner, and were surprised they were still alive.
Markman shook them off. “When are you going to stop hiding and skulking?” he said hotly. “When are you going to come out and give battle like honest men?”
Kaltin grinned as he turned his mount eastward. “We are giving battle,” he said over his shoulder. “And we’re winning.”
He turned and chopped a hand forward. “Waymanos!”
&nbs
p; “Well, this is something new,” Bartin Foley said.
The road was a churned-up mass of mud and dung and dogshit; exactly what you would expect after a major army passed by. The litter of discarded baggage was about what he’d become accustomed to, after the first week. One of the main problems had been preventing the men loading themselves down with nonessential loot. Some of it had been fairly tempting—even a silver bathtub, for the Spirit’s sake! Masses of servants and thralls and camp followers as well, not just whores but families.
This time it was guns, their barrels glistening under the quick spring rain. The bronze glittered more brightly as the clouds split and watery sunlight broke through. Twenty of the guns were light field-pieces; three were heavier, not quite siege guns but nearly . . . and that must be about all of Ingreid’s remaining artillery, counting what had bogged down in fords and fallen off bridges and broken its axles before getting this far.
“They’re over here, sir,” Lieutenant Torridez said.
The ruts didn’t stop at the edge of the road; in fact, it was difficult to say just where the road had been, in the swath of trampled and churned devastation cutting southwest through the fields. Only the line of the railway embankment made it certain. There was a good deal of swamp and forest hereabouts, and drainage channels in the cleared fields. The three hundred Brigaderos squatting with their hands behind their heads were in what had probably been a pasture in better days.
“Found them sitting here,” Torridez went on. “Didn’t give us any trouble at all.”
Foley wrinkled his nose slightly at the smell, and made a mental note to make sure the priests were checking on the mens’ drinking water. Dysentery like this was the last thing they needed. The two Civil Government officers pulled up beside an older man; he was wearing back-and-breast armor, although the troops in the field were dragoons. He rose, blinking watery gray eyes at the young man with the hook; his head was egg-bald, and his face had probably been strong before fever and hunger left the skin sagging and ash-colored.