by David Drake
"Not enough room on the tower," Adrian explained. "Every damn sub-chief in the tribe is trying to fit himself up there alongside Prelotta."
He gestured at the ladder. "Come on. Let's watch it from atop our own wagon. The view won't be as good, but at this stage of the battle it doesn't really matter." He put practice to words, scrambling up ahead of Helga. Over his shoulder: "Not at any stage, really. No maneuvers, here. Just hammer back at them when they charge — and try to plug the breaches."
"Breaches," muttered Helga, as she climbed up after him. "Why don't I like the sound of that word?"
Even before she reached the top, however, a new sound arrived which perked up her spirits. The first volley of Adrian's arquebusiers, firing on the advancing Confederates. Helga knew it was Adrian's men who were shooting, not the Reedbottoms in the wagons. The long-barreled two-man arquebuses had a distinctly different sound from the squat guns of the tribesmen.
It was a very ragged volley, naturally. Adrian's men were scattered all around the laager, two teams to each interstitial shield. The men and the officers commanding them were too spread out to be given coordinated firing commands. So they had been ordered to fire as soon as the enemy in front of their own guns reached "close range" — which, for Adrian's men, was defined as fifty yards.
Still, she was impressed by how closely the guns went off. Adrian's Fighting Band, unlike the tribesmen, had quite a bit of experience using firearms in a battle. Prelotta, on the other hand, had commanded his people not to fire until the Vanbert infantry was at point-blank range — and had then added the most bloodcurdling threats regarding the way he would punish warriors who violated the rule.
Which, of course, had been half pointless. As she climbed onto the wagon top, Helga could already hear the duller booms of the tribesmen's guns going off. At least fifty guns, she judged.
Adrian was none too pleased, that was obvious. He was scowling fiercely, and as soon as Helga came next to him. exclaimed: "Stupid bastards! They can't hit a barn at fifty yards with those guns."
"That army's a lot wider than a barn," said Helga soothingly. "Even taller, when you figure in the depth of the ranks and the range of the bullets."
She was soothing herself, she suspected, even more than her lover. From atop the wagon, the view of the oncoming Confederate army was. .
Impressive. Let's call it that. Since the only alternative is "terrifying" and it'd really wreck my dignity to start pissing in public.
"Terrifying" was a lot closer to the truth. To begin with, Tomsien's army was huge. Flank to flank, not counting the cavalry, the lines covered over two miles of front — much wider than the laager itself. And that was only the first two brigades, each of which was three ranks deep. Behind, separated by a space of not more than thirty yards between them, came two more blocks of brigades. In theory, thirty thousand men in all — coming relentlessly toward a force half their size. It wasn't even so much the numbers which gave that sense of irresistible power as it was the incredible degree of organization. Tens of thousands of men, marching forward into battle as if they were all cogs of a single machine.
In practice, Vanbert brigades were usually understrength. But Tomsien's would be less so than usual, because the Triumvir had had the time — and certainly the prestige and the money — to have built them up. There were at least twenty-five thousand men in that army, counting infantry regulars alone. Helga didn't have the experience to make a good assessment of Tomsien's cavalry, but she thought they had to number another five thousand at the very least.
Against them, Adrian and Prelotta had about ten thousand Reedbottoms, most of them in the wagons; a thousand or less of Adrian's Strikers — Helga saw that he was holding them in reserve not far from the central compound — and a few hundred gunners of the Fighting Band scattered throughout the laager at the shields. Beyond that—
She scanned the area. What a menagerie. Perhaps five or six thousand cavalrymen from all the other tribes, maybe half of them Grayhills. From what she could see at the distance, someone — probably Esmond — seemed to be bringing some degree of organization to the Grayhills clustered toward one side of the laager. But the rest of the tribesmen were just whatever routed bands had managed to find refuge with the Reedbottoms. Stragglers and deserters, for all practical purposes, who didn't look to have any more fight in them than so many whipped curs.
She glanced at Jessep, who was now standing on her other side. Oddly, the middle-aged veteran seemed to be rather relaxed.
Yunkers confirmed her impression immediately. "Tomsien's always been clumsy. Capable, mind you — but with about as much imagination as an old matron set in her ways."
"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.
He gestured with his square chin. "What's the point of taking a battle formation like that against something like this? He's not facing an Emerald phalanx or a mob of barbarians. No way to outflank us — so why even try? And the saw and the wedge'll both be useless here."
She heard a massed Vanbert battle cry, followed immediately by the first real volley of Reedbottom guns going off, and jerked her head back around. Every wagon within range of the Confederates looked like a pincushion, thousands of short lead-weighted javelins having struck them in the Vanbert volley. That had been the battle cry she heard, she now realized.
"Stupid," hissed Jessep. "What in the name of the gods was Tomsien thinking?" He pointed a thick accusing finger. "No way a javelin is going to punch through the walls of those wagons. All the dumb bastard's done is create a hedge against his own men."
By "hedge," she knew, Jessep was referring to a standard tactic used by Confederates to defend their camps against assaults. Pushing branches out sideways through the walls, to impede anyone trying to scale them. Now that she thought about it, she realized that all those javelins sticking on the wagons were going to do much the same to any Vanbert soldiers trying to scale them.
True, the volley fired in response by the Reedbottoms was equally stupid. The range was still too great — although she could see that a number of Vanberts had been struck down. But, at least as long as their ammunition held out, the tribesmen could afford a few mistakes like that.
"And he's doing it again!" Jessep's hiss, this time, was more in the nature of a shriek. "What is he thinking?"
Sure enough. The Confederates had hurled a second volley of javelins. The wagons looked even more like pincushions than before.
She sensed Adrian turning his head toward them. When he spoke, his voice had an odd timber to it. Helga almost shuddered; she did avoid her lover's eyes.
She'd heard that voice before, on occasion, and knew that Adrian's eyes would have that weird trance-haze look in them. She hated that look.
"I counted on this, Jessep."
That's a lie. A dead ancient general named Raj Whitehall counted on it.
"No one's ever tried to maneuver such a large army in the field in history. Even leaving aside the fact that it's being maneuvered against a completely new formation."
The voice was hollow, somehow. A ghost's voice rather a man's. That it was the voice of a very vigorous, self-confident and masculine sort of ghost made it all the more repellent to Helga. She'd come to love Adrian's own voice, with its undertone of whimsy and half-detached irony.
"It's sluggish, you see," the voice continued. "Bound to be. The officers can't really control it that well, from top to bottom. Too big — so big Tomsien probably can't even see all of it. So the army reacts instinctively, following routine — from the lowest filer all the way up to Tomsien himself."
Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder. That much, at least, Helga knew came from him. She found the touch comforting.
"Even Helga's father wouldn't have been able to do much better, at this stage. Of course, he wouldn't keep making the same mistakes, the way I'm sure Tomsien will."
"The way I'm sure." It sounded so. . sure. This time Helga did shudder; and was, again, comforted by Adrian's hand giving her shoulder a lit
tle squeeze.
She understood the meaning of that reassuring pressure, and felt herself relax a bit. I'm still here, love. Just. . sitting off to the side for a bit. This is Raj Whitehall's work. Got to be that way, or we might all die this day.
She even managed to croak out a question. "What other mistake of Tomsien's do you expect?"
"Not—"
His answer was drowned out by a wave of sound. Two waves, actually, coming so close on top of each other that they smote the ears like a single thunderclap. The first, the Vanbert battle cry — the real cry, the full-throated one which announced an assault, not a javelin volley — followed instantly by the first full volley of the Reedbottom gunners sheltered inside their wagons.
Helga stared. Shocked into silence, first, by the overwhelming power of the charge itself. Ten thousand men smashing down on their enemy like a sudden tidal bore. Then, by the fact that the wave. .
Broke. Was shattered, in fact. Hammered down, before the wave could even crest.
Another roar — all gunfire, that. The only sounds coming from the Confederate infantrymen were screams and shouts of confusion.
Another roar of gunfire. Three volleys fired in quick succession, from the three guns each crew at the porthole had ready.
From here, Helga knew, the rapidity with which the Reedbottoms could fire their volleys would decrease. Slowly, at first, as guns were exchanged for others already loaded. Then, much more rapidly, as the already-fired guns had to be cleaned and reloaded.
But she thought it would be enough. Those first three volleys had almost ruined two full brigades. Confederate tactics and armor, so effective against all previous opponents, were almost the worst imaginable under these conditions. At point-blank range, there was almost no way any of those heavy bullets could miss. They'd hit a man in the next rank, or the next, even if they missed the first.
Next to her, Jessep was almost snarling. "One of ten, I'll bet, or close to it. In the first clash, less than a minute. By the gods, that's ruinous. If Tomsien doesn't—"
"He won't," said the voice confidently. "No way he could, really. He doesn't have time to react himself. He probably can't even see what's happening."
Adrian's finger pointed. "See? The second rank's already piling forward. Having to climb over the casualties of the first, which slows them down even more. They're just as confused as Tomsien. Reacting by training and ingrained habit."
Another volley. Helga could see hundreds more infantrymen being hammered aside or down. Another volley. Hundreds more. Another volley. The same. The third rank of the two front brigades was now having to clamber over the corpses of their comrades. Beginning just a few yards in front of the wagons, it seemed as if the Confederates were piling up an earthwork made of their own broken and bleeding bodies.
Not even a Confederate army could sustain a frontal assault in the face of such casualties. So, beginning with the file closers and first spears, they reacted by training and instinct again. The Confederate battle formation was designed to outflank and envelop an enemy as much as overwhelm it.
No way here, of course, to use the celebrated "wedge" and "saw." The first being triangular formations designed to split apart a phalanx or barbarian mob; the second being a corresponding inverted triangle to trap them — both, together, designed to maximize the advantages of the short stabbing assegai against unwieldy long swords and pikes. The Confederate brigade formation was far more flexible than any phalanx, and could always outflank an enemy.
Sure enough. The second block of two brigades was not even trying to follow over the first. Each brigade was breaking, one to the right and one to the left, moving as quickly as such large bodies of men could move in formation. They would start hammering the laager elsewhere.
Which would—
Helga almost gasped.
"That's what I was about to say," continued the voice. "Tomsien won't be able to stop the flanking maneuver. It's too automatic, too traditional, too ingrained. Even if he was as smart as Helga's father, I doubt he could stop it. Tomsien probably won't even think to try until his next two brigades have been shredded."
For a moment, something like Adrian's own smile came to his face. And the next words were almost spoken in his own voice. "I could have told them, y'know? Any graduate of the Grove could. Mystic Form, and all that. How do you outflank a circle?"
"Damn me, lad, but you're right."
If Jessep had noticed the subtle transformation in Adrian's voice, he was ignoring it. Helga suspected the former First Spear of her father's First Regiment just plain didn't care whose voice was speaking from Adrian's mouth — as long as the voice knew what it was talking about.
The veteran was running fingers through his gray stubble. "You designed this formation for this, didn't you? These wagons, I mean, and this 'laager' business of yours. Designed it for one purpose, really, and one only. Destroy the largest Confederate army you could."
He left off the stubble-rubbing and pointed a finger that was almost — not quite — accusatory. "You knew what they'd do. Like. . like. . like inviting a man to attack a hot iron by spreading more of his body over it."
Whitehall's aura was back in the voice, but the words themselves were mild. Those of a man deflecting an accusation, as it were.
"I thought of it more as creating a shredder against which Tomsien would shred his own army. The biggest problem any laager has is that you can't bring all your forces to bear unless the enemy surrounds you. A problem which Tomsien will solve for me. But, yes — your analogy's very apt, Special Attendant Yunkers."
Special Attendant. The use of the title seemed to jar Jessep just a bit. Reminding him, as it were, of his new loyalties and obligations. Helga didn't doubt for a moment that Whitehall had used the title deliberately. Although, she admitted to herself, Adrian probably would have done the same. Her lover was by no means unperceptive and unsubtle, however distracted he might sometimes seem.
A sardonic little grin came to Yunker's face. "The gods save the world, what with you and Verice Demansk ganging up on it. He counted on this too, didn't he?"
Adrian shrugged. "Counted on it? Oh, I really doubt that, Jessep. Helga's father is far too shrewd and experienced to count on something. But I'm quite sure he. . how can I put it? 'Included the likelihood in his calculations,' how's that? At the very least, I'm sure he figured I could cripple Tomsien, even if not destroy him."
Gods, have I ever heard such a cold voice? Not even cold so much as. . empty.
But, again, she felt a little squeeze on her shoulder. And remembered something Adrian had told her once.
Center's empty, yes. Or, at any rate, filled with something which amounts to the same thing, from a human viewpoint. But Raj? He's just. . oh, let's call it serene, why don't we? He was a man himself, once, don't forget. It's just that between his own life and everything Center's shown him, he's seen it all happen so many times before. So he looks on carnage the same way you or I might look on the ocean pounding against cliffs. That's frightening, to a child. An adult just contemplates the workings of nature.
Jessep grunted. For a time, said nothing; just watched as the grisly business unfolded. The last two brigades were starting to come into position, rolling past the third and fourth — already starting to get shredded against the farther reaches of the laager — ready to assault the Reedbottoms from the south. Bringing ever more of their men into range of those terrible guns, against which their shields provided no protection at all — and their disciplined formations provided the best possible target.
The din was almost deafening, by now. No one had ever accused Vanberts of cowardice, not once in many centuries. The battalions and the companies — the brigade structure had already collapsed, even Helga could see that, and the regiments were close to it — kept hammering themselves against the wooden walls. And were hammered back, by a much heavier hammer. Javelins and assegais against thick planks; heavy lead bullets against thin shields and armor, and softer flesh.
Never cowards. Helga could not see so much as a single squad breaking away. All the regulars were bellowing their ancient battle cries and hurling themselves into the fray. Between their own shouts — and screams — and the constant gunfire, she thought she might go deaf.
Even Jessep winced a little, now and then. That was the gunfire, to which he was not accustomed. Not, at least, in such volume. Helga didn't think the battle cries bothered him much, and he seemed completely indifferent to the screams of pain and agony.
He even, to her amazement, seemed able to think of the future in the midst of the chaos.
"How would you have done it, lad?"
Adrian smiled. "I wouldn't have attacked at all. The thing about a laager, Jessep, is that while it's incredibly strong it's also inflexible. More so, even, than the Emerald phalanxes. And how did you Vanberts beat the phalanxes, eh? Not by trying to match them at their own game."
"Gods, no. Can't break an Emerald phalanx head on. 'Twas never done once, that I ever heard tell, except by another phalanx." He was back to beard-scratching. "Use their rigidity against them. Force them onto broken ground, tear at 'em, pry 'em apart. Once you've done that, those great pikes of theirs weren't nothin' but a hazard to their own lives. Can't fight a man with an assegai — much less two or three of 'em at once — with an eighteen-foot long sticker. Not when you're up close, and on your own."
Adrian nodded. "Apply the same methods here, then. How would you 'pry apart' a laager?" He didn't wait for Jessep to fumble at the answer before providing it. "It's called 'field artillery,' Jessep. Not too different from those ballistas which Tomsien didn't even bother to use — not that he brought many to begin with, since he wasn't figuring on a siege — except they fire three- or four-inch iron balls instead of big spears. And you mass them up. 'Batteries,' those are called. Dozens of big guns — not too different from the bombards you've seen Trae fire — pounding away at a laager just outside the range of the laager's own guns."