by David Drake
Jessep grimaced. "Three and four inches in diameter? Gods, they'd punch right through those wooden walls."
"Do worse than that. Every ball will send wood splinters flying through the inside of the wagons — with nowhere much to go other than a human body."
Yunkers glanced up at the watchtower. The figure of Prelotta was plainly visible. The Reedbottom chief was accoutered in his best armor, waving a flail and exhorting his soldiers. Not that many of them could see or hear him, of course, buried as they were inside wagons resounding with gunfire. But they knew he'd be there, doing what a chief rightly does in a defensive battle. Just stand there, looking and acting fearless and resolute.
There was no sarcasm in the glance, just assessment. Prelotta did look fearless and resolute.
"And what if he figures out you're planning to betray him?" There was no admiration in his tone of voice. Rather the opposite.
Helga watched as any trace of Adrian vanished from Adrian's own face. His features looked like those of a statue, and when his voice came it might as well have come from a marble block.
This was Center's voice now, not even Whitehall's.
"Do not presume to judge me, Jessep Yunkers. Thousands of men will die horribly today, on this field of battle. The greatest battle in history, perhaps; certainly the greatest in a century. Most of them will be Vanberts. Many thousands more — most of them barbarians — will die on another, soon enough. And so what? Every day, every month, every year — year after year after year — as many die in every province of your precious empire, from disease and hunger and deprivation. Most of them children. Am I supposed to weep for the warriors, and not for the children? Beat my breast in anguish because I caused the death of men bearing arms? The same men whose commanders grow fat on the agony of babes?"
Yes, Center's voice — even if the words were shaped by a man grown sensitive beyond his years. A man who could put into rhetoric what a computer could only calculate.
Helga swallowed. Jessep Yunkers looked away. For a moment, he seemed to be examining the ongoing carnage. But his eyes seemed a bit glazed over, as if he was really looking at something from his own memory.
"Oh, aye," he said softly, "and haven't I seen it myself? My province is littered with the little urns. Pathetic looking, they are, perched — so many of 'em — on the hearthstones of the cottages."
When he turned back, his face seemed calm, and less blocky than usual. " 'Tis nothing, Adrian Gellert. Special Attendant, as you said. The gods know if there's any man can end it, it's Verice Demansk."
And now, even, some good cheer. "So. I'll leave it to you, laddie, with your quicksilver brain, to figure out how we're going to pry ourselves loose after the battle." A quick nod of his head toward Prelotta. "He won't be pleased to see us go, now will he? But in the meantime—"
He jerked his head the other way. "You have noticed, I trust, that your splendid little plan is coming apart at the seams, here and there? Best we worry about that, eh, before we fret too much about the future."
Helga followed his gaze and gasped. Jessep was right. In three places — no, four! — Vanbert troops had finally managed to break into the laager. No matter how badly mangled and shredded, good troops will beat their way into a fortress, so long as their will doesn't break.
Not many, true. Most of them seemed to have done so by breaking the undershields and crawling beneath the wagons — a tactic which obviously played havoc with their own formations. But it wouldn't really take much, after all. By now, Helga had a good sense of just how brittle a laager was. Like some grades of steel, which take a razor's edge but will break under stress.
"I'd better get down there," muttered Adrian. And that was Adrian's voice, now. Helga wasn't sure if she was relieved or not.
She didn't have time to worry about it. Everything seemed to move much faster now. Adrian was off the wagon roof and shouting at his Fighting Band, leading some of them toward the breaches and pointing off others to cover the rest. Prelotta, on his watchtower, was bellowing loudly enough to be heard even over the gunfire. And then, pounding from the east, came hundreds — many hundreds — of Grayhills cavalrymen.
Helga recognized Esmond at their head, waving a sword and exhorting his men forward. Even with the new facial scars and tattoos, he was still a magnificent figure. Say what else you could about Esmond Gellert, he was made for desperate battles. This was his time, and he was clearly reveling in it.
Nor, to be honest, was Helga in the least sorry to see him come. Adrian was in the worst of the melees which were starting to flare up inside the laager, where Vanbert soldiers had managed a breach. Not even standing back, damn him, using his sling. She could see him right up in the front lines, with a sword in his hand.
She found herself cursing bitterly. Adrian was adept with weapons, granted — much more so than you'd expect from such a scholarly-looking man. But he was no warrior out of legend like his brother, and he wasn't wearing even the light armor of the Fighting Band. Just. . a sword, a helmet, a leather cuirass, and the whim of the gods.
Damn the man, anyway!
* * *
A short time later, Helga was in no position to damn anyone for recklessness. Another breach came, at the point in the laager closest to her. A few — then a dozen — then more — Vanbert regulars came crawling under the wagons. Without even thinking about it, Helga was on the ground — Jessep later claimed she'd jumped; but she thought he exaggerated out of exasperation — and racing toward them. Waving her sword and exhorting her hundred to follow.
Helga was an excellent runner, in very good condition — and. . not wearing any kind of armor. Not so much as a helmet or a cuirass. Just a light tunic, a sword, and the whim of the gods.
Needless to say, she arrived upon the scene before any of her escort, lumbering behind her. There were perhaps thirty Vanberts inside the laager here, most of them now forming a line. She could see more coming under the wagons. Some of the Confederate soldiers were hammering at wagon doors with the short axes they carried for assault work, feverishly trying to break in so they could slaughter the bastards who'd been wreaking such havoc on them. She saw one of them hurtle back, as several rounds of gunfire from inside the wagon punched through the door.
Not sure that's wise, some still-functioning part of brain recorded. Those bullets'll do as good a job of shredding the door as an ax, fellows, and if those regulars do get into the wagon. . rough, tough, tattooed barbarians or not, you're so much raw meat.
But that was only part of her brain, and a small part at that. Most of her brain was focused on the fact that she was standing alone, with nothing but a sword clutched in her hand, while one very large and very tough-looking and very mean-looking Confederate regular advanced toward her. Wearing full armor and a helmet, bearing a shield—how in the name of the gods did he manage to drag that with him under a wagon? — and holding an assegai with a lot more assurance than she was holding her sword.
Ah, just what she needed. Two regulars, now. No, three. None of whom seemed the least bit inclined toward anything other than hacking her to pieces.
No—four. The new one, judging from the sword in his hand and the quick way he steadied the others into squad formation, being their sergeant. Oh, shit.
Helga drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and raced through all of Lortz's training. She took the sword in a two-handed grasp—don't even try that fancy Emerald swordplay against assegais, missy, not facing regulars—set her feet—
And found herself bouncing across the packed earth of the laager ground. The first bounce on her ass, the second on her shoulders. She almost flipped upside down.
Lortz had not been gentle. Any more than he was, in the next few seconds, fending off the four oncoming regulars. In a bit of a daze, Helga watched the ex-gladiator put on a display of swordsmanship which would have had the mob in the arena shrieking with frenzied approval. He didn't actually kill any of them — nor even wound them badly — but she realized he wasn't trying
to. Just keep them off, while the idiot woman he was guarding—
Rough hands seized the back of her tunic and yanked her away.
"Damn lunatic!" yelled Jessep in her ear. "Your father'd have me flayed alive — impaled — prob'ly both at the same time! What in the name of the gods—"
She ignored the rest, which Yunkers continued shouting as he dragged her back along the ground. Partly because her butt hurt — the ground was packed but had not been cleared of stones — but mostly because she was too engrossed in the scene.
Her hundred had arrived. A quick shout from First Spear Uther, and Lortz scampered nimbly away. His job was done, and done well; the professional fighter was quite happy to leave the rest to other professionals.
Wise man, she thought, wincing as another stone scraped her hindquarters and wondering whether the tunic would be salvageable. Probably not. Jessep's pissed — really pissed — I can tell. I think he's going to drag me all the way back to the wagon.
But even that was an idle thought. Mainly, she was just fascinated to see, up close, a really excellent hundred go to work.
Tomsien's men never had a chance, really. Not only were they outnumbered better than two to one, but the crawl under the wagons had disrupted their own formation while Uther's was picture-perfect. The Confederate war machine went into action against Confederates who'd been dislodged from it. It was more like watching butchers at work than anything else. The men facing them were trying to form up, but Uther never gave them a chance.
Just. . the triangular wedges went out, breaking the formations before they could jell, forcing the men into the pockets — the "saw," that — where three or four assegais could come against one. And that one, without a shield mate.
Like cutting meat. Saw, saw, saw. It was over within a minute. About the time it took Jessep to drag her to the wagon. Which, she thought glumly, had probably done a pretty good job of sawing her own buttocks.
"You could have let me up sooner," she complained, after rising painfully to her feet. She twisted her hips, bringing the damage into few.
Yep. That tunic's history. So's every position except woman-on-top, for at least a month.
"A lot sooner, dammit!"
Jessep growled. "I wouldn't trust you outside of a crib, right now."
* * *
Adrian wasn't any more sympathetic, when he found out. By then, it was late afternoon and Helga had been able to put on a fresh tunic from the wagon. The battle was over. When the final frenzied breaches had been driven off, the Confederates had quit. None of them had actually broken in a rout, except a few companies here and there. But by the time Tomsien finally called for the retreat, his army was too mangled to carry it out in an orderly manner. And since it was still hours before sundown, here in the long days of late summer, Prelotta had ordered the wagons prepared to serve as sally ports to be moved aside. Esmond had stormed through at the head of thousands of Southron cavalrymen. His own Grayhills were primed and ready, and even the other tribesmen were now filled with triumphant vigor if not much in the way of leadership and organization. They just followed the Grayhills.
Cavalry pursuit is a ragged affair, anyway. Against a badly broken enemy, it hardly matters. The same Confederate infantrymen who, in formation and filled with confidence, could have shattered any cavalry attack, were just hunted down by the barbarians. Slaughtered left and right, by arrows in the back and sword slashes to the neck. Or simply trampled under; and, if not killed in the process, murdered later by barbarians picking over the dead and wounded for booty. An already mangled army left a trail of blood and brains and entrails for miles behind it, as it crawled off, harried every step of the way until nightfall.
It was the worst military disaster in the history of the Confederation, suffered by the greatest army it had ever fielded. Five thousand or so dead that day; another five, within a month, from wounds; perhaps a thousand or so captured — the Southrons were not much given to taking prisoners — and several thousand more simply vanished, in the way that defeated soldiers will.
When the six brigades which Tomsien had led out finally returned to the provincial capital of Harrat from whence he'd led them, their effective force was not more than a third what it had been. At best. This was an army which had suffered a terrible defeat as well as massive casualties. It would take months — a year, more like — for its leadership to restore the formations, and the discipline, and bring in the new recruits desperately needed to flesh out horribly thinned ranks.
* * *
Tomsien would not be there to do it. His body was found, late in the day, lying among the corpses of most of his staff and personal troops. With an assegai still clenched in his fist, and his shield beaten into splinters. In this, too, Tomsien had been true to his traditions.
Just as a long-dead general had known he would, and a still-living one had so calculated.
* * *
It would be said later, and grow into legend, that when the news of Ion Jeschonyk's death and the manner of it was brought to Verice Demansk that he cursed the gods. Each and every one of them, by name, excepting the All-Father and the Gray-Eyed Lady.
And, it would be said, when the news of Tomsien's death and the manner of it was brought to him, that Verice Demansk cursed those gods as well. Even more bitterly than he had the others. Then, ordered all his men and servants to quit his company, and not return for a day and a night.
When he reemerged from his quarters, so the legend went, he said nothing further on the subject. But the servants found that every piece of furniture in his private rooms had been broken and carved into pieces, as if by ax and sword, even the bed. And it was said that from that day forth Verice Demansk would never speak of any god in private, though he would perform the public rites and ceremonies.
There was no need for printing presses to spread this legend. The servants themselves would do so, making a handsome profit from selling the pieces of shattered furniture and shredded upholstery. For the legend was quite true, in every particular.
* * *
On the evening of the victory itself, however, Helga was not worrying about her father's possible state of mind. She had an angry lover to deal with.
"Good!" Adrian shouted. "Wish he'd dragged you all around the laager, while he was at it!"
Helga glared at him. Adrian glared back.
* * *
Fortunately for her, Adrian was not one to hold grudges. Within an hour, he had forgiven her. Even gave her a hug and a kiss.
"Ouch! Watch your hands, dammit!"
"Oh. Sorry." He cocked his head, giving her a sly smile. No Raj Whitehall or Center in that smile. "Well, that's okay. Just have to make sure you're on top."
Helga looked skeptical. "I dunno. Not the way you grab me when you get excited."
Chapter 26
Adrian made his break five days later, taking advantage of the Reedbottoms' preoccupation with the pleasures of newly seized Franness. To Prelotta, he explained his unwillingness to enter the city as being due to concern for the loyalty and morale of his men. As Vanberts and Emeralds, he claimed, they would be disturbed by the atrocities committed by barbarians upon civilized folk. Adrian feared he might even lose control of them. And, even if not, unfortunate incidents were certain to occur.
Thus, while the Reedbottoms piled eagerly through the gates of Franness, Adrian and his men remained in their camp several miles outside the city. A camp which they had made, not by accident, northwest of the city.
Prelotta might even have believed him. For all his sophistication and comparatively wide experience, he hadn't actually had much contact with civilized nations since he was a boy. And then, his contact had not been with professional soldiers.
In truth, precious few of Adrian's men — or Helga's, for that matter — gave any thought at all to the conduct of the barbarian victors in Franness. Or, if they did, it was simply disgruntled envy that savages were enjoying pleasures which they weren't. "Civilized" or not, the soldiers under Ad
rian's command were essentially mercenaries. They took the abuses of conquerors for granted, and regarded plunder and rapine much as they did any other law of nature.
Once Prelotta and his tribesmen had installed themselves in their "new provincial capital," Adrian knew that he could escape any pursuit coming from them. Reedbottoms were slow-moving at the best of times. Not even Prelotta would be able to get an effective pursuit started with tribesmen drunk on the wine and women and wealth of Franness.
He was far more concerned about Esmond and the Grayhills. Who, if they were so moved, could easily mount a pursuit. Of course, catching up with Adrian's people — well over a thousand men now, including Helga's hundred, along with their camp followers — was one thing. Catching them, with only three thousand Grayhills warriors, was another matter altogether. Adrian was quite confident that, with the guns of the Fighting Band, he could beat off any such cavalry attack. But he wanted to avoid the thing altogether, if possible. Esmond could certainly inflict casualties; and, what was worse, might pin down Adrian's force long enough for Prelotta to bring up the Reedbottoms. Things would get hairy, then.
Esmond's mood was impossible to determine any longer. The two brothers had not exchanged so much as a single word in months. Indeed, they had rarely even been within eyesight of each other. To all intents and purposes, Adrian no longer felt he understood Esmond at all.
So, for days, he chewed on the matter. Finding no real help from Raj Whitehall and Center, and coming to no clear decision. Then, on the morning of the third day after the victory over Tomsien — what was becoming known as the Battle of Lurion, named after a small town in the valley — word came that the Grayhills were beginning their retreat. After participating in the initial looting of Franness, the Grayhills had apparently decided to return to the southern half of the continent.