“Hahah!” The major cried in triumph. As if taking their cue, the balloon crew began hollering in triumph and enthusiasm. Vermilies just focused on breathing, putting his nose between the crook of his right arm and feeling his eyes water. This musket smoke is thick! Though his eyes stung he tried to make out the situation as best he could through the clouds of smoke.
Below was a charnel field, the bulk of it congregated around a sinuous thin blue line, penetrated in parts but generally intact. That line consisted of the remaining men of the first regiment, joined by the second. The Kintari forces were retreating before them, but it was clear the Syriots had taken heavy losses from the close quarters combat. The third blue line had wheeled around to join with them at their northern flank, and another lapping cloud of smoke erupted, as if a loose volley had been ordered along the line. A number of the fleeing Kintari soldiers collapsed, but the bulk of the remaining forces continued streaming eastward toward safety.
“I’ve seen all I need to here,” announced the major. “General Eben will want an immediate report of the successful crossing. Make for his headquarters!”
The translator watched in curiosity, as the Syriot forces moved with caution through the corpse-strewn field, a few individual combats erupting between surviving Kintari swordsmen and the advancing Syriots.
“Do you think they would have ordered the charge, if they could have seen what we can?” Vermilies found himself asking. Strange, he almost felt pity for the Kintari soldiers.
They must have just wanted to defend their own land. I suppose the Jade Sea Islanders were like that too, in my father’s time. They just didn’t know how outmatched they were.
The major puzzled on this a moment.
“Hard to say, really. Their best chance is up close. Seems they hit our first rank boys rather hard.” He thought a moment longer. “Regardless, they can’t see what we can,” he concluded. “What an interesting time to fight a war! The generals of old would have killed for this view. General Eben still might if we piss about. Let’s go, come on now, give the old skin bag another blast!”
The translator looked at the fading pursuit to the northeast and then stared again at the forces along the east bank. A standard was now visible in a plum orchard. One of the men beside him leaned out to stare at it for several moments, then turned to the major.
“Sir, that’s the standard of the Lord Marshal. Feruke Hangyul, sir.”
“Is it? Good eye, son. I’ll let the general know.”
The translator turned in curiosity to the man, who was looking quite proud of himself.
“You know Standard Dialect?”
It was difficult to learn, as the translator well knew, and there weren’t very many Syriots who knew it. With the loss of the Marquis of Thieslepunt, even less.
“Oh, no,” the crewman said. “I’m with the Signal Corps. I’ve been trained to recognize some of the standards. I don’t really understand what the symbols say but there are only so many of them.”
“Oh,” Vermilies replied, feeling faintly disappointed. He tried to make out the standard as it faded away into the distance but didn’t recognize it. I had always had trouble with written symbols, anyway. He looked to the east, seeing a couple scattered puffs of smoke.
“They look pretty scared, don’t you think?” He nudged the crewman.
“I’ll say. Then again, look at old Barlas here.” The crewman pointed at the Syriot who was still petrified, staring at the hole in the wicker basket between his legs.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Third Rank
The Hangyul musketeer cursed as he leaned back and gazed at the distant balloon, waving away the powdery blue gray smoke, and began the laborious process of reloading. His comrades, several strangers given rudimentary musket training and stuck in the third rank, didn’t know much about the man except that he loved to curse. Some noble, one of the Lord Marshal’s distant cousins, had given the man a bone flute and the dubious authority over a few musketeers to be kept in reserve.
“Godsdamned balloon,” he grumbled.
“I’m telling you, it’s a waste of ammunition at this distance,” the soldier next to him said, watching it fade away.
“Still, we can’t have them just flying around, watching us,” the first man replied, as he filled gunpowder into his matchlock.
“They want us to waste our ammunition,” opined a third, sitting on a rock. “It’s all part of their plan. They just fly around so we’re low on powder before the battle starts.”
“Could’ve sworn I hit it,” the first man grumbled. He leveled his musket again and watched the disappearing balloon through his rough iron sights. “Bah,” he said in disgust, lowering the musket.
“Just think,” insisted the third, “of all the shots people are taking as it passes by. A dozen? A hundred? That’s a hundred men could’ve been killed, who won’t be. A hundred men, just from a balloon. And you didn’t even hit it.”
“I can hit you,” the first man muttered.
“Shut up,” said the second, glancing behind them. “It’s the Emperor. The goddamn emperor in his fancy britches and all.”
Emperor Banisu passed by the band of matchlock troops, surrounded by his Northern mercenaries, a formidable presence with their chain mail and thick wooden shields. Banisu stopped at the edge of the plum orchard where he had been assigned. He frowned as he noticed Abbot Cibu’s bald pate from behind, prominent in the second rank of the army.
I can’t believe he made me apologize in front of everyone to Lord Marshal Feruke Hangyul. The Lord Marshal would be with the Hangyul forces in the first rank, most likely, bristling with standards and spears at the very center of the formation. Where, by all rights, the Emperor belongs.
The abbot had his second rank formed in a long, straight line along the river, but it ended abruptly only a hundred spans to the north, anchored on nothing. A long gap separated the Hangyul ranks from the Kintari army to the north. Emperor Banisu chewed his lip, looking at the distant musketry to the north. The inattentive soldiers nearby echoed his thoughts with strange precision.
“How do you think the Kintari boys are doing?” The second soldier asked.
“Fucking Kintari,” the first one added.
“Shit, I don’t know,” the third said worriedly. “That’s a hell of a lot of musketry up there and the Kintari don’t really have a lot of muskets.”
“Neither do we,” pointed out the second one. There was a moment of silence.
“Yeah,” said the first soldier.
“And you’ve wasted three shots on a fucking balloon,” the third responded.
“Oh, shut up about the damn balloon.”
“Anyway,” the second continued relentlessly, “it’s our ass on the line if the Kintari boys run away. And they’ve been keeping out of the fight ever since Tamani.”
The crew digested this assessment.
“Fucking Kintari,” the first soldier spat.
“And where are those Shinzen assholes? They were supposed to be here yesterday. What, are we supposed to win the war on our own?” The second soldier asked.
“We don’t need them,” the third soldier said, with some hesitation.
The crew considered this prospect.
“Fucking Shinzen,” said the first soldier.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” said the second soldier.
The others looked at him in confusion.
“What?”
“You signed up? Really? I thought we were all conscripts.”
“Well… you know… country invades, you’ve got to stand up and unite against the common enemy.”
“Yeah. We’re real fucking unified,” the first soldier said in his echoing grumble. “Do you see any Shinzen or Kintari soldiers around?”
“Well… no.”
“Hell, those Eastern mercenaries aren’t even around anymore.”
“The Northern ones are,” the second soldier pointed out.
“They’re jus
t the Emperor’s guards, because he can’t trust any of us with his life. They’ll betray him first chance they get. Really, the only reason he has them is because the Lord Marshal and the Abbot might want him dead,” said the third soldier.
The Emperor blinked in surprise. The soldiers had been loud and so it hadn’t been difficult for him to eavesdrop on the conversation. What they said wasn’t entirely untrue.
“You’re crazy,” said the second soldier sullenly. The conversation lapsed into silence.
Ahead of them, the Emperor saw the second rank stiffen, those who had their weapons sheathed now drawing them. Abbot Cibu remained as tranquil as ever, but a nearby officer approached him. The Emperor knew that in the distance Syriot forces were moving towards the river, and the first rank of the Lord Marshal stood ready to meet them. In the distance, the Emperor spotted the balloon moving south. It was far enough that it did not even attract comment from the soldiers nearby, who were now dour and silent.
The Emperor had been left with a mix of guard units and levees, those which for whatever reason the Lord Marshal had only seen fit to keep in reserve. One of the newest martial creations approached, the smiling Lin Karatsu relieving the Emperor’s tension somewhat.
“What’s with that ridiculous helmet?” Banisu asked in forced amusement. Anything to keep from thinking of the death approaching.
“What?” Lin asked, looking offended. “I based it off the murals of the Legendary Heroes of the Rakkage Dynasty. You know, when the Lotus Prince fought the Tiger Demons, and his closest companions protected him.”
Emperor Banisu looked at the curving black-iron helm, now recognizing the design. “I’m not sure you should base your design on them,” he said, remembering the stories.
“Why not?” Lin asked. “There are plenty of nobles around, eager to defend your majesty.”
Indeed, a couple dozen young nobles were clustered behind Lin, a few the Emperor distantly recognized and favored with nods.
“Well, they were mostly all killed by the end...” Banisu said, trailing off.
Lin shrugged. “War isn’t really like the stories. Anyway, we want to serve you. You, not the Lord Marshal or the Lord Regent. We are your Noble Archer Companions.”
Behind him, the nobles nodded. Young men from high-ranking households in Kintari territory. Most would have a lot of lose if the Syriots took over… though some might have much to gain. I shouldn’t be too trusting of them.
Each noble bore the same dark armor, crafted in the elegant fashion depicted in the ancient scrolls, and bore huge bows. Archery had seemed to be quickly becoming an ancient art, but like most ancient arts it was still popular among the nobility.
“You are welcome to fight beside me,” the Emperor replied, turning to Thane Eigar Trollborn beside him, who was smirking at the new arrivals. “The Noble Archer Companions will be joining the bodyguard unit,” Banisu announced formally. The Thane shrugged.
“You didn’t see Prince Sharnipur and his men around, did you?” The Emperor asked Lin Karatsu. He had sent runners but had heard nothing back except that the camp had been abandoned. The prince must have moved to take the hill, but he had still heard nothing of the Shinzen forces. Lin shook his head. Or had the Prince of the Wastes run away? Banisu bit his lip in sudden fear. He wouldn’t… would he?
“Gods,” muttered the first soldier, barely audible over the distance. “Did you hear that? Is there anyone dumber than a young nobleman?”
If any of the Noble Archer Companions had heard, they didn’t appear to notice.
“I suppose we were dumb at that age too. I doubt a single one of them is over twenty,” replied the third soldier as he rechecked his musket once again.
“Hey. I’m only nineteen, you know,” said the second soldier.
“Are you really?” the third soldier asked, sounding astonished. “You looked older.”
“Well, I’ve been told I look wise for my age.”
The others chuckled.
A volley of firing suddenly broke out in the first rank. The Emperor heard a steady roaring and then a splashing as men moved through the shallows of the Irragonda River. After a few moments, he heard the sound of metal clanging upon metal, though it was impossible to see from back here. The crashing and rending sounds seemed to last forever. Suddenly thunder rang out, and the trees began to shake around them. A moment later there was an explosion in the middle of the third rank. The Emperor looked to his left and saw a bursting plume of dust. Men cried out in pain and confused terror. Again the thunder rang out, but the explosion passed behind them. For several minutes, they sat as explosive death was delivered at random intervals throughout the plum orchard, before the bombardment stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
“Keep that matchcord burning, boys,” one of the musketeers said, to fill the sudden silence. It was unnecessary, all those with muskets had their cord alight.
“Those Syriot bastards don’t need matchcord,” another grumbled. “What’s that all about?”
“It’s this snappy thing they have. Strikes a flame when they pull the trigger.”
There was a long silence at this.
“We need snappy things.”
“I’ll snap your damn head off if you keep talking,” the first soldier said, unable to keep the nerves from showing. “Remember, a volley when I blow the flute.”
As the echoes of the bombardment faded away Banisu waited, seeing nothing, hearing a roar of splashing water, musketry, rage, metal, and pain just a mere hundred paces ahead. He kept his eyes fixed on the second rank, staring fixedly at the back of Abbot Cibu’s annoyingly calm head, and squeezed his fingers around the hilt of his sword as if that would provide some comfort. The stout monk radiated composure and those around him seemed to take some comfort in his stoic demeanor. The Emperor found that he had been staring at the motionless monk for some time and was startled when the abbot’s face moved.
The abbot leaned toward a nearby adjutant and said a few words into his ear. Then, without a look backwards, the monk pointed his censor forward.
“Second rank, forward!” He cried out resolutely, his booming voice even carrying back to where the Emperor was standing. Around him, the line steadily marched towards the river. The adjutant hurried over to the Emperor.
“Your majesty,” he addressed the Emperor. “Abbot Cibu begs you to move the third rank towards his line’s previous position and to rally any routing soldiers you can grab.”
The Emperor blinked. “Routing soldiers? Do we have any?”
The adjutant hesitated.
“Yes… ah… the first rank is in some disarray. You will see, soon enough.”
The Emperor gritted his teeth at these words. Well, it’s now or never. We’re just taking his former position, at least. Perhaps they won’t have need of us?
“Third rank, forward twenty paces!” The Emperor called out, trying to master his high-pitched voice. Answering cries echoed out, and the formation began to move forward. With his twentieth step, the Emperor reached the ridge where Abbot Cibu had stood, and was confronted with the view he had both yearned for and dreaded.
The shallows ran pink with blood, heavily armored Syriot swordsmen struggling through the reeds to get to grips with the mix of spearmen and swordsmen on the opposite bank. They had already torn great gaps in the line, a beachhead of about ten Syriots already present on the near bank, their shields locked together as they jeered at the Hangyul soldiers fleeing the area. In spots the line stood firm, but in others it was shattered, and an increasing stream of Hangyul men fled up the ridge through the Emperor’s line, some passing through unmolested, others bullied back into lines by the almost equally panicked soldiers in the third rank.
An unarmed man ran up the slight rise, heedless to the Emperor in front of him as he cast terrified glances over his shoulder.
“We can’t fucking fight those things!” The man shouted, trying to pass by the Emperor. He was slammed firmly in the mouth by the thane’s mailed fi
st, falling back on the slope and sliding back down.
Thane Eigar looked to the Emperor and Banisu saw that there was a dark gleam in the man’s eyes.
“Shall we attack?” the thane asked.
The Emperor hesitated, weighing the prospects for an attack. The Syriots were pouring onto the other side now, Hangyul defenders wavering. The Emperor couldn’t stomach fighting those armored beasts down in the shallows. They’re like huge metal bugs. Bugs with swords.
“We’ll hold here,” he squeaked.
“Hold here!” echoed Lin Karatsu, the word spreading down the ranks. “Loose at will!”
A wave of finely fletched arrows sailed over the Emperor’s head and down into the shallows. A few hit Hangyul soldiers, but many sunk into Syriot armor, with little apparent effect. In the shallows, the Emperor could see Abbot Cibu, chanting away calmly, an oasis of tranquility amidst the carnage. A Syriot soldier advanced on him, unceremoniously smashing a mace into the monk’s ribcage. The Abbot sank back, and the Syriot finished him with a bloody strike on his unguarded head.
“No!” the Emperor cried out, astounded. Around him, soldiers glanced at this undignified display, but the Emperor looked on, regardless. A man he had considered invincible had been suddenly and brutally killed. A man who had ruled his destiny, ruled his empire. A man who had been the closest thing the Emperor had to a father. A knot in his stomach tightened as the maceman began climbing the hill, accompanied by a dozen others. The surviving Hangyul troops struggled up the ridge, bare seconds ahead of the Syriot infantry.
The chirp of a flute rang out, followed a half second later by several musket blasts. A few Syriots staggered to the ground, one or two fleeing Hangyul men dropping along with them, but the Syriot ranks continued clambering up. More and more were splashing across from the river.
“Don’t worry, sir,” the Thane said to the Emperor’s right. “It will be hard for them to climb up. If we can hold here, we’ll push them back, no problem.”
At that one of the Northern mercenaries leapt forward, swinging a two-handed warhammer down atop the helm of the nearest Syriot, stoving the man’s helmet in. The Northerner sprang back, the Syriot laying motionless on the slope.
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