Ranvir’s howdah had been removed earlier that day, and he had been given a rough checking over by the men of the Ranvir Guard, but the howdah had been cinched back on some time earlier. Anander and Sanjay were already mounting. The other war elephant crewmen began bustling around their own elephants.
“I’m going to miss the charge,” Dhamdalek said in a mournful tone as he rubbed Ranvir’s leg. “Take care, Ranvir.” The beast rumbled in appreciation, his trunk snuffling at the old mahout.
Prince Sharnipur mounted, pulled up by Sanjay, and took the mahout’s previous position at the front. He looked down to the fishing village. The prince had been watching it for some time now and was sure the fleet had only garrisoned the western bank with some marines. A Syriot flag now flew from one of the larger buildings.
The prince eyed the warships with worry, then looked down to where the scattered Shinzen forces had stood milling around all day. As he watched, steel was drawn between two of the subgroups, and they crashed into each other. Prince Sharnipur blinked in surprise.
A political disagreement, perhaps over the future leadership of the Shinzen clan. Well, as long as they keep away from our open flank…
All the Prince’s instincts as a survivalist told him the maneuver was idiotic, but he had already lost an employer and the promise of riches before, and he wasn’t going to let his men down again.
“Form a double line!” He called out. “War elephants in the first rank, jungle elephants in the second. Ranvir will be at the center of the line.”
He guided Ranvir to the front, the elephants and skirmishers forming up behind and beside him. With delicate movements he stood up, arms extended for balance, and lowered them as he looked on his assembled force of elephants and javelin-men.
“We will ride down the hill towards the fishing village, pivot, and cross the stream.”
Leaving our flanks open to musket fire from the village.
“On the far side of the stream we will engage the Syriots while they cross, rolling up their line.”
Risking another hail of musket fire.
“We will rout the force, saving the Emperor and maintaining possession of the battlefield.”
Spending your lives for a puppet emperor and a particularly unremarkable river far from your homes.
“To victory!”
Still, Prince Sharnipur’s voice was decisive and carried none of his private misgivings, and his soldiers cheered to hear it. The prince savored it for a few precious moments.
I don’t expect there will be many of you left to cheer at the end of this. And those of you who are may not feel like cheering.
The prince sank back into his position as Ranvir’s mahout, extending his lance with his right hand and urging Ranvir forward with his left. The elephants began moving forward, emerging with stately grace from the forest which had masked their position. The elephants moved down the slope, stepping through a meadow of grass and blooming flowers.
Oh, I hadn’t noticed those before.
Ranvir’s solid footsteps created a strangely pleasant floral scent all around them. Once out of the forest it was open ground all the way to the village. A perfect field of fire to batter us with. If the Syriots have troops there. Prince Sharnipur squinted at the village, almost biting his tongue as Ranvir stumbled slightly on an unseen mole mound.
The east bank of the village did seem unoccupied at least, the residents no doubt sticking to what shelter they could find. Under Prince Sharnipur’s command Ranvir began the slow turn northward, thick feet splashing into the stream and wading across barely thirty spans from the village. He reached the west bank of the river and began heading north, to the line of Syriots moving east.
Another assault on the remaining Hangyul lines. I wonder if the boy has fled by now.
This line came to a stop just as it reached the river, a front rank kneeling and shooting at the Hangyul troops taking cover behind the ridgeline on the east bank. The second rank of Syriots leveled their muskets over the kneeling soldiers and fired, clouds of smoke blanketing the field.
To his left, beyond the fishing village, Prince Sharnipur heard the sudden sickening sound of artillery fire. But these shells passed well overhead, landing in the forest behind the ridgeline with dull thuds.
They’re shelling the emperor now. Oh gods, if they had landed among us...
Behind him a few rounds began to pass by as Syriots in the village fired a few tardy shots at the backs of the elephants, but the prince’s force was soon a good distance away and coming up on another enemy entirely. Through the shifting smoke the Prince could see both ranks reloading, apparently content for now to remain on the west side of the river. The soldiers must have been in a chaotic din, but at least a few of the Syriots on the far right flank turned to the south, their eyes expressing fear and bafflement as the elephants came upon them.
Ranvir smashed into the unsuspecting enemy lines, Red Dragon and Burnt Ear circling around behind them and leading individual charges directly at the rear of the Syriot soldiers. The second line of jungle elephants weaved through gaps between the rampaging war elephants and smashed into the surprised Syriots, the farthest among them hitting the midpoint of the enemy regiment. By now the rest of the unit had ceased their volley fire across the river, shouting and turning to face the elephants, a dozen forming a rough semicircle around an unsupported jungle elephant, firing several rounds at point blank into its body.
“Ranvir, Rotten Tusk! Disengage and move west!”
The prince called out, struggling to be heard above the chaos. Ranvir and Rotten Tusk were flinging Syriots into the air with their tusks, other panicked Syriots running into the shallows, and now the Veldtlanders were among them with their flashing blades and javelins. Across several spans of struggling men, Rotten Tusk’s mahout nodded in acknowledgment of the order, and the two elephants began to back away. They moved with inexorable slowness in a curving arc around the melee toward the Syriot soldiers who had yet to be engaged. Some of the Syriots were involved in a ferocious melee around the carcass of the jungle elephant with its attached Veldtlander platoon, but most had backed away into a rough crescent, though it was hard to be sure with the spreading blanket of smoke around them.
Prince Sharnipur crouched down, expecting to be torn into by musket fire, but most of the soldiers were furiously reloading. He felt a musket ball rip into his turban, almost tearing it off his head. Ranvir trumpeted in rage as he trotted through the melee.
He must be taking hits. Even a fighter like Ranvir won’t put up with it for long before bolting.
Atop the howdah, Anander fired a bolt into the press, then screamed as he was hit. Behind the crescent of Syriot soldiers, the Prince saw another blossoming volley of smoke - but it was not directed at him. The prince followed the shots to the right and grinned at the sight.
A ragged band had emerged from the ridgeline, shouting as they made for the river. At their head was a tightly clustered group of mailed Northern warriors holding their thick shields high and bizarrely armored archers positioned behind, stopping to loose arrows as they dashed forward. Between them the prince recognized a finely attired youth, brandishing a short sword, with a determined set to his jaw. Prince Sharnipur looked forward again as they rushed into the Syriot forces, panicky men fouling their reloads, a musket ball flying through the air less than a span away from the Prince’s face.
Beside the prince Sanjay leaned in, his lance taking a soldier in the chest, and Prince Sharnipur slashed down with his lance, his chosen target stumbling back into his comrades, quick enough to evade the strike. To their right Rotten Tusk smashed into the ranks alongside Ranvir, sending one soldier flying into the shallows, to be trod on mercilessly as the Emperor’s forces joined in the fight. A rough volley rippled along the line toward the onrushing infantry and then they were upon the Syriots.
The heavy Northern infantry ripped through the Syriot ranks, as the musketeers ineffectually bashed the Northern helmets with the butt
of their muskets, or drew their short swords. Around them the fighting men of the Ranvir Guard and the Rotten Tusk Guard cleared the path for their elephants, pushing deep into the Syriots. To their left, Veldtland skirmishers circled the Syriots, throwing javelins into the back of the unit.
As if melting in the sun, the remainder of the unit broke, pushing their way westward through the skirmishers who exacted their toll without mercy. The motley collection of Imperial soldiers were on the west bank of the river now and the prince was surprised to see Banisu behind a shield wall of Northerners. All at once the Hangyul soldiers began cheering, almost drowning out the groans and cries of the wounded and dying, and the Veldtlanders and Gutharan exiles joined them in applause.
The Prince of the Wastes looked to the west, as Syriots streamed away from the fighting, and his smile faded. He squinted, as the cheering died away and confused comments began around them.
What are those?
“Centaurs!” One of the Hangyul soldiers exclaimed. Muttering broke out in the ranks.
The prince rubbed his head, not even noticing the tears in his turban, as he focused on the distant figures.
Centaurs? The mythical hoofed man-beasts? Perhaps… they look like zebras with armored riders.
Prince Sharnipur tried to count the unit, guessing that there were about sixty armored men atop thin hoofed creatures. They were massed in a square beside a cabin, resting on a small slope and watching the fleeing musketeers from the distance. Then they began to move.
Chapter Forty-Five
The Knights of Serraca
Several dozen armored Syriots watched from the slope above the Irragonda River, a shifting formation of riders that formed into a wedge behind a man with a golden crested helm. They bore lances and rode nimble beasts that had never before been seen in the Three Clans. A cascade of chattering echoed across the unruly cluster of Hangyul, Northerner, Veltlander, and Gutharan troops. These last two were looking to the Prince of the Wastes as if for some guidance or clarity.
And I shall give it.
“They’re just men, atop creatures like the riding reindeer of the North,” Prince Sharnipur said, and slapped Ranvir’s side for effect. “They have nothing on us!”
“Aye!”
That Northern bastard. Well, I have to admit I’m glad he’s here with us now. Is that the Emperor, peeking around him?
“I’ve seen their like before; they are called horses,” the Northerner said. Some thane, was he? He speaks the common tongue well enough and the Hangyul soldiers seem to be listening to his words.
“They ride them far beyond the sea. They are just like riding reindeer or goats without horns. Stand your ground and there is little to fear.”
The calming words seemed to have an effect on the men nearby. Then the mounted formation finished forming into a wedge, a standard waving in the middle, the formation pointed right at them. Long lances gleamed in the sunlight.
“Interesting,” the Prince of the Wastes said aloud as he considered the formation. “Anander, blow the order for a single line. We will hold here with the Three Clans soldiers. I doubt these creatures can-”
The prince felt his shoulder being tapped. “Uh, sir,” Sanjay said behind him. “Anander is…”
Prince Sharnipur twisted around as the lancer trailed off. Anander was slumped over the howdah, fresh holes visible in the shattered teak howdah, blood dripping from the lifeless gunner down the twisted railing.
“Fuck,” the prince muttered. “In that case…”
As one, the lances of the riders were lowered and couched, and then they began to charge. It seemed steady at first but then the prince saw them move faster and faster, moving with unbelievable speed toward them.
Gods, they gallop like gazelles!
“Loose!”
A nobleman yelled nearby, releasing an arrow. This arrow was joined by a rain of red-tipped metal hail – all of which landed well behind the cavalry, who rode heedlessly through the retreating musketeers.
“Shit! Form a – shit!” The prince stammered, taken aback by the speed of the charge. He looked at where the tip of the wedge was pointing.
They’re heading directly for the Emperor!
The Northerner was faster on the uptake, bellowing in his tongue and arranging a rough shield wall, anchored between Ranvir and Rotten Tusk. The tip of the wedge crashed directly in the middle of the shield wall, the first horse breaking through with a bone-splitting charge, followed by the rest, the thundering horsemen streaming through with crouched lances impacting on the Emperor’s guards. The prince saw the nobleman pulling the Emperor behind Rotten Tusk, then looked at the gleaming metal helmets crowding his view. Sanjay’s lance unseated a rider with his own momentum as the prince slashed at a different rider, the lance point having little effect on the gleaming plate mail.
Beneath Ranvir the Ranvir Guard were hacking at the unprotected legs of several horses and Veldtlanders were crowding in to assist. To his right, a wave of armored riders was circling around Rotten Tusk, lances piercing the elephant’s stomach and slashing his sides. The elephant cried out in pain, legs giving out and tipping the crew off the howdah to the side. Around the elephant, its guardsmen were cut to pieces by the riders, a few sheltering around Rotten Tusk’s exposed stomach.
“Protect the emperor!”
A nobleman called out as lances probed into the archers who sheltered behind the buckling Northern shield wall. From close range the nobleman near the emperor fired a shaft into a lancer’s eye slit, the man slowly sliding off his mount into a clattering heap. In one single bound the horse and rider at the head of the broken wedge leaped over the dying elephant, the armored rider landing on the far side of the faltering shield wall and impaling a startled Northerner from behind, the lance shattering apart from the impact in a storm of wooden shards.
Dropping the shattered lance, the Syriot drew a longsword as his mount paced toward Banisu, the boy only now noticing the danger as the bodyguards around him were swamped with the assault. In a blur the Syriot delivered what would have been a killing blow, if a man in farmer’s garb hadn’t leapt in front of it. The man gurgled, a dented musket dropping from his hands.
Splashing from the stream announced the arrival of Red Dragon, the mahout Uiger bellowing atop the war elephant at the head of the Elephant Corps’s reinforcements. From atop Red Dragon’s howdah the gunner fired, piercing through the solid plate mail of a lancer, even as they surged through the now broken shield wall. A couple Northerners had backed away from the fight, only now noticing the danger to Banisu, and linked their two shields together in front of the emperor.
The creature and rider had dashed away from the emperor, charging around Red Dragon’s flank, and smoothly ducking below the decapitating strike delivered by Uiger’s Kintari-style halberd. The man with the golden helm rode several paces more, the mounted Syriots either following or surrounding Red Dragon, then he made another swift turn and rode up on Ranvir’s flank, brushing aside Sanjay’s lance. The rider feinted a thrust into Ranvir’s stomach, then switched into a swift stab upward at Prince Sharnipur himself. The prince reacted instantly, pushing himself back, the man’s lance tearing into the flesh of his upper thigh but missing his stomach.
As the man with the golden helm rode by, his left hand grasped the Prince’s leg, almost pulling him off. The rider then whirled to leap over the broken bodies of the shield wall, followed by several others who had breached the line, Sanjay’s lance clattering into one rider’s back-plate as he passed and almost tipping the man off.
A small gap between the lines formed, the infantry holding their ground as the armored riders backed away, taking their cues from their leader. The man with the crested helmet turned to the west, waving his armored gauntlet toward the hill, though any shouted orders couldn’t be heard over the din. The man turned his head to the prince for a moment, and two locked eyes. Then the rider whipped around, yelling in Syriot to his men.
The riders began to form
up once more and began riding briskly back up the gentle slope. On the wounded Red Dragon, Uiger bellowed in rage at the retreating riders, tears falling from his face as he then whispered to the elephant. The prince pushed Ranvir through the shaken ranks of soldiers to the emperor, the boy blinking in evident panic but remaining rooted in place. A few paces away Red Dragon sunk to the ground with a low moan of agony.
Stay strong, brave one.
The prince considered pursuing the riders, then looked to his left, seeing the reason for their retreat. A disorganized crowd of elephants and Veldtland skirmishers were making their way toward the river. Behind them, the hills belched fire as the bronze cannons fired at the warships in the harbor.
So my cannons have finally arrived.
Ignoring this fire, the ships fired volleys of shells along the plains east of the river. As he watched, one of the war elephants was lifted off the ground by an explosion, collapsing onto the ground. A long, mournful call rang out, and several of the elephants tried to pull back against the struggling commands of the mahouts. The scene was chaotic, and the Prince of the Wastes was irritated at the lack of control that his forces normally exhibited.
Still, rampaging war elephants were exactly what this situation called for.
The prince looked at the emperor who was still blinking rapidly at nothing in particular.
“Your Majesty, I’m going to take control of the situation to the south. I suggest you retreat back to the ridgeline. Uiger here,” he gestured at the mahout still soothing the hulking Red Dragon, “will stay here to guard you. Along with the rest of these elephants.”
The remaining war elephants had joined their ranks even as the Prince was speaking. The Syriot regiment that had been routed along the river seemed to be reforming in the distance, covered by the armored riders, and the prince knew there were much more weary Syriots in the distance. Several elephants had abandoned the advance completely, trumpeting mournfully as they padded over to the fallen elephant, their mahouts straining to reassert control.
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