by RW Krpoun
In the meantime he had to retake the Royal Bridge; Laffery had followed him, of course, and had angled off towards the Bridge, obviously intending to do battle near it to delay the retaking of the forts and the reopening of the Hand’s lines of communication. It wasn’t bad planning, Descente conceded: Laffery was forcing Bohca Tatbik to march and counter-march, which was tiring and bad for morale, as well as buying more time for the Sagenhoft garrison to prepare. It had been eight days since the last stone fell upon the city walls, and the odds were it would be ten to fifteen more before the siege resumed, time the defenders would put to good effect.
The raid was also costing him troops: he had been forced to transfer two Horcs and some spellcasters to Bohca Ileri to beef up their defenses and to safeguard his base, and while four thousand Orcs weren’t much as compared to his overall force, it was still a depletion when he could least afford it.
They would march at dawn on the twenty-seventh, and meet Laffery on the twenty-eighth; it was unwise to wait a day but it would be important to rest his troops before battle. What made him the most uneasy, he admitted to himself, was that ever since the Battle at Dorog Laffery had maintained the initiative, forcing the Hand to react to his actions despite the fact that the Heartland Army was outnumbered and on the defensive. That would soon end, the Grand Commander vowed to himself. They would meet near the Royal Bridge and all the trickery and cunning would not matter when the two armies met.
“There’s a Gate here,” Elonia exclaimed, frowning as she looked about the fort. “I thought we were leaving by ship?”
“Actually, that was never made clear to me,” Durek admitted as Lord Marshal Fassburg waved him over from across the fort’s courtyard. “But that would make sense.” He dumped his pack and walked across the nearly empty courtyard to where the Marshal waited in the company of a bearded man in civilian grab who Durek belatedly recognized as the man he had seen under the stables at Dorog.
“Time to go,” Fassburg casually returned the Dwarf’s salute. “I understand your Company has used a Gate before?”
“Yes, most of us, anyway.”
“Good. You’ll be briefed on the situation by officers on the other side for more secrecy. Good luck, Captain, and may the Eight go with you. Strike hard and fast, as I believe your actions will have considerable effect upon this war.”
Grand Marshal Laffery had been able to choose the field of battle through the simple expedient of arriving there first, the Heartland Army having taken up position late in the evening on the twenty-sixth. They had spent the twenty-seventh resting and preparing simple defenses, stake belts and a shallow ditch, and now as dawn approached on a cool, overcast fall morning the Army moved into position even as Bohca Tatbik did the same.
Laffery watched his forces assemble. It was a much larger army today than he had led away from the ford that now bore his name: the Empire had sent the Thirty-Seventh Legion to the Eastern Field Force, along with a promotion to Marshal for von der Strieb, and the battered Fifth Legion had taken over the garrisoning of the Bloody Road, releasing the fresh Sixth Legion for duty with the Army of the Heartland. The Ilthanian Foot Guards Corps (made up of the combined might of newly-unified Kordia and Ilthan) now consisted of ten Imperial-style cohorts, while the Royal Horse Guards was reduced to the strength of a single division, Nicholas I having lost much of his taste for heavy cavalry during the summer. The Lasharian foot was increased to two divisions (the Foot Guards and First Heavy Foot), while the Horse Guards remained at divisional strength. The Arturian Gold Army had been increased to four divisions of heavy horse and two foot divisions (the Third and Seventh Hatche), and Duke Radet hoped for another foot division in the spring.
His dispositions had been carefully planned and organized: he had sent the Arturian Seventh Hatche to garrison the Bridge forts and replace the Lanthrell. The Heartland Army faced west, with its left flank anchored in a flat, water-logged marsh on the left, the river two hundred yards of mud further south. The Arturian Third Hatche held the left, followed in line by the Eastern Field Force (arranged as the Sixth, Eighth, Thirty-Seventh, First, and Eleventh Legions) extending to the north, with the Ilthanian Foot Guards next and the Lasharian foot holding the right flank. The Lanthrell were deployed in open skirmishing order to the right of Nicholas I’s infantry.
Duke Radet and his four divisions were positioned near the extreme end of the left flank, while the Lasharian and Ilthanian horse were on the right just past and behind the Lanthrell, with three Imperial squadrons in a central reserve, the other two squadrons guarding the army’s baggage train. Each unit in the line held back its own reserve, and had been ordered to be prepared for both offensive and defensive action. They were still heavily outnumbered, but seeing the enemy withdraw without a fight at Lightwater had buoyed everyone’s spirits, as had the news of the victory at the Royal Bridge and the successful sally at Sagenhoft.
Laffery watched the Hand forces move into position and nodded to himself; things were going as well as he could hope for: winter was merely weeks away, Sagenhoft still stood and the enemy was still reacting as he had hoped. Today he was going to give the Hand what they had wanted ever since he had taken command: he was going to stand and fight.
He hoped it was all they expected, and more.
Descente studied the Heartland’s line and shook his head. “Why does he have four divisions of horse on his left flank?” he asked Kansa. “The marsh is impassible to heavy cavalry, and would be hard to cross on foot.”
“The left-most unit is Arturian,” the operations officer pointed out. “Perhaps he plans to have them open ranks and let the cavalry through. The ditch and stake belt are limited enough to let them pass.”
“Perhaps.” The Grand Commander was doubtful, but there was no other explanation, unless Laffery expected a breakthrough on that flank. The Heartland’s dispositions had otherwise been nothing much to comment upon: the center was held by the Imperial Legions, who would fight like madmen just as they always did, the flanks were anchored, there were horse reserves and field artillery and those damned Lanthrell archers. That bothered him, as he had expected Laffery to come up with something different. “More likely he’s hoping to force us to move troops over and strengthen our right in reaction.”
His own dispositions and plans were conventional as well: he planned to throw his Direbreed and Orcs headlong into the enemy line, with Eyade covering his left and wolf riders following the central attack, the dread wolves nimble enough to navigate the shallow ditch. His winged beasts and Human Holdings stood ready to exploit any breakthroughs, with another lardina and his Sacred Bands as a final reserve. It was a plain, workable battle-plan that required little improvisation by his vassal troops. Morale was good, especially amongst the Eyade, who had hated the siege-work. He had even yielded to their chieftains’ demands and allowed three Ket to open with a charge on the Lanthrell, the tattooed morons actually thinking that eighteen hundred nomads would be sufficient to exterminate four hundred Threll with a mounted charge across open ground. They would learn otherwise, but Descente didn’t care, for while the Eyade were getting a lesson his heavy foot would be untroubled by the tree-lovers’ arrows.
When messengers brought the word that the last units were in position he gave the order and the horns bellowed the signal to attack. The Grand Commander watched his units move forward at a trot and nodded to himself; the Third Battle at the Royal Bridge had begun, and before the day was over the fate of the summer campaign, and perhaps the entire war, would be decided. Let him pin and destroy the Heartland Army, and the Hand’s path would be an easy one.
The day the Heartland had spent preparing the field for this battle immediately began to pay benefits: the enemy’s field artillery sent a volley of five-pound rocks into the assault troops’ ranks, the pieces having already gotten the ranging shots out of the way the day before; the Imperial engines fired in measured intervals, throwing stones in pairs, the batteries honed by endless drill so that a brace of
pieces was firing every couple seconds. The Ilthanian crews were less expert, firing accurately but at irregular intervals as the different expertise in the various crews made itself clear. In either case the Hand was losing troops as the loaf-sized stones plowed through the packed ranks advancing at a steady pace, the spotting teams in their flimsy towers adjusting the fire so the hail of stones moved forward as the lines of Orcs and Direbreed did. There weren’t enough enemy pieces to break the charge, of course, but the dark lines were leaving clumps of broken bodies marking the impact of each stone, two or three warriors for each shot, sometimes more, a tiny but steady tally in the equation of war.
The three Kets moved out in untidy ranks towards the scattered Lanthrell, who sat and watched the nomads with elaborate unconcern. About the time the crossbowmen in the Heartland ranks opened fire on the advancing Hand foot the horns shrilled and the Eyade brought their horses up to a trot; at the sound the Threll could be seen to stir. As the heavy infantry began to pick up their pace, the nomads brought their horses up to a canter and young warriors leveled lances that were still a hundred yards out of range.
And then the Threll opened fire. There was none of the precision of Imperial volley-fire about it: each Lanthrell brought his or her yakici into play as the Eyade crossed into the range they preferred for aimed fire, firing as fast as individual skill and inclination dictated. Human troops would have aimed for the horses, the mount making a larger target than the rider, but the Lanthrell apparently disdained such a stop-gap measure and as the arrows flashed over the grass like a horizontal rain shower the Eyade formation began to unravel.
Few bodies fell from their horses as the nomads were horsemen born and bred, and even dying they stayed in their saddles, but there wasn’t an Eyade born who could stay upright in the saddle with an arrow buried in his belly and still guide their mount. Here and there a horse went down with arrows in its chest and neck, more from moving into the line of fire than from deliberate action, and horses whose riders were no longer in control drifted to the right and left, fouling the momentum of the line as they shied away from the streams of arrows whupping past. Descente was expecting the Eyade to fail, but even so the speed of it took him by surprise: in the space of fifty yards covered in a good canter a Ket of nearly six hundred nomads was cut to ribbons. The second line of Eyade charged into the Threll fire, leaning forward in their saddles as if into a chill northern rain, some plying their own horn bows, the rest leveling their lances and trying to close. They made it to within twenty yards of the Threll before their line collapsed. The Shuket commanding the third Ket broke off his charge and pulled his command back beyond the range of the yakici without trying his luck.
The Eyade had served their purpose, however: the heavy foot was charging through the thin stake belt when the first Threll arrows fell amongst them; the two lines of infantry met with a crash of steel on iron and the howls and screams of battle and death. Here and there the Heartland line gave a few steps back, but the troops were well-drilled and nearly every unit had a high percentage of veterans of the summer battles in their ranks; without exception the lines steadied and held as blood flowed freely and lives ended by the score.
On the left the Eyade had reverted to hit and run tactics, darting in at a canter in Kia groups to fire volleys of arrows and then slip back out of range, their horn bows’ slightly longer range off-set by the difficulty of aiming while on horseback. They were losing riders to the return fire, but at least they were keeping the Threll busy, and probably bagging a few as well. Descente sent a lardina of wolf-riders to assist them and to make up for the two Ket that had been gutted by their foolish charge. There were still fourteen hale Kets over there, enough to wear the Lanthrell down.
The fighting along the central line was bitter: neither side had any interest in quarter or mercy, and both were eager for a fight. Both sides were also aware that much would be settled this day, and both sides wanted the campaign over with before winter set in. Descente sent the Thirty-Third Holding into the fight, and sent another lardina over to the left where the Eyade were getting bolder and pressing the Lanthrell harder. The rumble of battle from the infantry line was a solid roar now as the Heartland units fed their reserves into the line and losses and fatigue thinned the ranks. The Grand Commander urged his horse back and forth to get a changing perspectives on the battle, thrilled that Laffery had finally decided to stand his ground and fight.
Absorbed in sending the Fourteenth Holding and a lardina into the main fight to shore up a faltering Horc, Descente didn’t pay attention to the messenger at first, too busy receiving reports and requests for aid. On the Hand’s left the Eyade were charging again, this time as a horse-archer screen for the Storm Weasel wolf-riders charging in line, and in the center one of the First Legion’s cohorts was giving ground. Finally the man’s turn in the queue came up and he spurred his horse forward so urgently that the sweating beast nudged the Grand Commander’s.
“Sir, the enemy works at some act of great magic on their left.”
Descente took in the insignia of a Markan-Zern on the man’s tunic, a Hand priest trained in spell-use. He glanced out across the battlefield, were an occasional burst of other-worldly fire amongst his troops indicated that a second, largely-unseen battle was raging. “How can that be? The Heartland’s wizards are active.”
“We believe that the foe is using....” the young priest, still merely an Adept, struggled for layman’s terms. “Pre-made devices that were created and...empowered with magical force, which act as a focus and storage of power simultaneously, planted in ground sown with...energy and...preparatory spells. They would have had to have been made for a specific area and...anyway, there was no possible anticipation of this development. My master says he will do what he can, but, Void, there it goes.”
Because he was looking towards his right, the enemy’s left, Descente saw it: a sudden eruption of what appeared to be a line of ground-hugging mist rolling across the marsh from the enemy’s lines to his own as if propelled by a stiff wind, leaving the marsh-grass coated with ice and the ground matted with lines and small drifts of snow. Beyond the Arturian foot that anchored the Heartland’s left he saw Duke Radet’s standards moving. “By the Master, they’ve...oh, blast.” Jerking his horse around, he shouted orders, trying to save seconds as the dreadful truth unfolded before him: the -Zern hadn’t anticipated such a thing because the devices would have to be created for a specific patch of ground, a specific marsh in this case. But Laffery had chosen where this battle would be fought, and had done so months ago, obviously. The devices had frozen the marsh, not for long, but long enough for four divisions of heavy cavalry to cross and hit the Hand’s flank where no attack was expected.
Fifteen hundred Arturian horsemen came into view, advancing across the frozen marsh as if on parade, the Duke’s personal standard at the center of the first line, a second rank of horsemen fifty paces behind. The cloud-strained light glowed along their pennants, surcoats, and shield-faces, and brought out highlights on the steel heads of the lances standing upright like a swaying flock of sail-less masts.
But Descente didn’t have time to watch them move across the newly-frozen marsh, snow spurting from each step of a plate-sized hoof; other problems confronted him. On his left the Storm Weasels broke into a charge, their ranks somewhat bloodied but largely intact thanks to the screen of nomads which had peeled off as they closed. As the line of dread wolves passed the last fallen horses and men that marked the furthest extent of the Eyades’ failed first mass charge they broke into the ungainly trot that served them as a full charge, only to suddenly be hurled into disarray as the ground opened beneath their tough paws; scores of leg-breaker holes and short trenches appeared, the sod having been cut out and then replaced over careful-dug pits with artistic skill the night before by decades-old woodsmen who knew more about plants and Nature than any other race living. In seconds the Goblin charge was shattered under the very bows of their foes, who now poured shafts
into their broken ranks with an intensity that had to be seen to be believed. Worse, Nicholas I was leading nearly eight hundred heavy horse around the extremity of the line.
Descente ordered two more lardina to the left to shore up the Eyade, keenly aware that only three remained uncommitted. Moments later he saw that the three Imperial cavalry squadrons were moving to support the Ilthanian king and dispatched another lardina and the Fifteenth Holding to the left as well. The Storm Weasels were in full flight, a disorganized mob saved only by the fact that once they broke the Lanthrell switched their attention to firing upon the nearest Hand infantry.
The Tenth Holding had just formed up as the first rank of Arturians broke into a charge and the forest of bright-pointed lances swept down into line. Without trenches, stake-belts, artillery, or archers to disrupt the charge, the Arturians rolled into the line of Hand foot like an avalanche slipping down a smooth, steep slope, slamming into and through the bunched ranks like a boulder going through a wattle fence. The first rank discarded their lances (many of which had gone through two or even three Hand soldiers) and drew maces, morning stars, or axes from their saddles as they trotted towards the Sacred Band of Night Guards hastily forming up to receive their charge, instinctively dressing their lines and closing the gaps created by casualties as the second line of horsemen rolled over the wreckage of the Tenth.
The Night Guards met the charge as steadfastly as a brick wall, although they paid with scores of lives to do so, and the Arturian line was shaken to the core when the Red Guards countercharged with leveled lances. The combination might have stopped and repulsed Radet’s men had not the second line of Arturians plowed into the fray. The fighting swirled in a mad tangle of heavily armored men and massive horses as the marsh thawed back into mud behind them.