by RW Krpoun
The Grand Commander spun back to the liaison officer and hesitated, thinking hard. “Advise Commander Ireton to halt in place and reform her lead units into defensive lines, and to have her mounted troops penetrate the smoke screen at all costs in order to get a verified estimate of the enemy strength. Go! Kansa!”
His operations officer stepped forward. “Yes, sir ?”
“Speed our troops into their final positions; Laffery may try a strike against Ireton with everything he has.”
Kansa’s face reflected his surprise. “But Ireton has very nearly the same number of troops...” his voice trailed off as the though occurred to him.
“Yes, yes, but deployed for an assault up a ridge, not prepared for defense, still moving and crossing ground the Heartland has been training on for weeks.” The Grand Commander grinned unhappily. “It is possible that a savage blow in the right place could do the trick.”
“But that leaves the ridge vulnerable,” Kansa objected.
“Perhaps, but if I am correct we shall be faced with the choices of attacking piecemeal up the slopes, our defined plan abandoned in order to take the ridge before Laffery finishes with Ireton, or to delay and risk the chance that he returns to the ridge before we can bring our weight to bear. Once again that bastard has made it a matter of timing.”
The plan of attack called for the Sixth, Eighth, and Eleventh Legions to strike the Bohca’s north wing while the First assaulted the south wing on a broad front to keep them busy; the Third Hatche would follow the cavalry in to assist them in holding open the breach while the Fifth and Seventh Hatche would be held in reserve along with the Lasharian Royal Foot Guards Division. He was doing his countrymen no favor by holding them in reserve, as they would be thrown in wherever things looked the worst, but someone had to be in reserve, and on this, which could very well be the last day of his life, he wanted to be directly in command of at least some of his own countrymen.
Grand Marshal Laffery spurred his horse past the lines of horsemen to where Duke Radet’s personal standard rose from the center of the front rank. The Duke had just over twenty-one hundred heavy horse, and around twelve hundred Imperial medium cavalry, with eighteen hundred foot following him into his breach; Laffery held high hopes for the mounted attack.
He found the Duke sitting on his mount a short ways ahead of the knot of staff officers and couriers, staring off into the smoke-tainted darkness. “We are ready, your Grace,” he advised the motionless, armored figure. “You shall attack as soon as it is light enough for you. The smudges are being allowed to burn down.”
“We have practiced charging through smoke before, so the horses won't mind.” Radet didn’t bother to look at his commander. “We’ve practiced a hundred charges across this ground over the last months, sir.”
Laffery nodded, then hesitated. “Your Grace, it is not necessary to lead in person.”
Radet turned then, his blue eyes sparkling in the shadow of his raised visor. “I beg to disagree, my lord. In the finest traditions of the flower of knighthood the only true order a man in my position can give is ‘follow me’.”
“The Realms has great need of your skills, your Grace; please remember that and exercise all due caution. By nightfall I expect your force to be afoot, every horse worn out from their charges.”
“By nightfall I expect my force to be in the main dead or too badly wounded to fight,” the Arturian observed blandly. “Myself as well. Still, if we bring a victory by it shall all be worthwhile.” He smiled at the Lasharian. “Sir, I must confess that I had many doubts about you in the early days, doubts which you banished by your leadership. It has been a privilege and an honor to have fought in your service, and I count myself fortunate to have called you friend.” He offered a steel-gauntleted hand.
The Grand Marshal gripped the Duke’s hand. “And you, sir, have been as no other commander of horse could be; if victory comes to us today, it will be borne on your courage, my friend. Ride with the Eight, and fight in the Light.”
“And you, sir.”
Duchess Eithne, wearing riding breeches and tunic, both in mourning black, and her sword, walked the Gap’s defensive wall, four Lifeguards in tow.
“You should move back to the observation tower, your Grace,” the Lifeguard Captain observed. “The battle will be starting shortly and you must be out of missile-fire range.”
“My father did not concern himself with such things.”
“You father wore full plate,” the officer riposted. “It gave him a substantial edge in this matter. You’ve inspired our troops enough, ma’am; they’re as inspired as they’re going to get.”
“Do they really care if I’m here?”
“Not much,” the Lifeguard admitted. “Oh, a few die-hard patriots will be motivated, but most will simply think that it is a nice gesture and go back to waiting once you’re past.”
“I should like to take part in the fighting, to kill some of the Hand’s troops.”
“Fighting is not your position in life.”
“Duke Radet fights.”
“He is a Duke who serves a King, whereas you are a Duchess who is a monarch in fact, if not in title, and monarchs should not take the field unless they’ve plenty of heirs.”
“I just want to do something, rather than be paraded around like a mascot.” The Duchess spoke in a calm, if strained, voice. “Colgan will see fighting.”
“That is because you appointed him as commander of the First Cohort when that unit’s commander was uncovered by the Green Bureau, your Grace.”
“Well, he wanted to see some fighting.”
“Very kind of you to give him a command.”
“I’m the ruler, after all.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“And you’ll see fighting, the Lifeguards are in the Gap reserve.”
“Once you go to the tower, I will rejoin my unit.”
“Perhaps I ought to appoint myself head of the Lifeguards for this battle.”
“You lack armor and a shield, your Grace.”
The young woman spat a word that she had learned from Kroh and kicked a wall-buttress. “This is not fair.”
“Life, your Grace, is not fair.”
“It ought to be, for Duchesses at least.”
The Lifeguard thought for a moment. “It may be possible to arrange for a siege crossbow and loader to be provided for you at the tower, your Grace.”
Eithne thought about that. “Yes, I suppose that would be better than nothing.”
“An effective compromise, your Grace.”
Marshal von der Strieb walked his defense lines, bodyguards and couriers in tow, his plain face furrowed in thought. He felt no slight that he had been relieved of command of a force amounting to nearly two-thirds of the Heartland Army and assigned to a defensive position; he knew that the battle would be won or lost here, and knew his appointment to be a mark of respect from Laffery.
His only concern was that his son had obtained the command of a cohort in the Gap and would see action today. Lady von der Strieb, while thrilled to have a Duchess as a daughter-in-law, would have a sharp word for her husband over Colgan losing a hand; he didn’t want to think of the tongue-lashing he would receive if the boy were to die. Fortunately their youngest son was still in the Empire, serving on the Ward in the Ninth Legion.
Nicholas I sat on an up-ended keg writing a letter to his queen by the light of a hooded lantern. He disliked writing, having poor penmanship and uncertain spelling, but letters of this sort could not be dictated to some clerk. Cursing an ink-blot, he scratched his nose with the end of the stylus and fought for words. She was in Wexford, living with Laffery’s family and four month’s pregnant with what the Seers claimed would be a healthy boy-child, while he crouched on this ridge waiting for the worst battle in the war to start.
His eldest son was lining up in the ranks behind Duke Radet, deliriously happy that the horse were going to see battle as cavalry instead of dismounted and fighting behind a
wall. The King sighed and shook his head: he was a good lad, but not the brightest child one could ask for. Nicholas despaired at the boy’s chances of living to see the sunset, and then forced the thought from his mind. Plenty of fathers’ sons had only hours or minutes left to live.
Scowling, he tried to remember how to spell ‘passion’.
“Sir, Commander Ireton reports that the enemy has massed cavalry and foot on the ground in front of the ridge,” the liaison officer reported, breathing hard from his run from the tent where the communications devices were housed. “A Ket was virtually destroyed in the effort, and two others took losses, but she has confirmed the enemy’s intentions.”
“Understood. Kansa, how are our dispositions?”
“Still moving up, sir; the attack was planned for at least an hour from now.”
“How soon can the enemy strike?”
“With their familiarity with the terrain, at any moment, sir.”
Descente muttered a curse. Here was the choice: dance to Laffery’s tune by launching his assault on the ridge too soon, thus reducing his army’s effectiveness, or gamble that Ireton could stand against Laffery long enough to give him time to deploy properly and mount the two or three assaults it would take to carry the ridge before the Heartland’s main body could return. He gave it cold, dispassionate thought, knowing that Laffery counted on timing and initiative to win battles for him. He had duped Descente into planning for a set-piece engagement, and now had turned it into a battle of maneuver, at least in part. Obviously he hoped that even if his ploy failed the Hand army would be so bled out that Sagenhoft could be held for the summer while the Bohcas were rebuilt, and he could be right.
But the Council’s orders were clear: count not the cost. It went against the grain to waste troops, but it must be done. “Kansa, we attack as soon as units come into position; war engines are to fire their ranging shots and then open bombardment as soon as they are individually in position; set the quartermasters to finding any extra ammunition they can scrounge from the area.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assemble ten Ket here, with orders that once they are assembled they are to swing around the ridge’s north end and take the enemy assaulting Ireton on the flank; leave the remaining four to guard our flanks and rear. Six Lardina of wolf riders are to form up here and swing south to strike the enemy’s flank in the same manner, with the remaining two Lardina held in reserve. The application of enchantment will begin at once, but otherwise conform as our original plan.”
“Yes, sir.” His operations officer hesitated. “This is what they counted on us doing, sir, the hasty attack before we’re fully ready.”
“I understand, but to wait presents the risk that they will rout some or all of Bohca Ortak and leave us in an untenable position. Laffery is counting on our disorganization and the strength of his defenses to delay us long enough to defeat Bohca Ortak. We must prove him wrong, and quickly.”
He saw the unspoken thought in Kansa’s eyes that they had yet to prove Laffery wrong, but the officer simply saluted and turned away to dispatch the orders.
The Grand Commander waved the commander of his headquarters to his side. “I am going to the final staging area,” he informed her. “Put the arrangements for couriers and security into effect. It is time for me to take command of the battle itself.”
He waited outside as his guard troop and staff were assembled and mounted in the organized chaos that is the mark of any military endeavor. Eyade streamed past in an endless jingling river, heading for the assembly point and the flanking attack beyond. The Grand Commander watched them ride past and nodded to himself; it would be good to see just how well Laffery dealt with the nomads and wolf-riders.
Duke Radet drained the last of his flask and tossed it to the Marquis de Melere, his nephew by marriage and formerly the head of the small expeditionary force in Sagenhoft. He and his men had joined the Gold Army after the Third Battle at the Royal Bridge, the Marquis in some disgrace as he had been specifically ordered to win Lady Eithne’s hand once word of her father’s assassination had reached Radet. The expeditionary force had been fed into the ranks as replacements and de Melere had been assigned to the Duke’s staff to replace men killed at the Royal Bridge. “Here, a souvenir; you can tell your grandchildren that the Duke himself gave you this flask on the field of battle at the Third Battle at Dorog.” He sneered inwardly as the man fumbled for a response, sweat standing out clearly on handsome features now gone pale and sickly with dread. The boy could seduce with the best of them, or so it had been reported, his failure in Sagenhoft giving the lie to that bit of information, but clearly his elan did not extend to the field of honor as well.
Pulling his lance free from where it had been jammed butt-first into the soil, the Duke rapped it against his heavy wood stirrup to knock away any clods of dirt that might cling to it and shifted it up into a carry position. “Army of Gold,” he bellowed, silencing the idle chatter around him. The shout was echoed in turn by Abamer, squadron, and demi-squadron commanders to either side and behind. He waited a second, timing with long practice, and then shouted again. “Mounted Force of the Army of the Heartlands, at the walk, Advance!”
As one the lines of cavalry moved forward, stepping off at a steady walking pace. Grand Marshal Laffery watched them move forward and breathed a silent prayer before giving the order for the Legions to begin advancing.
The Third Battle at Dorog had begun.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The lines of horsemen moved forward, increasing from a walk to a trot and then to a canter as the distance narrowed, passing through the dying smudge pots and smoldering stumps, past dead men and horses where a Ket had been ambushed. Emerging from the smoke they could see the disordered ranks of the enemy as the Thirty-Seventh Holding tried to change from their assault formation into a defensive line even as the rows of lances dropped down to the horizontal and the order to charge was given.
The ground vibrated with the thunder of plate-sized hooves as the line of massive war-horses and their armored riders thundered down onto the mass of Hand warriors, but the Thirty-Seventh was built around the survivors of the Apartia garrison, blooded veterans all, and they held their ground as the enemy closed, still trying to sort themselves out into the defensive line as the lances reached them.
The shock of the two forces meeting was a solid slap of sound in which no individual cry or noise could be discerned, a crash of war that echoed across the field like the clap of a great bell sounding the first toll of a funeral dirge. The first rank of riders plowed through the Holding, leaving bloody furrows of pierced and crushed Hand troops behind, with the occasional thrashing war-horse as well, and the second rank mowed down the dazed survivors, leaving only a scattering of foemen alive when the Imperial horse reached what had been the enemy line seconds later.
The Felher Swarc that waited behind the Thirty-Seventh had never seen heavy cavalry in the charge, and were stunned when the Arturians burst through the Human troops like a boulder coming through a fence of woven reeds. Duke Radet’s men had lost much of their momentum and half their lances smashing through the Hand troops, but the nearly unarmored Felher presented less opposition than the veterans of the Thirty-Seventh, and the line of horsemen pressed on, slowed, wavering here and then as a horse went down or a rider was pole-axed off his mount, but still rolling forward like a hogshead full of stones going down a smooth slope. Felher were smashed off their feet, impaled on lances, and cut down by axes and hammers wielded from the height of a very tall horse, dying in scores as the armored mass surged through their formation. They were not cowardly in any sense, however: the individual Felher stood their ground and tried to fight back, cutting down a horse here and a cavalryman there, inflicting losses but not enough to break the charge or cripple the enemy formation, losing twenty for every death they inflicted upon their armored foes.
The Sacred Band of Night Guards awaited the horsemen behind the Felher in defensive lines, heav
ily armored footmen who knew how to meet a mounted charge and who had had time to prepare. The leading ranks’ horses were beginning to blow, and the formation was beginning to shift and intermingle after blasting through two units, but the horsemen never wavered, charging with zest into the last unit between themselves and the enemy’s rear. Few lances remained, most having broken or been driven through two or more foes and abandoned, but every horseman had an axe, mace, or hammer on his saddle and a sword at his hip.
The Sacred Band was knocked back a half-dozen paces and a quarter of their number fell at the shock of the charge, but their line held, halting the charge, and for a single glorious moment, Bohca Ortak’s center stood firm. Then the second wave plowed into the Guards, and the Sacred Band bowed inward, wavered, and steadied as wolf-riders poured in from the flanks to support them. Weapons rose and fell from horseback as pole arms and great swords flashed upwards to meet them in a howling whirlwind of steel and iron, the screams and cries of the wounded and dying drowning out in the clash of arms and the rending of armor.
The Imperial squadrons peeled off to either side to face the Lardina of wolf-riders hurled into the fray, shoving the Goblins back by weigh of horse as the Night Guards backed up a step at a time, holding the line even as their numbers dwindled with each passing heartbeat. They were expertly-trained, blooded in past battles, and as well-equipped as any troops could be, but three hundred fifty men could only hold back Duke Radet’s awful tide for just so long; like wet paper before rushing water, the Sacred Band’s line collapsed and the horsemen rode through, cutting down the few remaining Guardsmen.
Bohca Ortak’s center was broken.
On his left the three Legions were breaking into a rattling charge, their bellowed cries rolling like a tidal wave of sound that could be heard even over the crash and rattle of Duke Radet’s force hacking their way through the Night Guards; to his right the First Legion closed in open order along the entire length of the enemy’s south wing, rather badly outnumbered but not so badly that they were in immediate danger, their only mission to tie down as many Hand troops and reserves as possible to make the main strike’s job easier. The Third Hatche, eighteen hundred footmen strong, was trotting along in Duke Radet’s wake, skirmishing with wolf-riders as they crossed the mounded dead that marked where the Thirty-Seventh Holding had stood, cutting down those few survivors who had weathered three waves of horsemen, the Arturian foot well-trained in the art of following a cavalry charge.