The crackle of musket fire drifted up from the trenches; only a few quick shots at first, but quickly followed by full volleys. Flashes of light marked the battle in the trenches and Raedan listened carefully for the command to push his troops forward. He glanced behind him quickly.
The color guard stood resolute, the banners of Arndell and the Broken Plains at the front of the formation. A half-company of infantry had been assigned to protect the flags should they come under attack.
Wounded began to drift out of the trenches. Some retreated under their own power, others were carried between two of their fellows. Raedan tried to count the men fleeing the battle, but quickly lost count.
Finally, the trumpets sounded again, ordering him forward.
“How's it look in there?” he asked a retreating officer. The man wore the gaudy orange of Sea Watch and the stripes of a captain. He had taken a round through his shoulder and was supporting a corporal that had taken a shot to the leg.
“The artillery did a job on them,” the captain said. “But they've still got some fight left.”
“All right, men! Let's take it to them!” Raedan started toward the trenches at the double time and his men started to trot after him.
The earthworks twisted and zagged one way and another, slowly leading the infantry closer to the fortress that loomed large above. The sun had finally set and flares were exploding high overhead.
The sounds of musket fire grew louder until Raedan turned a corner and came up behind a cluster of western troops firing down a trench from the safety of a pile of dirt. A few rounds slammed into the trench walls or their barrier, but each loyalist that risked the attack was targeted by a handful of western rifles.
“We've got them pinned down!” a corporal shouted. Another loyalist fired down the trench; four westerners answered. “I reckon a half-dozen of them from the way they're throwing rounds at us.”
“Any way around them?” Raedan asked.
“There was a junction about fifty feet east, but they're even heavier on that side.”
Raedan looked at the trenches. Finding another way around the loyalists could cost him precious time. He could throw a company of his men down the trench to overwhelm the defenders, but there was the off-chance that there were more defenders than the corporal estimated. Or that they had artillery waiting behind them.
He turned to the captain that had followed him into the trenches. “We'll have to go over.”
“Yes, sir!” The captain kept the doubt out of his voice, but Raedan saw it in his eyes. Climbing out of the trenches would expose them to fire from the men on the walls above.
He touched his fingers to his onyx amulet. The fear of the men around him flowed to him like tributaries and he felt the energy pooling within him.
Damon had taught him how to gather energy, but those energies were different. They were like a rolling stream that twisted and turned gently within him. The energies that gathered within him now were a roaring river seeking escape.
Raedan began to chant. The energy began to pulse outward. He pushed courage into the soldiers around him and pulled the fear from them. This time, he was careful. He had learned from his experience at Green Hills: pushing too much of an emotion into a person overwhelmed them.
“Company, up and over!” the captain shouted as he lifted himself out of the trench.
A spatter of rifle fire rained down from the walls above, but much less than Raedan had expected. The company scrambled out of the trench and he joined them. The soldiers ran low to the ground across the open ground and then dropped into the trench on the far side.
They had come up behind the enemy position and fell on the loyalists with the element of surprise. There had been a dozen soldiers waiting at the end of the trench, each armed with a rifle and a dozen more stacked against the wall, loaded and ready to fire. Raedan was one of the last men into the far trench and the fighting was done.
“Very good, captain,” he said as he observed their position.
They were less than a hundred feet from the base of the dirt berm that provided the last protection for the attackers. The trench, however, was not newly dug. It ran straight away from the walls and through the dirt berm.
“We're in a drainage ditch,” he told the captain. “Do we have any explosives?”
“None, sir,” the captain said.
“Send a runner to fetch some,” Raedan ordered.
More soldiers began to pour into the drainage ditch from adjoining trenches. Their officers found him waiting.
“What orders, sir?” a lieutenant asked. He wore the blue with red accents of White Ridge.
A platoon of soldiers followed him. The common soldiers had taken their commanders' inaction as a sign that they were waiting for some unspoken command. Some had slumped against the trench walls to rest, others drank from their canteens, and a few fired at the parapets far above, though Raedan doubted that they would hit anything.
“We're in a drainage ditch,” he told the young officer. “It must lead to a sewer shaft. I've sent for some explosives. When they arrive, we'll follow this ditch to its source.”
The thirty-pound coastal guns continued their barrage on the enemy fortifications, though they had turned their attention away from the approaches that the infantry would need to make their assault. Many of the shells struck high on the wall; others sailed over it to explode over the outer bailey. Even one of those heavy rounds, poorly aimed, could cause more damage to his small band than he cared to think about.
Finally, a pair of privates and a corporal returned from the siege lines, sacks of powder charges cradled in their hands. The corporal also carried a spool of primer cord. Raedan inspected their charges and, satisfied that they would suffice, started up the ditch toward the fortress.
Nearly three hundred men had gathered while they waited for the charges and they followed behind Raedan and the small cluster of his personal guards. The fire from above continued, but the men were crouched against the inside wall of the trench wherever possible. It would have taken a lucky shot to hit most of them.
Raedan raised his fist when they arrived at a junction. One of the trenches ran straight toward the wall and ended at a small stone entry barred by an iron portcullis. The approach to the entrance was completely exposed to fire from above.
He called to one of the officers, “Captain!”
The man scurried forward, careful to avoid the rifle fire from above. The officer was one of his brother’s men, in the white and red of House Clyve. “Yes, my lord?”
“Take your men into this trench and put fire on those battlements. Corporal, once the captain is engaged, you and the privates are to rush the portcullis, place the charges and primer, and return with the rope to trigger them.” The two officers nodded. “Everyone else, lay fire on those parapets!”
Raedan raised his rifle and fired at the parapets above; the other soldiers joined him. Their chances of hitting anyone were small, but the illusion of danger could be a strong motivator for someone far above to avoid actual danger.
The company wearing the white of his brother’s territory rushed into the one hundred-yard trench, firing wildly at the battlements above. They reloaded with a speed that spoke of training and dedication. Even their captain was among them, firing a rifled musket that he had picked up along the way.
When the captain waved, the corporal and two privates rushed forward with the explosives. They packed the charges around the base of the portcullis and hurried back toward the junction. The corporal stumbled, fell and lay lifeless in the gathering muck; blood began to pool around his head.
He was not alone. A dozen of the soldiers in the trench had already fallen; another dozen were wounded but remained in the trench, firing up. When primer was finally in his hands, Raedan shouted a command and his troops began to withdraw from the killing fields.
He crouched in the trench to reload his rifle. When the cap was settled on the nipple, he lowered the hammer and risked a glan
ce at the walls above. He counted two dozen different rifles firing down at them, though he couldn't tell if there were as many men or fewer with men behind them reloading.
“When we make for the portcullis, give them a volley!” he shouted. He struck a match on his boot and held it to the end of the primer.
The fuse hissed as the flame caught and the spark started up the cord toward the charges. The flash of flares overhead, the play of shadows in the trenches and the spout of flames from muskets and pistols made the fuse hard to see as it burned closer and closer to the entrance. Raedan hid behind the trench wall and waited.
The noise was deafening, the cloud of dust was blinding and the shock from the detonation pushed more than one man to his knees. Deaf from the sound and unable to see, Raedan stood and shouted as he charged into the trench.
The men behind him peppered the ramparts with shot as they hurried behind their commander. He could see the entrance through the dust and grinned; the portcullis had been blown wide off of its hinges. The way into the fortress was open.
Chapter 18 - Hadrian
Dalton Croutcher, Arnold Croft, Austen Towles, Spencer Alvey and Raedan and Hadrian Clyve sat at a massive table planning their riverside defensive positions. The capture of Fort Hart had given the Western forces much greater flexibility in where they placed the majority of their troops.
Dalton sat at the center of the long table. He had trimmed his beard and his hair was pulled back to help keep himself cool. His chin rested on a clenched fist as he listened to another report from his scouts.
Lord Arnold Croft, the Earl of Garroway, sat to Dalton’s left. Sweat had already started to roll down his thick red cheeks and through the thin beard that had formed on his jaw.
Of the nobles gathered in the great hall, Lord Austen Towles, the Baron of Falton, seemed the most comfortable. His barony was further south than any of the others’ and his mother had been a noble lady from across the Vast Sea. He had inherited her olive skin and tolerance for warm weather.
Raedan sat at the right end of the table, his attention focused on a stack of written reports. His staff leaned against the arm of his chair and he idly rubbed at the onyx stone that his griffin pendant clutched in its golden claws. He scribbled some notes on one of the messages and set it apart from the others for more review by Dalton and the others.
Lord Spencer Alvey, the Baron Hampton, sat to Raedan’s left. He leaned heavily on a gnarled staff and his gray eyes were clouded by age and pain. He had traveled from his seat at Alvey Castle against the advice of his doctors and the pleading of Lord Croutcher. Spencer had argued that they were in lands that his family had tried to take from the Earl of Hart for more than a thousand years and it was his right to oversee the management of the territories west of the Hart River.
Hadrian sat between Spencer Alvey and Dalton Croutcher. The position of honor that Lord Croutcher afforded him at every turn had irritated some of the more wealthy barons. Dalton had ignored the complaints.
Hadrian's right arm was cradled in a sling, more to prevent any incidental harm than to help the healing. According to the healers, the arm wasn’t broken: he had only bruised the bones. The pain had been blinding for a full day, but had subsided after that. It still hurt to raise his arm above his head, but most other tasks were painless. His blue eyes glanced between the messenger and the written reports that the man had brought from Hammerbourne.
The loyalist forces under Wynton Chalmers had launched raids across the Hart River targeted at the riverside docks in Hammerbourne. The attacks had been repelled but the lesser lord in command of the defenses feared that his position would be the target of further probes by loyalist troops.
His letters to the council, and Dalton specifically, indicated that the loss of the garrison cannons that had been loaded onto barges to help with the siege of Fort Hart had weakened him beyond the point that he felt comfortable with.
“—and Lord Massing reports that he has seen loyalist artillery being brought into East Hammerbourne.”
“I appreciate Lord Massing’s situation,” Dalton said. “But I think that these attacks and movements by Lord Chalmers are a feint to draw our defenses away from Fort Hart.”
Not that pulling even half of our troops away from Fort Hart would expose it to recapture, Hadrian thought as he waited for Dalton to make his final decision. Without the benefit of siege guns, and such a limited approach, it would be suicide for Lord Chalmers to try to assault the fort from across the river.
“Please return to Lord Massing and inform him that we will deploy an additional battalion of infantry from the reserves when they arrive from Tirrell. However, we are deploying them there with the intention of moving them across the river when we begin our invasion of the Hart Earldom.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the messenger said with a bow. The man backed away from the table and turned quickly to exit the hall.
“How many do we have left?” Dalton whispered to Hadrian.
“That should have been the last messenger, Your Grace,” Hadrian reported after a glance at his list. “However, there is a matter that requires your attention.”
“A petitioner, here?” Dalton asked with a single raised eyebrow.
“Of a sort, Your Grace,” Hadrian confirmed.
“Please see the petitioner in,” Dalton instructed his master-at-arms. The guard disappeared for a handful of minutes and then opened both of the wide doors.
A tall, thin man in a rich blue uniform followed the guard with a handful of his own men behind him. The lead man had a purple sigil against a sky blue field embroidered over his heart, but from across the hall, Hadrian couldn’t make out what it was. He walked with the assurance of youth and the measured steps of an heir.
“Your Grace, Sir Jordan Wilford of Edgerton,” the master-at-arms announced in a booming voice.
“Please, come forward,” Dalton said.
The man stepped forward, leaving his guards at the entrance. Hadrian consulted a thick tome that listed the lesser lords and nobles of Ansgar while the man walked toward the center of the room.
“A lesser lord of Earl Hart,” Hadrian whispered when he had found Edgerton in the book. “His keep sits just to the south of the bridge and controls a significant portion of the road from the bridge to Castle Hart.”
“What brings you before our council?” Dalton asked.
“As I’m sure your fellow noble has already told you, I am from the territory directly on the other side of the river, on the southern edge of the bridge,” the man said. “I am, in fact, the heir to the territory of Edgerton and the town of the same name.”
“Your territory is sworn to the Earl Hart, if what Lord Clyve has said is true,” Dalton noted.
“Our family has been sworn to the Earldom for nearly two centuries, since my one of my predecessors was given the lordship,” Jordan Wilford said. “However, my father has seen the strength and the resolve that you and your fellow nobles have shown in standing up for your rights and for your people. He has sent me here to pledge our loyalty to your cause and offer our soldiers to your service.”
“How many men does your father pledge?” Hadrian asked without looking up from his ledgers.
“Three companies of regular infantry, two companies of cavalry and two companies of skirmishers, with the knights and officers to command them. These are with me. Another two companies of infantry and two batteries of artillery are maintained at our keep.” Jordan paused. “And to ensure your trust, I have been instructed to remain in your service.”
“Your father is a wise man,” Dalton said. “But why did he not bring us this offer himself?”
“My father is an old man and weak with sickness,” Jordan said. “He would have had trouble with the crossing.”
“Another matter which we are interested in,” Hadrian said, finally looking up. “How did you get past the loyalist defenders on the other side of the river? And through our own defenses?”
“My father’s men
command the defenses on the other side of the river, and we know the streams and backwaters better than any of the men that you would put on your defense.”
“We will accept your father’s pledge,” Dalton announced after a moment of thought. “However, I intend a different use of the troops that he has sent with you.”
Jordan seemed relieved that his offer had been accepted. “Your Grace?”
“Keep your skirmishers and cavalry on this side of the river,” Dalton instructed. “But send your regular infantry back to your father. When we decide to move against the loyalists, I will want your father’s troops to appear if they are still loyal to Eadric’s command. When I give the signal, your father’s troops will turn on the loyalists. Five companies will have a greater effect than two. Your skirmishers will lead us to the best crossings and your cavalry will be absorbed by my own.”
“Your Grace, my soldiers are at your command.” Jordan bowed and left the hall. In his wake, the gathered lesser lords and knights broke into murmured conversations and whispered worries.
“Silence,” Dalton said loudly. “We are all traitors in the King’s eyes. We have no basis to judge others who wish to join us. This council is concluded. Hadrian, Arnold, if you would join me in my quarters.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Hadrian said as the nobles rose and the room began to clear.
Dalton’s quarters had once belonged to the loyalist lesser lord that had been given command of Fort Hart. They were garishly decorated with paintings and statues from the East. Dalton had removed most of the art and replaced it with maps of their territory and battle plans against the known loyalist forces.
The interior of the fortress had suffered little damage when the siege of Fort Hart turned into the Battle of Fort Hart. The outer shells hadn’t been so lucky: the artillery barges and heavy cannons on the western side of the river had decimated huge swaths of the earthworks and trenches that surrounded the stone keep.
The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) Page 18