The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  From this distance, Winter thought, it looked like war as she’d always pictured it before her arrival in Khandar. The sky was a brilliant blue, and a light breeze slowly shredded the clouds of drifting smoke. The battlefield looked like a painting or a woodcut in a broadsheet. The screams of the dying, the smell of powder and shit and blood, none of it reached her up here. It felt a little like being a god looking down on hapless, warring mortals.

  The Borelgai skirmishers were retreating as the pressure mounted, abandoning their cover and pulling back up the slope. A hundred yards in front of the line of guns, they stopped, and the firefight became deadlier as the two sides came together. Then, all at once, the crest of the hill was swarming with red uniforms, hundreds more men, coming up from hidden positions on the reverse slope.

  The Borel commander didn’t fancy losing his guns after all. Now it was Abby’s turn to fall back, the distant musket shots merging into a steady roar like slowly rising applause. Blue and red were both dropping at a steady rate, mingled on the slope that the Girls’ Own was grudgingly yielding to their opponents. Winter turned to her runners.

  “Find Ibsly and tell him to go in,” she said. “Sevran and the rest of the Second halt outside of cannon-shot and wait for orders.”

  “Sir!” A gangly teenaged girl saluted and took off down the slope, arms windmilling wildly. Somewhere at the base of the hill, Abby would have left a string of horses, but even at a gallop it would still take minutes before Ibsly received the orders and longer before he could act on them. Winter wished she had one of Janus’ flik-fliks, to flash her words instantly across the field, but trained signalmen were still too few for them to be widely available. It wouldn’t help Ibsly march any faster anyway.

  Fortunately, the Borelgai didn’t press on past the base of the hill, and the situation stabilized into another long-range exchange of potshots. Cyte returned from her errand, out of breath, and took a seat on the rock beside Winter, who handed her the spyglass.

  “Abby’s showing admirable restraint,” Winter said.

  Cyte nodded, shifting the lens to the north. “Here comes Ibsly.”

  Winter shaded her eyes—the sun was starting to slip down to the west, in the direction of the Borelgai position—and saw the long blue lines swinging out from around the edge of the woods, flags at the head of each battalion snapping in the breeze. Another disadvantage of watching the battle from afar, she reflected. What seemed to go quickly when you were in the thick of it took ages; it was like watching ants wander across a tabletop. It was nearly half an hour before Ibsly had gathered his battalions into combat formations and sent them forward, while the Second Division deployed behind him.

  The Borelgai guns on the hill opened fire. Until now they’d been silent, the cannoneers huddling in the shelter of their pieces as they waited for a target more promising than a cloud of skirmishers to present itself. Now they’d found one, and they went after it with everything they had, each half battery firing in a one-two-three blast like a truncated drumroll. The flash and smoke went off in eerie silence, with the dull boom of the shot arriving four or five seconds later. Winter could see the spray of grass and dirt where the cannonballs struck the ground, rebounding into the air to land in another spray and then another, like rocks skipped across the surface of a pond. At this range, most of the shots were wild, but when one of those skips intersected a formation, the ball tore through everything in its path.

  Each of the Sixth Division’s eight battalions was formed in a column of companies: the first company, deployed in a line forty men wide and three deep, was followed after an interval of open ground by the second company, then the third, and so on, making a fat “column” that was really more of a rectangle. A column like that was relatively quick and maneuverable, able to snake around obstacles, but obviously only the first company in line could shoot effectively, drastically reducing the battalion’s firepower. It also made them excellent targets for the descending fire of the cannons. Winter winced as one of the guns scored a direct hit, landing its ball right in front of one of the columns so it bounced through the ranks, sending broken bodies pinwheeling away from its path. The formation closed up around the wound, leaving men to lie still or thrash feebly in its wake, like a vast beast dripping blue blood.

  Devastating as hits like that were, they weren’t going to be enough. The blue columns swallowed cannonballs like the sea and kept on coming. The Girls’ Own skirmishers were pushing forward again, too, and once more the Borelgai fell back, sniping at the columns as they went but not willing to stand against the formed division’s concentrated firepower. As the Sixth reached the bottom of the hill, the artillerymen switched to canister, great tin cans full of musket balls that made the cannons into giant shotguns. They sprayed into the leading companies with deadly effect, men falling in clumps and rows, and still the columns came on.

  “There they go,” Cyte said, peering through the spyglass.

  She handed it back to Winter, who trained it on the cannons. The Girls’ Own skirmishers had pushed forward, keeping ahead of the Sixth’s columns, and as they came into musket range of the guns, the cannoneers started dropping. The teams fired one last round of canister, witheringly effective at a hundred and fifty yards, and then fled, falling back amid their own skirmishers over the top of the hill. A few of Abby’s most daring women followed them, out of Winter’s line of sight. Soon after, a couple of them came running back, and Winter saw them heading for the knot of riders that had to be General Ibsly and his staff.

  “They’ve got something on the other side of the hill,” Winter said.

  She swept the glass past the now-silent guns, squinting as though she could change the contours of the earth by will alone. Whatever information the skirmishers had passed on had caused a flurry of activity, and soon the columns came to a halt. They began to maneuver, companies peeling out to either side to deploy from column into line.

  The Borelgai seemed to appear between blinks, as though they’d sprung out of the earth. One moment the hill was empty, and the next it was packed solid with soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder, stepping with absolute precision to the beat of an inaudible drum. At least four battalion flags were visible, four thousand men in a neat line moving at the double. They came over the crest and down the hill, toward Ibsly’s still-deploying soldiers.

  “Balls of the fucking Beast!” Winter had risen to her feet before she realized she’d moved, grinding the glass against her eye socket so hard it hurt. Her godlike detachment was gone, replaced with a terrible helplessness. She could see what was about to happen, but nothing she could do from here would make the slightest difference. Cyte took a shocked breath.

  Scattered fire broke out among the Vordanai, mostly from the Girls’ Own, who were falling back from the unexpected threat. At fifty yards, the red line halted, and the men brought their muskets to their shoulders. The battalions of the Sixth, still half-formed, started to open fire, but their scattered shots were drowned under the crash of a single, concentrated volley from the enemy. It lit up the field like a flash of lightning, and the sound that reached Winter was like a wave crashing against a beach. Men fell up and down the line, staggering forward or slumping against their neighbors. At this distance, Winter couldn’t hear the screams, but her mind supplied them all the same.

  Half a minute to reload as Ibsly’s shattered formations returned fire as best they could. Some kept trying to form a line, while others dissolved into rough blobs, men instinctively huddling together as the smoke of the Borelgai volley rolled over them. The second volley slammed out, visible mostly by the muzzle flashes through the murk, and then the third.

  Nothing, in Winter’s experience, broke down morale faster than being in a patently unequal fight. Ibsly’s men outnumbered the Borels two to one, but having been caught with their formation in disarray, they were taking far worse than they delivered, and they knew it. Between the third volley a
nd the fourth, a trickle of blue-uniformed soldiers appeared out of the smoke, heading determinedly for the rear, and after the fourth it became a flood. Winter could see Ibsly shouting and waving his sword, but there was no stopping the rout. The men of the Sixth Division poured back down the hill, past the bodies of their comrades, away from the killing fire at their backs.

  “Saints and martyrs,” Winter swore. She turned to the runners, who were watching her with wide, frightened eyes. “Come on. We’re going down there.”

  —

  “I will make another attack,” Division-General Ibsly said to Winter. He brought his hand to his face, to fiddle with his spectacles, but he’d lost them during the fighting. Instead he tugged at the fresh bandage wrapped around his head, where a musket ball had scored a glancing blow. “We have the numbers, and they won’t catch us off guard again.”

  “We have the numbers, assuming they haven’t been reinforced,” Sevran said. “If they sent riders to Dorsay’s main body, he could have more men on the way. We took our chance, and it didn’t work.”

  “My regiment hasn’t fired a shot,” de Koste protested. “General, the Sixth can stay in reserve, and the Second Division can make the next assault.”

  “We don’t need to keep throwing good money after bad,” Blackstream said. “If we can’t push them off the hill, we can maneuver them off. If we slide around their left . . .”

  He looked to Erdine for support, and the cavalry colonel nodded. “My men report the road north of the hill is empty except for cavalry patrols. If we go around their position and come at them down the north–south road, we won’t have so much open ground to cover.”

  “Enough,” Winter said. “General Ibsly, please speak to your colonels and ask them if their regiments will be able to make a second attack. Gentlemen of the Second, get your men ready to march. Bobby, Cyte, with me for a moment.”

  There was a round of salutes, and the knot of officers broke up. Ibsly was limping a little as well, Winter noted. The air was full of noise—frightened horses, and running soldiers, but the screams most of all. The regimental cutters had set up a battlefield-aid station and were plying their trade on those wounded who’d been fortunate enough to be able to walk to the rear. Winter had to stop and close her eyes for a moment as a woman’s sobbing rose to a high, terrified shriek, which was abruptly stifled, as though someone had stuffed her mouth with rags.

  “If you have any advice,” Winter said, taking deep breaths, “I’d like to hear it.”

  “You know I’m no expert on tactics,” Bobby said, glancing up at the gun-crowned height. The Borelgai had retreated over the crest again, but the presence of those massed ranks lingered as a looming shadow. “But I sure as hell wouldn’t want to go up that hill.”

  “What about Blackstream’s idea?” Cyte said. “Janus always avoids frontal attacks against strong positions if he can help it.”

  “We don’t have time.” Winter looked up at the sun, which was well past the meridian. “Marcus has started his attack, and Fitz’s column will arrive soon. That means before too much longer the entire Borelgai army is going to be coming north over that bridge and up that road. If we can take this end and bottle them up on the bridge, that’s one thing, but it’d take hours to go around. If we deploy in open country we’re just asking Dorsay to roll over us with everything he’s got. If we don’t go in now, we’re not going at all.”

  “Then that’s the choice,” Bobby said. “Go in now with what we have, or not at all.”

  Winter nodded, looking up at the hill. “Four battalions. We have the numbers. Three or four to one.”

  “But they have the guns,” Cyte said. “And the position. That was a hell of a trick, staying out of sight and getting to the ridge just at the right time. Someone over there knows what he’s doing.”

  Winter looked between them. Her chest felt tight. This is what being a general means, isn’t it? Not just command of more soldiers. Making decisions with nobody to look over your shoulder. At that moment she would happily have traded it all for a musket and slunk back into the ranks.

  “We have to go in,” she said, so quietly Bobby and Cyte leaned forward. “Janus is counting on us to be at that bridge. I haven’t disappointed him yet.”

  “Right,” Cyte said after a long pause. “So we go in. Just the Second?”

  “Everyone,” Winter said. “Like Bobby said, this is the only shot we have left.”

  “But—” Cyte said.

  “I know it’s a risk,” Winter said. “But coming out here at all was a gamble, and we need to make sure it pays off.”

  Cyte shook her head. “We need some kind of reserve, in case things go wrong.”

  “Keep the Girls’ Own here,” Bobby suggested. “They’re worn out as it is.”

  “Fair enough,” Winter said. “Bobby, find Abby and tell her to set up a line here. I’ll be going forward with the attack.”

  “Well behind the attack,” Cyte said. She lowered her voice. “You know better than anyone else here that Janus can’t afford to lose you.”

  “Fine.” Winter touched the sword at her belt, which she’d yet to unsheathe. It made sense, but . . . “Let’s get moving. We’re burning daylight.”

  —

  Seven regiments—fourteen battalions—went forward, leaving only the thin skirmish line behind them. The men of the Sixth Division, halted in their flight and assembled back into their units, were on the left, with the Second Division on the right. Flags snapped and fluttered, the silver caps of their poles gleaming in the yellowing light of late afternoon. Off to the left, where the hill hid the town of Gilphaite from view, the distant rumble of artillery had reached a new pitch of urgency. Things were approaching a crescendo there. We have to finish this.

  Winter sat astride Edgar, with Cyte on one side, Bobby on the other, and three messengers from the Girls’ Own trailing behind. They were twenty or thirty yards behind the rear companies, which might keep them out of musket range but mattered little against the cannons. No cannoneer worth his salt would waste a ball on a tiny cluster of horsemen, Winter hoped, but at long range the guns were not noted for their accuracy anyway.

  The first round of flashes rippled across the hill. To Winter’s astonishment, she found she could see the ball in flight, a tiny black spot that seemed to hang in the air above the battlefield. Then, all at once, it crashed like a thunderbolt, lancing into the turf a good ten yards behind one of Sevran’s battalions and springing into the air again with an explosion of dirt. The drums beat a steady pace, and the men once again advanced through the hail of solid shot, closing their ranks as balls swept them away in bunches.

  This time Winter had ordered that they deploy at the bottom of the hill, outside of canister range. It would slow the advance, giving the guns more time to work, but it meant they wouldn’t be taken unawares when the Borelgai emerged from hiding. Determined to show they knew what they were about, the men of Ibsly’s division executed the maneuver as precisely as though they were on a parade ground, in spite of the cannonballs falling and bouncing around them. One of Blackstream’s battalions was thrown into momentary confusion when a lucky shot landed just in the middle of its leading company, and its standard fluttered and fell. It was soon snatched up again, though, and sergeants shouted the men into line, now part of a continuous front more than a mile from end to end.

  “You ride to Ibsly,” Winter said to one of the messengers, shouting to be heard over the boom and shriek of the guns. “Tell him to go up that hill and take those guns, and not to stop until he gets to the road! You”—she pointed to the next—“tell Sevran the same, and that he’s to conform to Ibsly. Go!”

  They galloped off. A few minutes later, as the cannonballs continued to thunder down, the drums trilled and then settled into a steady pace. The line moved forward with a cheer, one step for each drumbeat. Winter, glancing at Cyte, gave them a few
minutes to get safely ahead of her before nudging Edgar into a slow walk.

  As before, the gunners switched to canister as the Vordanai closed, though the sprays of musket balls were less deadly against the long, linear formation than they had been against the columns. Still, swaths of men were cut down, and each battalion shrank toward its center as officers closed the files. The ground over which Winter rode was littered with corpses, a few Borelgai skirmishers in muddy red uniforms with black trim, but mostly Vordanai blue, men from Ibsly’s division and women from the Girls’ Own. Here and there, wounded soldiers waved or shouted to her, their voices inaudible under the roar of battle.

  With no skirmishers out front, the cannoneers waited until the last minute to abandon their pieces, firing a load of double canister at fifty yards with fearful results. One half battery cut things a little too fine, and one of Ibsly’s battalions fired a volley that dropped a dozen of the artillerymen as they scrambled backward. With a cheer, the two divisions kept on, driving the enemy skirmishers in front of them.

  Winter kept her eyes on the crest of the hill, waiting for the enemy infantry to appear. She felt like she could predict the precise moment they’d show themselves, leaving just enough time to get onto the forward slope before coming into range. Sure enough, just as she thought, now, red flags poked over the hill, followed quickly by a glittering hedge of muskets with bayonets fixed.

  Too many flags. One, two, four, six, a full dozen. The Borelgai line was nearly as long as their own. We were supposed to have the numbers here. They came down the hill as if driven by clockwork, ten paces past the crest, then halted to raise their muskets. Where the hell did they all come from?