by N. C. Reed
“Not yet,” Parno said quietly. “Just a few more minutes and we’ll begin. I need them committed. I need them completely committed.”
“I don't know how much more committed they can be, milord,” Davies semi-argued. “They've thrown even their reserves at us, it appears, and their artillery is hurting us despite our own return fire. Our line won't stand against such a wave attack as we're about to be hit with.”
“It won't have to,” Parno assured him. “Go,” he said to the man behind him. “Tell him right away.”
“Sir!” the man snapped out and was gone, sliding down the ladder in what had become the accepted way of runners leaving the tower.
“Milord, what are we doing?” Enri asked.
“We're about to destroy our enemy, Lord willing,” Parno replied simply. “And if we don't, we’ll at the very least hurt them very badly.” He looked at Davies.
“You can send Graham the order to move in five minutes. Take his men forward and support the line.”
-
“We're going to do it, Sterling,” Wilson said excitedly. “We're going to break their line, and Thomas' men will go pouring into their camp. By sundown there may not be much of an Army of Soulan left!”
“Sir, I am obliged to remind you that our own losses are mounting,” Sterling said calmly. “Artillery losses are now at thirty-five percent and our forward divisions have literally been decimated. Both General Springfield and General Jurgen are reporting losses nearing twenty-five percent overall, and much higher in their forward ranks.” Calisto Jurgen commanded the 4th Corps, lined up to Springfield's right and assisting with the attack on the Soulanie center. He was a quiet but tough professional soldier, respected by his men and peers alike.
“Yes, yes,” Wilson nodded impatiently. “I know. There are losses in war time, Sterling and I know of no way to prevent them. I've planned this for three weeks, trying to find a way to destroy or at least cripple the Soulan Army. I've got them outnumbered and their cavalry are nowhere near here. Even assuming McLeod sent a rider for them the minute we attacked there is no way they can reach us before dark. And this engagement will be decided long before dark, I assure you.”
He had no idea how right he was.
-
“Here we go then,” Allen motioned for his buglers. The two of them looked barely old enough to shave but had served him well.
“Sound forward walk,” he ordered. “Give it one minute and blow Canter.” The two teens nodded and raised their horns, one facing north and the other south. In unison they blew the desired call. In seconds they could hear other horns taking up the call up and down the lines, passing it along. Allen counted to sixty and started his horse forward just as the rest of his old division did the same thing.
Over five miles of horsemen began walking their horses slowly forward, waiting for the next call which would be Canter. It wasn't long in coming and even the horses were excited, hearing the calls that they knew meant they were about to charge. Twenty thousand lancers readied their weapons, easing to the front while their bow-armed companions fell slightly behind and into trail.
In what seemed like seconds, the Canter call blew and the horses could be heard blowing up and down the line as they began to fight their reins just a bit, wanting to run. The expert horsemen held them tight but allowed their speed to increase. There would be two more calls and then they would be engaged. Grips tightened, hearts quickened, boots twisted in stirrups looking for the best purchase. Generals played their orders over in the heads looking for anything they had missed. Regimental commanders watched their men for intervals and checked to ensure their place in the brigade lines. Captains watched their companies to make sure no one was out of place, and sergeants yelled at those who were, kicking and screaming at them to get their asses in line.
Then came the call; Forward, Gallop. Horses recognized the call and strained harder at the bit, longing to lunge ahead. After one minute, they were allowed to do that as a wave of motion from the center ran both ways. Soon they were galloping forward at an ever-increasing speed. Some of the cavalrymen could already see the battlefield and those who couldn't see could hear it.
It was obvious that the Nor had not yet noticed, but they would in another few seconds. There was no real way to hide so many rampaging horsemen and even as Allen contemplated his next call he could see a ripple of surprise pass through the enemy ranks.
“Charge!” he yelled and his buglers instantly began blowing the call.
Thirty seconds later those twenty thousand lancers dropped even as twenty thousand bows were nocked and made ready.
Thirty seconds after that the entire line went tearing forward, dirt flying from the hooves of southern horses as they carried screaming and vengeful horse troopers toward their hated enemy.
-
“Sir,” Sterling was watching as the southern cavalry came into view. “Sir we have a problem, sir,” he managed not to stammer.
“What? Sterling what are you babbling about now?” Wilson demanded. Sterling did a good job at his position but his 'obliged to tell you' routine was wearing thin.
“That southern cavalry that's nowhere near here, sir?” Sterling pointed with one hand as he continued to look through his own scope. “They're hitting our right flank right now.” He was amazed that he managed to keep his voice calm and detached.
“What?” Wilson yelled, turning his own glass toward the right… where waves of southern cavalry were indeed streaming out of the grass and trees, lances already pointed at his helpless infantry as they were on the very cusp of hitting the southern fortifications.
“What?” Wilson's voice wasn't a yell this time but more of stunned disbelief. “They... their cavalry pursued Venable. Our scouts saw them!”
“Our scouts had to be wrong, sir,” Sterling was again amazed at how calm he managed to sound. “Sir we have to do something or else our men-,”
“Thomas,” Wilson still sounded as if he were in shock. “Send a runner. A runner, yes. That's the thing. Send a runner to Thomas. Order him to reorient his men to handle their cavalry. The others can continue on. We are close to breaking them and still outnumber them. Even if their horsemen are here we can still win.” Sterling wondered if Wilson was trying to convince the staff or himself. He turned to find the runners all looking pale. He chose three of them to find General Thomas and relay General Wilson's orders.
“Report back when that is done,” he added, hoping the relief that they could return at once would steady them up. All three nodded shakily and climbed down from the tower. Sterling watched them hurry on their way, a little surprised that they didn't just run away. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to Wilson who was still pretty much talking to himself.
“Have to get that done,” the General was saying. “Once Thomas turns, things will be fine. Just have to hold a few minutes, that's all. A few minute. Five minutes, probably at most. That's all.”
He's lost it, Sterling thought to himself. This has sent him over the edge.
“Have to get Thomas in there and things will be fine. And send for Venable!” he turned to Sterling. “Send runners west after Venable and Baxter right now! Yes! Have then turn around at once and return as quickly as possible. Push men and horses as hard as necessary to get it done!”
“Yes sir,” Sterling nodded and began scribbling said order in his notebook. Once he was finished he handed it to the last runner on the platform.
“Get the best horse down there, whoever it belongs to, and get this down the west road toward Unity until you find General Venable. Put this in his hands yourself. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” the man took the message and hurried down the ladder, no doubt happy to be going. Sterling sympathized. He wished he was going. Instead he turned back to more of Wilson's babbling, wondering how long he should allow it to continue before notifying the corps commanders that their General was off his rocker.
-
General Eric Metz commanded the 6th C
orps of the Imperial Army. While an effective commander and a stickler for orders and regulations, he lacked imagination. He was an excellent organizer and even better trainer as his men's conditioning proved, but he simply could not see past what was in front of him. That hampered his ability to exercise independent command somewhat but he preferred his position rather than one of any higher authority or responsibility. Let others worry about the war and he would concentrate on the battle in front of him.
The problem this time was that the battle was not in front of him anymore. Metz's corps was on the extreme right of the Imperial attack, his orders to eventually turn the Soulan left flank in on itself when he reached it, pushing the enemy back in and against itself. He was expected to meet only light to moderate resistance this far out and not run into any serious problems.
The Soulan archery fire had come as a rude surprise and had already cost him heavily but his men had continued forward, pressed by follow-on divisions as they moved up to assume the assault. Metz was pleased so far with his men and with his part in the attack. He knew that Springfield and Jurgen were being hard hit, but Metz was certain that if he could attain the enemy flank that he could relieve the pressure against them and allow their men to carry the attack over the southern fortifications.
At first, he thought it was thunder and scanned the sky in search of any approaching storms. Oddly, he found the sky mostly clear other than a scattering of thin white clouds at high altitude. He noticed the sound was sustained rather than ending or coming and going. Before he could process that thought, he felt the ground trembling beneath his feet. He knew this was earthquake country and with the luck they had been having so far it would be just like an earthquake to strike in the middle of their biggest offensive since they had crossed the Ohi River.
He felt an aide shaking his arm and turned to see a look of shocked surprise on the younger man's face as he pointed westward. Turning nearly a complete circle, Metz followed the pointing finger to see the absolute last thing he expected to see.
Thousands of Soulan cavalrymen were at that exact moment hitting his right flank. He followed the long ling of lancers to see that thousands more horsemen were wheeling in behind his men as well as Jurgen's, lances already lowered for their attack.
“Dear God,” he whispered even as his staff started garbling about orders and dispositions. Fools! the word shot through his head. There were no formations or orders for this. His men were neatly boxed on three sides and squeezed on the fourth by their own brethren. The cavalry line was collapsing on his rear elements now and getting closer to his own position with every passing second.
“We are so screwed,” he said aloud just before a southern arrow pierced his chest while another struck him just above the belly button. He was already on the ground when his Chief of Staff was struck in the sternum with a Soulan lance which splintered upon hitting him. Neither man saw the cavalry trooper release the now useless lance and draw his sword.
The 6th Corps had just lost the bulk of its command staff, including its commander. Worse was yet to come.
-
General Darrell Thomas listened to the orders from the runner with a growing sense of panic. The right? Soulan cavalry hitting the right? What the hell?
“Why are they here?” he demanded of the hapless runner. “They're supposed to be out to the west chasing Venable!”
“I'm sorry sir, I don't know,” the young lieutenant stammered. “All I know is that there is a wave of horsemen rolling up the right and General Wilson wants you to stop it!”
“Wants me to stop it?” Thomas looked scandalized. “My men are spread all the hell over back here and he wants me to go to the right and try and stop how many cavalrymen?”
“I don't know the number sir,” the lieutenant shook his head. “It honestly looked like an entire corps of nothing but cavalry. And they are hitting our right flank and appear to be bending around to hit at least part of the rear areas. General Wilson wants you-,”
“To stop them, yeah, I got that part,” Thomas was shaking his head. “Look, go back and tell Sterling that we’ll try, but we are so far out of position for something like that that we’ll be lucky to get even half way over there before it's over. Wilson has my men spread across the entire rear of the formation. Some of my men are two miles from where they need to be and my runners are all on foot!”
“Yes sir!” the man turned his horse and sprinted for the tower, glad to leave the irate General behind, not to mention the battle that now threatened to turn against them.
“Get to your respective division commanders and tell them our right is under attack by southern cavalry and Wilson has ordered us to intercept them. We can't do that because they've already hit the right, so we’ll try and form up to the east of General Calisto's men and meet them there. All divisions are to head toward General Springfield's rear area and form up on General Garner's division!” He looked at Garner's runner. “Tell Garner to hold in place and orient his men toward the west to prepare to resist the enemy attack.” Ogden Garner commander the 17th Imperial Infantry and was one of his better and more reliable division commanders.
“Sir!” all of them saluted and began to run in different directions, looking for their respective division commanders. Thomas stood there a minute longer shaking his head before explaining to his staff what was happening. The reactions were about on par with his own.
“We’ll never be able to do it,” his own Chief of Staff was shaking his head. “We're spread out over two miles with too much ground between our men. We’ll never be able to just reform and stop so many enemy cavalry. We don't even have pikes!”
“Whether we can do it or not we have our orders, so we have to try,” Thomas replied. “Let’s start getting things organized. Grab some extra runners from the ranks and let’s start getting our men over there as quickly as we can. The slower we respond the more damage they can do before we get there.”
Reluctance screaming in every move, his staff officers began to move, trying to carry out his orders.
“We're right on the edge of a disaster,” his Chief all but whispered as the others departed.
“Edge of it?” Thomas raised an eyebrow. “The disaster started the minute those horsemen appeared.”
-
The young lieutenant chosen by Sterling to carry Wilson's message to Venable had followed his orders to take the best horse he found at the base of the tower, in this case General Wilson's mount. Smiling to himself at the opportunity to do something that any other time would have earned him a court martial, the young rider wasn't really paying attention as he galloped through the camp on his way to take the road west.
Which was probably why he died with a look of shocked surprise on his face when he was unseated by a southern lance as it crashed through his chest and toppled him from his lucky choice in horses. He bled out quickly, unable even to yell in pain or surprise as he lay on the ground, broken and bleeding.
The message in his tunic undelivered.
General Wilbanks ignored the dying dismounted Imperial and surveyed the camp before him with grim satisfaction. His troopers were already tearing through the camp, killing anyone they saw and setting fire to anything that would burn.
“Make damn sure we're keeping an eye to the south and what's happening there,” he pointed to the battlefield as he addressed his small staff.
“One company detailed to shadow our movements with orders to sound recall the minute it looks like the enemy is returning in anything like strength,” his aide promised. Wilbanks nodded, trusting his men to watch for them. He turned his attention back to the action in the Imperial camp.
“Don't leave anything we can manage to get to!” he yelled to those around him. He wanted to destroy all he could. If they couldn't destroy the enemy themselves then he at least wanted to destroy their ability to make war on his people. Burning their camp and their stores would go a long way toward doing that.
“Burn it all!”
; CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
-
Britton Sterling's attention had been riveted to the enemy cavalry attack on their right flank since he had first seen the horsemen moving in from the west. There was no doubt in his mind that this engagement would be decided, if it hadn't been already, by whatever happened on the right in the next few minutes. He had observed Thomas' efforts to re-orient his wide spread corps to meet the threat and was impressed by the General's skillful deployment.
Sterling was also aware that regardless of how well Thomas managed to organize, there was no way he was going to stop that tide of horsemen from rolling all over his men as well as the rest of the army. The Soulan cavalry had caught them neatly in their flank, allowing them to engage in detail rather than face the Imperial Army's larger numbers at a disadvantage. It was classic military strategy.
“Sir,” his own aide said softly, tugging lightly at Sterling's jacket.
“What?” he turned.
“Look,” the man said simply, pointing south. Sterling turned his own glass to the south to see newly arrived Soulan infantry pouring to the line, engaging the few Imperial troops who had managed to make it that far. He also noted that southern artillery was taking a greater toll now on Imperial infantry as the latter bunched together for mutual support. It was the age-old problem of 'when in danger, bunch together'. The problem being that too often that was exactly where the enemy wanted you.
“What the hell is that?” he heard one of Wilson's aides ask and turned to see the man looking westward.
Sterling moved to the rear of the tower and looked in that direction, wondering what the man had...
“Oh, shit,” Sterling whispered. “Sir!” he turned to where Wilson was still looking stunned by the changes, occasionally babbling about new orders. “Sir, there are enemy horsemen in the camp!”
“What?” Wilson seemed to snap out of his stupor at that, turning to look at Sterling. “What did you say?”
“We're being attacked in camp by Soulan cavalry, sir!” Sterling pointed.
