Fires of Memory

by Washburn, Scott;

  Three of the six rounds per man had been fired. The rear rank brought their weapons up and fired off the fourth. The artillery was daring to break the untreated powder out of their crystal boxes. Jarren could not even guess how many dead were piled up in front of the line, but there were still huge numbers of the enemy milling about just beyond. Arrows started to fly out of that mass. Most flew too long and others fell short. A few found their mark, and here and there along the line, a man would go down. But the bow fire was wild and disorganized as all the warriors and horses swirled in a confused mob. The shots were the acts of desperate men who could neither go forward nor back. And the guns continued to roar; the men wielding them began to cheer a wild, animal yell; those of the enemy closest to the line were chopped down by an invisible scythe.

  The rear rank was loading its last round now. If the fire faltered, what would happen? If the Kaifs regained their order, they could rain arrows down on them and the army would be as helpless to reply as the Kaifs were now…

  “Look!” screamed Lyni in his ear. “Look!”

  Jarren looked. At first, he could not see what she meant, but then the smoke cleared a little and he saw: Kaifs galloping away. He could almost picture what was happening in those men’s minds...

  The ones to the rear were finally realizing what had happened to those in front. They could see the dead, see the unbroken lines of the enemy, see what the round shot crashing through the entire army was doing. They had been told the magic would clear the way; that the enemy would not be able to fight back. The veterans of last year had gloated and boasted and today they led the way to show the newcomers how it was done.

  But the veterans had lied.

  The enemy’s fire weapons still worked—and worked horribly. And the veterans were dying. Smoke and fire and terrible, terrible noise had devoured the leading groups. Now Death was beginning to gnaw at those who followed. Lies! All lies! Those farthest to the rear turned their horses and galloped away. A shout of treason! was heard and in moments a thousand other voices had taken up the cry.

  “They’re running!” screamed Lyni. “They’re running!”

  * * * * *

  Brigadier Mattin Krasner was terribly frustrated. He couldn’t see what was going on! From his reserve position, all he could see was the backs of the infantry and smoke. Lots and lots of smoke. From time to time, it cleared enough that he could see Kaif horsemen going down, and when the nearby artillery fired, he could see bits of men and horses flung up into the air. But that wasn’t enough, dammit! He desperately wanted to ride forward so he could see, but he had to stay with his command. That lucky bastard, Carabello, was up on that platform. He could see!

  But the mere fact that he could not see anything told him that the plan was working. The infantry and artillery were blasting away at something, and not a single Kaif had made it through the lines. A few arrows came soaring over and plunged to the ground, but that was all. The battle line was solid and steady and continued to fire.

  But not for much longer. Their ammunition was nearly gone. If something didn’t happen soon…

  “They’re running! The Kaifs are running!”

  Matt didn’t know where the shout came from, but it pierced through the noise and was quickly taken up by many others. Running? The enemy was running?

  The infantry stopped firing. He didn’t think they had fired off every shot they had, but he could have been wrong. Were they out of bullets—or targets?

  He was again suppressing the urge to go forward, himself, when a courier came galloping up to him. A very young lieutenant with a wild expression reined in his horse and didn’t even bother to salute. “The Kaifs are falling back! You are ordered to attack at once!”

  The boy had also forgotten to say just who had sent the order, but right now, Matt did not give a damn. “Prinz! Go up to the infantry and have them clear a path for us!”

  “Yes, sir!” His aide galloped off.

  Matt had remained mounted throughout the battle, but his troopers were still on foot. Now he ordered them to mount. An orderly handed Matt his helmet. It was an absurdly elaborate gold-plated monstrosity with a huge red plume. His officers had given it to him as a gift, and he had not been able to refuse it. He turned in his saddle and shouted as loudly as he could. “Forward, at the walk—March!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Atark knew something was amiss almost from the moment the army started forward. True, his own spell had gone off flawlessly and the Seekers had dashed ahead to find the enemy’s powder. It was also true that the Seekers had found powder atop that ridge a mile away. Explosions had roared out and huge clouds of smoke had billowed up. He could even hear the faint screams from behind that smoke. But even as the horns of the Kaifeng blared out the order to attack, Atark had felt the enemy magicker.

  He was so startled that for a moment he wasn’t sure what was happening. He recognized the sensation of magic being worked, but he wasn’t sure of where it was coming from. He looked to the other shamans around him, but they were all just watching the warriors go forward, exhausted by their own exertions. So where…?

  From the enemy. There was someone working magic in the enemy army! It was a terrible shock: up until that moment there had not been any hint that the Easterners still had the magic. Atark could not immediately see what magic was being worked, and whatever it was was not terribly powerful, but a shudder of fear went through him. A trick! He feared that the enemy was trying to trick them somehow!

  “Gettain!” he had cried, and the commander of his guard was there immediately.

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “Get a messenger to Zarruk! Tell him to call back the warriors! Some treachery is afoot!”

  Gettain had obeyed instantly, but from the look on his face, Atark knew it was too late. Zarruk was with his helar, hundreds of paces away. The warriors of the other helars were trotting forward and already far ahead.

  And there was no signal to call them back.

  No one had thought there would be any need, so no signal had been arranged. Not that any of the warriors would likely have heeded it in any case. Not with the enemy army wrapped in smoke and screaming in terror.

  But there was no signal and it was far too late to call the warriors back. They had gone from a trot to the gallop and charged up the hill.

  Into the smoke.

  From out of that wall of white haze had come the roar of muskets and cannons and the scream of men. Muskets and cannons were firing! Somehow their powder had survived! But how? Cannon balls came out of that cloud, too, cutting through the lines of warriors still charging forward. The men had gone in and in and in…

  Arark had stood on his platform, watching in frozen shock and anger. What was happening? The smoke refused to drift away and reveal what was behind. Magic was at work. It seemed to go on and on forever: the terrible noise of the guns and the screams of men and horses. But at last the feel of the magic stopped and now the smoke began to disperse.

  It revealed the wreck of the army—the ruin of his dreams.

  At first he could not see a great deal, but he could clearly see that huge mounds of bodies had been heaped up on the crest of the ridge. Then he could see that the enemy line was unbroken and continued to vomit flame and death.

  And he could see Kaifeng warriors fleeing in panic.

  Along with the cries of fear, he could hear men shouting about treason and betrayal. Atark groaned. Four of the five helars who had been at Berssenburg were in the forefront of the attack. They were the ones who had seen the magic work. And they were the ones who were now dead. The others had only heard the stories. True, they had seen the earth-shaking spell used at Gira, but they had not seen an army destroyed by magic. All they had were the stories. Now they thought the stories had been lies. A trick. Betrayal. No matter that it made no sense that those who had told the lies were the first to die: they had been betrayed. Cannon balls had torn apart their friends and splattered the survivors with bloody entrail
s. No, this was shameless betrayal!

  As he watched, the whole swirling mass of the mighty army unraveled into a mob of terrified, angry, fleeing men. It tumbled away from the unbroken enemy and came galloping back the way it had come. Except for Zarruk’s helar, the invincible army had become a pack of fugitives.

  Trumpets rang out from the ridge, and Atark could see that the enemy was not content with the carnage it had already inflicted. The ranks of infantry were opening up in spots. Men were dashing forward to drag away some of the piled corpses and clear a route forward for their own cavalry. On both flanks and at several points along the line, horsemen were emerging. Closest to where he stood, a large body of them were coming forward. The sun glinted off polished armor and lances. Heavy, armored cavalry. As he watched, they picked their way through the mangled dead and began to deploy into a line. There looked to be several thousand of them.

  A blast of horns yanked his attention to closer at hand. Zarruk’s helar was forming itself to charge, and Atark groaned again. No! Zarruk, you fool! He had the only organized body of warriors left, and he was about to charge uphill against a heavily armored foe! He could almost see his friend’s face: twisted with rage and shame at the ruin of his grand army, thirsting to strike some effective blow against the treacherous foe; a target presents itself, and without thinking he orders the attack! Fool! And as impetuous as the move was, he was ordering it too late. If he had gone forward the instant the enemy appeared, he might have succeeded in striking them before they were fully deployed. But he had to wait until the fleeing rabble of the other helars were past. He had a half-mile to cover, and by the time he did so, the enemy would be formed and ready to fight. Ruin and more ruin!

  Was there any way he could stop him? No. It was too late—again. He could see Zarruk’s bright red banner leading the way. But was there anything he could do to help? The Seekers were of no use. Somehow the enemy had found a way to defeat them, and this cavalry probably carried no firearms anyway. What else could he do? He could toss a few fireballs into the enemy ranks, but it would do little good. Burning up a half dozen men was all he could hope for and that would not stop them.

  But he had another fire spell that the Ghost had taught him.

  It would create a vast, rolling wall of flame that would incinerate everything in its path. It could burn up all that enemy cavalry and go on to blast through the center of the infantry line. It would not kill all of the enemy, only a small fraction of them, but it might be enough. It would halt their counterattack, punch a hole in the center of their lines, demoralize their troops, and it might—it just might—be enough to rally the Kaifeng. If they could just be made to stop and collect their wits, they could still win the battle! Yes!

  But he would need power for the spell. A great deal of power.

  “Gettain!” he shouted. “I will need more sacrifices! Quickly, man!”

  “Yes, Lord, but the holding pen is a mile or more to the rear. It will take time to fetch them.”

  “What!?”

  “I am sorry, Lord, but one of the new kas demanded the spot we had wanted to use for his own camp. I saw no harm in it, so I moved the pen for the sacrifices farther back.”

  “Fool! I need them now! I cannot wait or all will be lost!”

  “I can send men on horses…”

  “No! It will be too late!” Atark hesitated for a moment and his eyes darted across the rows of tents and pavilions only a few hundred yards to the rear.

  “Gettain! Take your men and scour those tents for any slave you can find. Any slave! I care not who she belongs to! Get them and bring them here!”

  “At once, Lord!” Gettain began shouting to the guards who had been standing idle since they killed the sacrifices. He turned to run off himself, but Atark grabbed his arm. His fury against the east was boiling in his veins.

  “Gettain! The slave who is in my tent: bring her, too.”

  * * * * *

  “Forward, at the trot—March!” Matt shouted the order and the trumpeters echoed it immediately. Sixteen hundred horsemen kicked their horses into motion and started down the long slope to meet the enemy. The Wizards’ Guard made up the first two ranks, and then there was a thirty pace gap and the 1st Mundoorian Heavy Horse followed. The four hundred horsemen in each rank took up nearly five hundred yards of front, and the heavily armored cavalry rumbled down the ridge like an iron avalanche.

  Matt had been gnashing his teeth at the delay in deploying. The Kaifs were fleeing for their lives, and they had to keep after them or they would rally, and then there would be all nine hells to pay. But there was no choice. The masses of dead and dying in front of the infantry had to be cleared out before his own cavalry could pass through. Not all of them, of course, but enough that he could get past. It had been done very quickly, all things considered, but every passing minute was a lost opportunity. It did not make it any easier that the light cavalry on the flanks was already in hot pursuit. Perhaps the enemy dead weren’t as thick over there, or they had managed to get around the ends of the lines, or perhaps the light cavalry didn’t give a damn about attacking in a formed body. Whatever, they were already hacking down the Kaif stragglers and Matt was not.

  But as the last of his companies came onto line, he saw that he had something far better than stragglers to fight. A large body of Kaif cavalry was coming up the hill toward him. They were not running, they were attacking! Good! And judging from the number of banners flying above the enemy ranks, there might well be some important leaders coming his way. Even better! In spite of the gut-wrenching slaughter he had seen as he came forward, he had not struck a blow yet, and he dearly wanted to strike a blow!

  And here was his chance. The enemy was four hundred yards away and already starting to gallop. Damn fools, even their sturdy ponies would be nearly blown by the time they came up this hill. He would not make the same mistake.

  “Keep your ranks!” he shouted. “Forward at the canter!”

  They picked up the pace, and the distance closed rapidly. The Kaifs were losing whatever formation they might have had and were coming on willy-nilly. They shouted war cries in their heathen language. Matt wanted to kill them all.

  “Gira!” he screamed. “Remember Gira!”

  “Gira! Gira!” shouted the men. Matt wanted to shout ‘Remember Fort Pollentia’, or ‘Remember that awful battle we never gave a name’, or ‘Remember Berssenburg’, but none of those would do. Everyone here would remember Gira.

  “Gira! Gira!”

  They were at a hundred yards, and the men brought down their lances. Matt did likewise. There was a big Kaif right in front of him, and he was carrying some sort of standard that was bright red. A perfect target. He shifted his lance slightly.

  Twenty yards, ten. The enemy were here on foam-flecked horses. But the Wizards’ Guard never broke out of a canter. Their ranks were as straight and as solid as if on parade. Each man knee to knee with his comrade on either side. The Kaifs were met by an impenetrable wall of iron and lance points.

  The opposing sides slammed into each other with a shout and a crash, but for the Kaifs, it was like throwing snowballs at a boulder rolling down a hill. They were simply batted aside or crushed underneath. Matt’s lance caught the man with the standard full in the chest and killed him instantly. Unfortunately, it also broke his lance in two. He snatched out his sword and slashed madly at anyone close enough to reach as he thundered past. Most of his men had similar success, and the whole front of the Kaif charge was wiped out in a heartbeat. A few Kaifs survived and somehow managed to break through the front rank—only to be lanced by the second.

  Another line of Kaifs was hacked down, and another. Matt’s brigade sliced its way through the enemy. But slowly the charge was grinding to a stop. There were just too many Kaifs in front of them. There had probably been six or eight thousand of them to start, and they simply could not all be shoved aside.

  Matt’s horse slammed into a Kaifeng pony, and even though the smaller horse
was pushed back, it could not go far because of the press behind it. It couldn’t even fall down, so great was the crush. Matt slashed at another man and he tumbled off his saddle. Anyone unhorsed in this mess was sure to be trampled to death. A heavy blow struck him from the left, but it bounced off his armored shoulder piece. He twisted and shoved the point of his sword into the man’s throat. The Kaifs wore no armor, and they did not know how to fight the metal-clad behemoths who had crashed down on them.

  Now the press was lessening. Matt could see the rear of the Kaif formation peeling off. They were going for their flanks, but there was nothing he could do about that. Matt used his spurs, and his horse lurched into motion again. Suddenly he was face to face with a very large and powerful man. He was dressed richly and had a golden circlet on his brow. Matt didn’t know who he was, but he was determined to kill him.

  It did not prove as easy as his earlier opponents. The man was strong and seemed to be filled with a fury that matched his own. The Kaif’s curved scimitar darted about like a striking snake. In consternation, Matt realized his opponent was a far more skilled swordsman than he was. The Kaif struck him several times, but the armor turned aside the blows. Even with the armor, he received a painful wound in his thigh and a bloody gash along the side of his face. None of his own strokes were getting through at all—and he was getting tired.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  All of the firing had stopped a quarter hour earlier, so these new reports came as a complete surprise. Matt dared to glance backward in time to see smoke billowing out from the nearest battery. A moment later, two dozen of the Kaifs who had been massing on his flank were smashed to pulp. The man he was fighting was even more startled and his horse reared. Matt saw his chance. His sword crashed down on the Kaif’s head and sliced all the way through to his jaw. The golden circlet bounced away in two pieces.