Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  Ganton passed just behind the bheroman, and as he did he swept his axe in a backhand blow at Roald’s neck. As Roald crumpled and fell, Ganton rode back toward his own lines without looking back.

  There was a moment of silence, then the deafening cheers of the army.

  * * *

  The ridge was low, but high enough to overlook the battlefield below. When Tylara rode up to Ganton’s banner, she saw that the staff had placed a low trestle table there for Ganton’s maps.

  She was the last to arrive. The most senior officers were seated at the table. Other staff officers stood behind them. At the foot of the table Apelles looked uncomfortable in robes hastily altered to show his new station. Drumold indicated a place to his right, where she could look across the maps to the battlefield.

  It had taken years of Rick’s instruction, but she was now familiar enough with maps that she needed only a cursory glance at the field below to see what was represented on them. Still she took her time with her binoculars, looking at the field and then back to the map.

  The army was divided into three Divisions. Each Division had horse, foot, and guns, and was a small army complete in itself. Ganton had heard Rick say that was the way armies were organized on his home world. Tylara wondered if that would be so appropriate here, but the Wanax was proud of what he had done. She looked beyond the host of Drantos to the enemy.

  “Griffin,” she said almost to herself.

  “Yes,” Ganton said. He nodded to acknowledge her arrival. “They raised the banner of Prince Akkilas an hour ago. Your pardon, Lady, if I do not begin again. I do not think we have much more time.”

  He pointed again to the map. “It is called echelon,” he said. “Each Division supports the others.”

  Tylara remembered Rick’s lectures on the formation. A Wanax of the Germans, one later called Great, had used it. Each of the three Divisions could attack or defend, and each guarded the flanks of another. There was no way an enemy could crush one Division without fighting at least one other. No way that the host could be defeated in detail.

  Ganton had also held back what Rick called reserves. They stood behind the Second Division: the starmen and their weapons, more guns, the Tamaerthan chivalry, Nikeian city militia who fought with great axes, and the handful of Romans who had come with Larry Warner from the University.

  The balloon was nowhere in sight, and Tylara guessed that the clouds were too low for it to be useful. The air felt heavy and smelled of coming rain.

  “Are there to be no Romans?” Hilaskos asked.

  “No, my lord. Our Roman allies do us good service in keeping safe our southern borders. How long has it been that the host of Drantos can be sent north without a care for south and east? If we cannot defend one of our borders without crying for Legions, we are poor allies indeed.”

  “What is the signal for the advance?” Rudhrig asked.

  “We will not advance,” Ganton said.

  Rudhrig growled. “I feared as much.”

  “My lords,” Ganton said. “We have no need for battle at all. We stand at the very border of our lands. We are well supplied. Our enemy is deep in Ta-Meltemos, a land turning more hostile to him each day. Lord Morrone harasses his rear—”

  “We’ve taken our share of that,” Rudhrig said. “Your pardon, Majesty.”

  “When you have matters to say in Council, say them,” Ganton said. “I did not call you here to be silent. I am as aware as you that half a thousand of enemy horse are in our rear. They are pursued by the local levies and our Mounted Archers, and I do not think they will be a threat for long. Certainly they are not as great a danger to us as Lord Morrone is to Akkilas.”

  Rick always said defense is stronger, but it seldom wins decisions, Tylara thought. I hope that Ganton is right today, but I have doubts. She raised her binoculars to study the enemy.

  Their heavy cavalry alone outnumbered Ganton’s entire army. The enemy had dismounted well beyond range of bowshot. They stood or sat on the ground, waiting, and did not seem to be impatient. Small blocks of infantry, mostly crossbowmen, filled gaps between the blocks of enemy cavalry. The enemy line stretched beyond Ganton’s on both the left and right. On the Drantos right were four stadia of swampy lowland, then the Ottarn River. Any of Akkilas’ cavalry who waded through the swamps would not be in good formation to receive a charge from the reserves at the top of the hill.

  The Drantos left rested against a bluff. Tamaerthan archers and Drantos levies held its top, and in any event the sides were too steep for cavalry.

  If we must defend, it is a good place for it. Still, I wish he had kept the pikes and archers together. Rick always does. And where are you, my husband? I think we need you.

  And if we do not, then Ganton will soon prove that he can win battles without the War Leader of Drantos. How long before Ganton takes that post for himself? Or gives it to another?

  Horns sounded across the quiet field. The enemy soldiers stood. Cavalrymen began to mount.

  “My Lord Father Apelles,” Ganton said. “But—please be brief.”

  Apelles looked out at the bustle of activity below, then stood and raised his hand in blessing. “Go with Yatar and Christ His Son.”

  “Thank you. Now to your posts, my lords. My lady. Go with Yatar and Christ.” Ganton raised his hand high and brought it down sharply. The Great Guns roared.

  Before Tylara reached her Hussars, the battlefield was dimmed with smoke.

  * * *

  As the third charge retreated, Volauf rode up to Matthias. He plucked an arrow from his saddle and another from the gambeson covering his mail.

  “Are you wounded?” Matthias asked.

  “I have felt worse from bees. No, Honorable, the Chooser has not yet called me to his Hall.”

  “He has called more than I like.” A thousand and more of the host lay in heaps between the three great battles of the enemy. They were hidden by the sharp-smelling smoke that covered the low area.

  “Or I, honorable. This formation of theirs is damnable. We advance against one group, and the others fly on our flanks, or shoot us down with arrows. And always there are the guns.”

  “At least we know this much. The guns are not wizard weapons. They are only machines. You saw it as I did. They are served by men, who fill them with firepowder and stones, and bring torches to make them shoot. Kill those men and the guns are as useless as any other weapon.”

  Volauf frowned in thought. “Honorable, I believe you. But what of the star weapons?”

  “I believe they are the same,” Matthias said. “Nothing but more powerful guns. They need—arrows, stones, firepowder as guns do, and they must be wielded by men.”

  “But what can we do? Honorable, I believe the men will charge once more if I lead them. I cannot guarantee you twice.”

  “Wait. Refresh yourself, and see that your officers are ready. I will not send you forth again without a plan.”

  * * *

  “All is ready, Honorable,” Volauf said. “Have you commands?”

  “I believe so. Captain, what makes archers cease shooting?”

  “They cease when they have used all their arrows. Or when the enemy is amongst them.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Ah! When friend and foe are so mixed that they cannot be sure who they will hit.”

  “Exactly so. The guns and star weapons must be much the same. Captain Volauf, ride to those captains of horse and foot you trust most. Say that if they will follow me even to Vothan’s Hall, we may yet bring home victory to the High Rexja!”

  “The Council of Captains—”

  “Demons fly away with the Council of Captains! This must be done quickly or not at all!”

  * * *

  Larry Warner and his aeronauts were held in reserve at the command post. The balloon was useless, and now smoke lay so heavy across the battlefield that it was rare to get a semaphore message through. No one had any orders for him, so he watched the battle.

  Larry
had a bad feeling about the enemy charge the minute he saw it was led by that crazy with the Vothanite robes over his armor. The guy might be crazy, but he had guts, and his men stayed with him.

  The charge came right at the corner of the Third Division.

  Smart, Warner thought. The corner of a square is always the weakest point.

  The archer and musketeers in reserve in the center of the square ran to support the corner, but before they could arrive the enemy cavalry struck home. The cavalry were followed by infantry, then more cavalry, and it looked to Warner as if the entire enemy army was ready to pour into that one area.

  The corner broke. Pikemen tried to close around the point with breaking ranks. Warner mentally crossed his fingers; that was the Fourth Pikes, who’d been a little shaky ever since they’d been forced to surrender at Piro’s Hill.

  The pikemen held for a moment. Then the sheer weight of the enemy’s numbers tore two holes in the line. Cavalry and infantry poured through. Third Division’s archers tried to loft their arrows over the pikemen and into the enemy cavalry, but they were harassed by arrows from horse archers.

  The musketeers formed ranks. Warner held his breath. If there was any way to get a message to the musketry captain—

  The muskets ripple-fired, more than a hundred going off so fast they sounded like one enormously loud and long shot. Enemy cavalry and friendly pikemen took the bullets in about equal proportion.

  The ranks of the pikemen bulged inward. More pikemen turned and ran away, running the Tamaerthan archers and upsetting their aim or just getting in their way. The Tamaerthan officers screamed curses, and some of the pikemen stopped to try to hold with the archers, but not enough.

  The pike wall was broken. More enemy cavalry poured into the gap. By now the entire corner and half the sides of Third Division was crumbling. Light cavalry charged through the gaps and laid about with saber and lance.

  And now somebody on the other side had seen what was happening, and was bringing up the goddamned infantry! Warner thought up two interesting new punishments for the son of a bitch who’d lost the LMG and prayed Bisso would let the mortar open up. They’d been waiting for a good target, because they only had fifteen rounds and some of those not too good. That infantry would be a mortarman’s dream, though.

  By the time the infantry got into safe mortar range, the Third Division was no longer a square but a slightly ragged rectangle. Where the enemy had hit first was an almighty brawl, with everybody hacking and poking at each other for dear life.

  The CO of the Division—Eqeta Rudhrig, Warner remembered—seemed to have his act together. He was pulling cavalry over to stiffen the pikemen who’d lost their nerve and help the archers and musketeers who couldn’t shoot without hitting friends. They were slinging their bows and muskets and wading into the fight with cold steel, and maybe they would be enough.

  Maybe not, too, because more enemy cavalry was working around the Division’s right flank, where it didn’t have any support. Time to commit the reserves, Ganton old buddy old pal, and where the hell was that mortar . . . ?

  The eighty-one millimeter coughed. Smoke sprouted just short of the advancing infantry. A second round landed right in the middle of them. Three more rounds did the same. Warner breathed easier. The infantry and more cavalry were pushing into the gap between the Third and Second Divisions, where they could also be hit by the Second. That was Teuthras’, and with a little help from the mortars he could—

  “Oh. shit!”

  The fifth round from the mortar was a short. It didn’t touch the enemy, but it landed right in the middle of a battery of four-pounders. From the amount of smoke, it must have touched off some of the ammo.

  Warner snapped off the safety on his G-3 and chambered a round. He wasn’t completely sure who he was going to be shooting at. Probably Toris’ people, but no way you could get around the fact that all of a sudden the battle had got a whole lot hairier, and if somebody started looking for scapegoats, the starmen were going to be well up toward the head of the line. . . .

  * * *

  Rudhrig, Eqeta of Harms, saw the corner of his Division crumbling. He shouted for archers and musketeers from the reserve in the center of the square. Then he remembered to send messengers as well. The starmen’s way of war called for armies so large and battlefields so noisy that a captain’s voice could not always reach those who must hear it.

  Some of the musketeers and more of the archers didn’t wait for orders. They hurried toward the corner of the square where the enemy charge had struck. Rudhrig waved to his house knights, urging them to one side so that his foot could shoot freely.

  It was unknightly that his best men should be reduced to guarding the flanks of the sons of Drantos peasants and Tamaerthan hill-bandits. Yet there was no other way to keep the enemy from crushing his division. Saddles fell empty swiftly, but two men took the place of each fallen rider.

  Rudhrig shouted. “Raise high the White Hawk, Guy! Let them know whom they face!”

  His son grinned and raised the great banner of Harms with both hands, then waved it back and forth. Rudhrig prayed that Guy would have no more dangerous work this day. When Sarakos’ host had marched into Drantos, the Eqeta of Harms had had three sons. When it marched out, he had only one.

  The guns hurled stones into the enemy’s ranks. Men toppled, headless. Horses screamed. An angry din grew behind Rudhrig as the musketeers joined the shooting. More enemies fell.

  Pikemen fell too. Rudhrig looked for the enemy’s archers and cursed. The musketeers were hitting their own comrades as well as the enemy! Gaps appeared in the pike ranks as men fell. Enemy shortswordsmen swarmed into the gaps, slashing and stabbing. The gaps grew wider as Fourth Pikes gave way.

  “Death or glory!” A high-pitched young voice gave the battle-cry of the Eqetas of Harms. Rudhrig’s bowels turned to ice. The White Hawk swept down the hill. Guy held the banner-staff in one hand and his sword in the other. “Men of Harms! To me!”

  The boy reached the fleeing pikemen just as the enemy horsemen poured through the gap in Fourth Pike’s line. Guy laid about him with his sword, trying to rally the foot soldiers. Then he vanished among the enemy.

  Rudhrig had no breath left to give orders or even to curse. He needed none. His men surged as one toward the enemy. Riflemen ran, holding their empty weapons like clubs. Archers ran, slinging their bows and drawing swords. The Eqeta’s house knights charged toward the White Hawk banner before their lord could put spurs to his horse.

  Three horsemen rose from the ground at Rudhrig’s feet. His lance flung one out of the saddle and broke. Rudhrig carved the second man’s shield with a blow from his sword, then slashed the man’s face. The third enemy rained stout blows on Rudhrig’s shield and mail. A knifeman slipped closer.

  Two archers ran up to Rudhrig’s side. One clubbed the knifeman with his bow, and the other slashed at the last horseman’s mount. The horse reared, giving Rudhrig an easy target. He ended the fight with a sword cut to the man’s neck.

  “My thanks!” Rudhrig gasped, and charged down the hill.

  The archers and riflemen had closed with the enemy before the knights reached them. The fleeing pikemen were thick enough to block a horse, but men on foot could slip through. Now the archers forced the pikemen back into ranks at the point of their swords. The riflemen ran to either flank. The White Hawk was nowhere in sight.

  Dayfather, grant me Guy’s life, and you may have anything you ask of me.

  More enemy horse rode toward the Eqeta, but this time his knights were there to meet them. Two knights and six of the enemy went down. Tamaerthans ran in to slit the enemy’s throats almost as fast as they fell.

  Rudhrig saw the enemy foot pressing up into the gap between the remnants of his Third Division and the Second Division to his left. The guns fired faster, flailing the enemy with stones that cut great swathes through the ranks. His pikemen reformed their ranks. Riflemen and archers joined them, and the enemy cavalry gained no more
ground. Rudhrig shouted for a messenger. If the Wanax threw his reserves against the enemy’s horse and foot—

  Three archers and a musketeer ran out of the press, carrying a limp figure. The banner of the White Hawk was still in his hand. Rudhrig suddenly lacked the breath even for a prayer.

  The limp figure raised its head and shook off the hands that tried to hold him down. Rudhrig found himself at his son’s side. “Guy—my boy! How is it—”

  “I’m not hurt, Father. Please tell these sons of swineherds to stop stepping on my hands!” His voice held both indignation and affection. “I’m sorry the White Hawk’s been muddied.”

  “They could have used it to wipe Toris’ arse!” Knightly language be damned, Rudhrig thought. Thank Yatar, my son is safe. “Guy, you must take a message to the Wanax Ganton.”

  “Father, I won’t be sent away like a disobedient—”

  The Great Gun of the starmen opened fire. Rudhrig counted five shots from the—the mortar. There was a crashing explosion, and a great cloud of white smoke poured up beyond the enemy. Rudhrig scrambled into the saddle.

  The smoke cleared and he saw that the barrels of firepowder must have exploded. Had the starmen’s mortar by chance struck at friends? Certainly something had destroyed two of the guns. The ground was littered with the bodies of the men who had tended the guns.

  Three of the guns remained, and the men who served them were still alive. Limping, black-faced, half-clothed, they took their places. Rudhrig remembered what he had heard of the fight at the Great Redoubt: how the gunners had charged with Lord Rick himself to take their weapons back from the enemy.

  Courage comes in many forms. As does honor. And there were things not even knights or Eqeta could face undaunted.

  * * *

  Ganton saw the enemy thrusting into the gap between the battered Third Division and Teuthras’ Second. A messenger rode off to Lord Drumold to bring up the Tamaerthan horse. Then Ganton spurred toward the gap.