Tales of Anyar

by Olan Thorensen

  Twelve hundred yards away, Elac Kemescu stood next to his cousin against the wooden supports of the clans’ berm. He faced the darkness, where he knew tens of thousands of Narthani were coming to kill him .

  “Are you afraid?” asked Horchak Kemescu, his tone begging for reassurance.

  “Afraid?” choked Elac, without looking at his cousin. “My knees are knocking against each other so hard, I’ll have bruises on them by evening—if I live long enough to check.”

  “I’m scared,” said the cousin, “but I’ll stand here and kill Narthani as long as I can.”

  Elac turned. At two feet’s distance, his light-adjusted eyes could discern his relative’s face. He’d never liked his him, thinking him a bully to other children when they were growing up. Still, family was family.

  “We’ll stop them here. You’ve seen the defenses. With all our muskets, the cannon, the trench, and them having to get over the berm, we’ll be fine.”

  Elac didn’t tell his cousin that on the previous day, from a watch position on the mountainside above Orosz City, he’d seen the Narthani army spread across the flat land to the east. His throat was dry and his fingers white from clutching his musket at the memory.

  Then . . . did he hear something?

  He set his musket aside and used both hands to cup his ears, as he stared over the rampart.

  “What is it, Elac?” whispered his cousin. “You hear something?”

  “Shh!” Elac turned his head back and forth. “I think I hear . . . Quick—the hetman just passed by. See if you can find him.”

  The cousin ran into the darkness and reappeared less than two minutes later with Feren Bakalacs, the Hetman Farkesh, both men puffing.

  “Hetman, something’s going on.”

  Bakalacs and the man following him listened to the east.

  “I think it’s wheels,” urged Kemescu.

  “Artillery,” stated Bakalacs. “Vegga and Yozef warned us their first move might be to get their artillery in position to support an infantry assault. This might mean they’ll come straight at us here.”

  Bakalacs rushed off. Men who had been sitting or talking along the rampart now stood silently with muskets facing sounds that slowly grew in volume. Their company’s captain passed, warning his men not to fire until given the order. Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Men’s murmuring started again, muffling sounds from their front. Elac wasn’t sure whether the sounds had now stopped.

  Then, water. A faint gurgling noise rose to their north.

  “They’ve opened the sluice,” said Elac’s cousin. “It’s water coming down the trench.”

  Men’s voices rose again—words of encouragement, as the twelve-foot-wide, four-foot-deep trench in front of the berm filled with a foot of water rushing downslope from Orosz City to the river a mile and a half away.

  “Whoever is in command must think the damned Narthani are about to attack,” mumbled Elac. “If they’re going to do it, just do it!”

  The waiting seemed like torture, and he raised a leather pouch to his mouth. The first water touched his lips when sixty 12-pounder Narthani cannon fired grapeshot and canister from four hundred yards away. Elac reflexively ducked and from the corner of his vision saw his cousin sit back on his haunches. Elac glanced long enough to see that a nearly spent canister ball had hit his relative’s right eye. Horchak Kemescu was dead before he finished sagging.

  “Keep your damn heads down until there’s something to shoot at!” screamed a grizzled clansman serving as Elac’s platoon leader. “We’ll get the word when it’s time!”

  Elac had no problem obeying the order; the sound of Narthani cannon and whizzing grapeshot and canister balls were all the convincing he needed. Suddenly, he jumped as a Farkesh 12-pounder from only thirty yards to his right fired back at the Narthani, followed quickly by individual 6-, 12-, and a few 30-pounders along the clans’ fortifications.

  Minutes passed, though they seemed like hours. Then calls and whistles sounded on all sides. The Narthani were coming!

  Munmar Kellen’s orders were to concentrate his company on securing wooden planks across the islanders’ trench, throw roped grapples over the berm, and set satchel charges into it. Their mission was not to be the first over the berm but to ease the way for following units. Ninety-six of his one hundred men reached the trench, and eighty-seven lived to reach the base of the berm. Over shouts and firing from both sides, he did his best to urge his men on. Every plank had a hole drilled near each end. His men drove wooden stakes through the holes into the ground to hold the plank in place, as other men raced across the water. When the following units reached the trench, some of his men righted or held planks in place when one end broke loose. Other men threw grapples over the berm or dug away at the earthen glacis to bury satchel charges. More men took grapples and satchel charges from men who fell before deploying what they carried.

  When Kemescu stood to look over the rampart, the sky was lightening. Along with strobe-like flashes from cannon, he could see hundreds of Narthani soldiers racing toward the clans’ defenses. Clansmen made no attempt at volleying. Every man fired as fast as he could identify targets—of which there were now a superabundance. He fired with no idea whether he hit anything. Then he stepped back, lowered his head below the top of the rampart, and frantically reloaded, his hands shaking. He became numb, as he developed a rhythm. Fire. Step back and duck. Reload. Repeat.

  The Narthani began crossing the trench. A Narthani soldier was halfway across a plank when Elac’s ball hit the man high in the chest, and he fell into the water, to be carried away. Yet Elac had no time or inclination to appreciate that he’d shot a Narthani because every time he rose to fire, the edge of the Narthani wave moved closer.

  Munmar yelled at three of his men to secure a plank; then they were swept away by the canister cone from an islander 12-pounder acting like a gigantic broom. Nine infantrymen of the third regiment to reach the trench went with his three men. Still, more infantry waited on the other side, and the plank held as it refilled with men running across. He had no time to mourn his men—three among several times as many already lost. He had only a moment to notice it was the first cannon shot near his position in many minutes, and islander musket fire had diminished once the infantry overran the berm at Munmar’s position and a hundred yards in both directions. He hoped this meant the attack was going well, and the regiments flowing over the top of the berm were pushing the islanders back.

  That hope vanished when Narthani infantrymen came retreating over the berm, some panic-stricken, others without muskets. The initial few turned into a tide, and an immobile mass of men collected between the trench and the base of the berm—men coming from both directions. Then Munmar heard the trumpets signaling recall. The attack had failed!

  His order had been to support the trench crossing and the berm breaching—nothing about withdrawal. Should he order his remaining men to retreat and save as many as he could? Or should they stay to keep the planks in place until all surviving infantry crossed the trench? At first, only sporadic islander fire peppered the infantry, but gradually fire increased as clansmen reoccupied the ramparts. Finally, when the flow back over the berm slackened, Munmar signaled his men to leave the planks and join men running to get out of shot range as fast as they could. Most of his men saw him signal, but to the north a knot of eight men missed his arm waving—too focused on their job. He fought his way through infantry waiting to cross the trench. When he reached his men, only five remained standing.

  By the time Munmar knew all his remaining men were across the trench, he was one of the last Narthani on the islanders’ side. He cast aside any obligation to provide leadership. There was no unit organization. It was every man for himself. He ran. Ran as hard as his already adrenaline-saturated body would allow. Canister and musket balls buzzed around him. Men fell beside and in front of him. He had always been a fast runner, and he passed scores of men. He didn’t look behind, running as if his life depended on it, which
it did. At four hundred yards from the berm, just when he thought he was about out of musket and canister range, a louder drone signaled the arrival of grapeshot. A man ten yards in front of Munmar disintegrated, as one grapeshot hit him in the small of his back and another between the shoulder blades. Munmar swerved slightly to avoid the man’s body parts and ran even faster.

  During the Narthani attack, Elac Kemescu lost count of how many times he’d fired his musket. All he knew was that his shoulder ached and must be bruised. Black powder covered his hands, and when he took a split second to wipe sweat from his face, the sleeve of his shirt came away coated black. He didn’t recognize any nearby clansmen or which clan they came from. In the chaos, men came and went, intermixing, as some died or were carried away wounded and others took their places.

  The berm rampart sections zig-zagged enough so that if the Narthani overran any section, they could only fire down the line no more than twenty yards. However, a slight elevation in his position gave Elac a partial view several hundred yards to the north toward Orosz City. Thus, although he fired at first to his front and then obliquely, as the Narthani broke through to the north, glances in all directions told him the breach increased in width, minute by minute. By the time the Narthani came over the top, they were jumping down only forty yards from Elac. He feared the other Farkeshers were doomed to be the last men ground underfoot of the seemingly unstoppable torrent of Narthani.

  When the breach ceased widening, for the first time he took a moment to look west behind the berm. He saw Narthani being pushed back by increasing numbers of clanspeople—mainly men, but he could see a few skirts and dresses. Within minutes, the Narthani pulled back as fast as they could.

  A man of unknown name and clan, bearing the rank insignia of a captain, appeared behind Elac and yelled. “Aim for men holding the planks in place! The Narthani attack failed, and they’re retreating. If more of those planks fall into the water, we can trap more of the bastards on this side of the trench and slaughter them!”

  Elac did as directed for three shots, hitting one man who collapsed in place. A second man jerked but continued using a mallet on the side of a plank every time it shifted under the weight of men crossing. This kept it from slipping off the trench edge and into the water. When Elac reached for another cartridge, his fingers touched the bottom of his empty pouch. Other men still fired, and he pulled back several steps, casting his eyes around for a fallen man who no longer needed cartridges.

  “Here,” called a raspy voice. “Take mine.” A man covered in blood held out a cartridge pouch with a shaking hand.

  Elac grabbed the pouch without thanking the man or looking at his face. He ran back to an open position on the rampart. When he got there, he saw the closest Narthani a hundred yards on the other side of the trench, as the enemy ran or limped for safety. He knew he lacked the marksmanship to hit a moving target at that distance, but other targets littered the ground. Wounded Narthani moved on both sides of the trench, some trying to crawl to safety. Elac turned his musket to a man dragging himself along the ground thirty yards away. His finger touched the trigger, then moved away. Killing Narthani coming at him was one thing, but he couldn’t kill a man already badly wounded and helpless. Elac raised his head from the musket sight along the barrel in time to see someone else’s musket ball strike the back of the crawling man’s head.

  By the time Munmar Kellen reached the original position of the Narthani artillery, the cannon had withdrawn to fifteen hundred yards, out of islander cannon range and within the corps’ formations. When he reached that point, he collapsed amid thousands of other spent men. Healers circulated to identify and treat wounded in place or called for stretcher-bearers for those unable to move. Some were exhausted or lay where they had been dropped after other men carried them to safety. Fifteen minutes passed before Munmar recovered enough to sit up and look for his men. In the next hour, he gathered fourteen of the original hundred members of his company. Others might be scattered within the throng. Officers attempting to organize the chaos didn’t worry about original units—there had been too many casualties and not enough time because word circulated that another attack would be launched.

  A colonel spotted Kellen’s insignia. “Captain, how many of your men do you have left?”

  Kellen glanced around wearily. The number hadn’t changed. “Fourteen, sir. There might be others, but I don’t know where they are.”

  “No time to find them.” The major walked to a cluster of five men sitting ten yards away. “You men, report to Captain—” He looked at Munmar.

  “Kellen, sir. Captain Munmar Kellen.”

  “Report to Captain Kellen here,” said the major to the five men who had lost their units.

  The major continued gathering men in the vicinity. When the number reached seventy or eighty, Munmar hadn’t kept count, the major turned to order, “This is now your temporary company, Captain. Report to the regiment flying the blue flag. You’ll be attached to them. They’ll follow the next breakthrough.”

  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the major walked away, searching for another officer or senior NCO to form a rump company.

  Munmar sat back down on the ground for several minutes, then gathered himself and stood. He cleared his throat and tried to stand straighter than he thought possible—trying to morph himself back into a Narthani officer.

  “All right, men. It was bad, but we’re still alive, and the corps still needs to break through the damned islander defenses if we’re to get back to Preddi City and the navy. We won’t be leading the next attack but will follow with the last regiments to go through the coming breakthrough. Let’s get on our feet and find where we’re supposed to be.”

  A third of the men rose immediately, many helping another third who had trouble getting up. The rest remained listless, some with blank looks or eyes that seemed to focus on something in the distance. It took another ten minutes before he had all the men on their feet and walking slowly to the rear. While they walked, he counted. Seventy-two men.

  When the last retreating Narthani and cannon moved out of range, clansmen poured over the berm and engaged in an orgy of killing wounded enemy combatants. Other men stood atop the ramparts and fired muskets at wounded on the east side of the trench. Elac Kemescu didn’t participate. It took fifteen minutes for commanders to get control and have the men tip all the planks into the stream flowing south. The planks were carried to the lake that had formed when islander charges dropped sections of the cliffs into the river. The men at the breakthrough point didn’t realize that once the planks reached the still-forming lake, they slowed, backed up, and created a crossable tangle which units in that position struggled to dismantle.

  Elac walked to the water wagons to drink deeply and fill his water flask, then headed over to women handing out bread, cheese, and dry sausage. He took some of each and limped fifty feet away, where he sat on the ground and forced himself to eat. Men, women, wagons, and horses bustled in all directions around him. He paid no attention, focusing on chewing and wondering how he’d survived the attack.

  I’m sorry for Uncle Fornic and Aunt Ulrah losing their son , he thought, flashing on the cousin killed in the first Narthani salvo. I like them, and I never knew how they produced that asshole. Him I won’t miss. I wonder if I’ll live to the end of the day, and if I die, who will say the same about me? “Too bad for his family, but he was an asshole.”

  With the sun high in the sky, the call came to take positions. Munmar Kellen had done his best to see that the seventy-two men in his ragtag company drank and ate in the last two hours. An apathetic few he had to order to do both. He accepted that more of them, perhaps all, might die soon, but his duty required preparing them as best he could to both do their duty and help their chances of survival. Only sixty-nine men made it to their mustering point. Two men refused to move, having entered semi-catatonic states. A third soldier ran to the rear. Kellen didn’t pursue—he would be taken into custody and summarily shot
by internal security patrols.

  A fresh regiment moved past their position, its men looking nervously at the condition of Kellen’s men. Information didn’t disseminate easily within the Narthani army, but the new men knew the first attack had not gone well. Their officers exhorted them that failure to breach the islander defensives was not an option; the attack would press forward, no matter the losses.

  “Captain Kellen, do you really think we have a chance?” said a voice to Kellen’s left. It was one of only two non-commissioned rankers from the original company.

  “A chance? There’s always a chance. You’ve heard the word passed down from Marshal Gullar. No stopping, no retreat. All we can do is our duty to Narthon and our men. I’ll be leading the men, and I’ll trust you to keep them following me.”

  A single horn sounded from the position of the corps’s command post, followed by echoing horns spreading sequentially from buglers in all directions from Kellen’s company. The notes signaled “Prepare to engage the enemy.”

  Elac Kemescu heard the Narthani bugles only seconds after Kellen did. He needed no explanation. The Narthani were coming again. He had peeked over the rampart four minutes earlier and had seen Narthani cannon being rolled forward, some already stopped, and their crews bustling around the guns—he assumed loading them. Kemescu didn’t know how to load and fire cannon, but he figured they were positioning to fire. A salvo roared from the east, confirming his assumption. Moments later, the heavy buzz of balls passing over the rampart was accompanied by soft and hard thuds, as grapeshot hit the sloped glacis of the berm or found wooden parts of the rampart not protected by enough earth. A yell to his right made him glance to see a man flung back as a grapeshot ball broke through the rampart and took off the top of his head.