Our Land (Queen's Own Book 1)

by James Tallett

  Finally, he could see that the Umkhovu had responded to the orders with alacrity, and were well ensconced in their trenches. As ordered, many of the natives bore volley guns and blunderbusses slung over their shoulders, for use when the enemy approached to a close distance. Those orders had been designed for the eventuality of a frontal assault, but given the diminishing possibility of that occurring, he did wonder if said distribution of firearms was still the optimal solution. If it wasn't, there was little enough he could do about the matter as it currently stood. Attempting to move supplies and men about in the camp at this time would provoke a confusion, no doubt to be rendered worse by the enemy's perfectly timed surprise attack.

  Jacob did not know if the adversary lay just out of sight on the plains, but he was entirely convinced of the fact that if he left them an opening as large as a wholesale reshuffling of men and material that the fates themselves would conjure up an entire legion of enemies and place them in a position to do the most harm in the least amount of time. Such occurrences were one of the unwritten rules of warfare, and one he was of no mind whatsoever to break.

  Which meant that there was precious little he could do except for wait. Thankfully, lunch had been served and consumed by almost all of the soldiers before the alert had been issued, and he distributed commands that the remainder of his forces should be fed bread and cheese. With luck, that would tide the men over until such time as the assault was complete, but if not, he would have the mess cooks pulled from the line and preparing supper at the appropriate time.

  Given that it offered the best vantage point of the surrounding terrain, he began the slow climb to reach the eastern cannon emplacement, trailing after him the usual gaggle of men who attached themselves to his train upon the commencement of a conflict. There were signallers, using both drums and flags, messengers, and two soldiers whose job was to keep him safe. An absurd position, but one he was not entirely ungrateful for. Today, the duty rotation had seen to it that Fredericks was the man in charge of his corporeal health. His constant glances at the terrain told Jacob the private was taking his position seriously.

  Arriving at what could charitably be called the summit, Jacob stopped and took stock, swinging around until he had covered the full panorama on view. As expected, there was no movement whatsoever across the plains, aside from the gentle ripple of the grasses in the afternoon breeze.

  It would have been too much to hope that the enemy would approach in the open on a clear day. No, they were almost certainly holed up in some hidden locale, convenient for a night attack upon a known position. It was exactly the tactic that he himself would employ, especially if he was sure that the opposing force would be unable to move to a new location before the end of the day. It was embarrassing to be outfenced by opponents who did not even comprehend the proper tactics of warfare.

  Satisfied that he would have little in the way of occupation for the immediate future, Jacob meandered over to an ammunition crate, closed the lid, and sat down, thereupon pulling out a leather-bound book from one of his coat pockets. It was an educated text on the use of firearms in difficult terrain, and a piece of instruction he had been meaning to refresh himself upon, given the nature of the combat his forces had been engaged upon since coming to this continent. Alas, he had never yet found the time, but since there was very little to do aside from wait, now seemed entirely appropriate. The notion that he would appear unconcerned about the approaching danger to his soldiers had never once crossed his mind.

  Jacob was on the third chapter, “The Use of Gunpowder in Marshes, Bogs, and Other Terrain of a Damp and Mildewed Disposition”, when there began to be the stir of noise about him. A glance upward showed a concerned set of faces, all of them looking in his direction, but none of them seeking to address him. At last, however, Fredericks took it upon himself to step forwards.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but it is approaching the mealtime hour, and the soldiers have not yet seen the mess cooks dismissed to their duties, and are becoming somewhat anxious as a result.”

  Jacob muttered to himself, quietly, so that none might hear. Of all the things to forget...

  “Very well, issue the orders. Companies to eat by thirds, at their posts. Rotate Theodore onto the firing step, and place Upton back into the reserve. Leave Alastair's company of Lifeguards on the step for now, and shuffle them to the reserve at sunset in favour of Bricthon.” He paused. “That should do it.”

  Fredericks nodded, although it properly could have been called a very small bow, and sent one of the messengers trotting down the hill. Strange, how a regular soldier such as Fredericks could have influence amongst his fellow men simply because he was unafraid of speaking to his commanding officer when the situation necessitated it. Even more unusual when considered in the light that Fredericks was the second son of a country squire, and thus destined to inherit less remuneration than Jacob received in passing from his father's petty accounts.

  The fifth chapter was an entirely engrossing read, conveying the nature of properly sandproofing a flintlock musket for use in desert conditions, as well as other sundry and related items. It was so charming that by the time Jacob looked upwards from it, not only had the sun begun to near the horizon, he had forgotten to eat after ordering his men to do so. Thankfully, Cook was equal to the challenge laid before him by a hungry commanding officer's stomach, even while on duty, and what appeared in short order was a pair of cold grouse, in a berry reduction, complimented by a crimson wine. No matter the quality of the illusions that those Forgotten Folk could conjure, they were nothing compared to the magic that issued forth daily from Cook's tent.

  Hunger satisfied more magnificently than he had dared to hope, Jacob once more engrossed himself in his book, although he would soon be forced to either place it aside, or bring a lantern up for reading purposes. Given that a lantern would reveal the location of his cannon, he preferred to place the book aside, and wait for the coming of night, under the cover of which the enemy would need almost no magic to disguise himself.

  When the moon rose and lit the terrain beneath in a pale silver glow, and still the enemy had not come, he grew annoyed. It was all well and good for the enemy to disappear, for that was part of the game of war, but they were most unkind in not initiating an attack, and instead letting the defenders wear themselves thin.

  “Put half the forces to sleep. They are to sleep with guns to hand, and at their duty stations. Rotate four hours before the dawn, or as near as can be estimated.”

  The messenger taking the dictat repeated the orders once, in a low tone, to show that he had understood, and then made his way down the hill, a journey punctuated once by a thump, a curse, and then the sound of hands brushing upon cloth. Presently, Jacob could hear stirring in the camp below, followed shortly by a good deal of moaning. The latter was almost certainly meant to be quiet, but the acoustics of the trench combined with his position atop a hill seemed to channel the sounds upwards towards him. If all his men had to deal with this night was an uncomfortable sleeping position, then they were better off than they had any right to expect.

  A glance towards the moon showed it creeping near to the top of its passage through the night sky, meaning that if there was going to be an assault by its light, it would have to be soon. But what little he could see of the countryside did not move, did not stir, and certainly did not possess creatures of the bulk and width of the Mountain Lords. Of course, given what had happened in past encounters with the creatures, that was hardly reason for relief.

  So it was that Jacob found himself waiting with hand on pistol grip when the night orb reached its zenith in the sky, his reading long forgotten and tucked away. Around him, the cannoneers sensed his mood, and the gun chiefs were crouched over their long brass barrels, adjusting the sights in case they had fallen out of true, or the still wind of the night had changed by a few degrees.

  The tension built, nerves fraying as men stared out into the dim light of the moon, waiting and waiting
. They one and all believed that Jacob knew the attack was to come soon, and waited just for the call of the bugle to sound the off.

  But that call did not come, and so the men waited, on edge. Until the regimental commander had had enough. Finding a powder bag that was appropriately full, he pulled it forth from the ammo crate, tucked it up against the edge of the parapet, and used it as a pillow.

  Before passing into sleep, he glanced upwards at the messengers. “Wake me two hours before dawn. And tell the rest of the camp they need to be awake. We're going to be attacked sometime before the sun crests the horizon.”

  They looked at him, somewhat incredulous and fearful, and then went to do as they were told, wondering what kind of arcane knowledge Jacob had of their foes such that he could predict the hour of their attack. Not that such a calculation was all that difficult when one thought on the matter. After all, the enemy had not attacked at dusk, nor at the midnight hour, and so dawn was his next logical time if they wished to use the cover of night and attempt surprise.

  The nudge on his shoulder that woke him was rough, much more so than it should have been. Accordingly, he grabbed for his pistol even before his eyes had snapped open and he was able to take in his surroundings. Which included a few sets of legs, the wheels of a munitions wagon, and a good deal of tamped down earth. So he was still in the cannon nest, as he had been when he fell asleep.

  Letting go of the pistol, Jacob rose to his feet and glanced around. The very first tinges of purple were beginning to crack the sky. It was, he judged, only an hour and a half before dawn, but it was a minor enough issue that he would not concern himself with it.

  “Is the rest of the camp awake?”

  “We've sent messengers to ensure that they are, but I would be surprised if they were not.”

  “Good. Now, take positions all around the circumference of this hilltop. Whichever angle the enemy comes at us from, I want us ready.”

  His coterie obligingly positioned themselves about the edge of the artillery pit, while the crews tucked themselves around their cannons, after having examined the ready shot for the tenth time that night. All was in order, as it had been the previous nine times they had done so. It must be a nervous tic, a kind of pre-battle compulsion that affected cannoneers, and a way to pass the time before events finally came to a head. Now they waited for, quite literally, the starting gun.

  If his men saw anything early enough that they could fire at it. Which was a problem more on the shoulders of the Umkhovu and the 1st Royal Dragoons than the Queen's Lifeguards, as the Lifeguards were sandwiched between the other two units. The Umkhovu occupied the front of the defences, the Dragoons the rear, where they could curl around to either flank. The arrangement allowed the Lifeguards to employ their marksmanship in any direction, and allowed, or rather forced, the Umkhovu to take the brunt of any assault, and perhaps thereby earn their standing. At least the coming battle seemed to have quieted the unruly amongst his ranks.

  Strange that when there is no danger at all, a man will complain about being given assistance, but when it comes time to fight, he welcomes any who are willing to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  A murmur from one of the men nearby caused Jacob to spin about, leaving his reverie behind to focus on the subject the soldier was pointing at. At first, it appeared to be nothing more than grass waving slowly, but then he looked again and realized what had caught the man's eye. The vegetation was not waving, it was parting as something large strode through it at a steady pace. And from down on the ground, it almost certainly was not visible.

  “They're coming. Signal the soldiers. On foot, mind you. Four points left of the centreline, and currently invisible. Tell them we'll open the firing from up here.”

  The messenger ran as soon as Jacob finished speaking.

  Meanwhile, the cannons were slewing themselves round, until they faced the point at which the line of parting grass would pass through the outermost range of their weapons.

  “I want an aiming shot from the battery leader. Everyone take their marks from him.”

  The officer in charge of the bronze barrels gave Jacob an aggrieved look, because he knew his own job perfectly well, and had a copious medal chest as proof.

  The ripple in the plant life passed the invisible line demarcated by a stake wedged upright, and with that the first cannon bucked and roared, opening the battle. The six pound ball flew away in but a moment, lost to sight, until it slammed down thirty yards to the left of the target. All around him, there was frantic activity as the guns were adjusted to compensate for the drift. Moments later they bucked in a single loud ripple, iron spheres hurtling into space to fall upon the foe.

  The furrow through the grass had done what was both the least and most sensible action it could have taken, which was to stop dead. It meant that the artillery had a very good idea of where the target was, but that they no longer could actually see it. Given the first wave of shots had already been launched, however, that would not affect their aim in the slightest.

  And it didn't, for those shots crashed down right where the ripple had last been seen. Rather than dust, what sprayed away this time was viscera, as Mountain Lords and Forgotten Folk came apart under the hammer of the artillery. A few seconds later, another wave crashed into the enemy force, this time from the battery on the far mound.

  Jacob waited and watched as another salvo slammed into his opponents from the battery in which he stood, although this one had a much weaker impact, the enemy having scattered or charged, depending on the predilections of the individual. The Mountain Lords barrelled forward, while the Forgotten Folk threw themselves to the ground, disappearing into grass taller than they were. That suited Jacob enormously, for the only real threat the Forgotten Folk presented was if they were able to disguise the Mountain Lords.

  Without being told, the battery captain kept the artillery swinging round, keeping track of the barbarian assault, although the first few following shots missed, as he overcompensated for their speed, which was lower than expected. But then again, they had been slower than expected when met before, almost certainly a condition of their great size. Size and strength did possess a few advantages, one of which became apparent when a cannonball struck a Mountain Lord on the edge of its shoulder, spinning it round and dropping it to the ground. Only for it to struggle upwards, the shoulder hanging limp, but otherwise appearing unwounded.

  Any human struck by a six pound sphere of iron would be killed instantly, but for a Mountain Lord it constituted a broken shoulder. Truly amazing resilience. Which was unfortunate. Muskets would do little more than annoy the primitives and provoke them into a greater rage, unless the marksmen were even more capable than Jacob had reason to believe. Not even the best of the Royal Army could aim as well on the battlefield as they could on the training range, and hitting the kind of targets necessary for a musket to do severe damage would be more difficult than anything the Lifeguards had practiced.

  Rather than waste ammunition at extreme range, Alastair held the fire of the Umkhovu until the foe was within a hundred and fifty yards, at which point they could begin to comfortably strike targets the size of the Mountain Lords. Once the assault had crossed that line of stakes, a ripple of smoke charged up and down the line, as each platoon of natives picked out a target and fired en masse at the command of their sergeant.

  While there was an immediate reaction from the struck targets, in as much as bits of flesh and blood sprayed away, on the whole it looked no worse than if Jacob had been clipped by a light piece of debris. There was some surface marking, minor wounding, and otherwise no degradation in performance. Which was bad news for the soldiers in the trenches, as despite the rate the cannon were firing, they were making a slower impact on the assaulting forces than hoped for.

  Worse news followed moments later, as the first of the Mountain Lords shimmered out of existence, only to reappear some distance away, hazy and indistinct. The Forgotten Folk had managed to drag themselves together.r />
  “Find Darren. Have him take a third of his forces and sweep the ground behind the Mountain Lord assault. There should not be any of the larger barbarians still in that space, but there should be plenty of the smaller. Harass any in the protection of the Mountain Lords, kill any that are not.” The messenger nodded, and sprinted off towards the reserve forces.

  The battery beside him barked again, earning three clean hits, two of them to the gut of a single Mountain Lord, the other to a separate one's upper chest. The first of the hits earned a grimace from the regimental commander, for the second of the spheres had tangled in the intestines and dragged them with it on its passage through. The sight of viscera was a common one in a theatre of operations, but not one that is generally given in so graphic a form.

  Behind him, there was shouting, cursing, and other noises more unpleasant still. A dash to the edge of the parapet revealed a scene already made clear by the sounds emanating thereof: Mountain Lords, cloaked by their smaller minions, had disgorged themselves from their hiding places and struck at the rear of the encampment. But they had wasted their surprise by throwing some of their weapons. The attacks crushed soldiers beneath the trunks like so many dolls beneath the feet of children, but gave warning of the presence of enemies before they were in melee range.

  Those still standing, which was thankfully the great majority of the Lifeguards, had already formed into firing lines, trained instinct taking over at a time when the brain was inoperable due to cumbersome injections of fear. Already, the bullets flew, and first one Mountain Lord then another howled as swarms of lead clawed at their face, tearing flesh, punching holes in cheek and ear and nose, and filling their vision in their own sanguine fluid.