Finally spotting a major, he shouted, “I’m going to find Dura. Keep pushing forward here.”
Without waiting for a response he wheeled around and headed left, keeping an eye out for Franca. He’d ordered his infantry on the left to stand down until she made her way over to them, and they cheered him on as he cantered along in front of them.
Now he was enjoying himself. It was annoying that he’d failed to shoot Mattila, but he or someone else would surely get another chance soon. Once he had Franca on his side and turned against the enemy, it would be over.
He paused for a moment and listened. The enemy guns had fallen silent, which meant Trystan had likely taken them.
That was good news, since he wouldn’t have to worry about Mattila pulling reinforcements from that side to make up for Franca’s defection. The center remained a tumult of fighting, bodies piling up in the ditch and covering the field.
Dura’s cuirassiers were regrouping and spread out in a shining line. She had to be in there somewhere. Lennart pulled off his helmet to see better.
“Your Highness.” A bodyguard came near. “What are you doing? With all respect, you should put that helmet back on.”
“Just looking for a friend.” Lennart grinned, moving to put the helmet back on. But just as it touched his head, something hit him in the arm and he dropped it.
A wail of dismay rose from the troops behind him. Doing his best to ignore the wave of pain and the blood streaming down his right arm, Lennart forced a smile. “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth, waving at his troops with his good arm. He didn't want them losing heart now. “Get my helmet,” he said to a bodyguard, unnecessarily, as the fellow had already jumped to the ground and retrieved it. Next he’d need someone to bind his arm up. He could still fight with the left. “Come on, Franca,” he muttered under his breath.
He reached down to grab the helmet when another blow struck his head and all went black.
Trystan
Trystan cursed under his breath. Clearly, Mattila realized the vulnerability of her gun positions and had reinforced them. If he wanted to get to them, he’d have to fight through huge masses of infantry.
“We’ll go straight in,” he told Anton and a Galladian colonel. “They’ll expect us, but it’s the only way we can get to those guns.”
Anton nodded and turned away to give the order. At least Trystan could rely on him to keep going through every difficulty.
He’d never forgotten Anton’s courage on the Obenstein, winning through against overwhelming odds. These weren’t nearly as bad.
They advanced on Mattila’s guns in good order, the seasoned Galladian troops leading the way. The enemy waited for them, but that didn’t matter.
Trystan led his troops out of the longer range of the artillery, but now they’d sighted in on him again and cannonballs fell into his ranks.
“Keep moving,” he shouted. That was the best way to get back out of range.
Emilya Hohenwart’s guns created big gaps in the enemy lines, but they had enough troops to fill those in. The enemy muskets got off a round, and behind them, pike bristled in deep blocks.
“Now,” Trystan said, stopping his horse and nodding at his officers.
The order echoed down the ranks, sergeants shouted, and musketeers moved into position, even as enemy musketballs tore into them.
Trystan wasn’t worried. These Galladian veterans had been fighting Maladenes for nearly a year and were accustomed to battle. Though they'd already taken heavy losses, every gap in every rank filled immediately, soldiers stepping over the dead and around the wounded.
His muskets fired in three quick volleys, with another three coming as soon as they reloaded. Trystan had made sure that all troops spent hours every day on reloading practice during the sea voyage. All that drilling paid off now, and the enemy muskets fell back.
Trystan’s troops kept moving forward, delivering another volley. Now they were upon the enemy.
The muskets fell back in good order, but now ran into the blocks of pike. Normally, those would open gaps for the retreating troops to pass through, but it seemed Mattila had forbidden that.
“Poor devils,” Trystan muttered as he watched Anton’s companies mow over a confused cluster of muskets on his right.
Anton was out in front, unmistakable on Storm, opening a path through panicking enemy troops, the Galladians following him with great enthusiasm.
Trystan didn’t look back. He knew he’d taken terrible losses already, but he’d managed the first part at least.
Now he needed to deal with the pike, in disorder from fleeing musketeers trying to get past them. Their officers shouted, trying to make them fight, but in the face of Trystan’s advance, they only wanted to get away.
Anton already engaged the pike, his muskets battering at their first ranks, then following with swords and halberds. Formidable as the pike looked, they were vulnerable without the protection of their muskets, and Trystan soon found himself in their midst, shooting until he’d emptied his pistols, then slashing with his halberd. He’d kept the one he’d captured in Galladium, reckoning it brought him luck there.
A lone pikeman swung his weapon at Trystan, but he caught the haft in the halberd’s hooked blade, swinging it aside, forcing the pikeman to lose his footing.
Yanking his weapon free, Trystan kept pushing forward. Only a few of his musketeers had reloaded, but they had momentum now, and the Galladians fought just as well with swords. Pikemen dropped their weapons and fought back with anything they could find, though many ran for the shelter of the big guns.
Trystan saw them now, the crews sweating and shouting, trying to harness horses so they could get away. “Not happening,” Trystan said, urging his horse forward. The guns were no threat while being moved.
Anton’s company had already captured one, and Trystan heard Anton’s voice over the fighting, shouting at his troops. They had orders to not just silence the guns, but to turn them on the enemy.
Trystan forced his way through to a battery, ordering a few soldiers to grab the panicked horses, while others finished the crews. He hated that part.
Gunners were more loyal to their pieces than to most generals and refused to retreat or surrender without their guns. So Trystan killed them, a terrible waste of brave soldiers.
Anton appeared at his side. “We’ve turned four batteries. Is that the enemy over there?”
Trystan squinted into a great dust cloud. Banners of various colors appeared from time to time, but he saw no Ostberg green or Bernotas blue. “I believe so. Help me with these and wait for my order.” Trystan left Anton to the guns, then waved over an adjutant. “Send a message to the king,” he said. “We’ve taken the enemy guns and are training them on the left flank. I’m firing unless ordered otherwise.”
The adjutant disappeared and Trystan took a moment to look around. It was quiet here, at least for the moment, while Anton hustled new gunners—borrowed from Emilya Hohenwart—into place.
A breeze rose, clearing away some of the smoke and Trystan stared toward the center. The fighting remained heavy there and it looked like neither side had made much progress. That would change once these guns bit into the enemy’s left flank.
“Are we ready?” Trystan called over to Anton.
Anton nodded.
“Then fire.”
The guns thundered and Trystan went deaf for a moment. Then someone tugged at his arm.
“Your Grace.” An adjutant was in his face, shouting at him. He was crying.
Trystan stared at him, puzzled. “What?”
“Your Grace, the king is dead.”
Braeden
It was hard to move here in the middle, with Lennart’s center pushing against Mattila’s. For a few moments, her right gave way and Braeden took advantage, hurrying his troops forward. But then they stopped again.
It was frustrating. Braeden was used to leading cavalry charges, with plenty of freedom to move on the flanks. Now he stood
around, waiting for something to happen.
Doing nothing didn't help his worry. When hours passed with no word of Franca’s defection, he feared something had gone wrong.
Lennart had promised to send word as soon as she was safe. Perhaps he’d forgotten. Though if she’d made her move, surely the tide would have turned by now?
Kazmir stepped sideways restlessly, no doubt picking up on Braeden’s mood. It would be so much easier to just fight. To pass the time, Braeden decided to ride up and down the ranks since he was sure the troops could use a word of encouragement at this point.
Standing around in the heat and dust, hearing their comrades die, was no fun for anyone. Braeden had just reached the end of a row and was chatting with a sergeant when a messenger rode up in a great cloud of dust.
“Any word on Franca Dura?” The messenger’s wide panicked eyes made Braeden fear the worst.
“Dura? I don’t know.” The messenger shook her head, her long blonde braids gray with dust. “It’s the king, sir.” She stopped short and swallowed.
“The king?” Braeden felt a rush of terror; the look on the messenger’s face already told him it had to be bad.
Her lip trembled. “He’s dead.”
A great roar rose in Braeden’s ears, and he grabbed the pommel to keep from sliding out of the saddle. “Dead? Are you sure? How?”
“I don’t know how.” Tears shimmered in her blue eyes. “But he fell in front of his troops. They’re in confusion now, since the enemy made a great push forward and captured his body.”
Braeden took a deep breath. Now was not the time to fall apart. The unimaginable had happened, but they must not let Mattila take advantage.
He wished he knew what had happened to Franca. They’d need her now more than ever.
“Take me there,” he told the messenger, even as he waved over one of his officers.
The man approached him, his eyes wide. “Is it true?” he asked. A buzzing went through the massed troops as the awful news spread fast.
“I'm not sure,” Braeden said, “I'll go look. If it is, or if the king is hurt, I might need to take over.” Both Hohenwart and Orland held the left flank, but if things had gone wrong, they’d have their hands full. “Bring everyone forward, and hold the line no matter what happens.”
He beckoned to another messenger. “Head to the rear and find Dolf Kalstrom. Tell him the king has been hurt and I’m going to the front lines.”
The messenger dashed off and Braeden hurried to follow the first one, already going in the opposite direction. He came upon Leyf Lofbrok, sitting on horseback at the rear of his troops.
“What’s going on?” Braeden had to shout, the noise of the fighting ahead was so fierce. It took all he had to keep from looking for Franca.
Lofbrok’s eyes were bloodshot and dull. “He’s dead.” His voice was flat. “Shot in the head.”
“I heard,” Braeden said, “and I’m sorry. But we can’t stop now.”
“What’s the point?” Lofbrok seemed paralyzed. “If he’s gone why are we here?”
Braeden took a deep breath. “We’re here to beat Mattila and we’re still going to do that. Can you hold the line? I’ll see what’s going on up there.”
“They got his body.” Lofbrok spoke so softly Braeden barely understood him.
“I’ll get it back,” Braeden said, “I swear it. But you can’t give up.” He got in Lofbrok’s face and shook him by the shoulder. “Understand?” he shouted. “You can’t give up.”
Lofbrok didn’t respond and Braeden had no more time. A trickle of Estenorians were retreating and he wouldn’t let it turn into a flood. “Stop!” he shouted, slapping a sergeant on the back with the flat of his sword. “Get back there and fight.”
The sergeant turned a tear-streaked face toward him. “Why? He’s dead.”
“We’re going to get his body back and win this battle.” Braeden reached down, grabbing the sergeant by the collar and turning him around. Then he straightened up and raised his sword. “Are you going to let him die for nothing?” he shouted, glaring at the retreating troops.
Most of them stopped in their tracks. “Is this what he’d want you to do?” Without waiting to see if anyone would follow him, Braeden spurred Kazmir toward the front where the fight still raged.
It was hard to push through the struggling soldiers, but Braeden took heart from the fact that these hadn’t given up. In fact, they fought harder than any he’d ever seen.
He wished he knew where Lennart’s body was, but decided that it didn’t matter right now. If the enemy had him, they wouldn’t keep him.
He shot two enemy musketeers, then pulled out his sword and waded into the gap he’d created, Kazmir trampling a few soldiers in their path.
An Estenorian officer shouted orders and several ranks fell in behind Braeden. Lennart’s cavalry had scattered, but the few that remained made their way toward him.
“To the king!” Braeden shouted and a roar rose up behind him.
They made some headway before coming up against a solid mass of cavalry. These were cuirassiers; Braeden worried they were Franca’s, and they weren’t on his side. He shoved ahead anyway, praying she hadn’t betrayed them, though the alternative was worse.
Now there was nothing but the fight, taking down one opponent after another. Franca’s troops weren’t fighting as hard as they should, and Braeden heard Mattila’s voice in the distance, screaming hoarse threats at them.
Braeden wondered if he might get to her. With that in mind, he urged Kazmir forward, and finally broke through.
He didn’t go far.
In front of him, in a great pile of horse and human corpses, he saw Franca, barely visible under Skandar’s dead body. She was alive.
“Wait,” Braeden said, jumping down from Kazmir so fast he stumbled. “Wait, I’m coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Franca muttered. “She shot my horse.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Braeden shoved at Skandar’s great weight. He couldn’t budge him.
“It’s too late.” Franca hissed in pain. “You can’t help. You should get back in the fight.”
“Not happening,” Braeden said, crawling over Skandar’s neck to get closer to her. The horse’s massive hindquarters had crushed her chest and now he heard the terrible wheezing, blood bubbling between her lips. “I’m staying right here with you.”
He settled in beside her, leaning against the body of another horse, stroking her bright hair away from her face. It was pale and etched with pain, her breathing even more shallow.
“It won’t be long,” she murmured. “Glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he said, though he barely got the words out. He sat there, shielded by the horses as the battle raged around him, unsure of how much time had passed.
Franca stopped breathing, but he didn’t move. She’d been his friend for nearly twenty years and now she was gone.
Someone shouted his name, but he still couldn’t move.
“Braeden!” Trystan was nearby. Braeden couldn’t figure out how. “Braeden.”
“It’s over.” Now he was even worse off than Lofbrok, the poor devil.
“No it’s not,” Trystan said, “I’m taking over, and you’re helping me.”
Anton
Turning the enemy’s own guns on their left flank ought to help win the battle, Anton thought. Mattila had other artillery, but strung it out across the rear of her armies, with just a few batteries positioned between regiments. She’d placed the bulk here, on the only high ground available to her.
Anton let a gunnery captain take over, then went to see what new orders he might have from Trystan. On such a vast battlefield their troops might be used elsewhere. But Trystan had gone with his whole suite, leaving only a young lieutenant behind.
“Where’s the duke?” Anton asked.
“Gone to the center.” The lieutenant’s face was dirty and sad. Not at all excited, like he should be during a big battle.
; “The center? Why didn’t he tell me?” Anton turned Storm in that direction.
“The king is dead,” the lieutenant muttered.
Anton shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll go find the duke.” As he rode along the front line, he forced himself to believe the young officer had been mistaken.
Lennart couldn’t be dead. The consequences of such a thing were more than Anton’s mind could handle. He needed to concentrate on the battle.
But as he neared the center, with the hottest fighting, he found the mood changing. Anton had been in enough battles to recognize the desperate, angry excitement that coursed through soldiers at times like these. The anger remained, but the excitement had turned to something else.
Dread rose in his chest, making it hard to breathe. A tall officer stood at the end of his ranks, shouting orders as tears rolled down his face and into his mouth. Anton wanted to stop and ask what had happened, but was afraid to.
Anton kept going, looking everywhere for Trystan’s banner. He found it at the center, where Lennart was supposed to be. The Estenorian banners still waved everywhere, but the Martinek gold dominated the middle.
The fighting raged back and forth across a shallow ditch, and Trystan stood just to the rear of the front ranks, surrounded by generals. Judging by the looks on their faces, things weren’t going well.
Leyf Lofbrok, Dolf Kalstrom, Emilya Hohenwart, Aidan Orland and Braeden stood in a small circle with Trystan. Anton edged toward it, but hung back a little once he saw Braeden’s face.
“We will win this battle,” Trystan said, his jaw clenched, his eyes wide. “I will not waste this chance. Just think how Lennart would feel if we faltered now.”
Anton held back a whimper. If Trystan was talking about the king as though he were dead, then he was.
“Whatever you say,” Dolf Kalstrom muttered. Both he and Lofbrok looked dazed.
“I agree,” Aidan Orland said. “This is a setback, but failure now is unacceptable. We cannot risk defeat.”
Fall of the Titan (The Desolate Empire Book 5) Page 41
