Dark Tide: Book Five of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  Things were as well organized as he could make them; the troops had spent weeks drilling for an assault on the ridge, the enemy’s defenses were plotted by Hand intelligence, and while they were damned well-designed and built it was clear that the ridge could be taken by a determined enemy should he be willing to pay the price.

  What bothered Descente was that his Markan-Fet had been unable to advise him as to Laffery’s battle plan, because Laffery hadn’t told anyone what his plan was, or at least he had not before the Hand forces began their march. Since then the Army of the Heartland had moved into their battle positions on the ridge and employed low-grade magics to foul Watchers’ Sight and the use of minor magical means of communications; with a tight belt of sentries around the entire ridge who had orders to shoot anyone trying to get onto or off of the ridge without orders signed by the Grand Marshal himself, it was impossible for the Hand agents in place to transmit what they knew to their masters. Descente would have given a great deal to know why Laffery was reversing his habits of the previous campaign and risking everything in one wild roll of the dice.

  Sighing, the Grand Commander urged his horse towards his headquarters complex; by this time tomorrow, there would be no more mysteries.

  Grand Marshal Laffery stood on the observation platform built near the west edge of where the village of Dorog had once stood; the village was gone now, the buildings dismantled for materials, the foundations used for artillery positions, the cellars used for storage and troop-quarters. The night around him was alive with the sound of the Heartland Army settling in to get what rest they could, while to the east and west lay vast blankets of camp-fires, whole constellations of flickering yellow stars that marked the camps of the enemy. Tomorrow his plans and plotting would be put to the test, tomorrow he would learn whether his name would be remembered as a hero or as a blundering fool.

  They were as ready as they would ever be, although badly outnumbered: on the ridge he had the five Legions of the Imperial Field Force, the Arturian Gold Army, which had received the Fifth Hatche from the Army of the South via Gate, the Kordian, Lasharian, and Ilthanian Foot and Horse Guards, roughly seven hundred Dwarves (both the engineers from the Mondschien Mountains and the Clanguard warriors from the Thunderpeaks), a veteran force from Sagenhoft (the First through Third Cohorts, the Lifeguards, and artillery), the Navian Seventh Marine Regiment, and a Harthrell landing force of seven hundred warriors, the latter three forces newly received via Gate, along with numerous spellcasters from Sagenhoft and the Army of the South. In all, he had roughly five thousand more troops than he had had before the Hand started its march, plus around a thousand Lanthrell lurking out in the darkness waiting for the order to strike.

  All in all, they were as ready as he could make them in terms of training, practice, equipment, and planning, while the Dwarves had run amok with the defenses, turning the ridge into something that had to be seen to be believed, but still he worried: the Hand had very nearly three to one odds and the Heartland was backed into a corner. He was betting everything on one roll of the dice, and knew it.

  Footsteps behind him brought him back from his musings; turning, he saw the Duchess of Sagenhoft crossing the platform to him, a brooding figure in her mourning clothes. Losing Bernian Chaton had struck the young woman hard and had made the Grand Marshal uneasy as well; the late Lord Chancellor had been the salvation of Sagenhoft during the last siege and a brilliant leader. Duchess Eithne had appointed her husband as Chaton’s successor, a reasonable choice that, Laffery was confident, would prove to be very wise in time. A less wise decision was the Duchess and her husband coming to Dorog with their field force.

  “Good evening, your Grace,” he nodded politely.

  “Good evening, Grand Marshal.” She fixed him with eyes far older than her seventeen years. “Am I intruding?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I would not wish to bother you on the eve of the battle.”

  “All that can be done, has been. Now I wait like the lowliest soldier.”

  “As do we all.” She still held him with her gaze. “What will happen tomorrow?”

  “Bloodshed on a scale that has not been seen since the Ostwind War,” he answered bluntly. “Perhaps even worse than that. However it ends, both sides will be mauled beyond anyone’s experience.” He sighed. “Which is why you and your husband should depart by Gate, my lady. You cannot be replaced in the ordinary course of things.”

  “Nicholas is my heir for the moment,” the Duchess lifted her chin. “Not that it matters in any case, for if the Heartland is destroyed Sagenhoft will fall. I wish to be here for this battle, Lord Laffery, just as my father would have.”

  “Actually, the Heartland’s destruction would not doom Sagenhoft if in its destruction it mauled the Hand sufficiently.” He gestured towards the two fields of lights. “Here is gathered the full might of the Hand, every soldier it can field for offensive combat; Bohcas Neft and Ileri have been gutted to field this force; bleed it white, and the Hand will have rebuild, time enough for the Armies of the North and South to take some action. Tomorrow will be decisive, but even a defeat can still be survived so long as the proper leaders live.”

  She ignored his pointed observation. “I miss Uncle Bernian.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “He told me I would understand his actions as Regent once I became Duchess, and he was right. I’m grateful I had the chance to tell him so.” She stared at the enemy fires. “They killed him just as they killed my father, Grand Marshal; the strain and care of this war cut the years away from him until there was no time left.” She looked at the lean general. “Make them pay, Lord Laffery. Make them pay.”

  “That, my lady, is the one thing I’m confident regarding tomorrow,” he smiled. “They shall pay as they have never paid before.”

  He watched her walk back to the platform’s stairs and her waiting guards. “And so shall we,” he murmured under his breath. “Eight forgive me, so shall we.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Now we make our battle,” Grand Marshal Laffery announced to the assembled, bleary-eyed officers four hours before dawn. “We shall have to shift forces in the dark, but the drill is nothing new to us, so I expect no problems.” That was a comforting lie: he expected endless problems.

  He stepped to the table upon which had been built an expert and exacting model of the ridge and its defenses. “Dorog Ridge runs almost due north-south, split in two at the center by the Royal Highway. For our purposes we have created three defense zones: the Gap, where the road crosses, North Ridge, and South Ridge. Each zones is further split into White Lines, or eastward-facing defenses, and Black Lines, or westward-facing defenses. Each zone shall have its own commander and reserves, and shall fight its battle independently; each is configured to defend from all sides, so the Hand shall have to reduce three strongholds rather than one.” This was how every briefing began, and the eyes upon him were uninterested.

  “Today the Hand forces plan on crushing us like a walnut between two boulders.” Again, nothing new; anyone on the many watch-towers could see the enemy’s dispositions. “I expect the enemy to move into their final staging positions not long after dawn, with their attack planned to begin about an hour later.”

  He regarded them calmly, although his heart hammered. “I say they plan this, for in fact just as Bohca Ortak arrives at its final staging area the bulk of the Heartland Army shall sortie off this ridge and engage them in battle.”

  Jaws dropped across the room. Laffery ignored the muted rumble of sudden exclamations and questions and continued. “We shall defeat and drive back Bohca Ortak while a portion of our army holds Bohca Tatbik at bay, and then we shall turn and cripple Bohca Tatbik. The enemy believes we are caught in the jaws of a trap, but instead he has divided his forces while we are in a position to operate against one Bohca at a time.”

  He selected unit markers from the tray and began placing them upon the map. “Only the Black defense
s will be manned. North Ridge will be commanded by Marshal von der Streib and will have the Thirty-Seventh Legion and our Harthrell allies to secure it; the Gap will be commanded by Commander Forgetamer of Apartia fame, and garrisoned by our Dwarven allies and the Sagenhoftian field forces. South Ridge will be commanded by his majesty King Nicholas the First with the Ilthanian Foot Guards, the Kordian Foot Guards, and the Navian Marines under his command. Duke Radet will command his own Arturian horse, the Ilthanian Horse Guards Corps, the Lasharian Royal Horse Guards Division, and five squadrons of Imperial cavalry shorn from the Imperial Legions. I will command the remaining four Legions, the three Hatche, and my own Lasharian Royal Foot Guards Division.”

  He paused as he adjusted the markers. “Duke Radet shall charge in the best Arturian style directly into the enemy’s center, which should be on the Royal Highway, thus providing excellent footing for his mounts, and split the enemy. I will follow with my foot, striking the enemy’s north, right, wing and rolling it up while the Duke holds this crossroads here, splitting the enemy. Uniting, we shall drive the remaining organized enemy units from the field. Once Bohca Ortak has been thrown into a state of disorder too great to recover in time to affect the battle, we shall reverse course, and attack Bohca Tatbik and repeat the maneuver.” The Grand Marshal studied his commanders, fifty-odd officers of three different races, and chose his words carefully. “The Hand is expecting a set-piece assault against a heavily entrenched enemy so they will move forward with that fact in mind; by attacking them while they move into their positions we shall have the advantages of surprise and disorder amongst the enemy, whose formations will be set for assault, not defense. With luck and the love of the Eight, we shall preserve.”

  Silence hung like a shroud for several long seconds, and then Duke Radet roared with laughter, his ruddy face quickly turning beet red. “By all that is the Light, Grand Marshal, you are either a madman or the greatest general who has ever lived.” He paused to wipe away tears. “We shall do as you have said, sir, and be glad for the chance. Never shall there be a charge pressed home with such alacrity, such elan, such stoutness of heart, as the charge I shall lead from the very front rank into the hated foe. We shall smash them, sir, we shall drive them back and slaughter their foot, my lord, until the Royal Highway is a corridor of Light through their blasted, Void-loving ranks. I, Joseph Radet, Duke of the realm and brother to the King, do so promise.”

  “That is exactly the spirit that will carry this day and save the Realms,” Laffery nodded shortly. “Those assigned to the Ridge must hold, they must fight like madmen and count not the cost while we strike east, for all is for naught unless Dorog is held. Can you hold, Marshal?”

  Von der Strieb shrugged, unconcerned. “For as long as needed, sir.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  Nicholas I made a rude noise. “Until they roll over my headquarters and put me to the sword; I’ll postpone that event for as long as I am able, say half a day at least.” The monarch was twirling the gilded circlet that he normally wore as a badge of office.

  “A half-day ought to be adequate,” the Grand Marshal fought a smile.

  Grand Commander Descente was up and about not long after midnight, reviewing the orders of battle and the intelligence information on the ridge while the first units stirred and began to break camp. The entire ridge was a fortress, with the defenders fighting from behind chest-high walls made from stone or sunbaked brick fronted with a layer of bags filled with sand and dirt to reduce the effects of artillery fire. The slopes that led to these walls were coated in stakes, caltrops, knee-breaker trenches, lines of hedgehog-like abatis, rope tangles strung between posts, and every other device designed to wound, disorganize, and delay. There were paths through them, of course, zig-zag trails to allow the defenders to sortie, but some were blinds designed to funnel the enemy into death pits and artillery fire. Towers loomed on the crest to direct the light and medium war engines which stood ready with large stocks of ammunition to hand, each piece having fired scores of ranging shots, and swivel-mounted siege crossbows were liberally distributed in the towers and along the defensive line.

  It would take exacting precision to storm such a position but the Hand was ready: units had been issued tools with which to clear avenues through the defense works, the march and formations had been planned to put as many troops in assault formation in the final staging areas with as little fuss as possible, and carts bearing artillery and ammunition were already moving up. Once the units were in position in the final staging areas the artillery would make their ranging shots and then the attack would begin. The plans had been laid like a folded paper flower; now all that remained would be to watch and make sure each section opened up as it was supposed to.

  “The corridors through the defenses are open,” Laffery accepted the flask the Duke offered and tasted the rich brandy. “The Lanthrell report that the center is held by the Thirty-Seventh Holding, made up of the survivors of the Apartia garrison.”

  “Good,” Duke Radet, in full armor with his helm resting on the raised front of his war saddle, threw back a solid slug of brandy before capping the flask and stowing it. “Our first charge will be the most effective; we’ll ride them down just as we rode the Tenth Holding down at the Third Royal Bridge, get their best troops out of the way at the onset.” He leaned away from the Grand Marshal to issue the orders for the first division to begin moving. Turning back to his commander, he grinned. “We begin, eh? It shall be quite a battle.”

  “Very much so; let us hope for a victory.”

  The Duke drew his flask out again, offered it, and drank another long shot when Laffery shook his head. “Victory, I think, is not a word for what will happen to either side today,” the Arturian observed thoughtfully. “Today, I think, survival is all any of us can hope for.” He tossed off another drink. “And not many will get that.”

  “The commander of Bohca Ortak reports movement on the slopes facing her army,” the liaison officer for Bohca Ortak reported. “She is having trouble sending out scouts due to Lanthrell activity to her front and flanks. All her units are advancing into position and the artillery is nearly in place, although it is still on the carts.”

  Descente nodded. “No doubt Laffery will throw out some skirmishers to keep things interesting,” he said, thinking of the paths built into the slope defenses for just such a purpose. He wished Gichin was still in command over there rather than Markan-Hern of the Sixth Orbit Ireton; Ireton was a good soldier, a -Ra like himself for twenty years before joining the -Hern, but she was also a gut-fighter, a stolid warrior who simply closed and fought, not a thinker like Gichin had been. He hadn’t had much use for Gichin before the war, but he had handled himself well down south, and the abrupt turn and march north through contested territory followed by a savage room-to-room battle for Apartia had been handled expertly.

  As the minutes ticked by and the east grayed, Descente found his confidence growing. Perhaps Laffery had gambled that the Hand would not accept the losses. “Advise Commander Ireton to continue as planned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Twenty minutes passed and the liaison officer returned. “Sir, Commander Ireton reports that the Lanthrell are lighting smudge-pots to her front and flanks, reducing visibility drastically as her troops move to the final staging areas.”

  That caught his attention. “What is this smoke screen being used for?”

  “For sniping by the Lanthrell, they use it as concealment, and have ambushed several scouting patrols, including one of Kia strength.”

  Descente relaxed. “Can the upper reaches of the ridge be seen?”

  “Yes, sir, by climbing trees. Movement and lights are reported all along the crest, but the base and the ground is front cannot be seen due to the haze and darkness, the Lanthrell have lit hundreds of smudges.”

  “I see.” The defenders were occupying their defensive positions while the Threll harassed her; obviously Laffery was focusing on the weaker force to do mor
e damage. An uneasy feeling crawled across the back of his neck, but he shook it off and returned to dealing with the minor problems that continued to crop up.

  Dawn was near when the liaison officer returned. “Sir, Commander Ireton reports her units are thirty minutes behind schedule due to heavy interference due to Lanthrell activity and the haze; she has been forced to clear the Threll from her final staging areas by repeated charges by her wolf riders and nomads, which had delayed unit deployment. She is also requesting permission to shift from assault formations into conventional line formation.”

  “And her reason for such a drastic alteration?”

  “Watchers have been neutralized and the smudge pots have cut visibility down to a few feet, but Eyade who have gotten through the smoke screen and Lanthrell ambushers are reporting that the enemy is descending the ridge in force and is forming up on the plains before it.”

  “Yes, a sally, I suppose. A spoiling raid.”

  “Sir, the Eyade are reporting the enemy strength as ‘thousands’.”

  Descente shook his head. Thousands? That would mean a major strike by Laffery...the feeling crept over him again, and he recalled the thought ‘the weaker force’; he shook his head, and faced his fears. Bohca Ortak was weaker than Bohca Tatbik, of course, but it was very nearly as strong as the Heartland Army in any case. Laffery would have to strip the ridge down to a minimum of defenders facing the west in order to strike at Ireton with anything close to sufficient strength, a desperate gamble.

  Feeling like a man sleep-walking, he stood and walked to the map table, flipping charts aside until he reached the large-scale depiction of the battle area. He had Laffery in the jaws of a trap, from his point of view, but was the Grand Marshal seeing things the same way?Or did Laffery see the Hand forces as divided into two parts with a fortified line between them? Ireton’s army was still moving up, delayed by Lanthrell skirmishers; if Laffery hit with everything he had....