by RW Krpoun
Tearing his gaze from the battle lines, Grand Marshal Laffery motioned for the first waiting courier. “Sir, Marshal von der Strieb reports the enemy advances upon his positions in some disorder.” The next two repeated similar messages from Nicholas I and Garmil Forgetamer; Laffery nodded, understand: Descente had chosen to press home immediately, not willing to wait until his units were fully in position. He had hoped without much conviction that the Hand commander would stick to the original plan, but it would not be so.
The next two messengers brought bad news: from the towers observers could see large forces of wolf-riders and Eyade flanking the ridge and moving to support Bohca Ortak. That was unexpected: Descente was reacting far faster than had been planned. Laffery called his own couriers over and ordered the Fifth and Seventh Hatche to move into blocking positions to the north, and the Lasharian Foot Guards to the south, while other couriers galloped off the warn the Legion commanders, especially the commander of the First Legion.
The Grand Marshal kept his face bland to keep from spreading concern among his staff and guard, but inwardly he was seething; to have to deploy his entire reserve minutes into the battle boded very ill, very ill indeed.
“Next,” Descente dismissed the messenger and waited for the next. The liaison officer for Bohca Ortak spurred his horse next to the wagon which supported the tower the Grand Commander was standing upon and saluted.
“Sir, Commander Ireton reports her center is broken and both wings are threatened, while Lanthrell fire is constant on all sides, at least two thousand of the archers. She requests help at once.”
“Advise the commander to fight her Bohca as she sees fit so long as she holds her present position to within a half-mile. Mounted troops are on their way to assist, and our attack is going forward to take pressure off of her army. She must keep the enemy’s main force engaged until we can carry the ridge. Next!”
As he received information from couriers and dispatched orders via messengers Descente kept a close eye upon the ridge and his attacking units. Less than a quarter of his war engines were in place and assembled as the first units went in on the assault, but once having committed himself to his plan he issued his orders with certainty and ruthlessly crushed any objections. His attack plans might have been badly disrupted, but he still had a number of advantages, and he worked to increase them. His Harbingers were frantically setting up the carved pillars and altars of their trade as herds of goats and sheep were driven into hastily-assembled corrals, ready to re-Seed the Breedstones of Direbreed slain on the slopes; from experience the Grand Commander knew that an individual Direbreed could be slain and re-born three or four times in the course of a battle if the support system worked well enough.
His original and current plan of assault were identical in general aim: attack along the length of the ridge to stretch the defenders’ numbers while taking full advantage of his numerical superiority, and strike any breakthrough with his winged creatures and wolf-riders, followed by more footmen. Once he had a foothold on the crest, he would pour troops into that weak point until the entire ridge was his. There would be no formal attack waves beyond the first; units would be fed into the attack, while units that fell back would be rallied and sent right back in to keep the pressure on the defenders until numbers told or losses bled the enemy white; in either case, all he needed was one good opening.
“Reform, reform, pull your squadrons together,” Duke Radet screamed at an Abamer commander and urged his horse on past the battered man, heading back through the confused ranks of horsemen. His heavy cavalry were badly intermingled and disorganized following their charge; he had the foot skirmishing with the Goblins while the Imperial squadrons roved about setting the enemy war engines, which were still loaded on their carts or just partially-assembled, ablaze.
The shock of the charge and the infantry attacks that had closed to either side had thrown the Bohca into disarray for the moment, the confusion much helped by the Lanthrell’s sniping from the enemy’s flanks and rear, but the Hand would recover quickly and counter-attack, leaving the Duke with no time to waste. He had accomplished his primary mission, which was to split the Bohca, destroying three enemy units in the process, but it would be for naught if he could not hold this gap until the Imperial foot could smash the north wing.
The Lasharian Royal Horse Guards were forming up without his urging, and the Ithanians were likewise coming together; his own countrymen were a bit slower, but all four Abamer were now forming up where he wanted them; fortunately, none of the Abamer commanders had been killed or seriously wounded in the charge. The wizards back on the ridge were keeping the worst of the enemy’s magic off them, although their own offensive spells weren’t doing much to help, but that was always the case: steel won battles, not spells.
Spitting at the taste of the dust that hung in the air like a brown fog and the lingering smoke-stench of the dying smudge posts, the Duke swung his horse to where his staff waited, wishing for another flask of brandy or at least a drink of water as the sweat ran freely off of him under his plate, but his water-bottle had been smashed while going through the Felher, and somewhere in the charge something had ripped open the saddlebag that had contained two stoneware bottles of brandy.
Thinking of brandy brought his nephew to mind, but de Melere was never going to tell the story about the flask because a Night Guard’s halberd had split his helm and skull like a melon seconds before the line had collapsed. The Duke ran his shield-hand over new dents in his breastplate and shook his head: the Marquis was hardly the only man lost in the charge.
An aide passed him a water-skin as he rode up, and the nobleman gratefully squeezed a stream through his hastily-opened visor, pleased to discover that the skin held wine. “You, take a message to the Grand Marshal: the center is split, and the enemy’s artillery is afire. Losses are acceptable,” de Melere’s face flashed across his thoughts. “And morale is good. Can hold. Repeat that.”
Hanging the skin on his saddle, Radet checked the bloody shaft of his war hammer for cracks as he listened to various reports. “Good, good, we’re in fine shape. Now, attend to these orders...”
Descente flinched as a cloud of one-pound rocks rained down into a Darkhost; the enemy’s artillery had every foot of the approaches of the ridge ranged in, and were expertly dropping stones and fire-pots onto the attacking Hand troops even as siege crossbows began to fire into their ranks. The Direbreed were undeterred by ordinary death, however, and pressed on, further bolstered by the presence of a dozen Minions of the Dark One in the lead.
As a Markan, especially a former Markan-Ra, Descente had little respect for the Minions, considering them over-rated and difficult to cooperate with, although he certainly could not impinge their abilities. Minions, also called Scarred Ones, were fanatical servitors of the Dark Master drawn from the ranks of the Sevenguard who were elevated by a dangerous ceremony which involved the strongest of Void Arts, sentient sacrifice, and the consumption of quantities of andern, the pure stuff of Chaos which was drawn from the Void in much the same manner as Breedstones. Equipped with armor and weapons that were both Void-blessed and impregnated with andern mixed into the metal, and consuming potions containing andern (or mixing andern powders into cuts made into their own flesh), the Minions were incredibly tough, gaining in ability as time passed and the effects of the andern caused their bodies to warp and change in unpredictable ways. Age did not seem to be a factor for Minions, nor was any wound that fell short of mortal able to permanently disable them. They accumulated fanatical followers into a personal guard called a Talon of the Dark One, and were assigned wherever the danger was the greatest.
They were also arrogant, single-minded, and inclined to follow only their own inclinations, which made them difficult to control; it was no accident that Bohca Tatbik had had none in its ranks until this spring. For an attack on the ridgeline, however, they were perfect, having a simple, straightforward objective before them, and being able to inspire the Direbree
d to even greater acts of violence and aggressiveness.
The Minions were doing well: no matter how many Direbreed fell the Darkhosts were continuing forward, as individuals when the sub-units dissolved under artillery and missile fire and the attackers reached the stakes, caltrops, and other lethal impediments. Slaves scampered up after the attackers, winning their freedom by bringing back four Breedstones, no more than two Breedstones per trip. Only one in three survived two trips onto the slopes, but they were bringing back a steady flow of Breedstones and soaking up missile fire that might have otherwise claimed Hand troops.
About a third of his artillery was in place and firing now, with more moving up with each passing minute; he eyed the dark, ant-like figures that were his attacking troops struggling up the slope and mentally urged them to hurry as more units formed up and started into the attack. The sun was nearly above the horizon, he knew, and a long day lay ahead of them.
Markan-Hern of the Sixth Orbit Ireton was a woman of marked ugliness, being cursed with thin, lifeless hair the color of a mouse, a massive jaw which was made worse by protruding lower teeth and a potato-like nose which had grown larger, rougher, and redder in recent years; fortunately, physical appearance counted for little amongst the warrior-priests of the Markan-Ra. A veteran of nearly forty years of soldiering she had crossed the wall as the deputy commander of Bohca Neft, moving on to command Bohca Ortak and promotion to the Sixth Orbit when Commander Gichin had requested his own relief.
The sudden change to her circumstances had not rattled her, nor had the three nearly-successful attempts on her life by bands of Lanthrell which had decimated the ranks of her staff officers and cost the deputy commander his life; she remained unflappable, issuing orders via messengers to her various subordinate commanders as she struggled to extract her army from this vise she had found herself in.
Six Ket were assigned to cover the Bohca’s rear and hold the Lanthrell at bay while three more were formed up and hurled in a counter-charge at the horsemen who had split her center, followed closely by the Forty-Fifth Holding. Her last reserve, the Fourth Holding, was thrown into her right, north, wing in an attempt to stabilize that wing against the pressure of three Legions of Imperial troops.
Her position was extremely bad: her center was broken, although her counter-attacks were preventing the enemy from exploiting the break-through, her left wing was pinned in place by the enemy, her right wing was facing odds of nearly two-to-one, her entire army was being peppered to death by those damned Lanthrell snipers who were firing literally clouds of arrows, and her reserve was fully committed. If it weren’t for Descente’s orders to hold her position and tie down the enemy she would have ordered a withdrawal and trusted to luck.
Surrounded by her guards and remaining staff officers within easy sight of the pyres which were consuming her artillery, Ireton calmly gave the orders for her baggage train and surviving artillery crews to withdraw back to their night camps without escort and turned to other matters. She had her orders, and a Bohca to command.
Grand Marshal Laffery sweated inside his armor and cursed the Hand troops bitterly; Duke Radet had split the center but was prevented from driving into the enemy’s rear by vicious counterattacks, the Lanthrell had their hands full with the Eyade covering Bohca Ortak’s rear and flanks, and while the enemy’s right wing was bending back under the pressure of three Legions, they were still holding together and fighting hard. Meanwhile, the Fifth and Seventh Hatche were hard-pressed by the Eyade to the north, while the Lasharian Foot Guards and a cohort from the First Legion were being mauled by the wolf-riders, but at least they were holding them off the rest of the First Legion.
Behind him, all three Black Lines were fully engaged by Direbreed, with more troops coming up the slopes in the face of heavy fire and heavier losses. The sun was clear of the horizon, losses on both sides were mounting, and the plan of battle was falling apart. He could not engage in a grinding match with the Hand’s superior numbers; he had to smash Bohca Ortak quickly and then turn to deal with Bohca Tatbik before the units on the ridge were ground away to nothing.
It was time for desperate action; he had planned to use his reserves to effect a breakthrough should the initial attacks not prove to be adequate, but Descente had forestalled that by his sudden insertion of mounted troops into the action. Motioning a messenger over, Laffery composed his thoughts. “Carry this order to Duke Radet: pull back with as much of your heavy horse as is possible to the point marked with the red banner; strike the Felher on the south wing with as much force as you can, direct your force into the enemy’s rear, and wreak as much havoc as possible. Repeat that back to me.”
Dispatching a staff officer to plant a red banner where he wanted Radet to reform, Laffery dispatched another messenger to the carts bearing the reserve lances and remounts with orders to proceed to the red banner. A third messenger was sent to both the First Legion commander and the commander of that Legion’s fifth cohort to expect a cavalry charge passing through their area and ranks.
A message was sent by an enchanted device to the commander of the Lanthrell, requesting that he divert half his archers to the wolf riders and Eyade coming from Bohca Tatbik in order to help the beleaguered flank units.
The sudden easing of pressure on her center allowed Commander Ireton to reform her line and close the gap, although her right wing was still being curved back a step at a time. She had pulled back her only Lardina of wolf-riders and had them reforming as her reserve despite the fact that they barely numbered six hundred effectives. The promised mounted troops from Bohca Tatbik had arrived but had been contained by flanking units from the Heartland Army and seemed to be doing her very little good at all.
As the minutes passed and the Eyade slowly drove away the Lanthrell she shifted her Second Ket into the reserve as well, and began to feel a bit more optimistic as she surveyed the half-seen line of battle which swarmed and shifted within the golden-brown clouds of dust, the roar and clatter of thousands of warriors locked in deadly battle pounding at her ears like physical slaps.
The messenger reporting that there was a concentration of heavy cavalry forming up opposite her left wing reached her just as a Lardina of Goblin foot in the right wing not far from where the center had been breached broke, the survivors turning and retreating inward. She immediately ordered the wolf-riders to charge the gap and sent a dozen staff officers to rally the Goblins. Having other problems to concern herself with she paid the report little mind, imminent threats carrying less weight than real and present dangers.
The wolf-riders managed to close the gap as the Hand units to either side retreated a bit faster, and most of the Goblin foot rallied and started trickling back into place, but it boded ill.
She heard the crash even over the hammering din of battle; looking to her left, she saw the first rank of Arturian horsemen plowing through the remaining Swarc, blasting the rat-men’s formation apart like a house of cards, the second line of horsemen mopping up the Swarc’s survivors. Spitting a stream of curses, she ordered the Second Ket to counter-charge and gave further orders that the five Kets guarding the rear and flanks were to disengage and attack the enemy cavalry at once.
Calling over a messenger, she dictated a report to the Grand Commander.
The last of his seventy Darkhosts were entering the battle, followed closely by the Eye Rippers Horc as Descente ordered his four remaining Ket to form up and circle around both the ridge and the fighting to Bohca Ortak to give Ireton a reserve force.
Direbreed had reached the defenders along the length of the ridge and the fighting was savage, according to the reports he was receiving; two-thirds of his artillery was in position and firing, with the rest to enter action within minutes. Ironically, the attack would have been just starting had things gone according to his plans.
Laffery watched the battle and muttered curses; Radet had smashed through the Felher, destroyed a Ket and mauled four more, but had had to withdraw when the First Legion had bee
n unable to follow up the break-through, its Sixth Cohort having to be diverted to help hold the wolf-riders back on the south flank. Radet was re-forming, issuing lances and remounts, and waiting for new orders with his heavy cavalry while three Imperial cavalry squadrons were shifted from the center to the south against the wolf-riders.
The sun was well over an hour past the horizon, the Black Lines were heavily engaged in melee, and Bohca Ortak was still hanging onto the field with no signs of breaking while the heavy cavalry was being worn out and the Heartland’s losses were mounting. For a moment Laffery considered withdrawing to the ridge, and then dismissed the thought: Bohca Ortak was battered but still functioning; should he withdraw the Hand would cease operations and reorganize, returning in a day or two better prepared. So far the odds had not been significantly altered, and this morning’s trick would not work a second time.
The battle had come to a desperate pass; calling over a messenger, he hastily penned an order to Duke Radet.
Markan-Ra of the Third Orbit Joneth scrambled over an abatis, gagging at the stench of the carpet of dead and fast-rotting Direbreed, and turned to direct a Tala in chopping away the spiked tree trunk’s pilings and pulling it aside so that following attackers would have an easier go of it. Joneth was the senior advisor assigned to the Fire Knives Horc, and by rights should have been with the Waghorctein commanding the Horc, ready to advise the Orc general as to the proper course of action, but a spell had slipped past the shamans’ wards and erupted into a yellow-red flicker of horizontal chain lighting that had slain the Waghorctein and two-thirds of his command group, along with both of Joneth’s Human bodyguards. Since the Horc was fully committed to a head-on attack the loss meant very little at the moment so Joneth continued to head up the slope, doing what he could to improve the situation.
