by RW Krpoun
The charge across the flat ground from the final staging area to the base of the slope had been rough as they had come under artillery fire for two-thirds the distance, the run made worse by the appalling stench from the mounds of rotting Direbreed corpses; as they had begun to struggle up the slope the spell had killed the command group as arrows and quarrels began to fall into their ranks. Clearing away the abatis and other barriers slowed their advance, but it ensured that the following troops would have an easier time of it, a vital concern for the Hand, if not the Orcs.
Kicking a couple caltrops into a knee-breaker hole, Joneth pulled up a stake and waved it to urge the Orcs on, passing a rope-tangle post which had a half-Goblin slave stapled to it by a siege crossbow’s quarrel, three gory Breedstones lying in the corpse’s lap. Pausing to use a discarded axe to chop apart the rope tangles for a space of about twenty feet, the priest became separated from the Orcs he had been with. Unconcerned, he moved upslope, clearing stakes here and there and bending the points of caltrops with the blunt back of the axe. Behind him teams of engineers advanced up the slope clearing away the barriers and trailing white-washed rope to mark the best paths of advance.
The easing of pressure on her center was a wondrous gift to Ireton, who immediately withdrew the three Ket which had been fighting there to add to the five which constituted her reserve, the surviving wolf-riders having to remain in the line to shore up the foot Lardina which had broken. Even as the Ket disengaged the other foot Lardina on the right wing collapsed, requiring three Ket to plug the gap. Minutes ticked by, minutes marked with the stiffening of her right wing, which managed to halt its retreat and even to gain back a few yards. Hope began to build in her heart, the hope that the four intact Ket on their way from Bohca Tatbik to bolster her reserve might arrive before anything else went wrong.
The reason for the relief of pressure on the center by the withdrawal of the Imperial cavalry was explained when those same squadrons slammed into the Lardina on her left wing, smashing the battered Goblin formation apart. The five Ket in her reserve were still not fully reorganized and numbered barely nineteen hundred nomads, but she sent them head-on into the gap as the medium cavalry and Imperial foot poured through, throwing in a Band from the Fourth Holding a moment later.
The prompt action by her reserves closed the gap and restored the left wing just as the Arturian foot opposing her center expertly opened ranks to allow the heavy cavalry through, the shock of the double charge blasting the Forty-Fifth Holding apart in the same manner as the Thirty-Seventh. Instead of halting and reforming as was their habit, however, the first line of horsemen continued through, swung north, and slammed into the Goblins on the right wing from behind, crushing the remnants of the foot and wolf-rider Lardinas between the horsemen and the Imperial foot, destroying them completely. Meanwhile, the second line of horsemen swung south and struck the Twelfth Darkhost from the rear, crushing them into the infantry they faced.
In seconds her center and both wings were broken just as she had committed the last of her reserves; as the heavy cavalry withdrew, infantry poured through the three gaps.
“Messenger, to me!” she bellowed over the searing noise of the battle.
“I don’t care what her losses are!” Descente roared, partly in anger and partly to be heard over the Horc that was moving past at the trot, armor and weapons jangling. “Bohca Ortak will hold the field until I give the order to withdraw. If Commander Ireton cannot carry out those orders, she is to hand over her command to the senior subordinate who can. Understood?”
The Markan-Ra liaison officer stared at the Grand Commander for a long moment. “Yes, sir.”
Descente faced the ridge again watching as the Horc that had just passed, the last uncommitted Horc, formed up preparatory to advancing on the ridge. Engineers swarmed the slope clearing away the barriers as Orcs and Direbreed hammered at the defenders; the ridge line was weakening, he could sense it in the confused reports coming back down; all he had to do was push a little harder and this battle could be his.
Bohca Ortak stood and tried to fight, much like a snake which had been run over by a cart and its back broken in three places. Commander Ireton, enraged over the orders she had received, nevertheless tried her best to implement them, but the enemy infantry had followed hard on the heels of the horsemen and the gaps were uncloseable no matter what she did. The best she could do was to rove up and down her line exhorting her troops to fall back in good order in order to close the breaches by shortening her line.
It was a viable, if desperate plan, but as it turned out one that was beyond her tired units, who had been fighting since dawn. The Eyade were the first to go, breaking down into their individual Kia and falling back without orders, heading for the night-camps. The Orcs couldn’t seem to manage a fighting withdrawal, being better suited to offensive actions, and within minutes all three Horcs had split up and were streaming to the rear. The Direbreed formed squares and fought well enough, but it had not escaped them that they were retreating which meant that the Breedstones of the fallen would be taken by the enemy and destroyed, and their rate of withdrawal was steadily accelerating.
Within twenty minutes of her receipt of the stand-fast order Markan-Hern of the Sixth Orbit Ireton held an acre or so of the Royal Highway with the Twenty-Sixth Holding, some Death Hound Orcs, and three battered Darkhosts, none of her units greater than half strength and hotly pressed on all sides.
“Messenger, to me,” Ireton called.
“So, Bohca Ortak is finished,” Descente observed after the liaison officer finished his report.
“Yes, sir.” The man’s voice was stiff, offended. “And so, with your permission, I shall rejoin it, sir.”
“Granted.” The Grand Command turned and shouted for his operations officer over his shoulder. “Kansa, where are those Kets we sent to help Ireton?”
“They’ve pulled back to the ten we had harrying the enemy’s north flank, sir.”
“Do we have enchanted communication with the Eyade?”
“Yes sir, and with the wolf riders as well.”
“Good. I am appointing you as the commander of Bohca Ortak, Commander Ireton, if still alive, is relieved without prejudice. Have a Ket meet you halfway and act as your bodyguards, report to me as soon as you have a clear estimate of what forces remain; I imagine you’ll have to go back to the night camps to find what’s left.”
Kansa saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
“Get the order in writing and bring it to me as you leave, and send me your deputy.”
Markan-Hern of the Fourth Orbit Septak reported within moments, obviously pleased to be the new operations officer. Descente returned his eager salute and gestured to the dust-hazed ridge. “Ortak is finished, but the bulk of the Heartlands is still in the field on the east side of the ridge. Order the flanking Eyade and wolf riders to break contact and fall back on line with the ridge to slow the enemy should they come around either side. What do we have being reformed?”
“Two decimated Darkhosts, another two hundred re-Seeded Direbreed, and about a hundred Fire Knives, sir. Say one thousand, all told.”
“All right, hold them in place with instructions that they are to receive their orders from Markan Arcont, send the same instructions to the uncommitted Minions. Send Arcont to me.”
Markan-Ra of the Seventh Orbit Arcont reported moments later, a short, scarred man who had crossed the Wall as a Fifth Orbit, with a promotion for his excellence at the First Battle at Apartia and again at the Third Battle at the Royal Bridge; he was the most trusted of Descente’s field commanders, and the Grand Commander had been holding him back for just such a time. “There are some dregs off the ridge in the center assembly area; take them as arrow cover, and attack the village itself with the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, and Thirty-Third Holdings; you’ll have eight Minions with you, and I’ll send in every winged beast I have when you make contact.”
Arcont nodded shortly. “What about a Sacred Band?”
The officer studied the slope briefly. “Yes, I’ll hold them in reserve.”
“Fine. All the units are in the final staging area and ready to go. Attack as soon as you can brief your subordinate commanders. Once you take Dorog, dig in and await reinforcement and orders; hold Dorog at all costs.”
The priest saluted and trotted off. Descente watched him go and nodded to himself; those three Holdings had been under Arcont’s command for weeks, and the commanders knew him well. If anyone could break through, Arcont would, and when he did, a promotion to Hern would be his.
If he failed...Descente drove the thought from his mind. Six thousand fresh troops plus around a thousand tired ones, supported by Minions, winged beasts, and what enchantment was left in his spellweavers striking at one point should crack the Heartland line a hammer hitting a sheet of glass.
Or so he hoped.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Grand Marshal Laffery found Duke Radet sitting on a mound of Hand dead drinking from a stoneware bottle, his battered helm lying on the boot-torn ground by his feet, the visor ripped away and the crest-holder gone as well, leaving a shiny stub of metal standing out against the battered green lacquer. Around him his command rested while the Sixth Legion harried the shattered remnants of Bohca Ortak back down the Highway.
“Six charges in just over two hours,” Laffery saluted the tired nobleman. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my days.”
“Neither have I, and more importantly I never want to see anything like it again.” Radet offered the bottle to his commander, who declined. “And we’re still not done.”
“I hate to ask this, but how soon can you have your men ready to charge again?”
“I hate to even think about it, but in thirty or forty minutes, probably. We’re nearly out of remounts and the lances are almost gone, but that doesn't matter so much as there’s a good deal fewer men needing either; I haven't gotten a count after this last charge, but I would guess I’ll have about a third less than I did two hours ago, not counting the Imperial squadrons.”
“Don’t count them, they’ll be assigned elsewhere. You’ve done magnificently, your Grace.”
“My men performed magnificently, Grand Marshal; I just rode along with them.” The nobleman nudged a corpse at his feet. “This was the Bohca commander; she didn’t do a half-bad job, either. Quite a soldier, even if she’s as ugly as a sick mule.”
“Yes, her army was well-handled; I had hoped to bring this about in an hour’s time, but she held us for two, and that a near-run thing. If you’ll excuse me, your Grace.”
The Eyade and wolf riders to the north and south were pulling back into covering positions to delay his advance should the Heartland move around either side of the ridge; Laffery gave that some thought as he ordered the five Imperial squadrons to harry the retreating survivors for another mile up the Royal Highway and then establish a skirmish line to ensure that Bohca Ortak stayed put. A messenger was sent to the Lanthrell commander asking that a small force be sent to aid the Imperial horsemen, and that the rest of the Lanthrell skirmish against the enemy’s mounted troops on either flank of the ridge in order to keep the commander of Bohca Tatbik guessing.
The reports were coming in as he dispatched those units; the four Legions had taken moderate losses, and First Legion was badly disorganized. The Hatche had taken losses, the Third the worst, but they were still full of fight, while the Lasharian Royal Foot Guards had taken punishing losses while facing the wolf-riders and were nearly useless as a unit until they could undergo an extensive reorganization.
He ordered the Foot Guards into the White Lines of the South Ridge, and for all other infantry units to halt, reorganize, and move to the east foot of the ridge; he was staring at a map as an aide gave him the latest estimate of the enemy’s dispositions when a messenger galloped up on a frothing horse.
“Sir, the enemy is attacking the village-position of Dorog in massive force. Marshal von der Strieb reports that the situation is critical; Commander Forgetamer and King Nicholas are sending what help they can.”
The Grand Commander turned in his saddle and stared at the ridgeline whose crest was so hazed in dust that it appeared as if the very soil was smoldering. “So, we come to this.” From his position he could see the four Legions and the Third Hatche reforming a mile and a half east of the ridge, the Fifth and Seventh Hatche a mile north, and Radet’s horsemen shuffling together in a weary mob a mile and a quarter from the slopes; the five Imperial squadrons were out of sight down the Highway, and the Eight only knew where the Lanthrell were.
His eyes fell upon the shambling ranks of the Lasharian Royal Foot Guards, not even a unit any more, just a thousand-odd men moving from one bloody field to another, seven hundred yards from the eastern slopes of Dorog ridge. “Get a fresh horse and advise the Marshal we are coming.”
The Fourth Cohort of the Thirty-Seventh Legion had been in place in the fortifications built around what had been the village of Dorog since the evening before, and had been pleased when they had been informed that this was going to be their battle position, allowing the cohort to be in the thick of things without marching to get there. The Cohort commander, Captain Grotboer, had deployed four of his six companies along the west side of the fort and held the remaining two companies in reserve.
The village-position was a box-shaped fort now, with an earthwork and stone wall studded with archer positions encompassing it. Two onagers, or light catapults, were mounted on raised platforms in such a manner that they could fire to either the east or west, while a massive timber tower rose out of the center of the town, affording an excellent view of the area. The tower and the west wall supported several post-mounted siege crossbows, and the former was occupied by numerous dignitaries who had nothing better to do, including the Duchess of Sagenhoft and several noblemen who had attached themselves to the army. Initially it had been expected that Grand Marshal Laffery would use the tower to coordinate the overall battle, but events had dictated otherwise.
The fort had had three Imperial wizards of varying degrees of skill assigned to it, but they, like nearly every other spellcaster in the three armies doing battle today, had long since expended their powers and withdrawn to safer quarters; the magical portion of the battle had left the Fourth largely unaffected, although early on in the battle a swarm of colored sparks had darted along a rampart and slain twenty-two members of the Fifth Company. The enemy’s artillery had done worse damage: the great observation tower gave them a perfect ranging reference, and in the last hour the town had been hit with over three hundred stones ranging from eight to twenty pounds, killing or wounding over fifty of the Cohort. Their onagers, fondly called ‘mules’ by the Legionaries because of the way firing recoil made the stubby little weapon lift it’s back frame off the ground, had wreaked far heavier losses upon the foe, and were still heaving five-pound stones with clock-like regularity.
For the last two hours the village had been under more or less continuous attack by Direbreed and Orcs, and while the position had held, losses were mounting, and the Legionaries were growing weary despite the rotation of companies from wall-duty into reserve and back again. Captain Grotboer had taken to walking the ramparts behind his hard-fighting troops, disturbed at the enemy’s seemingly endless wells of manpower and the wild abandon with which they threw themselves at his position. The slopes below the village were nearly clear of the barriers and traps which had weakened and disrupted the first waves, and still the enemy came on. Worse, the deep, stake-lined ditch in front of their wall was better than half-full of enemy dead, covering the stakes and reducing its effectiveness as a barrier or even as an impediment.
Grotboer understood today’s plan: strike before the enemy was ready and defeat each force in turn; it sounded good, but in practice it looked as if they were taking far too long to the east.
The significance of four Holdin
gs moving forward in neat formation with a dark line of Direbreed and Orcs moving in front like a fat skirmish line did not escape the weary Captain; he immediately sent runners off to Marshal von der Strieb reporting this development and requesting reinforcement, and sent another company into the line to beef up his defenses. The two onagers immediately took the attacking force under fire, but five-pound stones could do little to offset the advance of over nine thousand enemy troops.
Eithne Sorgen, seventeenth Duchess of Sagenhoft, Protector of the Sea-Gate, Champion of the Light and Master of the Knights of the Eastern Star, had a pounding headache and a growing irritation that was reaching murderous levels. She had been bundled off to the great elevated platform over Dorog like a child being sent out of the room while the adults discussed matters of importance, and what only made it worse was that it was quickly evident that that had been the best course of action for her to have taken.
The tower’s platform was a plank deck sheltered under a pitched roof of red clay tiles stripped from the dismantled houses in the village below, accessed by a broad zigzag plank staircase fitted with polished rails. Four-foot plank and timber bulwarks lined the edge of the deck, with two stout posts on each side for the mounting of steel-framed siege crossbows; only the two posts facing the west had been equipped with the weapons, however.
