Culich led the Tri-Clan Alliance advance. Their instructions were more intricate. They aimed at the junction between the last Narthani infantry block and the Eywellese cavalry screening their flank. The twelve hundred Alliance horsemen would only feign an attack. Most would pretend to retreat or would slide slowly left in front of the Narthani. Only two hundred riders would follow Culich in tempting an Eywell pursuit into the ambush. Although they hoped to stay out of effective musket range and out of alignment with the Narthani artillery position, they would still take casualties—a price Culich understood had to be paid.
Erkan Ketin sat on his horse a hundred yards behind the central infantry block, along with his staff and signalmen carrying the flags that would direct the planned force movements. So far, the Caedelli were cooperating in taking the bait to attack what they saw as the weak Narthani center. The two smaller groups of clansmen might not enter the trap, but the large central group, now at a canter, was aimed directly at him and had enough horsemen for a crushing blow.
Hetman Brandor Eywell watched from the head of his fifteen hundred men, his oldest son, Biltin, next to him, trying to control his black stallion from biting other horses. For his youngest son, Demian, who was only seventeen, this was his first major fight, and his father thought it time. The boy was eager enough, though not experienced in leading older men.
Brandor could see the Tri-Alliance horsemen approaching his position. He had feared they would attack the Narthani directly and not give him a chance to pay back his clan’s traditional enemy, the hated and arrogant Keelanders.
Major Patmir Tullok stood left of his command, the rightmost Narthani infantry block of five hundred pike and musket men. It was his first battle as a major, and his block’s primary task was protecting the flank of the artillery batteries containing half of the army’s cannon. They also formed one end of the arc of the trap. To his right were the Eywellese riders and the sounds of their horses shuffling hooves in place, neighing and snorting, and the voices of their riders made it necessary for his subordinates to raise their voices to be heard. It would worsen, because the rumbling of the Caedelli horses moving into a gallop was just rising above the Eywellese noise. Once the artillery and his muskets opened fire, it would be impossible to hear anything from the man next to him without shouting in his ear.
Denes and the four men commanding a hundred each watched to the east, where three men stood on a hilltop a half-mile away. Those three men could see the battlefield hidden from Denes’s view. There were three men to ensure the correct signal was given. They each had two flags lying on the ground in front of them. A raised red flag meant the plan was called off, and Denes was to withdraw back to the original Tri-Alliance position. A white flag meant the clans had moved to a full gallop and Denes’s group was to move into ambush position. He didn’t know which flag he hoped for most.
His wondering ended when a man next to him shouted, “The white flags!”
Denes jerked his head to the northwest, and there they were—three waving white flags. “You’re off, Wainrin,” he ordered to his cousin, who was leading the hundred men in their vanguard. Wainrin acknowledged with a touch to his hat and rode off to his men, some of whom had also seen the flags and were mounted by the time he got to them. They rode hard toward their intended position, followed by the next two hundred, the eighty men of the artillery group, including Yozef and his bodyguards, and the final hundred. Four hundred Mittackese waited farther back and would follow Denes’s group to await the outcome of the ambush.
Not from his own choosing, Yozef found himself leading the pathetic excuse for Keelan artillery. He had no sooner sat in the saddle than Seabiscuit followed Carnigan’s and Wyfor’s mounts to the front of the carriages and crews. He shifted uneasy in the saddle, knowing he was no leader. By the time they moved a half-mile, he realized his mood had shifted almost to anticipation before he jerked himself back to reality. He knew from reading and experience with gaming that a martial spirit was addictive, but this wasn’t a game. Men would soon be dying, even possibly himself.
Christ, I hope they understood enough to break off if any part goes wrong.
He also prayed that having any plan was a good idea.
Aivacs Zulfa stood at his command position on an eight-foot-high platform rising from a slightly higher portion of the flat plain. From there, he had partial views of his army’s deployment and the Caedelli. So far, so good. If they kept coming, the middle group would be entirely within the killing zone. They’d moved from a trot to a canter. Soon they’d have to be at a full gallop. He knew even the inexperienced Caedelli must realize the need to close the distance in the shortest time once they were in musket and cannon range. Where they erred was expecting to survive to close with his troops. Their mistake would be fatal and the beginning of the end of clan resistance.
The drumming of his own horse’s hoofs striking the ground was felt but not heard by Culich Keelan: the thunder of thousands of hooves drowned out any other sound. He and the accompanying riders carrying Keelan Clan banners were thirty yards behind the leading riders. His men had insisted he have a screen in front of him for when they came within Narthani and Eywell shot range. It rankled him to know his men offered themselves as living shields, for he still felt the pull of the traditional Caedellium code of leading from the front. Another part of him was ashamed that he couldn’t hide from himself some measure of relief for his own safety.
“Now!” exclaimed Zulfa into the air, as he watched the central clan mass of horsemen approaching the edge of shot range. As if Ketin had read his mind, Zulfa saw signalmen hoisting colored banners on poles. Within moments, there was a shift in the Narthani block positions, the single isolated central block moving back, the side blocks turning slightly inward, and the two side reserve blocks trotting forward to fill the gaps alongside the central block. The entire change took less than a minute to form an arc with the main clan mass charging straight to the arc’s focal point.
Hetman Gynfor Moreland was eight hundred yards from the Narthani central block when he saw them raise their ranked pikes, turn, and run to their rear. A quick glance to the neighboring blocks also revealed movement.
They’re breaking! Gynfor exulted to himself. I told those timid fools at the conclave the Narthani footmen would break when they saw us bearing down on them—no men on foot can stand up against a horse charge!
All thoughts of the agreed-on plan evaporated. He had a fleeing enemy in front of him, and he led an irresistible wave of riders. He would ride them down, crush the Narthani, and show the other clans who not to trifle with! They roared past the stopping point. Several of his leaders looked at him, waiting for the signal to turn. He held his sword high, then pointed straight at the Narthani and urged his horse on ever faster. Three thousand Moreland riders—one hundred across and thirty deep–followed his vision of glory.
Welman Stent had waited for Hetman Moreland’s signal to halt the charge. At first, he stared dumbfounded when, instead of flags signaling to break off the charge, Moreland swung his sword in a circle, pointed straight at the Narthani, and continued the charge. It took Stent ten seconds to process what was happening. By then, they had closed the distance to the Narthani by another hundred yards.
The idiot is carrying through the charge, instead of holding up! God damn all idiots!
Stent pulled up his horse, which still took him another thirty yards deeper into the now-formed Narthani arc, albeit just at the right portion of the arc. The Stent riders behind and beside him also reined in, but almost fifty men were too far in front and didn’t see they were now the only Stentese still charging. Stent pointed to their right, and they moved parallel to the Narthani. Several riders had been pulling bales of hay, which were now lit and the burning bales dragged along the ground behind the main Stent body, setting some of the partially dry grass on fire.
To the Moreland left, a similar shock was going through hetmen Lordum Hewell and Klyngo Adris. Hewell hesitated longer than
Stent, costing the Hewellese another fifty yards, but Adris stopped at the agreed position and wheeled left.
Culich saw the coming disaster the moment the Moreland hetman committed his men. Unlike the other hetmen, he instantly understood what was happening. He also recognized that the Moreland action made no difference to his role and that as bad as the disastrous move was for Moreland, it helped his own part by focusing Narthani attention to the center.
They continued their charge until within two hundred yards of the Eywellese. Culich could easily identify Brandor Eywell.
That pompous ass still dresses like a male murvor displaying flashing feathers and goes helmetless to show everyone that ridiculous head of hair.
He nodded to his flagmen, and they signaled Luwis and the Gwillamese to lead their men in a simulated retreat. The remaining two hundred riders followed Culich another fifty yards and then turned south and feigned retreating away from the battle scene and down the open alley toward the stream, the waiting dragoons, and their pitiful Keelan artillery.
From his vantage point, Zulfa watched the central cavalry mass flow into the Narthani cul-de-sac. The apparently isolated central infantry block was joined on both sides by blocks previously held to the rear. There were now nine blocks plus the two artillery groups forming an arc two-thirds of a mile across. He regretted the two flanking masses had stopped their charges.
No matter, he thought. This way, even more Narthani firepower would focus on the central group, while still holding off any new charges on the flanks.
As more and more clan horsemen flowed into their trap, Zulfa gauged when it was time to spring. Just as he was about to say to himself, Now, Ketin, now’s the time, Ketin seemed to read his mind again, and a rocket shot up from Ketin’s observation position. Within seconds, the Narthani arc erupted in flame and smoke. Sixty cannon firing canisters and twenty-seven hundred muskets fired within three seconds. The Moreland charge hit a wall.
Gynfor Moreland saw the smoke and seconds later heard the thunder. The Narthani line vanished behind white smoke. Then most of the riders in Gynfor Moreland’s view crashed to earth, as horses and riders were hit by musket and canister balls, some of the leaders hit several times. Clouds of blood exploded in Moreland’s vision, horses collided with those down, and screams of men and animals rose over hoof beats. Whereas an instant earlier Moreland had ridden behind a thin screen of riders and had masses of more riders in his peripheral vision, he suddenly rode alone. Glancing to his rear, he could see mounds of downed riders and horses with more coming behind them crashing into their fallen brethren. Those Morelanders still ahorse snaked their ways around the chaos and kept coming. Among those missing were his two sons, Owain and Caedem.
They must have fallen, rose to his stunned mind.
Perhaps only their horses had been hit, and they had jumped from their saddles before crashing with their mounts. Both were such good riders and had been since they were eager children first learning to ride from their father. The incongruousness of the scene flashed through Gynfor Moreland’s mind at that moment and was lost forever when a second volley of muskets ended his universe.
Welman Stent’s heart was stout, but it froze when the Narthani fired. He could see some of his men and their horses fall, mainly those who had been in front and failed to see his signal to stop. Of those fifty, perhaps half went down. Those few remaining looked around and saw their isolation and reined in. Stent waved at them to get back. Ten of them made it. The Narthani firing continued, and with each volley a few of his men fell. Even outside of the presumed effective range, a few balls found human and horse flesh. By the fourth volley, the smoke from the Narthani line and the smoldering grass fires being set by clansmen spread a cloak over the battlefield, and the Narthani were firing at where the islanders had been, instead of where they could be seen. Stent pulled his group farther back and the bulk of the Stent, the Hewell, and the far too few surviving Morelander horsemen used the smoke to withdraw back to their original positions and let the Narthani waste ammunition firing through smoke. By the time the remnants of the Moreland debacle escaped the trap, the plain was carpeted with dead, dying, and wounded men and horses. The cries and screams of both reached ears two miles away.
From Zulfa’s elevated position, he could see the main islander charge disintegrate, as hundreds of clan riders and their horses went down. It had not worked as well as hoped, but then what battle plan ever did? Not all of the middle group of Caedelli had entered the trap, and the two flanking groups withdrew or stayed out of range. He regretted that not more of the clansmen had fallen, but the bodies littering the battlefield gave evidence that the central group had suffered catastrophic losses.
Not all Moreland horsemen either fell to the volleys or retreated. Despite the storm of lead, enough horsemen survived and kept moving forward that not even the disciplined Narthani ranks had been able to hit them all. A hundred riders reached the Narthani infantry blocks, only to find, as Yozef predicted, that the wall of pikes was too much even for their shocked horses. Those temporarily spared flowed between the infantry blocks. Once to the rear, they found no succor. They were too few, scattered, and too unled to have any noticeable effect on the infantry blocks. The Narthani musket men turned their muskets to the rear and picked off individuals. None that penetrated the Narthani line survived more than two minutes.
Zulfa saw all of this. Erkan Ketin, his initial task complete once he signaled for the trap to be sprung, fell back to Zulfa’s position with his staff and guards. Zulfa would use him as a reserve commander, if needed and if a major change in plan was warranted. Having a senior commander deliver changes was more likely to be obeyed immediately.
Most of Zulfa’s attention was on the center of the Caedelli charge, and the devastation was gratifying. It was too bad about the flanks. They’d wanted more of the clansmen in the kill zone.
What should be the next move? The two flanking masses of islanders were intact, as were the parts of the central group that pulled up before entering the kill zone, so sending in his cavalry and island auxiliaries in an envelopment wasn’t automatic. He strained to see through the smoke. The battlefield obscurity wasn’t as bad as some battles he had been in. Only his own men had fired significant powder; few Caedelli got off shots. From his elevated position, he could still see more than in other battles he’d been in, where, after the first few volleys, neither side could see more than a hundred yards, and it became a game of intimate contact orchestrated by imperfect information on dispositions. The islanders setting the grass afire was unexpected. Now that firing had slackened, the smoke should begin to clear.
Chapter 30: Ambush
The results of the Moreland charge were unknown to Culich. Although he saw the Morelanders continue toward the Narthani position and heard and witnessed the Narthani fire, his focus had narrowed to the Eywellese. He stayed in the vanguard of his clansmen, even though endangering himself. For their plan to work, the Eywellese must see him and his banners and follow them as he “fled.” The Keelan banners couldn’t fall. If any bannerman fell, others would pick up the banner. His men also had instructions that if their hetman were killed, they would tie his body upright in his saddle and lead his horse. Neither Culich’s wife nor Maera knew his saddle had braces at his back for such a task and not to help him stay on his horse, as he’d told them. If his horse fell, his body and saddle would be transferred to another mount.
The pounding of his horse’s hooves reverberated up his backbone and jolted his bad knee. He heard cannon and musket firing, but he and his clansmen weren’t the main targets, although he did see a few of his men and horses fall.
By the time they were two hundred yards from the Eywellese, Luwis led the feigned retreat, leaving Culich and two hundred riders.
For Brandor Eywell, the battle was frustrating in both planning and execution, because the Narthani had relegated his people to doing nothing, which was what he considered protecting the Narthani right flank. He watched, as th
e other clans deployed into three points of attack, and he understood the logic behind Zulfa’s plan. He reassured himself that he and his clan would be on the winning side in this battle; the other clans were clueless what they were up against. Still, the traditional feuds and histories chaffed that he wouldn’t have an opportunity to strike at old enemies. Then God smiled on him. He recognized the Keelan, Gwillamer, and Mittack banners facing his side of the Narthani deployment. Maybe there was a chance to pay Keelan back for past indignities, after all.
He also identified the banners of the Moreland-led group. Too bad the Adris and Hewell clans had stopped. He smiled to himself at the same time that he winced when the Morelanders rode oblivious to their deaths. Once the firing started, he lost sight of anything except what was directly to his front. His eyes fixated on the cluster of Keelan banners, where Culich Keelan himself would be. His face turned first to stone and then red with fury when he saw his own banner inverted under Keelan’s.
That arrogant bastard even now can’t refrain from insults—and this . . .?
Wait. His eyes narrowed.
When the charge in front him seemed to falter and most of the riders retreated or wheeled left, he cursed in disappointment until he realized that the riders to the far right were still coming. There couldn’t be more than a few hundred of them, including Keelan himself.
What’s the arrogant prick thinking? That Eywell would run just at the sight!
The thought fueled his anger. Was this his chance? An opportunity to pay back the hated Keelanders? Killing Culich Keelan and many of his best men would cripple the Tri-Alliance and solidify the Eywell position in a Narthani-dominated future.
The Pen and the Sword (Destiny's Crucible Book 2) Page 37
