“A barge on land,” Cole said with a reluctant nod. “Yeah, I get it. It fits. We’ve all just been calling it the big wagon.”
“Mine is much better. Keep your men nearby, Major Cole.” Michel slowly trailed off, watching as orders were shouted, some confusion about the chain of command was cleared up, and then the Blackhats rode off behind Styke’s cavalry. He looked around, realizing that Cole had already gone to see to his own men, and found that his only companion was Ka-poel. “Did Taniel go with Styke?” he asked.
Ka-poel nodded.
“Right. That doesn’t leave us with much if the Dynize manage to break through the Mad Lancers.”
Another nod, this one slightly more solemn.
Michel’s horse suddenly lurched under him, nearly knocking him from the saddle, and he decided he’d had enough. “To the pit with this,” he said, climbing down once the animal had calmed. “I am not riding on that thing any longer. Horses were meant to pull carriages, not be ridden.”
Ka-poel didn’t look terribly impressed. She turned her own horse around to face the south, then pulled out her rucksack and began to rummage through it again while Michel approached the land-barge, dodging laborers and ropes. He pulled himself onto the platform, then walked alongside the horizontal monolith, doing his best not to touch it, until he reached where Professor Cressel stood at the very front of the land-barge.
The professor pushed his spectacles up, looking to the south. “Are we going to outrun the Dynize?” Cressel asked.
Michel looked pointedly at the ground, moving past at nearly a snail’s pace. He should be grateful they were moving at all, but he fought down his own rising panic and replied, “I’m afraid not, Professor.”
“Do we have enough men to protect the monolith?” Cressel asked.
Michel opened his mouth, thought better of his answer, and changed his “no” to a “maybe.” “Landfall sent a couple of Privileged. That should even the odds.” Unless they have Privileged of their own.
“Ah, excellent.” Cressel patted the monolith affectionately. “We absolutely cannot let this fall into enemy hands. It’s too important.”
Michel leaned on the monolith without thinking, jumping as a spark of static seemed to leap from the stone to his shoulder, then rubbed his hands together to try to get rid of the distasteful feeling the spark had left behind. The whispering in the back of his head had returned, no longer drowned out by the excitement of the move. He wondered if maybe coming up here had been a stupid idea, and looking up found that Ka-poel was riding slowly alongside, the reins of his horse tied to her saddle. She seemed to sense his discomfort and gestured to the horse.
“I’ll stay here,” Michel said. “Less of a chance of breaking my neck, thank you.” The land-barge suddenly lurched, nearly pitching him to the ground and beneath the wheels. He grabbed Cressel to steady himself.
“Are you all right, Gold Rose?” Cressel asked.
“It’s grand master now,” Michel said absently, pointing to the Platinum Rose pinned to his chest. “And no. I hate myself, I hate this stupid monolith, and I hate the bloody Dynize for the fact that I can now see them and—oh shit, Ka-poel, I can see them!”
Ka-poel raised her head, looking toward the south, where a dust cloud now enveloped the sky not a mile away. The distant report of musket fire reached them and Ka-poel went back to digging in her satchel.
“Did you say Ka-poel?” Cressel asked curiously. “Ka is a Dynize title. Is she a Dynize? Are you a Dynize?” Cressel’s eyes suddenly widened. “That’s a Dynize bone-eye title. That woman is a blood sorcerer?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Michel said.
“Blood sorcery! That would explain so much. It could be the key to what we’ve been missing, I …” His ramblings dropped in tone to a mere mutter, and Michel was content to let them stay that way. Nervously he watched the dust cloud, quickly becoming black from powder smoke, and silently willed the teamsters to move the land-barge a little bit faster.
A Silver Rose rode up beside Styke, eyeing him and the banner flying from Jackal’s lance before giving a nervous salute. “Sir, we’re not trained cavalry. I’m not sure how effective we’re going to be against the Dynize.”
“You’ll be plenty effective,” Styke replied, not trusting himself to look the Blackhat in the eye. He considered the irony of him, here, giving orders to a contingent of Blackhats instead of grinding their bones to dust, and then forced himself to think of the much happier fact of Jes’s head now in a sack hanging from Ibana’s saddle.
“We haven’t exactly trained for this.”
“No,” Styke said, “but you’ll manage anyway. Can your men shoot from horseback?”
“Most of them, yes.”
“Good. Split into two groups. I’m not going to bother throwing you at their center—your men aren’t capable of such a charge, and your horses don’t deserve it. I want each group to peel off from our main column and circle the enemy flanks. You’ll act as light skirmishers. Hit them from the sides, and hit them hard with everything you have. Fire at will and all that. Put one of your Privileged on either side and tell them to focus on any Privileged the enemy may have, and then to turn on the infantry.”
The Blackhat seemed relieved not to be participating in a charge. “I think we can do that,” he said.
Styke reached over and snatched the Blackhat by the arm, nearly yanking him out of the saddle. “You’ll know you can do it,” he growled. “You bastards have been gunning for me for two weeks, and if you don’t show some spine and make these Dynize bleed, I’ll hunt you down personally when I’m done with this and put your head in the same sack I put Jes’s. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the Blackhat managed to choke out.
Styke pushed him right back in his saddle and gave him a toothy grin. “And if you keep their flanks off my ass for long enough to win this battle then maybe, just maybe, we can be friends. Now go make sure your men understand all that very clearly.”
The Blackhat rode off, and Styke focused on the approaching Dynize. The infantry were coming on at a double march, arranged in four solid columns that, as Styke drew closer, gradually slowed and fanned out into rows. Styke blinked through sweat dripping into his eyes and pushed back against the niggles of dread and doubt that exhaustion let permeate his brain.
Outnumbered two to one. Cavalry against infantry—infantry that, it seemed, refused to break in the face of superior enemy action. Routing an enemy was the best chance cavalry had against such odds and Styke did not like their prospects one bit.
“Taniel!” he called, turning in his saddle to look for the powder mage. He discovered Taniel about twenty feet behind him, standing in the stirrups, a rifle held to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel as Ibana held his reins. “What is he doing?” Styke shouted.
“His job,” Ibana responded. “They have six Privileged and—”
Taniel’s rifle jumped, the crack making Ibana flinch slightly and then rub one finger in her ear. Taniel watched the horizon, focused, rifle still raised, his lips moving as he counted silently. Several seconds later he lowered his rifle and immediately began to reload. “They have four Privileged,” he reported.
Styke laughed despite himself. “Jackal, relay orders. I want every one of ours with an unbroken lance to form a spearhead. Behind them, the Riflejack cuirassiers, then after them the dragoons. Line us in a column tight and hard, narrow like a flared lance. Six rows of four, then six rows of five, six rows of six, and on. Wedge formation.”
“Do I have to remind you,” Ibana called, “that we don’t have our bloody armor anymore?”
“And the Dynize don’t have sword bayonets.”
“Knife bayonets aren’t a joke.”
“To the pit with them,” Styke said. “If the bastards won’t route, we’ll cut through their center and then tear them apart from behind. They won’t know what hit ’em.”
Taniel raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, then look
ed over at Styke. “You really are a bloody madman.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Styke said. “Jackal, get me a new lance. I’ll tip the wedge.”
Styke’s people were outnumbered two to one. The Dynize, he decided, should have brought more men.
CHAPTER 63
Vlora used her sorcery to ignite a tiny bit of powder almost a mile away. It detonated, and chain reaction was almost instantaneous as the rest of the powder in the ship of the line’s magazine went up with it, tearing the ship in half and hurling the entire mast so far through the air that it almost struck dry land.
The kickback was also instantaneous. Vlora felt it deep in her bones, the force of the explosion like a wine barrel knocking her down a flight of stairs. She nearly fell from her perch on the edge of the wall, fingers gripping the stone with all the strength she could manage. Her head pounded, the wound in her leg, a graze on her shoulder, and a dozen other scrapes and bruises threatening to break through her powder trance as she was overwhelmed with the sensations thrown at her from every direction.
A hook suddenly clattered over the wall immediately beside her, and she spared a glance to find a longboat at the base of the fort, a Dynize infantryman already a quarter of the way up the rope by the time she could pull her knife and cut it. There was a startled scream, then a splash, and three Riflejacks suddenly joined her position and fired down into the longboat while grappling hooks continued to be flung over the wall.
The same was happening all up and down the wall. For almost half an hour the Dynize had tried to gain purchase. The fort was surrounded by corpses and the wreckage of longboats, but more persisted in their attempts. Over on the land, Olem’s men had been driven all the way back to the causeway, where they had now dug in, refusing to budge, fighting in fierce hand-to-hand with the Dynize.
“Colonel coming in!” a voice yelled.
Vlora forced herself off the ramparts, barely able to hold her own weight on the railing as she made her way down into the muster yard. The main gate was opened briefly and Olem staggered in, supported on either side by a pair of privates. His face was covered in blood, his jacket was gone, and one arm was in a sling. She hurried over to him, grabbing him around the neck and pulling him into an embrace.
“Report,” she whispered.
“Still alive,” he grunted. “I left Major Supin in command with orders to hold the causeway at all costs. Pit, I need a cigarette. Whole bloody tobacco pouch is soaked with Dynize blood.”
“At least it’s not your own,” Vlora said, choking back a sudden, unbidden sob. She wasn’t sure where it came from—fear of seeing him like this, or joy that he seemed to be in better shape than he looked.
“No,” Olem replied, “my blood ruined my rolling papers.” He took his arms off the privates and waved them away, testing one foot tentatively before limping over to a bench along the inner wall and sagging into it. Vlora sat down beside him, allowing herself a moment’s rest.
“You look as bad as I feel,” she said.
Olem looked up sharply. “Those ships out there. That was you?”
Vlora nodded.
Olem suddenly turned, grasping her by the face and forcing her to look him in the eye. He studied her for several moments before letting go. “You’re in shock,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she tried to assure him. Distantly, she was aware that he was probably right. Detonating so much powder had consequences, even for someone experienced like her. “Okay, maybe I’m not fine.”
“Don’t do that again,” he warned. “The kickback could kill you.”
“You know,” she said, trying to give her voice a joking tone, “I’m the powder mage here.”
“And, when you were thinking more clearly, you told me in no uncertain terms not to let you pull this kind of shit. An entire magazine going up is no joke.”
Vlora turned away, wishing he didn’t worry so much. This was the time for fighting, not concern. Regrets could be had later. “I’m still alive,” she said. “And I wouldn’t have done it if we didn’t need the help. How’s it going out there?” She flinched as a Dynize cannonball tore through the northeastern wall, sending bits of masonry and bodies flying. Within moments there were Dynize at the breach, but the Riflejacks beat them to it, filling the space with a wall of bayonets.
“Not great,” Olem said. “The Riflejacks are holding together, but the garrison has taken a massive pounding. They’re wavering, and I don’t blame them. The bloody Dynize should have conceded the fight an hour ago, but they just keep coming.”
Vlora watched as a Dynize threw himself over the wall, musket in hand, only to be pincushioned by Riflejack bayonets. “It’s sorcery,” she said.
“You’re certain?”
“It has to be. No one is that brave, or that stupid—no one. Norrine said she hasn’t seen a single Dynize turn and run. I think it’s the bone-eye.”
“Have you been able to find him?”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. Ka-sedial’s ship is three miles out. Taniel could make that shot. I can’t.”
Olem grimaced. “Well, we don’t have Taniel. Is Ka-sedial working alone?”
“I’ve sensed a few other bone-eyes. Managed to kill two. Still looking for the third. Unless we break the will of these bastards, they’re going to overrun us.”
“They don’t have much left,” Olem said hopefully. “Half their fleet is at the bottom of the ocean or on its way, and there aren’t many longboats left in the water.”
“All they have to do is overrun us,” Vlora said. “And they’re real damned close.”
Another Dynize managed to gain the top of the wall. Vlora’s heart leapt in her throat as she realized this wasn’t a normal foot soldier, but a leather-clad dragonman. He was a big, brutish man with a long, delicate-looking white sword, and he cut through several Riflejacks before Vlora could even reach for her pistol. By the time she had it out and loaded, the dragonman had gone down beneath a hail of close-range rifle fire, but he’d done more damage than twenty Dynize soldiers.
“I need to be back up there,” Vlora said, getting to her feet.
Olem grabbed her hand. “You’re not in any shape to do anything but get in the way.”
“Commanders aren’t just there to fight. They’re to be seen.” She limped back toward the stairs, only to come up short at the sound of an inhuman groan that echoed across the bay. The sound sent a shiver down her spine, and she ignored her pain, snorting an extra charge of powder, forcing herself up the stairs to the ramparts. What she saw there took her breath away.
Across the bay, half the ships at port were on fire, smoke billowing high and black into the sky. But that wasn’t what caught her attention. Several of those burning ships were no longer moored, and were actively being pulled out to sea by the departing tide. She rubbed her eyes, uncertain she could trust them as she saw tiny figures running along the decks, untangling rigging, and trying to put out the fires.
“What the …” Vlora stared, openmouthed, as a ship belching black smoke from two sails, with the flames quickly spreading, creaked and groaned in a savage turn, sweeping through the bay waters, coming within spitting distance of the walls of Fort Nied. Its prow crashed through dozens of longboats, forcing the occupants to leap into the water, where they were quickly dragged under by the weight of their armor.
A handful of sailors worked frantically to keep the ship steady, while the familiar figure of Vallencian stood on the aft-castle, legs planted, laughing madly as he fought the wheel.
The merchantman was quickly past the fort, heading at an alarming speed out past the breaker walls. Another merchantman followed suit, then another, while a fourth was quickly abandoned by the sailors trying to keep it under control as the flames grew too perilous. It drifted madly, crashing into breakers.
“What the pit are they doing?” a soldier behind Vlora asked.
Vlora watched, awed, trying to find words. “The Ice Baron is sacrificing his fleet to save this batt
le.” She remembered his comment about the tide going out, then balled her hands into fists. There was no way he was coming back from this—even if he abandoned ship, he wouldn’t be able to swim back, not against the tide. It was a suicide mission for his ships and him and his sailors, and they had to know it.
The remaining Dynize ships quickly turned their cannons on Vallencian’s merchantmen, but to little effect. The merchantmen were already ablaze, nothing more than floating battering rams, and Vallencian’s ship collided full-on with a ship of the line that had managed to avoid Fort Nied’s guns all afternoon. The sound was terrible, a horrible screech like a hundred demons clawing their way from the pit. Both Dynize and Vallencian’s sailors leapt into the water, abandoning the wreckage as both ships began to sink.
The second of Vallencian’s merchantmen crushed the forecastle of another warship, while the third cut behind yet another Dynize ship, destroying the rudder and crushing the rear windows of the aft-castle.
Fighting seemed to grind to a halt as men from both sides stopped to watch the terrible collisions. Vlora gained the edge of the wall, firing her pistol at an officer in a longboat below her, then shaking her head as she felt something snap within her.
At first she thought it was something physical within her—a bone, or a ligament, or just about anything that could go wrong. When she didn’t feel any pain, she looked around her, searching for the source of that snap. It took her several moments to realize that something had changed.
The Dynize, for the first time all afternoon, suddenly wavered.
It wasn’t immediate. Slowly, like a flame exposed to a gradually stiffer breeze, the Dynize offensive seemed to flutter and flex. Their shouting became uncertain, their momentum stalled. Minutes passed as the fighting grew more desperate and then, across the water where Olem’s troops still barely held the end of the causeway, Vlora saw a Dynize soldier throw down his musket and flee back toward the beach.
He was joined by others and then, like a candle being blown out, the entire Dynize army routed.
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