The smell of blood and excrement was almost overwhelming. Slippery entrails underfoot made squelching sounds as armored boots stomped on them. Enemy fell and were trod upon, legionnaires were pulled back as they fell, the men behind them stepping up.
Wainwright did not like this kind of fight. He preferred the long-range battle of his home world. His guts churned with fear as the sound of blades and shields striking each other deafened him. He was sure all of his men were just as afraid, those in front more so, while those in the second rank were worrying about when they would have to step up to the front.
The enemy broke for a moment, running away and taking arrows and javelins in the back.
"Switch off," yelled the colonel, taking advantage of the break.
The front line stepped back, turning sideways to allow the men behind to get by. The men in the rearmost rank moved up and became the front, fresh and rested. They set their shields, just in time to take the next charge. The ranks behind threw their javelins, the pilum taking down scores of the enemy, others getting their shields pierced, the bending shaft of the pilum weighing them down and forcing the enemy troops to drop them on the field.
This time the enemy came on with much greater determination. His men were still killing them three to one, but they outnumbered him six to one. He was starting to wonder if he would have to move back when more soldiers came running up the ramp and reinforced his troops. Moments later, the first of the archers arrived, and immediately began arcing arrows over the ranks and into the mass of the enemy.
"Push out those flanks," yelled the colonel, grabbing and pushing men toward one flank, then the other. If he could extend his flanks, then push back at the enemy, he would have this fight won.
"We have cavalry coming," yelled one of the men set at the top of the earthworks, where they could look over the ranks of the enemy.
"Shit," growled the colonel. As long as the enemy infantry was in the way they were shielded from those horsemen. But if they fell back he would need spearmen at the front. At the moment he had none, his men having left theirs behind to move faster into the assault.
* * *
Dieter stood with Buhbuh and Humphrey on the far bank, looking across the river, not that they could see much what with the could of cannon produced steam obscuring the bank. But they could hear, and all three winced at the sound of steel hitting steel, and imagined the sound of blades striking flesh. They had all been there before, and knew it was not a pleasant situation to find oneself.
“I’m glad we didn’t have to make the assault,” said Humphrey, his eyes narrowed as he tried to pierce the steam. “You know what I…”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Buhbuh, beating him to the chase. “I feel for those poor bastards over there. And I wish I had a pig right about now.”
Dieter had to think about that for a moment before it came to him. A Pig was what the American infantrymen called the M60, the 7.62mm machinegun, slower firing but similar to the G3 used by the German Army. Well, they didn’t have any of them, and never would again. If they could deploy those weapons, and the tanks and artillery, they could have wiped out the enemy guarding that far bank in an instant, without hazarding any of their own soldiers. This was a muscle-powered world, and they would provide the muscle.
“You know we’ll be first up when it comes time to assault the city,” said Dieter, looking at his companions. They had been involved in taking the last bridge, the one where the demons had come down to attack them. They were now in reserve for this attack, while the assault division would gain that rest in the next.
“Don’t remind me,” said Buhbuh, shaking his head. “Those walls look like they’re man killers.”
“No demons,” said Humphrey with a shudder. “At least so far.”
And I pray that there are no more, ever again, thought Dieter. Protected or not, those things were enough to terrify even the bravest of men, which he did not count himself among.
* * *
"Signal the squadron to retire to the other bank," said Hauser, talking through the speaking tube to the signal deck.
Their part of the battle was over, at least as far as providing artillery support. They didn't have many magical gems left, maybe enough for three single broadsides from each ship. Now it was time for their secondary role, that of tow ships. There were a number of barges waiting for them, holding horses and their riders, or field artillery.
The ship vibrated as the steam engines engaged, and the ship started to swing away from the shore, canoes and boats frantically trying to move out of the way.
They know better, thought the commodore. The other vessels had been told to stay clear of the ironclads when it was time for them to move. It was up to his helmsmen and spotters to avoid those who didn't do as they were told, but a couple might be hit.
It was a tense several minutes as the ships swung out, and a couple of canoes were struck, sinking and pulling their armored troopers down with them. The ironclads threw life rings over to the men, but they could not stop. It was important that they build up the army on this side of the river, and nothing else took precedence.
The other steamboats moved past, their decks crowded with men, barges on cables behind. Those boats all stayed in their designated lanes, while bringing the people the first brigade needed to hold the landing zone.
"Full speed ahead," the captain yelled from the command bridge below the flag deck.
The thrumming of the ship increased as the steam engines were ramped up to full power. Hauser looked through the now open port with his binoculars, grunting in satisfaction as he saw the already loaded barges waiting for them. Now all his ships had to do was get into place without sinking any of the barges, and then get them back across the river.
* * *
"Get your asses moving," yelled the sergeant major as men started down the boarding net over the side of the steamboat, clambering into the small boats below. Other men passed the pikes to the boats, where soldiers grabbed the hafts and lowered their lengths along the centerline.
"They need us, you lugs," yelled the sergeant major, once a first sergeant in the American Army, wondering what in the hell he was doing trying to get spearmen into battle, when he had been in charge of a weapons' company on Earth. The strident mindspeak of the colonel in charge of first brigade was in the back of his mind, demanding he and his men get there to repel a cavalry charge.
The sergeant major looked up to see the first of the boats landing, men jumping into the shallows, grabbing pikes out the craft and running up the earthen ramp leading off the beach. That was one platoon, and another was pulling their way toward the shore. They would need at least a company to withstand any kind of a charge, but he could only get them there as fast as they could disembark. He opened his mouth to yell again, but shut it. The men were going as fast as they could. They knew what was at stake, and pushing them wasn't going to speed them up.
Chapter Nineteen
"They're falling back," yelled out one of the junior officers on the line.
Sure enough, the mass of Ellala and Grogatha were falling back, keeping their shields up until they had backed up about thirty meters, and then running to the side.
[They've got cavalry heading your way, sir,] came the mindspeak call, the identification showing it was a battlehawk rider wheeling overhead, where she could see the oncoming horsemen. "They look like lancers."
"Shit." Wainwright knew that his brigade was not ready for a cavalry charge, not until they got their pikemen here. "Form a tortoise," he yelled, waving his sword in the air to get the attention of the rest of his officers.
The enemy infantry had all scattered to the sides, remaining close enough to run back in once their cavalry had shattered his formation. The thunder of hoof beats resonated through the ground, and the first rank of the lancers came into sight, spurring their horses into a gallop as they lowered the heads of their weapons.
The front rank of the tortoise was forming up, jus
t in time. The first rank put the butts of their shields on the ground, kneeling behind them and putting all of their weight into the wall. The next rank put their shields on top of the front, angling them back, while the third lifted theirs up and overhead. And so it continued back for the next three ranks, every man putting his weight into the one in front, lifted shields interlocked.
The first rank of horsemen struck with a thunderous clang of lance head on shield. Most glanced off, some penetrated, and the front line was pushed back as the horses slammed into them. Men in the shield wall pushed their javelins out through the gaps as spears, into the chests of horses, dropping the beasts to the ground. Archers and crossbowmen fired from behind, while those back there with javelins launched them overhead to drop on the cavalry.
The charge broke through in some places, the mass of moving beasts too much for men on foot to stop. In places, the horses clambered over the shields, stomping on those below as the men struggled to keep them in place. The screaming of men and beasts was almost drowned out by the sounds of weapons hitting shields and armor. There was no cover for the stench of spilled blood and bowels.
Horse archers fired arrows into the legionnaires, getting few hits, but those they did get were mostly kills. Lancers dropped broken hafts and pulled heavy swords from their sheaths, pounding the men under. One moment it looked like the tortoise was going to hold, the next that it was going to break. It was enough to keep both sides in the fight, but more horsemen were pushing through the press, and there was still the infantry waiting to come in on their trail.
The first of the pikemen arrived, the colonel catching sight of a couple score running up, pikes leveled. There was no way to deploy them the way they were supposed to be utilized, so he waved them straight into the action. The men knew what they were about, and they ran for the places where the cavalry was pushing through, leading with the tips of their five meter long spears. The cavalrymen were caught off guard, dealing with the infantry under their feet, and the pikes thrust through them as they came in with the weight of the running men behind them.
The enemy infantry then came rushing in, turning the fight into a general melee. This was the kind of fighting they excelled at, and at which the humans were outmatched. There seemed no way to get into the formation needed to break the enemy.
"You men, with me," yelled the colonel as several hundred more heavy infantry appeared. "Form a wedge."
If he could lead these men on the right path, he might be able to salvage this battle yet.
* * *
Hauser watched as the New Berlin's deck crew winched in the cable attached to the barges, making ready to tow them across the river. There were five barges in the string, each thirty meters long by twenty wide. Four of them had as many horses crowded aboard as they could hold, their riders along with them, trying to gentle the confused beasts. The last had artillery aboard, ten of the twelve pounders they used as field guns. The commodore was still a little confused about the nomenclature of the artillery. His boats carried guns designated by the weight of the shells they fired in kilograms, while the field pieces were in pounds. Something to do with the Americans who used them, and something to do with Napoleonic warfare, since that was the weight of the most common field piece of that era.
One of the horses panicked, pushing against the restraining rope, and twisting under them to fall into the river. The beast turned in the water for a few moments, and then struck out for the nearest shore. The men started shouting, and the cavalry officer on that raft started pointing at the horse and yelling for his people to get it back.
"Belay that order," shouted Hauser. "We need to get these people across, now. That beast can come over on another trip."
The crewmen kept winching in the rafts untill they had the first in tight, less than twenty meters from the back of the ship. As soon as the petty officer in charge had signaled the bridge the engines sped up, the screws churning the water and leaving a wake behind that ran up under the barges.
The ship was not moving as fast with the barges in tow, and it would take fifteen minutes to get their loads over to the shore, and probably another fifteen to unload everything, though the swimming horse gave him an idea. Maybe they could release the ropes, push them into the water, and let them swim for it. The armored riders would still have to be landed the old-fashioned way, as would the guns.
* * *
The colonel led his men, standing in the front rank of the wedge as they pushed through the left side of the formation. Their shields were tightly locked, their swords held low and thrusting out, while the second rank backed them up with their weight of body and armor. The men three ranks back held pikes, thrusting them over the heads of the two ranks ahead, as men further in had bow, crossbows and javelins, in use to break up larger concentrations of enemy.
It was a classic formation, used by ancient armies and early twentieth century American football teams. It was like a spear point thrust into tender flesh, and they cut down and trampled Ellala after Grogatha after Ellala.
"Watch the rear," the colonel yelled, looking back as they cleared the side of the formation,
The men in the rear turned in place and set up two more lines, looking back and forming the backside protection for the formation. They sliced through the enemy, cutting into the side of the mass, isolating those at the front who suddenly started to panic. The soldiers they were fighting for cheered and pushed forward, bashing faces in with their shields, and thrusting short, wide blades into limbs and abdomens, leaving injured enemy to bleed out behind them.
The men in the wedge were slipping as their boots stomped on entrails, and many would have gone down if not for the soldiers behind them gripping their harness and holding them upright. The stench was horrific, and many men found themselves unable to breathe due to continuous gagging.
The colonel really didn’t like being in the front rank, and he was tiring fast. He was older than any of his men, and this kind of fighting was a young man’s game. But when he had formed the wedge it had seemed to be the right place, one where he could easily slot in the other men. Now he was stuck here.
It was a brutal fight. The day was hot, and sweat was pouring from men who didn't have the time to take a drink from their canteens. Most couldn't even wipe the blood from their faces, or tend to the minor wounds they had taken. Some bled out on their feet, only able to fight or die.
The colonel felt like all of the strength had left his body. It took complete concentration to raise his sword. He should have been in the center of the wedge, but that was not how it had formed, and he was stuck where he was. The enemy was giving ground, but so far they were not breaking. Considering the loss ratio, it would have seemed the smart move to retreat from this killing field. The only thing that could have kept them here was fear of their own commanders.
Magic crackled in the air, balls of fire and bolts of electricity flying back and forth. The men were saying their mantra, the words they had committed to memory that held to raise a resistant field around them. Those who still followed the gods of Earth did not need a mantra, as they were already immune. A soldier here and there was still badly burned, or electrocuted, as some of the magical energy made it through. Their own mages and priests were fighting back, sending their own power into the enemy. Orcs, the least magical of creatures, took the full brunt of it, while some of the elves seemed as immune as the human faithful.
Overhead, flying beasts screeched, dragons and warbirds. Both sides were now trying to support their ground forces, but so far, all it was resulting in was an aerial battle. Farther away, behind enemy lines, a red dragon fell onto its back, dead. A gold flapped over barely able to stay in the air.
A second wedge formed behind the first and struck out to the side, cutting into the enemy force and slicing inward. Several minutes later, another formed and went to the other side. Enemy cavalry charged and tried to overwhelm those wedges, only to meet with a bristling hedge of spear points. The bugles of the alliance
cavalry sounded from behind, and the officers ordered the wedges to diverge so they could charge through.
The moment of truth came when bolts and arrows started raining down on the enemy from the southern flank. Ebony-skinned elves in chain mail attacked under the cover of the rain, and the enemy flank collapsed. One moment they were giving ground with fierce reluctance. The next moment the back ranks were in full flight, as it became apparent to the ranks in front that there was no one protecting their rear, more turned and fled.
The infantry was too exhausted to pursue. They left that to the cavalry, which rode with lowered lances to spear the enemy in the back. It was not a chivalrous thing to do, but war was not an act of chivalry. If an enemy could be killed on the run, where they couldn’t strike back, then they were to be killed. As many as possible.
The cavalry sped into the backs of the enemy, then slowed to a walk as there became too many to trample. Some enemy turned and fought back, and a few cavalrymen fell from their horses, or in some cases with their horses. Within minutes most of the cavalry had lost their lances. Broken, stuck through the bodies of enemy and unable to be retrieved, dropped or knocked out of hands. That was quite okay with the cavalrymen, who drew swords, axes and maces and used them to cut and smash the heads of the enemy.
"Halt," yelled the colonel as loud as he could. It was not as loud as he would have wished, given his shortness of breath. Fortunately, there were flags and horns to make his commands heard. All of the men in the brigade came to a halt, most breathing heavily, some now leaning on their mates from the fatigue of battle or from wounds.
"Form up in your companies and battalions," he called out after getting some breath back himself. He wanted his men to get a break. He also wanted to see what he had left, and he thought that more important at the moment.
Refuge: Book 5: Angels & Demons Page 22
