“He will have to,” Kurot snapped. “He has made his move. It is a clever one; I admit it. But I have the countermove, and once he sees that he is outmatched, he will be compelled to give in. Even Janus bet Vhalnich is not immune to the rules of war!”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. God save us from clever officers. All he wanted now was to get back to his men before things got worse. “Understood, sir. I will convey your instructions to General Warus.”
“Please do.” Kurot stared down at the developing battle. “You are dismissed, General.”
The walk to the base of the hill was hard on Marcus’ aching thighs, burning with the unexpected strain of the chase. They got new mounts for the ride back to the Second Division, and Marcus could swear his was glaring at him suspiciously. Maybe bad news gets around, even among horses. He patted the animal, and it chuffed.
The distant rattle of musketry, broken by the deeper boom of cannon, rolled in from below. The battle was getting started.
“Sir?” Cyte said. “Do you think Kurot’s plan will work?”
“It’s our job to make it work, Captain.” Marcus sighed. “If we can.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Thanks, by the way. For saving my neck back there.”
Cyte grinned. “You’re welcome, sir.”
*
Shortly after he returned to his own troops, Marcus gathered the colonels and sent a messenger to summon Fitz. He explained the problem, and Kurot’s plan. Fitz raised one eyebrow, speaking volumes, but nobody objected. As he’d told Cyte, that wasn’t the way things were done.
“Start pushing ahead,” Marcus told Abby as the meeting broke up. “If you run into anything solid, fall back on the other regiments and wait for orders. When Give-Em-Hell gets here, we’ll see if we can press a little harder. And stay in contact with Fitz’ people on your left.”
“We’ll handle it,” Abby said. “Don’t worry.”
And they did. The Girls’ Own fanned out, pressing ahead of the columns of the other regiments. Before long, scattered musketry rose out of the gently rolling fields and stone walls, enemy skirmishers putting up a racket. It wasn’t a serious effort to stop the advance, only slow it, and as the Girls’ Own came on, the opposition fell back. Marcus told Colonel Erdine to assist, and his squadrons rode out to back up the line, charging at knots of the enemy whenever they were flushed from cover. Behind this running battle, the three columns of the formed regiments kept moving, and by watching the smoke on his left Marcus could tell Fitz was keeping pace.
They were making ground, not quickly but steadily, and only a trickle of casualties was coming back to the aid stations. Marcus watched from whatever vantage he could find, accompanied by Cyte and a swarm of young soldiers ready to carry messages. For the most part, though, he didn’t have to interfere. Which is perfect. The less I have to do, the better.
They all heard Give-Em-Hell coming before they saw him, the ground drumming with the sound of thousands of hooves. As dust rose from the road behind them, a small group of horsemen approached. Feeling a little anxious, Marcus turned his spyglass on them and was relieved to see the familiar, diminutive figure of the cavalry commander in the lead. A few minutes later, Give-Em-Hell reined up and slipped out of his saddle, accompanied by several officers Marcus didn’t recognize. The cavalry had been reinforced and reorganized since the Murnskai campaign, though Marcus knew they hadn’t completely made good their heavy losses.
“Good to see you, General,” Give-Em-Hell said. His bowlegs gave him a bit of a swagger. “Nice day for it, eh?”
“Better than rain, anyway,” Marcus said. “Did General Kurot explain things?”
“Only that I was to come to your assistance,” Give-Em-Hell said. “And that something’s happened to Val and the Third.”
Marcus had been doing his best to put that out of his mind. “That about sums it up. We’re driving on to Alves.”
“Excellent!” the cavalryman roared. “Give me a few minutes to get my lads together, and we’ll give ’em hell!”
For once, the horseman’s straightforward approach was entirely appropriate. Marcus nodded, pointing. Up ahead, the line of smoke that marked the front was climbing a low ridge.
“According to the map, that’s the last real obstacle between here and the city outworks,” he said. “Once Abby clears it, take your heavies up there and charge down the other side. If there’s nothing in the way, don’t stop until you get to Alves. If you run into squares, hold back, and I’ll send some artillery to support you.”
Give-Em-Hell nodded. “These rebels haven’t got any horsemen worth a damn. We’ll give them a good kicking.”
“I want your light cavalry over on Fitz’ left,” Marcus said. “Make sure nothing comes at us from that direction.”
That open flank had been gnawing at Marcus’ mind. His right was hard against the river Pale, but his left—the left-hand side of Fitz’ line—was in the air, facing the gap where Val’s Third Division had been. The enemy who’d replaced those troops were supposed to be fully engaged with de Manzet, but he didn’t want them turning about and suddenly hitting Fitz’ line end-on. We’re getting dangerously strung out. It was an inevitable consequence of Kurot’s orders, and the same would have to apply to Janus’ forces, but to an experienced commander it felt like an itch he couldn’t quite reach, a faint premonition of danger. Sending a division of light cavalry to cover the gap was applying a flimsy patch at best, but it would at least serve to warn him if things were about to go sour.
“Easy enough,” Give-Em-Hell said. “Though they’ll be unhappy to miss out on the fun.”
“There’ll be fun enough for everyone by the time we’re done,” Marcus said.
“Right!” Give-Em-Hell roared, grinning hugely. He spun around and scrambled back on his horse. With his officers in tow, he headed back down the road, toward where the first squadrons were just coming into view. They were cuirassiers, intimidatingly big men on big horses, with steel helmets and polished breastplates like medieval knights. They sent up a cheer at the sight of their commander approaching, and Give-Em-Hell acknowledged them with a wave.
Marcus caught Cyte smiling after them. “You’ve worked with the general before, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. At Jirdos.”
It was easy to underestimate Give-Em-Hell, with his short stature and manic attitude; Marcus had, for years. But in his element, with a proper cavalry force behind him instead of the crippled remnant the Colonials had had, he was formidable. Yet another talent Janus picked off the garbage heap.
Marcus relocated his command post to the ridge, in the yard of an abandoned farmhouse, as the heavy cavalry began their attack. It was an impressive array, nearly four thousand horsemen in flashing armor, swords drawn, riding downhill in three successive lines. They passed through the Girls’ Own, who sent up a wild cheer, and bore down on the line of enemy skirmishers. There was no question of trying to hold this back. The blue-uniformed soldiers broke and ran, or hunkered down into cover. The Girls’ Own followed on the heels of the cavalry as fast as they could, taking prisoners as enemy soldiers who’d sheltered under hedges poked their heads up.
So far, so good. From here Marcus had an excellent view. He could see the hill on which Kurot had waited, well behind them now, and the smoke rising from where de Manzet’s battle was continuing. Ahead was the Pale, and—not too distant now—the city of Alves. He could see into its streets: tall, narrow buildings, with church spires rising above them, silver double circles shining in the sun. Closer to them were the fortifications, including a modern star-shaped earthen rampart with outlying ravelins, walls sloped to deflect cannon-fire and studded with embrasures where its own guns could fire out.
Further to the left was the twisty, narrow line of the Daater. This held his attention because he could see troops moving along the river road, not skirmishers but heavy, formed columns of infantry with accompanying artillery. He guessed there were two r
egiments, maybe more—most of a division, at least, apparently marching away from Alves and toward the ongoing battle with de Manzet. They seemed to be in some confusion, and Marcus could readily imagine why, scouts frantically reporting the charging cavalrymen.
“There’s no camp,” Cyte said, coming up beside him.
Marcus frowned. There was nothing to indicate where Janus’ troops had spent the night. “Maybe they packed everything.”
“We should still be able to see where they were. You know what a campsite looks like after we leave.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “You’re right.” Wherever they’d sheltered last night, it hadn’t been on the field. And that means... “Alves has fallen.”
“Oh, damn,” Cyte said. She shaded her eyes and looked down at the advancing horsemen. “Should I send a messenger to Give-Em-Hell?”
“Do it,” Marcus said. “Hurry.”
Cyte swung astride her horse and rode down the ridge. Marcus raised his spyglass again, tracking the Pale as it passed behind the city and beneath its fortifications. It was difficult to see through the clutter, but—
There. He didn’t have a view of the bridge footing itself, but a section of the span was visible, and a steady stream of wagons was passing across it. Brass balls of the fucking Beast.
That meant the worst-case scenario, the one Kurot had dismissed yesterday, had happened: Alves had not only fallen to the enemy, but had fallen so quickly that the defenders hadn’t had time to demolish the crucial bridge. Which means all the fighting we did yesterday was for nothing. Janus already had another crossing for his supplies, closer and more convenient. He only defended Satinvol because he knew he could bleed us.
That, in turn, meant that de Manzet would be facing not opponents short on ammunition after a long siege, but fresh, well-armed troops coming at him from two sides.
“Rider!” Marcus shouted. “Two of you!”
A young man and a woman hurried over, both wearing lieutenant’s stripes. Marcus turned to them and spoke fast and quiet.
“Ride to General Kurot. You’ll have to backtrack and swing wide. Tell him Alves is in enemy hands and they’ve got the bridge. We are not going to be able to attack Janus from behind.” Any attempt to do so would be inviting a strike at his own rear from whatever troops remained in the city.
The pair looked on with wide eyes.
“Tell him I advise—” Marcus stopped, shook his head, then said, “Tell him I request permission to withdraw and extend my left to link up with de Manzet. I should be able to take some of the pressure off him. If we can hang on until nightfall, we can pull back a little farther and stabilize the line. You’ve got all that?”
They both nodded, the girl swallowing hard.
“As soon as you get there, send two riders back with a report on what’s happening, and then wait for Kurot’s response. Go!”
They went, scrambling down the back side of the ridge. Ahead, plumes of smoke rose from the city walls, followed moments later by the dull boom of guns. Give-Em-Hell’s advancing cavalry halted, milling in confusion, as what was supposed to be a friendly fortress opened fire on them. At least they didn’t try to bait them close. At that distance, the damage to the cavalry would be slight. Unless Give-Em-Hell does something really, really stupid...
Marcus held his breath. But even the redoubtable General Stokes apparently drew the line at asking his troopers to ride against a fortress in the face of canister fire. Instead, the cuirassiers turned about smartly and fell back the way they’d come, until they were out of range of the heavy guns on the walls. Thank God.
To the south, the troops he’d glimpsed along the Daater were forming up in line but so far showed no signs of advancing. Marcus’ and Fitz’ divisions were out on a limb, with the Pale on one side, hostile Alves and that line ahead of them, and enemy on the other side with just a light cavalry screen to stop them. The only option was to fall back, but Marcus didn’t dare, not yet. He was, very roughly, where Kurot had wanted him, and if the general proceeded on that assumption, moving out of position would be a disaster.
What I wouldn’t give for a flik-flik line right now. Marcus looked back down the hill, in the direction his messengers had departed, and waited.
*
When riders arrived, it wasn’t from General Kurot, but from the left. Fitz Warus in person led a small group of light cavalry troopers, surrounding a bedraggled-looking lieutenant with the insignia of Kurot’s staff. Marcus hurried down to meet them, grabbing Cyte along the way.
“General,” Fitz said, swinging off his horse. He waved the troopers away, and only the lieutenant dismounted.
“Fitz.” Marcus nodded at the lieutenant. “Have we got new orders?”
“Not exactly.” Fitz was generally the definition of imperturbable, and Marcus didn’t know if he’d ever seen the younger man truly rattled. The grim tone in his voice spoke volumes. “You’d better hear this.”
Marcus exchanged a look with Cyte. The lieutenant came forward, face pale.
“Th-the last I saw General Kurot, he and the rest of his staff were falling back northward. Enemy infantry broke de Manzet’s line along the Daater and pushed in his flank. A cavalry charge came within a few minutes of getting us all.” He shook his head. “I got separated. I thought I’d had it when your cavalry found me.”
“How bad is it?” Cyte said. “Is de Manzet still in action?”
“Bad,” the lieutenant said. “At least one whole division is gone. The Eighth was still fighting, last I saw, but they were close to surrounded.” He looked on the verge of tears. “You have to attack, General d’Ivoire. Turn and break through to de Manzet.”
Too late. Much too late. That was what Marcus had suggested to Kurot hours ago, catching the false Third Division between hammer and anvil. Kurot had sent him in search of a larger victory, though, and now the chance was gone, the anvil broken. And we are well and truly fucked.
“Someone get this man some water,” he said aloud, and a corporal jumped to obey. Once the lieutenant had been led away, Marcus called for a map and unrolled the small, leather-backed version he used in the field. It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, but he stared at it anyway, in hopes of some kind of revelation.
“This is bad,” Cyte said.
“That,” Marcus said, “is a considerable understatement.”
“Indeed,” Fitz murmured.
Kurot had expected to put them across Janus’ supply line. Instead, with the entire left flank of the army swept away, Janus was now squarely astride theirs, between Marcus’ troops and the road back to the Illifen passes and Vordan City. It hadn’t even been a complicated trap, just a simple application of force at the enemy’s weakest point. Damn Kurot. I knew he was too clever for his own good.
“Under other circumstances,” Fitz said, “I’d say this was the time to start asking the enemy commander for terms of surrender.”
“No,” Marcus said. Raesinia is counting on me. I’m not giving up yet. “Not unless there’s no other choice. Are you facing any pressure yet?”
“Nothing substantial,” Fitz said. “But my flank is open. There’s nothing stopping them from circling around and attacking from three sides.”
“So we have to move before they can get themselves organized,” Marcus said.
“Move where?” Cyte said. “You can’t be thinking of attacking the city.”
“And they’ll be waiting for us to attack toward de Manzet,” Fitz added. “Those troops along the river will pounce as soon as we turn our backs.”
“So we hit them first,” Marcus said. “Push right through them and cross the Daater. Then turn about and hold the line of the river against anyone who tries to follow.”
Cyte frowned at the map. “Is there even a crossing?”
“Not a bridge,” Marcus admitted. “But there’s a couple of fords marked here.”
“We’ll never get wagons across,” Fitz said. “And even the guns will be di
fficult.”
“Forget the wagons. Once we’re past the river, we can get fresh supplies from the towns to the south. Janus hasn’t reached them yet. Their depots should still be full.”
“Even if we manage it,” Cyte said, “we won’t hold the river line. Not for long. If nothing else, Janus can march down the Pale and outflank us.”
“We’d have to fall back south,” Fitz said.
“Exactly,” Marcus said. “We’ll retreat, as slowly as we can manage. As long as we keep him in play, Janus can’t turn away and head for Vordan City without splitting his forces. That gives Queen Raesinia time to put together a defense.”
Cyte shook her head. “You really think she can come up with something?”
“There are still troops coming in from the frontiers, recruits in training.” Marcus gritted his teeth. “I’m not giving up unless she says so. This is the best we can do to help her.”
“I agree,” Fitz said. “But there’s still at least a division in our way.”
“Then let’s get started.”
*
Some hasty reorganization followed. The Girls’ Own, driven by Abby and the shouts of dozens of frantic sergeants, double-timed back past the rest of the division, shifting the skirmish screen to the rear. A detachment went to the baggage troops, stripping the wagons of everything that could be carried and freeing the horses for use as pack animals. The light cavalry of the reserve remained on the left, sending regular reports on the steadily diminishing sounds of battle from the direction of de Manzet’s divisions.
One of Fitz’ regiments was assigned to the left as well, forming up to watch for any attempt by enemy infantry to push inward from that direction. Blackstream’s regiment performed a similar duty on the right, facing the walls of Alves. That left five regiments—Sevran’s, de Koste’s, and three of Fitz’—to push forward. Opposing them were three regiments, which Marcus’ scouts reported as being from the old Tenth Division. Marcus knew the commander, General Beaumartin, only distantly, but he wondered if the man was still in charge or if he’d been replaced with someone more pliable. Or is he doing the job with glowing red eyes?
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