Ten battalions against six. Not ideal odds, for an attack against a prepared enemy. Marcus’ best asset was Give-Em-Hell and his horsemen. If he can be persuaded to stick to the plan. He’d given his orders, with particular emphasis on when to charge and when not to charge, and now all he could do was hope they’d be carried out.
There was no convenient hill close enough to get a good view, so Marcus’ escort had commandeered a farmhouse, breaking down the door to find it empty. Marcus couldn’t help but wince at the tromp of muddy boots over the neat rugs and well-swept floorboards. Upstairs, one of the two small bedrooms held a crib piled with stuffed animals, while the other was overrun with toy wooden soldiers. He wondered, briefly, where the family had gone. Alves, probably. But with Alves fallen to the enemy, who knew what was safe anymore?
Cyte found the trapdoor that led to the roof, and climbed the ladder ahead of him. The slate tiles were steeply sloped, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees to get to the edge. Then they sat, legs dangling, and Marcus produced his spyglass. In the yard below, a half dozen riders waited, ready to relay his messages.
At this point, though, that was mostly a formality. Trying to exert moment-to-moment control over an attack this size, with more than ten thousand men involved, was an exercise in futility. That was the job of the regimental and battalion commanders, and all he could do was trust that they did it properly. Marcus spent half his time looking north and east, waiting for the trouble he knew would come when Janus’ victorious troops sorted themselves out and turned in his direction.
Artillery on both sides had already opened fire. The enemy had at least two batteries, smoke billowing from where the cannon were set in front of the infantry. Marcus’ five regiments were arranged in a line, each with one battalion behind the other. For the moment they were still in column, the companies of each battalion stacked up one after the other for easy marching.
Archer’s guns responded, blasting away at the enemy from in between the advancing columns. As at Satinvol, he kept half of them on the move while the other half fired, gradually closing the distance. That meant his fire was less effective, though, compounding the effect of the enemy’s thinner formation. Columns might move faster, but when a plunging cannonball skipped through one, it could sweep away a dozen men at once, while the strung-out line the enemy had adopted meant a hit was far less devastating. Guns were more vulnerable on the move, too—Marcus saw one of Archer’s six-pounder teams take a hit, the solid shot slamming through the horses and leaving gory wreckage in its wake.
A cloud of dust announced the arrival of Give-Em-Hell and his cuirassiers, their wedge-shaped formations pounding onto the battlefield on the extreme right. He was advancing slowly, keeping pace with the infantry. One by one, the enemy gunners shifted their fire—massed cavalry was a tempting target, even easier to hit than infantry in column. Balls crashed and bounced among the horsemen, and broken men and mounts began to litter the ground behind their advance, like a slow drip of blood from a wound. Injured men staggered away, looking for help, while broken animals ran wild or screamed their agony, their cries drowned under the ongoing cannonade.
Marcus felt his admiration for Give-Em-Hell ratchet up another notch. It couldn’t have been easy to restrain himself under that fire, but the cavalry attack would be useless if it was pressed too early, before the toiling infantry had the chance to get into range. The horsemen continued their slow, measured advance, matching their pace to that of their comrades in the ranks.
Smoke obscured much of the enemy line, but there was enough of a breeze that Marcus could get an intermittent view. The dull boom and the flash of the guns changed timbre as the infantry reached four or five hundred yards and the artillery changed to canister, switching targets back from the cavalry pressing on the flanks. Sprays of musket balls cut swathes from the oncoming battalions, leaving corpses piled in mounds of blue. The ranks tightened up, Marcus’ mind filling in the monotonous cries of the sergeants to close the gaps. Nearly there.
With Fitz’ customary timing, his battalions halted to deploy into line, and Sevran and de Koste followed suit. Companies fanned out, marching sideways and then forward to convert the squat column into a long, thin formation that could bring maximum firepower to bear on the enemy. As they went through their evolution, canister and solid shot continued to rain down. Archer’s guns moved forward while the infantry was halted, and they switched to canister themselves, spraying shot across the enemy line. They’re taking hits, too, Marcus had to remind himself. It was always easier to see the effect on your own side than on the enemy.
He glanced at Cyte. She was looking to the east, where the Girls’ Own was watching the rear.
“Anything?” he said.
“A little fighting, by the smoke,” Cyte said. “Nothing serious yet.”
Marcus nodded grimly and turned away. All right, Give-Em-Hell. This is it.
At the moment the infantry started to move forward again, Give-Em-Hell’s men spurred their mounts, plunging ahead. They swept forward from the right of the infantry in a diagonal line, spreading out into separate wedges by squadron. Blasts of canister emptied saddles and sent horses crashing down in crimson ruin, but the momentum of the charge was too much to stop. As the cuirassiers closed, the cannoneers abandoned their pieces, scrambling back to take shelter among the infantry.
Well trained as they were, the enemy infantry formed themselves into squares, each battalion closing up into a rectangular diamond shape bristling on all sides with muskets and fixed bayonets. The cavalry flowed around these tight formations, unable to press their charge home into a wall of steel, and the rattle of muskets joined the sound of cannon as the squares opened fire. More cuirassiers fell, washing over the squares like a wave around standing rocks, then falling back in much the same fashion. The cavalry retreated in good order, though losses had clearly been heavy, and they’d failed to make any impression on the squares. Give-Em-Hell’s men rallied outside of musket range, squadrons forming up again under the shouts of their officers.
The time they’d bought had been enough for the infantry to cover three hundred yards. As the enemy cannoneers hurried to return to their pieces, the lead friendly battalions halted and delivered a volley, scything through the artillerymen and sending many of them running back the way they’d come. Once they’d reloaded, the infantry continued to advance, until they were within easy musket shot of the enemy squares. Then, as the two formations faced off, the true killing began.
Marcus had been in this kind of fight before. It was like living in a nightmare, the world obscured by smoke, the enemy visible only by the flashes of their muskets. Men fell, shrieking or crying or with hardly a sound. There was no avoiding death, no dodging or parrying, just the mechanical drill of load, shoulder, and fire, hoping like hell that the enemy broke and ran.
Thanks to the cavalry charge, however, Marcus’ troops had a distinct advantage in firepower. They already had more battalions engaged, and the enemy were formed in squares, with half their weapons pointing uselessly to the rear. The opposing battalion commanders could try to re-form their units under fire, a difficult task at the best of times, but they risked opening themselves up to another sudden charge from Give-Em-Hell, whose men hovered off to one side waiting for the opportunity. To make matters worse, Archer’s guns were close now, slamming double canister into the tightly packed squares.
They didn’t have things entirely their own way—one of Fitz’ battalions broke, formation disintegrating as its men fled for the rear—but in the end the pressure told. One by one the squares began to waver and then to give way, walls of bayonets faltering as soldiers ran from the unrelenting storm of shot. Marcus watched them go, and found himself smiling as he mouthed words along with the distant cavalry commander.
“All right, boys, give ’em hell!”
The cuirassiers swept forward, crashing among the disorganized, routing enemy to complete their destruction, slashing left and
right with their sabers. There wasn’t much room for the panicking soldiers to run, with the river Daater so close behind them. Where they bunched up, the cavalry surrounded them, and Marcus saw large groups throwing down their weapons in surrender.
“Sir,” Cyte said. “I think it’s starting.”
He turned around. Powder smoke was rising all along the line in the rear, and the sound of artillery, so lately fallen silent ahead of them, was now taken up behind.
“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus muttered. “It would have been nice to have a little rest.”
*
This late in the season, the Daater was wide but slow. Even still, what was marked on the map as a ford was barely shallower than the rest of the river, and the scouts Marcus sent across were wet to their armpits when they reached the other side.
“Not going to be easy,” Fitz said.
They were standing on the riverbank, with Give-Em-Hell, Cyte, and a small escort of troopers. The crossing was a little upriver from where the fighting had been, but there were still blue-uniformed bodies scattered here and there, cut down by the cavalry in the pursuit. Musketry cracked and rattled behind them, as the Girls’ Own gave ground.
“We need to make sure nobody gets ahead of us.” Marcus shook out the map. “There’s a bridge upriver at Mezk, and another crossing of the Pale down at Josper. Our only safety is going to come from staying far enough ahead of Janus’ army that they can’t surround us.” He looked at Give-Em-Hell. “Pull your light cavalry back and put them across the river as fast as you can. Split them into two divisions and have them block those two bridges. Destroy them if you can, but if they’re defended, just block the crossing.” He shook his head. “I know I’m asking a lot of you and your men. Again.”
“My boys are up to it,” Give-Em-Hell said, eyes twinkling. “What about the heavy divisions?”
“They cross next and form up on the far bank. If any enemy make it to the crossing—” Marcus grinned. “You know what to do.”
“Right! Understood, sir.”
Marcus turned to Cyte. “Send to Archer. I want his guns across as soon as the cavalry is clear. If they get stuck, use men from the infantry to help haul them, whatever it takes. Set up on the far side to support the crossing.”
That wouldn’t hold for long. Two batteries of cannon could make the crossing hot, but Janus could bring up enough guns of his own to smother them with fire. The majority of the Army of the Republic’s cannon had been with the army reserve, and that had been supporting de Manzet. If Janus captured the whole thing, he won’t be short of artillery.
“After the guns,” he went on, “the infantry start crossing, carrying our supplies.” Some gear—tents and uniforms, sealed barrels of salted meat—could stand a ducking. Those would be easiest. Others, especially powder, the men would have to carry above their heads to keep dry. “We’ll contract the perimeters as we get men across. The Girls’ Own will bring up the rear.”
Cyte nodded and hurried off. Give-Em-Hell was already dictating orders to his own officers. Marcus caught Fitz’ eye.
“Damned fine work, that last attack,” he said. “That could have been a lot worse.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fitz said. “I’ll pass that along to my men.” He paused. “How long do you plan to stay ahead of Janus?”
“As long as we can,” Marcus said. “We’ve got plenty of room to maneuver. How far is it to Enzport?”
“Three hundred fifty miles, give or take,” Fitz said.
“If he follows us that far, then we can surrender,” Marcus said. “But he won’t. Destroying this army won’t win him the war. He won’t let himself be distracted from the prize.”
Fitz nodded. Marcus looked down at the map again.
“God damn,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m back in Murnsk.” Retreating over another river, watching a wall of water bear down on me—
“You got your men out of that,” Fitz said. “You’ll get them out of this, too.”
“I didn’t get them all out,” Marcus said quietly. Not Andy, and not a lot of the others.
“At least this time,” Fitz said, “a flash flood seems unlikely.”
Marcus refrained from saying that it had seemed unlikely then, too. In any event, the weather showed no signs of supernatural meddling as the retreat went on. The light cavalry streamed past, a river of men on horseback, each squadron with a string of remounts bringing up the rear. They saluted or waved their carbines to Marcus as they went past. The heavy cavalry followed, splashing water dampening the battle-stained cuirassiers’ brightly colored uniforms.
As he’d predicted, getting the guns across was the biggest headache. The river bottom was soft and muddy, and the small six-pounders were submerged to the axle. Again and again, they got stuck and had to be hauled out by teams of heaving infantrymen with ropes. In the end, though, they lost only one, a twelve-pounder whose axle snapped when it became inextricably mired in the mud. Marcus ordered it abandoned, and the retreat went on.
All this time, from the north, the sound of musketry got closer. Fitz ordered one of his regiments to disperse as skirmishers, to thicken the line of the Girls’ Own, while the rest of the troops made the slow crossing. It wasn’t long before the smoke of the running firefight came into view, then the soldiers themselves, men and women stopping to load, fire, and then run back to the next piece of cover as answering flashes came from the hedges and fencerows.
If Janus had possessed a good cavalry division, he might have been able to punch through the skirmish screen and strike at the vulnerable, disorganized troops making the crossing. But the cavalry reserve had remained loyal to Give-Em-Hell. Marcus kept a few squadrons of cuirassiers on the near bank, to counterattack if Janus decided to try something, but the assault never came. For the most part, the enemy seemed satisfied with their day’s work. As well they might be. At least two-thirds of the Army of the Republic was scattered or captured, with the remaining third in full flight away from the capital.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon when the last of the infantry started the crossing. The wounded who could be moved had already been evacuated with the cutters. Those who couldn’t, or who weren’t expected to survive, had been left behind in the company of a few volunteers to surrender. Abby finally arrived, with the last few companies of her soldiers, as the sky flamed red. She had a bloody bandage on one arm and was coated from head to toe in powder grime.
“Sir!” She saluted despite her injury. “This is the last of us.”
Marcus looked over the few dozen women who accompanied her. There were a few men in cavalry uniforms, too, though their horses were nowhere to be seen.
“Time to put a river between us and them, I think,” Marcus said. “Are you all right to cross, or do you need to ride?”
Abby looked at the bandage on her arm and snorted. “I’m fine, sir. Cutter just a got a little overenthusiastic.” She hesitated. “You should know, sir. Colonel Erdine brought some of his men up to reinforce the line. He was hit while we were falling back. He’s... dead, sir.”
Erdine, the cocksure cavalryman with the plumed hat. Her lover. Marcus shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Goddamned gallant idiot,” Abby said, quiet enough that Marcus wasn’t certain he’d been supposed to hear. She took a deep breath and raised her voice. “All right! Everyone, over the river!”
Marcus waded across himself with the rest of them, the water warmer than he’d expected. On the other bank, they were lighting torches as the sun faded. Cannon were parked atop the riverbank, silent sentinels watching for anyone who might try to follow.
Marcus didn’t think they would, not here and not tonight. But they’ll come. And we’ll buy time.
I just hope Raesinia can do something with it.
16
Winter
Just after midnight, Winter, Alex, and Abraham left the abandoned Haeta camp and struck out through the forest, swinging wide to avoid running into Vess a
nd her band. After a lengthy detour, they turned toward the fortress again, breaking out of the tree line and crossing the clear ground close to the river. There was a jumble of rocks here to use as cover, and the sentries on the wall were easily visible by the light of their torches. By timing their moves as the men made their rounds they were able to reach the base of the log palisade without being spotted.
“Take Abraham up,” Winter told Alex. “I can climb the rope.”
Alex nodded, and Abraham, looking resigned, suffered himself to be once again tucked under her arm. A beam of darkness anchored them to the wall with a soft crunch of wood, and Alex let it take her weight as she walked up one of the logs. Winter pressed herself tight against the wall, listening. She heard a gasp, then a thump, but no screams. A moment later, a knotted rope hit her on the shoulder, and she began to climb. Her legs still screamed at the effort. Maybe I should have had Alex carry me, instead.
At the top, Alex and Abraham stood on the wall walk over the sprawled body of a uniformed Murnskai guard. Alex shrugged apologetically.
“He was waiting on the steps,” she said. “I don’t think he managed to warn anybody.”
“Is he dead?” Winter said, stretching her legs as cramps threatened her aching muscles.
“Just asleep,” Abraham said. He looked uncomfortable. “My power can be... applied to things other than healing, in an emergency.”
“This whole damned trip is an emergency,” Alex said.
“If it means we don’t have to kill the people we’re trying to help, I’m all for it,” Winter said. “Come on—let’s get off this wall and under cover.”
Inside, the fortress was less organized than it appeared. The central building was three stories tall, made of stone and clearly a military structure. But the space inside the walls was crowded with smaller buildings, wooden shacks, lean-tos, and tents. Some had the uniform look of army-issue shelters, but most did not. A few fires were still burning, and Winter could see people sitting around them, despite the late hour. Keeping watch?
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