Lord of Janissaries (104 page)

Art Mason looked at the map and nodded. “No question, Colonel. Them Defenders are the key. Get them out of the way and all that infantry will run like blazes. They’re only holding on because they got no place to go.”

“Good. Glad you agree. Top?”

“Looks that way to me, too,” Elliot said.

Mason stood and swept the area with his binoculars. The Prophet’s infantry must have taken at least fifteen-percent casualties; in places the ditch was solid with bodies, some of them still moving. They’d all run if they could.

“So what do we have to hit the Defenders with?” Colonel Galloway asked.

Mason thought fast.
Good question.
“Well, we can’t use the Romans. Or Drantos heavies, for that matter. The only way in there would be the High Road.”

The Colonel nodded. “Bottleneck. We hold it with minimum forces, but that works both ways. We’ll never get through their blocking force. Unless we can lure them off?”

Mason shook his head. “Tried. Didn’t work. Whoever’s holding that area knows what he’s doing and has steady troops.”

“Damnedest thing,” Elliot mused. “How did a madman like the Prophet get first-class troops?”

Who cares?

“It’s messed up from here to the Lynos River,” the colonel said. “But south of there is Herdsman’s Ford.”

“Herdsman’s Ford. Right!” Art said. “Wide enough to send cavalry across in column of squadrons. If—” He frowned.

“I think we can do it,” the colonel said. “If we can clear off that blocking force on their side of the river and push a couple of thousand horse across we can sure give the Defenders something to worry about. Now who do I send?”

“Reckon I know,” Mason said. “I’ll round up volunteers. What can I have?”

“The Carl Gustav for one thing.”

“Right, I’ll need that. And enough more firepower to clear the river guards. Say a squadron of Guards. Two troops anyway. And for the main body—Colonel, can we borrow some Romans?”

“Doubt they’d follow you, Major,” Elliot said. “Or that we can get Publius to lend them.”

“Not without being here until the True Sun comes up,” the colonel agreed. “They used to teach us that ‘unity of command’ was a major principle of war. Hah.”

“Worse down there,” Elliot said. He waved toward the enemy.

And that’s for damned sure. Now, who can the colonel order directly? Hah.
“Sir, what about Gengrich’s troops?”

“Nowhere near enough,” Galloway said. “They’re not very reliable just now, either. Need rest and training. No, Art, there’s only the one group we can send. Drumold’s Tamaerthan chivalry. There’s close to three thousand of them.”

“It’s also the whole nobility of Tamaerthon,” Elliot said.

“Objection, Sergeant Major?”

“No objection, Colonel. Just reminding you. Sir.”

“Thank you. It’s a chance we’ll have to take. Mason, I’ll give you a written order to Drumold. Take your Guards, and our people, and get moving.”

* * *

Ganton made a point of studying the messages from the balloon, then scanning the battlefield with his binoculars, before turning back to the Imperial headquarters staff. “The enemy does not know what to do,” he said. “While they argue, we should strike.”

“How do you know they are confused?” Publius demanded. “If your knights had withdrawn when ordered we would have no doubts about this battle.”

“We have none now,” Ganton said. “Yet certainly I have cause to be displeased with my knights and barons.” As perhaps you have to be displeased with the Fourth Legion. The legion that hailed me as worthy to lead Romans.

It had been a heady moment, there after the battle of the Hooey River, when the Roman soldiers hailed him as
Imperator
. Worthy to command Romans, but not a Roman. I am no threat to Publius Caesar, but can he believe that? Ganton stole a glance at Titus Frugi, who was pointedly studying the battle.

“Patience is a Roman virtue that I wish my barons would learn. Ever do we seek to ride to the battle and trample our enemies beneath the hooves of our horses. Sometimes that is the best way. Often it is not.”

“It would seem, Titus Frugi, that my son-in-law has learned much.”

“Thank you, Caesar,” Ganton said. “Would you care to instruct me further today?”

Publius looked at him sharply, but Ganton showed no expression at all.
It’s true. I have much to learn. More from Titus Frugi than from Publius, but—

“The High Road,” Publius said finally. “It is the key to this battle.” He gestured, and a headquarters optio came forward with maps pinned to a board. “The balloon reports that five thousand horse and nearly that many foot hold the High Road. They have been blocked by the Tamaerthan archers.”

This time Publius did wince. It wasn’t hard to know why. Tamaerthan archers and pikemen, aided by no more than two starmen, had defeated a Roman legion and sacked a Roman town. That was years ago, but it was not easily forgotten.

Ganton pretended to study the maps, but in fact he had memorized the terrain. He had found that Romans were not so well trained as he in that art. They didn’t have to be. They always had maps.

“Bad ground for cavalry,” Ganton said. He indicated the area along the High Road. “Narrow. Best for foot.”

“Agreed.” Titus Frugi pointed to the massed troops milling around the Great Redoubt. “You see that Lord Rick sends the chivalry of Tamaerthon toward the river ford. It is easy to guess his plan.”

“And there is a rider coming to tell us anyway,” Ganton said. “I do not doubt that, even though the Lord Rick commands Tamaerthon independent of me.”

“You have a plan, Frugi,” Publius said.

“Yes, Caesar. Send the foot to menace the High Road. I will keep the survivors of the Fourth, and the
cohortes equitates
, to support Wanax Ganton. The Seventeenth will stay between your command, ready to move either way, and we will see who first can advance.”

“A good plan,” Publius said. “I agree.”

“Thank you, Caesar,” Ganton said.
And you too, Titus Frugi. I reward my friends, and you are a true friend.

* * *

Three arrows thrummed past Matthias. Two of them found targets, one in a centaur’s belly and a second in the thigh of one of his guards. The man reeled in his saddle but said nothing. The centaur screamed until its rider dismounted and cut its throat.

“Retreat,” Matthias ordered. “Fall back. Carefully, carefully.” He rode up and down the line, making certain that this was a retreat and no rout. Whatever the skills of the Tamaerthan hillsmen, whatever Ganton of Drantos had learned, the Romans at least would know the value of the High Road, and must have troops poised to take advantage of any disorder here.

I could lose this battle in an hour, and Phrados the False Prophet does not even know. A fool.
He looked to the sky for a sign from Vothan.
Am I to be chosen today? Or have you more work for me?

They withdrew out of bowshot from the forest. For the third time they had ridden up the High Road to test its defenses, and for the third time the Tamaerthan archers had warned them against going too far.

“It’s hopeless.” The mercenary captain spoke in a low voice so that only Matthias could hear. “We need infantry to clear out those woods.” He pointed to more than three hundred bodies, men, centaurs, and horses, that littered the road and its ditches. “Cavalry will never get through alone. We need infantry.”

“We have none, Captain Marikos. The Prophet, praise his holy name, has ordered the foot he sent here to stand fast and protect the road.”

“If they’d attack, they could keep the damned kilties busy enough—”

“But they cannot attack. They have orders from the Prophet himself. Praise to the gods.”

Marikos looked at Matthias quizzically. “As you say. You could ask for a change in orders. Or more infantry.”

“I have sent messengers to ask that,” Matthias said.

“But they have not returned,” Captain Marikos said.

“Yes—”

“Killed by the Defenders as deserters.”

Matthias frowned. “I would hope not—”

“You know they were. The Defenders are mad, and the Prophet as well. A child could have won this battle, but instead of a child we had Phrados.”

“That is blasphemy—”

Marikos waved airily. “My troops are closer than yours. But you’re no believer. You never have been. You’re an orthodox priest of Vothan.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have eyes. I see where you look for signs. And what you wear under your armor. I’ve heard how your servants address you. Honorable, I’m surprised the Defenders didn’t find out.”

As am I, perhaps.
“I see. And what now?”

“We save what we can. I’ve got men watching behind us. When the Defenders are engaged—and they will be, today or tomorrow—I’m taking my troops out of here.”

“Where will you go?”

“Anywhere. North. I’ve heard Prince Strymon can use good soldiers. I’ve got two thousand cavalry.”

“And their families?”

“Already alerted. Unlike yours, my messengers really were deserters. They got through. And one returned. He saw your messengers killed by the Defenders. No message you sent the Prophet ever got to him.”

“How do you propose to get past our own foot soldiers, who stand between you and freedom precisely to keep you from running away?”

“That’s my business.”

“I see. And what do you want of me?”

“Nothing. Stay out of my way. But since you’ve been a friend, I’ll give you warning. Three blasts of the trumpets followed by two more. If you hear that, save yourself, and your men. If you can.”

“Thank you.”
What more can I do? It would be folly to warn Phrados. There are no Defenders here, and Marikos is surrounded by his officers and loyal men. It was the act of a friend to warn me. Now I must think how to make use of that warning.

A cloud of dust rose from the hill beyond the narrow area of the road. A sizable enemy force was approaching. He turned to see that the commander of foot soldiers had seen it also and was placing his men.

* * *

The horseman spurred straight at Art Mason. He wielded a heavy battle-axe and was screaming praises to the gods. Mason shot him twice with his .45 Colt, and even then had to dodge the axe. One of the Guardsmen brought his own axe solidly onto the man’s head, and another seized his horse.

“No ransom for these fanatics,” the Guard sergeant said contemptuously. “But some of them have good horses.”

“Yeah, sure. Now let’s ride.” He signaled Teuthras to advance with the light cavalry.

Amazingly, the enemy melted away into the cultivated land west of the river.

“From that last chap I’d have thought they’d fight like tigers,” Mason said aloud.

“My lord?” his orderly prompted.

“Nothing.”

The enemy light cavalry retreated, with Teuthras and the Hussars in pursuit. Mason was about to signal recall when he saw that Teuthras had halted his pursuit, set pickets to watch to see that the enemy didn’t return without warning, and was coming back.

Well done, Mason thought. More locals learning to think ahead. Not long ago they’d have chased that enemy cavalry forever.

“Messenger from the balloon,” his orderly called.

“Right.”

The man had ridden hard. Both he and his horse were lathered. He held out a square of paper.

“Thank you. Orderly! Wine for the messenger. A groom to walk his horse.”

“At once, Lord.”

Art read the message aloud as Teuthras rode up.

WARNING TO BATTLE GROUP DRUMOLD; ENEMY CAVALRY PRESENT ON WEST BANK OF RIVER CLOSE TO HERDSMAN’S FORD.

Teuthras grinned. It probably would have hurt too much to laugh; he was riding in a sort of corset of bandages to keep his cracked ribs in place. The priests had wanted him to stay in bed, but nothing short of a direct command from Yatar could have kept him out of this battle.

“Was it not Lord Rick’s intention, that the men in the balloon should see what others could not and give warning? If all they can tell us is what we have seen for ourselves . . .”

“Yeah, that can happen. But remember Pirion. The balloon saved our asses there.”

“I do. I also remember the Hooey River.”

So did Mason, and so did the captain. That was why the balloon was so far back, so its anchor and ground crew wouldn’t be overrun. The Westmen had done that, killing not only the ground crew but the aeronauts. It took a long time to train those crews, not just technicians for the balloon but competent observers.

All very well, but it would be nice to have more information. And who was antsy about being an officer? Yeah. A corporal who got promoted over his head, and too late to think about that now.

The rest of the Tamaerthan arrived at a fast walk. Drumold was in sight, and so was his son Balquhain, in that tent-sized green cloak he’d adopted in order to be recognized in battle.

Just as important, so was the Carl Gustav recoilless and its crew. Time to get the troops deployed.

* * *

“Stand by to fire,” Mason said.

Rudolf Frick grinned like a wolf. He knelt, and Doug McQuade knelt behind and to his left. Three Guards brought ammunition from the pack mules.

Mason stood in his stirrups and looked up and down the river line. The Tamaerthan chivalry were arrayed three deep, lances erect, armor gleaming.

They looked more impressive than they were. Tamaerthon was mountainous land, poor horse country at best. Its real strength was in its infantry, especially longbowmen, and now the disciplined pike formations Colonel Galloway had trained. And none of that made any difference. The nobility of Tamaerthon wore armor and tried to make believe they were as good as the Drantos ironhats.

“All I got,” Art muttered to himself.

After it crossed Herdsman’s Ford the road led through a draw between two low but steep-sided hills. The enemy cavalry commander had bunched up his forces there. He’d also put archers on the hilltops, and in front of the archers was a line of infantry forming a shield wall. It wasn’t a very solid shield wall, but it would be good enough to shake up Tamaerthan cavalry.

Well, first things first. That enemy cavalry force made a beautiful target. Hadn’t those idiots ever heard of star weapons? “Six for effect, Rudy. Concentrate on the cavalry. Fire when ready.”