Page 197 of The Infernal Battalion

MARCUS

Just hold out until the reserve gets back. Marcus sighed. Why did I ever think things would be that simple?

“General Warus reports that he’s heavily engaged!” the young rider said. His mount, drooping and exhausted, barely flicked an ear at the intermittent crash of cannon. “He’s holding, but estimates at least four divisions to his front.”

Which means he doesn’t have anything to spare to send this way. Janus shouldn’t have four divisions to use on the right without stripping the left bare. But Marcus had learned long ago not to question his former commander’s ability to pull miracles out of his pocket.

“Tell him we’re hard-​pressed here,” Marcus said, fighting to keep his tone professional. “As soon as he feels the pressure come off, we need anything he can send us. Especially cavalry.”

“Understood, sir!” The boy kicked his mount in motion.

To the east, the drawn-​out grumbling of guns continued, indicating that the enemy attack on the point of the V hadn’t slackened. He can’t be strong everywhere, damn it. But here on the left, where Sevran’s hastily assembled Third Division struggled to hold out, there had been no letup in the assaults. Three regiments stood in a long line, three ranks deep, while behind them the fourth waited to push forward to plug gaps. In front of them were the divisional guns, mostly small four- and six-​pound pieces, silent for now to conserve their limited ammunition.

A heavy pall of smoke already hung over this part of the field, and the ground in front of the division was strewn with corpses, both human and equine. Janus’ cavalry—​mostly Murnskai dragoons and cuirassiers—​was on the field in force, and the Third had already repelled two charges. At least one division of Murnskai infantry was out there, too, and one of Vordanai, re-forming for yet another assault. And, of course, the guns, which appeared to have a never-​ending supply of solid shot. Muzzle flashes winked through the smoke, and while most of the balls over- or undershot the thin line, the occasional hit would sweep away all three men in a file together. In this brief lull in the fighting, casualty teams scurried back and forth, bearing screaming or limp figures to the rear.

Sevran was shouting to his runners, his brand-​new general’s uniform already spattered with mud and gore. Marcus walked over to him and waited until he finished dictating an order, then cleared his throat.

“Word from Fitz?” Sevran said, without looking around. His eyes were fixed on the flashes from the enemy guns.

“He says he’s got at least four divisions in front of him,” Marcus said. “Either Janus has got two divisions we didn’t know about, or he’s pulled something out of his hat.”

“Maybe he’s split them,” Sevran said. “Or he’s marching them from one sector to another—”

“It scarcely matters,” Marcus said. “Fitz can’t send help. We have to hold here.”

“How long?” Sevran said.

“Until dark,” Marcus said. “Or until these stupid bastards give up.”

He looked overhead, but the sun was invisible through the smoke. Maybe that’s the soldiers’ hell, he thought. Died in battle without knowing it and now trapped waiting for a respite that never comes. It certainly had the ring of the kind of ironic punishment that filled the Wisdoms.

“We’re not going to make it that long,” Sevran said. “These are good lads, but they can’t keep this up all day. We need to retreat.”

“We can’t,” Marcus said. “If we fall back, the left side of the hill is open, and the whole line comes to pieces.”

“That’s going to happen anyway if they break this division,” Sevran said, frustrated. “And then there won’t be anything left to form a new line. We’re going to have to pull off the hill and fall back to the south.”

“We won’t get another chance at this,” Marcus said. Winter’s already gone to fight the Beast. If we fold now, she’ll lose her distraction. But he couldn’t tell Sevran that. “There’s no ground on the road south better than this. If we don’t stop them here, we’ll be fighting in the streets of Vordan.”

“We’re not going to stop them here, damn it!” Sevran turned, his jaw set. “We’re going to get cut to pieces in another hour. And if they get their coordination right, it won’t even take that long.”

Marcus was silent. It was true, of course. The only thing that had saved the raw recruits of the Third Division was that the enemy infantry and cavalry hadn’t quite gotten their attacks timed right. It was a difficult trick, launching the cavalry assault to force the enemy into square just in time for the infantry to hammer them, but devastatingly effective. Watching the polyglot enemy force try to manage it made Marcus appreciate Give-Em-Hell, whose sense for that kind of timing was superb.

It also made him certain Janus wasn’t on this part of the field in person. He’d never tolerate that kind of bungling. Be thankful for small mercies.

“We hold,” Marcus said. “I told Fitz to send us cavalry when he can.”

Sevran took a deep breath, fighting his emotions, and saluted. “That will help, sir. If they arrive soon.”

Before Marcus could answer, drums thrilled all along the line, a quick tattoo that every infantryman knew in his bones. Emergency square. The enemy cavalry had returned.

To their credit, the scratch collection of recruits and garrison troops that made up the Third Division responded quickly. They’ve certainly had plenty of practice today. Each battalion folded in on itself by companies, transforming from a long line into a roughly symmetrical diamond shape, with a point facing toward the old front. The angle kept the sides of the adjacent squares from facing one another, which helped cut down on friendly fire. Out ahead of them, the cannoneers stayed by their guns, and the little cannon began firing. Canister flailed out blindly, storms of musket balls lashing through the smoke, searching for an enemy barely glimpsed through the swirling mists.

Then they were there, shockingly close, a squadron of cuirassiers breaking into view like a ship emerging from the fog. The closest gun let fly with a blast of canister, and the front of the cavalry formation turned into a gory mess, white-​uniformed men toppling from their saddles even as their horses collapsed in shrieking terror. The men behind came on, sabers drawn, shouting in Murnskai as they rode toward the gunners. The cannoneers ran, not in panic but in a planned retreat, leaving their guns and scurrying back to the cover of the square. The fringe of massed bayonets parted to let them inside, then closed again, presenting an unbroken wall of sharpened steel to the horsemen.

Marcus and Sevran also hurried to cover, taking shelter in one of the squares of the reserve regiment. The cuirassiers split to flow around the squares, slashing viciously at the bayonets as they passed but making little impression. A few fired pistols into the mass of infantry, and some men fell, but the answering volleys of musketry emptied many more saddles. The horsemen rode on, leaving dead and dying men and animals in their wake, passing around the reserve squares as well and receiving more punishment in their turn. They thundered by, wheeling and re-forming.

It was too soon to see if they would try another assault. Marcus’ eyes were locked forward, in the direction of the enemy lines. Cannon were still firing, the artillerists taking advantage of the better targets offered by the tight-​packed squares. If they’ve got it right, this is when the infantry will attack, with the cuirassiers still hovering on our flank. He willed the smoke to stay empty just a little longer. Come on...