Chapter 27A: Battles and Aftermath

Denethon stared at the Captain-General's map spread out on the trestle table in the headquarters tent and kept his face stonily blank. Five thousand dead men had bought him a place at this table; it would do them and those still living no good at all if he lost his temper listening to the Captain-General speak.

"I have decided to reinforce the initial attack against the hill in the middle. Now it will be fifteen thousand men. Our scouts say there are perhaps two thousand Hostigi in place there. Moreover, their artillery is placed to range the road. We will be attacking from the west flank. They will have to move their guns in order to fire them."

The Captain-General drew a broad stroke on the map aimed at the hill on the west. "A hundred thousand men, under the command of General Lorca, will attack the western flank from the west. Overnight we will move the artillery up to support them. All of the artillery.

"Then, General Hosha will attack with eighty thousand, here." Again a slash from the west, this time against the middle hill.

He looked around, obviously proud of his plan. "The remainder of the army will be aligned along the road. They will move at a quick trot, once the Hostigi have been dislodged. Tomorrow morning will see the end of Harmakros!"

"Captain-General," Denethon said, trying to keep his voice as reasonable as possible. "Is there any word about the High King?"

"No." The Captain-General pointed at the map. "Our scouts report these thickets and brambles to be impenetrable to organized military units."

Denethon spoke carefully, choosing each word deliberately. "Except these thickets and brambles end here. They are not a military obstacle in our rear."

"What are you saying, General?" Oaxhan's temper was obviously rising.

"I'm saying I wish we knew where the High King was," Denethon told him. "And what of the hill to the northwest? What have the scouts told you about what faces the army on that hill to the west?"

"The Hostigi have repeatedly ambushed the scouts. It doesn't matter. Even if Harmakros and his entire army are there, we will crush them!"

Denethon tried to be patient. "And if the High King joins Harmakros?"

"We would know of that."

"And I submit that by your admission, you do not know that. You are stumbling around blind on the battlefield of our enemy's making."

"And you have a better plan?"

"Up the road," Denethon repeated his earlier plan. "The whole army, attacking division after division, until the Hostigi break. If Harmakros is off to the west, you would push him further west and interpose yourself between him and the High King and the town. When you understand better what you face, you can turn on the weaker force and crush it, or, worst case, hold these hills for a moon-quarter until reinforcements arrive. Then fight a huge battle that would decide the fate of our kings. You would have good ground, Captain-General."

"My dispositions are already in motion. They will not change."

"Then, tomorrow, at first light attack with a division against each of the two western hills, with another division following each, as if a reserve. Force the Hostigi to commit. You need to find out what is to your front before you start the main battle."

"You are a coward, Denethon! A coward!"

"Captain-General Oaxhan, the only way you can lose this battle is to attack with a portion of your forces into a trap Harmakros or the High King has set for you. You are attacking with a portion of your forces into terrain that you've not scouted and you have no idea where your enemy's forces are located."

"Coward! We outnumber them five to one!"

"You think you outnumber the Hostigi five to one. And don't forget General Xorca this morning. He also outnumbered them five to one. You got back what? Thirty men? The senior was a badly wounded sergeant, carried to safety by his brothers. Most of whom were also wounded." And, Denethon had also heard, those men had been cheered by the Hostigi for their bravery and devotion to their comrade.

"General Oaxhan," Gortan spoke, his words like a hammer hitting an anvil. There were no sounds, just pinched faces and cold eyes looking at the map table, all aware that the Captain-General had just been taken down a step. "If the battle goes as you plan tomorrow the God-King will sing your praises. If it goes as General Denethon says, I will cut your living heart out and shove it up your ass."

There were no sounds in the tent, not even rustles or faint stirs of movement. Denethon really wished the priest had kept his mouth shut; it wasn't as if Oaxhan's fate would be a surprise. The God-King never liked it when his generals lost big-time.

"I am not a coward. These are the God-King's finest soldiers, armed with his finest weapons! We will prevail!" Oaxhan said stoutly.

"It's not your courage that will be on trial tomorrow. It will be your judgment," the priest retorted. Then the priest spun on his heel and left.

Denethon took council of what would be the wisest choice just then. Stiffly, he formally bowed. "General Oaxhan." Then he too, turned and left.

He could hear the angry murmurs behind him, but they were muted.

Denethon beckoned and his lieutenant saluted. "Lord Denethon."

"Tell off two men. See that they have their rifles and three pistols, each. Put one up on my horse, the other up on yours. The man on my horse goes to the fords, thirty miles back. Have him stop a mile or two north, in good cover. Have the other stop halfway. If either of them hears any shooting, I want to know about it as soon as possible."

"Shooting, General?"

"Yes. Our Mexicotal friends have lost track of the High King and a hundred thousand or so of his soldiers. I know where I would want them, if I were in the High King's boots! We've also lost track of Harmakros and all but about three or four thousand of his men. Tell everyone to be packed and ready to move, come first light. Get those men moving now."

The lieutenant looked stricken. "Great Galzar! How do you lose track of two armies?"

"By thinking you are the God-King's gift to fighting men! By thinking your enemies are even more stupid than you are. It doesn't matter. Do it!"

It was a long night. Messengers came and went with news of the progress of the fighting units as they moved up to their positions for the attack. Oaxhan was jubilant. "Everyone will be in position! We will attack at first light!"

Denethon scoffed. "That would be the men attacking from southwest to northeast? Facing into the rising sun? A wonderful plan, Oaxhan!"

Oaxhan exploded, lashing out a fist at Denethon. Denethon simply moved out of the way, while an aide grabbed Oaxhan's arm before he could strike again. "Later today, Denethon, before the sun sets, you will be dead!"

Denethon laughed and took a step forward and held out his hand. Oaxhan recoiled and Denethon laughed harder. "What, you don't want to agree to the wager? That only one of us will live by this evening? Who's the coward, Oaxhan?"

Oaxhan spit at him and again Denethon bobbed his head out of the way.

"So, Oaxhan, any word from the scouts?"

"There are Hostigi on the hills! We will kill them all!"

Denethon sensed a presence next to him and turned to see the God-King's high priest.

"Any idea how many Hostigi are on those hills?" Denethon asked, satisfied with being sarcastically polite.

Oaxhan turned and started issuing orders again, ignoring Denethon.

"How is it, General," the priest asked Denethon, "that you know so much and Oaxhan knows so little?"

Denethon smiled. "That's just it. I don't actually know anything -- and that gives me concern. I know what I would do in Harmakros' place. I know what Harmakros must do, in order to win. You plan to defeat the other general's plans. But General Oaxhan plans on fighting his battle without regard to what anyone else is planning."

In the distance, cannon boomed. Everyone craned to look. Even two miles away, the gaps in the God-King's lines were apparent. Denethon studied the fireseed smoke from the cannon salvo.

"That looks more like fifty guns, not the dozen Oaxhan said," Denethon said, ignoring Oaxhan, just steps away. "Case shot. If the commander of that force doesn't stop and withdraw now, they'll all die going up that hill, just like yesterday."

Denethon peered through the growing light. "What's that north of the guns, on the western side of the center hill?"

Everyone looked. After a second, Oaxhan slapped his fist into his palm. "Breastworks! Now we know where Harmakros is! The next attack will turn his flank, the third attack will reduce him to ruin!"

Denethon nodded. Well, it sure looked like a log breastwork. Obviously it was something the Hostigi had done overnight.

"Signal the second attack!" Oaxhan commanded, now eager for battle.

Denethon wasn't on that western hill, but even if Harmakros was there, seeing a hundred thousand men appear suddenly and start advancing on you was bound to have an impact. Perhaps he was wrong, after all.

Bright sparks appearing in the early morning, among the advancing soldiers. From the distance they could hear cracking explosions. Soldiers tumbled down in swathes. Great Galzar! The Hostigi had explosive cannon shot! Something hundreds of Zarthani had died trying to perfect. Died in vain.

"Tell the artillery to fire on those guns!" Oaxhan commanded.

It was then, even more so than from those pinpricks, that Denethon felt true fear. Fire on the guns? What guns? There was no fireseed smoke!

More explosions rippled through the advancing soldiers. Denethon crushed his first fears. They were pinpricks! Just pinpricks! Five, maybe ten men would fall at a time. Many times, one or two would pick themselves up and continue to advance. A hundred thousand men weren't going to be swayed by dozens of pinpricks!

Oaxhan was furious. "Why aren't the guns firing?"

A trembling officer spoke. "Captain-General! General Xyl says the artillery isn't in position! The ground was too uneven. He's withdrawn to the main camp!"

Another officer choked out his message. "Captain-General! There's no fireseed smoke from the Hostigi guns!"

Oaxhan looked and saw too. Oaxhan was like any other drowning man, he grasped at straws. "The Hostigi are clever devils! They must have their guns over the top of the ridge, firing to just clear the ridge! Tell them to press the attack! Tell the third attack to advance!"

The Hostigi rifle fire was now visible as even tinier pinpricks of light on the distant hill. Now there was quite a bit of fireseed smoke.

The sudden tongues of flame from those clouds announced larger guns. Again, the God-King's men died in windrows as case shot slaughtered them.

"Press the attack!" Oaxhan screamed. "They must press the attack! There are only ten thousand Hostigi on that hill!"

Denethon looked and had to agree. About that many, anyway, from the number of rifle shots he was seeing and hearing.

More and more explosions dotted the advancing lines of the God-King's infantry, more salvoes of case shot reached out for them. At least, Denethon thought absently, the artillery had targets at last. Too bad the guns were back in camp. Denethon sniffed. It wouldn't have mattered. It was like the morning before. Harmakros' artillery was firing from prepared revetments, with only the muzzles showing. They would have been very hard to hurt!

He turned his attention back to the first attack, and sucked wind. A few men staggered back, obviously as shattered as the attack the day before had been, even if three times as many men had made the attack. The priest asked a question and Denethon didn't trust his voice, he just pointed.

Denethon did the math. If Harmakros had ten thousand on his right, a thousand on the left, that left the rest in the middle. Denethon swallowed. He'd been wrong after all. Harmakros knew the weaker force would come up the middle. And he had prepared. Thirty-five thousand against eighty thousand! It would be...

His thoughts stopped when the hill in the center vanished in flame and towering clouds of fireseed smoke. Denethon staggered and fell to one knee, even if he was miles away from the cataclysm. Those hadn't been breastworks! That was half the guns of Hostigos! They must have been lined up wheel to wheel! Hundreds and hundreds of them!

His mind focused on the numbers. Two hundred balls in one of the laced leather cases that were rammed home on top of the High King's finest fireseed. Case shot that flew almost half a mile before the case fell away, then killing out to nearly a mile. Numbers didn't matter; the eighty thousand soldiers in the attack vanished like a snowflake in the sun of a hot summer day. They melted and vanished.

Perhaps ninety thousand of the God-King's soldiers in the main attack lifted their heads and looked at what had happened to their brothers. And in that instant, had to understand they too were in range of those guns.

The hillside vanished in flame again. Five hundred guns, Denethon thought. We knew Alkides was here, why didn't we understand? Even Denethon hadn't understood. They must have dragged every other cannon in the High King's lands here for this! He coughed and spat, nearly ill to his stomach.

The sixty thousand survivors of that volley were like some giant flock of birds. One instant they had been moving north to attack the western hill, the next they were moving south. Only now in a panic-stricken run, undoubtedly shedding equipment as they ran.

The command group was as stricken as Denethon. There was a sudden scream, and everyone craned to look. The priest, Gortan, held Oaxhan's still beating heart over his head. Then the priest threw it into a latrine pit.

"General Denethon, you command here!"

Another cannon volley crashed over the shattered land. Another ten thousand men died. Two hundred balls, five hundred guns. A hundred thousand balls flew each time those guns fired into the packed mass of the attack formation. Only the greater distance saved many of them.

Denethon broke the grip of his fears. "Send word to the reserves along the road. They are to march south at once. Half will go a mile south of the main camp, face south and dig in and prepare for battle. Tell the other half to stop a mile north of the camp, face north and prepare for battle. Those to the north will stop all stragglers, form them up and march them in order to the main camp."

Someone asked, "Should we call off the attack?"

Another man, a brigadier from Oaxhan's coterie, snorted. "We should kill all those who run!"

There was a sudden grunt, and Gortan jerked his obsidian knife upwards, spilling the man's entrails on the ground.

"General Denethon, you will do what you can to save the God-King's soldiers!" the priest commanded.

Denethon looked at the man who'd asked about calling off the attack. He was suddenly pale, obviously terrified and expecting death. Denethon was gentle. "I think the soldiers already know that the attack has failed. Order up a truce party, try to signal the Hostigi we want a ceasefire, to take care of our wounded."

Another cannon salvo fired. The officer looked stricken. "Why would they agree?"

"Not a chance in hell they will, but even the offer will take them a few heartbeats to think over and decide. Giving more men a chance to get out of range. Do it! Now!"

Denethon turned to another officer. "Take charge of the stragglers fleeing from the battle. They are to be formed up in groups of a hundred, put under a steady NCO and marched back to camp. Most will not have weapons. We have some spares, arm the steadiest."

The man met Denethon's eyes. "They aren't to be punished?"

"For surviving a slaughter? I know you worship the God-King, but I worship Galzar! Galzar doesn't hold it against a man for trying to live, after he's been defeated!"

"I speak for the God-King," Gortan said loudly. "These men were ill-led. The blame is not theirs! They are not to be punished! Those who made the mistakes have paid for them! Tell them that!"

One of Denethon's men came pounding up. "General! General! The High King has taken the fords! He is taking up position on this side of the Tulum River, preparing to oppose us!"

Denethon could see the priest's throat work. "Swear to me, Denethon, swear to me that you are not the High King's man! Look me in the eye and tell me!"

"I am not the High King's man, I am the King of Zarthan's man."

"Yet, you knew where the High King was!" someone said.

Denethon laughed. "I knew where I'd want to be if I was the High King!"

"What now?" Gortan asked.

"Now we take what we can get. We get as many men together tonight as we can. We'll send a couple of thousand south to skirmish against the High King's advance, we'll send a couple of thousand north to skirmish against Harmakros. Those are all dead men, do you understand? All of them!"

"And the rest of us?"

"Like I said, we take what we can get. The deaths of the skirmishers will give the rest of us leave to go west. We will go west, trending towards the south. The High King won't have as far to go to cut us off, but the land inland of him is much drier than where we will be going. Don't forget the rest of your army is coming north. The High King won't get far from water and won't want to let the main force cut him off. Odds are he'll let us go. We'll finally turn south when it's safe and race for safety."

"How many will live?"

Denethon held his eye. "Perhaps, if we're lucky, a hundred thousand. Likely less. No guns, no horses, just what we can carry on our backs."

"No artillery and horses?" one of the Mexicotal officers asked.

"Nope. The guns are heavy and will slow us down. We'll spike any that remain before we break camp tomorrow morning. We'll eat the horses on the march and even with that, we're going to be hungry before we're safe. Let's get busy."

It had been a trying night for Tanda. The soldiers of Hostigos tried to be quiet as they moved into positions; the soldiers of Xipototec tried to be quiet. The Ruthani moved among them, helping them be quiet. It was a miracle that they went unheard.

There was just the faintest tinge of light to the east when the blow was finally struck. Eight thousand men waited, but only two hundred of the Hostigi fired at first. They were close enough to see the fires of their enemy, to see a few men moving around. Their rifles flayed those standing, a single volley that, while ragged, was very effective.

Here and there isolated rifles fired from their own formation and Tanda smiled to herself as she imagined what the sergeants were saying to the men who had fired early.

Almost none of the Hostigi understood any words of the Mexicotal tongue, and none of the Mexicotal understood more than a few words of Zarthani. But a tongue-lashing by a sergeant seemed to be in a universally understood language.

The camp in front of her erupted as Tuck had expected. Men jumped up, grabbed their rifles and...

The main volley fired, nearly eight thousand rifle shots at once, fired with rifles held waist high, firing as level as possible.

Tuck's command was easily audible up and down the entire line in the sudden silence that followed the volley. "Reload! Fix bayonets!"

Eight thousand men reloaded and then spent a few heartbeats attaching socket bayonets to their rifles. There was a scattering of shots in reply and Tanda sank to a crouch.

Then the first Hostigi had reloaded and started aimed fire into the God-King's camp. She looked up and down the line. It was as Tuck had commanded. They'd reloaded standing, now the Mexicotal sank down. The "odds" were kneeling, the "evens" prone on the ground.

More and more bullets came from the God-King's soldiers, but almost all were high.

A volley crashed out from the soldiers of Xipototec, then another, another and another. Then with a loud shout the men kneeling where up and charging forward with their bayonets. Five heartbeats later, the men who'd been prone were on their feet and they too were given the order to charge.

The Hostigi stopped shooting, most of them, because there were no targets. A finger-width was all it took.

Tanda shook her head. It was clear that when you fought Tuck, you needed every advantage, but he didn't give his enemies any. What he did was hit so hard, so fast, that his enemies were shocked for a few moments into impotence and then he hit them again as hard as he could. She looked over at him, forty yards away, giving a steady stream of orders.

Then she turned to look over to where the Mexicotal had fired from. Perhaps twenty men were down, some of them already being tended to by the priests of Dralm and Galzar Wolf's Head.

Lion and Pinyon dipped down beside her. "A fine day, Tanda Havra!" Pinyon told her. "A very fine day!"

His eyes studied the windrows of the dead, the Mexicotal who were even now coming down from their battle lust and looking around them at the carnage they'd wrought. Yes, it was true. They'd fought the God-King's soldiers, badly outnumbered. And it wasn't they who died in great bloody piles of murdered innocents; it was the soldiers of the God-King.

In the distance a distinctly female voice raised the shout that buoyed their allies. "Never again! Never again!" The cheering rose and rose again from the Mexicotal soldiers.

Tanda turned to Lion. "Father, the God-King's soldiers to the southeast?"

"Eight hands of blocks."

"Forty thousand men," Tanda said.

"Twenty hands of wagons," Lion added. "No artillery, perhaps two hundred cavalry."

Tanda laughed and the man who adopted her smiled. "What, daughter?"