Chapter 31: The Last Battles

Captain Legios raised his hand and the column obediently stopped behind him. Ahead, down the hill, he could see a crossroads, the east-west road about three miles north of a range of hills to the south. The southern fork of the road vanished into a gap between two of the hills to their right front. His company was coming from the north.

To make life interesting, several hundred infantry were spread out along either side of the road, north and south of the road parallel with the hills. At least, Legios thought, they were Hostigi infantry. That had to be counted as the good news; the bad news was they were frantically digging in.

Next to him Big Mortar stood up in his stirrups, shading his eyes. The morning sun was fairly well up in the sky now, perhaps midmorning or a bit earlier. "That looks like the local militia we're supposed to meet, Captain."

"Corporal Hollar!" Legios called and the corporal rode forward from his place behind the Mortar lieutenants. "Corporal ride down there and find out what's going on."

"We could all go," Short Mortar said, also craning to look.

"You really want to ride a couple of hundred men forward into the flank of some militia getting set?" Big Mortar asked his brother rhetorically.

Corporal Hollar hadn't waited, but was already heading down the hill.

In the distance came a single shot; Legios was pleased to see that the smoke shot out in the wrong direction. Well, maybe, Legios thought he shouldn't be all that pleased. The militia didn't appear to be worth much. Even from half a mile away, though, the sound of a bull-voiced sergeant could be heard screaming at someone.

After a finger-width the corporal returned, galloping his horse. Also not good, Legios thought.

Hollar reported. "Militia Captain Venizelos sends his compliments, Captain. There are about two thousand of the God-King's soldiers just east of here, headed west. The militia intend to make a stand because of the refugees." He pointed to the southwest.

Legios kicked himself. There was a mass of people forted up in wagons atop a small hill. Civilians. "There are about a thousand refugees from the local area that were trying to get further east. They are short on food and water, Captain. This Captain Venizelos has ordered you to report to him."

Legios contemplated that. He'd been ordered here to take command. He doubted that the High King planned for another captain usurp that.

"Well, let's get this over with," Legios muttered. "Two thousand?"

"Consider the source," Short Mortar said. "Damn local militia."

"Captain Venizelos," Corporal Hollar added, "is just a little long in the tooth."

"Enough!" Legios told them.

He lifted his hand high. "Forward!" He led the column ahead, down the hill.

Captain Venizelos was indeed long in the tooth, easily sixty, Legios thought. The captain sat astride a mule, looking like his dinner had been sour, his digestion sour and his disposition worse.

"Your corporal, Captain, was insubordinate. I asked who you were and he told me he couldn't tell me. Even when I gave him a direct order."

"Captain, those are his instructions. Only I could countermand them. I'm sorry if he offended you, sir, but those were his orders."

"What," the militia captain said as he saw the long line of pack animals, "are those loaded with?" He gestured towards the civilian camp. "I have nearly a thousand very hungry civilians."

"I'm sorry, Captain, I have very few rations, just few days for my men. Giving any or all of that to your civilians, sir, could mean that I'd fail in my mission. And would not provide much for your people. Sir, I'm sorry, but I must decline."

"Who is your commanding officer? What unit are you attached to?" the Captain asked.

"Sir, I am Captain Legios, First Mounted Rifles. Beyond that, sir, I'm sorry. By personal order of Captain-General Harmakros, my mission and unit details are classified. You'll have to take any issues you have with me or my men up with him, Captain."

"Can your men fight, Captain? Or is that a secret too?"

"Yes, sir. We can fight! I understand you have a couple of thousand God-King's soldiers coming up from the east."

"Already here, Captain," Big Mortar said, pointing. Legios looked, saw two large blocks of the God-King's infantry appear, moving down the road.

"Big, I saw a ravine back about a hundred yards. Tell the men to set up there. Action left front, range one mile, call it in about two finger-widths. Skinny fingers."

Big Mortar was off, calling orders. Short Mortar was standing up in his stirrups, checking the lay of the land, and then he was calling the gun captains to mark targets.

"I want your men on my line, Captain! You will not hide in a ravine in the rear," the militia captain said, his voice stiff with anger.

"Sir, I assure you my men will see action long before yours. Sir, please look at this."

Legios handed Captain Venizelos the order written in the High King's own hand.

"Sir, please tell your people to get down and stay down. When the shooting stops, they can mop up."

"Mop up?"

Short Mortar popped up, gesturing at the approaching soldiers. "Captain, I think this is the same bunch we ran into yesterday."

"Ran away, did you?" the captain sneered.

Short Mortar just laughed, pretending to misunderstand. "Aye they did, damn fast!"

"Captain," Legios said, pointing to the north. "Right now the High King is over there, coming up behind the God-King's soldiers." He pointed due east. "Over that way is Captain-General Harmakros. Some place to the southwest is Lord Tuck. More than a half a million men, Captain. Even now, the corporal you found 'insubordinate' is sending the warning to the High King and the Captain-General. They'll relay to Lord Tuck. With any luck, we can catch these bastards this time."

A moment later Corporal Hollar flogged his horse up to Legios. "Captain, the Captain-General's compliments. You are ordered to check the God-King's van, estimated to be two thousand. The Quick Force will be here by High Sun, sir; the rest of the First Mounted by sundown." The corporal glanced at the captain. "You are to assume command of any local militia and set them to protect the civilians."

The militia captain drew a pistol and pointed it at Legios. "You will tell your people to form up with mine, Captain! Consider yourself under arrest! You can't be senior to me, I've been a captain since before you were born."

One of the militia soldiers, a bull-voiced older sergeant coughed. "Begging your pardon, Captain." The sergeant waved at a heliograph blinking to the northeast. "They're repeating the warning that the captain just told you about. The captain told you his orders. They are from the High King, Captain. And sir, Captain-General Harmakros has confirmed the plan, he says he'll be in position before the sun goes down."

The captain stared first at the sergeant, then at Legios.

Legios allowed no expression on his face, nor any in his voice. "Captain, if you would, please have your people take cover. Send someone to warn the civilians to take cover. The God-King's soldiers are nearly in range of my guns; I doubt they will advance once we take them under fire. My experience is that they take to their heels once we open fire. But they will fire some shots this direction just to have clear consciences when they have to face their God-King's wrath."

"It's more than a mile! You don't have any cannon!" the Captain said, still disbelieving.

"Sir, this is one of the High King's secrets, although about now I suspect it's more of a secret in his army than from the Mexicotal. Sir, if you would, my men need to engage here in a finger-width."

"You don't have artillery!" the captain repeated, pointing to where Legios' men had vanished. "Only artillery can engage at a mile."

"Captain, at Three Hills, I was with the Sixth Mounted Rifles when the God-King's soldiers attacked us on the first day of the battle. We took them under fire with rifles at a mile. Sharpshooters only, to be sure. My men, Captain, are the best damn sharpshooters in the army!"

Short Mortar laughed. "Yes, sir!"

Legios stared at the captain; the older man was beside himself with anger. "Captain, we have little more than a few heartbeats. Respectfully, sir, you need to tell your men to get down. Sir, if you can't do that, I'll have one of my lieutenants supercede you." Legios turned to Short Mortar. "Tell your brother to commence."

"Sir!" Short Mortar saluted, headed back for the wash.

The captain's pistol had long since sagged. Now he turned to the sergeant. "Tell the men to take cover."

"Sir!" The command was passed.

The captain stared at Legios for a long second. "Aren't you going to take cover, Captain?"

"Sir, at Three Hills, I was my brigadier's junior aide. I stood next to him on the parapet and watched the first day of the battle. He showed me, Captain, the very great importance of a commander watching the battle."

The militia had, for the most part, taken cover. Behind Legios, came the first coughs of the mortars.

The militia captain turned his head to look at the unfamiliar sound. "Captain," Legios said quietly, drawing the old officer's attention back to him, "you might like to watch this." Legios gestured towards the Mexicotal a mile away, advancing in two blocks of a thousand each, now on either side of the road.

A line of explosions ran diagonally across the block on the north side of the road. Legios set his face. He could hear the corrections shouted, heard the tubes fire again. "No, keep looking forward, Captain," Legios told the other captain, and the captain's eyes returned to the Mexicotal.

This time the explosions, twenty of them, were centered in the block of soldiers. And the mortars coughed once in mid-flight of the volley, a second time an instant after the second set of explosions.

"By the Gods!" the militia captain shouted, "Look at that!" The block of God-King's soldiers acted as if they'd exploded, they were fleeing in all directions -- except towards the Hostigi guns. The unit on the north side of the road simply turned and started to run back the way they came. More explosions, then more as the mortars continued to fire.

Legios had his whistle out, and blew it hard twice. The mortars stopped firing.

In significantly less time than it had taken for the God-King's soldiers to march out of the hills, they were gone.

The militia captain stared at the havoc wrought.

"A calculated risk, Captain," Legios said, trying to keep his voice level and unconcerned. "If they had charged forward..." Legios shrugged. "Like as not they would have taken serious damage, but carried the day. But, I think we fought these same men yesterday. They have no stomach for battle, Captain. None at all."

"We should retrieve their weapons," the captain told Legios.

"Sir, with respect, yes. But sir, the High King has ordered that the God-King's soldiers taken prisoner, including their wounded, are to be treated with the highest regard. Send wagons, succor their wounded, as well as collect their weapons."

"I can't order that. These men have lived here on the border with the God-King's soldiers for generations. They hate them."

"Then, Captain, let my men do it. The High King, sir, told me to my face the importance of his order."

The militia captain blinked. The High King was just over the horizon. To lie when the man himself was so close would have been insane.

In that moment, to the east there was a wall of sound, the explosion of thousands of rifles firing at once. Then another slam of sound, even louder, as a hundred artillery pieces went off in unison. Everyone looked east.

Short Mortar had returned, laughed. "Oh, ouch! I bet that hurt!" Legios glared at the former sergeant. "At a guess, this Lord Tuck was a little previous," Short Mortar observed.

"Captain," Legios said quietly, "I want to take as many of the God-King's soldiers prisoner from the rout as possible. My respects, sir, but I'd like your men to be ready to fire... but it has to be high, Captain. If you fire into them, they could despair. They might feel they have nothing to lose and so fight on. That must not be permitted, Captain. That must not happen, unless we absolutely must."

Denethon stared at the man who was captain of his scouts when he came and sat down at Denethon's fire. The man was filthy, soaked with sweat, although his weapons were clean enough.

"General," the scout said, "there are about a hundred or so regular militia west of us, guarding the crossroads. They must have some idea that we are coming; they are in the process of setting up to meet us. Further, there are about a thousand Hostigi civilians a mile or so west and a little south; they too are forted up on top of a hill."

"That makes no sense at all," Denethon mused. "The only reason to guard the crossroads would be to oppose us. If they know someone is coming, they have to know how many."

"Unless it is another Hostigi ambush," Gortan said from next to Denethon.

"Unless it's a trap," Denethon agreed. "But in this case, I think it is just a stupid militia captain. The High King wouldn't risk civilians as bait in a trap." Denethon turned to the scout captain. "You're sure those are civilians?"

"They are mainly women and small children. Perhaps a hundred armed men, mostly older; a few young boys. One of my men got within bow shot last night. He's a good man, those are Hostigi civilians."

"Captain Lanzas," Denethon spoke to the man who commanded the van, "you will take the van, you will brush aside the Hostigi militia at the crossroads but don't take any longer to do it than you absolutely have to. Be very careful not to take the civilians under fire. They appear to be too far away to effectively support the crossroads, so you shouldn't have a problem with them. Then scout further north and west. We know Harmakros is east, we know the High King is north. And we know Tuck is coming from the southwest.

"As soon as we're sure we're clear, we'll hotfoot it at the double along the road, west. We will ignore those civilians."

Denethon hated to say it, but the noose was tightening and soon it would close. It could be today or tomorrow; there was less and less chance of escape with every passing heartbeat. "If Harmakros is too close, if the High King is too close, if this Lord Tuck comes up... Lanzas you will order your men to disperse. They are to make their way towards Grayx, which at last report is still holding out. I will do the same with the main body. None of you will tell anyone else of this order, unless you must give it.

"If the men knew we planned on dispersing, they would promptly do it and not wait for further orders. If we have any hope of being of any use to the God-King, we must remain an organized formation if at all possible. On the other hand, with less than forty thousand to oppose the Hostigi we cannot afford a stand up fight unless we absolutely must, and then it has to be in a place of our choosing. This isn't that place. Grayx, for food and water, then southeast. If we can reach the river, there are a number of places along it where we can make the High King pay dearly to dislodge us."

It was, Denethon knew, a sop. The High King wouldn't come against them, nor would Harmakros or this Lord Tuck; no, they'd bypass Denethon, cut he and his men off from food. His men would have water, but without food they would be starving in another moon-quarter. And then he would have to capitulate. The urge to just end it all was getting stronger and stronger every day. He could just fork a good horse and head west. He could easily pass as a Hostigi refugee.

Could he face Xitki Quillan if he did that? No, probably not. The king who had promised him a reward was dead. Prince Freidal was, at last report, retreating west from as big a debacle as this had been.

Would Freidal honor his father's promise to a newly ennobled minor baron, even if distantly related to Xitki Quillan?

Alros was sixteen. She had chosen Denethon and he'd chosen her. But the High King had a ten-year-old son and a marriage of state between them might save thousands of lives. And it wouldn't be the first such marriage contract, where one party was older by a few years than the other. Freidal could secure a great deal with such a marriage. He could, perhaps, save his crown and his kingdom.

Denethon knew in his heart that he and Alros didn't have much of a chance any more, not unless they eloped. Alros wouldn't do that, not if he skulked back in the night. Probably she wouldn't do it if he returned however nobly one can be after having personally lost more than forty thousand soldiers -- even if most of those losses had come from desertion.

At least King Freidal and Count Quillan hadn't run up the body count like the God-King had. There were a few less than a million dead soldiers of the God-King's north of the river, perhaps a quarter that number south of the river. The forty thousand Denethon commanded were probably going to die, because there was no food. The men under Denethon were the last organized force of the God-King's soldiers north of the river. He huffed a sigh. This was going to end badly; there was no doubt about it.

The only real question was whether or not he'd let his men be slaughtered. And that wasn't an option.

"Do what you were commanded," Denethon ordered and the man moved rapidly to obey.

The only one who didn't move was the Captain of Scouts, who stood his ground. "You have more?" Denethon asked. The other nodded, looked around, making sure that everyone else had left.

"Lord Denethon, two days ago my men saw Lord Tuck forty miles to the southwest, marching towards us. Last night the scout parties to the west and southwest reported that they couldn't find the column, nor any sign of Tuck's passage. The party more to the south did not report back, nor did the party due east or the parties in the north and northeast.

"It is possible, sir, that Tuck has joined with the High King. It is also possible, Lord Denethon, that Tuck could be coming in from due south; they could be very close, sir."

"You have more men out?"

"Yes, Lord. But there hasn't been time for them to go out and return."

Denethon swallowed. That was not only bad, but very bad.

Denethon turned to the priest. "Get everyone up, all of them. We have to get to the ridge. If we can reach that, we will have the best position we're likely to find. If Harmakros or the High King are close as well..."

The priest was off, calling for the surviving division commanders.

Denethon smiled to himself. Those commanders hadn't liked Denethon putting Gortan over them, but had no way to protest. And that had been then and this was now. Now they would jump to obey the priest. Gortan was no fool and a better commander than any of the surviving division commanders -- and the division commanders knew it.

Denethon told his men to strike camp, then went and mounted one of the few horses they'd managed to steal.

"They will be ready to move in a palm-width," the priest told Denethon. He nodded at Denethon's long leather coat, twin to the one he was now wearing. The same coats the local folk wore in the heavy brush in the area. "It is a measure of our enemies that we have to wear these."

"Wear them or die," Denethon agreed. The regular Hostigi snipers were lethal, and their target of choice was an officer. Tuck's men preferred to capture officers and priests alive. A year ago, he would have sneered at an officer who hid himself, but that was a year ago. Denethon had given up wearing armor in battle as well. Why bother? Twice men around him had died, shot through and through, the nearest Hostigi perhaps a mile away. Their armor hadn't helped them a bit. Gortan had been wounded four times, all minor burns and cuts. In any case, it was miracle enough for the common soldiers. Gortan's officers jumped to obey him and the common soldiers worshipped the ground the priest walked on.

"Let's go up to the pass and see how Lanzas does." Denethon told the other. "I want a spot high up, with a view for today's work."

The priest nodded and the two men rode forward. They were about a mile from where the road crested the ridge; behind them, about two miles back, were the first of the divisions marching rapidly forward.

"Look at me," Denethon said, his voice low.

Gortan did, curious.

"Keep looking at me, say something."

"What should I say?"

"If they're close enough to hear us, we're dead. Keep looking at me. Ahead of us, about forty yards, there are two large rocks to the right. When we get close to them, get ready. When I give the word, get down as low as you can and then spur your horse for all you're worth."

"Hostigi snipers?"

Denethon snorted. "There are more Hostigi on this hillside than fleas on all the dogs in the army! I think the only reason we're alive is that we're in plain sight of the divisions and look like a two point scouts. They don't want to kill us and thereby alert the others."

He saw the priest's head start to move. "Don't look! They might think I know about them, but if we look casual and unconcerned, busy with our conversation, they might ignore us. If you look, you'll see them and they'll be more tempted to do something unpleasant."

Ahead of them a rider appeared, coming back towards them. The messenger stopped at the rocks. Denethon had to stop. He had to.

"Lord, Captain Lanzas reports that the Hostigi have been reinforced. The scouts saw them a little after dawn. About four hundred or so more. They look like cavalry skirmishers. Captain Lanzas doesn't think it will affect anything, but he wanted you to know."

"Turn your horse around and ride ahead of us," Denethon said evenly, moving his own horse forward. The rider did as bid. "Did you see the Hostigi skirmishers?"

"No, Lord. But the scout report was very complete. A captain, a couple of lieutenants at the head of a long column, with a lot of extra horses. They appeared to be heavy laden. Skirmishers who've been foraging was their thought."

A shiver went down Denethon's spine. "Ride!" He spurred his horse forward, pulling a pistol and turning behind him. What chance was there of hitting something at this range? He had to try! He sighted on the largest mass of his troops, held high and pulled the trigger.

Hell, Denethon thought, as he hunkered down in his saddle, is hoping that's a lucky shot... and that I've killed or wounded one of my own men.

After a few heartbeats he heard the alarm bugles behind them, then ahead of them came a racketing series of explosions.

Mortars.

When Denethon and the other two reached the top of the ridge a finger-width later, it was all over. Ahead of him, were clumps of God-King's soldiers dead, slaughtered by those damn mortars! The troops who could run the fastest were perhaps a mile from the pass, obviously frantic to escape. And the mortars shifted their fire as they ran, killing more of them as they fled. Even as he watched, the artillery fire stopped.

Then behind him Denethon heard something even worse than the sound of forty mortars firing -- the sound eight thousand soldiers firing in a solid volley made. Denethon winced, but then came the slam of artillery, a solid thunder of perhaps a hundred big guns.

Denethon touched the dispatch rider. "Ride forward along the road, tell all who come this way to go south if they can and make their best way to Grayx. Do not go past that ravine there." Denethon pointed to a ravine that the road dropped into, and then back up. "Tell them east and west is death. North is death. South is their only hope."

Denethon laughed to himself. Their only hope was if the Hostigi thought they were trying to come round on their rear, and pulled some troops back to block that. Giving Denethon and his soldiers one more chance to run away.

Denethon turned his own horse south, riding along the ridgeline. The priest rode wordless alongside him.

"Some day," Denethon said as they made their way, "we will be old and gray and sitting in front of a fire surrounded by our children and grandchildren. Sipping wine, petting our dogs. We will tell the young ones of this day and none will believe us. That we rode around the flank of Lord Tuck's army of eight thousand men, just the two of us.

"We will never be able to admit to them that the only reason we survived was because they did not think it worthwhile to kill us."

Denethon started to curse then. "And if it was our men on that hillside? What chance would we have had? Two enemies in easy range? We'd have been killed in a heartbeat, no matter how dire the threats screamed at them by our sergeants!"

"You are humiliated because so many moved into position within a few miles of our camp, along our march route," Gortan observed.

"I am humiliated because so many of our soldiers can't be trusted with the simplest tasks, that we don't let them load their weapons for a route march. Did you hear any return fire? A few shots -- that was all. Probably the half dozen surviving officers!"

"You gave them some warning."

"I aimed at my own men! What kind of warning is that?"

"One unlikely to be ignored. A single shot in the distance? They might have thought that one of their own, about to get in trouble."

"And of course," Denethon continued, his voice still rising, "there was that other thing. This morning I contemplated simply riding away. West. But no, I couldn't do that! I have my honor! I have my duty to my King, to your King! To the soldiers! So where am I now? Riding away, duty, honor and troops all behind me."

"There was nothing else to do. Except die."

"I would not think a priest of the God-King fears death."

"I do not fear death," Gortan agreed. "I would gladly die in the service of the God-King. Gladly. But, I am in service to the God-King, and, as with you, that service is a duty. Duty says, I do not throw away my life, when it will mean nothing, where there is benefit only to our enemies and none for the God-King."

Denethon stopped his horse and looked behind him. There were hundreds of soldiers to the north, most making their way south.

"It is time, my friend, that we do some of that duty." Denethon pointed at the men. "I will go there and rally them. You go south and rally those who've ridden that way. We will meet there." Denethon pointed at a hill ahead of them, out in the desert, perhaps three miles past the southern end of the hills. "Tell anyone who gets there to light a fire, a smoky fire during the day, bright and visible at night."

The next morning Denethon stood up in his stirrups, watching the columns of troops coming down from the hills. Captain Tuck, eight thousand strong from the southeast, Harmakros and fifty-five thousand from the north, the High King and a hundred thousand from the east.

Denethon had less than twenty thousand men gathered about the hill. Few of them had weapons; fewer had any equipment.

There were towering palls of dust in every direction except south and west.

Gortan looked at him. "We must withdraw."

Denethon nodded. "There are others of ours we can't see, hidden out there. Perhaps another few thousand. About now, they are seeing the advance of our enemies. They will catch up in short order."

"And at Grayx?" the Priest asked.

"There we will fight and die. The troops will be exhausted. We'll beggar the town, no matter what we do. But our only hope is that if we're behind the walls of the town we can treat with them."

"For too long we've dwelt in cities with walls, content and secure," the priest's voice was filled with despair. "Yet you make it sound like Grayx is a trap."

"Grayx is a trap," Denethon responded. "Grayx is a town of five thousand. Even if they were provisioned for a siege, which I doubt, having this many extra mouths to feed will mean a very short siege.

"That's the bad news. The good news is that the God-King can now dispense with city walls. Any village, town or city, no matter how strong the walls, cannot stand to be besieged by the High King, since their mortars can drop explosive shells inside the walls, no matter how tall the walls are.

"The really bad news would be if we are forced to fight, or the people of Grayx decide to fight. At this point, the High King will want to make an example of what happens to those who resist him. What would happen if they attack the town is terrible to contemplate."

Gortan nodded. "When I was young, I was taught that sacrifice to the God-King was the highest honor a person could aspire to. I got older and learned to temper that with the thought that perhaps I could better serve the God-King by not dying, rather, the God-King would be helped by my living to do his will. Still, I taught death as duty to the soldiers, to the peasants and slaves. I thought they believed it, even though I was no longer sure that it applied to me.

"Now, if we sacrifice for the God-King all we will do is spill our own blood. What has the High King lost defeating us? A few thousand men? If that? Here? The vanguard never got close to the militia at the crossroads. When Lord Tuck attacked, the army just turned tail and ran, not able to fire so much as once. Why? Because their weapons weren't loaded! Denethon! I have become a soldier! It is folly, Denethon, the height of folly for a soldier about to fight to march with an empty weapon.