Esmond’s head was whipping back and forth as he tried to keep the whole field under observation. He fell back half a dozen steps.
“The battalion in front of us is edging right,” he yelled to his brother. “But any second now—”
“Vanbert! Vanbert!”
The shout was loud, and the rebel regulars to their left closed formation and raised their shields in a sudden bristling of vermillion-dyed leather and brass, turning their formation into some huge scaled dragon. The volunteers to the Emerald’s right tried to do the same—most of them had shields, at least—but lacked the instinctive cohesion of real fighting units.
Ahead the attackers’ formation rippled as well. Adrian felt the small hairs along his spine as he realized why; the whole front line was leading with the left foot, getting ready to—
“VANBERT! VANBERT!” the front-line troopers roared, pivoting forward as their throwing arms flashed up.
The sound of seven thousand men shouting in unison was like a blow to the gut. The whistle as seven thousand arms launched their lead-weighted darts made Adrian’s testicles try to draw themselves up into his gut.
Heads up, lad, Raj’s voice said, cool and steady at the back of his brain.
Not many of the volley struck the Emeralds—the grenades had cleared too much of the front line opposite them. Men went down, here and there; others cursed and flung aside their shields as the barbed heads with the ball of lead behind the points stuck and could not be removed. To their left, the volley struck the raised shields of Audsley’s brigade, most of them glancing from the curved surfaces or the metal facing, some rattling off mail, some punching into flesh.
“That’s torn it,” Esmond said.
He was looking to the right, where the volley had ripped into the shapeless clot of half-armed volunteers. What happened there was like a glass jar falling on rock, only what it spilled was redder than any wine. Few of the volunteers wore armor, and none had the tight shield-to-shield formation that was the only hope of stopping most of the missiles.
“VANBERT! VANBERT!”
Another volley, and the Confed trumpets sounded again, a complex rising-falling note. The battalions facing the volunteers drew their assegais with a long rasping slither and began to double-time forward.
“It’s time,” Esmond said; his face was white about the lips—with rage, Adrian realized, and the effort of will it took to order retreat rather than stay here and die killing Confeds. He nodded to their right, where the scythe of Demansk’s wing was about to rip into the edge of the unravelling rebels.
“You’re right, brother,” Adrian said. He raised his voice. “One more volley to discourage them, men, and we’ll leave the Confeds to each other.”
The bombs punched out, as accurate as the first round. Other men were helping the wounded who were still mobile, or giving the mercy stroke to the helpless. Adrian swallowed a bubble of pride; his mercenaries and freedmen and general rabble were steady with the many-headed beast almost within arm’s length of them.
Esmond’s light infantry spread to cover the grenadiers, hefting their javelins.
“Give them a shaft, then we go!”
Esmond turned, hefted his javelin and threw with a skill that made it seem effortless. It ended in the face of a Confed underofficer; the fan-crested helmet snapped back, and the volley that followed made them waver for an instant. The Emeralds turned and trotted away in a compact body, heading to the rear and to the west—behind the still-solid ranks of Audsley’s brigade.
The same mounted galloper as before drew rein before them; Adrian could smell the rank omnivore breath of the velipad as it came up on its haunches, pawing the air before it with great blunt claws.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the young Confed nobleman cried. “Back to your posts, you Emerald scum—”
Thunk.
Esmond’s javelin punched through the light cuirass of linen and bronze scale with a sound like an axe hitting wood. The Confed goggled, and then his eyes slid down to the slim ashwood shaft in his gut. He slid free of the saddle with the same expression of bewildered indignation, as if he could not believe that a mere Emerald mercenary had dared to raise a hand against him.