She glanced at Jessep, who was now standing on her other side. Oddly, the middle-aged veteran seemed to be rather relaxed.
Yunkers confirmed her impression immediately. “Tomsien’s always been clumsy. Capable, mind you—but with about as much imagination as an old matron set in her ways.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.
He gestured with his square chin. “What’s the point of taking a battle formation like that against something like this? He’s not facing an Emerald phalanx or a mob of barbarians. No way to outflank us—so why even try? And the saw and the wedge’ll both be useless here.”
She heard a massed Vanbert battle cry, followed immediately by the first real volley of Reedbottom guns going off, and jerked her head back around. Every wagon within range of the Confederates looked like a pincushion, thousands of short lead-weighted javelins having struck them in the Vanbert volley. That had been the battle cry she heard, she now realized.
“Stupid,” hissed Jessep. “What in the name of the gods was Tomsien thinking?” He pointed a thick accusing finger. “No way a javelin is going to punch through the walls of those wagons. All the dumb bastard’s done is create a hedge against his own men.”
By “hedge,” she knew, Jessep was referring to a standard tactic used by Confederates to defend their camps against assaults. Pushing branches out sideways through the walls, to impede anyone trying to scale them. Now that she thought about it, she realized that all those javelins sticking on the wagons were going to do much the same to any Vanbert soldiers trying to scale them.
True, the volley fired in response by the Reedbottoms was equally stupid. The range was still too great—although she could see that a number of Vanberts had been struck down. But, at least as long as their ammunition held out, the tribesmen could afford a few mistakes like that.
“And he’s doing it again!” Jessep’s hiss, this time, was more in the nature of a shriek. “What is he thinking?”
Sure enough. The Confederates had hurled a second volley of javelins. The wagons looked even more like pincushions than before.
She sensed Adrian turning his head toward them. When he spoke, his voice had an odd timber to it. Helga almost shuddered; she did avoid her lover’s eyes.
She’d heard that voice before, on occasion, and knew that Adrian’s eyes would have that weird trance-haze look in them. She hated that look.
“I counted on this, Jessep.”
That’s a lie. A dead ancient general named Raj Whitehall counted on it.
“No one’s ever tried to maneuver such a large army in the field in history. Even leaving aside the fact that it’s being maneuvered against a completely new formation.”
The voice was hollow, somehow. A ghost’s voice rather a man’s. That it was the voice of a very vigorous, self-confident and masculine sort of ghost made it all the more repellent to Helga. She’d come to love Adrian’s own voice, with its undertone of whimsy and half-detached irony.
“It’s sluggish, you see,” the voice continued. “Bound to be. The officers can’t really control it that well, from top to bottom. Too big—so big Tomsien probably can’t even see all of it. So the army reacts instinctively, following routine—from the lowest filer all the way up to Tomsien himself.”
Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder. That much, at least, Helga knew came from him. She found the touch comforting.
“Even Helga’s father wouldn’t have been able to do much better, at this stage. Of course, he wouldn’t keep making the same mistakes, the way I’m sure Tomsien will.”
“The way I’m sure.” It sounded so . . . sure. This time Helga did shudder; and was, again, comforted by Adrian’s hand giving her shoulder a little squeeze.
She understood the meaning of that reassuring pressure, and felt herself relax a bit. I’m still here, love. Just . . . sitting off to the side for a bit. This is Raj Whitehall’s work. Got to be that way, or we might all die this day.
She even managed to croak out a question. “What other mistake of Tomsien’s do you expect?”