The Tyrant by Eric Flint and David Drake

And now, even, some good cheer. “So. I’ll leave it to you, laddie, with your quicksilver brain, to figure out how we’re going to pry ourselves loose after the battle.” A quick nod of his head toward Prelotta. “He won’t be pleased to see us go, now will he? But in the meantime—”

He jerked his head the other way. “You have noticed, I trust, that your splendid little plan is coming apart at the seams, here and there? Best we worry about that, eh, before we fret too much about the future.”

Helga followed his gaze and gasped. Jessep was right. In three places—no, four!—Vanbert troops had finally managed to break into the laager. No matter how badly mangled and shredded, good troops will beat their way into a fortress, so long as their will doesn’t break.

Not many, true. Most of them seemed to have done so by breaking the undershields and crawling beneath the wagons—a tactic which obviously played havoc with their own formations. But it wouldn’t really take much, after all. By now, Helga had a good sense of just how brittle a laager was. Like some grades of steel, which take a razor’s edge but will break under stress.

“I’d better get down there,” muttered Adrian. And that was Adrian’s voice, now. Helga wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not.

She didn’t have time to worry about it. Everything seemed to move much faster now. Adrian was off the wagon roof and shouting at his Fighting Band, leading some of them toward the breaches and pointing off others to cover the rest. Prelotta, on his watchtower, was bellowing loudly enough to be heard even over the gunfire. And then, pounding from the east, came hundreds—many hundreds—of Grayhills cavalrymen.

Helga recognized Esmond at their head, waving a sword and exhorting his men forward. Even with the new facial scars and tattoos, he was still a magnificent figure. Say what else you could about Esmond Gellert, he was made for desperate battles. This was his time, and he was clearly reveling in it.

Nor, to be honest, was Helga in the least sorry to see him come. Adrian was in the worst of the melees which were starting to flare up inside the laager, where Vanbert soldiers had managed a breach. Not even standing back, damn him, using his sling. She could see him right up in the front lines, with a sword in his hand.

She found herself cursing bitterly. Adrian was adept with weapons, granted—much more so than you’d expect from such a scholarly-looking man. But he was no warrior out of legend like his brother, and he wasn’t wearing even the light armor of the Fighting Band. Just . . . a sword, a helmet, a leather cuirass, and the whim of the gods.

Damn the man, anyway!

* * *

A short time later, Helga was in no position to damn anyone for recklessness. Another breach came, at the point in the laager closest to her. A few—then a dozen—then more—Vanbert regulars came crawling under the wagons. Without even thinking about it, Helga was on the ground—Jessep later claimed she’d jumped; but she thought he exaggerated out of exasperation—and racing toward them. Waving her sword and exhorting her hundred to follow.

Helga was an excellent runner, in very good condition—and . . . not wearing any kind of armor. Not so much as a helmet or a cuirass. Just a light tunic, a sword, and the whim of the gods.

Needless to say, she arrived upon the scene before any of her escort, lumbering behind her. There were perhaps thirty Vanberts inside the laager here, most of them now forming a line. She could see more coming under the wagons. Some of the Confederate soldiers were hammering at wagon doors with the short axes they carried for assault work, feverishly trying to break in so they could slaughter the bastards who’d been wreaking such havoc on them. She saw one of them hurtle back, as several rounds of gunfire from inside the wagon punched through the door.

Not sure that’s wise, some still-functioning part of brain recorded. Those bullets’ll do as good a job of shredding the door as an ax, fellows, and if those regulars do get into the wagon . . . rough, tough, tattooed barbarians or not, you’re so much raw meat.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *