Trapped. Barbarian cavalrymen had no more chance of scaling the inner wall of Franness—not against thousands of Reedbottoms firing down on them with their stubby guns—than they had of facing Demansk’s infantry inside the outer pocket.
In short, Prelotta’s foresight and ruthlessness had produced a situation where, by nightfall, the preeminence of the Reedbottoms over the Grayhills would be established for the first time. And, in all likelihood, for generations to come. Precious few Grayhills warriors would return from what, at its onset, they had expected to be one of the great plundering raids of memory.
All that, of course, assumed that Prelotta himself would survive the aftermath. But . . .
He’s gambling there too. Gambling on Demansk—and gambling on you, most of all. Which are not bad odds, when you think about it.
Adrian shook his head. He would have time later to deal with that question. At the moment . . .
The sally ports in the outer wall were swinging open. Those of them, that is, which Adrian’s siege guns hadn’t already splintered.
All the sally ports that Adrian could see, all down the wall.
Esmond’s doing all that’s left to him. A great massed cavalry attack. Hit Demansk’s brigades as hard as possible, hoping to clear the way for a retreat back to the south. If he can escape this immediate encirclement, he’ll at least manage to get his men out of here. It’s a good move—best he’s got, anyway—by a brave and resourceful commander. And I salute him for it.
Then, quietly: I’m sorry, lad. But it’s time.
Adrian took a deep breath and nodded. If the officers standing around him waiting for orders thought there was anything odd about a man nodding to himself, they gave no sign of it. By now, they were accustomed to Adrian and his often peculiar mannerisms and temporary distractions.
They weren’t even bothered by it. Adrian Gellert was almost as eccentric as his father-in-law’s new wife, true enough. And so what? Demansk was Paramount, after all. And while his son-in-law was perhaps a bit crazed, what did it matter? The gods knew he was capable enough with his guns. Besides, he was an Emerald anyway. They’re all a bit crazed.
* * *
Time. Oh, brother, I am sorry for it. I wish—
No point in that. The father-in-law had sacrificed the son; Adrian would have to do the same with the brother. So it was.
The shell came back around him, tight, solid, cold.
“All right, men.” He clapped his hands once. “You know what to do. Same drill as before. We’ll just be receiving the sorry bastards a little quicker, that’s all. But since velipads make a bigger target, who cares?”
He managed a predatory grin of sorts. A rictus, anyway. The officers around him responded with their own.
“Round shot until they’re within three hundred yards, remember. And—don’t think I won’t be watching—the gods help whatever crew moves to case shot any sooner.”
He turned his head, his eyes ranging up and down the long ranks of the regular brigades standing some yards behind the field guns. There was no real point to that examination, since Adrian knew full well that Demansk had his infantrymen properly positioned. But he thought it might help steady his gunners if they thought Adrian was satisfied.
Which, needless to say, he was. Adrian and his father-in-law had spent time, over the winter, deciding how best to adapt Confederate tactics to incorporate field guns. And then, since the campaign began this spring, had had more than one occasion to test it in practice.
Easy, really. Unlike the Emerald phalanxes, the Confederate brigade formations had always been designed for flexible field tactics. It was simple enough, for men accustomed to the wedge and saw in the heat of battle, to learn how to quickly open lanes through which the field guns could be withdrawn once the enemy got near. Then, close back up again in time to receive the charge with shields locked and assegais ready. And, as the charge recoiled, reopen the lanes so the deadly guns could resume their work.
After the battle where the noble rebels had been destroyed, the Vanbert regulars had become quite the enthusiasts of field guns. They’d suffered practically no casualties at all—and been rewarded with the typically fulsome loot of aristocrats gone down to ruin. In this battle, they could be counted on to do their job.