David Drake: The Tyrant

The Southron cavalrymen whom Demansk had been hammering since then were not as susceptible to the weapons, of course. But they could not stand against them, either. And so, week after week, Demansk had harried the barbarians and driven them steadily out of the Confederate lands they had been ravaging again this spring.

According to Demansk's spies, the other tribal chiefs had pleaded-demanded, in the case of Esmond, who had been elected the new chief of the Grayhills-that Prelotta lead his men out of Franness and set up the laager again. But Prelotta, no fool, had understood perfectly well that the same wooden walls which had shrugged off javelins would be a death trap facing cannonballs. So, stubbornly, he had remained within the walls of his new capital-while inviting the other tribes to join him there in a certain-to-be-victorious defensive battle against the oncoming Vanberts.

Join him they had, even the Grayhills under Esmond. But Prelotta had never allowed them beyond the first wall. Claiming, according to the spies, that the city was too crowded and rife with disease already to accommodate ten thousand more warriors. So, for a week now, Esmond and his six thousand Grayhills and the thousands of men from the other tribes had been trapped within Franness' "outer pocket."

A large pocket, true. Prelotta had not stinted on the work, using his own warriors as well as dragooned civilian labor to build an outer wall which extended four hundred yards beyond the city itself and stretched for almost two miles, across its entire northern length and curving a good way down the western side.

It was a crude wall, of course, nothing else had been possible in the months available. But, to barbarians, it must have looked impressive.

Now…

A dozen volleys from Adrian's four big siege guns had reduced a whole stretch of it to rubble. Rubble which would pose little difficulty to Demansk's brigades of infantrymen, when they stormed across it, but would be a death trap for cavalry. On those broken mounds of stone-even in the cramped space of the outer pocket-Southron tactics would be useless. Not even arrogant and cocksure Grayhills were foolish enough to think they could stand against Vanbert regulars in a toe-to-toe slugging match in a box.

Once they realized that, the Grayhills and other tribesmen had begun shrieking for Prelotta to allow them behind the much more substantial walls of the inner city. He had ignored their pleas, and now-when the pleas had turned to demands and men began trying to scale the wall-was answering them with gunfire.

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.

Adrian clapped his hands again, twice. Not so much by way of command, but simply to emphasize his satisfaction and confidence in a bright and rosy future.

"That's it. Let's go!"

The officers trotted off, in both directions, down the ranks toward their batteries. Adrian moved forward a few paces to stand next to the officer in command of the battery at the very center of the Confederate army. That battery was facing the largest of the sally ports. The one which, Adrian was almost certain, his brother himself would come charging through. Say whatever else you would about Esmond Gellert, he was not one to skulk while he drove others forward. He would die, as he had lived, a leader of men.

"Ready, sir," murmured the officer. Adrian simply nodded.

A great whoop came from the outer walls of Franness. And then, a moment later, the first contingents of the Southron cavalry pounded through. They were more of a disorganized mob than a formation, but with their numbers and their barbarian energy, looked formidable enough. Charging cavalry always looks formidable, and Adrian had no doubt at all Esmond had been whipping up his men to the heights of fury and determination. He was good at that.