David Drake - The Tyrant

"The cairns mark eight hundred yards, sir."

That was the officer's own nervousness. Adrian stifled the impulse to snarl in reply: Yes, I know. You dimwit, I'm the one who ordered the cairns placed there last night in the first place. Just as I had the second line of cairns placed at the three hundred mark. Is there something you'd like to explain to me about how to eat, too?

But… he stifled it. He just stood there, silent, unmoving, his hands clasped behind his back. And watched as the Southrons stormed forward toward the killing zone.

They had a ways to go. Demansk, following Adrian's recommendation, had drawn up two brigades of his regulars about twelve hundred yards beyond the outer wall of Franness. The river which bisected the city protected his left flank-and also, of course, kept the Southrons from being able to seek any escape in that direction.

Did Prelotta have that in mind also, when he built the pocket where he did? Probably. He's cold-blooded enough.

There was space open to the right of the Vanbert lines, which led toward the sanctuary of the southern continent across Kellinek's Wall. But the wall was over a hundred miles distant, and Demansk had drawn his third brigade across that line of retreat, not more than a mile away. With most of his auxiliary cavalry there, covering its flanks.

So there would be no advantage to Esmond to attempt an immediate break to the south. True, he'd been fighting one brigade instead of two-but he'd have to withstand the withering fire of the field guns anyway. Hitting him on the flank instead of the front, and with no real prospect of escaping the fire quickly. A single Confederate brigade would not be that much easier to break than two of them, especially not with auxiliary cavalry in support.

No, best to hit the core of Demansk's strength head on. Esmond could either break it or he couldn't. What he couldn't do at all was hope to sidestep it.

"About a thousand yards, sir." Again, Adrian bit down on a harsh response. My eyesight's probably three times as good as yours. Shut up!

It was all moving very fast, now. Even massed in thousands, mounted barbarians could cover ground very quickly in a charge.

Adrian's eyes matched the first rows of cavalrymen against the cairns. He thought, for a moment, to catch a glimpse of a particularly tall and powerful looking man in their midst. Esmond?

Not time for that now. The cairns He opened his mouth, but the officer was already shouting.

"Fire! Fire! Fire, you stinking sots!"

The entire scene vanished behind billowing clouds of smoke. The first volley had gone off splendidly. Not ragged at all.

There was no way to tell what effect it had had, however, nor had Adrian expected to be able to tell. He and his gunners were familiar enough, by now, with the great drawback to gunpowder weapons: first volley, and you fight half blind thereafter; pray for a good breeze, if you think you're winning.

Under these conditions, Adrian didn't try to halt the gunfire while he waited for gaps to appear in the smoke. No reason to, really. He and his artillerymen had had more than enough time to sight their guns before the battle. And since there was no danger of running out of powder and shot, the worst that could happen was a wasted volley. Which, since it would help shore up the morale of the Confederates, wouldn't be a waste in any event.

"Fire! Fire! I want grazing shots, you bastards! Or I'll have you whipped!"

Adrian made a silent promise that he would ease this particular officer out of his post. Make him a quartermaster or something. Any post that wouldn't subject good men to an idiot commander. How the hell were his gunners supposed to make grazing shots at a target they couldn't see? And how would the officer who made the threats even know himself?

The volleys were getting a bit ragged now, as the better crews began pulling ahead in their rate of fire. Adrian had time to consider a problem he hadn't previously, and wonder whether he ought to demote himself to a quartermaster. There was really very little breeze at all. The smoke clouds hadn't had a single gap yet that he'd spotted. So how exactly was he going to make good his threat to punish any crew which began using case shot before the enemy had reached the three-hundred-yard mark?

Awkward. In fact, the officer of this battery was already starting to give him the eye. Wanting, of course, to order his crews to move to case shot, but not daring to do so until he could see that the talismanic cairns had been reached.

And how to gauge that? observe. A strange kind of grid appeared in Adrian's mind, one he'd never seen Center use before. Not so much a grid, as a… echolocation. certain nocturnal animals-not here on your planet-use it quite successfully. and there are no doubt some marine animals here which do so as well.

Adrian realized that he was "seeing" with his ears. Not really seeing so much as calculating, from the sounds, the closeness of the enemy. It was a very blurry kind of "vision," of course, but Good enough. There really isn't anything magical about three hundred yards, after all. I'd say that's close enough, Adrian-nothing else, it'll make your men feel better.

He nodded and began shouting. "Case shot! Switch to case shot!" He saw the relief flooding the officer's face, and, a moment later, the crews of the battery switch over to canister. He turned and made vehement gestures to the small group of runners Demansk had insisted on providing him-realizing, as he did so, that once again his experienced father-in-law had understood something he hadn't.

Other crews, of course, wouldn't be able to hear the command-not above the din the guns themselves were making. But the runners would notify them quickly enough. They were already sprinting down the lines.

Nothing ever works quite the way you figured it in a battle, son. Or any kind of fight, for that matter. That's why I always like to have a second string to my bow.

A few seconds later, such being the whims of fortune, Demansk's foresight proved unnecessary. A sudden breeze cleared great swaths from the smoke clouds. Once again, Adrian could see the battlefield.

Enough of it, anyway. And the portion just in front of him was quite visible.

Carnage everywhere. The first volley of canister had gone off just about at the right moment, hitting an enemy already ravaged by round shot skittering and bouncing across the ground. Each one of Adrian's four-pounder field guns-six to a battery, and ten batteries down the line-fired dozens of arquebus-sized balls with each discharge of case shot. As wildly inaccurate as they were, even at a hundred yards much less three hundred, they were bound to hit something. Enough of the balls, at least.

Broke the charge. Look. There's Esmond. You can see him now, trying to rally them.

Sure enough. Even without Center's help, Adrian would have recognized his brother at the distance. If for no other reason, because his head was uncovered. Whether because his helmet had been sent flying by a bullet, or because Esmond himself had taken it off. More likely the latter, thought Adrian. It was the sort of gesture Esmond would make, at a time like this.

He took a last look at that glorious crown of golden hair, making no attempt to recognize the features beneath it. So would he choose to remember a man whom he had once called brother. Gold, shining in the sun; not tattoos and scars across a face grown scarred already with hate and fury.

He stepped forward and seized the officer's shoulder with a firm hand. Then, having the man's attention, pointed across the field.

"Him, you see? Yes? I want him down. Now. All guns trained on him. Maintain case shot."

It was a well-trained crew, whatever the qualities of the officer. Within moments, the command was carried out. Smoke clouds filled the air.