David Drake - Tyrant

Yes, Center's voice — even if the words were shaped by a man grown sensitive beyond his years. A man who could put into rhetoric what a computer could only calculate.

Helga swallowed. Jessep Yunkers looked away. For a moment, he seemed to be examining the ongoing carnage. But his eyes seemed a bit glazed over, as if he was really looking at something from his own memory.

"Oh, aye," he said softly, "and haven't I seen it myself? My province is littered with the little urns. Pathetic looking, they are, perched — so many of 'em — on the hearthstones of the cottages."

When he turned back, his face seemed calm, and less blocky than usual. " 'Tis nothing, Adrian Gellert. Special Attendant, as you said. The gods know if there's any man can end it, it's Verice Demansk."

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.

But that was only part of her brain, and a small part at that. Most of her brain was focused on the fact that she was standing alone, with nothing but a sword clutched in her hand, while one very large and very tough-looking and very mean-looking Confederate regular advanced toward her. Wearing full armor and a helmet, bearing a shield— how in the name of the gods did he manage to drag that with him under a wagon? — and holding an assegai with a lot more assurance than she was holding her sword.

Ah, just what she needed. Two regulars, now. No, three. None of whom seemed the least bit inclined toward anything other than hacking her to pieces.

No— four. The new one, judging from the sword in his hand and the quick way he steadied the others into squad formation, being their sergeant. Oh, shit.

Helga drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and raced through all of Lortz's training. She took the sword in a two-handed grasp— don't even try that fancy Emerald swordplay against assegais, missy, not facing regulars— set her feet—

And found herself bouncing across the packed earth of the laager ground. The first bounce on her ass, the second on her shoulders. She almost flipped upside down.

Lortz had not been gentle. Any more than he was, in the next few seconds, fending off the four oncoming regulars. In a bit of a daze, Helga watched the ex-gladiator put on a display of swordsmanship which would have had the mob in the arena shrieking with frenzied approval. He didn't actually kill any of them — nor even wound them badly — but she realized he wasn't trying to. Just keep them off, while the idiot woman he was guarding—

Rough hands seized the back of her tunic and yanked her away.

"Damn lunatic!" yelled Jessep in her ear. "Your father'd have me flayed alive — impaled — prob'ly both at the same time! What in the name of the gods—"

She ignored the rest, which Yunkers continued shouting as he dragged her back along the ground. Partly because her butt hurt — the ground was packed but had not been cleared of stones — but mostly because she was too engrossed in the scene.

Her hundred had arrived. A quick shout from First Spear Uther, and Lortz scampered nimbly away. His job was done, and done well; the professional fighter was quite happy to leave the rest to other professionals.

Wise man, she thought, wincing as another stone scraped her hindquarters and wondering whether the tunic would be salvageable. Probably not. Jessep's pissed — really pissed — I can tell. I think he's going to drag me all the way back to the wagon.

But even that was an idle thought. Mainly, she was just fascinated to see, up close, a really excellent hundred go to work.

Tomsien's men never had a chance, really. Not only were they outnumbered better than two to one, but the crawl under the wagons had disrupted their own formation while Uther's was picture-perfect. The Confederate war machine went into action against Confederates who'd been dislodged from it. It was more like watching butchers at work than anything else. The men facing them were trying to form up, but Uther never gave them a chance.