David Drake - Tyrant

Just. . the triangular wedges went out, breaking the formations before they could jell, forcing the men into the pockets — the "saw," that — where three or four assegais could come against one. And that one, without a shield mate.

Like cutting meat. Saw, saw, saw. It was over within a minute. About the time it took Jessep to drag her to the wagon. Which, she thought glumly, had probably done a pretty good job of sawing her own buttocks.

"You could have let me up sooner," she complained, after rising painfully to her feet. She twisted her hips, bringing the damage into few.

Yep. That tunic's history. So's every position except woman-on-top, for at least a month.

"A lot sooner, dammit!"

Jessep growled. "I wouldn't trust you outside of a crib, right now."

* * *

Adrian wasn't any more sympathetic, when he found out. By then, it was late afternoon and Helga had been able to put on a fresh tunic from the wagon. The battle was over. When the final frenzied breaches had been driven off, the Confederates had quit. None of them had actually broken in a rout, except a few companies here and there. But by the time Tomsien finally called for the retreat, his army was too mangled to carry it out in an orderly manner. And since it was still hours before sundown, here in the long days of late summer, Prelotta had ordered the wagons prepared to serve as sally ports to be moved aside. Esmond had stormed through at the head of thousands of Southron cavalrymen. His own Grayhills were primed and ready, and even the other tribesmen were now filled with triumphant vigor if not much in the way of leadership and organization. They just followed the Grayhills.

Cavalry pursuit is a ragged affair, anyway. Against a badly broken enemy, it hardly matters. The same Confederate infantrymen who, in formation and filled with confidence, could have shattered any cavalry attack, were just hunted down by the barbarians. Slaughtered left and right, by arrows in the back and sword slashes to the neck. Or simply trampled under; and, if not killed in the process, murdered later by barbarians picking over the dead and wounded for booty. An already mangled army left a trail of blood and brains and entrails for miles behind it, as it crawled off, harried every step of the way until nightfall.

It was the worst military disaster in the history of the Confederation, suffered by the greatest army it had ever fielded. Five thousand or so dead that day; another five, within a month, from wounds; perhaps a thousand or so captured — the Southrons were not much given to taking prisoners — and several thousand more simply vanished, in the way that defeated soldiers will.

When the six brigades which Tomsien had led out finally returned to the provincial capital of Harrat from whence he'd led them, their effective force was not more than a third what it had been. At best. This was an army which had suffered a terrible defeat as well as massive casualties. It would take months — a year, more like — for its leadership to restore the formations, and the discipline, and bring in the new recruits desperately needed to flesh out horribly thinned ranks.

* * *

Tomsien would not be there to do it. His body was found, late in the day, lying among the corpses of most of his staff and personal troops. With an assegai still clenched in his fist, and his shield beaten into splinters. In this, too, Tomsien had been true to his traditions.

Just as a long-dead general had known he would, and a still-living one had so calculated.

* * *

It would be said later, and grow into legend, that when the news of Ion Jeschonyk's death and the manner of it was brought to Verice Demansk that he cursed the gods. Each and every one of them, by name, excepting the All-Father and the Gray-Eyed Lady.

And, it would be said, when the news of Tomsien's death and the manner of it was brought to him, that Verice Demansk cursed those gods as well. Even more bitterly than he had the others. Then, ordered all his men and servants to quit his company, and not return for a day and a night.

When he reemerged from his quarters, so the legend went, he said nothing further on the subject. But the servants found that every piece of furniture in his private rooms had been broken and carved into pieces, as if by ax and sword, even the bed. And it was said that from that day forth Verice Demansk would never speak of any god in private, though he would perform the public rites and ceremonies.

There was no need for printing presses to spread this legend. The servants themselves would do so, making a handsome profit from selling the pieces of shattered furniture and shredded upholstery. For the legend was quite true, in every particular.

* * *

On the evening of the victory itself, however, Helga was not worrying about her father's possible state of mind. She had an angry lover to deal with.

"Good!" Adrian shouted. "Wish he'd dragged you all around the laager, while he was at it!"

Helga glared at him. Adrian glared back.

* * *

Fortunately for her, Adrian was not one to hold grudges. Within an hour, he had forgiven her. Even gave her a hug and a kiss.

"Ouch! Watch your hands, dammit!"

"Oh. Sorry." He cocked his head, giving her a sly smile. No Raj Whitehall or Center in that smile. "Well, that's okay. Just have to make sure you're on top."

Helga looked skeptical. "I dunno. Not the way you grab me when you get excited."

Chapter 26

Adrian made his break five days later, taking advantage of the Reedbottoms' preoccupation with the pleasures of newly seized Franness. To Prelotta, he explained his unwillingness to enter the city as being due to concern for the loyalty and morale of his men. As Vanberts and Emeralds, he claimed, they would be disturbed by the atrocities committed by barbarians upon civilized folk. Adrian feared he might even lose control of them. And, even if not, unfortunate incidents were certain to occur.

Thus, while the Reedbottoms piled eagerly through the gates of Franness, Adrian and his men remained in their camp several miles outside the city. A camp which they had made, not by accident, northwest of the city.

Prelotta might even have believed him. For all his sophistication and comparatively wide experience, he hadn't actually had much contact with civilized nations since he was a boy. And then, his contact had not been with professional soldiers.

In truth, precious few of Adrian's men — or Helga's, for that matter — gave any thought at all to the conduct of the barbarian victors in Franness. Or, if they did, it was simply disgruntled envy that savages were enjoying pleasures which they weren't. "Civilized" or not, the soldiers under Adrian's command were essentially mercenaries. They took the abuses of conquerors for granted, and regarded plunder and rapine much as they did any other law of nature.

Once Prelotta and his tribesmen had installed themselves in their "new provincial capital," Adrian knew that he could escape any pursuit coming from them. Reedbottoms were slow-moving at the best of times. Not even Prelotta would be able to get an effective pursuit started with tribesmen drunk on the wine and women and wealth of Franness.

He was far more concerned about Esmond and the Grayhills. Who, if they were so moved, could easily mount a pursuit. Of course, catching up with Adrian's people — well over a thousand men now, including Helga's hundred, along with their camp followers — was one thing. Catching them, with only three thousand Grayhills warriors, was another matter altogether. Adrian was quite confident that, with the guns of the Fighting Band, he could beat off any such cavalry attack. But he wanted to avoid the thing altogether, if possible. Esmond could certainly inflict casualties; and, what was worse, might pin down Adrian's force long enough for Prelotta to bring up the Reedbottoms. Things would get hairy, then.