David Drake: Tyrant

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.

When they cleared, the gold was gone.

Three volleys later, the Southrons were in full retreat. Some, pouring back into the pocket behind the wall. Others, and most of them — the pocket was a death trap — desperately trying to thread an escape route between the guns and Demansk and the third brigade drawn up to block their route.

Some of them would make it. Most wouldn't. And, once again, Confederate regulars had not even had to bloody their assegais. They would later, in just a bit, as they stormed over whoever was left huddling in the pocket. But that would be more of a massacre than a battle, against an enemy completely disorganized and broken in spirit. Their casualties would be very light.

Already, the first cheers were going up. Adrian's heart felt like a lump of lead. But he realized that this day, if not already, he had cemented his position within the hearts of Vanbert's regulars.

Our golden boy, by the gods! Our good luck charm! Even if he is a crazy Emerald!

Play it out to the end, lad. You father-in-law needs it and you owe those spearmen that much anyway. And perhaps Esmond also.

Adrian turned to face the serried ranks, removed his helmet, and bowed toward his father-in-law's men. Then, turning slightly each time, bowing again and again, as he gave each regiment its due.

A golden head acknowledging stalwart hearts. Power recognizing its source. Tyranny triumphant, returning the favor.

Chapter 32

Demansk found Adrian squatting next to a corpse lying on the battlefield. The corpse was a mass of blood and torn flesh, looking as if it had caught an entire load of canister itself. Other than being the body of a large man, there was no way to recognize anything else about it.

Except—

As he drew closer, Demansk spotted a piece of the scalp. He didn't have to remove his son-in-law's helmet to know that the color would match the bright corn-gold of Adrian's own hair.

Adrian hadn't seen him yet. The young man was simply staring across the field, looking at the river which flowed sluggishly through Franness. His eyes seemed unfocused, which, Demansk didn't doubt at all, they were in actual fact. He knew that stare; had done it himself more times than he could remember.

The sight, along with that of a face drawn far more tightly than a young man's should be, brought a decision. Demansk had been weighing Adrian's advice; hesitant, matching his son-in-law's proven shrewdness against old Vanbert wisdom — also proven, time after time; not being able to decide.

Enough. I don't trust that old bloodlust. Less, now, than ever. Do I really need to prove to anyone, any longer, that I'll wade through a river of gore?

Adrian had noticed him, finally. The golden head was turning his way.

And there's this, too. That actor Arsule told me about yesterday, the one who played a part for so long that he forgot who he was. For all the damn chatter, it's amazing how often she hits something. Whether she means to or not, who knows? But—

Enough. Enough!

"All right, Adrian. We'll try it your way. Be ready by nightfall." Demansk glanced toward Franness. "As you predicted, Prelotta's men didn't fire on us while we scoured the rest out of the pocket. So I guess that counts for something. If he sends out for a parley — what's the signal again—?"

"With Reedbottoms, it'll be a bushel of reeds, carried by two old women." The voice, like the face, was harsh beyond its years. "That's the usual practice, anyway. How Prelotta will manage it, here, I don't know. But it'll be something similar."

Demansk nodded. "If he wants a parley, I'll give him one. You'll be my envoy. And—"

He paused, took a deep breath.

Just do it, tyrant. If I have to look at another mound of corpses. . sooner or later, I'll stop seeing them as human bodies. Sometimes I feel as if I'm there already.

"You have my permission — authority — to negotiate as you choose. As long as it's within the boundaries we discussed, I'll leave the details to you."

* * *

When Prelotta did send out for a parley, Demansk couldn't help but smile. Whatever else — even under these circumstances — the barbarian had a sense of humor. There was something just plain comical about two proper Vanbert matrons mincing their way across a bloody field, looking simultaneously nauseated and scared out of their wits, carrying between them a big bundle of official documents. Tax records, from the look of them. Nothing else was that bulky and voluminous.

* * *

Adrian returned a day and a half later.

"The sticking point, from your point of view, will be Franness. He's agreed to all the rest. Auxiliary nation status for the Reedbottoms — your vassals, he knows it, with a face-saving veneer. The Reedbottoms to tear down Kallinek's Wall and build Demansk's Wall two hundred miles to the south, covering the territory not already shielded by the Reedbottoms themselves. No hindrance to the movement of Confederate troops anywhere this side of the new wall. That includes moving through Reedbottom territory, although I agreed to Prelotta's demand that we have to give them a week's notice."

Demansk nodded. "No problem, that. I'd give them a month, anyway — pure misery for people, forcing them to billet armies without sufficient time to provision — unless we have to go to war with the Reedbottoms. In which case, of course, I won't give them any notice at all. We'll come back to Franness later. What else?"

"He keeps his guns, and his gunmaking industry. But he agrees not to make any field guns or siege guns, although he insisted on having the right to purchase a few from us. Which I gave him. May as well. He'll start a secret industry anyway, and there's more than enough swampy badlands in Reedbottom territory to hide it. If we let him buy a few, maybe he won't drive the secret industry that far."

Again, Demansk nodded. "I don't care about that. He'll never be able to match our production anyway. Truth is, he'll need some big guns soon enough. The rest of the Southrons are not going to be happy with him."