Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

Finally, another hundred yards back, there was the mass of pike- and spear-armed volunteers. Their officers, borrowed from the Colonials, had herded them like sheepdogs into a squat block, dozens of men deep, with polearms waving slowly overhead like the legs of an overturned centipede. What they were supposed to accomplish like that wasn’t clear to Winter, since without training in disciplined marching, any formation would dissolve as soon as they tried to move. But, as she’d told Abby, it wasn’t her job to worry about that sort of thing.

The first cannonball passed over the crest of the hill with a weird whining, woofing sound, overshooting the entire formation and burying itself wetly in the cabbage field below. Every head in the army turned to follow its flight, and every soldier flinched in unison a moment later as the boom of the gun’s report drifted over the field. It was followed by another, and another, the single blasts gradually merging into a solid wall of sound, a roll of thunder that went on and on without end. The duke’s cannoneers could see nothing except the Colonial artillery, over the crest of the hill, so the shots were aimed at these guns and mostly invisible from Winter’s position. The occasional ball ricocheted up and over the hilltop, or overshot like the first and screamed over their heads.

So far, so good. The girls hadn’t broken for the rear at the first sound of firing, not that Winter had expected them to. A cheer rang from the volunteers as the friendly artillery took up the challenge. Their close and louder reports were accompanied by the gradual appearance of a column of smoke from each gun as though two dozen small bonfires had been kindled along the ridge. Instead of rising into the sky like woodsmoke, though, the powder smoke hung in wreaths over the field, twisted and shredded into strange shapes by the breeze. Winter caught the burning tang of it in her nostrils.

Time passed, ludicrously slowly. Nervous tension tied Winter’s shoulder muscles into knots. It was a sensation she’d grown all too familiar with-the battle had begun, men were already fighting and dying, but there was nothing she could do but wait. It could drive you mad. Orlanko’s guns roared in their distant, hidden positions, the Colonial artillery responded with sharp barks, and balls smashed through the air or raised fountains of dirt where they struck the ground. Once or twice she heard screams, as a well-aimed shot plowed through an unlucky gun crew. Before long the first wounded men-the fortunate ones, those who could still walk-were hobbling or dragging themselves back from the firing line.

It wouldn’t be long now, if Winter understood Janus’ plan correctly. She beckoned to Abby and Jane, and they hurried over. Tension showed on both faces, but to Winter’s surprise Jane’s was especially pale. She flinched visibly at the blast of each nearby cannon.

“Remind everyone of what we’re doing here,” Winter said. “We’re not going to let the regulars get too close. Keep shooting, and keep falling back if they move up. And make sure they’re all waiting for the two signals.”

The two of them nodded, wordlessly, and started down the line in opposite directions, exchanging a few words with each of the girls. Farther on the flanks, Winter could see the other volunteer companies milling as their officers performed the same task. As the wounded passed through their line toward the rear, here and there they were joined by one or two volunteers whose courage had utterly failed them. They skulked away, hoping to join the trickle of injured, or simply tossed their muskets away and ran, ignoring the jeers of their erstwhile comrades. In the army, such behavior would be punished, possibly by summary execution, but the officers among the volunteers were too busy to do more than shout curses.

None of hers were leaving, Winter was glad to see. If they weren’t half-brave and half-stupid, they wouldn’t be here in the first place.

An officer on a horse-Fitz-trotted out from the waiting columns of Colonials and waved his hat for attention. He slashed his hand forward, his shout nearly lost amid the roaring cannon.

“First line, forward! Advance to range and open fire!”

He wheeled away, headed down the line to make sure everyone had gotten the message. Winter filled her lungs and repeated, “Forward! Walk, don’t run!”

Company by company, the volunteers began to move. They had none of the precision of the drum-measured advance of a regular army unit, looking instead more like a heavily armed crowd out for an evening stroll. The natural tendency of the men was to bunch up for mutual support, and every officer was quickly engaged in hurrying up and down his line breaking up these clots with the warning that larger groups would present better targets to the enemy. Winter, Abby, and Jane followed suit, pulling the girls apart with their hands when the cannonade grew too loud to speak.

As they came over the crest of the hill, the friendly artillery went quiet, perspiring gunners flopping to the ground beside their pieces to make the most of the pause. Orlanko’s guns kept firing. The thick pall of smoke hid everything farther away than a few yards, but the flash of the distant guns was visible, like a barrage of lightning, followed moments later by the booms and the scream of the balls. Human screams joined the chorus, too; the loosely packed volunteers made a poor target for artillery, but here and there the hurtling metal found flesh. The shroud of smoke hid the casualties from view, leaving only the shrieks, moans, and curses of disembodied ghosts.

Then, as if a curtain had been drawn aside, they stepped through the leading edge of the cloud and got a clear view of the descending slope of the hill and the valley beyond. Up and down the line, officers shouted, “Forward!” as men stopped to stare. Winter lent her voice to the general roar. She split her attention between watching the ground to keep her footing and trying to make sense of what she could see up ahead.

There was another hill, perhaps eight hundred yards distant, taller than the one they’d just crossed but less steep. At the top of it the duke’s artillery formed a long line, the mirror image of their own, and similarly hidden by its own cloud of smoke. His advantage in weight of metal was obvious from the volume of muzzle flashes.

Coming down the slope in front of his guns were the six battalions of Orlanko’s infantry, marked out by their fluttering battle flags. They had started moving before the volunteers, passing through their own line of artillery and making their way to the bottom of the hill. As Winter watched, they were deploying from column into line, companies folding out neatly from their positions behind the leading units and taking up their assigned places in the line of battle. The spaces between battalions were small, and when the maneuver was completed the enemy presented a single thin ribbon of blue, three ranks deep and more than a thousand yards long.

Waiting in the wings, well behind the advancing infantry, the squadrons of cuirassiers had formed into loose wedges. They had split into two groups, one on the left and one on the right, advancing at a walk to stay roughly behind the flanking infantry battalions. At this distance it was impossible to make out individuals from the mass of blue uniforms and horses, but the steel breastplates that gave the heavy horsemen their name flashed in the sun as they came forward. Their path forward was marked by the occasional splash of blue and red, where cannonballs had struck down horse, rider, or both together. A few of Give-Em-Hell’s troopers were visible, too, retreating across the valley in the face of the advancing infantry.

“Come on!” Winter waved her arm, beckoning the girls forward. “Come on, come on!”