Django Wexler - The Shadow Throne

It was a few moments before Jane realized what was happening, and she allowed herself to be dragged a half dozen steps before digging in her heels. “What are you doing? We can’t just leave her!”

“No time ,” Winter gasped. Another couple of figures loomed out of the smoke, two of Jane’s girls. Winter grabbed one with her free hand, eliciting a squeak of surprise.

“Help me with her!” she said, nodding at Jane. “We have to run. Back to the Colonials!” From somewhere, she found the energy to raise her voice one last time. “Run! Over the hill!”

Gradually- thank God -the cry was taken up, passed down the line by those who still had the voice to spread it. The two girls took Jane by either arm and dragged her up the hill, away from where Abby had fallen, heedless of her orders and protestations. By the time they’d gotten clear of the smoke, the need for haste had become obvious to everyone.

The cuirassiers, sweeping around the ends of the line of regulars, were converging on the volunteers from both sides. Even if they’d had fixed bayonets, without a tight formation there was no way to halt the cavalry charge. That was, after all, why the shoulder-to-shoulder line had made its way into the military textbooks-without a solid front of bristling steel, infantry was always vulnerable to a sudden rush by enemy horses.

The volunteers ran for it. This wasn’t the steady jog they’d used to retreat from the regulars, but a true, panicked flight, streaming up the hill and over the crest. Some men tossed their muskets away in the panic, while others fell to the ground and lay still, hoping to be passed over. The cuirassiers were in among those who’d reacted slowly, sabers rising and falling in sprays of blood, cutting men down and trampling them into the dirt.

Winter’s company, in the center of the line, had more warning than the others. They ran-even Jane, who’d fought free of her minders-and reached the line of artillery before the horsemen caught up with them. The artillerists waved them on, standing beside their pieces with flames in hand, ready to fire. Up ahead, over the crest of the hill, Winter could hear the steady beat of the Colonials’ drums. Square, square, form square.

The riders ought to have pulled up, once they’d sent their prey running. But they’d spent the day being hammered at long range, and their thirst for revenge combined with the fox-hunt spirit of the chase to drive them onward. In the smoke, it was easy to keep going, chasing the next fleeing figure, hacking him down, and moving on to the next. By the time they broke out of it, they were too close to the guns to stop.

One by one, the cannon boomed and belched loads of canister in the ranks of the oncoming cavalry. Swarms of iron balls buzzed and stung like hornets, blasting great gaps in the squadrons and tearing horses and riders apart. The remaining cuirassiers broke into a vengeful charge, but most of the artillerists had already joined the tide of running volunteers, and those that remained ducked beneath the smoking tubes of their guns, leaving the cavalry to slash at them impotently with too-short sabers.

The momentum of the charge was too strong to stop. It came on, over the crest of the hill, following Winter and the others toward the formed ranks of the Colonials. The four blue-coated battalions had reshaped themselves into four diamonds, edges fringed with bristling steel. Sergeants behind the line were bellowing at the oncoming volunteers, shouting for them to get down and clear the field of fire. Others beckoned them forward, into the interior of the squares.

Winter, legs burning, took the lead and led her company toward the First Battalion flags. Someone recognized her, or else had orders to let the volunteers in, because a couple of ranks of bayonets moved aside just in time to prevent the girls from skewering themselves. They poured through the gap, tumbling into the clear space beyond like broken dolls, spreading themselves across the grass and gasping for air.

Jane . Winter found her on her hands and knees, sobbing and coughing all at once. She knelt to help her, but Jane looked at her, eyes furious, and waved her away. Winter stood up, blinking, and rubbed her eyes with a filthy sleeve.

The gap in the square had closed behind her. The cuirassiers were coming, big men on big horses, breastplates gleaming on their chests and sabers unsheathed in their hands. There was the familiar pause as they closed-seventy yards, fifty, forty-

Then, from a dozen throats at once: “First rank, fire !”

MARCUS

We let them get too far ahead, Marcus thought, fists clenching tight as he watched the volunteers streaming over the ridge. Karis’ mercy. It’s going to be a slaughter.

But the charging cavalry were not as close behind as he’d thought. Some clearheaded officer had ordered the retreat well before the cuirassiers had actually made contact, and they’d cleared the line of guns in time to allow a last thudding volley of canister to sweep away huge swaths of the enemy. The thinned ranks that came over the hill were moving at a full gallop, spurring madly and waving their sabers, but their formation was broken and there weren’t enough of them.

They’re not going to break the squares. The volunteers were still streaming past on all sides, or making their way through the ranks, but Marcus permitted himself a smile, and a moment of pity for the advancing horsemen. Those poor, brave bastards.

Their impetuous pursuit of the fleeing volunteers was going to cost them dearly. A volley stabbed out from the squares as the horsemen closed, toppling horses and punching riders from their saddles. It was suicidal for them to try to charge home against the wall of bayonets, and equally suicidal to rein up and try to turn about in the face of all those muskets. They had no choice but to keep riding, splitting like a stream around a rock, taking fire from the sides and rear of the squares as they went. By the time they’d made it out of musket range, they were no longer a formation, just a scattered band of panicked men and animals, curling out to either side in flight.

“It’s a rare cavalry captain who can rein in his men when the enemy is before them,” Janus commented. “I hope your Captain Stokes makes a note of the potential consequences.”

“I doubt he will, sir.”

Janus’ lip curved in a slight smile. “I suppose not.”

Marcus looked around the square. None of his men had done anything more dangerous than fire their muskets at a cuirassier as he went past, and the ranks were still in good order. The grassy interior of the formation was crammed with volunteers, sitting or lying wherever they’d fallen and breathing hard after their desperate flight. He caught one blue uniform amid the dull-colored mass, and recognized Lieutenant Ihernglass, which meant that at least some of the men sprawling around him were actually women. There was certainly nothing feminine about them now, and they’d been liberally smeared with blood and grime. Marcus could see several nursing wounds, and he felt a sudden stab of guilt. I shouldn’t have let them go out there -

“Captain,” Janus said.

“Sorry, sir. What was that?”

“I said that we must seize the moment. I want you to take the volunteers and attack. The artillery will support you.”

“Attack?” Marcus looked back at the exhausted citizen-soldiers. “I don’t think-”

“The pike formation is still fresh,” Janus snapped.

“Perhaps the Colonials should lead-”

“Captain,” Janus interrupted, “I have no time for argument. You will lead that attack now , or I will find someone who will.”