Брайан Макклеллан - The Siege of Tilpur

Sergeant Tamas closed his eyes and listened to orders being called back and forth across the front lines, voices punctuated by the report of artillery blasting away from the next hill over. Captains shouted at their lieutenants, lieutenants shouted at their sergeants, sergeants at their infantry. It was only a matter of time before some poor infantryman snapped and started screaming at the drummer boys for the simple release of having someone of his own to bark orders at.

It was all nonsense, of course. “Hold steady, boys,” or “keep your heads up,” or “first man over the top gets a hundred krana.” Everyone was in line, bayonets set, flintlocks primed, ladders to shoulders, tensed and just waiting for the signal. The only thing the shouting accomplished, as far as he was concerned, was to allow the officers to unleash their own damned uncertainty in as manly a fashion as possible.

Meanwhile the infantry baked in their uniforms, jackets and pants already soaked with sweat. If General Seske waited another half hour to give the order to charge, the desert sun might just reduce the entire Adran army to withered husks.

“This is bullshit,” a voice said behind him.

“Quiet down, Farthing,” Private Lillen responded in her lazy drawl. “I’m trying to get in a nap before this things starts.”

“I’m not joking,” Farthing said. “This is utter bullshit. We’re charging the broad face of a bloody fort in full daylight with nothing but ladders and light artillery. It’s not going to work, just like it didn’t work last time or the time before that. We’re all about to be buggered by grapeshot and sorcery. Might as well call us ‘his royal majesty’s Adran bullet-absorbers.’”

“You’d think you’d have gotten used to it by now,” Lillen said.

“Used to it? Explain to me how one gets used to a fireball to the face? The same way you get used to napping on your feet? Because I can’t figure that one out either.”

“You want to desert?” Lillen’s pleasant tone turned mocking. “Because you’ve been telling us you’re going to desert for almost three years now and it hasn’t happened yet. I’m beginning to think I’ll be long dead by the time you finally do it, which is a shame because I want to be there when they haul you back into camp and put you in front of a firing squad.”

“You bitch. I’ll cut you for that.”

“Shut up, Farthing,” Tamas said. “And take your damned nap, Lillen. You’ve got about eighty seconds left. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“Yes Sarge,” both soldiers said, subdued. There were a handful of snickers from the other nine members of Tamas’s squad but he didn’t look back. Let them have their bitching and their petty squabbles. It was their only outlet right before a charge of this importance and Tamas’s squad, unlike plenty others, weren’t lacking in courage and loyalty. They’d be on his heels from here to the fort and straight to the pit.

Tamas kept his eyes on the fort. Over a mile away, thick puffs of smoke rose from Gurlish cannons as they returned fire at the Adran artillery. Gurlish cannons weren’t as good as the Adrans’ – they lacked the range and the punch needed to clear the distance, but occasionally one would get lucky and an eight-pound ball would ricochet off the ground and knock out an Adran field gun or plow through the ranks to a chorus of screams.

On the other hand, the sorcery protecting the Gurlish fort was as potent as any, and had shrugged off almost two years of shelling. The Adran artillery blasted against the walls to no visible effect. He wondered why either side even bothered.

The only conceivable way of taking the fort of Tilpur would be up and over those walls into the teeth of Gurlish bayonets and pikes.

The fort itself was no great marvel of military engineering. It had six thirty-five-foot walls and six onion-domed towers, with broad space on the parapets that would allow the Gurlish to bring no less than twelve cannons to bear on any approach. The garrison was supposedly two thousand men, but his own estimates put it at half that number. Not that it mattered. A fort like that could be effectively defended by a few hundred.

Tamas pried the paper end off one of his powder charges with a grimy thumbnail. He touched the loose black powder to his tongue, shivering at the sulfuric taste. His resolve tightened instantly, his senses sharpened. Sorcery lit his veins, giving him the strength of four men and speed that would let him run the distance to the fort in less than three minutes. Not for the first time he wondered how regular soldiers tolerated the stress of battle without a powder trance.

Strength and speed and sorcerous courage were wasted in the infantry line where battle was about mass rather than individual prowess, but his betters had decided to put him here regardless. All he could do was wait, hoping he survived long enough to make it over those walls. He emptied the rest of the powder charge into his mouth.

The euphoria of a powder trance took a hold of him, removing what little fear he had.

Behind the artillery, a man on horseback approached General Seske. Salutes were exchanged, the general nodded, and an order was given. “It’s time,” Tamas said over his shoulder.

Somewhere, a boy rattled out a single pair of beats on his side drum. Along the lines, men fell silent.

“Advance!” came the long-anticipated order.

The next five minutes were a maelstrom of blood and horror straight from the pit. At three-quarters of a mile the Gurlish Privileged opened up with their elemental sorcery. Fire and ice rained down on the Adran infantry from the fortress walls. Some of it was blocked by the Adran Privileged marching in the rear, but far too much of it pierced their protection to leave charred bodies in the wake of the army.

At five hundred yards the cadence of the drums doubled and Tamas broke into a run, musket gripped in both hands, teeth clenched against what would come next. Behind him his squad spat defiance and curses at the bombardment.

Whole platoons were leveled in a torrent of grapeshot. The Gurlish managed two salvos before the front lines, Tamas and his men included, were beneath their line of fire.

“Ladders!” Tamas yelled as he reached the rocky base of the fort. Ladder teams rushed forward and raised their long ladders against the walls as musket balls and stones hailed down from above.

Tamas took stock of the Adran infantry, assessing the situation in a heartbeat. Hundreds lay dead and wounded on the field behind them, but an equal number had managed to reach the relative safety found at the base of the walls, and more still advanced across the rocky, barren ground of the desert floor. He hoped it enough to scale the walls and take the fort.

Just get me over the top, he prayed to no god in particular, shouldering his musket and readying to throw himself on to the first steady ladder. The sorcery raining down from above intensified, blasting scorch marks into the earth. The rear lines began to waver. Tamas cursed them silently, urging them to steady.

Somewhere back by the Adran artillery a bugle let out a long, mournful note. “No, damn it,” Tamas swore. “We can do this.” He looked up at the top of the fort wall. “We have enough men, we can do this!”

All around him, men broke off the assault and fled toward the Adran lines, abandoning ladders, kit, and muskets.

“Sarge, that’s the retreat,” Lillen said, grabbing Tamas by the arm. He shook her off. “I know, damn it! Why are we retreating? This is as close as we’ve ever gotten. Bloody fools!”

“Sarge!”

“I know, I’m coming.” Tamas cast one more look toward the top of the walls. All he needed to do was get inside.