Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Styke sat back in his saddle, unsure how to respond. He remembered Agoston’s blood running down his arms, and then sparing Tenny Wiles. “They start to get uppity and I’ll set them straight.”

“It’s never come to that before. I don’t want it to come to that.”

Styke snorted. “Let me handle my vengeance the way I see fit.”

“I will. It’s just … a word of warning, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” Styke replied.

Ibana nodded and rode off a few dozen yards, pulling out her looking glass to watch the distant bombardment. Styke turned to Jackal. “How has the ride been?”

“Easy enough,” Jackal said. “Scouts are keeping us clear of Dynize forces. How is the rear guard?”

“Boring,” Styke replied. He nodded to the distant fortress. “Do the spirits tell you how much longer that fortress will last?”

Jackal’s eyes immediately went over Styke’s shoulder, and it took him a moment to realize Jackal was looking directly at Ka-poel. “Are you kidding? Only the bravest spirits will come within a mile of her. I can always tell when she’s getting near because they flee before she arrives.”

“You hear that, blood-lady?” Styke called. “The spirits are afraid of you.”

Ka-poel seemed entirely unimpressed.

“But it doesn’t take the spirits,” Jackal said, returning his gaze to the distant fort, “to see they’re almost done for. There’s six ships of the line out there and two brigades cutting off any support from the mainland. The fortress will fall within days.” He gave Styke a curious look. “Are we going to relieve them?”

Styke glanced at Ka-poel. “Is the godstone in that fort?”

She shook her head.

“No,” he told Jackal. “I’m not suicidal enough to charge two brigades in clear view of a supporting enemy fleet.” Besides, he added to himself, they’d already resupplied at Bellport. “We’ll have to swing around those two brigades. With luck, they’ll be so focused on the fort that they don’t even notice us.”

Styke heard a sudden shout from down the road. He turned, curious, and was soon joined by Ibana. “What was that?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” Styke lifted Amrec’s reins, spotting a dust cloud rising from a nearby hill, and a familiar old face suddenly burst into view. Sunintiel clung to her horse’s neck, both she and her animal streaming tears from the hard ride, her wrinkled skin covered in a sheen of sweat. She stood in the stirrups, not bothering to slow.

“We’ve been ambushed!” she shouted. “Dynize cavalry from the rear!”

Styke whipped Amrec into a gallop. “Stay with Celine,” he ordered Sunin. He pointed a finger behind him as he charged past. “And keep Ka-poel out of the fight!”

He and Ibana raced along the road, past the milling of confused cavalrymen. Styke came around the hill into the valley that contained the bulk of his forces, taking in the situation at a glance. Dynize dragoons had swept in from the southern end of the valley, crossing a small creek and opening fire with carbines on the Mad Lancers, who were still strung out along the road.

There were at least three thousand dragoons, with more coming over the hill, and they raked the lancers’ flank with perfect precision, hitting them with a torrent of carbine fire in companies of a hundred before retreating out of range to reload. The lancers were in chaos – those that tried to fire back couldn’t pack a big enough punch, and the few that charged were deftly avoided and gunned down.

Another wave of dragoons suddenly appeared at the other end of the valley, blocking a retreat along the road and engaging the rear guard with a withering fusillade.

Styke pressed Amrec harder, weaving among his confused troops. “Ibana!” he shouted. “Take the vanguard and swing around to their flank. They’re not wearing breastplates. Hit the bastards with our lances!”

He continued on without waiting for an answer, galloping toward the rear guard and the fresh recruits being cut to ribbons. He passed Major Gustar, who’d just barely organized the Riflejack cavalry core enough to return fire. “Press them hard,” Styke shouted, slowing just enough to get his orders out. “That hill they came down was easier for them to descend than it will be to go back up. Send your cuirassiers straight at their center!”

Styke was quickly past. He urged Amrec harder, watching as more of his cavalry fell to the enemy carbine volleys. The Dynize became bolder, pressing in on the rear guard, not bothering to retreat before they reloaded their weapons. Styke finally reached the rear guard, who were desperately trying to reload their own carbines.

“Blast the carbines!” Styke roared as he whipped past them. “Lances down! Charge!” He snatched up his lance, lowering the steel tip as he broke through the confused line of his own men and up the open road toward the Dynize.

Dragoons had come within ten yards and they seemed shocked to see him charging toward them wearing one of their own breastplates. A bullet whizzed past Styke’s ear and he felt another slam into the breastplate, jerking him back in the saddle. He kept his hold on the reins and on his lance, leaning forward.

The closest Dynize fumbled with his carbine, dropped it, then tried to urge his horse to run in the opposite direction. Styke’s lance clipped him in the side, tearing out four inches of flesh and several feet of intestine and burying it into the next dragoon. Letting go of his weighty lance, Styke drew his cavalry sword and urged Amrec forward, laying about him with his weapon.

Gore whipped from the rise and fall of his sword. Blood spattered his lips, but Styke didn’t bother to check if it was his own or the enemy’s. Their sudden onslaught turned to confusion at his charge, and still he pushed deeper, using Amrec’s mighty chest to shove past the smaller Dynize horses.

Only upon turning to block the sword thrust of an enemy did Styke see that the new recruits had not, actually, followed him into the fray. Some of them stared at him dumbly while others fumbled for their lances. It wasn’t until Jackal appeared, waving the skull-and-lance flag and charging forward, that they seemed to break out of their shock and attack.

A straight-bladed dragoon sword caught in the clasp of Styke’s breastplate. He sheared off the arm holding it and discarded the blade, but the clasp snapped at the next impact of an enemy bullet. With one quick movement, Styke bit down on Amrec’s reins and used his left hand to pry the other clasp off the broken breastplate. He swung it over his head and threw it at a charging dragoon, knocking the rider off his horse. Reins still between his teeth, he drew his boz knife and rammed it into the chest of a man whose mount had been pushed too close in the melee. He jerked it out and threw it overhand into the neck of a horse. The horse screamed, throwing its rider.

Styke finally fought his way to the top of the ridge, looking down at the road. It was covered with the bodies of men and horses – almost all of them belonging to the new recruits from Bellport, stragglers who’d fallen behind the rear guard. With a glance Styke could see how the dragoons had come out of the trees, catching them completely unawares and slaughtering them without a fight.

The glance also told him that he’d reached the very edge of this wave of dragoons – they had no more men attacking the rear guard. He whirled to rally the rear, to dispose of these dragoons and join Gustar and Ibana to fight their main force.

Something struck his shoulder just as he drew breath to bellow encouragement. He turned to see a dragoon charging him at full speed, smoking carbine being exchanged for a straight-edged sword. The rider didn’t have time to fully draw her sword before her horse struck Amrec in the shoulder, sending both Amrec and Styke tumbling.