Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

The professor pushed his spectacles up, looking to the south. “Are we going to outrun the Dynize?” Cressel asked.

Michel looked pointedly at the ground, moving past at nearly a snail’s pace. He should be grateful they were moving at all, but he fought down his own rising panic and replied, “I’m afraid not, Professor.”

“Do we have enough men to protect the monolith?” Cressel asked.

Michel opened his mouth, thought better of his answer, and changed his “no” to a “maybe.” “Landfall sent a couple of Privileged. That should even the odds.” Unless they have Privileged of their own.

“Ah, excellent.” Cressel patted the monolith affectionately. “We absolutely cannot let this fall into enemy hands. It’s too important.”

Michel leaned on the monolith without thinking, jumping as a spark of static seemed to leap from the stone to his shoulder, then rubbed his hands together to try to get rid of the distasteful feeling the spark had left behind. The whispering in the back of his head had returned, no longer drowned out by the excitement of the move. He wondered if maybe coming up here had been a stupid idea, and looking up found that Ka-poel was riding slowly alongside, the reins of his horse tied to her saddle. She seemed to sense his discomfort and gestured to the horse.

“I’ll stay here,” Michel said. “Less of a chance of breaking my neck, thank you.” The land-barge suddenly lurched, nearly pitching him to the ground and beneath the wheels. He grabbed Cressel to steady himself.

“Are you all right, Gold Rose?” Cressel asked.

“It’s grand master now,” Michel said absently, pointing to the Platinum Rose pinned to his chest. “And no. I hate myself, I hate this stupid monolith, and I hate the bloody Dynize for the fact that I can now see them and – oh shit, Ka-poel, I can see them!”

Ka-poel raised her head, looking toward the south, where a dust cloud now enveloped the sky not a mile away. The distant report of musket fire reached them and Ka-poel went back to digging in her satchel.

“Did you say Ka-poel?” Cressel asked curiously. “Ka is a Dynize title. Is she a Dynize? Are you a Dynize?” Cressel’s eyes suddenly widened. “That’s a Dynize bone-eye title. That woman is a blood sorcerer?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Michel said.

“Blood sorcery! That would explain so much. It could be the key to what we’ve been missing, I…” His ramblings dropped in tone to a mere mutter, and Michel was content to let them stay that way. Nervously he watched the dust cloud, quickly becoming black from powder smoke, and silently willed the teamsters to move the land-barge a little bit faster.

A Silver Rose rode up beside Styke, eyeing him and the banner flying from Jackal’s lance before giving a nervous salute. “Sir, we’re not trained cavalry. I’m not sure how effective we’re going to be against the Dynize.”

“You’ll be plenty effective,” Styke replied, not trusting himself to look the Blackhat in the eye. He considered the irony of him, here, giving orders to a contingent of Blackhats instead of grinding their bones to dust, and then forced himself to think of the much happier fact of Jes’s head now in a sack hanging from Ibana’s saddle.

“We haven’t exactly trained for this.”

“No,” Styke said, “but you’ll manage anyway. Can your men shoot from horseback?”

“Most of them, yes.”

“Good. Split into two groups. I’m not going to bother throwing you at their center – your men aren’t capable of such a charge, and your horses don’t deserve it. I want each group to peel off from our main column and circle the enemy flanks. You’ll act as light skirmishers. Hit them from the sides, and hit them hard with everything you have. Fire at will and all that. Put one of your Privileged on either side and tell them to focus on any Privileged the enemy may have, and then to turn on the infantry.”

The Blackhat seemed relieved not to be participating in a charge. “I think we can do that,” he said.

Styke reached over and snatched the Blackhat by the arm, nearly yanking him out of the saddle. “You’ll know you can do it,” he growled. “You bastards have been gunning for me for two weeks, and if you don’t show some spine and make these Dynize bleed , I’ll hunt you down personally when I’m done with this and put your head in the same sack I put Jes’s. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the Blackhat managed to choke out.

Styke pushed him right back in his saddle and gave him a toothy grin. “And if you keep their flanks off my ass for long enough to win this battle then maybe, just maybe, we can be friends. Now go make sure your men understand all that very clearly.”

The Blackhat rode off, and Styke focused on the approaching Dynize. The infantry were coming on at a double march, arranged in four solid columns that, as Styke drew closer, gradually slowed and fanned out into rows. Styke blinked through sweat dripping into his eyes and pushed back against the niggles of dread and doubt that exhaustion let permeate his brain.

Outnumbered two to one. Cavalry against infantry – infantry that, it seemed, refused to break in the face of superior enemy action. Routing an enemy was the best chance cavalry had against such odds and Styke did not like their prospects one bit.

“Taniel!” he called, turning in his saddle to look for the powder mage. He discovered Taniel about twenty feet behind him, standing in the stirrups, a rifle held to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel as Ibana held his reins. “What is he doing?” Styke shouted.

“His job,” Ibana responded. “They have six Privileged and –”

Taniel’s rifle jumped, the crack making Ibana flinch slightly and then rub one finger in her ear. Taniel watched the horizon, focused, rifle still raised, his lips moving as he counted silently. Several seconds later he lowered his rifle and immediately began to reload. “They have four Privileged,” he reported.

Styke laughed despite himself. “Jackal, relay orders. I want every one of ours with an unbroken lance to form a spearhead. Behind them, the Riflejack cuirassiers, then after them the dragoons. Line us in a column tight and hard, narrow like a flared lance. Six rows of four, then six rows of five, six rows of six, and on. Wedge formation.”

“Do I have to remind you,” Ibana called, “that we don’t have our bloody armor anymore?”

“And the Dynize don’t have sword bayonets.”

“Knife bayonets aren’t a joke.”

“To the pit with them,” Styke said. “If the bastards won’t route, we’ll cut through their center and then tear them apart from behind. They won’t know what hit ’em.”

Taniel raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, then looked over at Styke. “You really are a bloody madman.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Styke said. “Jackal, get me a new lance. I’ll tip the wedge.”

Styke’s people were outnumbered two to one. The Dynize, he decided, should have brought more men.

Vlora used her sorcery to ignite a tiny bit of powder almost a mile away. It detonated, and chain reaction was almost instantaneous as the rest of the powder in the ship of the line’s magazine went up with it, tearing the ship in half and hurling the entire mast so far through the air that it almost struck dry land.

The kickback was also instantaneous. Vlora felt it deep in her bones, the force of the explosion like a wine barrel knocking her down a flight of stairs. She nearly fell from her perch on the edge of the wall, fingers gripping the stone with all the strength she could manage. Her head pounded, the wound in her leg, a graze on her shoulder, and a dozen other scrapes and bruises threatening to break through her powder trance as she was overwhelmed with the sensations thrown at her from every direction.