The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

RAESINIA

“My queen,” said Count Vertue, bowing low. “I beg you. We have one last opportunity to avert this bloodshed. Let us act, before it is too late.”

Raesinia stood on a hillock beside the north road from Ohnlei. It was another beautiful August day, though a breath of cooler air carried the hint that summer would not last forever. Count Vertue, dressed in a “simple” riding outfit embroidered with silver and gold thread, stood beside his mount with two blue-uniformed soldiers at his side. Raesinia stood alone, but there was a squad of Colonials waiting at a discreet distance, in case Orlanko’s emissary tried something desperate.

“I agree,” Raesinia said. “Let me extend you one final offer. Tell your master that if he orders his troops to return to their camps, his noble followers to disperse, and offers himself into our care, I personally guarantee that he will receive no punishment, and will be free to live out his days in the duchy. You may assure your fellows that none of them will be punished, either. Only members of the Ministry of Information who directly participated in the plot against the Crown will be brought to trial.”

“It grieves me to hear you say that, Your Majesty. I have no ‘master,’ as you put it, only a good friend in His Grace the duke, around whom all the right-thinking gentry of the kingdom have come together. He does everything in Your Majesty’s interests, whatever these traitors may have told you.” Vertue glanced scornfully at the Colonials. “If you would only appeal to them yourself, I feel sure they would throw off the orders of Vhalnich and the so-called deputies and return you to your proper place. How can you ally yourself with a pack of rabble-rousers and treasonous thinkers who have disgraced the sacred halls of the cathedral and Ohnlei both?”

“I am the queen, Count Vertue. It is for me to say who is a traitor, and who is not, and I tell you the traitors are in your own camp.”

“If you will not think of the nation,” the count said, “at least consider the men who will die to no purpose if you throw this mass of beggars and frontier soldiers against the pride of the Royal Army. You must know they cannot stand the test of battle.”

“Whatever deaths there have been”-Raesinia gritted her teeth-“and whatever deaths are still to come, all of them fall on Orlanko’s conscience, not mine. Not that I imagine it bothers him. His hands are well stained already.”

“I see that you have been led completely astray.” Vertue sighed. “So it must be. God sends us these trials to prove we are worthy of His continued grace. When the slaughter begins, remember that you hold it in your power to end it at any time.” His eyes narrowed. “And when you do choose to surrender, seek me out. I will make certain you and your companions are well treated.”

“Allow me to extend you the same courtesy, my lord,” Raesinia said.

Vertue snorted and turned to his horse. His guards mounted up as well, and the trio wheeled about and rode away, down the slope of the hill and north along the road. The cavalry pickets parted, reluctantly, to let them through.

Somewhere up that road-not far up it, if the latest reports they’d received were correct-was Orlanko’s army. Not a large army, by historical standards. Not even larger than Raesinia’s, if every last pike-wielding teenager was counted. But of course the point was that the pikes and the teenagers didn’t count for much, in the eyes of men like Vertue. Rabble, he says. They certainly met the description. Janus had done wonders to gather and arm so many in a week, but it was still only a week, which didn’t allow for much in the way of training.

Another horse climbed the slope. Janus bet Vhalnich himself dismounted and stood beside his queen, looking south down the road instead of north after the retreating emissaries. He was head-and-shoulders taller than her, but that was something Raesinia was used to ignoring.

“They’ve gone,” she said. “Vertue and his minders.” Janus had been certain that the “soldiers” had been Concordat spies in Royal Army uniforms.

“I saw,” Janus said, without looking back at her.

“Was it really wise to let them leave? They’ll tell Orlanko we’ve marched.”

“We can’t expect to keep that information from him. Frankly, I expect he has a complete picture of our forces by now. The city is too big and too open to keep anything secret for long, and we don’t have enough men to post a screen and intercept his couriers. Surprise is not where our advantage lies.”

“Where does our advantage lie?”

“Numbers and will,” Janus said. “And the faith that comes with fighting on the right side.”

“And superior generalship?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, modesty would require me to deny that. But since the opposition is commanded by either Duke Orlanko or Count Torahn, ‘superior’ is a low bar.”

“I thought you respected Orlanko,” Raesinia said.

“In certain arenas. He has a genius for analyzing information and organizational structures, and a crude but instinctive feel for human nature. None of that translates into battlefield competence, however, and his chief defect is his overconfidence. He does not know enough to leave things in the hands of more capable men.” Janus shrugged. “On the other hand, he has a great many cannon. That can make up for quite a few character flaws.”

“You don’t think we can win?”

Janus was looking at the road again. “If I didn’t think there was a chance, I would never have given the order to march. But as to how much of a chance. . we shall see.” He smiled briefly. “Here they come.”

A rising cloud of dust had been visible around the curve of the road for some time, but now Raesinia could see the first blue-coated ranks coming into view. The First Battalion of the Colonials had the lead, behind the wide-flung cavalry screen, marching in a long, thin column to the cheerful accompaniment of drums, flutes, and fifes. Janus had ransacked the city’s theaters for any man who could play and walk at the same time to provide bands for the troops. Whether anyone could hear anything among the clatter of boots on the dusty road and the creaks of the wagons, Raesinia was uncertain, but she hadn’t argued.

After the First Battalion came the Second, its head marked by its pair of battle flags. Alongside the steady river of blue-coated troops were the wagons, a motley collection of farmers’ wains, two-wheeled carts, and even converted cabs and carriages. At intervals among the slow-plodding vehicles were batteries of artillery, hitched to their limbers, muzzles pointing backward and down toward the dusty ground.

Behind the Second Battalion was the endless river of new recruits, still in their civilian clothes. For the most part they were a drab mass of gray and brown, but here and there a nobleman who’d thrown in his lot with the deputies stood out as a splash of color. Blue specks at regular intervals were the sergeants borrowed from the Colonials to try to impose order. Each man had some kind of weapon, but for every musket there was a long-handled spear or pike, fashioned in haste or dragged out of Grandfather’s closet.

It did Raesinia good to see them marching. She’d spent the week at the Twin Turrets, and while Janus had brought her regular reports, she hadn’t been up to Ohnlei to see it with her own eyes. It was too dangerous, the colonel had argued; among so many men, Orlanko had no doubt inserted a few of his own agents. She’d had an odd fantasy that all the volunteer soldiers were a myth, that Janus was only humoring her, and that when the day finally came to face the duke, she’d find herself alone.

Militarily, though, she had to admit they did not inspire confidence. The only hint that they were soldiers instead of a mob was that every man sported a black armband, a nod to the so-called rules of war that prescribed reasonable treatment for “uniformed troops.” It couldn’t hurt, though Raesinia had her doubts that any rules would constrain Orlanko if he won. They’d chosen black to respect the passing of her father, or to show their allegiance to the deputies, or-she thought this the most likely-because, with Ohnlei still decked out in mourning, black cloth had been readily available in unlimited quantities.

The column marched slowly, and an hour later they were still coming. Raesinia had moved to the edge of the hill, where they could see her easily, and she waved her hand at the recruits as they came by. For the most part they didn’t recognize her, but whenever someone did, they raised a cheer. I should be closer, she thought. If they’re going to die for me, they should at least know what I look like.

The sound of a horse approaching at speed brought her attention back to the hilltop, where Janus was conferring quietly with the Colonial officers. The rider, a cavalry trooper in weather-beaten blues, trotted up the slope, reined his mount around, and saluted. Raesinia drifted over.

“Sir!” the trooper said. “Give-Em-H-” He noticed the queen standing nearby, paused, and went on. “Captain Stokes sends to say that he has located the enemy. We’ve sighted their main body, and engaged their outriders.”

He dug in his saddlebag and produced a folded note. Janus took it, read it gravely, and nodded.

“As expected. It’s the logical place, from his point of view.” He turned to the captains standing nearby. The only one Raesinia recognized was Marcus, in Royal Army blue now instead of Armsmen green. She couldn’t catch his eye.

“You may proceed as we’ve discussed, gentleman,” the colonel said. “Good luck!”

They saluted and headed for their own horses.

Janus turned to Raesinia. “Your Majesty. You know what I advise.”

“I’m not going back, if that’s what you mean.” Raesinia set her jaw. “I started all this, and now I feel so helpless. The least I can do is watch.” She lowered her voice. “Besides. You know the danger is. . not entirely relevant.”

“I am, of course, Your Majesty’s humble servant. Lieutenant Uhlan and his men will accompany you.” Janus matched her whisper. “If we lose, Your Majesty-”

“Don’t.”

“If we lose,” the colonel continued remorselessly, “I have given Lieutenant Uhlan orders to place his entire complement at your disposal. I trust them implicitly. While I don’t anticipate being in a position to offer further advice, I might suggest that you allow him to conduct you to Mieran County. It is a remote place, and you would find it easy to disappear, even from the likes of Orlanko.” He smiled, briefly. “Of course, that is only a contingency plan.”

WINTER

The march was a mild one, as marches went. The day was warm, but there was a breeze to cut the heat, and the fertile green countryside they passed through was a pleasant change from the endless rocks and sand of Khandar. Jane’s girls carried no packs-there weren’t enough tents and bedrolls for all the new men, and the wagons carried their food and extra ammunition. It would make for miserable camping, but for the moment it meant not having to lug anything heavier than their muskets.

Jane walked at the head of the column, and Winter near the back, encouraging any of the girls who flagged and making sure none of the men around them did more than stare. There had been plenty of that during their training at Ohnlei, and a fair bit of name-calling and whistles as well, but Winter had been impressed at the girls’ stoicism. Here on the road, things had gone surprisingly well. By accident or design-with Janus in charge, Winter suspected the latter-the groups directly ahead and behind were mostly made up of dockmen, who had a healthy respect for Mad Jane and the Leatherbacks.

Another worry had been resolved the day before, when Abby had turned up at the training ground. She’d been reluctant to talk about her errand, other than to say that her father was all right.

“He’s a rotten old coward,” she said, and refused to say any more on the matter. Now she was walking up and down the column, exchanging a few words with the girls, smiling and keeping up a brave front. It was needed, Winter thought. The faces she saw around her were the faces of young women wondering what the hell they had gotten themselves into. They whispered together, walking side by side for a few steps and then throwing an anxious glance up at Jane or back at Winter. No one dropped out of line, though.

Abby fell back until she was next to Winter, looking worried.

“Word from the head of the column,” she said. Rumors traveled down the length of the marching army like sparks along a powder trail. “We’re turning off the road. Give-Em-Hell is taking the rest of the horsemen out front.” The recruits, imitating their veteran comrades, had adopted the nickname for the cavalry commander.

“Then Orlanko’s just ahead,” Winter said. She glanced overhead, where the sun hung near its zenith. “We’ll fight today. Maybe tomorrow, but probably today. Orlanko can’t afford to wait around, and our supply situation can’t be good.”

“Right. Today.” Abby swallowed hard. Her hand was tight around the butt of her musket, the barrel resting on her shoulder. “You think we can win?”

“It’s not our job to think about that,” Winter said. “We signed up for this army, and that means we agreed to fight where and when Colonel Vhalnich and the other officers think we ought to. Whether we should fight is their decision, and we have to trust them. Letting every ranker think about that for himself is the first step toward a rout.”

“Right,” Abby repeated. “Right.” She looked at the backs of the marching girls. “Do you think they’ll do all right?”

Winter nodded. “I think so. As well as any of the rest.”

“Right.” Abby took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “All right.”

Winter wondered if her nerves had shown so clearly the first time she’d gone into a real fight. Probably they did, and I was too scared to notice.

Up ahead, the road turned to the left, but a blue-coated lieutenant was directing the column off to the right. They broke through a thin belt of trees and tramped across a field of cabbages, cutting a muddy brown trail through the rows of ripening green vegetables. A low wall of unmortared stone had blocked the way here, but the leading battalion had dismantled it and left an opening wide enough for the wagons and guns to pass. Beyond, a low hill sloped up toward a grassy crest, where a few milk cows grazed peacefully and watched the marching intruders with incurious eyes.

On the near slope of the hill, the army of Janus bet Vhalnich was forming up. The First and Second Battalions of the Colonials were already there, assembling around their twin flags into a battle column. Sergeants screamed orders at the recruits as they came up, directing the pike-armed men into a great mass milling behind the two Colonial formations, while those with muskets were sent farther up, just below the crest of the hill. The wagons remained down at the base, while the guns were wheeled farther on, over the top of the hill and out of sight.

Winter saw Jane paused up ahead, talking to Marcus. She hurried forward, Abby at her side.

“Ihernglass,” Marcus said. “I wanted to. .” He looked at the young, female faces, gathered in a semicircle and staring at him, and rubbed at his beard distractedly. “Come here, would you?”

Winter stepped forward, and Marcus turned his back on the rest and spoke to her quietly.

“Look. The colonel has put you right in the center of the line. It’s the safest place, in some ways, but the fire is going to be hot. I don’t want. . if you want me to reassign your company to the reserve, I will. They’ve made their point. Nobody would think less of them.”

“They’re not here to make a point, sir.”

“You can’t be any happier with a bunch of girls getting shot than I am,” Marcus hissed. “We ought to do the honorable thing.”

Winter couldn’t help smiling. What was it Janus had once told her? Captain d’Ivoire missed his calling as a knight-errant. “They wouldn’t agree with you, sir. As I think you know, or else you’d be willing to say it to their faces.”

“All right.” Marcus looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “All right. You remember the plan.”

“Yessir.”

He pointed up the hill, to a spot directly in front of the two formed battalions. “Up there. Take about a hundred yards of line and wait for the signal.”

Winter saluted. “Yes, sir!”

After Marcus had walked off, shaking his head, Jane tapped Winter on the shoulder.

“What did he want?”

“To offer us a last chance to back out,” Winter said.

Jane laughed. “You think he would have learned better than that at the Vendre.”

The guns began to roar as the army finished its deployment.

It was a simple enough formation. Up ahead of where she was standing, on the descending slope of the hill, the artillery had set up in a long line. The Preacher’s field guns were directly ahead of them, while the flanks were occupied by a motley collection of smaller cannon gathered from the city. Somewhere down below were the siege guns pulled from the river defenses, but manhandling those into position might take all day.

Behind the guns, and just far enough on the near side of the slope that they were not yet exposed to the enemy, the musket-armed volunteers had formed a long, loose line. It wasn’t the shoulder-to-shoulder line of battle Winter had marched in against the Auxiliaries in Khandar, but a thinner formation with plenty of space between each man and his neighbor. Winter herself stood in the center of the stretch of line occupied by Jane’s girls, with Jane a dozen yards in one direction and Abby about the same distance in the other.

Below this cordon, the regular infantry of the Colonials waited in double-company columns, four battalions strong. There was a considerable empty space between them, enough room for each column to fold out into a line if it needed to, or alternatively to provide a killing ground swept by musket fire if they had to form square and hold off enemy cavalry.

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!”

The valley floor was broken by a small, rocky streambed, too shallow to be an obstacle. The slopes of the hills were all knee-high grass, tall enough to conceal an ankle-breaking rock, but not enough to provide any sort of cover. As the volunteers moved forward, the friendly guns started up again, raising fountains of dirt at the edges of the enemy lines and among the cuirassiers. Orlanko’s cannoneers were concentrating on trying to knock out Janus’ artillery-a difficult task at best, requiring precision gunnery-while their opponents went for the far more tempting target of the densely packed heavy horsemen.

As the volunteers descended, reaching the relatively flat ground of the valley floor, the drums of the regulars became audible. The steady clomp-clomp-clomp of the cadenced march, like the ticking of some enormous clock, grew until it was louder than the cannons. The wall of blue uniforms made an intimidating sight, each with musket held against the shoulder just so, officers on horseback behind them with drawn swords, battle flags flapping in the breeze. Their own troops, brown and gray with black armbands, made a pathetic comparison. The range closed steadily.

At seventy-five yards, Winter called for a halt. The ragged line of volunteers grew more ragged still, as each company commander judged the moment for himself. The girls stopped, eyes glued to the steady advance of the blue line as if they were watching an oncoming avalanche.

“Ready!” Winter shouted. Jane and Abby repeated the order. Muskets came up to shoulders, and hammers clicked.

“Aim!” They’d stressed this in training. An ordinary infantryman, packed shoulder to shoulder, could normally fire nowhere but straight ahead. In the looser formation, they would have to make their shots count. On the other hand, it was hard to miss. The advancing regulars were slightly below them, fifty yards away, a wall of blue stretching out of sight in both directions.

Muskets started to crackle, somewhere else along the line. Winter swung her arm down before the roar made her inaudible. “Fire!”

It wasn’t a proper volley, discharged in a single deadly blast. The sharp reports were spread out over a half minute, as individuals stepped forward, found their balance, or lined their weapons up on target. Pink-white muzzle flares were instantly blotted out by billowing clouds of smoke. The pall was not yet thick enough to obscure the enemy, though, and Winter could see the effect of the shots. Men went down, all along the line, crumpling sideways in heaps, falling backward, tumbling out of rank or clutching suddenly at their wounds. The neat perfection of the oncoming regulars dissolved, for a moment, then reformed like the surface of a lake closing over a hurled stone as the line continued its relentless advance. The soldiers stepped over the dead and wounded, closed their ranks, and came on to the beat of their drummers.

“Load!” Winter shouted. Most of her girls were already working on it, fumbling with cartridge pouches and ramrods. She heard squeaks and curses where someone had dropped a ball or spilled the powder. The rattle of ramrods in barrels mixed with the beat of the drums as the regulars approached. “Fire at will!”

No point in readying another volley. Muskets were already firing to either side, and each member of Winter’s company brought her weapon up as soon as it was ready and sighted through the shredded smoke. Muskets began to flash again, and more blue-coated regulars fell. Winter could see her people making mistakes-firing too high, or before they’d brought the musket level, so the ball raised a miniature burst of earth and grass only a few yards on. At least one ramrod, left sticking out of the barrel, went pinwheeling out like a stick hurled for a dog.

Here it comes. Winter kept her eyes on the enemy lieutenants, walking or riding behind their soldiers. It was too loud to hear the orders at this distance, but she could recognize the gestures. And everyone in the volunteer line could see the regulars halt, their first rank kneel, and the muskets come up to their shoulders.

“Down!” Winter screamed, with all the lung power she could muster. At the same time she threw herself forward, spread-eagled in the grass and pressing her face into the dirt. From the sudden lack of fire to both sides, she thought her command had been followed-God, I hope they have the sense to follow-

A real volley rolled out from the regulars, tight and precise, hundreds of simultaneous musket blasts coming together into a wall of sound that rolled over Winter like a wave and set her ears to ringing. She could feel it, through the ground, along with the thwack, thwack, thwack of balls hitting the earth. On her stomach, she made a hard target, but she was hardly invulnerable, and it took a few moments to convince herself that she hadn’t been hit. She pushed herself up on her elbows and raised her head, but the enemy was still invisible inside the roiling fogbank of their own discharge.

“Up!” Winter shouted. “Fire at will!”

She could hear Jane and Abby repeat the command, which eased her mind a fraction, but now the shrieks and curses rising from the battlefield were not only coming from the enemy. It was impossible to tell, from a scream of pain, whether it came from a man or a woman, but when Winter climbed to her feet, not everyone in her company did likewise. Whether those who remained still were wounded, dead, or simply frozen in terror, she had no way of knowing.

Muskets fired again, and the smoke was closing in. The rest of the line became vague figures in the fog, periodically outlined against pink-white stabs of flame. With their first volley spent, still under fire, the regulars had gone from organized volleys to the old soldier’s standby of shooting off rounds as fast as they could manage, at whatever they thought they could hit. Winter’s company, and the whole line of volunteers, were doing likewise.

This was where the real killing began, the two forces working each other over at close range like boxers drawn into a clinch. There was nothing for Winter to do but shout “Hold and fire! Hold and fire!” over and over, until her throat went raw and her voice was a ragged croak. Every breath tasted of powder smoke, and her heart slammed painfully hard in her chest.

The irony of the battlefield was that neither side could see what effect their fire was having on the enemy, who was hidden behind the billowing smoke, but both could easily tell how badly they themselves were being hurt. Winter, stalking back and forth between smoke-shrouded figures, heard balls zip and zing as they went past, and watched silhouettes crumple and fall around her. A girl two yards to her front gave a quiet “Urk,” dropped her musket, and doubled over. Another screamed, clutching her leg and rolling back and forth in the grass. Other figures passed her by, shuffling wounded to the rear, or unhurt and running away-there was no way to tell.

The enemy, she knew, was having it worse. They had to be having it worse. Her own people were spread out, able to kneel, or to step forward out of their cloud of smoke and take aim at enemy muzzle flashes. The regulars, trapped in their line, could only load and fire blind, while their tight-packed ranks made for a wonderful target. But there were more of them, more muskets that could be brought to bear and more bodies to throw into the grinder.

“Pull it back!” Winter said. “Back up the hill! Open the range!”

She started backward, not running but walking slowly, keeping her face toward the enemy. Jane was still shouting-thank God-and the girls of the company followed. They emerged from the gray-white fogbank one by one, like ghosts, muskets clutched with white knuckles darkened to black by powder grime.

“She’s dead,” someone screamed. “I saw her-”

“Has anyone seen-”

“My sister, it hit her foot, she’s still-”

“Keep firing!” Winter screeched, banshee-wild. “Load! Fire!”

Hesitantly, the rattle of musketry rose again. Winter could see their faces now, tense and determined, or crying, tears cutting through the black grit as they brought the muskets to their shoulders. One girl jerked, a fountain of blood blooming high on her chest and blood soaking her shirt. She raised her musket to her shoulder, fired, then collapsed backward into the grass.

A new sound thrilled through the firing. A skirl of drums, not the low, steady beat of the march but the rapid heartbeat-fast pace of the charge. Winter pictured six thousand bayonets coming out of their sheaths, wicked-sharp points gleaming as they snapped home.

“Back! Up the hill!”

Standing to receive the charge would be suicide. A formed body of troops would go through the thin line of volunteers like a rock through fog. But the regulars, packed tight, would have a hard time running down their more nimble opponents.

A few muzzle flashes came from the enemy line, men firing as they ran. Winter backpedaled as her company turned and ran, searching the smoke for laggards. Balls twittered and zipped overhead, but she didn’t turn to run herself until the leading rank of Orlanko’s men emerged from the cloud of smoke, trailing streamers of gray fog from their uniforms. Then she sprinted up the slope and after the girls of her company, catching sight of Jane well ahead.

Here and there along the line there was a clash of arms, as some volunteer who’d been too slow turned to fight or tried to defend a wounded comrade. The regulars charged like lancers, spitting these unfortunates on their fixed bayonets, then carried on up the hill with a cheer. Winter saw one thin figure-whether it was a boy or a girl, she couldn’t be certain-jump up from the grass like a pheasant taking wing in front of a hunter, only to be brought crashing down by a blast of musketry from the advancing line.

The majority of the volunteers escaped their pursuers, however, and the regulars quickly realized the chase was futile. They slowed down, then halted, sergeants shouting furiously to dress their ranks. The men cheered at the sight of their enemies in panicked flight.

“Halt!” Winter shouted. “Halt and fire!”

This, she knew, was the moment of truth. Conventional military wisdom said that, once a body of men had broken formation and started to run, it was impossible to get them to return to the fight until they’d fled out of sight of the enemy and their ingrained discipline and fear of their officers could overcome the terror of battle. If that was true, the volunteers would keep running, down past the guns and the Colonials, and likely panic the formation of pikemen along the way.

On the other hand, as Marcus had explained the plan, this was a different sort of army, with a different sort of soldier. They didn’t have a complicated formation to maintain, and more important, they had a cause, something beyond their immediate survival or possible punishment by their officers to motivate them. Janus was gambling that this would make them tougher than the time-serving rankers who opposed them.

Whether it was true of the volunteers in general Winter couldn’t say, but her heart lifted when it became clear that Jane’s girls, at least, were going to confound the tactics manuals. They stopped running at her command, and as she jogged up toward where they were gathered, they went back into their loading and firing, their shots cutting short the cheers among the surprised regulars. More muskets cracked along the line-while some had no doubt continued to run, it seemed as though the volunteers had justified Janus’ faith. For a few minutes, the enemy was dumbfounded, as balls zipped over their heads and men fell in place. Then, ignoring the shouting officers who were still trying to reorganize the ranks, they began to fire back. The smoke grew thick once again, and the nightmare of dimly seen figures firing and falling in spasmodic flashes began anew.

Winter could well imagine the enemy commander’s consternation. The roar of musketry was continuous, but the return fire from the volunteers did not seem to be slackening. If they couldn’t be broken with firepower, they had to be shifted with cold steel, but when his troops stumbled forward they found their opponents flitting back out of their reach like ghosts, only to stop when the attack had spent itself and return to their constant, galling fire. Twice more the regulars worked themselves into a frenzy of cheers and charged, and both times they caught only a handful of stragglers.

Among the volunteers, confidence was steadily increasing. Balls struck home, and men fell here and there along the line, but their loose formation made for a much harder target than the disciplined shoulder-to-shoulder ranks of the enemy. Janus’ artillery had joined in as well, switching its fire to the infantry and arcing balls to bounce through the enemy line. And when the breeze tore gaps in the wall of drifting smoke, they could see the damage they were inflicting. A carpet of blue-coated bodies marked the slow progress of the regulars across the valley floor and up the slope, mounding in drifts in some places where they’d halted to exchange fire.

Whoever was in charge over there-Orlanko, Torahn, some army colonel-had one card left to play. How long will he hold it back. .?

“Abby!”

Jane’s shout jerked Winter’s attention back to the here and now, amid the skeins of drifting, powder-scented smoke. She saw a knot of her girls gathering, and hurried in their direction, trying to listen through the earsplitting din of musketry.

“Spread out!” Winter croaked. Her voice was almost completely gone, and she resorted to grabbing the clustered girls by the arm and pushing them to either side. “Don’t make a target! Spread out!”

“Winter!” Jane was bending over Abby’s prone body. Her voice was as raw as Winter’s. “I think she’s hit, but I can’t find where.”

“We should-”

“Help her,” Jane said. Her eyes were very wide, and her dark crimson hair had faded to dull gray under a layer of grime. The hand that reached out for Winter was gray as well, cut by streaks of sweat.

Damn. Winter looked down at Abby, then up at the enemy. Damn, damn, damn. She knelt beside the girl, curtly waving for Jane to back off.

Abby lay on her side. Winter took her shoulder and pushed her onto her back, limp arm flopping into the grass beside her. No time for half measures. If she’s dead. . But taking a pulse was impossible amid the constant crash and jar of muskets and cannon.

There was a crust of blood and a sticky trail, right at Abby’s hairline. Winter probed it tentatively with one finger, anticipating the soft, sick shifting that meant a shattered skull. Instead she found only a narrow ridge of torn flesh. Abby’s mouth opened, and she gave a low moan.

“She’s alive.” Jane put her arms around Winter and squeezed tight, as though she were somehow responsible. “We have to get her out of here.”

“We can’t leave the others,” Winter said. “Find a couple of the taller ones-”

She stopped. Another sound was barely audible, under the blasts and concussions of the battle. More shouts, not the cheers of excited troops but screams and warning. And, beyond that, the rumble of hooves.

“Run,” Winter said. She tried to raise her voice, but it came out as a hoarse squeak. “Run! Jane, tell them to run!”

“I’ll take Abby-”

“No!” Winter jumped to her feet and grabbed Jane by the arm. “Come on. There’s no time!”

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.”

“Yessir.” Marcus drew himself up and saluted. “At once, sir!”

He ran to the edge of the square, edged sideways between the surprised rankers, and hurried across the killing ground toward the pikemen. These volunteers, still formed into a rough block, had done nothing but bristle and cheer as the horsemen swept past. Marcus waved his hat at the blue-uniformed lieutenant in charge.

“Captain!” The man-Bosh, Marcus recalled-snapped a salute. “Do you have orders?”

“We’re to attack, on the double.” Marcus pointed up the slope, at an angle that would let the pikes edge around the still-formed squares. “That way. Follow me!”

“With this lot, sir? They don’t know how to march! We’ll just be a mob.”

“It’s what we’ve got,” Marcus said, trying to emulate Janus’ peremptory demeanor. He raised his voice. “We’re going at them! Follow me!”

An enthusiastic cheer came from the ranks of the volunteers. There was nothing for raising men’s morale, Marcus thought, like watching a battle without actually being shot at. He waved his hat in the air again, chopped his hand in the direction he wanted, and set off.

Lieutenant Bosh’s prediction came true almost immediately. As soon as they started to move, the ranks the sergeants had so painfully constructed dissolved, and the formation started to look more like a blob than a rectangle. He heard the clatter of wood and the occasional shocked screech as men tangled their long-hafted weapons, trod on one another’s feet, or fell over.

“Keep those pikes up!” Bosh shouted, walking backward and waving his arms frantically. “Keep together!”

“Double time!” Marcus said, and then broke into a trot himself. The sound of confusion behind him increased, but he could hear the thud of many boots climbing the hill. The Colonials gave him a cheer as he went past, and to either side the cannoneers were running back to their guns.

Crossing the crest of the hill, he was confronted with an immense bank of smoke, just starting to break up in the feeble breeze. Through a few gaps, he could see the enemy line, still putting itself back together after its last attempt to catch the fleeing volunteers. The reason for Janus’ haste was suddenly obvious-until the line got back into shape, and the men reloaded their muskets, there would be no volley of deadly, coordinated fire to break the momentum of the pikemen’s charge. But how the hell could he know that, from the other side of the hill-

Marcus shook his head. One day, he thought, he might learn to stop second-guessing Janus bet Vhalnich. He drew his sword as the leading edge of the mass of pikemen came over the grassy top of the hill behind him. From either side, the boom of cannon resumed as the artillery picked up its attack.

If this works, it’s going to be one of those things that get written down in the history books. He wondered, briefly, what he should say. Oh well. I can always think of something clever later to tell the historians.

“Come on!” He chopped downward, toward the enemy. “Let’s get the bastards!”

Marcus broke into a run. Behind him, the volunteers let out another cheer and followed. They made it halfway to the enemy line before someone with a loaded musket spotted them through the smoke, and a crackle of musket fire came to meet them. Marcus heard balls zipping overhead, and men jerked and tumbled behind him, but for the moment he was untouched. He didn’t dare stop, for fear of one of his own men skewering him from behind.

He expected an awful collision, the crash of body on body and weapon on flesh, but it never happened. The men in the thin line of regulars watched the pikes come on, three thousand strong, and made a rapid assessment of their chances. First one by one, then all in a flood, they broke and ran, sprinting down into the valley, desperate to stay ahead of the vengeful mob. In spite of the shouts of the officers, the panic was contagious, as the companies to either side of where the line had been breached decided they were better off following their companions.

In a few seconds, the solid-looking line of blue had shattered around the charge of the pikes like a pane of glass hit by a stone. The regulars were in full flight, scattered across the valley, and the volunteers whooped and went after them. Marcus slowed to a trot, then finally halted, his sword still unbloodied. He couldn’t have brought his cheering men under control if he’d wanted to, but it no longer mattered. High on the other hill, he could see rearing horses and frantic motions, as Orlanko’s officers and cannoneers also decided on the better part of valor.

The battle was over.

Now what?