The Tyrant

Chapter 31

The sounds now coming from behind the walls of Franness were those of gunfire-and velipads squealing with pain and fright, and men shouting in anger. The kind of bitter rage that comes from betrayal, not the simple fury of battle.

We've underestimated Prelotta all along, Raj Whitehall admitted. What a brilliant bastard. The number of barbarian warlords who can understand the difference between a defeat and a partial victory-which is all he can hope for now-are as rare as hens' teeth. Even rarer are the ones who can calculate it beforehand. Which he obviously did.

For a moment, Adrian was distracted by an idle question. What are "hens"? But the meaning of the expression was obvious from the context, and he was doing his level best to keep his thoughts concentrated. That was hard enough, under the circumstances. yes. that is why he built those new fortifications. i was wrong.

That admission of error, coming from Center, almost amused Adrian enough to break through the bleak shell which had surrounded him for days. Center had stated-with his customary "stochastic certainty"-that the purpose of the new outer wall which Prelotta had built on the northern side of Franness had been… nothing, really. Just the ignorance of a barbarian chief, fumbling with the concept of siege warfare for the first time. One wall good, two walls better. "Probability 68 %, ± 17."

The real purpose of the wall was now obvious. Adrian didn't know whether to bless Prelotta or curse him.

Inside that new outer wall-but kept out of the city proper-were the thousands of Southron cavalrymen, mostly Grayhills, who had been driven by Demansk's relentless campaign this spring to seek shelter from the storm. The only real shelter, of course, being the major walled city in the south under Southron control.

Franness, still the "new provincial capital" of the Reedbottoms-and with Prelotta himself, according to all spy reports, still resident. Along with most of the ten thousand men he had brought north with him the year before.

Thousands of Reedbottom warriors, trained and equipped to fight with the new guns. Well-equipped, in fact. In the months since he had taken the city, according to the spies, Prelotta had built up a significant arms industry around his initial core of blacksmiths. Whatever the other Vanberts of Franness might think of their new barbarian overlord, the metalworkers and apothecaries were quite pleased with him. They were more prosperous than ever.

But now, the Reedbottoms would be fighting from behind the very solid inner walls of the city. Prelotta had been smart enough to understand that the laager tactic which had worked so well against Tomsien would be suicide against Demansk. The Reedbottom chief, both Adrian and Demansk were positive, had his own corps of spies. They would have described to him, by now, how murderous the field guns which Trae had built over the winter in Chalice were proving to be against anyone who came against the Paramount.

Demansk had already crushed the only significant noblemen's revolt against him, just a few weeks earlier, using those guns. He would have crushed them anyway, using his three brigades of well-paid and disciplined Confederate regulars against the ragged "brigade" which the noblemen had manage to assemble in opposition. But he hadn't bothered. He'd simply had Adrian fire several volleys from the field guns, before the rebels could come within three hundred yards. At that range, against massed infantry, the skittering iron balls had wreaked havoc. A final volley of canister had ended the affair entirely.

The Southron cavalrymen whom Demansk had been hammering since then were not as susceptible to the weapons, of course. But they could not stand against them, either. And so, week after week, Demansk had harried the barbarians and driven them steadily out of the Confederate lands they had been ravaging again this spring.

According to Demansk's spies, the other tribal chiefs had pleaded-demanded, in the case of Esmond, who had been elected the new chief of the Grayhills-that Prelotta lead his men out of Franness and set up the laager again. But Prelotta, no fool, had understood perfectly well that the same wooden walls which had shrugged off javelins would be a death trap facing cannonballs. So, stubbornly, he had remained within the walls of his new capital-while inviting the other tribes to join him there in a certain-to-be-victorious defensive battle against the oncoming Vanberts.

Join him they had, even the Grayhills under Esmond. But Prelotta had never allowed them beyond the first wall. Claiming, according to the spies, that the city was too crowded and rife with disease already to accommodate ten thousand more warriors. So, for a week now, Esmond and his six thousand Grayhills and the thousands of men from the other tribes had been trapped within Franness' "outer pocket."

A large pocket, true. Prelotta had not stinted on the work, using his own warriors as well as dragooned civilian labor to build an outer wall which extended four hundred yards beyond the city itself and stretched for almost two miles, across its entire northern length and curving a good way down the western side.

It was a crude wall, of course, nothing else had been possible in the months available. But, to barbarians, it must have looked impressive.

Now…

A dozen volleys from Adrian's four big siege guns had reduced a whole stretch of it to rubble. Rubble which would pose little difficulty to Demansk's brigades of infantrymen, when they stormed across it, but would be a death trap for cavalry. On those broken mounds of stone-even in the cramped space of the outer pocket-Southron tactics would be useless. Not even arrogant and cocksure Grayhills were foolish enough to think they could stand against Vanbert regulars in a toe-to-toe slugging match in a box.

Once they realized that, the Grayhills and other tribesmen had begun shrieking for Prelotta to allow them behind the much more substantial walls of the inner city. He had ignored their pleas, and now-when the pleas had turned to demands and men began trying to scale the wall-was answering them with gunfire.

Trapped. Barbarian cavalrymen had no more chance of scaling the inner wall of Franness-not against thousands of Reedbottoms firing down on them with their stubby guns-than they had of facing Demansk's infantry inside the outer pocket.

In short, Prelotta's foresight and ruthlessness had produced a situation where, by nightfall, the preeminence of the Reedbottoms over the Grayhills would be established for the first time. And, in all likelihood, for generations to come. Precious few Grayhills warriors would return from what, at its onset, they had expected to be one of the great plundering raids of memory.

All that, of course, assumed that Prelotta himself would survive the aftermath. But…

He's gambling there too. Gambling on Demansk-and gambling on you, most of all. Which are not bad odds, when you think about it.

Adrian shook his head. He would have time later to deal with that question. At the moment…

The sally ports in the outer wall were swinging open. Those of them, that is, which Adrian's siege guns hadn't already splintered.

All the sally ports that Adrian could see, all down the wall.

Esmond's doing all that's left to him. A great massed cavalry attack. Hit Demansk's brigades as hard as possible, hoping to clear the way for a retreat back to the south. If he can escape this immediate encirclement, he'll at least manage to get his men out of here. It's a good move-best he's got, anyway-by a brave and resourceful commander. And I salute him for it.

Then, quietly: I'm sorry, lad. But it's time.

Adrian took a deep breath and nodded. If the officers standing around him waiting for orders thought there was anything odd about a man nodding to himself, they gave no sign of it. By now, they were accustomed to Adrian and his often peculiar mannerisms and temporary distractions.

They weren't even bothered by it. Adrian Gellert was almost as eccentric as his father-in-law's new wife, true enough. And so what? Demansk was Paramount, after all. And while his son-in-law was perhaps a bit crazed, what did it matter? The gods knew he was capable enough with his guns. Besides, he was an Emerald anyway. They're all a bit crazed.

Time. Oh, brother, I am sorry for it. I wish No point in that. The father-in-law had sacrificed the son; Adrian would have to do the same with the brother. So it was.

The shell came back around him, tight, solid, cold.

"All right, men." He clapped his hands once. "You know what to do. Same drill as before. We'll just be receiving the sorry bastards a little quicker, that's all. But since velipads make a bigger target, who cares?"

He managed a predatory grin of sorts. A rictus, anyway. The officers around him responded with their own.

"Round shot until they're within three hundred yards, remember. And-don't think I won't be watching-the gods help whatever crew moves to case shot any sooner."

He turned his head, his eyes ranging up and down the long ranks of the regular brigades standing some yards behind the field guns. There was no real point to that examination, since Adrian knew full well that Demansk had his infantrymen properly positioned. But he thought it might help steady his gunners if they thought Adrian was satisfied.

Which, needless to say, he was. Adrian and his father-in-law had spent time, over the winter, deciding how best to adapt Confederate tactics to incorporate field guns. And then, since the campaign began this spring, had had more than one occasion to test it in practice.

Easy, really. Unlike the Emerald phalanxes, the Confederate brigade formations had always been designed for flexible field tactics. It was simple enough, for men accustomed to the wedge and saw in the heat of battle, to learn how to quickly open lanes through which the field guns could be withdrawn once the enemy got near. Then, close back up again in time to receive the charge with shields locked and assegais ready. And, as the charge recoiled, reopen the lanes so the deadly guns could resume their work.

After the battle where the noble rebels had been destroyed, the Vanbert regulars had become quite the enthusiasts of field guns. They'd suffered practically no casualties at all-and been rewarded with the typically fulsome loot of aristocrats gone down to ruin. In this battle, they could be counted on to do their job.

Adrian clapped his hands again, twice. Not so much by way of command, but simply to emphasize his satisfaction and confidence in a bright and rosy future.

"That's it. Let's go!"

The officers trotted off, in both directions, down the ranks toward their batteries. Adrian moved forward a few paces to stand next to the officer in command of the battery at the very center of the Confederate army. That battery was facing the largest of the sally ports. The one which, Adrian was almost certain, his brother himself would come charging through. Say whatever else you would about Esmond Gellert, he was not one to skulk while he drove others forward. He would die, as he had lived, a leader of men.

"Ready, sir," murmured the officer. Adrian simply nodded.

A great whoop came from the outer walls of Franness. And then, a moment later, the first contingents of the Southron cavalry pounded through. They were more of a disorganized mob than a formation, but with their numbers and their barbarian energy, looked formidable enough. Charging cavalry always looks formidable, and Adrian had no doubt at all Esmond had been whipping up his men to the heights of fury and determination. He was good at that.

"The cairns mark eight hundred yards, sir."

That was the officer's own nervousness. Adrian stifled the impulse to snarl in reply: Yes, I know. You dimwit, I'm the one who ordered the cairns placed there last night in the first place. Just as I had the second line of cairns placed at the three hundred mark. Is there something you'd like to explain to me about how to eat, too?

But… he stifled it. He just stood there, silent, unmoving, his hands clasped behind his back. And watched as the Southrons stormed forward toward the killing zone.

They had a ways to go. Demansk, following Adrian's recommendation, had drawn up two brigades of his regulars about twelve hundred yards beyond the outer wall of Franness. The river which bisected the city protected his left flank-and also, of course, kept the Southrons from being able to seek any escape in that direction.

Did Prelotta have that in mind also, when he built the pocket where he did? Probably. He's cold-blooded enough.

There was space open to the right of the Vanbert lines, which led toward the sanctuary of the southern continent across Kellinek's Wall. But the wall was over a hundred miles distant, and Demansk had drawn his third brigade across that line of retreat, not more than a mile away. With most of his auxiliary cavalry there, covering its flanks.

So there would be no advantage to Esmond to attempt an immediate break to the south. True, he'd been fighting one brigade instead of two-but he'd have to withstand the withering fire of the field guns anyway. Hitting him on the flank instead of the front, and with no real prospect of escaping the fire quickly. A single Confederate brigade would not be that much easier to break than two of them, especially not with auxiliary cavalry in support.

No, best to hit the core of Demansk's strength head on. Esmond could either break it or he couldn't. What he couldn't do at all was hope to sidestep it.

"About a thousand yards, sir." Again, Adrian bit down on a harsh response. My eyesight's probably three times as good as yours. Shut up!

It was all moving very fast, now. Even massed in thousands, mounted barbarians could cover ground very quickly in a charge.

Adrian's eyes matched the first rows of cavalrymen against the cairns. He thought, for a moment, to catch a glimpse of a particularly tall and powerful looking man in their midst. Esmond?

Not time for that now. The cairns He opened his mouth, but the officer was already shouting.

"Fire! Fire! Fire, you stinking sots!"

The entire scene vanished behind billowing clouds of smoke. The first volley had gone off splendidly. Not ragged at all.

There was no way to tell what effect it had had, however, nor had Adrian expected to be able to tell. He and his gunners were familiar enough, by now, with the great drawback to gunpowder weapons: first volley, and you fight half blind thereafter; pray for a good breeze, if you think you're winning.

Under these conditions, Adrian didn't try to halt the gunfire while he waited for gaps to appear in the smoke. No reason to, really. He and his artillerymen had had more than enough time to sight their guns before the battle. And since there was no danger of running out of powder and shot, the worst that could happen was a wasted volley. Which, since it would help shore up the morale of the Confederates, wouldn't be a waste in any event.

"Fire! Fire! I want grazing shots, you bastards! Or I'll have you whipped!"

Adrian made a silent promise that he would ease this particular officer out of his post. Make him a quartermaster or something. Any post that wouldn't subject good men to an idiot commander. How the hell were his gunners supposed to make grazing shots at a target they couldn't see? And how would the officer who made the threats even know himself?

The volleys were getting a bit ragged now, as the better crews began pulling ahead in their rate of fire. Adrian had time to consider a problem he hadn't previously, and wonder whether he ought to demote himself to a quartermaster. There was really very little breeze at all. The smoke clouds hadn't had a single gap yet that he'd spotted. So how exactly was he going to make good his threat to punish any crew which began using case shot before the enemy had reached the three-hundred-yard mark?

Awkward. In fact, the officer of this battery was already starting to give him the eye. Wanting, of course, to order his crews to move to case shot, but not daring to do so until he could see that the talismanic cairns had been reached.

And how to gauge that? observe. A strange kind of grid appeared in Adrian's mind, one he'd never seen Center use before. Not so much a grid, as a… echolocation. certain nocturnal animals-not here on your planet-use it quite successfully. and there are no doubt some marine animals here which do so as well.

Adrian realized that he was "seeing" with his ears. Not really seeing so much as calculating, from the sounds, the closeness of the enemy. It was a very blurry kind of "vision," of course, but Good enough. There really isn't anything magical about three hundred yards, after all. I'd say that's close enough, Adrian-nothing else, it'll make your men feel better.

He nodded and began shouting. "Case shot! Switch to case shot!" He saw the relief flooding the officer's face, and, a moment later, the crews of the battery switch over to canister. He turned and made vehement gestures to the small group of runners Demansk had insisted on providing him-realizing, as he did so, that once again his experienced father-in-law had understood something he hadn't.

Other crews, of course, wouldn't be able to hear the command-not above the din the guns themselves were making. But the runners would notify them quickly enough. They were already sprinting down the lines.

Nothing ever works quite the way you figured it in a battle, son. Or any kind of fight, for that matter. That's why I always like to have a second string to my bow.

A few seconds later, such being the whims of fortune, Demansk's foresight proved unnecessary. A sudden breeze cleared great swaths from the smoke clouds. Once again, Adrian could see the battlefield.

Enough of it, anyway. And the portion just in front of him was quite visible.

Carnage everywhere. The first volley of canister had gone off just about at the right moment, hitting an enemy already ravaged by round shot skittering and bouncing across the ground. Each one of Adrian's four-pounder field guns-six to a battery, and ten batteries down the line-fired dozens of arquebus-sized balls with each discharge of case shot. As wildly inaccurate as they were, even at a hundred yards much less three hundred, they were bound to hit something. Enough of the balls, at least.

Broke the charge. Look. There's Esmond. You can see him now, trying to rally them.

Sure enough. Even without Center's help, Adrian would have recognized his brother at the distance. If for no other reason, because his head was uncovered. Whether because his helmet had been sent flying by a bullet, or because Esmond himself had taken it off. More likely the latter, thought Adrian. It was the sort of gesture Esmond would make, at a time like this.

He took a last look at that glorious crown of golden hair, making no attempt to recognize the features beneath it. So would he choose to remember a man whom he had once called brother. Gold, shining in the sun; not tattoos and scars across a face grown scarred already with hate and fury.

He stepped forward and seized the officer's shoulder with a firm hand. Then, having the man's attention, pointed across the field.

"Him, you see? Yes? I want him down. Now. All guns trained on him. Maintain case shot."

It was a well-trained crew, whatever the qualities of the officer. Within moments, the command was carried out. Smoke clouds filled the air.

When they cleared, the gold was gone.

Three volleys later, the Southrons were in full retreat. Some, pouring back into the pocket behind the wall. Others, and most of them-the pocket was a death trap-desperately trying to thread an escape route between the guns and Demansk and the third brigade drawn up to block their route.

Some of them would make it. Most wouldn't. And, once again, Confederate regulars had not even had to bloody their assegais. They would later, in just a bit, as they stormed over whoever was left huddling in the pocket. But that would be more of a massacre than a battle, against an enemy completely disorganized and broken in spirit. Their casualties would be very light.

Already, the first cheers were going up. Adrian's heart felt like a lump of lead. But he realized that this day, if not already, he had cemented his position within the hearts of Vanbert's regulars.

Our golden boy, by the gods! Our good luck charm! Even if he is a crazy Emerald!

Play it out to the end, lad. You father-in-law needs it and you owe those spearmen that much anyway. And perhaps Esmond also.

Adrian turned to face the serried ranks, removed his helmet, and bowed toward his father-in-law's men. Then, turning slightly each time, bowing again and again, as he gave each regiment its due.

A golden head acknowledging stalwart hearts. Power recognizing its source. Tyranny triumphant, returning the favor.