The Tyrant

Chapter 25

By the time she reached the compound, however, she'd slowed back down to a brisk walk. She was the daughter of Verice Demansk, after all, even if almost no one here knew it.

Dignity, dignity.

The compound was a small laager itself, formed in the same manner as the larger one surrounding it, except the shields covering the interstices and the undercarriages were absent. It was not more than two hundred feet across, with the log tower rising from the very center.

She'd assumed Adrian would be on top of the tower, but discovered instead that he was still in their own wagon. Standing beside it, rather, maneuvering a ladder into place with the help of one of the soldiers in Helga's hundred. The hundred itself had taken up positions guarding the wagon. They would not take part in this battle at all, hopefully, unlike Adrian's men. Their job was to protect Helga, the politics of the whole thing be damned.

"Not enough room on the tower," Adrian explained. "Every damn sub-chief in the tribe is trying to fit himself up there alongside Prelotta."

He gestured at the ladder. "Come on. Let's watch it from atop our own wagon. The view won't be as good, but at this stage of the battle it doesn't really matter." He put practice to words, scrambling up ahead of Helga. Over his shoulder: "Not at any stage, really. No maneuvers, here. Just hammer back at them when they charge-and try to plug the breaches."

"Breaches," muttered Helga, as she climbed up after him. "Why don't I like the sound of that word?"

Even before she reached the top, however, a new sound arrived which perked up her spirits. The first volley of Adrian's arquebusiers, firing on the advancing Confederates. Helga knew it was Adrian's men who were shooting, not the Reedbottoms in the wagons. The long-barreled two-man arquebuses had a distinctly different sound from the squat guns of the tribesmen.

It was a very ragged volley, naturally. Adrian's men were scattered all around the laager, two teams to each interstitial shield. The men and the officers commanding them were too spread out to be given coordinated firing commands. So they had been ordered to fire as soon as the enemy in front of their own guns reached "close range"-which, for Adrian's men, was defined as fifty yards.

Still, she was impressed by how closely the guns went off. Adrian's Fighting Band, unlike the tribesmen, had quite a bit of experience using firearms in a battle. Prelotta, on the other hand, had commanded his people not to fire until the Vanbert infantry was at point-blank range-and had then added the most bloodcurdling threats regarding the way he would punish warriors who violated the rule.

Which, of course, had been half pointless. As she climbed onto the wagon top, Helga could already hear the duller booms of the tribesmen's guns going off. At least fifty guns, she judged.

Adrian was none too pleased, that was obvious. He was scowling fiercely, and as soon as Helga came next to him. exclaimed: "Stupid bastards! They can't hit a barn at fifty yards with those guns."

"That army's a lot wider than a barn," said Helga soothingly. "Even taller, when you figure in the depth of the ranks and the range of the bullets."

She was soothing herself, she suspected, even more than her lover. From atop the wagon, the view of the oncoming Confederate army was…

Impressive. Let's call it that. Since the only alternative is "terrifying" and it'd really wreck my dignity to start pissing in public.

"Terrifying" was a lot closer to the truth. To begin with, Tomsien's army was huge. Flank to flank, not counting the cavalry, the lines covered over two miles of front-much wider than the laager itself. And that was only the first two brigades, each of which was three ranks deep. Behind, separated by a space of not more than thirty yards between them, came two more blocks of brigades. In theory, thirty thousand men in all-coming relentlessly toward a force half their size. It wasn't even so much the numbers which gave that sense of irresistible power as it was the incredible degree of organization. Tens of thousands of men, marching forward into battle as if they were all cogs of a single machine.

In practice, Vanbert brigades were usually understrength. But Tomsien's would be less so than usual, because the Triumvir had had the time-and certainly the prestige and the money-to have built them up. There were at least twenty-five thousand men in that army, counting infantry regulars alone. Helga didn't have the experience to make a good assessment of Tomsien's cavalry, but she thought they had to number another five thousand at the very least.

Against them, Adrian and Prelotta had about ten thousand Reedbottoms, most of them in the wagons; a thousand or less of Adrian's Strikers-Helga saw that he was holding them in reserve not far from the central compound-and a few hundred gunners of the Fighting Band scattered throughout the laager at the shields. Beyond that She scanned the area. What a menagerie. Perhaps five or six thousand cavalrymen from all the other tribes, maybe half of them Grayhills. From what she could see at the distance, someone-probably Esmond-seemed to be bringing some degree of organization to the Grayhills clustered toward one side of the laager. But the rest of the tribesmen were just whatever routed bands had managed to find refuge with the Reedbottoms. Stragglers and deserters, for all practical purposes, who didn't look to have any more fight in them than so many whipped curs.

She glanced at Jessep, who was now standing on her other side. Oddly, the middle-aged veteran seemed to be rather relaxed.

Yunkers confirmed her impression immediately. "Tomsien's always been clumsy. Capable, mind you-but with about as much imagination as an old matron set in her ways."

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.

He gestured with his square chin. "What's the point of taking a battle formation like that against something like this? He's not facing an Emerald phalanx or a mob of barbarians. No way to outflank us-so why even try? And the saw and the wedge'll both be useless here."

She heard a massed Vanbert battle cry, followed immediately by the first real volley of Reedbottom guns going off, and jerked her head back around. Every wagon within range of the Confederates looked like a pincushion, thousands of short lead-weighted javelins having struck them in the Vanbert volley. That had been the battle cry she heard, she now realized.

"Stupid," hissed Jessep. "What in the name of the gods was Tomsien thinking? " He pointed a thick accusing finger. "No way a javelin is going to punch through the walls of those wagons. All the dumb bastard's done is create a hedge against his own men."

By "hedge," she knew, Jessep was referring to a standard tactic used by Confederates to defend their camps against assaults. Pushing branches out sideways through the walls, to impede anyone trying to scale them. Now that she thought about it, she realized that all those javelins sticking on the wagons were going to do much the same to any Vanbert soldiers trying to scale them.

True, the volley fired in response by the Reedbottoms was equally stupid. The range was still too great-although she could see that a number of Vanberts had been struck down. But, at least as long as their ammunition held out, the tribesmen could afford a few mistakes like that.

"And he's doing it again!" Jessep's hiss, this time, was more in the nature of a shriek. "What is he thinking?"

Sure enough. The Confederates had hurled a second volley of javelins. The wagons looked even more like pincushions than before.

She sensed Adrian turning his head toward them. When he spoke, his voice had an odd timber to it. Helga almost shuddered; she did avoid her lover's eyes.

She'd heard that voice before, on occasion, and knew that Adrian's eyes would have that weird trance-haze look in them. She hated that look.

"I counted on this, Jessep."

That's a lie. A dead ancient general named Raj Whitehall counted on it.

"No one's ever tried to maneuver such a large army in the field in history. Even leaving aside the fact that it's being maneuvered against a completely new formation."

The voice was hollow, somehow. A ghost's voice rather a man's. That it was the voice of a very vigorous, self-confident and masculine sort of ghost made it all the more repellent to Helga. She'd come to love Adrian's own voice, with its undertone of whimsy and half-detached irony.

"It's sluggish, you see," the voice continued. "Bound to be. The officers can't really control it that well, from top to bottom. Too big-so big Tomsien probably can't even see all of it. So the army reacts instinctively, following routine-from the lowest filer all the way up to Tomsien himself."

Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder. That much, at least, Helga knew came from him. She found the touch comforting.

"Even Helga's father wouldn't have been able to do much better, at this stage. Of course, he wouldn't keep making the same mistakes, the way I'm sure Tomsien will."

" The way I'm sure. " It sounded so… sure. This time Helga did shudder; and was, again, comforted by Adrian's hand giving her shoulder a little squeeze.

She understood the meaning of that reassuring pressure, and felt herself relax a bit. I'm still here, love. Just… sitting off to the side for a bit. This is Raj Whitehall's work. Got to be that way, or we might all die this day.

She even managed to croak out a question. "What other mistake of Tomsien's do you expect?"

"Not-"

His answer was drowned out by a wave of sound. Two waves, actually, coming so close on top of each other that they smote the ears like a single thunderclap. The first, the Vanbert battle cry-the real cry, the full-throated one which announced an assault, not a javelin volley-followed instantly by the first full volley of the Reedbottom gunners sheltered inside their wagons.

Helga stared. Shocked into silence, first, by the overwhelming power of the charge itself. Ten thousand men smashing down on their enemy like a sudden tidal bore. Then, by the fact that the wave…

Broke. Was shattered, in fact. Hammered down, before the wave could even crest.

Another roar-all gunfire, that. The only sounds coming from the Confederate infantrymen were screams and shouts of confusion.

Another roar of gunfire. Three volleys fired in quick succession, from the three guns each crew at the porthole had ready.

From here, Helga knew, the rapidity with which the Reedbottoms could fire their volleys would decrease. Slowly, at first, as guns were exchanged for others already loaded. Then, much more rapidly, as the already-fired guns had to be cleaned and reloaded.

But she thought it would be enough. Those first three volleys had almost ruined two full brigades. Confederate tactics and armor, so effective against all previous opponents, were almost the worst imaginable under these conditions. At point-blank range, there was almost no way any of those heavy bullets could miss. They'd hit a man in the next rank, or the next, even if they missed the first.

Next to her, Jessep was almost snarling. "One of ten, I'll bet, or close to it. In the first clash, less than a minute. By the gods, that's ruinous. If Tomsien doesn't-"

"He won't," said the voice confidently. "No way he could, really. He doesn't have time to react himself. He probably can't even see what's happening."

Adrian's finger pointed. "See? The second rank's already piling forward. Having to climb over the casualties of the first, which slows them down even more. They're just as confused as Tomsien. Reacting by training and ingrained habit."

Another volley. Helga could see hundreds more infantrymen being hammered aside or down. Another volley. Hundreds more. Another volley. The same. The third rank of the two front brigades was now having to clamber over the corpses of their comrades. Beginning just a few yards in front of the wagons, it seemed as if the Confederates were piling up an earthwork made of their own broken and bleeding bodies.

Not even a Confederate army could sustain a frontal assault in the face of such casualties. So, beginning with the file closers and first spears, they reacted by training and instinct again. The Confederate battle formation was designed to outflank and envelop an enemy as much as overwhelm it.

No way here, of course, to use the celebrated "wedge" and "saw." The first being triangular formations designed to split apart a phalanx or barbarian mob; the second being a corresponding inverted triangle to trap them-both, together, designed to maximize the advantages of the short stabbing assegai against unwieldy long swords and pikes. The Confederate brigade formation was far more flexible than any phalanx, and could always outflank an enemy.

Sure enough. The second block of two brigades was not even trying to follow over the first. Each brigade was breaking, one to the right and one to the left, moving as quickly as such large bodies of men could move in formation. They would start hammering the laager elsewhere.

Which would Helga almost gasped.

"That's what I was about to say," continued the voice. "Tomsien won't be able to stop the flanking maneuver. It's too automatic, too traditional, too ingrained. Even if he was as smart as Helga's father, I doubt he could stop it. Tomsien probably won't even think to try until his next two brigades have been shredded."

For a moment, something like Adrian's own smile came to his face. And the next words were almost spoken in his own voice. "I could have told them, y'know? Any graduate of the Grove could. Mystic Form, and all that. How do you outflank a circle? "

"Damn me, lad, but you're right."

If Jessep had noticed the subtle transformation in Adrian's voice, he was ignoring it. Helga suspected the former First Spear of her father's First Regiment just plain didn't care whose voice was speaking from Adrian's mouth-as long as the voice knew what it was talking about.

The veteran was running fingers through his gray stubble. "You designed this formation for this, didn't you? These wagons, I mean, and this 'laager' business of yours. Designed it for one purpose, really, and one only. Destroy the largest Confederate army you could."

He left off the stubble-rubbing and pointed a finger that was almost-not quite-accusatory. "You knew what they'd do. Like… like… like inviting a man to attack a hot iron by spreading more of his body over it."

Whitehall's aura was back in the voice, but the words themselves were mild. Those of a man deflecting an accusation, as it were.

"I thought of it more as creating a shredder against which Tomsien would shred his own army. The biggest problem any laager has is that you can't bring all your forces to bear unless the enemy surrounds you. A problem which Tomsien will solve for me. But, yes-your analogy's very apt, Special Attendant Yunkers."

Special Attendant. The use of the title seemed to jar Jessep just a bit. Reminding him, as it were, of his new loyalties and obligations. Helga didn't doubt for a moment that Whitehall had used the title deliberately. Although, she admitted to herself, Adrian probably would have done the same. Her lover was by no means unperceptive and unsubtle, however distracted he might sometimes seem.

A sardonic little grin came to Yunker's face. "The gods save the world, what with you and Verice Demansk ganging up on it. He counted on this too, didn't he?"

Adrian shrugged. " Counted on it? Oh, I really doubt that, Jessep. Helga's father is far too shrewd and experienced to count on something. But I'm quite sure he… how can I put it? 'Included the likelihood in his calculations,' how's that? At the very least, I'm sure he figured I could cripple Tomsien, even if not destroy him."

Gods, have I ever heard such a cold voice? Not even cold so much as… empty.

But, again, she felt a little squeeze on her shoulder. And remembered something Adrian had told her once.

Center's empty, yes. Or, at any rate, filled with something which amounts to the same thing, from a human viewpoint. But Raj? He's just… oh, let's call it serene, why don't we? He was a man himself, once, don't forget. It's just that between his own life and everything Center's shown him, he's seen it all happen so many times before. So he looks on carnage the same way you or I might look on the ocean pounding against cliffs. That's frightening, to a child. An adult just contemplates the workings of nature.

Jessep grunted. For a time, said nothing; just watched as the grisly business unfolded. The last two brigades were starting to come into position, rolling past the third and fourth-already starting to get shredded against the farther reaches of the laager-ready to assault the Reedbottoms from the south. Bringing ever more of their men into range of those terrible guns, against which their shields provided no protection at all-and their disciplined formations provided the best possible target.

The din was almost deafening, by now. No one had ever accused Vanberts of cowardice, not once in many centuries. The battalions and the companies-the brigade structure had already collapsed, even Helga could see that, and the regiments were close to it-kept hammering themselves against the wooden walls. And were hammered back, by a much heavier hammer. Javelins and assegais against thick planks; heavy lead bullets against thin shields and armor, and softer flesh.

Never cowards. Helga could not see so much as a single squad breaking away. All the regulars were bellowing their ancient battle cries and hurling themselves into the fray. Between their own shouts-and screams-and the constant gunfire, she thought she might go deaf.

Even Jessep winced a little, now and then. That was the gunfire, to which he was not accustomed. Not, at least, in such volume. Helga didn't think the battle cries bothered him much, and he seemed completely indifferent to the screams of pain and agony.

He even, to her amazement, seemed able to think of the future in the midst of the chaos.

"How would you have done it, lad?"

Adrian smiled. "I wouldn't have attacked at all. The thing about a laager, Jessep, is that while it's incredibly strong it's also inflexible. More so, even, than the Emerald phalanxes. And how did you Vanberts beat the phalanxes, eh? Not by trying to match them at their own game."

"Gods, no. Can't break an Emerald phalanx head on. 'Twas never done once, that I ever heard tell, except by another phalanx." He was back to beard-scratching. "Use their rigidity against them. Force them onto broken ground, tear at 'em, pry 'em apart. Once you've done that, those great pikes of theirs weren't nothin' but a hazard to their own lives. Can't fight a man with an assegai-much less two or three of 'em at once-with an eighteen-foot long sticker. Not when you're up close, and on your own."

Adrian nodded. "Apply the same methods here, then. How would you 'pry apart' a laager?" He didn't wait for Jessep to fumble at the answer before providing it. "It's called 'field artillery,' Jessep. Not too different from those ballistas which Tomsien didn't even bother to use-not that he brought many to begin with, since he wasn't figuring on a siege-except they fire three- or four-inch iron balls instead of big spears. And you mass them up. 'Batteries,' those are called. Dozens of big guns-not too different from the bombards you've seen Trae fire-pounding away at a laager just outside the range of the laager's own guns."

Jessep grimaced. "Three and four inches in diameter? Gods, they'd punch right through those wooden walls."

"Do worse than that. Every ball will send wood splinters flying through the inside of the wagons-with nowhere much to go other than a human body."

Yunkers glanced up at the watchtower. The figure of Prelotta was plainly visible. The Reedbottom chief was accoutered in his best armor, waving a flail and exhorting his soldiers. Not that many of them could see or hear him, of course, buried as they were inside wagons resounding with gunfire. But they knew he'd be there, doing what a chief rightly does in a defensive battle. Just stand there, looking and acting fearless and resolute.

There was no sarcasm in the glance, just assessment. Prelotta did look fearless and resolute.

"And what if he figures out you're planning to betray him?" There was no admiration in his tone of voice. Rather the opposite.

Helga watched as any trace of Adrian vanished from Adrian's own face. His features looked like those of a statue, and when his voice came it might as well have come from a marble block.

This was Center's voice now, not even Whitehall's.

"Do not presume to judge me, Jessep Yunkers. Thousands of men will die horribly today, on this field of battle. The greatest battle in history, perhaps; certainly the greatest in a century. Most of them will be Vanberts. Many thousands more-most of them barbarians-will die on another, soon enough. And so what? Every day, every month, every year-year after year after year-as many die in every province of your precious empire, from disease and hunger and deprivation. Most of them children. Am I supposed to weep for the warriors, and not for the children? Beat my breast in anguish because I caused the death of men bearing arms? The same men whose commanders grow fat on the agony of babes?"

Yes, Center's voice-even if the words were shaped by a man grown sensitive beyond his years. A man who could put into rhetoric what a computer could only calculate.

Helga swallowed. Jessep Yunkers looked away. For a moment, he seemed to be examining the ongoing carnage. But his eyes seemed a bit glazed over, as if he was really looking at something from his own memory.

"Oh, aye," he said softly, "and haven't I seen it myself? My province is littered with the little urns. Pathetic looking, they are, perched-so many of 'em-on the hearthstones of the cottages."

When he turned back, his face seemed calm, and less blocky than usual. " 'Tis nothing, Adrian Gellert. Special Attendant, as you said. The gods know if there's any man can end it, it's Verice Demansk."

And now, even, some good cheer. "So. I'll leave it to you, laddie, with your quicksilver brain, to figure out how we're going to pry ourselves loose after the battle." A quick nod of his head toward Prelotta. "He won't be pleased to see us go, now will he? But in the meantime-"

He jerked his head the other way. "You have noticed, I trust, that your splendid little plan is coming apart at the seams, here and there? Best we worry about that, eh, before we fret too much about the future."

Helga followed his gaze and gasped. Jessep was right. In three places-no, four! — Vanbert troops had finally managed to break into the laager. No matter how badly mangled and shredded, good troops will beat their way into a fortress, so long as their will doesn't break.

Not many, true. Most of them seemed to have done so by breaking the undershields and crawling beneath the wagons-a tactic which obviously played havoc with their own formations. But it wouldn't really take much, after all. By now, Helga had a good sense of just how brittle a laager was. Like some grades of steel, which take a razor's edge but will break under stress.

"I'd better get down there," muttered Adrian. And that was Adrian's voice, now. Helga wasn't sure if she was relieved or not.

She didn't have time to worry about it. Everything seemed to move much faster now. Adrian was off the wagon roof and shouting at his Fighting Band, leading some of them toward the breaches and pointing off others to cover the rest. Prelotta, on his watchtower, was bellowing loudly enough to be heard even over the gunfire. And then, pounding from the east, came hundreds-many hundreds-of Grayhills cavalrymen.

Helga recognized Esmond at their head, waving a sword and exhorting his men forward. Even with the new facial scars and tattoos, he was still a magnificent figure. Say what else you could about Esmond Gellert, he was made for desperate battles. This was his time, and he was clearly reveling in it.

Nor, to be honest, was Helga in the least sorry to see him come. Adrian was in the worst of the melees which were starting to flare up inside the laager, where Vanbert soldiers had managed a breach. Not even standing back, damn him, using his sling. She could see him right up in the front lines, with a sword in his hand.

She found herself cursing bitterly. Adrian was adept with weapons, granted-much more so than you'd expect from such a scholarly-looking man. But he was no warrior out of legend like his brother, and he wasn't wearing even the light armor of the Fighting Band. Just… a sword, a helmet, a leather cuirass, and the whim of the gods.

Damn the man, anyway!

A short time later, Helga was in no position to damn anyone for recklessness. Another breach came, at the point in the laager closest to her. A few-then a dozen-then more-Vanbert regulars came crawling under the wagons. Without even thinking about it, Helga was on the ground-Jessep later claimed she'd jumped; but she thought he exaggerated out of exasperation-and racing toward them. Waving her sword and exhorting her hundred to follow.

Helga was an excellent runner, in very good condition-and… not wearing any kind of armor. Not so much as a helmet or a cuirass. Just a light tunic, a sword, and the whim of the gods.

Needless to say, she arrived upon the scene before any of her escort, lumbering behind her. There were perhaps thirty Vanberts inside the laager here, most of them now forming a line. She could see more coming under the wagons. Some of the Confederate soldiers were hammering at wagon doors with the short axes they carried for assault work, feverishly trying to break in so they could slaughter the bastards who'd been wreaking such havoc on them. She saw one of them hurtle back, as several rounds of gunfire from inside the wagon punched through the door.

Not sure that's wise, some still-functioning part of brain recorded. Those bullets'll do as good a job of shredding the door as an ax, fellows, and if those regulars do get into the wagon… rough, tough, tattooed barbarians or not, you're so much raw meat.

But that was only part of her brain, and a small part at that. Most of her brain was focused on the fact that she was standing alone, with nothing but a sword clutched in her hand, while one very large and very tough-looking and very mean-looking Confederate regular advanced toward her. Wearing full armor and a helmet, bearing a shield- how in the name of the gods did he manage to drag that with him under a wagon? — and holding an assegai with a lot more assurance than she was holding her sword.

Ah, just what she needed. Two regulars, now. No, three. None of whom seemed the least bit inclined toward anything other than hacking her to pieces.

No- four. The new one, judging from the sword in his hand and the quick way he steadied the others into squad formation, being their sergeant. Oh, shit.

Helga drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and raced through all of Lortz's training. She took the sword in a two-handed grasp- don't even try that fancy Emerald swordplay against assegais, missy, not facing regulars- set her feet And found herself bouncing across the packed earth of the laager ground. The first bounce on her ass, the second on her shoulders. She almost flipped upside down.

Lortz had not been gentle. Any more than he was, in the next few seconds, fending off the four oncoming regulars. In a bit of a daze, Helga watched the ex-gladiator put on a display of swordsmanship which would have had the mob in the arena shrieking with frenzied approval. He didn't actually kill any of them-nor even wound them badly-but she realized he wasn't trying to. Just keep them off, while the idiot woman he was guarding Rough hands seized the back of her tunic and yanked her away.

"Damn lunatic!" yelled Jessep in her ear. "Your father'd have me flayed alive-impaled-prob'ly both at the same time! What in the name of the gods-"

She ignored the rest, which Yunkers continued shouting as he dragged her back along the ground. Partly because her butt hurt-the ground was packed but had not been cleared of stones-but mostly because she was too engrossed in the scene.

Her hundred had arrived. A quick shout from First Spear Uther, and Lortz scampered nimbly away. His job was done, and done well; the professional fighter was quite happy to leave the rest to other professionals.

Wise man, she thought, wincing as another stone scraped her hindquarters and wondering whether the tunic would be salvageable. Probably not. Jessep's pissed-really pissed-I can tell. I think he's going to drag me all the way back to the wagon.

But even that was an idle thought. Mainly, she was just fascinated to see, up close, a really excellent hundred go to work.

Tomsien's men never had a chance, really. Not only were they outnumbered better than two to one, but the crawl under the wagons had disrupted their own formation while Uther's was picture-perfect. The Confederate war machine went into action against Confederates who'd been dislodged from it. It was more like watching butchers at work than anything else. The men facing them were trying to form up, but Uther never gave them a chance.

Just… the triangular wedges went out, breaking the formations before they could jell, forcing the men into the pockets-the "saw," that-where three or four assegais could come against one. And that one, without a shield mate.

Like cutting meat. Saw, saw, saw. It was over within a minute. About the time it took Jessep to drag her to the wagon. Which, she thought glumly, had probably done a pretty good job of sawing her own buttocks.

"You could have let me up sooner," she complained, after rising painfully to her feet. She twisted her hips, bringing the damage into few.

Yep. That tunic's history. So's every position except woman-on-top, for at least a month.

"A lot sooner, dammit!"

Jessep growled. "I wouldn't trust you outside of a crib, right now."

Adrian wasn't any more sympathetic, when he found out. By then, it was late afternoon and Helga had been able to put on a fresh tunic from the wagon. The battle was over. When the final frenzied breaches had been driven off, the Confederates had quit. None of them had actually broken in a rout, except a few companies here and there. But by the time Tomsien finally called for the retreat, his army was too mangled to carry it out in an orderly manner. And since it was still hours before sundown, here in the long days of late summer, Prelotta had ordered the wagons prepared to serve as sally ports to be moved aside. Esmond had stormed through at the head of thousands of Southron cavalrymen. His own Grayhills were primed and ready, and even the other tribesmen were now filled with triumphant vigor if not much in the way of leadership and organization. They just followed the Grayhills.

Cavalry pursuit is a ragged affair, anyway. Against a badly broken enemy, it hardly matters. The same Confederate infantrymen who, in formation and filled with confidence, could have shattered any cavalry attack, were just hunted down by the barbarians. Slaughtered left and right, by arrows in the back and sword slashes to the neck. Or simply trampled under; and, if not killed in the process, murdered later by barbarians picking over the dead and wounded for booty. An already mangled army left a trail of blood and brains and entrails for miles behind it, as it crawled off, harried every step of the way until nightfall.

It was the worst military disaster in the history of the Confederation, suffered by the greatest army it had ever fielded. Five thousand or so dead that day; another five, within a month, from wounds; perhaps a thousand or so captured-the Southrons were not much given to taking prisoners-and several thousand more simply vanished, in the way that defeated soldiers will.

When the six brigades which Tomsien had led out finally returned to the provincial capital of Harrat from whence he'd led them, their effective force was not more than a third what it had been. At best. This was an army which had suffered a terrible defeat as well as massive casualties. It would take months-a year, more like-for its leadership to restore the formations, and the discipline, and bring in the new recruits desperately needed to flesh out horribly thinned ranks.

Tomsien would not be there to do it. His body was found, late in the day, lying among the corpses of most of his staff and personal troops. With an assegai still clenched in his fist, and his shield beaten into splinters. In this, too, Tomsien had been true to his traditions.

Just as a long-dead general had known he would, and a still-living one had so calculated.

It would be said later, and grow into legend, that when the news of Ion Jeschonyk's death and the manner of it was brought to Verice Demansk that he cursed the gods. Each and every one of them, by name, excepting the All-Father and the Gray-Eyed Lady.

And, it would be said, when the news of Tomsien's death and the manner of it was brought to him, that Verice Demansk cursed those gods as well. Even more bitterly than he had the others. Then, ordered all his men and servants to quit his company, and not return for a day and a night.

When he reemerged from his quarters, so the legend went, he said nothing further on the subject. But the servants found that every piece of furniture in his private rooms had been broken and carved into pieces, as if by ax and sword, even the bed. And it was said that from that day forth Verice Demansk would never speak of any god in private, though he would perform the public rites and ceremonies.

There was no need for printing presses to spread this legend. The servants themselves would do so, making a handsome profit from selling the pieces of shattered furniture and shredded upholstery. For the legend was quite true, in every particular.

On the evening of the victory itself, however, Helga was not worrying about her father's possible state of mind. She had an angry lover to deal with.

"Good!" Adrian shouted. "Wish he'd dragged you all around the laager, while he was at it!"

Helga glared at him. Adrian glared back.

Fortunately for her, Adrian was not one to hold grudges. Within an hour, he had forgiven her. Even gave her a hug and a kiss.

"Ouch! Watch your hands, dammit!"

"Oh. Sorry." He cocked his head, giving her a sly smile. No Raj Whitehall or Center in that smile. "Well, that's okay. Just have to make sure you're on top."

Helga looked skeptical. "I dunno. Not the way you grab me when you get excited."