“FIRE!”

  The cannons roared like trapped beasts along the wall, their voices breaking in ragged staccato.

  Their whirling loads struck the hill yet again, hurling mud and stone high enough for us to see the damage done. Four of theirs had been silenced thus far. One of ours was no longer combat-effective, along with three of its crew.

  I raised my farseer to observe.

  Seventeen dead, and counting. Limbs lay strewn not far from ramrods and scattered shot. Bodies folded into the churned earth, uniforms already indistinguishable from the mire.

  I studied the broken bridge.

  Their positions were well established. They had more cannon than first revealed. A staging ground had been claimed to test angles of fire and explore their vantages for attack. We should have cleared their old camp more thoroughly—flattened the rises, collapsed the dugouts—but time had not stretched for such labours.

  I turned the glass south.

  Along the trench lines, fires had broken out in earnest. Smoke swallowed much of our line now, as their preliminary forces pressed and withdrew in measured probes. I saw a line of pikes with accompanying muskets fall back across the river at speed. Many would drown in the cold waters, I judged—wounds and exhaustion dragging them under before the current did.

  I turned north.

  No trickery. No probes. Nothing of note. The marshes had done their work, holding off the—

  A shrieking ball tore past me, close enough to rip a great bite from the parapet before my eyes. Stone burst outward in a storm of shards. I had no need to lower my farseer; a hail of rock and debris ripped it from my grasp and sent it spinning into the courtyard below.

  My fingers ached—cuts and bruises I knew would soon bleed freely. My vision blurred from the violent jolt and release; a proper bloodied eye would follow, I was certain.

  I allowed myself a moment—only a moment—to feel what had been done to me.

  Nothing was missing. No great pain yet. No fracture I could sense.

  Then it was time to act.

  I shook my head, and the world resumed its motion.

  I seized our Gustavian representative by the fabric of his coat as he studied the field through his own farseer, crouched behind what little cover remained intact. We had been pared down with brutal precision, stone and timber stripped from us piece by piece.

  “What do you see? What follows in your United Warplan?”

  He did not lower his glass. He flinched—same as I did—when another ball shrieked overhead and struck the rear of the west wall with a thunderous crack.

  “Positions are set. Guns are in place,” he said evenly. “By my count, two-thirds have been emplaced. The probing attack failed—but more will come.”

  I nodded, gave him a sharp clap on the back, and made to move.

  He held me fast instead, gripping the cuff of my arm. His eyes were tense, hard as drawn steel.

  “It comes soon. The lightning attack. Expect a barrage unlike any other—then horse.”

  There was no nod then. The warning was grim, but necessary. Nothing had been won, and everything remained to be lost.

  “CANNONS ONE THROUGH TWELVE—THE HILL! THIRTEEN THROUGH TWENTY—THE BRIDGE!”

  Ayes and shouts rolled along the wall as men shifted, hauling iron into new alignment, measuring angles, weighing powder charges with hands that did not dare shake. Vollmer and Brandt saluted from their posts and carried the order onward, each with his own coarse seasoning of bile.

  The thunder of cannon declared itself across the waters, though it mingled so completely with rifle cracks and the raw edge of screaming that it was hard to separate one from the other. The plumes of smoke were unmistakable.

  They were raking our trenches.

  Their focus had shifted, and we were paying for it. Piles of men lay where their guns had found the mark. Trenches collapsed inward, dissolving back into the mud and earth from which they had been carved. And in places, the vast corpses of Blemmye lay strewn among the ruin—huge forms thrown down like beached whales, their smooth skin pale as bleached stone against the churned dirt.

  My men needed reprieve. A moment more to breathe, to take aim, to ready themselves for what followed.

  “FIRE!”

  Again, the furnaces of deadly industry answered. The smell of sulphur—rank, choking, infernal—rolled thick along the battery line.

  And our wrath landed hard.

  The hill did not concern me. That aim was fixed, that duel one to be fought at length. I turned my attention instead to the bridge.

  Plumes of mud erupted. Iron steamed. Trees splintered and fell. Bodies folded in upon themselves. Along their established lines, our cannon tore through earth and timber alike. From a smoking bush line concealing what could be nothing but a gun, shrieks and frantic shouts broke through the haze.

  One more cannon silenced.

  How many more could we fell?

  “RELOAD—WITH HASTE!”

  The order was scarcely finished before it was obeyed.

  “Mesk!”

  He was near—alert, unbroken in spirit, though not spared in flesh. His eyes were sharp despite the pallor beneath them. One arm hung wrong, bound tight against his side; he held it rigidly, as though any slackness might see it fall away entirely. Still, he stood ready.

  “Send runners to Jensson. His people’s plan is unfolding—riders must be mustered at once. More powder to the front lines. More men.”

  Poor lad. He attempted a salute by instinct and regretted it the instant pain seized him. He settled for a nod instead and moved off to make the necessary arrangements.

  More cannon thundered.

  No shriek of passing shot. No storm of flying stone. Yet they had fired.

  Their fury had shifted altogether. They paid us little heed upon the wall now. The loss of men to our guns had been deemed acceptable if it secured what they truly wanted.

  I had no time to see the impact, but I knew it must be severe. The shouts and shrieks were too few—either they had struck lightly, or they had struck so well that few remained to cry out.

  With Gustavians, I wagered the latter.

  “Captain Edelmer!”

  Vollmer.

  He came hard along the parapet, as fast as his bent frame allowed.

  “Cavalry formations to the south. They have crossed the river and are forming for assault!”

  A heat rose in me—sharp, clarifying.

  “Back to your positions. Await the signal!”

  Vollmer saluted and crawled back the way he had come, bent low beneath the screaming air.

  I turned south and ran.

  I ducked past my guns—past men bent to ramrods, veterans scarred and steady, and boys. Mere boys. They fed the cannon with shaking hands, tears cutting pale tracks through powder-stained cheeks.

  Some pieces loosed as I passed. Wheels jerked. Smoke burst outward. The concussion struck my neck and ears like a hammer, leaving a thin, rising ring that promised pain later. There was no room for it now.

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  I reached the south-east parapet, where Brandt held his post—tall and rigid in the crooked way only a barrel-stomached mule of a man could manage.

  “They come, Edelmer—by God! Their horses are set!”

  My farseer was shattered and gone. It was no longer needed.

  Out there—across bone-cold water and blood-dark mud—a formation unlike any other had taken shape.

  Horse. Pikes. An ocean of blue and iron-grey. A great mass of murder circling the no man’s land, back and forth in measured arcs. No charge had yet been committed—but it would come. Only time stood between us and the plunge.

  Below, in the trenches, our men held.

  I studied what was meant to save us from the oncoming hell.

  Axes. Kesselbruck and the northern villages had always favoured them. I had never understood why. Now, with the flood gathering, I damned their preference. Axes bite wood. They do not stop horseflesh at full gallop.

  Gustavian blues stood ready as well—ordered lines, disciplined posture—but thinning with every exchange, every shot traded across the river. Many had little more than knives or muzzle-bayonets should the line break and the fighting turn close.

  And our cannon.

  Our hidden hand.

  That card was fading with each discharge. Every volley cost us crews. Every minute under their guns stripped more men from the line that fed our iron.

  Had they waited too long?

  Had I?

  Some trumpet sang its thin note from the far marshes.

  Shouts followed. The shrill neighing of horses. Then the rumble.

  And so, they came.

  “READY FOR CHARGE! AWAIT THE SIGNAL!”

  My voice carried across smoke and water. Trumpets took the meaning farther than lungs ever could.

  The horses split into four bodies of force. One angled toward the bridge road. Another bore down upon the battered trenches below me. Two more curved wide, sweeping toward the southernmost lines where earth and timber kissed the outskirts of Kesselbruck itself. They meant to split us—tear us apart from the inside outward. Break the trenches. Enter the town. Leave the fort hollow and exposed.

  That, I would not allow.

  “BLOW THE HORN! SOUND THE CALL!”

  The signaller beside me lifted his instrument and gave breath to a note I had never heard before. It had been forged for this moment alone. Its cry strained against the thunder of hooves drawing near.

  Along the line, I saw them at last.

  Canvas was torn free. Debris kicked aside. Bodies dragged clear. The hidden cannon rose from concealment—preloaded, waiting.

  Canister. Grape. Not round shot now, but a storm iron and death.

  Balls in the hundreds. Thousands of fragments—nails, coins, dice, whatever metal could be found when iron ran thin.

  The crews had hungered for this. Men had died to keep those pieces hidden and dry. Now the waiting ended.

  The ground trembled. From Kesselbruck came the high, breaking sound of women shrieking.

  “FIRE.”

  The most nerve-raveling racket tore across the wet land below.

  Thirty cannon. Thirty cannon in near-perfect unison split the field apart. The smoke told of union; the sound betrayed the vast distance over which the line was stretched in iron. The thunder reached me in staggered succession, each roar rolling forward, each one promising death.

  A wave struck the charging mass.

  Tens. Scores. Hundreds.

  They toppled.

  Horses were thrown clear of riders three ranks deep. Rows collapsed inward. Men were hurled from saddles as if unseen hands had seized them from the mud itself. Flesh burst. Iron tore through horse and man without distinction.

  And then the screaming.

  The hideous, tearing sound of hundreds of horses maimed, pierced tenfold over, filled the air and drowned all else.

  Along the line, the charge faltered. In places, there was no force left to drive it forward. Horses ran bleeding in every direction. One I saw galloping full tilt, its rider’s leg still trapped in the stirrup, the body dragged and striking earth in sickening rhythm.

  Blue flecks of cloth littered the field—some still bright, some turning red, others darkening to brown as wounded mounts trampled them under in blind terror.

  Their decisive charge was halted.

  But it was not ended.

  “Edelmer… I have never seen such wanton destruction.” Brandt’s voice came low and hoarse, his eyes fixed on the ruin below. “If men still live in ten years’ time, this will stand as the greatest blow of our age.”

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  The riders bound for Kesselbruck had fared better. They had cleared the outer lines, slipped through gaps in palisade and earthwork, and seized the road.

  There, our riders met them.

  Even from this distance I saw armour catching the light—crimson sashes of my finest, the disciplined blue of our allies interwoven with them.

  And among them, Blemmye.

  Fast as sin, keeping pace with horse and beyond, flooding into the clash with lethal answer to their reckless assault.

  Spears met horse. Swords met man. Blemmye met both—and endured it as stone endures surf.

  The message had reached Jensson. His resources were allocated with precision. Good man. He understood the tide, even from the rear.

  The charge against our lines had thinned.

  Yet they came.

  They were too close now. To turn back would have been to feed themselves to our guns. They knew, as I did, that forward was the only direction left to them.

  Wounded horses are slow horses.

  They pressed on with what strength remained—riders spurring mounts already failing, some slumped low in their saddles, bleeding freely as they were carried toward us.

  In such moments, axes proved their worth.

  They rose and fell in brutal arcs.

  “The assault has failed, Captain.” Brandt grinned. “Their hammer broke against our anvil. With what will they strike us now?”

  He was right.

  Their charge had been denied. We had proven such efforts too costly.

  Too costly.

  I understood the alternative a heartbeat before it revealed itself.

  The land beyond the river split open again—like some hellhound loosed from its chain.

  Plumes rose. Fire followed. The wail of ball and iron came heavier than any barrage before—louder, deeper, deliberate.

  And it tore across us.

  I am certain it did, though I had no time to witness its full reach before I was driven flat by a storm of stone, splinters, brick, and heat.

  Three cannon were shattered in the same instant—their carriages split, barrels scarred and dented, crews torn apart where they stood.

  The shriek of impact rolled across the ground below, iron striking flesh and timber without distinction.

  I rose the few inches I dared and saw what had befallen us.

  From hidden hollows—valleys masked by trees, refuse heaps, bush and earth—their cannon had found their stations.

  At first glance I could not count the plumes. There were too many, too well spread beneath cover and smoke.

  Our success had become our loss. We had proven any direct assault too costly. My liaison had warned as much.

  If we do not crumble at once, they plan to stay…

  The machines roared again across the river—timed, unrelenting. By the sound of it, they meant to have shot reach us every few seconds. No pause. No breath.

  This could not hold. Positions must be drawn inward. The outer reaches abandoned before they were ground to dust.

  “BRANDT! Call the messenger—our men on the reaches must—”

  No sour old dog stood beside me.

  He lay behind a low ridge of broken stone, his broad chest heaving in shallow pulls. I saw his legs.

  They bent where legs should not bend.

  Blood seeped through torn cloth. Jagged white pressed obscenely against his breeches, threatening to break free.

  Brandt had fallen.

  I forced my way toward him, each lunge of hand and knee punctuated by another concussion, another iron howl streaking toward our ragged fort and ragged company.

  I did not touch his legs. Whatever good I meant would only make it worse. Instead, I took his hand and steadied his head against the debris.

  He clenched his jaw, pain carving lines through his face. When his eyes opened, they found mine at once.

  “My foolish mouth,” he rasped. “My God-cursed mouth. By what right did I declare this contest won?”

  He tried to smile. It came broken—teeth bared through pain, tears cutting clean lines through soot.

  “Shut me up fast. Damn their aim.”

  “VOLLMER!” I roared.

  He did not come at once. But could I blame him, in this field of death?

  When he reached me, he would not meet my eye. His gaze was fixed upon our old comrade—Brandt of the Sun Swords, who had first beaten the drums at seven years of age and still held his post fifty years later.

  “Vollmer, Brandt is to be taken to the sawbones at once. See him carried to safety. Send word to the outer defences—they are to close inward. All cannon are to shift to counter-battery. We will not be sundered by gun alone.”

  Vollmer still stared at Brandt.

  “VOLLMER.”

  That broke him free.

  “Heed my words.”

  He nodded—eyes bright, jaw set—and moved off at once. His voice, when he called the orders, betrayed none of his anguish.

  “Scared the living hell out of them, Edelmer,” Brandt muttered. “Too dangerous to prod, so they grind us down with iron instead.”

  He tried to laugh. The sound turned to a raw gasp as the motion jarred his ruined legs, and tears followed unbidden.

  Our guns answered again—more ragged than I liked. The crews must have been shaken as badly as I was. Still, they answered.

  Heavy steps broke through the duel of cannon. A Blemmye’s vast frame loomed over us, casting shade across Brandt and me alike.

  His eyes were wide—sad beyond measure. Sores and wounds marked his flesh; I saw then what I had failed to see before: a Blemmye is both a wall and a target.

  “Come, friend. Do not be afraid.”

  Brandt cried out as the Blemmye lifted him. His ruined legs bent anew beneath the movement, a second wrong angle forming where none should have been. Poor old fool. I had hoped for a better end to his long and loyal service.

  I turned back to the field.

  Nothing moved there now but smoke and iron. The only forms left upon the ground were the dead—buried, half-buried, fresh or already pressed into shapelessness by mud and trampling.

  Plumes rose. One here. One there. A call and answer between their side and ours, back and forth without pause.

  Some horses still screamed somewhere in the mire—too broken to stand, too terrified to die.

  And I saw a battle we were slowly losing, one cannon shot at a time.