"Remember, at all costs keep five hundred paces between you and Baron Euklestes' column. If the cavalry can't fit into a gap that big, I'll have them all sent to one of Yirtta's temple-houses for the blind!"
"It shall be done, Your Majesty," Baron Halmoth said with a grin. "That should also let both us and Euklestes shoot at any Harphaxi unwise enough to ride into the gap, without fear of hitting each other. Am I right?" Kalvan nodded. "Then-when do we march?"
Kalvan hesitated a moment over his answer. Great Kings weren't supposed to admit to being at the mercy of their subordinates, even when the subordinates were as good as Harmakros. On the other hand Euklestes seemed intelligent enough to benefit from a short lesson in generalship.
"As soon as I receive the next message from Count Harmakros on how the battle around Mrathos is going." They both looked at the eastern sky above the treetops and at the towering plume of black smoke trailing across the blue like a scarf.
It bothered Kalvan that Harmakros had troops that had arrived too late to hold the Middle Gap; it had been his plan to hold the Heights and pick the Harphaxi to pieces as they went against both gravity and the tide of battle. Instead of retreating Harmakros had stood his ground at the town of Mrathos, turning that insignificant piece of real estate into a critical defensive point.
Mrathos Town was the here-and-now site of Strasburg, where two years before he was picked up by the cross-time flying saucer he'd lost a good friend, Sergeant Joe Bonnetti. The Sergeant, Calvin Morrison's mentor during his first two years as a Pennsylvania State Trooper, had been run off a wet road and killed by a drunken driver, a drunk with so many political connections that he'd got off with a slap on the wrist. There was no way to talk about this memory, either; even if there'd been anyone around cleared for the "secret" of his origins, they might call it an evil omen.
What was more annoying, Kalvan wasn't entirely sure they'd be completely wrong. Was living among people who took gods and demons and sorcery for granted making him superstitious?
Wasn't this a hell of a thing to be worry over as the biggest battle of his life approached its climax?
Kalvan turned his mind to a more practical question. What should he do about Harmakros, who'd shown initiative-Dram-damnit, nearly disobedience!-by holding Mrathos instead of retreating and contacting his commander-and-chief, then holding back four fifths of his men while the garrison of Mrathos drew most of the Harphaxi right on to itself? Certainly Harmakros had infected Captain-General Aesthes with an obsessive desire to reduce the town-to rubble and ashes, if nothing more-before moving on, or even bothering to control the rest of his troops. Some French general whose name Kalvan couldn't recall had the same bee in his bonnet at Waterloo and spent the whole battle attacking the Chateau of Hougoumont, leaving the rest of Wellington's right flank completely alone. The garrison at Mrathos didn't need to do nearly as much, and it looked as if they might have already done it.
More of Kalvan's friends might die today at Mrathos, but so would a lot of his enemies. He spurred his horse back toward the rear of the units lined up for the counterattack. He'd be riding back there, along with the artillery and the counterattack's own private cavalry reserve, the Royal Lifeguards and the First Dragoons. Kalvan might be commanding, but the counterattack would actually be led by Phrames.
This was unorthodox but made sense for several reasons, one of which was that Phrames knew his business. Another was the superior quality of the cavalry, mostly royal regulars and several squadrons of the Ulthori Household Guard. They were better able to take or deliver the first shock as long as they could be kept from charging massed infantry. The infantry of the counterattack included too many small mercenary units (it was being kind to call them companies) plus Halmoth's column of two-call them "regiments" to avoid being insulting-of Hostigi foot militia. The militia were the survivors of last year's battles who could be spared for field service. While the militia had smelled powder and this year carried handguns instead of crossbows, they'd hardly done a week's training between last fall and the day the Army of the Harph marched east.
In the rear, Kalvan would have the infantry under his eye. He'd also be clear of the scrimmage up ahead, able to move his reserves where they were most needed-or even move them to another part of the battlefield entirely. He might have to do that if Captain-General Aesthes pushed past Harmakros' Mobile Force and Armanes needed help-and where the Styphon was Harmakros' messenger, and what should he do to the Harmakros that would persuade him not to do this sort of thing again, without making him afraid to blow his nose without an order?
Another universal commander's problem: how to encourage initiative without losing control of your subordinates. Kalvan reflected morosely that the problem had probably first presented itself to some Neanderthal chieftain leading a raid on a neighbor's cave.