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.