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."
Chapter 26