The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) (24 page)

“
I think it may take some time longer than a year before we have secured our borders,” Damon suggested. “I think that it would be wise of you to encourage your future father-by-law to plan the wedding for sooner rather than later.”

“
Any reason that you would suggest that?” Raedan asked.

“
This war will not be done in a year,” Damon said. “You need to seal your alliance with Garroway and provide your brother with another solid supporter. And you need an heir to your lands.”

“
I have an heir to my lands,” Raedan reminded his mentor.

“
Your brother is in less a position to take over a barony than you were,” Damon said. “You need a child to follow you.”

The tents were fewer at the center of the camp. Massive pavilions took their place: thick canvas structures in a rainbow of colors. Banners hung from tall poles bearing the sigils of the noble house that claimed the pavilion. The duke’s golden hammer on gray flew from a towering pole over the entire encampment.

Chapter 17 - Raedan

The thirty-pound guns thundered as they fired volley after volley of solid shot into the battlements around Fort Hart. Fire erupted from the barrels, bright in the late evening sun, and their barges were wreathed in dense clouds of gray smoke. The effect of their twelve-hour bombardment was clear: the outer trenches and earthworks surrounding Fort Hart had been decimated. The outer walls protecting the keep had become the target of the attack and the first wave of western infantry was preparing to make their charge on the collapsing defenses.

So far, western losses had been limited to a single barge. Its captain had taken it too close to the fortress and had taken concentrated fire from the guns that crowned the fort's towers. The losses to the first wave of infantry would likely be high and Dalton had ordered Raedan to remain with the second battalion designated for the attack.

The call of a trumpet cut through the booming rhythm of cannonfire and was passed forward by others. The Fifteenth Infantry Battalion stirred in their strictly organized ranks. Captains and lieutenants stepped to the front of their units and began the march toward the ruined trenches. Sergeants barked harsh orders, targeting any soldier that stepped too far ahead or fell too far behind.

Raedan stood at the head of a regiment of infantry, rifle resting in his arms as he waited for the order to advance. He watched the soldiers ahead of him march into the teeth of the enemy defenses.

As they neared the edges of the fortress' extended defenses, the infantry separated into smaller units; a battalion was too unwieldy of a formation to manage within the confines of a trench network. Hadrian raised his sword, in his left hand, and started toward the skirmish line that marked the edge of the battlefield.

The crackle of musket fire drifted up from the trenches; only a few quick shots at first, but quickly followed by full volleys. Flashes of light marked the battle in the trenches and Raedan listened carefully for the command to push his troops forward. He glanced behind him quickly.

The color guard stood resolute, the banners of Arndell and the Broken Plains at the front of the formation. A half-company of infantry had been assigned to protect the flags should they come under attack.

Wounded began to drift out of the trenches. Some retreated under their own power, others were carried between two of their fellows. Raedan tried to count the men fleeing the battle, but quickly lost count.

Finally, the trumpets sounded again, ordering him forward.

“
How's it look in there?” he asked a retreating officer. The man wore the gaudy orange of Sea Watch and the stripes of a captain. He had taken a round through his shoulder and was supporting a corporal that had taken a shot to the leg.

“
The artillery did a job on them,” the captain said. “But they've still got some fight left.”

“
All right, men! Let's take it to them!” Raedan started toward the trenches at the double time and his men started to trot after him.

The earthworks twisted and zagged one way and another, slowly leading the infantry closer to the fortress that loomed large above. The sun had finally set and flares were exploding high overhead.

The sounds of musket fire grew louder until Raedan turned a corner and came up behind a cluster of western troops firing down a trench from the safety of a pile of dirt. A few rounds slammed into the trench walls or their barrier, but each loyalist that risked the attack was targeted by a handful of western rifles.

“
We've got them pinned down!” a corporal shouted. Another loyalist fired down the trench; four westerners answered. “I reckon a half-dozen of them from the way they're throwing rounds at us.”

“
Any way around them?” Raedan asked.

“
There was a junction about fifty feet east, but they're even heavier on that side.”

Raedan looked at the trenches. Finding another way around the loyalists could cost him precious time. He could throw a company of his men down the trench to overwhelm the defenders, but there was the off-chance that there were more defenders than the corporal estimated. Or that they had artillery waiting behind them.

He turned to the captain that had followed him into the trenches. “We'll have to go over.”

“
Yes, sir!” The captain kept the doubt out of his voice, but Raedan saw it in his eyes. Climbing out of the trenches would expose them to fire from the men on the walls above.

He touched his fingers to his onyx amulet. The fear of the men around him flowed to him like tributaries and he felt the energy pooling within him.

Damon had taught him how to gather energy, but those energies were different. They were like a rolling stream that twisted and turned gently within him. The energies that gathered within him now were a roaring river seeking escape.

Raedan began to chant. The energy began to pulse outward. He pushed courage into the soldiers around him and pulled the fear from them. This time, he was careful. He had learned from his experience at Green Hills: pushing too much of an emotion into a person overwhelmed them.

“
Company, up and over!” the captain shouted as he lifted himself out of the trench.

A spatter of rifle fire rained down from the walls above, but much less than Raedan had expected. The company scrambled out of the trench and he joined them. The soldiers ran low to the ground across the open ground and then dropped into the trench on the far side.

They had come up behind the enemy position and fell on the loyalists with the element of surprise. There had been a dozen soldiers waiting at the end of the trench, each armed with a rifle and a dozen more stacked against the wall, loaded and ready to fire. Raedan was one of the last men into the far trench and the fighting was done.

“
Very good, captain,” he said as he observed their position.

They were less than a hundred feet from the base of the dirt berm that provided the last protection for the attackers. The trench, however, was not newly dug. It ran straight away from the walls and through the dirt berm.

“
We're in a drainage ditch,” he told the captain. “Do we have any explosives?”

“
None, sir,” the captain said.

“
Send a runner to fetch some,” Raedan ordered.

More soldiers began to pour into the drainage ditch from adjoining trenches. Their officers found him waiting.

“
What orders, sir?” a lieutenant asked. He wore the blue with red accents of White Ridge.

A platoon of soldiers followed him. The common soldiers had taken their commanders' inaction as a sign that they were waiting for some unspoken command. Some had slumped against the trench walls to rest, others drank from their canteens, and a few fired at the parapets far above, though Raedan doubted that they would hit anything.

“
We're in a drainage ditch,” he told the young officer. “It must lead to a sewer shaft. I've sent for some explosives. When they arrive, we'll follow this ditch to its source.”

The thirty-pound coastal guns continued their barrage on the enemy fortifications, though they had turned their attention away from the approaches that the infantry would need to make their assault. Many of the shells struck high on the wall; others sailed over it to explode over the outer bailey. Even one of those heavy rounds, poorly aimed, could cause more damage to his small band than he cared to think about.

Finally, a pair of privates and a corporal returned from the siege lines, sacks of powder charges cradled in their hands. The corporal also carried a spool of primer cord. Raedan inspected their charges and, satisfied that they would suffice, started up the ditch toward the fortress.

Nearly three hundred men had gathered while they waited for the charges and they followed behind Raedan and the small cluster of his personal guards. The fire from above continued, but the men were crouched against the inside wall of the trench wherever possible. It would have taken a lucky shot to hit most of them.

Raedan raised his fist when they arrived at a junction. One of the trenches ran straight toward the wall and ended at a small stone entry barred by an iron portcullis. The approach to the entrance was completely exposed to fire from above.

He called to one of the officers, “Captain!”

The man scurried forward, careful to avoid the rifle fire from above. The officer was one of his brother’s men, in the white and red of House Clyve. “Yes, my lord?”

“
Take your men into this trench and put fire on those battlements. Corporal, once the captain is engaged, you and the privates are to rush the portcullis, place the charges and primer, and return with the rope to trigger them.” The two officers nodded. “Everyone else, lay fire on those parapets!”

Raedan raised his rifle and fired at the parapets above; the other soldiers joined him. Their chances of hitting anyone were small, but the illusion of danger could be a strong motivator for someone far above to avoid actual danger.

The company wearing the white of his brother’s territory rushed into the one hundred-yard trench, firing wildly at the battlements above. They reloaded with a speed that spoke of training and dedication. Even their captain was among them, firing a rifled musket that he had picked up along the way.

When the captain waved, the corporal and two privates rushed forward with the explosives. They packed the charges around the base of the portcullis and hurried back toward the junction. The corporal stumbled, fell and lay lifeless in the gathering muck; blood began to pool around his head.

He was not alone. A dozen of the soldiers in the trench had already fallen; another dozen were wounded but remained in the trench, firing up. When primer was finally in his hands, Raedan shouted a command and his troops began to withdraw from the killing fields.

He crouched in the trench to reload his rifle. When the cap was settled on the nipple, he lowered the hammer and risked a glance at the walls above. He counted two dozen different rifles firing down at them, though he couldn't tell if there were as many men or fewer with men behind them reloading.

“
When we make for the portcullis, give them a volley!” he shouted. He struck a match on his boot and held it to the end of the primer.

The fuse hissed as the flame caught and the spark started up the cord toward the charges. The flash of flares overhead, the play of shadows in the trenches and the spout of flames from muskets and pistols made the fuse hard to see as it burned closer and closer to the entrance. Raedan hid behind the trench wall and waited.

The noise was deafening, the cloud of dust was blinding and the shock from the detonation pushed more than one man to his knees. Deaf from the sound and unable to see, Raedan stood and shouted as he charged into the trench.

The men behind him peppered the ramparts with shot as they hurried behind their commander. He could see the entrance through the dust and grinned; the portcullis had been blown wide off of its hinges. The way into the fortress was open.

Chapter 18 - Hadrian

Dalton Croutcher, Arnold Croft, Austen Towles, Spencer Alvey and Raedan and Hadrian Clyve sat at a massive table planning their riverside defensive positions. The capture of Fort Hart had given the Western forces much greater flexibility in where they placed the majority of their troops.

Dalton sat at the center of the long table. He had trimmed his beard and his hair was pulled back to help keep himself cool. His chin rested on a clenched fist as he listened to another report from his scouts.

Lord Arnold Croft, the Earl of Garroway, sat to Dalton’s left. Sweat had already started to roll down his thick red cheeks and through the thin beard that had formed on his jaw.

Of the nobles gathered in the great hall, Lord Austen Towles, the Baron of Falton, seemed the most comfortable. His barony was further south than any of the others’ and his mother had been a noble lady from across the Vast Sea. He had inherited her olive skin and tolerance for warm weather.

Raedan sat at the right end of the table, his attention focused on a stack of written reports. His staff leaned against the arm of his chair and he idly rubbed at the onyx stone that his griffin pendant clutched in its golden claws. He scribbled some notes on one of the messages and set it apart from the others for more review by Dalton and the others.