The Price of Valor (43 page)

The exchange of fire went on for at least a half hour. Then the Vordanai began an unceremonious retreat, lines deploying back into columns and turning to march the way they had come. Cannon relimbered and rumbled off, leaving the occasional broken gun behind. A neat line of corpses marked the spot where they had stood.

“What was the point of that?” Bobby said, frowning.

“I think,” Winter said slowly, “that Janus wanted to convince di Pfalen that was the best he's got.”

“If that's true, it may have worked,” Abby said. “They're on the move.”

The center and left of the Hamveltai line, so far idle except for the cannoneers, lurched into ponderous motion. Thick columns of yellow-uniformed men splashed through the small stream that had guarded their front and pushed across the valley toward the heights. Their cannon raced ahead, teams of horses laboring to pull them past the infantry and then turning around to set up for firing. As they came closer, the hills seemed to explode with fire and smoke, a rippling volley of guns like distant thunder. Now it was the yellow line's turn to dribble corpses and wounded to the rear as it advanced, battalions closing up whenever a ball cut through them like waves crashing around a rock.

“Yellowjackets coming our way,” Cyte said, peering through her glass. “Three columns.”

It was a few moments before the rest of them could see. The left-most regiment of Hamveltai had peeled off from the general forward advance and was headed toward the wooded ridge. As Winter had predicted, di Pfalen was not totally blind to the danger presented to his flank; as his main line advanced past the woods, he'd sent troops to guard against an attack from that direction.

“Bobby, go find Archer,” Winter said. “Tell him to hold his fire as long as they keep coming. It's when they get too comfortable that we'll need to sting them. Then find Abby and help her get the Girls' Own ready.”

Bobby saluted and ran off. Winter stayed where she was, watching the approaching yellowjackets. Three columns probably meant three battalions, or something like three thousand men, opposing the bare thousand or so that remained in the Third Regiment after the hellish march. Janus' original plan, that they charge
from cover and catch the Hamveltai by surprise, might have worked if they'd been at full strength, but with the odds that far against them, it would have been a disaster.
So even Janus isn't omniscient.
Winter wasn't sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

The first question, whether the Hamveltai colonel intended to occupy the woods or merely to screen them, was soon answered. He halted his men in column at the bottom of the slope, facing up toward Winter but not yet deployed into a combat formation.
He still doesn't know we're here.
More than likely, the yellowjacket commander expected to be called into action somewhere in the front line now engaging Janus' army, once the danger of a flank attack failed to materialize.
Time to show him otherwise.

The cannon opened fire, right on cue. The closest gun was a dozen yards away, and the blast was enough to rattle Winter's teeth in her skull. More fire came from all along the edge of the woods, where Archer had positioned his guns to take advantage of the cover and the high ground. The cannonballs followed long, arcing trajectories down toward the Hamveltai troops below, and even the first volley plowed into the tight-packed yellow ranks, knocking men down like toys. Winter gave an appreciative whistle.
Archer knows his business.

For a few moments, confusion reigned down below. Winter could see men on horseback galloping back and forth, presumably the Hamveltai colonel and his officers. Orders went out, even as the shot continued to fall, and after no more than a few minutes the columns began to advance up the hill. With no guns of his own, the Hamveltai commander could either retire out of range or advance and silence the troublesome battery. As Winter had hoped, he'd chosen the latter course.

What he was
not
doing, she saw, was deploying into line as he came on. That was less encouraging. Tactics manuals said that all attacks should be delivered in line, but the long, cumbersome formation was difficult at best in rough ground like the woods. She'd hoped the Hamveltai would stick to their doctrine and get bogged down, on ground that would favor the Girls' Own and their skirmish tactics. Clearly, though, the enemy intended to simply bash ahead by sheer numbers, not bothering with the niceties of a firefight.

On the other hand, the tighter confines of the columns gave Archer's guns a better target, and as the range shrank the cannonade began to inflict serious damage. Yellow-clad bodies littered the slope, and a well-aimed shot could plunge through an entire column, snatching a dozen men out of the ranks and laying
them in pieces on the hillside. Hamveltai discipline held, however, and they kept to their formations in spite of the pounding they were taking.

Bobby returned, with Abby and Jane at her side. Behind them came the women of the Girls' Own, those who'd kept up on the march and were still fit enough to fight. They spread out along the edge of the woods, not attempting any kind of formation but taking whatever cover they could find among the trees and rocks. Folsom led his company to the area where Winter and the other officers were standing, offering a cursory salute before turning to his rankers and assigning positions. The soldiers looked grim, and their new blue uniforms were travel-stained, but Winter was glad to see determination in their faces.
After coming this far, they won't break easily.

But anyone could break in the face of overwhelming numbers. Winter turned to Abby and Jane.

“Remember the plan,” she said. “Stand as long as you can, but give ground when they push too hard. No heroics.”
Not yet, anyway.

Abby nodded. “We'll bleed them.”

“That's all we need.” Winter turned to Bobby. “Find Archer and tell him to give them one round of canister at a hundred yards, then pull back. I don't want him around when it comes to musket range.”

Bobby saluted and rushed off again.

“Speaking of musket range,” Jane said, looking at the approaching Hamveltai. “You should be moving back, don't you think?”

Winter chewed her lip. She was right, of course. Once the fighting started, here in the woods, there was nothing she would be able to do, no meaningful control she'd be able to exert over the battle. All she could do was put herself in danger, and risk disorganizing the whole regiment if she was injured or killed.
But I can't just
leave
them.

Jane seemed to read all that in her expression. She gave a crooked smile and put a hand on Winter's shoulder.

“Go back,” she said. “We can handle things here.”

“Sevran might need you to hold his hand,” Abby said.

“All right, all right,” Winter said. “But I mean it when I say no heroics, all right?” She caught Jane's eye.
Be safe. Please.

“Understood, sir.”

They both saluted, though in Jane's case it felt as though the gesture was a little mocking. Winter turned and hurried back through the forest, where the
Girls' Own were still filing into position, picking out positions, and loading their muskets. Broad paths had been chopped from the underbrush, leading from Archer's guns back through the woods. It would still be rough going, and Winter hoped the cannoneers would be smart enough save themselves and leave their pieces behind if they got stuck.

Too late to give orders on that subject now, though. She emerged, blinking, into the meadow on the other side of the woods, and found the Royals drawn up in a solid line of blue in front of her. With so many lost or straggling on the road, they made a very thin line, sometimes only one man deep, but it was still an impressive sight. Sevran, mounted, rode along the front of the formation inspecting their alignment. When he saw her, he waved to another officer, and a sergeant rode out with Edgar trailing behind him.

“Everything ready here?” Winter said.

“Ready, sir,” Sevran said. “They're going to get a hell of a surprise if they make it this far.”

“Let's hope it's enough.” Surprise and terrain were what they had to work with, against superior numbers and training. “What about Captain Stokes?”

Sevran nodded to the end of the line of Royals, where the horsemen were assembling in a tight-packed mass. “Champing at the bit, as it were.”

“He's sure he can get through the trees?”

“He rode through this morning and said it shouldn't be a problem.”

Winter wasn't sure she trusted Give-Em-Hell's assessment of what was and was not a problem, but she had no alternative. She followed Sevran around the end of the line, to where the lieutenants, dismounted, stood behind their companies. Sergeants waited between them, and in the center a color party carried the Vordanai flag, surrounded by drummers poised to relay signals.

Turning back to the woods, Winter could see almost nothing, just the swaying branches of the closest trees. She closed her eyes and listened instead. In the distance, the racket of Janus' fight was swelling, but it was drowned out by the closer booms of Archer's guns. They'd have switched to canister by now, each shot spraying musket balls into the enemy ranks like an enormous shotgun. The lead ranks of Hamveltai would be cut down, but they'd come on, stepping over their dead like automata. Four hundred yards, three hundred, two hundred, one hundred . . .

The cannon fell silent. In their place, she heard the tearing rattle of musketry, a scatter of shots at first that quickly rose to a continuous roar. It was punctuated by clattering thunderclaps, the sound of a disciplined volley being delivered by trained troops. That would be the Hamveltai columns, finally able to fire on their
tormentors. Then, barely audible over the shooting, Winter heard the skirl of drums and the shouts of men as they charged.

The woods began to boil with powder smoke, wisps of blue-gray tugged out of the trees by the steady wind. Muskets popped and clattered, and now they were mixed with screams and curses in more than one language. Women were dying in there, Winter knew, torn by musket balls or pierced with bayonets. Men in yellow were dying, too.
And I can't even see what's happening.
Her hands had gone tight, fingernails digging painfully into her palms.

Archer's guns burst from the edge of the woods, first one and then the others, dragged by wild-eyed horses clearly glad to be away from the fighting. The mounted sergeant who'd brought Winter her horse waved them on, around one side of the Royals' formation. Winter held her breath for a moment—if the Girls' Own had given way completely, and the enemy was hard on the gunners' heels, there would be a dangerous moment while the Royals' fire was blocked by their own men. No yellowjackets appeared, however, and the firing went on in the woods. Muzzle flashes were visible now, coming steadily closer as the Girls' Own fell back in the face of the more numerous Hamveltai.

Finally, women in blue uniforms started to emerge from the edge of the woods, stopping to fire one final last shot at fleeting forms in yellow, then running for the safety of the Royals' line. Answering flashes came from among the trees, and one tall woman doubled over and crashed to the turf. The others kept running, and were joined by other companies, up and down the line. Winter saw Abby in the center, her sleeve damp with blood, waving her sword back toward the Royals.

“Open the line to pass skirmishers,” Winter said to Sevran.

The captain repeated the command, and the drums thrilled. The men of the Royals turned in place, opening gaps as the Girls' Own reached them to let the desperate, bloodied women through. They were all in the meadow now, and yellowjackets were starting to appear in pursuit. The fleeing women mostly obscured their view of the Royals, or else they saw the gaps in the Royals' line and thought they were about to flee as well. Either way, they kept coming, pouring into the meadow, all formation lost in the vicious running battle in the woods.

The last of the Girls' Own passed through the line, only thirty yards or so separating them from the closest yellowjackets.

“Close up,” Winter said, and at another drummed command the blue line straightened out, gaps shutting like slammed doors. The sight of them brought the Hamveltai up short, and here and there a musket popped. The yellowjackets
hung in a strange limbo for a moment, too broken up to maneuver, not ready to charge that steady line but with their retreat blocked by their companions still coming out of the woods.

Winter drew her sword and slashed the air. “Fire!”

Even reduced to four hundred muskets, a battalion volley at close range was deafening. The balls cut through the mass of Hamveltai, dropping men by the score. The yellowjacket officers were shouting, but they'd lost control of their men. Some were attempting to load and fire back, others were edging backward, while still others simply milled in confusion, unable to see. They were still shuffling thirty seconds later, when another volley slammed out, tearing great holes in the yellow ranks.

By the third volley, they were joined by Archer, who'd gotten his guns turned around and loaded with double canister for close-range work. The combination of point-blank artillery fire and rapid musketry from the Royals convinced any yellowjackets who still had doubts that discretion was the better part of valor, and they poured back into the woods. Some ran; others took cover to load their weapons. Winter slashed the air again.

“Hold fire! Fix bayonets!”

The Royals, after loading another round, drew their bayonets and attached them to the lugs behind the barrels of their weapons. Archer's guns fired one more time, flailing the brush with musket balls with explosions of splinters and falling branches.

“Charge!”

Four hundred men shouted and stormed forward, weapons lowered. Here and there, shots dropped a blue-uniformed soldier, but the yellowjackets didn't stick around to be on the receiving end of the Vordanai bayonets. They ran, all cohesion lost, and the Royals plunged into the woods after them. Winter rode in their wake, walking Edgar down one of the trails they'd cut for the guns, until she could see out the other side. The Royals had stopped at the forest's edge, as ordered, but the Hamveltai were still running, three solid columns of yellow converted into a mass of fleeing men no more capable of offering resistance than if they were unarmed. Winter turned her horse about and rode back to the meadow, where Give-Em-Hell was practically bouncing in his stirrups.