There was, as Marcus had expected, a second defensive line ready behind the first.
Sevran’s attack, delivered with considerable skill and courage, had driven a wedge into the enemy line. Despite the gaps blown in their ranks by the canister and musketry, the Second Regiment had kept its formation until the last moment, then charged in a mass with lowered bayonets up the streets and into the ruined houses that marked the border of Satinvol. Archer’s gunners, closer now, switched their fire to the edges of the spreading conflict, and more houses began to show the scars of cannonballs.
When it became clear to the defenders that Sevran’s men could not be dislodged, they pulled back through the streets of Satinvol to a second set of positions. The Girls’ Own skirmishers followed them carefully, the rattle of musketry almost continuous as the contest of ambush and counterambush began. Marcus could see almost nothing now, just a few ruined buildings and the rising smoke, but he could imagine it—?small assaults, rushes of a dozen or two dozen men and women at a time, a building captured or lost, fierce battles for possession of a shed or a back garden.
Girls who ought to still be under their mothers’ skirts lying bloody and broken in back alleys, or clutching shattered limbs, or screaming as their guts are ripped open by bayonets...
He swallowed hard. They want to be there. They demanded it. It’s war. But it still felt like a monstrosity.
True to his word, though, he’d ordered the second battalion of the Girls’ Own in when the attack bogged down. Abby went with them, walking ahead of her troops, waving them into position with her sword. Marcus moved closer himself, now that the enemy guns had pulled back, and brought the Third and Fourth Regiments with him. Fighting in towns was always devilish business. A formed unit, under its commander’s tight control, could deliver a charge with considerable impetus, but it wasn’t very long before it would get tied up in a hundred tiny battles. And getting a unit out again once the battle had started was nearly impossible. So skirmishes had a tendency to take on a life of their own, becoming a maelstrom that sucked in well-?ordered troops and spat out dazed fragments.
A colonel from the artillery reserve arrived, leading a battery of a dozen howitzers. The squat, wide-?barreled guns looked more like cook pots than cannon. They were designed to lob powder-?filled bombs in a high trajectory, and were direct descendants of the catapults that had hurled stones over the walls of medieval castles. Howitzers were notoriously inaccurate, but in a situation like this, with the enemy pinned to his defenses, they were just the thing. Marcus quickly set them to firing at the inner perimeter of Satinvol, just in front of the bridge, where the enemy reserves and supplies had to be massed. Soon fires were burning in several places, columns of black smoke rising to mix with gray drifts rising off the battlefield.
*
Noon came and went. Marcus had only the most tenuous grasp of the shape of the battle, relying on hurried reports from commanders who knew only what they could see on one particular street. Janus’ troops were falling back, but they hadn’t cracked yet. Whenever things seemed stuck, Marcus fed in a fresh battalion from his rapidly dwindling reserve to get the attack moving again. By four in the afternoon, he was feeling, if not sanguine, then at least reasonably confident. If Janus had a big reserve to throw into a counterattack, he’d have used it by now. The narrowing enemy front was rapidly contracting to the footing of the bridge itself, and a counterattack over the bridge would be suicidal.
Not that Marcus expected to actually cross. Destroying bridges once you had no further use for them was standard practice, and he fully anticipated Janus would have left orders to demolish the span once his defenders had bought all the time they could. Only a quick rush could hope to take a bridge intact, and the drawn-?out struggle had left no chance of that here. That was inevitable, though. At least we’ll have cut his supply line as intended. The rest of the battle didn’t seem to be going according to plan, or indeed happening at all. There was no sound of artillery from behind him, no clouds of smoke rising from the southwest. If Janus was still in front of Alves, he hadn’t marched to keep Kurot out of his rear.
As if thinking the man’s name had summoned him, a mounted party came into view from the east, picking their way across the shot-?torn fields. Marcus had moved his command post to just outside the town, not far from where the cutters had set up their aid stations. Casualty parties were still fetching the wounded from the parts of Satinvol that had fallen under his control, and the usual horror of triage and treatment had begun. Marcus could see Hannah Courvier, the Girls’ Own’s regimental cutter, prowling the lines of blue-?coated bodies, bloody to the elbows like a monster from a children’s story.
“General d’Ivoire,” Kurot said as he rode up. Fitz was with him, and several staff officers Marcus didn’t recognize. Kurot’s face was an icy mask, and his voice dripped impatience. “Report your progress.”
“Sir.” Marcus saluted. “We’ve taken most of the town on this bank of the river, sir, and we’re approaching the bridge. The enemy was expecting us and was heavily dug in. We’ve captured four guns and prisoners from at least five regiments.”
“You’re behind schedule,” Kurot snapped. “My calculations show that you should have had the bridge by noon if no enemy force came forward to confront you in the field.”
“With respect, Column-?General, the enemy have been buying time, and doing it as well as I’d expect of Grand Army soldiers. But it won’t be long now.”
“It had better not be,” Kurot said. “I suggest you move forward, General d’Ivoire, and discover what’s causing the delay. Apply the whips if necessary.”
“Sir—” Marcus gritted his teeth. “Yes, sir. As you say.”
Kurot rode off without a word, his staff trailing him like the tail of a kite. Only Fitz remained, dismounting and beckoning to Marcus. They walked a few steps away from the nearby soldiers, and Fitz spoke in a low voice.
“He’s in a foul mood,” he said. “Janus hasn’t been playing along.”
“I gathered that,” Marcus said. “What’s happened? Any word from Val?”
“He’s engaged Janus’ pickets, but there’s been no serious fighting, so he’s still pushing forward. But scouting reports are confused. Some of them say that Alves has already fallen, betrayed from within or overtaken by demons.” Fitz waggled his eyebrows. “Others tell us the city is still holding out. Kurot doesn’t know what to think.”
“If Alves has fallen and Janus has the bridge there, this sideshow isn’t worth any more lives,” Marcus said.
“He doesn’t believe the city could fall so quickly,” Fitz said. “And if it did, he’s certain the defenders would at least have demolished the bridge.”