“Yes, sir. At Jirdos.”
It was easy to underestimate Give-Em-Hell, with his short stature and manic attitude; Marcus had, for years. But in his element, with a proper cavalry force behind him instead of the crippled remnant the Colonials had had, he was formidable. Yet another talent Janus picked off the garbage heap.
Marcus relocated his command post to the ridge, in the yard of an abandoned farmhouse, as the heavy cavalry began their attack. It was an impressive array, nearly four thousand horsemen in flashing armor, swords drawn, riding downhill in three successive lines. They passed through the Girls’ Own, who sent up a wild cheer, and bore down on the line of enemy skirmishers. There was no question of trying to hold this back. The blue-?uniformed soldiers broke and ran, or hunkered down into cover. The Girls’ Own followed on the heels of the cavalry as fast as they could, taking prisoners as enemy soldiers who’d sheltered under hedges poked their heads up.
So far, so good. From here Marcus had an excellent view. He could see the hill on which Kurot had waited, well behind them now, and the smoke rising from where de Manzet’s battle was continuing. Ahead was the Pale, and—?not too distant now—?the city of Alves. He could see into its streets: tall, narrow buildings, with church spires rising above them, silver double circles shining in the sun. Closer to them were the fortifications, including a modern star-?shaped earthen rampart with outlying ravelins, walls sloped to deflect cannon-?fire and studded with embrasures where its own guns could fire out.
Further to the left was the twisty, narrow line of the Daater. This held his attention because he could see troops moving along the river road, not skirmishers but heavy, formed columns of infantry with accompanying artillery. He guessed there were two regiments, maybe more—?most of a division, at least, apparently marching away from Alves and toward the ongoing battle with de Manzet. They seemed to be in some confusion, and Marcus could readily imagine why, scouts frantically reporting the charging cavalrymen.
“There’s no camp,” Cyte said, coming up beside him.
Marcus frowned. There was nothing to indicate where Janus’ troops had spent the night. “Maybe they packed everything.”
“We should still be able to see where they were. You know what a campsite looks like after we leave.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “You’re right.” Wherever they’d sheltered last night, it hadn’t been on the field. And that means... “Alves has fallen.”
“Oh, damn,” Cyte said. She shaded her eyes and looked down at the advancing horsemen. “Should I send a messenger to Give-Em-Hell?”
“Do it,” Marcus said. “Hurry.”
Cyte swung astride her horse and rode down the ridge. Marcus raised his spyglass again, tracking the Pale as it passed behind the city and beneath its fortifications. It was difficult to see through the clutter, but—
There. He didn’t have a view of the bridge footing itself, but a section of the span was visible, and a steady stream of wagons was passing across it. Brass balls of the fucking Beast.
That meant the worst-?case scenario, the one Kurot had dismissed yesterday, had happened: Alves had not only fallen to the enemy, but had fallen so quickly that the defenders hadn’t had time to demolish the crucial bridge. Which means all the fighting we did yesterday was for nothing. Janus already had another crossing for his supplies, closer and more convenient. He only defended Satinvol because he knew he could bleed us.
That, in turn, meant that de Manzet would be facing not opponents short on ammunition after a long siege, but fresh, well-?armed troops coming at him from two sides.
“Rider!” Marcus shouted. “Two of you!”
A young man and a woman hurried over, both wearing lieutenant’s stripes. Marcus turned to them and spoke fast and quiet.
“Ride to General Kurot. You’ll have to backtrack and swing wide. Tell him Alves is in enemy hands and they’ve got the bridge. We are not going to be able to attack Janus from behind.” Any attempt to do so would be inviting a strike at his own rear from whatever troops remained in the city.
The pair looked on with wide eyes.
“Tell him I advise—” Marcus stopped, shook his head, then said, “Tell him I request permission to withdraw and extend my left to link up with de Manzet. I should be able to take some of the pressure off him. If we can hang on until nightfall, we can pull back a little farther and stabilize the line. You’ve got all that?”
They both nodded, the girl swallowing hard.
“As soon as you get there, send two riders back with a report on what’s happening, and then wait for Kurot’s response. Go!”
They went, scrambling down the back side of the ridge. Ahead, plumes of smoke rose from the city walls, followed moments later by the dull boom of guns. Give-Em-Hell’s advancing cavalry halted, milling in confusion, as what was supposed to be a friendly fortress opened fire on them. At least they didn’t try to bait them close. At that distance, the damage to the cavalry would be slight. Unless Give-Em-Hell does something really, really stupid...
Marcus held his breath. But even the redoubtable General Stokes apparently drew the line at asking his troopers to ride against a fortress in the face of canister fire. Instead, the cuirassiers turned about smartly and fell back the way they’d come, until they were out of range of the heavy guns on the walls. Thank God.
To the south, the troops he’d glimpsed along the Daater were forming up in line but so far showed no signs of advancing. Marcus’ and Fitz’ divisions were out on a limb, with the Pale on one side, hostile Alves and that line ahead of them, and enemy on the other side with just a light cavalry screen to stop them. The only option was to fall back, but Marcus didn’t dare, not yet. He was, very roughly, where Kurot had wanted him, and if the general proceeded on that assumption, moving out of position would be a disaster.
What I wouldn’t give for a flik-?flik line right now. Marcus looked back down the hill, in the direction his messengers had departed, and waited.
*
When riders arrived, it wasn’t from General Kurot, but from the left. Fitz Warus in person led a small group of light cavalry troopers, surrounding a bedraggled-?looking lieutenant with the insignia of Kurot’s staff. Marcus hurried down to meet them, grabbing Cyte along the way.
“General,” Fitz said, swinging off his horse. He waved the troopers away, and only the lieutenant dismounted.
“Fitz.” Marcus nodded at the lieutenant. “Have we got new orders?”
“Not exactly.” Fitz was generally the definition of imperturbable, and Marcus didn’t know if he’d ever seen the younger man truly rattled. The grim tone in his voice spoke volumes. “You’d better hear this.”