Even Jessep winced a little, now and then. That was the gunfire, to which he was not accustomed. Not, at least, in such volume. Helga didn't think the battle cries bothered him much, and he seemed completely indifferent to the screams of pain and agony.
He even, to her amazement, seemed able to think of the future in the midst of the chaos.
'How would you have done it, lad?'
Adrian smiled. 'I wouldn't have attacked at all. The thing about a laager, Jessep, is that while it's incredibly strong it's also inflexible. More so, even, than the Emerald phalanxes. And how did you Vanberts beat the phalanxes, eh? Not by trying to match them at their own game.'
'Gods, no. Can't break an Emerald phalanx head on. 'Twas never done once, that I ever heard tell, except by another phalanx.' He was back to beard-scratching. 'Use their rigidity against them. Force them onto broken ground, tear at 'em, pry 'em apart. Once you've done that, those great pikes of theirs weren't nothin' but a hazard to their own lives. Can't fight a man with an assegai-much less two or three of 'em at once-with an eighteen-foot long sticker. Not when you're up close, and on your own.'
Adrian nodded. 'Apply the same methods here, then. How would you 'pry apart' a laager?' He didn't wait for Jessep to fumble at the answer before providing it. 'It's called 'field artillery,' Jessep. Not too different from those ballistas which Tomsien didn't even bother to use-not that he brought many to begin with, since he wasn't figuring on a siege-except they fire three- or four-inch iron balls instead of big spears. And you mass them up. 'Batteries,' those are called. Dozens of big guns-not too different from the bombards you've seen Trae fire-pounding away at a laager just outside the range of the laager's own guns.'
Jessep grimaced. 'Three and four inches in diameter? Gods, they'd punch right through those wooden walls.'
'Do worse than that. Every ball will send wood splinters flying through the inside of the wagons-with nowhere much to go other than a human body.'
Yunkers glanced up at the watchtower. The figure of Prelotta was plainly visible. The Reedbottom chief was accoutered in his best armor, waving a flail and exhorting his soldiers. Not that many of them could see or hear him, of course, buried as they were inside wagons resounding with gunfire. But they knew he'd be there, doing what a chief rightly does in a defensive battle. Just stand there, looking and acting fearless and resolute.
There was no sarcasm in the glance, just assessment. Prelotta did look fearless and resolute.
'And what if he figures out you're planning to betray him?' There was no admiration in his tone of voice. Rather the opposite.
Helga watched as any trace of Adrian vanished from Adrian's own face. His features looked like those of a statue, and when his voice came it might as well have come from a marble block.
This was Center's voice now, not even Whitehall's.
'Do not presume to judge me, Jessep Yunkers. Thousands of men will die horribly today, on this field of battle. The greatest battle in history, perhaps; certainly the greatest in a century. Most of them will be Vanberts. Many thousands more-most of them barbarians-will die on another, soon enough. And so what? Every day, every month, every year-year after year after year-as many die in every province of your precious empire, from disease and hunger and deprivation. Most of them children. Am I supposed to weep for the warriors, and not for the children? Beat my breast in anguish because I caused the death of men bearing arms? The same men whose commanders grow fat on the agony of babes?'
Yes, Center's voice-even if the words were shaped by a man grown sensitive beyond his years. A man who could put into rhetoric what a computer could only calculate.
Helga swallowed. Jessep Yunkers looked away. For a moment, he seemed to be examining the ongoing carnage. But his eyes seemed a bit glazed over, as if he was really looking at something from his own memory.
'Oh, aye,' he said softly, 'and haven't I seen it myself? My province is littered with the little urns. Pathetic looking, they are, perched-so many of 'em-on the hearthstones of the cottages.'
When he turned back, his face seemed calm, and less blocky than usual. ' 'Tis nothing, Adrian Gellert. Special Attendant, as you said. The gods know if there's any man can end it, it's Verice Demansk.'
And now, even, some good cheer. 'So. I'll leave it to you, laddie, with your quicksilver brain, to figure out how we're going to pry ourselves loose after the battle.' A quick nod of his head toward Prelotta. 'He won't be pleased to see us go, now will he? But in the meantime-'
He jerked his head the other way. 'You have noticed, I trust, that your splendid little plan is coming apart at the seams, here and there? Best we worry about that, eh, before we fret too much about the future.'
Helga followed his gaze and gasped. Jessep was right. In three places-no, four! — Vanbert troops had finally managed to break into the laager. No matter how badly mangled and shredded, good troops will beat their way into a fortress, so long as their will doesn't break.
Not many, true. Most of them seemed to have done so by breaking the undershields and crawling beneath the wagons-a tactic which obviously played havoc with their own formations. But it wouldn't really take much, after all. By now, Helga had a good sense of just how brittle a laager was. Like some grades of steel, which take a razor's edge but will break under stress.
'I'd better get down there,' muttered Adrian. And that was Adrian's voice, now. Helga wasn't sure if she was relieved or not.
She didn't have time to worry about it. Everything seemed to move much faster now. Adrian was off the wagon roof and shouting at his Fighting Band, leading some of them toward the breaches and pointing off others to cover the rest. Prelotta, on his watchtower, was bellowing loudly enough to be heard even over the gunfire. And then, pounding from the east, came hundreds-many hundreds-of Grayhills cavalrymen.
Helga recognized Esmond at their head, waving a sword and exhorting his men forward. Even with the new facial scars and tattoos, he was still a magnificent figure. Say what else you could about Esmond Gellert, he was made for desperate battles. This was his time, and he was clearly reveling in it.
Nor, to be honest, was Helga in the least sorry to see him come. Adrian was in the worst of the melees which were starting to flare up inside the laager, where Vanbert soldiers had managed a breach. Not even standing back, damn him, using his sling. She could see him right up in the front lines, with a sword in his hand.
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
