back over the wall while his legs fell inside. Others just sagged, suddenly boneless and leaking. A few desperately clung to the wall as if remaining upright would hold death at bay.
The Prince loaded and fired mechanically, scattering soldiers, but giving no thought to directing Mugwump. The wurm darted toward the north and up onto the top of the stone wall. He raised his muzzle and repeated the roar he'd offered in response to the cry of 'To the top!' Then his tail whipped around, sheering off the top of the palisade wall.
'To the top!' men screamed from below. Had Prince Vlad not been so busy reloading, he would have thrust a fist in the air. He rammed the powder and shot home, then looked west, seeking a target.
And he saw one, a grand one, but one too far away to target. There, by the river, two battalions of the Platine Regiment had crashed into the Norillian line. And to make things worse, a sloop under a Ryngian flag sailed down the Green River and had run its guns out to fire.
Every instinct urged Owen to sprint away from the battle. Straight ahead, through curtains of gunsmoke, two Platine battalions formed up. The cavalry had pulled back and faced the river, exposing its flank to the Ryngians. Their maneuver gave the Ryngians a boulevard into the heart of the Norillian formation wider than the road du Malphias had cut through the woods. On the left, the Fourth Foot had no idea of the danger. If the Ryngians split their forces, they could likely roll up both sides. And if they concentrate them…
Owen marched straight to the Captain commanding the artillery. 'Compliments of Lord Rivendell. He wonders if it would trouble you too much to shift your guns forty-five degrees to the west. We have some Tharyngians forming up there.'
The artillery commander raised his telescope and dropped his jaw. 'By God, that gap!'
'Fill it with fire, Captain, fill it with fire.' Owen turned and stalked toward the gap.
'Where the devil are you going?'
Owen turned, throwing his arms wide and laughed. 'You fill it with fire, I'll fill it with me. Shoot high, man, so I can watch you knock them down.'
The artilleryman shouted at his crews. Owen spun again, then dropped to a knee and pulled a musket and ammunition pouch from a dead body. A bit further along he recovered another musket and a bayonet, which he slung over his shoulder. He went to pull the cartridge case from another corpse, but the fallen man clung to it.
Owen looked at the soldier. Not a drop of blood. 'On your feet soldier!'
The man-really just a boy-opened his eyes wide. 'I don't want to die.'
'Not like any of us have a choice, son. What's your name?'
'Private Hodge Dunsby, sir.'
Owen tugged him to a sitting position. 'You can sit here and weep, or laugh at Death and feed him Ryngians. It's better to laugh. Move it.'
The young man stared up at him. 'But, sir.'
'Son, if you don't move, your friends will die. Come with me, and we might save a few.'
Hodge's eyes focused distantly for a moment, then he wiped away tears and stood, bringing his musket to hand. 'As you say, laughing's better. Lead on, sir.'
Owen felt ridiculous. Dressed in his Altashee leathers, one musket over his shoulder, another in his right hand. He thumbed the firestone, rotating it. He felt it grind. The musket had been loaded and never fired. With Hodge at his back, Owen marched into the gap as Ryngian drummers started in.
'Hodge, grab two more muskets.' Owen bent to get himself a third. 'Sixty, forty, and twenty, then it's steel on steel.'
'Yes, sir.'
Just looking at the Ryngians gave Owen gooseflesh. The enemy formed a solid wall of blue coats with white facings, silver-white buttons, and tall bearskin hats with silver crests. When he'd faced them in Artennes Forest he'd joked that one should aim for that badge. No need to aim now. At that range he couldn't miss, but even killing two with every shot wouldn't slow them.
The drums began a steady beat. Cannons roared from behind him. Balls slammed into the formation, plowing red furrows through it. The Platine just closed ranks, drawing closer, ever closer, step by step, their iron will and discipline revealing why they were the masters of the battlefield. An officer shouted an order and the front rank lowered muskets to the hip, then thrust them forward. Bayonets at the ready, they came on, with the second rank's bayonets gleaming at shoulder height.
'You still with me, Hodge?'
'Got a couple more, sir.'
Owen looked to his side. Two other men, one bleeding from the shoulder and the other wounded in the thigh, raised their muskets. 'If you can find an officer, drop him.'
More cannonballs hammered the Tharyngian forces, but the Norillian cannon were slow to reload. They might get one more volley in before the Ryngians overran Owen's position. More Ryngians filled the gaps, leaving the line seamless. A hundred yards. Eighty. Owen raised his musket. Seventy. Sixty.
His thumb brushed the firestone. The musket spat fire. A second later the other three soldiers shot. Three Ryngians went down, their bodies instantly hidden behind the advancing line.
Then the drumbeats sped up, hammered more quickly.
The Ryngians charged.
Owen brought a second musket to his shoulder. Seeing a man with a sword shouting orders, he shifted right and tracked. He aimed for the badge, then invoked a spell. Gunsmoke hid the line, but it blew away quickly and the officer had vanished.
The solid wall of blue raced on and Owen braced himself to receive the charge.
Then a volley roared from behind him and the Ryngians staggered. Unstone and the Third had come to plug the gap. The first two Ryngian ranks went down, but rest of the Platine came on hard. Owen screamed defiantly and met their charge. He parried the first thrust, then drove his own bayonet home, plunging it deep into a man's belly. The soldier vomited blood and sagged. Owen ripped the bayonet free and swung the butt up, catching another soldier in the face, shattering bone and scattering teeth.
The first wave passed by him, intent on the Third. The Ryngians flowed into the gap beyond Owen, leaving him free in the rearward ranks. Soldiers there weren't yet prepared to meet the enemy in the sea of blue coats before them. Owen's lack of a bright red uniform bought him a heartbeat before they realized he was the enemy.
One man lunged. Owen parried the bayonet wide. He brought his musket butt up with a stroke that should have snapped the man's head back. Unfortunately his target stumbled, ducking beneath the attack. As Owen's blow slipped past the man's shoulder, the Ryngian whipped his musket's butt around and caught Owen square in the stomach. Owen, his gun lost, sprawled on the ground.
The Tharyngian rose up on one knee, raising his musket high for a killing thrust.
Then another bayonet stabbed forward, catching the Ryngian high in the chest. Hodge! The bantam Private yelled as he thrust, driving the other man back. He yanked his bayonet free and a single geyser of blood shot into the air.
Owen rolled to his feet and grabbed the dying Ryngian's musket. He spun it around, leveling it at another Tharyngian soldier. He thumbed the firestone. The musket roared. The soldier fell, his waistcoat growing dark. Another butt-stroke, another lunge and, with Hodge beside him, Owen broke through to the back of the Ryngian formation.
For a heartbeat he felt relief, then he glanced toward the river and felt as if he'd again been struck in the stomach.
The First Cavalry battalion had collapsed. Its colors fell as bluecoats swarmed. The best Tharyngian troops in the world had taken the Norillians in the flank. The scions of Norillian nobility loved playing at parade or riding down fleeing infantry. War had been more a sport for them than a serious pursuit, but the Ryngians had brought them blood and fire. Such intensity had never been inflicted on them before. Not for the first time did it occur to Owen that horsemen on foot had surrendered the smarter part of their partnership. Fleeing soldiers, their panic infective, ran headlong into their Second battalion, destroying any hope of defending against the pursuing Platine battalion.
And to make matters worse, a Ryngian sloop had appeared on the river drawing parallel to the cavalry position. It had run its cannons out. Nothing could save the Norillian right, and once those men had been scoured from the field, nothing could stop du Malphias from winning the day.
