The men in the shattered boats sank out of sight at once, weighed down by armour. Even had they worn none, they had no chance in the rushing current.
Ranafast was deploying his men along the western bank whilst his own shells whistled over his head. He had a couple of galloper-guns with him also. But the men were spread perilously thin, and Martellus could see now that the central Merduk column was staging an attack on Corfe’s position, manhandling boats amid the debris of the bridge, all the time under heavy fire from Corfe’s surviving command and the other defenders who were posted there. Ranafast should see the danger, though.
Sure enough, the cavalry commander brought his two light guns down to Corfe’s position, and soon they were barking canister at close range into the Merduks trying to cross there. An ugly little fight, but the main struggle was still going on along the flanks.
The waterborne Merduks were in trouble. More boats were being struck by Torunnan shells, and when these did not sink at once they began to roar downstream like sticks caught in a millrace, crashing into their fellows and sending them down-river in their turn. Soon there were scores of boats whirling and drifting in the middle of the river, wreckage and bodies bobbing up and down, the geysers of shellbursts exploding everywhere.
Some boats reached the western bank, only to receive a hail of arquebus bullets. Their complements straggled ashore to be cut down by Ranafast’s men. A tidemark of bodies built up there on the western bank while the Torunnans reloaded methodically and fired volley after volley into the wretches floundering ashore.
The battle had quickly degenerated into a one-sided slaughter. Signal guns began to sound from the Merduk lines calling off the attack, and those on the eastern bank halted as they were about to push a fresh wave of craft into the water. The unfortunates already on the river tried to come about and retrace their course, but it was impossible in that maelstrom of shot, shell and white water. They perished almost to a man.
The assault ground to a bloody and fruitless halt. Some of the Merduks remained on the edge of the river to try and help those labouring in the water, but most began a sullen retreat to their camps on the hillsides above. And all the while, Torunnan artillery lobbed vindictive and jubilant shells at their retreating backs. The attack had not just failed; it had been destroyed before it could even start.
“I want another battery of gallopers detached from the walls and sent to Corfe’s position,” Martellus said crisply. “Send him another three tercios also; he is closest to the enemy. He must hold the island.”
An aide ran off with the order. Martellus’ brother officers were laughing and grinning, scarcely able to believe their eyes.
For miles along the line of the river powder smoke hung in the air in thick clouds, and strewn along both banks was the wreck of an army. Men, boats, animals, weapons. It was awesome to behold. They dotted the land like the fallen fruit in an untended orchard, and the river itself was thick with boats half awash, a few figures clinging desperately to the wreckage. They were coursing downstream out of sight, helpless.
“He’s lost ten thousand at least,” old Isak was saying. “And some of his best troops, too. Sweet Saints, I’ve never seen carnage like it. He throws away his men as though they were chaff.”
“He miscalculated,” Martellus said. “Had the river been less full, he would have been at the dyke by now. This attack was intended to see him to the very walls on which we stand. Its repulse will give him pause for thought, but let us not forget that he still has fifty thousand men on those hills who have not yet been under fire. He will try again.”
“Then the same thing will happen again,” Isak said stubbornly.
“Possibly. We have exhausted our surprises, I think. Now he knows what we have and will be searching his mind for openings, gaps in our defences.”
“He cannot mean to assault again for a while, not after that debacle.”
“Perhaps not, but do not underestimate Shahr Baraz. He was profligate with his men’s lives at Aekir because of the prize that was at stake. I had thought he would be more careful here, if only because of the natural strength of the dyke. It may be that someone in higher authority is urging him on into less well-judged assaults. But we cannot become overconfident. We must look to our flanks. After today he will be probing the upper and lower stretches of the Searil, looking for a crossing point.”
“He won’t find one. The Searil is running as fast as a riptide and apart from here, at the dyke, the banks are treacherous, mostly cliffs and gorges.”
“We know that, but he does not.” Martellus sagged suddenly. “I think we have won, for the moment. There will be no more headlong assaults. We have gained a breathing space. It is now up to the kings of the world to aid us. The Saints know we deserve some help after the defence we have made.”
“Young Corfe did well.”
“Yes, he did. I intend to give him a larger command. He is able enough for it, and he and Andruw work well together.”
A few desultory cannon shots spurted out from the Torunnan lines, but a calm was descending over the Searil valley. As though by common consent, the armies had broken off from each other. The Merduks rescued the pathetically few survivors of the river assault without further molestation and loaded them on carts to be driven back within the confines of the camps. A few abandoned boats burned merrily on the eastern bank. The guns fell silent.
T HE indaba of officers had broken up less than an hour before, and Shahr Baraz was alone in the darkened tent. It was as sparsely furnished as a monk’s cell. There was a low wooden cot strewn with army blankets, a folding desk piled with papers, a chair and some stands for the lamps.
And one other thing. The old general set it on the desk and drew the curtain from around it. A small cage. Something inside it chittered and flapped irritably.
“Well, Goleg,” Shahr Baraz said in a low voice. He tapped the bars of the cage and regarded its occupant with weary disgust.
“Ha! Man’s flesh is too tough for Goleg. Wants a child, a young, sweet thing just out of the cradle.”
“Summon your master. I must make my report.”
“I want sweet flesh!”
“Do as you are told, abomination, or I’ll leave you to rot in that cage.”
Two tiny dots of light blinked malevolently from the shadows behind the bars. Two minuscule clawed hands gripped them and shook the metal.
“I know you. You are too old. Soon you will be carrion for Goleg.”
“Summon your master.”
The two lights dimmed. There was a momentary quiet, broken only by the camp noises outside, the neighing of horses in the cavalry lines. Shahr Baraz sat as if graven in stone.
At last a deep voice said: “Well, General?”
“I must make my report, Orkh. Relay me to the Sultan.”
“Good tidings, I trust.”
“That is for him to judge.”
“Did the assault fail, then?”
“It failed. I would speak to my ruler. No doubt you will be able to eavesdrop.”
“Indeed. My little creatures all answer to me—but you and Aurungzeb know that, of course.” Another pause. “He is busy with one of his new concubines, the raven-haired Ramusian beauty. Ah, she is exquisite. I envy him. Here he is, my Khedive. The luck of the Prophet be with you.”
And with that mild blasphemy, Orkh’s voice died. Aurungzeb’s impatient tones echoed through the tent in its place.
“Shahr Baraz, my Khedive! General of generals! I am afire. Tell me quickly. What happened?”
“The assault failed, Majesty.”
“
The old soldier seemed to stiffen in his chair, as though anticipating a blow.
“The attack was hasty, ill-judged and ill-prepared. We took the eastern barbican of the fortress, but it was mined and I lost two thousand men when the Ramusians touched it off. The river, also, was flowing too fast for our boats to make a swift crossing. They were cut to pieces whilst still in the water. Those who made it to the western bank died under the muzzles of Torunnan guns.”
