The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) (21 page)

Lord Croutcher had seen the opportunity to crush nearly fifty thousand of the king’s trained levies and had drawn up plans to defeat the overreaching lesser lord. The First Corps of the Northern Army stood one hundred and twelve thousand infantry strong, with a twenty-four thousand strong cavalry contingent and seventy-two ten-pound cannons.

A long blast on a trumpet ordered the commanders to prepare their troops for battle and Hadrian moved forward from his column. Raedan and Tristan saw his advance and rode to join him. The three stopped fifty yards in front of the center column.

“
We’ve been assigned to harass the northern flank of the loyalist forces,” Hadrian reminded his commanders. “Tristan, your regiments are going to be on the inside as we wheel around their flank. You will be in direct contact with their light cavalry and skirmishers. I will lead the majority of the force around the flank and attack from behind. Raedan, you are to wheel around my left flank and attempt to sweep their artillery positions on the hillside.”

“
Do we have any estimates of their mounted strength?” Raedan asked. His force would be the most vulnerable when they turned their backs on the main force to attack the artillery batteries.

“
They have held most of their cavalry across the river, so we anticipate no more than six thousand light cavalry,” Hadrian reported. “If you are able to capture any cannons, you are to turn them on the center of the enemy line. Tristan, once I have made my first sweep of their flank, you are to move behind my line and cover Raedan’s back and my left flank.”

“
Yes, my lord.” Tristan nodded and the nobles returned to their commands.

Hadrian watched his brother return to the left flank and beamed with pride. He had been raised to be a leader, to command military forces, and take the reins of their father’s barony when it was time. Raedan had spent much of his time in the vaults, learning from Damon Kor. He had not been trained to rule over a noble territory or command troops in battle, but he had taken to both tasks with a fervor that Hadrian envied.

Raedan still occasionally showed the quiet, reserved attitude that he had carried through much of his life, but with every major decision that came to him, the younger Baron Clyve became more and more assertive.

A pair of short trumpet bursts echoed over the assembled forces and Hadrian’s attention returned to the target that sat before him. Only the center of the loyalist forces had entrenched at the base of the hills. Their flanks were on foot and exposed. He could see the end of the loyalist line and the low hills behind it that were his goal. Once his troops were in position and dismounted, they would be able to sweep fire down the enemy line.

Hadrian pushed the revolving chamber out of his pistol and blew through it. It wouldn’t do to have his pistol jam in the middle of the battle. Sliding the revolving carbine from his holster, he did the same. When he was content that there was no dust or dirt collected in the chambers of his weapons, he rested the carbine across his lap and waited for the signal to attack.

The trumpet call finally sounded. The melody was loud and cut through the increasingly humid air with surprising clarity. Hadrian glanced to Raedan and Tristan and nodded to each. To their right, the infantry began their advance across the field. Cannons barked from both sides and thick gray clouds began to obscure the artillery batteries almost immediately.

Skirmishers, armed with highly accurate long rifles, scattered forward of the regular infantry and ran close to the ground. Their objective was to explore the enemy lines, scout for weaknesses and harass the enemy from range.

The regular infantry followed behind the skirmishers in strict, ordered lines, arranged by company. Dalton Croutcher set three of his divisions on the front line and had assigned the other two as reserves directly behind the flank divisions. Hadrian had been ordered to wait for the center division to pass a small grove of trees before he ordered his cavalry to attack. As he watched, the first company pushed through.

Hadrian raised his hand and put his spurs into his horse. The beast jumped and galloped forward, and thousands behind him did the same.

The division swept wide toward the enemy flank and Hadrian noted Tristan’s poor form as his troops started to break formation halfway to the enemy line. The first cannonballs began to fall and Hadrian inhaled as the explosions rocked the ground around him.

The sharp crackle of muskets firing in volley joined the ponderous booms of artillery and Hadrian saw the first infantry fall under enemy fire. A thick cloud of smoke was quickly forming over the battlefield and he tried to get a final bearing before the field was completely obscured. The enemy lines were holding under the bombardment from the western artillery and the volleys of musket fire, but the enemy flank had either not seen his advance or were ignoring the threat.

Hadrian looked to his left; Raedan had guided his regiments into a low defile that cut along the northern edge of the field in front of a thick forest of pines. The defile ended behind the enemy lines and would put Raedan in the perfect position to ride over the battery that anchored the left flank of the enemy artillery. Tristan Burkes had pushed his ragged command ahead of Hadrian and the first of his riders were firing on the loyalists.

The lesser lord was taking heavy fire from a nearby battery of loyalist artillery. Hadrian couldn’t see the rounds that the enemy was using, but the effect of the canister shot was obvious. The thin tin containers held thousands of smaller lead balls. When the cannon was fired, the canisters shattered and spewed the lead balls in a wide arc. A swath of riders fell as each cannon unleashed the hellish shot into their ranks.

The enemy line came up quickly. Hadrian fell back in with his men and brought his carbine up to his shoulder. He chose a target and looked down the barrel of his weapon. He lined up the sights and pulled back the hammer. The revolving chamber rolled into place with a heavy
click
and Hadrian squeezed the trigger.

The carbine jumped as fire spewed from its end; the man Hadrian had targeted fell clutching both hands to his chest. Again, Hadrian selected a target. This time a loyalist captain fell, a gaping wound in place of one eye. Again and again he fired until his seven rounds were spent.

The men around him were firing now too. Their carbines barked in a sharp, quick melody and a cloud of smoke drifted behind them as they advanced toward the enemy line.

They were close now and both sides found it easy to hit their targets. Horses drifted away from the charge, riderless, and the loyalist lines were pocked with holes, unfilled by dwindling reserves. Hadrian’s main force charged forward, the thunder of their horses’ hooves a deafening roar. Then, as one, the whole of Hadrian’s center force turned and swept along the front of the enemy line, less than one hundred yards in front of the loyalists.

Hadrian, at the center of his column, saw the edge of the enemy line ahead of him and saw that they had not wheeled to protect their flank. As he rode past the last of the enemy companies, he raised his pistol and turned back toward the enemy. The troops to his right wheeled with him; those to his left turned to face the ragged end of the loyalist line.

Hadrian raised his pistol to find a new target, but as he pulled back the revolver’s hammer, a bullet crashed through his horse’s neck, sending the beast tumbling and throwing him from his saddle. He landed hard and blinding pain raced through his shoulder and upper arm. Riders charged past, slashing at the infantry with sabres. Hadrian tried to pull his own sword loose of its scabbard, but the pain in his arm assaulted his brain with every movement.

A loyalist soldier charged toward him, a bayonet fixed on his musket. Hadrian drew the pistol from his right hip with his left hand, pulled back the hammer, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. He was not as proficient with his left hand, but he had practiced shooting with both hands for long enough that he could get the job done. Especially at this absurdly short range. The man fell forward, motionless, but the shot had attracted the attention of others. Four more times Hadrian pulled the hammer back on his pistol and unleashed a solid lead shot into an Ansgari soldier.

Huddling behind his horse’s corpse as best he could, he held the pistol in his lap. The sounds of battle surrounded him: shouted commands from officers, the thunder of hooves, and the crackle of gunfire.

Hadrian flipped open the chamber door at the back of his revolver. An empty brass cartridge fell to the ground; he replaced it. An empty chamber was next, followed by four more bullets. He brought the hammer down on the empty chamber and turned to look over his steed’s lifeless body. Pain arced through his shoulder as he leaned on his right side and he gasped in pain as he tried to push off of the ground.

The loyalists were standing their ground, but they were paying for it dearly. Their organization had been shattered and Hadrian’s riders were moving freely between platoons and companies, bringing their sabres down in vicious arcs that left men with gashes from shoulder to hip. But Hadrian’s troops were falling too. Their carbines and revolvers empty, the riders had only their swords. The loyalists were pouring fire into his troops as quickly as they could reload.

Hadrian brought his revolver up with his left hand and took aim at a nearby loyalist.

The loyalist stood less than forty feet away, frantically reloading his rifle while the riders wheeled away from him to form up and charge again. The man pulled back the hammer to full and brought the weapon to his shoulder.

Hadrian’s bullet slammed through the side of his head before he could squeeze the trigger.

Hadrian soon found himself in a cluster of western soldiers. Some had been thrown from dying horses, others had been dragged from their mounts by loyalist soldiers. Many were unharmed, but a few had blood stained jackets or trousers and had twisted bandages around their appendages.

They formed a small circle on the battlefield, protecting the wounded and moving slowly to absorb more stragglers. The crackle of carbine fire was constant and Hadrian’s head was starting to hurt.

“
Milord!” a voice shouted from behind. Hadrian turned to see one of his captains pulling a horse toward him.

“
Thank you,” Hadrian said. He holstered his revolver, grabbed the saddle’s pommel with his left hand and pulled himself up. A company of riders swarmed past the cluster of dismounted troops and took up the battle for them. “See that these men are taken care of.”

“
Yes, milord!” the captain said with a crisp salute.

Hadrian’s forces had ridden down two companies of loyalist forces before the enemy line began to turn to counter their flanking attack. Three companies of reserves were rushing forward to form a wall against the charge. They were well-armed and moved as a well-trained, cohesive unit. The element of surprise was gone; Hadrian needed to reorganize before another attack.

“
Sound recall,” Hadrian told the man next to him.

The soldier pulled the bugle over his shoulder, pressed it to his lips and sounded recall. The melody was echoed by others and the charging westerners reined up their horses and turned back over the ground they had just ridden. They followed Hadrian and his entourage of banner-men and officers to a safe distance; he gathered his troops on the far side of a small hill.

“
Tell your men to reload and gather ammunition as needed,” Hadrian said to his remaining officers.

He rode to the top of the small hill and brought his looking glass to his eye. Raedan’s flag was perched atop one of the hills that had been occupied by loyalist artillery. His troops had dismounted and were turning the field guns on the back side of the loyalist forces. Tristan’s forces had scattered. Some were riding back to camp, others were riding to join Hadrian, and the few that remained were riding to join the main Western infantry battle.

“
Signal man!” Hadrian yelled. A man rode to his side, two red flags and two white flags strapped to his saddle. “Request a rider from Raedan’s force. I want to know his disposition.”

“
Yes, milord,” the corporal said and pulled his flags from their strap.

“
How many have we lost?” Hadrian asked when he had rejoined his officers.

“
Six thousand riders,” Lord Alvin Mandrake reported. He wore White Ridge’s blue with white stripes. “Either dead or wounded.”

“
And our ammunition situation?”

“
Still good, my lord,” Lord Thomas Regent announced. He was one of Raedan’s lesser lords, raised up from a landed knight to take the place of a lord that had sided with the Frantans when Hadrian and Raedan had claimed Broken Plains. “Most riders have sixty or seventy bullets left.”

“
Good,” Hadrian said with a nod. “It appears that not all of the enemy commanders are incompetent. Those three companies that rushed from their reserve to block our charge looked as if they were well-trained. It appears that my brother has secured an artillery battery but I’m certain that the enemy will make it a point to retake that as soon as possible.”

“
Having field artillery on their back is probably not a comfortable feeling,” Lord Regent said with a rare smile.

“
I would imagine not,” Hadrian agreed. “We have a choice: we can ride to join Raedan and secure the artillery, and perhaps try to take another battery; or we can mount an attack on the new loyalist flank.”

“
Moving to join your brother’s force would open up our infantry’s flank,” Alvin pointed out.