Raj heaved himself upright. That had been close. For a moment there were no wogs in sight except the ones running away-and running away from a dog in a straight line was a losing proposition. Then they were out into the cleared zone just inside the wall. The main city gate-the one with the railway entrance-was just to his right; it was wreathed in smoke, but the Civil Government's banners were still flying above it, and the cannon mounted there were a constant rolling booom of thunder. Ahead of him a thin line of Civil Government troopers-the three companies of the 5th he'd left as the main reserve-were holding against a growing tide of wogs pouring down from their foothold on the wall. Just barely holding, and not for long; the Colonials had lost all unit cohesion coming over the wall, but they were forming up again like crystals accreting in a saturated solution, and more every minute.
The 5th's volleys rang out, crisp and unhurried, but as he watched, they were losing men like a sugar lump under a stream of hot tea.
Teodore Welf drew rein beside him as the 1/591st fanned out into line. "Dismount?" he asked.
Raj shook his head. "Not enough time. We've got to hit them before they get organized."
These MilGov knights liked cold steel, and this was the situation for it. The whole scene in front came in glimpses, flashing through gaps in the drifting clouds of sulfurous smoke. More every second, as cannon and rifle fire pumped it out. Bullets went by with an ugly crack sound. Five men down the line a trooper gave a grunt and toppled slowly out of the saddle.
A captain of the 5th dashed up, breathless. "Sir?"
"Get them out of the way, Fittorio, then re-form on my left and give me fire support. Welf, get those splatguns out to the right now we've got room for them. Move!"
The bugles sounded. The Descotters ahead gave one last volley and turned, moving back at the double. The ragged line of Colonials beyond them gave their yelping cheer and charged in turn, unaware of what awaited behind. Unaware until the bugle sang, and the dogs of the Brigaderos howled in unison. The screams of their riders were only slightly more human. There was just space enough to build up momentum, but plenty of room to deploy in the drill manual's double line. The cavalry came looming up out of the smoke, big men on big dogs, their swords bright. They crashed into the dismounted Colonials like a baulk of timber swinging at high speed; men went down, slashed and stabbed and bowled over by sheer momentum.
Now we see how well their training has sunk in, Raj thought. Aloud: "Halto! Dismount, fix bayonets, forward with fire and movement, independent fire!"
One or two of the troopers vanished into the throng ahead, eyes fixed and froth dripping from their mouths. The rest halted and stepped off their crouching dogs, sheathing swords and drawing their firearms-although some might not have, if the dogs hadn't stopped automatically. Click, and the long bayonets snapped onto the Armory rifles. The men walked forward in a steady line, not quite straight-more like a very shallow C-taking their dressing from the battalion standard and Raj's beside it. The front of their formation showed level for an instant, then vomited smoke. The sheet of fire smashed into the Colonials clustered at the base of the stairway.
The detachment of the 5th moved into place on the left flank, swinging in like a hinged door. The splatguns wheeled by at a trot and unlimbered, pushing into place to cover the gap between the end of the line on his right and the bare ground around the gate, swept by fire from the bastion towers.
Raj took a step forward. "Charge!" he shouted.
The troopers leveled their bayonets and ran in pounding unison; he ran along with them. The Colonials wavered, and then fled. The bayonet's a terror weapon, Raj knew. It didn't really kill all that many people, not in this age of breech-loaders, but there were times when it could make men run. Or try to run; the stairway that slanted down along the wall was too jammed with men for the ones on the ground to make much headway. Figures in crimson djellabas began to fall from the stairs in ones and twos, caught and squeezed out when the pressure from above and below forced the thick torrent of men to buckle sideways.
"Halto! Volley fire!"
The order relayed down the chain of officers. One rank knelt, the other firing over their heads. The rifles came up, aiming upward into the press. BAM. BAM. BAM. Rippling down the line, rounds whanging and keening off the stone, punching through three and four men at a time.
"Platoon column," Raj roared. "Welf, feed them up after us-you men, follow me!"
"To hell with that," the young MilGov noble said, and relayed the command. A column of forty troopers formed, with the banners only a few ranks from the front.
"Hadelande!"
"Upyarz!"
Many of the first Colonials went down with the bayonets in their backs. The troopers to the rear of the column fired over their comrades' heads, up the broad stairway. From the foot of it, six hundred men did likewise, and the splatguns with their muzzles raised to maximum elevation. Trapped, the Colonials on the stair turned to fight.
Raj found himself shoulder to shoulder with Teodore Welf; bayonets bristled on either side of them, and the banners waved behind. Up a step. Raj caught a scimitar on the guard of his saber, shot under it into his opponent's body. It tumbled down underfoot, and he nearly went over himself, with no room for his feet. An Armory rifle shot next to his ear, leaving it ringing. He threw himself back into swordsman's stance, right foot forward, and lunged again. Again. Welf was fighting with a long dagger in his right hand, using the heavy single-edged broadsword in his left like a ribbon saber; blond hair flew about his shoulders as he howled some Namerique war chant with every other breath. Fire swept the stairs ahead of them; Raj's hair crawled on the back of his neck at the thought of what would happen if somebody aimed a little low.
Or if these wogs had the time to reload. One did. Center's green aiming-grid slapped down across Raj's vision, outlining the figure in strobing light. He moved the red dot onto the center of mass and pulled the trigger, and the man spun away with the carbine flying out of his hands. Another target designated; he turned slightly, the pistol outstretched, squeezed the trigger. It was a hand bomb beginning its arc downward towards him, an impossible target. . impossible without Center. Left-handed, at that. The iron sphere exploded less than a meter from the thrower when the bullet struck it.
A lot of men had seen that, seen his arm like a pointer and the result. It was close enough to a miracle as no matter, to anyone with practical experience of firearms. Welf shouted:
"Spirit with us! Spirit of Man for Messer Raj!"
The Brigaderos behind him took it up; and some of the stubborn fight went out of the Colonials ahead. More and more were running back up, trying for the grappling lines and ladders over the walls. Raj chanced a look over his shoulder; more banners in the open ground beneath the walclass="underline" the 18th Komar, the 7th Descott. The stone was slippery underfoot, slippery with red rivulets running down from above. Fire from the ground was raking the firing platform above, deliberately built with little rear cover.
Not often you actually see that, see ground running with blood. The last time had been in Port Murchison, when Conner Auburn's fleet had sailed into his ambush.