“Start pulling men out of the redoubts,” he grated. Someone gasped, and he stabbed a finger at a map. “Form a new line here!” he snapped, jabbing a line across the map less than four thousand paces behind the earthworks.
“But, Sir—” someone else began.
“Do it!” Marhn snarled, and tried to pretend he didn’t know that even if he succeeded, it could stave off disaster for no more than a few more hours.
“They’re moving men from the trenches, Sean!” Sandy shouted over the com.
“Good—I think!” Even with Sandy’s reports and his own implant link to her sensors, Sean had only the vaguest notion what was happening. This was nothing like Yortown. It was an insane explosion of violence, skidding like a ground car on ice. His men were moving towards their objectives in what looked like a carefully controlled maneuver, but it was nothing of the sort. No one could control it; it was all up to his junior officers and their men, and he could hardly believe how well they were carrying out their mission.
Even in the madness and confusion, he felt a deep, vaulting pride in his army—his army!—as his outnumbered men cut through their enemies. He was losing people—hundreds of them, probably more—and he knew how sick and empty he’d feel when he counted the dead, but he had no time for that now. A desperate counterattack by the broken remnants of several Guard pike units had taken his HQ group by surprise and smashed deep into it before a reserve battalion could deal with it, and only Sean’s enhancement had kept him alive. His armor had turned two pikeheads, and his enhanced reactions had been enough to save his eye, but a dripping sword cut had opened his right cheek from chin to temple, and Tibold limped heavily from a gash in his left thigh.
Now he waved his battered aides to a halt, and the reserve battalion—whose commander had made himself Sean’s chief bodyguard without orders—fanned out in a wary perimeter.
“How much movement?” he asked Sandy in English, speaking aloud and ignoring the looks his men gave him.
“A lot, all up and down the center of his lines.”
“Tam?”
“I see it, Sean. We’re moving now.”
“Give ’em time to pull back! Don’t let them catch you in the open!”
“Suck eggs! You just keep pushing ’em hard.”
“Hard, the man says!” Sean rolled his eyes heavenward and turned to Tibold. “They’re pulling men out of the trenches to stop us, and Tamman and Ithun are moving up to hit them in the rear.”
“Then we have to push them even harder,” Tibold said decisively.
“If we can!” Sean shook his head, then grabbed an aide. “Find Captain Folmak. If he’s still alive, tell him to bear right. You!” he jabbed a finger at another messenger. “Find Fourth Brigade. It’s over that way, to the right. Tell Captain Herth to curl in to the left to meet Folmak. I want both of them to hammer straight for their reserve artillery park.”
The aides repeated their orders and ran off into the maelstrom, and Sean grimaced at Tibold.
“If this is a successful battle, God save me from an unsuccessful one!”
“Sir!” Marhn looked up as a gasping, mud-spattered messenger lurched into his command post. “High-Captain! The heretics are coming from the west, as well!” The messenger swayed, and Marhn realized the young officer was wounded. “Captain Rukhan needs more men. Can’t … can’t hold without them, Sir!”
Marhn stared at the young man for one terrible, endless moment. Then his shoulders slumped, and his watching staff saw hope run out of his eyes like water.
“Sound parley,” he said. Urthank stared at him, and Marhn snarled at him. “Sound parley, damn you!”
“But … but, Sir, the Circle! High Priest Vroxhan! We can’t—”
“We aren’t; I am!” Marhn spat. His hand bit into Urthank’s biceps like a claw. “We’ve lost, Urthank. That attack from the rear blew the guts out of us, and now they’ve broken our front as well. How many more of our men have to die for a position we can’t hold?”
“But if you surrender, the Circle will—” Urthank began in a quieter, more anxious voice, and Marhn shook his head again.
“I’ve served the Temple since I was a boy. If the Circle wants my life for saving the lives of my men, they can have it. Now, sound parley!”
“Yes, Sir.” Urthank looked into Marhn’s face for a moment, then turned away. “You heard the High-Captain! Sound parley!” he barked, and another officer fled to pass the order.
“Here, boy!” Marhn said gruffly, catching Rukhan’s wounded messenger as he began to collapse. He took the young man’s weight in his arms and eased him down into a camp chair, then looked back up at Urthank. “Call the healers and have this man seen to,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lieutenant Carl Bergren was grateful for his bio-enhancement. Without it, he’d have been sweating so hard the security pukes would have arrested him the moment he reported for duty tonight.
His adrenaline tried to spike again, but he pushed it back down and told himself (again) the risk was acceptable. If it all blew up on him, he could find himself facing charges for willful destruction of private property and end up dishonorably discharged with five or ten years in prison, which was hardly an attractive proposition. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if anyone were going to be hurt—in fact, he was going to have to separate any passengers from the freight—and it wasn’t every night a mere Battle Fleet lieutenant earned eight million credits. That payoff was sufficient compensation for any risks which might come his way. He told himself that firmly enough to manage a natural smile as he walked into the control room and nodded to Lieutenant Deng.
“You’re early tonight, Carl.” Deng had learned his English before he was enhanced, and its stubbornly persistent British accent always seemed odd to Bergren coming from a Chinese.
“Only a couple of minutes,” he replied. “Commander Jackson’s on Birhat, and I stole her parking spot.”
“A court-martial offense if ever I heard one.” Deng chuckled, and rose to stretch. “Very well, Leftenant, your throne awaits.”
“Some throne!” Bergren snorted. He dropped into the control chair and flipped his feed into the computers, scanning the evening’s traffic. “Not much business tonight.”
“Not yet, but there’s something special coming through from Narhan.”
“Special? Special how?” Bergren’s tone was a bit too casual, but Deng failed to notice.
“Some sort of high-priority freight for the Palace.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what, but the mass readings are quite high, so you might want to watch the gamma bank capacitors. We’re getting a drop at peak loads, and Maintenance hasn’t found the problem yet.”
“No?” Bergren checked the files in case Deng was watching, but he already knew all about the power fluctuation. He didn’t know how it had been arranged, but he knew why, and he damped another adrenaline surge at the thought. “You’re right,” he observed aloud. “Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“Good.” Deng gathered up his personal gear and cocked his head. “Everything else green?”
“Looks that way,” Bergren agreed. “You’re relieved.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow!”
Deng wandered out, and Bergren leaned back in his chair. He was alone now, and he allowed a small smile to hover on his lips. He had no idea who his mysterious patron was, nor had he cared … until tonight. Whoever it was paid well enough to support his taste for fast flyers and faster women, and that had been enough for him. But the services he’d performed so far had all been small potatoes beside tonight, and his smile became a thoughtful frown.