“Sneaky bastards,” Catheline commented as they stood together on the town walls watching the fires rage in the dockside. There wasn’t much heat to her words, just sour observation. “It appears everything I heard about Varestians was true.”
“Casualties could have been worse,” Sirus said, turning away to scan the country to the south. “I’m more concerned by the lack of serious opposition. They must surely have organised a defence by now. But the Reds report nothing to the south for another hundred miles.” He switched his gaze to the sea, eyes tracking along the empty horizon. “The lack of sea-borne attacks is also odd. For such renowned seafarers the Varestians seemed strangely reluctant to risk their ships, especially given the absence of the Blues.”
“Conserving their strength,” Catheline concluded. “Intending to meet us in one great battle. How pleasingly dramatic.”
“Morradin said it would be a bloody day when our forces met theirs.”
Catheline moved closer, pressing a kiss to his scaled cheek, whispering, “The bloodier the better, dearest General. He hungers for it, you see. We now serve a vengeful god.”
Three days’ march brought them into sight of a stretch of black sand that extended from the shore-line to the fast-flowing river four miles to the west. Beyond the river the steep and equally black slopes of a mountain ensured there was no easy route around this barrier. Sirus was therefore unsurprised when the Reds flew over and discovered the enemy present in impressive strength on the southern fringe of the Sands.
“I once had a lover,” Catheline said as she and Sirus strolled along the edge of the Sands, “an artist, who contended that all nature was beautiful. If he had seen this place I suspect he might have formed a different opinion.”
Sirus crouched to scoop up a handful of black grains, finding it rich in the small gleaming stones that gave this place its name. Unlike Catheline he found the way the Sands contrasted so starkly with the landscape fascinating. “Mount Alkus,” he said, nodding at the peak to the west. “An occasionally active volcano. Every hundred years or so it coughs up a good deal of lava and ash, the Jet Sands are the result.” He rose, letting the sand fall from his hand as he surveyed the undulating ground ahead. The dunes were over ten feet tall in places, robbing an attacker of a forward view whilst providing a defender an easy target when they came to the top. Plus, the looseness of the footing ensured any infantry attack would be a highly sluggish affair.
“Whoever Miss Lethridge has commanding her forces clearly knows their business,” Sirus said. “They couldn’t have chosen better ground for a defensive engagement.”
“Another trap then?” Catheline asked.
“Very much so.” He shared the image of the enemy line the Reds had captured earlier. They had been forced to fly high due to the storm of fire from the repeating guns, one falling victim to the barrage before it could gain sufficient height. The image showed at most six battalions of infantry and several batteries of cannon at the eastern end of the Sands whilst more could be seen marching up from the south. The enemy line grew thicker the farther west it went, bristling with cannon and repeating guns.
“A decent-sized force,” Catheline commented. “But they’re not yet fully in position.”
“It’s a ruse,” Sirus said, shaking his head. “They want us to attack close to the shore. As soon as we do I expect their ships will suddenly appear on the horizon whilst their airships assail us from above.”
“Then avoid it. Attack elsewhere.”
“On this ground, any point we attack will result in considerable losses.”
“Really?” He felt a murmur of scorn from her, and detected a tinge of acid to her tone when she asked, “What would Morradin have done?”
“He was a commander who never shied from the butcher’s bill, to be sure. And I suspect he would have been of the opinion that once you spring a trap, it can’t be sprung again.”
“You’re suggesting we simply do what the enemy expects?” Catheline gave a derisive laugh. “Even one with my meagre military knowledge knows that to be a mistake.”
“I do indeed suggest we do just that,” Sirus replied, stepping forward to press his boot into the sand. It sank into the soft surface to a depth of three inches. Bad ground for a human, he concluded. But not a drake. “Then,” he went on, turning to her with a smile, “I suggest we do something else entirely. I believe it’s time our army had a cavalry arm.”
He waited for dusk before launching the assault, reasoning that the enemy would surely have suspected something if he had attacked in full daylight. The lead battalions advanced across the dunes in a slow steady march behind a screen of skirmishers, kept in step by their mental connection, which allowed for two continuous unbroken lines of nearly a half mile in length. There were over forty thousand Spoiled in the first wave, with more lined up behind in a densely packed, well-ordered mass. As the advance progressed Sirus sent his cannon forward, teams of Spoiled man-handling the guns over the dunes to form a large single battery on the right flank. In accordance with their orders they began to fire on the enemy line immediately, concentrating their shells on the supposedly thinly held section of the opposing line close to the shore. They were firing at the limit of the guns’ range and their accuracy was therefore poor, but Sirus hoped this would at least convince the enemy commander of his intent.
Above the dunes the Reds patrolled in a dense swarm, Sirus deliberately holding them back as insurance against the appearance of the airships. Although few in number, the fire-power of these novel contraptions had been amply demonstrated at the Grand Cut. The Greens, having the most crucial role to play, he kept well to rear, awaiting the critical moment.
As expected, a line of Varestian ships appeared on the horizon as the Spoiled advance reached the halfway point to their objective. The enemy fleet approached in two divisions, steaming towards the coast at high speed then performing a sharp turn either north or south to present their broadsides to the shore. Sirus was surprised to see a number of Corvantine Imperial frigates amongst them, displaying an impressive accuracy and rapidity of fire as they unleashed their guns at the advancing Spoiled. Added to this was the fire of the enemy cannon arrayed along the southern side of the Sands. Wisely ignoring Sirus’s grand battery, they concentrated their fire on the infantry assault to devastating effect.
All along the ranks of Spoiled black sand blossomed in huge gouts as the shells struck home, Sirus feeling at least four of his soldiers die with every blast. But still the two lines advanced, shrinking in the process as the Spoiled reordered themselves to fill the gaps in their ranks. The enemy’s repeating guns began firing shortly after. Via the eyes of a Red, Sirus saw the human infantry casting aside earth-covered tarpaulins to spring up from previously unseen trenches, quickly manoeuvring the multibarrelled weapons into position. Their fire was rapid and accurate. The mass of bullets and cannon shells cut through the first rank of Spoiled like a huge invisible scythe. In response to Sirus’s mental command, the survivors, barely two thousand strong, commenced a charge towards the enemy line. They sprinted the remaining distance to their objective with all the speed their remade bodies would permit, falling by the dozen with every few yards covered. Only about a hundred reached the enemy trenches, all of whom were swiftly cut or shot down in the brief close-quarters fight that followed. Sirus ordered the second line to charge shortly after, with similar results, then noted with satisfaction that the light was fading fast.