Andruw cantered over and doffed his helm. “What’s our job in all this, Corfe?” he asked. “To make notes?” He had to shout to be heard over the titanic din of battle.
“Hold your water, Andruw. This thing is only just begun.”
Andruw joined his general in staring out at the left of the battlefield, to the west of the Merduk camp. Men were streaming away there, fleeing enemy trying to escape the murderous hell within the tent lines, tercios of Torunnans firing at their backs as they ran. But beyond them there was only a huge stretch of empty hill and moorland, completely deserted.
“You think they’ll hit the left?” Andruw asked.
“Wouldn’t you? We’re killing conscripts at the moment. The professionals have yet to arrive. Aras will hold on the right I think, what with Rusio’s guns and the terrain. But the left is another thing entirely. We have nothing there, Andruw, nothing. If the Sultan makes even a cursory reconnaissance, he’ll realize that and he’ll come roaring down on us there.”
“And then?”
“And then—well, we’ll have a fight on our hands.”
“That’s why you’ve kept us so far back. You think we’ll have to move up to support the left.”
“I hope not, but it’s as well to be prepared.”
“Aye. At any rate, the King is doing his job. Another hour and he’ll have wiped half the Merduk army off the map.”
“Getting into the fight is one thing, getting out is something else.”
“Do I detect a note of envy, Corfe?” Andruw grinned.
“It’s a glorious charge, but I wish he’d stop and take stock for a minute. The army is hopelessly disorganized in there. It’ll take hours to reform them and withdraw.” Corfe smiled. “All right, maybe I envy him his glory a little.”
“Give him his due, he took them in there like a veteran. I’d best get back to my wing. Cheer up, Corfe! We’re making history, after all.” And he galloped off.
Corfe sat his restive horse another half an hour. The fighting in the Minhraib camp went on unabated, though it had spilled out on to the plain beyond the tents. He could see Torunnan arquebusiers and cuirassiers fighting intermingled, banners flashing bright through the smoke. Beyond the camp a great cloud of men took shape as the Minhraib abandoned the tent lines and strove to reform in the open ground to the north-west. Twenty, thirty thousand of them dressing their ranks unmolested whilst the Torunnans were embroiled in the terrible struggle within the camp. The enemy had taken huge losses, but he had the numbers to sustain them and he was bringing some order out of chaos at last. It was time to get out. The Merduk reinforcements would be on the march by now.
A courier emerged from the cauldron, beating his half-dead horse up the slope towards Corfe’s line. Corfe cantered out to meet him. The man was a cuirassier. His mount was slashed in half a dozen places and his armour was a pitted mass of dents and scrapes. He saluted.
“Beg pardon, sir—” He fought for breath. “But the King, the King—”
“Take your time, trooper,” Corfe said gently. “Cerne! Give this man some water.”
His trumpeter handed the man his waterskin and the courier squirted half a pint into his smoke-parched mouth. He wiped his lips.
“Sir, the King wants your men in the camp right away. The enemy is fleeing before him but his own men are exhausted. He wants you to take up the pursuit. You must bring the entire reserve into the enemy camp and finish the buggers off—begging your pardon, sir.”
Corfe blinked. “The King, you say?”
“Yes, sir, at once, sir. He says we’ll bag the whole lot if only you make haste.”
Just then a heavy fusillade of gun and artillery fire broke out on the right. Aras’s men had opened up on an unseen enemy below them. Corfe called for Andruw.
“Have a courier sent to Aras. I want to know the strengths and dispositions of the enemy he’s firing at, and his best estimate as to how long he can hold them. And Andruw, tell Marsch to take a squadron out on the left a mile or two. I want advance warning if they start coming in on us from there.” Andruw saluted and sped off towards the ranks. Corfe fished out his pencil and grubby paper again and used the thigh-guard of his armour as a desk.
“What’s your name, soldier?” he asked the battered courier.
“Holman, sir.”
“Well, Holman, take a look at the land beyond the Merduk camp, to the north. What do you see?”
“Why, General, it’s an army, another Merduk army forming. Looks like it’s going to attack our lads in the tents!”
“It’s not another army, it’s the one you’ve been fighting, but so far you’ve only tackled the half of it. The other half has withdrawn and has been reorganizing for the better part of an hour. Soon, it’ll be ready to charge back into its camp and retake it. And now Merduk reinforcements have arrived on the right, also. You must tell the King that his position is untenable. I cannot reinforce him—he must withdraw at once. And I want you to take this to General Menin first, Holman. It’s absolutely vital this message gets through. The army must withdraw, or it will be destroyed. Do you understand me, soldier?”
Holman was wide-eyed. “Yes, General.”
“My command will cover the retreat for as long as we can, but the main body has to fall back at once.”
“Yes, sir.” Holman was eager and appalled. Down in the hellish mêlée of the Merduk camp no one had noticed the Merduk thousands beyond preparing for a counter-attack. Corfe did not envy the young man his errand. The King would explode, but Menin would probably see sense.
Holman thundered off, his tired mount rolling like a ship on a heavy swell. At the same time Marsch and his squadron set off north-westwards to keep an eye on the left flank. Corfe slammed one gauntleted fist into another. To sit here, doing nothing, galled him beyond measure. He half wished he were a junior officer again, doing as he was told, in the thick of it.
The courier from Aras, a tribesman whose mount was blowing foam, stamping and snorting. He handed his general a scrap of paper, saluted awkwardly and rejoined the ranks.
6–8000 to my front, all cavalry—the Ferinai I believe. A body of infantry visible several miles behind. Artillery keeping them at a distance for now. They are massing for general assault. Can hold another hour or two, not more. Aras.
“Lord God,” Corfe said softly. The Merduk khedive had been quick off the mark.
He kicked his mount into motion and cantered along the battle-line until he reached the Fimbrians. His men cheered as he passed and he waved a hand absently at them, his mind turning furiously.
“Formio? Where are you?”
“Here, General.” The slim Fimbrian officer stepped out from the midst of his men. Like them, he bore a pike. Only the sash about his middle differentiated him from a private soldier.
“Take your men out to the hills in the east and reinforce Colonel Aras. He’s up against heavy cavalry—your pikes will keep them at bay. You have to buy us time, Formio. You must hold that position until you hear otherwise from me. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, General.”
“Good luck.”
A series of shouted commands, a bugle call, and the Fimbrians moved into march column and then stepped off as smoothly as a great machine, every component perfect. Corfe hated splitting his command, but Aras would not be able to hold for long enough by himself. He felt like a man trying frantically to repair a leak in a dyke, but every time he plugged a hole in one place, the water erupted out of another.
Andruw joined him again. “I have a feeling there’s hot work approaching,” he said, almost merry. Action always did that to him.