Ibana raised her looking glass to her eye for a moment, then stowed it in her packs with a curse. “They’re as surprised as we are. God damn it, we must have taken out each other’s scouts.”
It didn’t take a genius to realize why they were here. The Dynize cavalry were going to attempt the same thing as the lancers – flank the enemy. But instead of a handful of ill-equipped riders on fourth-rate horses, these were Dynize cuirassiers, and there appeared to be almost two thousand of them.
“Orders, sir?” Ibana asked. “We’re outnumbered and have no element of surprise. All things being equal, they’ve got us.”
Styke rocked back and forth in his stirrups. Beneath him, Amrec began to stomp, pawing at the ground in anticipation. Styke had to think quickly. They could outrun the weaker Dynisian horses. But a retreat would only give the Dynize extra ground and the time to assess Styke’s forces. Best-case scenario: Draw them all the way back to the Riflejack infantry and set up some sort of ambush. But Flint could not afford the men to deal with Dynize cavalry. He needed to handle this on his own.
“Orders!” Ibana snapped.
“Send a runner to Flint. Tell her we’ve met a superior force.”
“And?”
“And we have engaged. Split the column. Arrow formation. Lancers will tip, Riflejack cuirassiers just behind. Send our dragoons in two columns to harass their flanks but do not let them engage hand-to-hand.” Styke was beginning to wish he hadn’t sent Gustar and those hundred and fifty extra horses across the river.
“You want us to split into three groups against a superior force? Are you mad?”
“Do you really need to ask? Now give the orders, Major Fles, or I’ll do it myself.”
Ibana fumed for a few moments. “No withdrawal?”
“No.” Styke loosened his carbine and urged Amrec forward. “We hit them now, and we hit them hard, before they can tighten their formation.” He glanced over his shoulder, to where Jackal rode with the Mad Lancer banner fluttering over him. “With me!” he bellowed.
The orders spread quickly, and the whole group sprang forward, rushing toward the startlingly close Dynize. Styke prodded Amrec faster and faster. Within moments he could see the confused expressions on the enemy’s faces, no doubt wondering why they were being charged by a smaller force.
He knew that confusion, and he knew the doubt that it would sow. Are we about to be flanked? the enemy would wonder. Is a large force about to hit us from just over that ridge? Where are our scout reports?
Styke had no interest in giving them the chance to recover. He breathed deeply, searching with his senses, and could not smell any sorcery on the wind. Good.
At forty yards he fired his carbine, then shoved it into its holster. Powder smoke streamed behind his whole arrow-shaped company, and then hundreds of white lances lowered toward the enemy. A scattering of pistol shots responded from the confused enemy vanguard, before they drew their sabers and attempted to meet the charge.
The concussion of the two lines meeting was audible, and Styke was soon enveloped in the enemy force. The clash of steel surrounded him, powder smoke filling his nostrils. Not even cuirassiers could break a Mad Lancer charge, and their momentum carried them into the heart of the Dynize force before Styke could sense their speed ebbing. He shouted, urging them on, when he felt the jolt of his lance catching something more than flesh.
The tip snagged on the groove of a Dynize breastplate without punching through. The Dynize cavalryman jerked from his saddle, but his reins were wrapped around his wrist and his horse continued to gallop past Styke, pulling its rider – and the tip of Styke’s lance – along with it.
Styke felt the movement, but his twingy hand did not respond quickly enough to drop the lance. He was ripped from the saddle, spinning, and could do nothing but brace himself as the earth rushed up toward him.
Chapter 3
“Why wasn’t this given to me immediately?” Vlora demanded.
She stood in the trampled grass of the river valley, her jacket soaked with sweat from an afternoon of riding back and forth across the valley, making sure her defensive line was properly prepared. It was almost six in the evening. Behind her, roughly two thousand men waited behind a narrow strip of raised earth they’d spent the entire afternoon constructing. They crouched against the muddy earthwork anticipating her orders.
A messenger stood in front of Vlora. He wore a black jacket with a yellow scarf, indicating that he was one of the Blackhats the Mad Lancers had recruited into their fold. She could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Are you going to answer me, soldier?” Vlora asked in a low tone.
The Blackhat opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Behind him, Olem stood with one hand on his pistol, his face grim, head turned to examine the southern horizon.
Vlora held a message between her fingers. All it said, in a hasty scrawl, was, Superior force encountered. Engaging. It was stamped with a skull and lance, and said the date and time. Nearly five hours ago. Vlora’s hand began to tremble with anger. “If you gasp at me like a fish one more time I will throw you in that goddamn river with a cannonball chained to your ankle.”
“General,” Olem said quietly.
“I – I – I –” the messenger stuttered.
“You what? Took a message of utmost importance from a colonel in my army and rushed it back to camp? You were in such a state that you thought you’d have a drink to calm your nerves before you brought this to me? And then you had some more to drink, with a bloody urgent military correspondence in your pocket?”
The messenger gave a shaky nod.
Vlora drew a powder charge from her pocket and cut the paper with her thumb. She held it up to one nostril, snorting once, then followed suit with the other. Her rage became distant, more controlled, like the sound of a river far away, and after a few deep breaths she decided she would not kill a man in front of her infantry. Sights and sounds became sharper. The world made more sense.
“General,” Olem repeated in a gentle but firm tone.
“I’m fine,” she said evenly. “Tell me,” she asked the messenger, “do you know what you’ve done?”
Another shaky nod.
“Do you really? Do you know the scope of this?”
“I … I think so.” Sweat poured down the man’s face and neck.
She leaned forward until their faces were almost touching. “I don’t kill men for incompetence, even when I want to. Even when they deserve it. Even when they may have just lost us a forthcoming battle. When the enemy comes, I expect you to be on the front line fighting like a man possessed. Now get out of my sight.”
The messenger turned and fled.
Vlora took a few moments to calm down, her mind racing as she attempted to adjust all her stratagems. “We spent all afternoon preparing for enemy infantry. Now we find out that they have proper cavalry as well.”
“That seems to be the gist of things,” Olem agreed.
“Have we had any messages from Styke since?”
“None.”
“Shit,” Vlora breathed. “He may be dead. Captured. For all we know, we’ll have five thousand enemy horses on our flank in an hour.” She closed her eyes. “He could have damn well said how superior their force was.”
“I can’t imagine it was much bigger, if he engaged,” Olem said hopefully.