Gunpowder God (53 page)

As the enemy horse drew closer, he could make out the banner of Prince Phrynoss of Arbelon, a red butterfly on a yellow field. He was surrounded by bodyguards and trusted men-at-arms leading some three thousand cavalry.

They were now close enough that it was time to couch his lance and prepare to strike. Mnestros’ charger, Black Heart, was beginning to go from a canter to a gallop as they approached the enemy line. Soon he was galloping and Mnestros screamed, “Down Styphon!,” as his lance struck one of Prince Phrynoss’ bodyguards in the helm, breaking his neck and knocking him off his horse.

Before he could lower his lance, one of the Prince’s guards was attacking with his mace. Mnestros pulled out one of his saddle guns and shot him point-blank in the chest. A red flower blossomed on his breastplate and the bodyguard toppled from his saddle. Black Heart rose up and came down with both hooves on the prone body, stilling any last shudders.

Meanwhile, the Prince’s banner bearer was attempting to use his banner as a lance; Mnestros deflected it with his sword, pulled out another pistol and shot him right through the visor.

Men-at-arms from both armies were swirling around him and he had to remove his helm to see what was going on. Prince Phrynoss’ bodyguards were either dead or had fallen away from their prince. He gave his lance a quick once-over to see that it hadn’t splintered or had any fractures, then squeezed his knees to jump-start Black Heart as he couched his lance aiming straight at the Prince’s gold-inlaid breastplate.

“Go, boy!” Mnestros cried out to his charger.

The force of impact wasn’t nearly as great as when he was in full charge, but it was enough to unseat the Prince, who was still wearing his helm with his visor down. It appeared that Phrynoss never saw Mnestros’ charge until the last moment, and was not seated firmly on his warhorse. The lance stuck dead center, catapulting him off his horse and onto the ground where his landing was cushioned by a dead horse.

Mnestros jumped off his charger, slamming into the ground. As soon as he regained his balance, he pulled out his sword and made his way toward the fallen prince. Prince Phrynoss, obviously aware that he was in real trouble, was trying to get to his feet while drawing his sword. Unfortunately, his left greave was bent halfway down to his sabaton, the plate which covered his foot, from where he’d fallen on it. Phrynoss appeared to have a broken leg as well, so pathetic was his attempt to regain his footing.

However, it did give Mnestros a respite and time to cool his blood. He lifted his sword over Phrynoss’ helm and, instead of splitting it in two, demanded, “Do I have your surrender, Prince Phrynoss?”

The Prince’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes. By Galzar, by my word and upon my honor.”

The Duke motioned over one of his men-at-arms and, pointing to the half-standing Prince, said, “Take him to the rear. He’s my prisoner.”

The Prince removed his visor, saying, “And who, may I ask, have I given my oath to?”

The younger man smiled, making a half bow. “Duke Mnestros of Eubros.”

The Prince appeared relieved. “At least, it wasn’t some lowborn varlet!”

Mnestros shook his head, thinking:
I should have bashed in his head when I had the chance. But now that I’ve accepted his oath, he’s my responsibility
.

Petty-Captain Syllon of the Second Royal Regiment of Nos-Hostigos was in the front rank of the Hostigi pikemen as they made their way down the gentle grade of the hill. There were about a hundred Hostigi skirmishers with calivers and arquebuses fighting with an almost equal amount of Union skirmishers. The two groups of hand-gunners, or what Kalvan called the
forlorn hope
, took shots at each other but hits were rare since the smoothbores were only dependable in mass volleys. A few of the advancing Red Hand went down when one of the calivermen got a chance to fire at them instead of an opposing handgunner. Unfortunately, Kalvan had not sent any of his riflemen along with them.

As they drew within fifty paces of the enemy, the forlorn hope quickly melted back into the lines.

He yelled out, “Against the port, let your pike fall!”

Other voices rank out and thousands of pikes fell to a holding position.

“Charge!” he cried, which was echoed by other petty-captains.

The downhill slope gave them added speed and the enemy line, made up of Red Hand with their glaives at port, seemed to spring right up out of the ground. When they were within thirty paces, he ordered, “Against the enemy, let your pike fall.”

Within moments there was a porcupine wall of pikes aiming straight at the Temple front ranks. They struck the line like twenty runaway wagons. The Styphoni line wavered, then collapsed.

Syllon felt his own pikehead bury itself in the thigh of a Guardsman, while one of the Hostigi skirmishers—now armed with big wooden hammers and mallets—ran between the files and hit a Guardsman over the head with his heavy metal mallet, then moved on to the next fallen enemy. Syllon jerked his pikehead free, then looked for another man to skewer.

There were downed Guardsmen for the next thirty paces, then he noticed the Styphoni line was reforming. He pushed his pike into one man’s face, which exploded like an overripe fruit, then gave the order to reform.

“Take that, you baseborn churl!” Prince Simias shouted as his lance struck an enemy man-at-arms in the breastplate. His lance bowed, then the man was shoved off his horse like a sack of stones onto the ground, whereupon he was quickly trampled by passing warhorses. About a score of lancers had pressed themselves around his banner and so far they were slicing through the League’s men-at-arms like a knife through a wheel of cheese.

He couldn’t understand why Captain-General Eukides refused to fight in the van, instead staying behind the lines. In the midst of a melee it was almost impossible to send or receive orders and the only honorable thing was to lead by example, firing up the lesser-born with the courage of their betters. The Duke was renowned throughout the Great Kingdoms as a military leader and was honored with the title, the Great Captain-General. Well, from his viewpoint, the
Great Captain-General
was no longer so great.
Perhaps it’s age
, he pondered.
It does come like a wraith at the end of one’s years to steal all strength and vigor
.

He winced as a bullet
spraaanged off
his steel vambrace.
Praise Galzar, for good steel!

Simias’ lance shattered when it struck the armored champron of a big warhorse, and he tossed the handgrip at the horse’s face, causing it to shy away. One of his bodyguards, Baron Ravlon, rushed forward to finish the rider off with his mace.

Up ahead he saw Prince Clytos of Glarth’s banner, three gold keys inside an azure circle on an orange field. He knew Clytos had to be close by and fought his way toward his banner bearer where he spotted the Prince, identifiable by the gold circlet around the top of his armet, fighting another man-at-arms.

Simias pushed his way toward Prince Clytos through the tangle of horses and fighting men. He used his sword to dispatch one of Clytos’ bodyguards with a two-handed slam to the helm. The metal gave way and a spray of blood shot out of the visor. Simias pushed past the dead bodyguard’s horse, pulled out his pistol and shot the Prince right below the breastplate at arm’s length. Unfortunately, the bullet didn’t penetrate the plackard, which ran below the breastplate, and he shook off the blow.

Almost immediately, Prince Clytos struck back and his sword slashed into Simias’ gorget, giving him a terrible neck-ache.

“Dralm damn-it!” he shouted. “Die, you miserable snot-drizzler!”

By now the two princes were shoved together so tightly by the press of bodies, that Clytos was trying to rip Simias’ helm off his head, while Simias was both pushing him away with his weakened left arm as well as simultaneously battering his helm with the butt of his pistol. While the two princes were locked together in mortal combat, it was as if they were in the eye of a storm as the battle continued to eddy around them.

Clytos managed to partially dislodge his helm, smashing Simias in the mouth with his gauntleted fist, fracturing his jaw and knocking out most of his upper teeth. With a mighty lunge, Simias managed to shove the Prince off his saddle but lost his balance in the process and toppled over on top of him. Clytos was bucking like a yearling, when Simias managed to wrest his dagger out of its sheath and push the blade through the Prince’s visor and smash it home several times.

Clytos convulsed for a few moments, then lay still. Simias spat blood and broken teeth on the Prince’s body, then slowly started to stand up when a horse hoof struck the back of his helm and the world went black.

F
rom his vantage point on the hill, Captain-General Eukides could see that the battle was not going well. The tide hadn’t turned completely, but his army was in trouble. The left wing’s charge had been stalled by the League’s countercharge and it was hard to tell from here who was getting the better of whom. Most of these princes and their nobles only knew one way to fight—forward. Nor was there any place on the ridge top to maneuver so he’d just have to stop worrying and pray to Galzar that the Union cavalry would hold and that the League’s cavalry would soon fold before both sides collapsed from exhaustion.

Meanwhile, it appeared as if the Hostigi center was giving the Temple Bands more trouble than they could handle. The pikes were slowly pushing them downhill. He wished he could send in the two Bands that formed the reserve, but Marshal Albides refused to budge on that matter. Not that Eukides could blame him; he’d rather go up unarmed against a Sastragathi berserker than face Archpriest Roxthar in full dudgeon.

The only cause for hope was the right wing, where the cavalry, under Prince Varion, were pushing the League’s horse up and over the ridge. If they could rout the enemy, they would be in position to strike the center a death blow.
By Galzar, we can win this battle, yet!

Prince Varion watched with concern as Prince Simias threw himself and his bodyguards straight into the maw of the League’s left flank. Before he had time to react, Varion was in the thick of battle using his sword to hack at the enemy swirling around him and lost track of Simias. He had fired his musketoon, all of his pistols, saddle and boot, and hadn’t had a moment of peace to reload. The enemy cavalry appeared to be in the same position.

Some of the League’s rear must have lit out because suddenly the cavalry in front of him were pulling back or turning around. The Prince raised his arm to halt the advance, then shook his arms to get the blood flowing again. He took another moment to prime and reload his musketoon. The men around him were busy doing the same thing, loading their horse pistols and readying themselves for a charge.

One of the captains, wearing Simias’ colors, rode up, pushing his way through the press of bodyguards that surrounded the Prince. “Your Highness, Prince Simias is lost! He rode ahead of us and now we can’t find him or his body.”

Varion, who’d actually been surprised by Simias’ martial skills, said, “Maybe he’s only wounded, or taken hostage. The enemy might be holding him for ransom.”

“I hope so,” the Captain said. “I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell the Princess that her beloved husband is dead.”

Varion nodded and was about to reply, when he noticed that the Captain was holding a pistol aimed at his head. “What?”

“Say your prayers, you secret Dralm worshipper!”

The last thing he heard was the pistol’s report.

Syllon’s limbs felt as though they were made of lead, he was so tired and worn-out. His hands were slippery from burst blisters and he found it difficult to hold his pike straight, much less shove it into an enemy’s vitals.
These damn Styphoni are blasted hard to kill because they all wear good armor
.

The saving grace was that so did the Hostigi pikemen; many of them wore full suits of armor like men-at-arms, scavenged from the battlefield leavings of half a dozen victorious battles. Even the poorest wore at least a back-and-breast over their gambeson, the rest wore taces, vambraces, bevors, greaves or at least a mail aventail. There were no recruits among them since the Hostigi were all veterans and volunteers, as steady a brace of soldiers as existed in the Five Kingdoms. They would die to a man before breaking nor would they spend themselves cheaply.

Their initial charge had taken them deep into the Styphoni center, but now that the guardsmen had recovered from the shock of impact and reformed, they were pressing the Hostigi center badly. The pike-men were slowly being driven back uphill by the guardsmen’s glaives, which were hard to fend off with just a pike. Syllon’s fear was that if the Red Hand killed and wounded enough of the front ranks of Hostigi pikemen, the Styphoni would run through the untested rear ranks of Agrysi pikemen like a skewer through a piglet.

He shoved his pikehead against a guardsman’s back-and-breast, only to have it slip off and almost cause him to lose his footing.
The point’s shot to Regwarn! There’s only so much punishment good steel can take
.

The Temple Guardsman used that opportunity to advance and bring his glaive blade down on the pikeman next to him, cutting through his leather gorget and almost beheading him. Syllon dropped his pike and pulled out his sword, shoving it straight into the Guardsman’s face. He was rewarded when the point slipped off the cheekbone and went straight through the eye socket, not stopping until it hit the back of his skull. Wrenching his blade back, he attacked another Guardsman who came at him with his glaive.

Fortunately, Syllon lost his footing on some entrails and the glaive blade passed right by his head, clanging off the side of his sallet, which he’d taken off a dead nobleman at the battle of Fyk. While he was getting back on his feet, Gatnor moved forward with his pike to cover him, forcing the Temple Guardsman to move back with sharp jabs aimed at the Guardsman’s face.