Sturm Strike (Musket Men Book 10), page 10
He just didn’t know.
He also didn’t know when he was going to face real resistance from High Sheik Rami.
He hoped that if his cavalry ran into serious trouble that Caldor and Brother Vicente of the Granite Knights would have the good sense to retreat back north toward the rest of the army.
But with Caldor, he really couldn’t be certain. He’d been the first man into Hekt after all.
As for Brother Vicente? He really didn’t know Lima’s man well enough either.
He hoped the two of them had not gotten into trouble.
Chapter Seventeen: More Cavalry
Shamal Intimad, Ahl-Alnaar Ashomal
The Flower Moon, Day 25, Year 1197
“Fire!”
Caldor noticed the black smoke billowing out of the muzzles of his line of muskets without really registering its existence. All of his attention was on the tightening circle of enemy cavalrymen who responded to his fire with another flight of arrows. The arrows never really stopped falling. There were at least seven hundred of the new comers and while he and his men were steadily whittling down their numbers, they were doing the same to him. He had fewer than two hundred men still able to fight and only about thirty hadn’t suffered some sort of wound yet. He, himself, had a cut on his cheek from an arrow which had almost blinded him—assuming he could have survived an arrow plunging into his eye.
The bigger problem was ammunition. All of the fighting over the last three days had greatly diminished his store of powder and musket balls and he didn’t know what they were going to do when they ran out.
Brother Vicente of the Granite Knights pulled back on the reins of his horse when the crackle of thunder sounded again. Vicente was southern by birth although he had absolutely no recollection of his parents or of any of his earliest life. He had either been born into slavery or captured and enslaved in his earliest days. When he was six years old, he’d been bought by the Granite Knights and brought north to Al-Andalus and the knights’ stronghold at Torre de Forca. There he had been cleansed of his past and initiated into the rites of Wotan.
Life in the Granite Knights was never easy. In addition to the rigorous physical training that all knights and men-at-arms endured, Vincente had been brought into the order at the same time that the High Kingdom of Kriegsturm had abandoned the Rule and the Law of Wotan and lost its way. Bloody Hadrada had forfeit all the lands south of Al-Andalus and then the crippled high king, Torben, had sent incompetent cowards to govern the province of Al-Andalus and the earls of Fortaleza had likewise abandoned their responsibility to defend the land. The future had become so bleak that Vicente had fully expected to die during this final invasion from the south as his proud knightly order fell with him.
But now, things had changed. After testing their faith so rigorously, Wotan had finally given them a leader with the wit and strength to turn the tide of decline in Al-Andalus. Indeed, Earl Sturm had changed the situation so drastically that Vincente had spent more than the last moon raiding the northern most province of Ahl-Alnaar Ashomal. Two moons ago, the south had appeared to be on the precipice of conquering Al-Andalus and now it was the Granite Knights plundering their territory.
The sound of thunder came again and Brother Filipe rode up beside him. “The only people with muskets down here are Earl Sturm’s northern cavalry.”
“I know,” Vicente acknowledged. “I’m trying to place where the sound must be coming from.”
“I’ve noticed that the militiamen do not like to stray far from the Spice Road,” Filipe prompted him.
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Vicente agreed. He had been leading his own men much closer to the mountains, seeking to spread the fear of Wotan and the power of the Granite Knights to the southern bumpkins living off the main route through Shamal Intimad. It had only been because his men were returning laden with booty that he had decided to approach the road again.
“We will leave twenty men here to guard our treasure and take the rest—”
He broke off when he realized that Filipe was squinting at something in the distance.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“I think we are looking at more cavalry coming toward us—presumably southern cavalry.”
Vicente whipped out his spyglass and examined the approaching horsemen. “They are nomads, not regulars. Either they have heard of High Sheik Rami’s losses in Al-Andalus and are taking advantage of his weakness to raid, or he has authorized bounties to be paid on northern invaders.”
“I suppose we will know which of your speculations is true by whether or not they continue toward us,” Filipe suggested with a lighthearted smile.
Vicente tried out a glare at Filipe. He did not think the serious business of killing southern Naar-worshippers was a matter for mirth, but Filipe was never cowed by such expressions.
“If we wait for them here, it will take us longer to go to the aid of Earl Sturm’s men,” Vicente noted.
“It might also let the nomads realize that we have a lot of booty they would probably like to own,” Filipe agreed.
“So, we will advance on them and see how serious a threat they pose,” Vicente decided.
Sheik Cali was relatively pleased with the performance of his men against the Alkhudar. He was taking more casualties than he would prefer, but they were also whittling down the numbers of the enemy, making it more likely that they would earn a substantial number of bounties from the treasury of High Sheik Rami.
In Cali’s opinion, Rami was not much of a leader or a man, which was precisely the way that he and the other Göçebe Insanlar liked the city dwellers. They received a decent tribute to leave the soft men who dwelt west of the Spice Road alone and on occasion gained additional opportunities to earn even larger rewards. And they rarely had to deal with the city dwellers trying to interfere in their affairs.
“Sheik Cali,” one of his veteran warriors called out. “We are running low on arrows. When do you want to lead the charge?”
Cali opened his mouth to respond when he caught sight of a dust cloud moving toward them.
“Eter,” he told the warrior. “Taken fifty men and go find out who is coming up on us. If they are of the Göçebe Insanlar, warn them that I and my tribe have brought down these Alkhudar and we do not need them arriving now like a pack of hyenas seeking to steel the reward. If they are more northerners, we will finish off this group so we can turn on them and earn even more bounties.”
Eter nodded and left, calling out others as he rode, letting Cali return his attention to the enemy and their long guns just as they fired again. Another dozen of his men and horses took wounds with three falling to the ground. He was fortunate that there were not more of these northerners with these strange weapons or they might have made it too costly to claim their bounties. As it was, it would only be a few more minutes while Eter made certain they had no other serious problems to deal with. Then he would lead his men forward and complete their destruction.
Chapter Eighteen: A Costly Disagreement
Shamal Intimad, Ahl-Alnaar Ashomal
The Flower Moon, Day 25, Year 1197
Brother Vicente scowled as the nomads began to circle his troop of two hundred brother men-at-arms. One of the most annoying things about fighting southern cavalry was its distaste for closing and fighting man-to-man. The Granite Knights, however, had built their entire cavalry strategy around their ability to close and crush opposing forces due to their superior training in hand-to-hand combat and the heavy armor which both they and their horses wore. The armor cost them mobility, but made each man worth three or even five of the enemy. But in open fields like these it was unlikely that circumstances would develop to permit their superior combat prowess to come into play. The nomads would simply circle and snipe at them with their clouds of arrows—few of which would bring a man or horse down thanks to their armor, but over time, the assaults would wear at the men and they would start to fall in dribs and drabs.
The now familiar crack of musket fire lifted above the plain still more than three miles ahead of them and a smile almost cracked Vicente’s perpetual frown. Caldor and his men had weapons that exceeded the range of the nomads’ bows. It wasn’t quite clear how that ultimately changed the tactical situation, but whatever change there was had to be positive for the northerners.
An arrow bounced off Vicente’s shield, but he refused to give the nomad who shot it the satisfaction of acting as if he noticed it. Instead, he continued to lead his men at a slow and steady pace toward the sound of the muskets.
Abruptly, a hundred or so of the nomads broke off from circling the Granite Knights and rode toward the area that Vicente thought Earl Sturm’s militiamen were fighting in. He lifted his spyglass to get a better look, his vision somewhat obscured by the horsemen still circling him and his men.
The hundred nomads appeared to be meeting with another group—presumably from the ones attacking Major Caldor.
Vincente made a slight adjustment to his course and his men smoothly followed after him. It was too small a change to insight the notice of the enemy. Hopefully, they would keep circling without realizing he was now pursuing their hundred men. Thirty yards later, he did it again, subtly adjusting his direction toward the spot he calculated the two groups of nomads would meet between the two battles.
For the first time in days, his lips pressed together in a very slight smile. The two groups of nomads had begun to argue. They did not realize that with one more adjustment he would be pointed directly at them and that his men would soon be within range to charge.
“These are our bounties,” Eter announced as he came into hailing range of the rival tribe. They’d brought more than twice the number of men he had with a lot more prancing around behind them as if they were already making war. “These are our bounties! We’ve already killed scores of them and we’re not going to put up with you poaching our reward.” Scores were an exaggeration, but a little inflation of the numbers was expected at a meeting like this.
Eter’s counterpart within the other tribe of Göçebe Insanlar looked unimpressed with Eter’s announcement as he continued to lead his men closer. “They don’t look that weakened to us. And even if they were, you obviously haven’t brought them down yet.” As he spoke, he looked over Eter’s shoulder at the continuing battle. “You’ll have to be satisfied with whatever little pocket of men you’ve trapped over there.”
For the first time, Eter realized that there was more than once group of northerners. “We’re fighting a bunch of the Alkhudar cavalry,” he informed them. He decided that in the interests of securing the bounties of the men he had already claimed, he would forego any interest in the men the other tribe was fighting. “We didn’t even realize there were more of them out here. Who have you found?”
“They’re Granite Knights,” the other man proudly proclaimed.
“A good prize,” Eter grudgingly admitted, “if your tribe is man enough to bring them down.”
“How dare you insult the honor of our people?” the other man demanded.
“I’m just saying that your people are getting very close to us, which suggests—oh shit!”
As Brother Vicente closed the gap to about three hundred yards, his thin smile grew into a feral grin. The idiots were sitting on their horses arguing when they should have been getting ready to fight.
He lifted his lance into the air as a signal to the others and began to charge.
Ahead of him, the circling nomads scattered out of the way as they were trained to do, but that mass of the enemy clustered around each other shouting didn’t immediately perceive their peril.
Some on the far side started to point, but the hundred or so who were closer to Vicente had their backs to him.
He leaned forward in the saddle, lowering his lance into a killing position. His men and he trained hard for moments like this and he planned to take full advantage of the opportunity to put those lessons into practice.
Men started to wheel their horses around, but most had waited too long. Vicente’s men were spreading out in a large V-shape behind him, their lances also pointing directly at the unarmored enemy.
There were two hundred of Vicente’s brother knights, they were going to devastate the idiots in front of them.
As his lance penetrated the chest of the nearest man, sending a powerful jolt up Vicente’s strong arm, other nomads began to ride to the rescue of their kinsmen, swarming in within reach of the Granite Knights’ swords. Yes, there were more nomads than there were knights, but each knight and his horse wore heavy armor and the nomads wore none.
This was the sort of opportunity Vicente and his brothers dreamed of. He dropped the lance, drew his longsword and began to kill the hated followers of the god, Naar.
As Sheik Cali swung around again in the great circle from which they were hammering the Alkhudar with arrows, he saw something that inflamed the anger and frustration in his heart. Eter and his men were attempting to fall back away from the newcomers while more of the tribesmen rushed in, swords drawn, to attack. This new tribe was assaulting his people and he would not let it stand.
“Kill the newcomers,” he shouted even as he switched his bow for his sword. In the confusion ahead of them, there would be no room for arrows.
His men saw him changing the direction of their attack and peeled away from the Alkhudar with the strange new weapons. Cali could come back to kill them later. Now he must defend the honor of his tribe against these newcomers.
Caldor watched the southern cavalry break off their attack with more than a little confusion. His men had been taking a beating and there supplies of black powder and musket balls were getting low.
“Wagner!” he shouted. “Get whatever we have left in powder horns and musket balls distributed among the men. Everyone else reloads immediately. Then we’ll start seeing to the wounded and figuring out what we’re going to do next.”
Even as he spoke, he lifted a spyglass to his eye and tried to figure out what was happening. There was some sort of melee about a mile ahead of them and the sunlight was glinting off the battle...
Abruptly, Caldor realized what was happening. He forced himself to wait while the men reloaded. It was only thirty seconds but it felt like four hours. “Any man whose pistol is not loaded, load it now.”
Again, he waited, as Wagner and a dozen men came back and started distributing powder horns—mostly from men who had died. He wanted to let them complete the task, but he didn’t think there was time.
“Alright, listen up,” he shouted. “I want every man who can still ride a horse and fight in ranks right over there.”
Men scrambled and some of the more injured look worried.
“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” he promised, “but it looks like the Granite Knights have just joined the battle and we’re going to go join them. Put your muskets in their scabbards, then mount your horse and draw your pistols. We’re going to go in, shoot one of the damned Southies at point blank range and then give them the cavalry saber. We drive them into the Granite Knights where those tough bastards will cut them to ribbons, you understand?”
The men cheered and started running for their horses—technically without orders.
“Sergeant Grueben!” Caldor yelled.
The old sergeant limped toward him, his left hand pressed against his side.
“I know you want to go kill Southies, sergeant, but I need you here making sure more of our men don’t die. Grab a dozen middling injured men to help you. We’ll be back with the knights as soon as we’re done seeing off the Southie cavalry.”
Grueben looked very unhappy, but he was a good soldier. He couldn’t lift his left arm, but he still managed to come to attention and say, “Yes, sir!”
“Good,” Caldor looked around for his horse. “Now let’s go finish this battle.”
Chapter Nineteen: Pistols and Sabers
Shamal Intimad, Ahl-Alnaar Ashomal
The Flower Moon, Day 25, Year 1197
Major Roel Caldor rode into battle with a pistol in either hand. He’d never needed to hold the reins to control his horse, that’s what Wotan had given him knees and a voice for. He led perhaps a hundred and twenty-five of his men straight into the maelstrom and promptly shot the first two Southies he encountered in the chest.
He wasted two and a half seconds sticking the smoking pistols into his belt and then his calvary saber was out and he started to put four or five thousand hours of sword practice to good use.
The Southies weren’t bad, but they weren’t just caught between Caldor and the Granite Knights. Some of them were even fighting each other and that meant that they really couldn’t give their attention to every quarter it needed to be in. Caldor and his men swept through them like a scythe cutting stalks of grain while the Granite Knights plowed forward like a great ram, knocking down anyone stupid enough to get in their paths. They had already killed hundreds before Caldor arrived and his men quickly added one or two hundred more Southie casualties.
Southerners started to break away from the battle, scattering out away from the main melee while dozens more of their fellows fell to northern blades.
Five minutes later and the whole southern host broke leaving behind at least half of their army. Caldor and his men chased them for half a mile before he thought better of getting too far away from the knights and brought them back again.
Brother Vicente waited for him, his men killing all the wounded on the field and stripping their bodies.
“Your arrival was well timed, Brother Vicente,” Caldor told him as he shook the other man’s hand.
“As was yours,” Vicente returned the compliment. “A lot more of them would have gotten away without your assistance.”
