The Great General
took charge of the riverfront defenses personally. He found morale
abysmal when he arrived, accompanied by reserves from the Second
Territorial. The long succession of military disasters had the
soldiers suspecting that defeat was inevitable and that they were
being wasted in a hopeless cause.
The Great General himself led his own lifeguard in a
counterattack of such fury and finesse that the enemy soon lost
everything that it had taken them all day to capture.
The invaders got no support from above. The Great General
interpreted that to mean that they were in desperate straits at the
South Gate.
There was not a lot of communication between forces.
Nobody knew what anybody else was doing, really. The best anyone
could do was cling to the plans and hope the enemy did not get too
much enjoyment from his advantages.
Mogaba’s opponents tried reinforcing themselves with
recent recruits. That did them little good. Those men entered the
fighting in groups too small to make any difference.
The last attackers fled in the barges they had used to make
their initial landings, drifting downriver because they did not
have enough men healthy enough to row against the current. All the
barges were overburdened, one so much so that it shipped water at
the slightest rocking. It did not remain afloat long.
Mogaba treated himself to a long breather. He turned his mind
off completely, closed his eyes, let the cold winter air chill
him.
When he was calm and breathing normally again he allowed himself
to return to the moment.
He could get the best of this thing yet. If he could get these
men to the South Gate and get in a hard blow he might damage the
enemy enough to earn his own people a fair chance of making it
through the night. If he succeeded, victory would be his. They
would not be able to survive everything he would throw at them
tomorrow.
He opened his eyes.
The white crow stared at him from a perch on a broken cartwheel
scarcely a foot from his face.
The crow started talking.
That bird was a much better messenger and spy than the crows he
had known in earlier days.
The Great General listened for a long time. And wondered if the
mind behind the bird was aware of his disloyalty.
He would not bring it up first.
The Great General dragged himself upright, ignoring the
complaints of aching muscles. “Sergeant Mugwarth. Spread the
word. All officers. Round up every man who can walk. We’re
moving up to relieve the South Gate.”
The enemy’s aerial advantage betrayed the trap before it
could close. Mogaba left the soldiers to their work and hastened
toward the Palace. He arrived as dusk began to deepen shadows. The
view from that eminence included half a dozen fires still burning.
Smoke and trickles of fire still attended the fallen parts of the
Palace, too.
Awaiting him was the news that the enemy had reduced most of the
defenses at the downriver end of the city. Their forces there had
been augmented by the survivors from upriver. These outsiders were
stubborn fighters.
“Send reinforcements?” Ghopal asked.
Mogaba thought a moment. Those foreigners ought to be near their
limits. “Yes, actually. These are all your men here, around
the Palace, aren’t they?”
“I thought that would be best. Makes them all men I can
trust.”
“Let Aridatha’s soldiers take their place. Send
yours to the waterfront. And gather up any of your brothers and
cousins who’re still alive, I want them here.”
“What? . . . ”
“Do it. Quickly. Quickly. And round up all those captured
fireball throwers.”
“I think we used most of them up.”
“That means they’re some of them left. I want them
all.”
Darkness came. And soon after it did messages reached the Great
General informing him that his enemies, inside both their
footholds, were hunkering down for the night rather than pressing
forward when their shadowy allies could come out to play.
The Great General refused to let the night intimidate him. By
his example he inspired those around him. And it did seem that the
enemy’s spooks meant to do little more than yell
“Boo!”
The Great General reorganized the city’s defenses,
shifting almost all responsibility into Aridatha Singh’s
hands. Then he led Ghopal Singh and the man’s kinsmen, armed
with fireball throwers, toward the waterfront conflict.
Ghopal asked, “What’re we doing?”
“This is a false peace,” Mogaba replied. “They
lost their Captain this afternoon. The trap in the gate worked to
perfection. They lost most of their command staff, too.” He
did not explain how he knew that. “They’ll need to work
out who’s in charge and what they’re going to do now.
They might even decide to go away.” He shivered, told himself
it was the winter air.
But he knew that Croaker had survived the day. He knew the
Company would not be going away. He knew the succession there had
been assured and the new Captain would attempt to complete the work
of the old.
The Great General
took charge of the riverfront defenses personally. He found morale
abysmal when he arrived, accompanied by reserves from the Second
Territorial. The long succession of military disasters had the
soldiers suspecting that defeat was inevitable and that they were
being wasted in a hopeless cause.
The Great General himself led his own lifeguard in a
counterattack of such fury and finesse that the enemy soon lost
everything that it had taken them all day to capture.
The invaders got no support from above. The Great General
interpreted that to mean that they were in desperate straits at the
South Gate.
There was not a lot of communication between forces.
Nobody knew what anybody else was doing, really. The best anyone
could do was cling to the plans and hope the enemy did not get too
much enjoyment from his advantages.
Mogaba’s opponents tried reinforcing themselves with
recent recruits. That did them little good. Those men entered the
fighting in groups too small to make any difference.
The last attackers fled in the barges they had used to make
their initial landings, drifting downriver because they did not
have enough men healthy enough to row against the current. All the
barges were overburdened, one so much so that it shipped water at
the slightest rocking. It did not remain afloat long.
Mogaba treated himself to a long breather. He turned his mind
off completely, closed his eyes, let the cold winter air chill
him.
When he was calm and breathing normally again he allowed himself
to return to the moment.
He could get the best of this thing yet. If he could get these
men to the South Gate and get in a hard blow he might damage the
enemy enough to earn his own people a fair chance of making it
through the night. If he succeeded, victory would be his. They
would not be able to survive everything he would throw at them
tomorrow.
He opened his eyes.
The white crow stared at him from a perch on a broken cartwheel
scarcely a foot from his face.
The crow started talking.
That bird was a much better messenger and spy than the crows he
had known in earlier days.
The Great General listened for a long time. And wondered if the
mind behind the bird was aware of his disloyalty.
He would not bring it up first.
The Great General dragged himself upright, ignoring the
complaints of aching muscles. “Sergeant Mugwarth. Spread the
word. All officers. Round up every man who can walk. We’re
moving up to relieve the South Gate.”
The enemy’s aerial advantage betrayed the trap before it
could close. Mogaba left the soldiers to their work and hastened
toward the Palace. He arrived as dusk began to deepen shadows. The
view from that eminence included half a dozen fires still burning.
Smoke and trickles of fire still attended the fallen parts of the
Palace, too.
Awaiting him was the news that the enemy had reduced most of the
defenses at the downriver end of the city. Their forces there had
been augmented by the survivors from upriver. These outsiders were
stubborn fighters.
“Send reinforcements?” Ghopal asked.
Mogaba thought a moment. Those foreigners ought to be near their
limits. “Yes, actually. These are all your men here, around
the Palace, aren’t they?”
“I thought that would be best. Makes them all men I can
trust.”
“Let Aridatha’s soldiers take their place. Send
yours to the waterfront. And gather up any of your brothers and
cousins who’re still alive, I want them here.”
“What? . . . ”
“Do it. Quickly. Quickly. And round up all those captured
fireball throwers.”
“I think we used most of them up.”
“That means they’re some of them left. I want them
all.”
Darkness came. And soon after it did messages reached the Great
General informing him that his enemies, inside both their
footholds, were hunkering down for the night rather than pressing
forward when their shadowy allies could come out to play.
The Great General refused to let the night intimidate him. By
his example he inspired those around him. And it did seem that the
enemy’s spooks meant to do little more than yell
“Boo!”
The Great General reorganized the city’s defenses,
shifting almost all responsibility into Aridatha Singh’s
hands. Then he led Ghopal Singh and the man’s kinsmen, armed
with fireball throwers, toward the waterfront conflict.
Ghopal asked, “What’re we doing?”
“This is a false peace,” Mogaba replied. “They
lost their Captain this afternoon. The trap in the gate worked to
perfection. They lost most of their command staff, too.” He
did not explain how he knew that. “They’ll need to work
out who’s in charge and what they’re going to do now.
They might even decide to go away.” He shivered, told himself
it was the winter air.
But he knew that Croaker had survived the day. He knew the
Company would not be going away. He knew the succession there had
been assured and the new Captain would attempt to complete the work
of the old.