Terrible Swift Sword by Forstchen William R

Author:Forstchen, William R.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spectrum Literary Agency, Inc.
Published: 2016-06-26T16:00:00+00:00

“Jesus, here they come!”

Field glasses barely penetrating the gloom, Hans looked northward. It was like an inexorable wall of flesh and steel, coming forward at a run, the Merki’s deep-throated growls thundering above the staccato roar of musketry and booming cannon.

Bastions number 110 and 109, the two positions on the flank of the line, had disappeared, swarmed under by the sudden and brutal assault. One moment the woods had been silent, and then within minutes the walls of the earth forts had been carpeted with dead and wounded Merki, the interior of the forts a shambles as the attack swarmed over them and kept on going. The line was starting to roll up, like a collapsing deck of cards.

The advancing wave was rolling into number 108, hitting it from the west, north, and east. The secondary line, a half mile back from the fort, was going under as well from the end-on attack.

He felt a moment of pity for the men in the fort— they would all be dead in another couple of minutes, but they were buying time, precious time.

Hans walked out of the bastion and nodded to Charlie Ingrao, artillery commander for the corps reserve guns of six batteries.

The pieces were lined up nearly hub to hub, facing north. To their right an entire brigade was formed up, nearly twenty-five hundred men across a front of four hundred yards, positioned in the clearing cut through the woods for the now flanked fortifications. It was all that he had—stripping out everything from Bastion 100 at the edge of the woods, back to number 80, piling them aboard, several reserve trains and racing them up to form here, leaving but a skeleton of just half a brigade behind.

“One-oh-eight is going down,” Ingrao said quietly, pointing to the fort. A half-mile away the regimental flag of the Novrodian Regiment in the bastion fluttered down from the pole. Tiny forms appeared on the south side of the bastion, sliding down the ramparts and then breaking into a run, towering forms appearing behind them, bodies tumbling over.

Across the broad, open front, covered with scattered clumps of trees, the Merki umen continued on, advancing at a steady pace.

Hans swung up on his mount, slinging his carbine into its scabbard, his staff mounting as well. The command guidon drifted up alongside of him. He looked over at the tow-headed Rus boy carrying it.

“Scared, son?”

The boy gulped and shook his head.

“Well, I sure the hell am,” Hans whispered.

“Gregory!”

“Here, sir.” The young staff officer edged his mount in alongside of Hans.

“Get down to the far right of the line, and keep it anchored on the far side of the clearing. Now move it!”

He reached over and slapped the rump of the boy’s horse. Grinning as he saluted, Gregory galloped off.

Hans again focused his attention forward.

The Merki advance halted for a moment, and he scanned the enemy line. They were shaking their columns out, forming into an attack front several ranks deep.

Ingrao, walking amongst his batteries, turned to judge the range.

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