The Chesian Wars (A Griffins & Gunpowder Collection) Read online

  "Yes, sir," Dmitri said. He saluted and left Vladik alone in his office.

  ***

  *Acheron*

  Acheron Tavoularis lifted his red tricorne and dragged his arm across his forehead. His cotton sleeve came away dirty and damp with sweat. The midday day sun beat down on the plains with the ferocity that only a summer day could muster. His black hair was pulled back in a long ponytail to keep it off of his neck.

  Acheron's men had set up tents to hide from the heat, though he doubted that the tents would do much but keep them from getting sunburnt. They would continue when the sun was lower and the heat had started to fall away; until then, Acheron had decided to lead patrol sorties.

  Today, Second Brigade was on task for the patrols. The six thousand mounted infantry had gathered beside a stream to let their horses drink while Acheron and his commanders decided on a patrol grid for the day. They were less than fifteen miles from where the Chesian, Jarin and Sithean borders met, and the last thing they needed was for one of his patrols to wander into Chesia and incite an incident.

  The Chesian military, once a fractured collection of warlords and mercenaries, had been united under the iron fist of a self-proclaimed Emperor. Frederick Maximilian had used diplomacy and trade agreements to unite a third of the Chesian districts under his red dragon banner. Half of the remaining districts had fought for their freedom and failed; the rest of the districts had seen the writing on the wall and surrendered without issue.

  Under their new leader, the Chesians were increasingly protective of their borders, and several skirmishes had erupted between patrols that wandered too far to one side of the border. Some in Jarin had expressed concerns that the Chesians were growing too bold in their diplomatic messages and that a military confrontation between the two nations was at hand.

  Sithea, Jarin's northern neighbor, was notorious for its neutrality, but had claimed that they would not stand for any Chesian hostility toward their smaller neighbors. They had reinforced their position with four divisions of infantry that camped less than a day's march from Jarin City. Acheron doubted the resolve of the nation that routinely allowed pirates and mercenaries to buy and sell goods openly in their market, but he kept that opinion to himself.

  Acheron stayed away from all of the politics of his nation for that matter, but as the commander of half of the standing Jarin Army, and the entirety of the nation's mounted infantry, it was his responsibility to ensure that the border with Chesia was watched at all times. He had assigned two of his brigades to each of the three sections of border with the Empire.

  "I don't want to wander too close," Acheron said to his commanders. At six feet and four inches, he towered over them, and nearly everyone in Jarin.

  A brigadier general, three colonels, four staff colonels and ten lieutenants or knight-lieutenants were clustered around him. Many had followed his lead and shed their thick red uniform jackets. Sweat soaked their cotton shirts and dirt had browned the once-white fabric. The Jarins had inherited the olive skin of their ancestors: colonists from Istivan far to the east.

  "I'll take the twenty-second south, to Zaro-Garis. General Rota, take the twenty-first west to Sarkis. Colonel Strathos will cover south of the general and Colonel Savos will cover west of myself," Acheron said.

  The four regiments broke from the camp an hour past midday. They departed at a modest trot, fast enough to make good time but not so fast as to wear out their mounts; after all, it would not do for their horses to die beneath them.

  Acheron and Colonel Jaysen Gilkas rode ahead of the main column of the twenty-second regiment. The Jarin flag, a golden sphinx on red, flew from a tall banner at the head of the fourteen hundred men. Another hundred men rode ahead of the main body in patrols.

  "You don't expect we'll find anything, do you, sir?" The colonel shielded his eyes from the sun and looked out over the flat lands ahead of them.

  "I hope that we don't," Acheron said. A low valley lay ten miles ahead of them, running north to south. "I'd like to make that valley before the sun gets too much lower. Trumpeter, sound the double time!"

  "Yes, sir!" The boy pressed his trumpet to his lips and blew five high notes in quick order. The entire column lurched forward in response.

  A small stream wound its way along the bottom of the defile. The valley was only a few hundred feet wide, but nearly ten miles long and curved sharply two miles on the Jarin side of the border. A small farm had been built at its mouth, and the fields around it were tall with corn.

  "I'll call on the farm to see if they have seen anything unusual," Acheron said. "Jaysen, send patrols along the hill tops as far as the Chesian border."

  "Yes, sir." Jaysen kicked his feet into his horse and rode toward the main column.

  Acheron nudged his horse to a trot and started toward the farmhouse, a trio of riders in his wake. The road curved through the golden cornfields and led to an opening at the center of the farm. The farmhouse, a barn and several smaller outbuildings surrounded the opening on two sides; the others were walled by corn.

  "That's about far 'nough," a voice shouted. A man stood on the farmhouse's porch, a musket clutched in his hands and pointed at Acheron. He looked to be in his middle age, around forty if Acheron had to guess. Only hints of brown hair remained at his temple; the rest had gone to gray. His eyes were warm, but distant. "You fellas need to turn around and head back the other way. We don't want none of your trouble here."

  "Sir, you have the wrong of it," Acheron said, his hands raised and open. "We are officers of the Jarin Army."

  The man continued to clutch the musket, but lowered it slightly. "What are you doing on my land?"

  "We are on border patrols," Acheron said.

  "Well then." The farmer nodded and relaxed his grip on the weapon. "What can I do for ya?"

  "Have you seen anyone unusual traveling through the valley?" Acheron asked. He rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle.

  "Not that I can remember," the farmer said with a shrug. "But I've been mighty busy harvesting away from the valley."

  "Sir, the sun is still high," Acheron said. "Do you mind if we come in out of the heat?"

  "Well, where are my manners." The man waved them toward the farmhouse. "I've got some tea made up, if you don't mind it a little warm."

  "Of course not." Acheron swung down from his saddle and the soldiers behind him followed.

  The farmhouse was larger than he would have expected for a single farmer twenty miles from civilization. Then he saw the framed photographs sitting on every flat surface. They were old, some worn and stained.

  "The pox took her twelve years ago," the farmer said.

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Acheron said.

  A large table dominated the dining room, a lace tablecloth draped across it and six chairs arranged at its edges. The farmer offered them seats and disappeared into the next room. The sound of clinking glass came through the open doorway and the farmer emerged with five jars of tea on a platter.

  "Do you have any particular reason for patrolling out this way?" the farmer asked.

  "No, sir." Acheron took a sip of the tea; it was sweet, with a hint of fruit.

  Acheron made polite talk while he waited for the scouts to return. The sun was nearing the horizon when the thunder of galloping horses sent the farmer to his feet. He was out of the door, musket in his hands, before Acheron could stop him.

  "They're with me," Acheron said when he caught up with the farmer.

  "Sir!" Jaysen's horse skidded to a stop in front of the farmhouse and Jaysen was off his saddle and heading toward the house before the beast was settled.

  "What did you find?" Acheron asked.

  "Chesians, sir. A full division of them camped at the other end of the valley."

  ***

  *Vladik*

  The sun hadn't broken the horizon yet, but Vladik Ortoff had already broken his fast and was on his second pot of coffee. He stood outside of his tent, cup in hand, as the first rays of
sunlight peaked over the hills to the east. The first wisps of smoke had started to rise from the camp around him.

  His army had been encamped a day's march away from the Jarin border for two days while the supply train and artillery caught up to them. Today would be the day that his troops broke camp and crossed the border.

  Vladik still had his reservations about invading the much smaller nation of Jarin, but he had resigned himself to the task. Even if all went well, the Chesian army stood to lose tens of thousands of soldiers. Vladik, and more than a few others in the Chesian military command, believed that those troops would have better served in an invasion of a much larger target.

  The nation of Garton, to the north and east of Chesia, had three larger harbors and more than a dozen smaller ports. The Gartoni army would be more of an even match for the Imperial forces, but would not have been as much of a challenge as the professional army of Andivar. More importantly, invading Garton would have put the Chesian army that much closer to the nation of Ehtroy and The Pinch.

  The Pinch was the narrow strip of land that connected the eastern and western continents on the southern side of their world. The nation of Ehtroy held The Pinch and protected it with The Citadel, the largest and most imposing fortress ever to be built. If Chesia were able to capture and hold The Pinch they would control all of the overland trade between the eastern and western continents and several major harbors along Ehtroy Bay.

  Vladik was shaken from his thoughts by a dozen trumpets sounding the morning reveille. All around him the camp began to stir from its slumber. Once the men had broken their fast, they would begin the tear-down of the tent city that housed them. Only the most basic of necessities had been set up, so the task would be finished by midday.

  Dmitri Vallas, camped nearer to the border, would have already started his march into Jarin by the time that Vladik's main force was on the move. He had given the lieutenant general very specific instructions on how to handle any opposition his division came across. The Dragon's Teeth were to avoid any fixed fortifications, eliminate any patrols and avoid organized military units.

  Vladik had wanted to assign a handful of his other commanders to Dmitri's units, but decided that a display of distrust that obvious could be hazardous to his working relationship with the Gorbani commander. He had, instead, ordered a company from each of his other divisions march ahead of the rest so that they were positioned halfway between Dmitri and the rest of the North Central Imperial Army.

  He hoped that his caution would be unwarranted.

  ***

  *Acheron*

  Acheron was entirely miserable, even in his thin cotton uniform jacket. Today was hotter than yesterday and there weren't any trees to provide occasional relief from the sun. He wanted nothing more than to strip off his jacket and unbutton his shirt to the middle of his chest, but he had to set an example for his troops and it would be impossible to tell friend from foe without uniforms.

  His scouts had reported that the Chesians were on the march and would be moving through the valley to cross the border into Jarin. If they were smart, they would have patrols riding along the hilltops and would see Acheron's forces long before the main body of their army was across the border.

  Perhaps a little bit of armed resistance will convince them to turn around, Acheron thought as he scratched the back of his neck.

  Second and Third Brigades had ridden through the night to join together at the Jarin end of the valley and had spent the morning digging trenches. They would be outnumbered by two-to-one, but they would be able to bring all of their fire together at once; the Chesians would only be able to funnel two of their brigades through the valley at a time.

  Acheron had entrenched four of his regiments, half of his strength, at the end of the valley. On the outer sides of each of the low ridges, another regiment waited to crest the hilltops and use the high ground to rain fire down on the enemy. The final two regiments were hidden in the cornfields, behind the main defensive position. When he gave the order, they would mount their horses and ride out as cavalry.

  His scouts told him that the enemy division had no cavalry and no artillery support, so he had a good chance of holding long enough for another of his brigades to reach him. The nearest was two days' ride away, but with some luck they would reach him before his defenses folded. If nothing else, they would find a wounded division of enemy troops tired from battle and ripe for the slaughter.

  "Sir, scouts report the first of the enemy brigades is approaching the bend."

  "Thank you, Private." Acheron crawled to the top of the eastern ridge and brought his binoculars up.

  The Chesians would have a five-mile march from the bend to the mouth of the valley, though his troops would be helpless to stop them. The forces at the end of the valley were armed with smoothbore muskets, effective up to one hundred yards and able to be fired three or four times every minute. The two regiments that Acheron had positioned on the ridges were armed with rifled muskets, imported from the Ansgari foundries at Black Mountain. His troops could accurately hit a target at more than four hundred yards, but firing more than once every two minutes was still a struggle for many.

  Not for the first time, Acheron wished that he had been provided artillery support. Even five-pound cannons would have given him the advantage needed to hold the Chesians at bay.

  "Sir, scouts report there are no enemy patrols riding along the hilltops."

  "Pass this order along, and have messengers sent to the other positions: center regiments are to repel any patrols as necessary, but the twenty-fourth is to remain hidden until the enemy's lead brigade is fully engaged."

  "Yes, sir." The private saluted and hurried away.

  The Chesians marched through the valley with the confidence of an army that had not met its match in the field. The banner at the head of the column, a red dragon with golden teeth sewn into a black field, was the mark of the Dragon's Teeth. The elite forces from the Emperor's home district had never faced an enemy that they could not break.

  Acheron smiled as the enemy continued to march through the valley; their confidence would be the Chesians' undoing. He could only take the lack of patrols as a sign that the Chesians expected no fight out of the Jarin nation. No commander in their right mind would proceed into enemy lands blind if they expected resistance.

  He watched the enemy's slow march to the tap-tap-tap of drums. The Chesians were in full uniform: golden jackets and trousers with red accents, tall black hats strapped to their chins, and thick gloves. Their muskets were shouldered and the sun glimmered across thousands of bayonets.

  The Chesians were within two thousand yards before they saw the entrenched Jarins. Acheron had hoped for them to be closer, but even two thousand yards was nearer than he had honestly expected. The first brigade of Chesians came to an abrupt halt and the column behind them followed suit. Golden uniforms stretched for nearly a mile along the valley floor. A group of mounted officers, their golden shoulder-boards and braid bright in the sunlight, trotted to the front of the division.

  Acheron watched through his binoculars as the officers convened and finally separated. The riders joined their troops and the soldiers lowered their muskets to the ground and began loading. Then their advance resumed, slowly, and Acheron turned to watch his entrenched troops at the end of the valley. He would wait until they fired their first volley before he ordered his troops to the top of the ridge.

  He crawled down the east side of the hill and raised his hand. The officers along the ridge barked orders to their troops and the Jarins began loading their weapons. Acheron drew a paper cartridge out of the pouch at his hip and bit down on the tab at the end; he ripped the cartridge open and spit the tab on the hillside. He pinched the gunpowder into the barrel, squeezed the round in behind it and pushed the rest of the cartridge in last.

  The ramrod scraped against its holder as he drew it. He pressed the fat end of the rod into the barrel and slammed it down, packing the round into the base. He t
apped the ramrod once more, then withdrew it and returned it to its place beneath the rifle's barrel. Acheron pulled a percussion cap out of a second pouch and pulled the weapon's hammer to half-cock. The cap slipped onto the nipple at the base of the hammer and then Acheron lowered the hammer slowly.

  Long minutes passed and then, from the silence, came the crackle of muskets firing. Acheron held his breath, waiting. The silence was no more: the screams of the dying, the shouted commands of officer directing their troops and, at last, the answering volley of the Chesians.

  "Now!" Acheron shouted and pushed himself to his feet. His soldiers rose from the hillside and climbed the last few feet to the top.

  On the other side of the valley, another regiment of men crested the opposite ridge and poured fire down on the flanks of the Chesian infantry.

  Acheron brought his rifle to his shoulder and pulled it close. The range was long, even for the rifles and one trained in their use as well as he was, but it was not impossible. He brought the end of the barrel up and found a target: an officer, screaming at his men as they returned fire at their enemies.

  The sights on Acheron's rifle settled at the center of the man's chest and he drew a breath and held it to steady his aim. He pulled the hammer back; it settled into its place with a click. His caressed the trigger, like tickling the soft neck of his first born son when the child was young. A gentle squeeze brought the hammer down on the percussion cap. Acheron saw a flash of light too close to his face, felt the heat of the powder inside the cap igniting and the mule's kick that pushed the rifle's butt into his shoulder. Smoke and fire spouted from the end of the barrel.

  Blinding pain shot through his shoulder and his ears rang from the noise, but Acheron could see his target writhing in pain, blood pouring from his chest. He slammed the butt of his rifle into the dirt and pulled another cartridge from his pouch.

  ***

  *Vladik*

  A rider galloped toward them at a speed that Vladik would have thought impossible. They were still hours away from the Jarin border and a thunderstorm had rolled in from the west. The edges of it were passing over the front of the Chesian column, blacking out the midday sun.