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Chapter 30

At the southern approaches into Déj


Crimean Tatars!!

A force perhaps two hundred, two hundred fifty strong, had attacked his fortifications by first light shortly after he had returned from Colonel Renz’s headquarters. They wasted no time striking, regardless of his deployment of what up-timers called area-denial weaponry. Caltrops peppered the ground on both ends of the makeshift palisade that he and his men had constructed to slow down, if not prevent, cavalry and infantry charges. Sharp wooden spikes had been driven into the ground beyond those for additional protection. By doing all this, Christian had hoped that the Moldavian commanders would dispense with any cavalry charge at all. And they had, indeed, done so, but not in the manner he had hoped.

The Crimean Tatars were semi-independent vassals of the Ottomans and had firearms—and plenty of them. But they’d been mounted archers for centuries and still used their bows regularly. In this instance, realizing that the defenses would make a direct cavalry charge too costly, they were simply showering the fortifications with arrows. Some were using muskets for the purpose, but most weren’t.

He ducked his head back behind a wagonload of barrels as an arrow thunked into wood above his head. He waited until the volley subsided, then said to Lieutenant Enkefort who crouched nearby, hugging his radio close, “They’re hitting us in caracole.”

“How much longer can we hold, Captain?” Enkefort asked, keeping low.

Christian shook his head. “With the kind of constant barrage they’re placing on us, I don’t know. Thank God it isn’t cannon fire. How are we doing on ammunition?”

“Fine, so far, sir,” Enkefort said, brushing splintered wood off his shoulders. “Your order to fire single barrel was a sound one.”

Christian shrugged as he finished loading that single barrel. “Well, it stretches out the ammunition, but our kill power has been reduced. War seems to be all about balancing choices, eh, Lieutenant?”

The ZB-2 Santee was a modification of the up-time Pedersoli Howdah 58-caliber hunting pistol, a breechloader that used paper cartridges. It was what up-timers called, in effect, a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. At roughly a foot long, a cavalryman could either fire both barrels in a single shot or one at a time. On horseback, it was ideal to fire only one barrel at a time, thus giving the rider two shots in relatively quick succession. Firing both simultaneously could, in contrast, be dangerous because of its powerful recoil. In his short time as a cavalryman, Christian had seen men fire both barrels at full charge and have their pistols torn right out of their hands. One man had been knocked clean off his horse when the pistol kicked back and smacked his face.

Another Tatar volley struck the wooden defenses. A man at the head of the wagon he and Enkefort were in fell screaming with a wound to his shoulder. Christian grimaced, waited until the volley subsided, then fully cocked his ZB, stood up, and shouted, “Fire!”

His men, about ninety strong now, rose up along their hastily assembled palisade, and squeezed triggers.

The good thing about firing at Tatars was their light armor and paucity of helmets. A Tatar was a nice, meaty target if you could aim and shoot at him—or his horse—before he fired his bow and retreated, thus allowing another line of cavalry to move up and fire. Christian’s men fired and dropped a half dozen before they had a chance to flee. Good! The road was becoming messy with dead horses, dead men, and pools of blood. Good!

“Reload!”

The idea of having cavalry defend a city was absurd. They were lucky that—so far, at least—they were only facing cavalry attackers. Captain Kinsky had been right to suggest that Colonel Renz was making a big mistake in ordering such a defense with men so unprepared for it. But as the morning’s fight had raged, Christian saw the logic behind it.

Even firing one barrel at a time, the ZB was a powerful weapon, and its kill potential and accuracy was far superior to anything these Tatars were firing at them. Indeed, it wasn’t a perfect weapon. It wounded or outright missed more than it struck, but what it struck, more often than not stayed down. A pile of dead men and horses were beginning to form along the enemy attack line. How much longer could the Tatars maintain their tactics before their horses couldn’t maneuver around the piles? Mounted archery was deadly in the open field; much less so against fortified troops.

Christian reloaded his ZB and dared a moment to look toward the eastern approaches and Captain Kinsky’s position. Large, dark plumes of smoke floated above his defensive lines, more so than Christian’s line. According to initial radio reports, Captain Kinsky had been hit by a large block of pikemen who were nearly routed on first contact. A foolish tactic against a modern army such as the Sunrise, but the Moldavians obviously knew no better. Perhaps they should have known, being vassals of the Ottomans whose army was also relatively modern. The Ring of Fire hadn’t just occurred, after all. But the Moldavians had recovered quickly and were now hitting Kinsky in the same caracole-style assault with additional Tatars and their own Hansari (or light) cavalry.

Another strong volley struck Christian’s wagon. “Sir,” Lieutenant Enkefort said, finishing the reload of his own pistol, “perhaps you should pull off the line for a bit. We can’t afford to lose our commander.”

“We can’t afford to pull anyone right now,” Christian said, rising up on his knees, and shouting, “Fire!”

A great volley, as a majority of the Tatars scattered before the wall of ZB fire. The road now was really beginning to get choked with wounded and dead men. Surely these tactics of theirs could not continue for much longer.

“Your spyglass,” Christian said to Enkefort, who handed it over quickly and began reloading both their pistols.

The stack of planks and barrels in front of them now had plenty of gaps through which he could use the spyglass to have a good look. Christian made sure to use his good eye. The blurry one had been watery and uncomfortable all morning. He poked the lens of the spyglass through a hole and looked.

He didn’t like what he saw.

At the eastern approaches into Déj


“I’ve got men in these houses now,” Captain Kinsky said to Colonel Renz, pointing to the buildings near his defensive line. “My best shooters. Voinici infantry have moved up on the ridgeline, like I had predicted would happen, and are trying to rain shots down upon my rear. They’re pretty damn good shots too, despite their antiquated weaponry. My men are returning fire. We’re giving as good as we’re getting right now. But right now is not forever, Colonel.”

Colonel Renz was pleased. He nodded. “Can you hold?”

The dragoon captain shrugged. “A while longer, but as I say, not forever. We delivered a serious blow to them at first light. But they aren’t stupid. They’ve adapted, and they know that their time is short. They’re hitting us with everything they’ve got right now.”

Ricochet musket fire from the ridgeline peppered the ground near their position. Captain Kinsky grabbed Colonel Renz’s jacket and pulled him around the corner of a tannery. “See what I mean, Colonel? The streets of Déj aren’t safe at the moment.”

Colonel Renz breathed a sigh. “Understood. Hold as best as you can, Captain. Callenberk is about five miles out. He’ll be here directly, and I’ve instructed him to add his men to your line.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Kinsky said, not bothering to hide his relief and satisfaction with the decision. “That will be most helpful.”

Major Schmidt scampered across the street from his defensive position behind a pile of crates. Shots along the ridgeline rang out, as if in response to his move, but no balls struck nearby or along the path that the colonel’s aide-de-camp used to reach him.

Major Schmidt was out of breath, but he held the phone of his radio tightly in his hand. He held it out to Colonel Renz, who didn’t like the look on his young aide’s face. “It’s Captain von Jori, sir.”

At the southern approaches into Déj


Christian slammed the radio down. “Did you hear that?”

Lieutenant Enkefort nodded. “I did. Only half of Callenberk’s men?”

Christian nodded. “I could hear Kinsky howling in the background. He wanted them all.”

“Fifty dragoons is a decent number, sir.”

“True, but it’s not enough for what’s coming.”

He looked through his spyglass again to confirm. Yes, indeed: a full regiment of infantry with ample musket support, followed by another company of cavalry. The Tatars had pulled away to give them a clear line of approach.

Beyond that…hard to tell. The road turned, and the line of sight was blocked by trees, gun smoke, and dying white plumes of Carpathian fog. But surely, there was something more coming. Cannon?

God, give me strength!

“Reload…both barrels!” he screamed in the lull as the next Moldavian wave moved into place. He could hear their trumpets sounding, their commanders shouting orders, the shuffle of uncountable hooves. “Lieutenant, I want you to move up the line here and keep good order. The men will stand by your command or answer to me. We hold firm now, and hope by the grace of God that Callenberk arrives soon.”

Lieutenant Enkefort scampered away. Christian looked through his spyglass again. The smoke from previous volleys had faded. He could now see the Moldavian lines forming. A sizable pike block, but in more modern fashion, a kind of hastily prepared tercio supported by rows of musketmen on all sides. The front block of musketeers was moving to form a three-row volley line. Roughly thirty muskets firing fresh and all at once. They were still too far away yet to hit even with powerful ZBs, but soon, very soon…

“Can I help?”

Despite all that had happened in the past two hours, Denise’s voice startled him. He turned abruptly and saw her there, standing in the same clothing she had worn the night before when they had found her standing, shaking and in shock, near her Dvorak. “Denise! Why are you here?”

“I want to help.”

Christian shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Are you well? Have you recovered from last night?”

“What are you, my nurse?”

She asked the question with a smile on her face, as if in jest. Christian then realized just how much like Isaac he sounded. I haven’t released you from my care… “Denise, with respect, I really don’t think…”

She climbed into the wagon. “Too bad. I’m fine, I’m here to help. Give me a pistol. I know how to shoot.”

“Where’s that little pistol you had in your hand last night?” he asked.

She thumbed behind her. “I left it and my reload in the Dixie Chick. I ain’t going to go get it. It wouldn’t last long anyway, and besides, I won’t be flying for a few days at least, and I’m bored sitting around in that tent of yours. The action is right here, right now. Give me a pistol.”

Christian shook his head. “You can’t fire a ZB Santee.”

“Why, cause I’m a girl?”

“No,” he said, checking the spyglass again to see the enemy progress. Getting close… “Not because of that, but because the kickback is too strong. With respect, Denise, your arm is too small, too thin.” He hefted his pistol to show her its weight and size. “It’s likely to damage your wrist for sure if you try to fire it.”

“Why? The weight of the pistol will absorb most of the recoil.”

“That’s true. But look at the size of your hand. If you don’t have a good grip on it…” He frowned. “It’s hard to shoot that gun with a small hand without hurting yourself. I know. I’ve seen it happen. And that’s all we need: a pilot with a broken wrist.”

“Fine!” Denise said, crossing her arms in anger, just like his sister used to do when they were young. “Give me something else to do, then.”

There was no further time to argue about it. Christian looked through the spyglass once more. “Ready arms!” he shouted, his voice cracking, his throat growing soar. “Wait for my command!

“Very well. Help the men bring ammunition to the line. They’re going to hit us with everything they’ve got in about two minutes. Can you do that?”

Denise smiled and saluted. “Yes, sir, Captain, sir.” She jumped off the wagon with clear excitement and sense of purpose on her face. And she began to sing.

“Every little thing she does is magic…”


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