Tamas began to sprint to the west, fueled by adrenaline and the powder of the battle. Already, he could see the damage. There were countless cuirassiers inside the line of defenses. Some of the Ninth had already begun to flee, running deeper into the camp or throwing themselves into the river.
The cuirassiers pressed hard on the southwestern corner. The defenses had all but collapsed, except for a small knot of men. Tamas recognized General Cethal on horseback. Even as he caught sight of the general, Cethal’s horse was pulled down.
Tamas came up short. He stamped the butt of his rifle on the ground and shouted to be heard.
“Line, form!”
Olem fell in beside him. To his left and right, soldiers of the Seventh stood shoulder to shoulder.
“Load!”
Rifles and muskets were quickly loaded.
“Aim!”
His men brought their weapons to their shoulders.
“Fire!”
The Seventh fired above the heads of the milling members of the Ninth. A slew of cuirassiers fell from their horses.
“Bayonets, forward!”
The “aim and fire” had given the rest of the Seventh time to fall in behind him. Tamas now had an infantry wall six lines deep, bayonets bristling. They marched forward, lockstep. Soldiers of the Ninth fell in or were pushed aside. He aimed his line directly toward where he’d seen General Cethal fall.
They encountered the heavy cavalry thirty paces later.
Cuirassiers locked in combat had lost their greatest weapon — the charge — but they had some advantages over dragoons. They were armored, providing protection against bayonets, and their heavy sabers were more effective against armed infantry.
“Hold the line!” Tamas ordered as his men began to bring down cuirassiers. They stabbed and slashed, putting the men and horses down before stepping past them and continuing the push.
Tamas spotted General Cethal through a break in the fighting. Cethal was on the ground, twenty paces away. His face and hands were bloody, his saber raised above him. A dismounted cuirassier knocked Cethal’s sword to one side and thrust with his own.
Tamas broke his formation, charging between two men on horseback. The cuirassier above Cethal drew his sword back and thrust again. Cethal’s body twitched.
The cuirassier didn’t even see Tamas.
Tamas’s bayonet entered the spot beneath his arm where the straps of his breastplate met. Tamas rammed the bayonet in deeper, pushing it until the barrel of his rifle was soaked in blood. He pushed a final time and let go of the rifle, throwing himself to his knees at Cethal’s side.
Cethal stared back up at him in horror, his hands crimson with his own blood.
Tamas heard the clash of swords and Olem’s challenging yell, but they all seemed distant to him.
Cethal had been stabbed at least four times through the chest and stomach. His hands were covered with countless cuts, and his face was a mess. He blinked at Tamas through the blood.
“My boys,” he gasped, “they broke.”
Tamas took Cethal’s hand in his and squeezed.
The ultimate betrayal. Your men breaking and running, fleeing around you.
“You didn’t,” Tamas said. “You stood.”
“I’m not a coward,” Cethal said. “Bloody Beon. Never seen cuirassiers so nimble. They danced between the trench and our… our fortifications.” Cethal rammed his empty hand into one of the wounds in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. “You stop the dragoons?”
“We did.”
Cethal drew in a sharp breath. “Don’t be hard on my boys. I wanted to… to run, myself. Damned cuirassiers.” He blinked again. “You find Beon and…” He coughed, and cleared his throat. “… give him my regards. That was a bloody fine bit of horsemanship.” He pulled his hand out of Tamas’s and used it to try and staunch another wound. “Go on. Men need you. I’ll be… fine.”
Tamas stripped off his coat and put it beneath Cethal’s head. He stood up. His line of infantry had passed him and pushed on. He wrenched his bayonet out of the cuirassier’s body and ran to catch up.
The heavy cavalry had fallen back. All but a handful had been unhorsed, and those had turned tail to flee. One by one, pockets of Kez cuirassiers surrendered.
He caught sight of the last of the fighting. His soldiers pressed in, presenting a wall of bristling bayonets to the remaining Kez. Tamas shouldered his way into the melee, and was not the least bit surprised to find Beon at the center of it.
Beon’s helmet was gone. His breastplate hung off him by one strap, and the side of his cheek had been laid open. He favored one arm. Beside him the last of his bodyguards was run through and thrown to the ground. Beon stepped back, hair soaked with blood and sweat, and threw down his sword.
“I surrender,” he said loudly. “We surrender.”
One of the Adran soldiers stepped forward. He cocked his rifle back and aimed his bayonet at Beon’s neck.
Tamas could stand it no more. The blood. The neglect of mercy. He dashed forward and grabbed the soldier’s rifle by the hot muzzle and thrust it aside.
“He said,” Tamas proclaimed loudly, “that he surrenders.”
