18

The first shots from both sides were fired, more of a statement than anything else; for once, because the Russian guns on the hills near the southern valley began firing long before the British heavy cavalry, slowly trotting forward, could be within range, and also because the Russian Cossacks for quite a long time remained incredibly immobile, starting a lethargic advance only when their opponents were already halfway through.

Lord Lucan was speechless, and could not fathom the reason for such an insensate behavior, that would have allowed his horsemen to engage just a stone's throw away from the guns. Turning his gaze towards his right, towards the hills where the 93rd and the Marines were posted to cover the village, he could almost see them laughing under their moustaches, thinking of the easy victory awaiting them.

"How on Earth are they thinking?" the Lord asked himself. "Are they just giving the battle away to us?"

The soldiers stationed in the redoubts on the hill didn't react to the British movements either, perhaps not guessing the intentions of the Allied infantry that followed the cavalry a few dozen yards' away; this at least until, in an almost surreal calm, only broken by the horses' trotting, from the main Russian camp a flare was fired.

At that signal, hurriedly but in good order, the soldiers swiftly went down the summit of the enbankments, showing what they had been ordered to hide with their presence like a curtain that revealed the scene behind it.

Lord Raglan turned white as sheet, being perfectly able to see what the Russian general had been capable of hiding right under his nose, and at that point it was too late to try and do something.

"Fire!" someone barked.

Right after that, a long series of not too loud explosions echoed all around, showing the presence of a huge number of guns inside the conquered redoubts. And not just any guns.

"They captured our mortars!" thundered Lord Raglan.

However, with no little surprise, from the hill came no grenades nor shrapnel, but rather huge clay spheres, so fragile and hurriedly built that, despite the small quantity of powder used to lit the fuzes, were all covered in cracks.

And indeed, some broke while still in flight, while others instead loudly exploded as soon as they touched the earth between the still advancing horsemen, revealing on the inside a brown substance emitting a strong, sweetish smell, that ended up attached on the soldiers and the horses like glue, annoying and sticky, but at first glance completely harmless.

"But what is this stuff?" protested Lord Lucan's companion in the charge, General Scarlett, covered himself like all the others by that sticky sludge.

"Looks like honey." replied Lucan, recognizing the smell. "And pine resin."

"Are they hoping to stick us to the ground? Fools!"

That said, and with no further ado, Scarlett took command of his first-line regiment, that, gathering speed, gained a few yards from the main body and began to charge.

"Hold, you fool!" his commander tried to dissuade, but that hothead was already too far-gone.

Despite the mass of more than three hundred horsemen that was coming towards them like a landslide, the Cossack cavalry commanded by the young woman surprisingly kept its slow pace, and in the meantime the available space to charge on their own was becoming smaller and smaller.

The distance between the two formations diminished even further, and at one point even the British units coming up to the rear went faster, if nothing else to not lose too much ground from those hotshots in the van.

Scarlett was so sure of himself and of his men's strength that he disregarded anything else, starting from the own nature of his opponent; because the Cossacks were not just extremely accomplished horsemen, but men able to recognize their own horse's hoofs in the middle of a herd at full gallop.

Like ghosts emerging from beneath the Earth, all of a sudden a few Cossack horsemen on foot came up from a bunch of bushes at the bottom of the hill, armed with torches that immediately turned to the ground.

Tongues of fire literally erupted from the minuscule but deep grooves filled with vodka just as the riders at the head of the column, Scarlett among them, was above them; and while theoretically it was nothing particularly dramatic, the poor wretches unable to stop in time were immediately transformed into human torches, crying out their loud and harrowing pain before they fell to the ground with their animals, under the shocked and helpless eyes of their fellow soldiers.

"We can't go any further!" something shouted before that two yards' worth of blueish ardent tongues. "With this flammable shit we have on, if we touch that we end up aflame just like that!"

In the British camp everyone was dumbfounded as fell, with Lord Raglan that almost fell off his horse.

"Great Lord..."

A completely different reaction was generated in the Russian commands, despite an equal amount of shock.

"I can't believe it!" Liprandi said. "They stopped!"

"It's almost unbelievable!" said his attendant. "Who knew that the British heavy cavalry could be halted by so little!"

"The Dragoons are disciplined and valiant soldiers." said Katyusha with a strange smirk. "But even the best trained soldiers is, at the end of the day, a man still. And I have yet to know of a man who doesn't piss himself when faced with the idea of burning up."

In the meanwhile, the second and third line under Lucan had stopped as well, and tried to reform as much as possible; but they weren't allowed the time for that.

Like demons coming from Hell, the Cossack riders came from behind the smoke and the flames in a charge, slamming like a rushing torrent against the shocked and absolutely unprepared first line.

The Scots Freys, confused and taken by surprise, were literally cut to pieces; the Cossacks walked all over them as if they were a carpet, cutting down enemies without stopping or slowing down, since the Scots were so traumatized that many of them didn't even have the time to realize what was happening. And to the confusion terror was soon added when a few Russian horsemen began to show bottles covered in flaming rags, that, thrown at the feet or even against the enemies, torched them instantly, filled as they were of vodka and ethyl alcohol.

Under Nonna's command, the Russian cavalry steamrolled the British first line, and after less than a minute the few survivors ran away as fast as they could, ending up against their own colleagues in the back line in the desperate attempt to get to safety.

Lucan and his men were so shocked and dumbfounded that they made almost no move, attempting a half-hearted counter-charge that had the mere result of causing the clash to be less dramatic; but that did little to mitigate the terrible impact that the Cossack horsemen had on his soldiers, some of which were literally thrown from their saddles from that thousand or more worth of devils.

However, perhaps even against the predictions of Nonna herself, the enemies held their own. After all, they were the elite of the British cavalry, and, after the first moment of confusion, the Earl's men regained a bit

of order with a bit of difficulty, beginning a furious hand-at-hand clash with the Russians.

Despite their effort, though, it was apparent that the British could not hold up for very long, especially because from the redoubts the mortars kept launching those jards filled of flammable substance against the back lines, making them inviting targets for the Russian horsemen armed with those bottles.

"Quick!" Lord Raglan roared. "Royal Marines and the 93rd, support the cavalry at once!"

"But, My Lord." said Sir Airey, his Quartermaster. "If we do that, the village will be undefended."

"To the devil with the village! If we don't do something, tonight we won't have cavalry! And order the 21st, shut down those infernal mortars!"

Leaving the cavalry, already engaged in full combat, without the infantry's support was, to say the least, a gamble, but Major Walcott's 21st was the closest to the hill and to the redoubts from which fire kept raining down with no pause.

As soon as the aide delivered the order, the Major immediately ordered his men to break formation and climb up the hill, leaving the lone 17th Regiment of Major Anderson the task of supporting the horsemen.

At the same time, both the Marines and the 93rd Highlanders abandoned their respective positions and began advancing quickly but in close rank towards the end of the valley, covered as much as possible by the small caliber guns that the Marines had with them.

The 21st then began the climb, disturbed as much as possible by the ill-disciplined and evidently poorly trained Russian infantry defending the redoubts, whose troops would have likely missed a bull's privates with a cricket bat.

That bunch of farmers loaned to the army tried its best to repel the British advance against their redoubts and the mortars, that in the meantime had managed to rain a bit of liquid on the heads of the Marines and the 93rd as well, but when they realized that it was pointless to try and stop them they immediately ran for it.

"They're falling back!" Walcott yelled. "C'mon, lads, forwards!"

Drawing all the strength they could muster for their legs, the regiment's soldiers climbed the remaining half of the hill rather quickly, and then split in three groups, each going for one redoubt.

The Major himself led the charge to the westernmost redoubt, and against his prediction from that moment on not a single shot was fired, allowing his men to easily climb the enbankment and rush inside.

The redoubt was deserted, and the guns abandoned.

Nobody could be seen.

A haunting calm reigned, and a deathly silence. In the air, still heavy with the smoke of the fuzes that lingered the inside courtyard like fog, the distinct sweet smell of that substance could be recognized; eager to run away as fast as they could, the gunners had probably thrown to the ground the jars that they were carrying, whose content was now forming a small stream flowing on the irregular terrain.

The soldiers who followed the Major looked around in disbelief, and if they hadn't known that there was resin mixed with it, the thirst and fatigue would have likely make them fall to that rather inviting smell.

Amidst that strong smell and the stench of gunpowder, the Major found rather normal to sense something burning. A strange crackling noise that hissed in that silence, barely sensible, made him turn his head towards a pile of stuff hurriedly covered with a tarp.

Almost shivering, his arm went and lifted a flap, and in the moment in which he and the others noticed a fuse's flame making its way between a pile of small, dark barrels, even his prepared soldier's reflexes failed for a second too late, under the shock.

"Everybody out of here!" he managed to yell, before a storm of fire engulfed him.

Lord Raglan and his staff saw the hull become a volcano, ravaged by three distinct explosion that in a single moment wiped out, together with the redoubts, almost all of the 21st as well, creating a pitch black cloud that rose against the sky, blotting out the sun.

The shockwave ran through the whole battlefield, while the noise deafened everybody on the hill lucky enough to survive. But it was a short-lived survival indeed; because, as the hill was still burning, the Russian soldiers who had earlier withdrawn showed up from behind the smoke.

No formations, nor coordinated maneuvers; just an unstoppable horde of madmen who, screaming at the top of their lungs, ran like hell down the hill like a human wave, overwhelming what was left of the 21st and going for the end of the valley.

The British cavalry, barely able to defend itself, was also barely able to see them coming; the 17th, in a ragtag formation, fired two salvoes, with no reply in kind, but those devils incarnated were so widely dispersed that almost no shot reached its target.

The Russians on their side did not fire, not as a unit at least; from time to time, somebody stopped and fired blind for the middle, but most of them held onto his show until the two units furiously clashed, engaging hand-to-hand. The consequence was that almost no British man at that point had his bullet loaded, while the Russians were able to liquidate the first opponent that showed up, in a situation where one had to try hard to miss.

And in this whole mess the Russian soldiers kept screaming with everything they had, throwing themselves in groups of four and five against a single enemy, disregarding any and all rule or obligation. Many wielded their rifle like clubs, but to compensate for that anyone who found himself in trouble was almost always joined and helped by a companion; without taking into consideration that, for the most part, the Russian foot soldiers towered over their opponents in height and build, like bears before a frightened child.

Lord Raglan and the others helplessly assisted to the view of their army being outflanked and pinned down, disintegrating into many gaggles that desperately tried to fight back, a few trying to turn the tides of the battle, others merely to try and stay alive.

The General felt his stub turn into a fiery pad, perhaps tightening the sleeve pinned to the tunic.

"My reinforcements! Where are my reinforcements!"

On the other side, Katyusha was laughing herself silly, while around her Liprandi and the others were still trying to make sense of what they were looking at.

If on one side many were having a hard time accepting the idea that the General was making such a cavalier and dangerous use of her infantry, treating it like mere cannon fodder, on the other hand they could not believe that a bunch of hastily trained rookies were outmatching such expert and veteran soldiers like the Redshirts.

"Our soldiers may well be farmers used to toil and bleed for a plate of carrots, or to duke it out with wolves and bears to hold on tight to the few sheep that my father does not take for himself with his taxes." Katyusha smiled, guessing what her counselors were thinking. "But if you get a thousand angry and determined farmers and throw them down the side of a hill, there's no discipline nor training able to stop them."

Only one person in the British formation was not negatively traumatized by what was happening.

From his privileged position, Russel watched with his own eyes as the disciplined and deployed British army went completely topsy-turvy. In a matter of minutes, a small girl that believed herself a general had crushed a hundred years' worth of glorious British military history, and at least three centuries' worth of the way of conceiving a battle.

"Mr. Russel, what are you doing?" said his guard, as he saw him jump on horseback.

They tried to stop him, but it was no use, and a few moments later they saw that madman launching himself towards that hill like a candidate for suicide, his costly reporter's toys making a perfect peacock's tail on the back of his horse.

Several horsemen had been thrown off their saddles, and by now the battle was largely being played out on foot.

Not that being on horseback was of much help in that mess.

The Russian infantrymen were little more than an army of gorillas thrown against a target, but the Cossacks were true demons, whose capability to remain on the saddle and butcher enemies with precise cuts was nothing short of prodigious.

It was hardly surprising that they were feared and object of legends in the whole Eastern Europe.

"Don't scatter!" Lucan kept yelling. "Close ranks!"

Around him a small picket of soldiers still on their horses had formed, and they were still fighting doggedly, but all around it was nothing but madness.

Any strategy or intent had no more meaning, trying to survive was what mattered.

Just a few yards away, the infantry was faring no better, under pressure from all sides by the Russian soldiers come from the hill, and from time to time charged by the Cossacks to inflict further damage and lowering their morale more and more.

Realizing that staying there to be butchered was pointless, Commander Campbedd thought appropriate to order the survivors of the 93rd to withdraw; then, well protected by a wall of fire, and without showing their backs to the engagements, the Scots retreated to their starting position, deploying in a long, thin red line at the top of the hill from where they had come.

Noticing them, Ryzhov took with him part of the cavalry and, leading them, went along the ridge, sure that they could be easily overwhelmed with a quick charge.

"What is that idiot doing?" Katyusha snarled.

Unfortunately, a platoon of Highlanders was not the kind of opponent one should underestimate. With no apparent emotion, and standing tall on their feet, the Scots awaited till the last minute.

"Fire!" Campbell ordered at last.

The fire was quick and precise, and with the Cossacks almost on top of the line formed by the Scottish infantrymen almost all bullets found their mark, causing a considerable number of killed and wounded.

The second and third group tried the same thing, but all three times the results was the same, and in the end Rhyzhov had little choice but to sound retreat, before his unit ended up decimated.

The scene was noticed, not without discouragement, by the Russian high command.

"That hill seems impregnable." said Liprandi.

"Not for long." Katyusha coldly replied.

Just a few minutes elapsed, and from their vantage position Campbell and his men watched over a rather unusual situation.

Even if a small one, a mortar could easily weigh no less than six hundred pounds, and that was why an animal hauling was almost always necessary.

In India and in South East Asia, however, there was a millennia-old method, that, through the creation of special supports formed by thin wooden beams placed together to form a net, allowed to distribute even huge weights on a considerable surface; if to this was added the proverbial pace of the Korean and Japanese porters, with the rhythm kept by staffs, that was how a respectable gun could be carried here or there on the battlefield even faster than it would have been possible with mules or carts.

The men of the 93rd saw then a small detachment of Russian foot soldiers dropping five mortars right at the bottom of their hill, and the mere thought of what had seen happening just half an hour earlier to the heavy cavalry made their blood run cold, especially considering that many of them were already covered in flammable liquid that awaited only a spark.

"Don't fall back." Their commander admonished them. "We are too high and too far to be hit! Hold tight!"

And in fact, something was shot; but not what Campbell and his men were awaiting.

Having loaded the mortar, the Russians threw at them a huge leather sack, that, breaking against the ground, let loose some kind of white powder, so thin that it long remained in the air before falling down.

"What kind of game are they playing at?" the commander asked himself, almost annoyed.

Lots of that stuff was fired, three or four per minute, and in a little while the whole hull was covered by that dense white fog.

The main consequence was that the 93rd ended up completely blind, since what was going on around them, save for the battle noises, was barely visible, and that stuff was so thick that one could barely see just a little further than his own rifle.

A proper situation for a surprise attack.

"In formation! Close ranks!"

The soldiers immediately formed a square, aiming their weapons in each direction.

For a moment, to that small group of men it seemed as if they had come to the edge of the underworld itself, with the noise of the battle raging down there that was doing nothing but covering the arrival of potential attackers.

"To the left!" somebody screamed.

A moment later, like the Headless Horseman of the legends, a shadow came from nothing, neatly decapitating a soldier; somebody tried to fire, but by that time the ghost had already disappeared in the god, and everybody considered it better to keep his bullet for more concrete threats.

Campbell was doing his very best to keep his self-control, but he was nervous himself, to say the least, because of that surreal situation.

Nervously, he wiped that annoying dust off his face, and, just as another ghost showed up again to kill one more of his soldiers, the sight of his whitened hand froze his blood.

"Don't shoot!" he yelled, as he had never done, just in time to stop a pair of men with their trigger finger already twitching. "This is flour!"

Now it was clear.

And everybody, literally everybody, almost wet their pants at the thought of what would have happened if a simple spark had been let loose.

Forced into immobility, with an opponent that could be anywhere, and with those damned horsemen who came from everywhere, cutting down the least attentive ones and disappearing before they could be bayoneted at, the tension rapidly rose to an alarming level.

And at that point, it took just the least disciplined and stable of the group, deceived by a shadow that probably only existed in his head, to provoke the tragedy, allowing his finger to curl just a tad too much.

Just as the ignition sparked to life, a true firestorm engulfed the whole hill; the flame in itself wasn't anything memorable, disappearing after a few moments, but it was more than enough to ignite the combustible in which the uniforms were still drenched with.

Almost all the components of the 93rd took fire instantaneously, and the few ones that managed not to be reached by the flames were quickly reached and slaughtered by Ryzhov and his men.

Just then Liprandi and the others understood; understood that their commander was winning a seemingly hopeless battle using the only weapon against which no defense existed, capable to defeat anybody , if used in the right way.

"Fear kills more than the enemy." Katyusha grinned, in a way that almost scared Liprandi and the others.

At the sight of that added tragedy, and with the enemy apparently on the verge of breaking through, Lucan was close to ordering a dramatic retreat, well aware that it would have meant an almost sure defeat.

All of a sudden, bagpipes echoed in the valley, driving everyone to turn in a single direction; just a few seconds passed, and from behind the hull on which the British headquarters stood two English and one French infantry divisions appeared, with the Duke of Cambridge and General Vinoy at their head.

"There they are, at last!" Raglan let out.

Lucan's reaction was much more colorful and vehement.

"The reinforcements!" he bellowed, throwing his cap into the air. "The reinforcements are here!"