Smoke smothered Harr's section of the line before the sun had even climbed above the ridge, and it never let up. Six or seven enemy groups pressed the stakes at once, spread across every stretch his regiment defended. Spearmen and axemen shoved wherever they found weakness, while crossbow bolts came in from three different directions instead of one.
The line no longer behaved like a line. It had turned into dozens of smaller fights, each one decided by whichever side could force its way through first.
The riflemen had loaded and fired so many times since dawn that none of them could have counted the volleys. Their hands showed it. Knuckles were black with powder. Fresh blisters had split through old calluses where ramrods had worn the skin raw.
Somewhere farther down the earthworks, a man kept shouting range corrections. His voice had gone so ragged half the words tore apart in his throat before anyone could make them out.
