by David Drake
“Once there was a mighty king, who ruled broad lands. His minister read the king’s plans for the coming year, and went to his lord.
“‘Lord,’ the minister said, ‘I see you spend millions on soldiers and forts and weapons, and not one senthavo to lighten the sufferings of the poor.’
“‘Yes,’ said the king. ‘When the revolution comes, I will be ready.’”
A color-party of the 17th Kelden Foot was forcing its way through the press toward him; Ehwardo sighed with relief. He smiled down at the councilors, and tapped a finger alongside his nose.
“A wise man, my great-uncle,” he said, grinning. “Vayaadi, a vo, Sehnors.”
The narrow forest lane was rutted even by Military Government standards, but the ground on either side was mostly open, beneath huge smooth-barked beech trees ten times taller than a man. Green gloom flickered with the breeze sighing through the canopy, but it was quiet and very still on the leaf-mould of the floor. The two companies of the 5th were spread out on either side of the road in platoon columns, moving at a brisk lope; the Skinners trickled along in clumps and clots around them, ambling or galloping. Three field-gun carriages followed the soldiers, with only half the usual six-dog teams; despite that they bounced along at a fair pace. The moving men started up a fair amount of game; sounders of half-wild pigs, mono-horns, a honking gabble of some sort of bipedal greenish things that stopped rooting for beech-nuts and fled with orange crests flaring from their long sheeplike heads and flat bills agape.
Luckily, there were no medium-to-large carnosauroids around; those were mostly too stupid to be afraid, although there was nothing wrong with their reflexes, bloodlust or ferocious grip on life even when mangled. Killing one would be noisy.
Sentinels with the shoulder-flashes of the 7th Descott stepped out from behind trees.
“What’ve you got for me, Lieutenant?” Raj asked their officer, pulling up Horace in a rustle of leaves.
“Seyor,” the man said, casting an eye at the Skinners who kept right on moving as if the sentry-line did not exist. “Major Gruder’s got a pig farmer for you.”
“Took a while to get someone who could understand him, General,” Kaltin Gruder said. “I think he’s giving us pretty detailed directions to those holdouts.”
The peasant—swineherd by profession—had an iron thrall-collar around his neck and a lump of scar tissue where his left ear should have been. His long knife and iron-shod crook were the tools of a trade that took him into the woods often, and his ragged smock and pants and bare calloused feet wouldn’t have been out of place in most villages in the Civil Government.
Raj listened closely to the gap-toothed gabble. The language problem was a little worse than he’d anticipated. Spanjol and Sponglish were very different in their written forms and grammar, but the most basic terms, the eight hundred or so words that comprised everyday speech, were quite similar: blood in Sponglish was singre and in Spanjol sangre, for instance, quite unlike the Namerique blud or Skinner zonk.
The trouble was that neither the local peasants nor most of his soldiers spoke the standard versions of their respective national languages. When a Descotter trooper tried to talk to a Crown Peninsula sharecropper, misunderstanding was one of the better alternatives. Starless Dark, some of his Descotters had trouble in East Residence!
“Yes, that’s what he’s saying,” Raj said after a moment. There was an icy feeling behind his eyes, more mental than physical, and the mouthings became coherent speech. “They’re about . . . ten klicks that way. There’s a valley . . . no, it sounds like a collapsed sinkhole. ‘Many’ of them—at least two thousand guns, I’d say. Possibly twice that; I doubt he can count past ten even barefoot.”
Kaltin ran a hand through his dark bowl-cut hair. “Lucky thing I didn’t go in with only the 7th,” he said. “I thought I’d been running into an awful lot of empty manors.” He looked up sharply. “If he’s telling the truth, of course.”
probability of 92% ±3, Center said.
“He is,” Raj replied flatly. “Let’s see exactly where.” That was an exercise in frustration, even when they brought in others from the circle of charcoal-burners and swineherds. They were eager to help, but none of them had even heard of maps; they could describe every creek and rock in their home territories—but only to a man who already knew the area that was their whole world.
“All right,” he said at last. “It’s about three hours on foot from here; call it ten kilometers. There’s a low range of hills; in the middle of it’s a big oval area, sounds like fifteen to thirty hectares, of lumpy ground with a rim all around it and a stream running through—it’s limestone country, as I said. The axis is east-west. Natural fortress. Only one real way out, about two thousand meters across, on the eastern side of the oval. Evidently some native bandits—or rebels, depending on your point of view—used it until this man’s father’s time, then the Brigaderos finally hunted them down and hung them.”
As he spoke, Raj sketched, tracing over the projection Center laid on the pad; training in perspective drawing was a part of the standard Civil Government military education, and he had set himself to it with unfashionable zeal as a young man.
Kaltin whistled through his teeth as he looked at the details. “Now that’s going to be something like hard work, if we want to do it quick,” he said. “Plenty of cover, lots of water, getting over the edge just won’t do much good, not with all those hummocks. And if they’re determined—well.”
Which they would be, having refused the call to surrender. The problem with making examples was that it worked both ways; having looked at the alternatives, these Brigaderos had evidently decided that at seventh and last they’d rather die.
In which case they were going to get their wish.
“Then we’d better move quickly, before they have a chance to get set up,” he said, with a slight cold smile. “We certainly can’t afford to take a week winkling them out, or bringing up a larger force. The garrison in Lion City might sally if we did—four thousand trained men, and far too mobile for my taste if we let them loose.”
Kaltin raised an eyebrow. “You think there’s enough of us?” Slightly over six hundred in the 7th Descott, two companies of the 5th, and the Skinners. “For storming a strong defensive position, that is.”
“Oh, I think so. Provided we’re fast enough that they don’t realize what’s happening.”
“Can we get the guns in there?”
“We can try; it’s open beech forest for the most part, nearly to the sinkhole area. I’m certainly bringing those. Take a look; the ship missed us in Port Wager and pulled in here a few days ago.”
Raj nodded toward three weapons on field-gun carriages, standing beside the rutted laneway. Kaltin looked them over, puzzled. At first glance they were much like the standard seventy-five-millimeter gun. At second, they were something very different.
“Rifle-barrels clamped together?” he said.
“Thirty-five of them, double-length,” Raj said. “Demonstrate, Corporal.”
The soldier threw a lever at the rear of the weapon, and a block swung back horizontally, like the platen of a letterpress. Another man lifted out a thin iron plate about the size of a book-cover with a loop on the top. The plate was drilled with thirty-five holes, and an equal number of standard eleven-millimeter Armory cartridges stood in them.
“Dry run, please,” Raj said.
The crew inserted an empty plate; the gunner pushed the lever sharply forward and the mechanism locked with a dunk sound. He crouched to look through the rifle-type sights, spun the elevation and traverse screws, and turned a crank on the side of the breech through one complete revolution. A brisk brttt of clicks sounded. Then he threw the lever back again; the crew repeated the process another four times in less than thirty seconds.
“Three hundred and twenty-five rounds a minute, with practice,” Raj said. “I know it works—that is, it’ll shoot. Whether it’s as useful as appearances suggest, the Spiri
t only knows and experience will show. I’m certainly not counting on it this time, not during the field-test, but it can’t hurt.”
Kaltin whistled again. “Turning engineer, Messer Raj?” he said. That would be beneath the dignity of a landed Messer and cavalry officer, but Raj’s eccentricities were legend anyway. “No, a friend suggested it.”
provided schematic drawings suitable to current technological levels, Center corrected pedantically. after correcting certain design faults in the original.
Thank you, Raj thought.
you are welcome.
“It looks handy,” the other officer said appraisingly. “No recoil?” Cannon bounced backward with every shot and had to be manhandled back into battery.
“None to speak of, and it’s less than a quarter the weight of a field gun. Muzzaf had some of his innumerable relatives run it up—in Kolobassia district, but out of the way. We’re calling it the splat-gun, from the sound.”
The other man nodded; that southwestern peninsula was one of the primary mining and metalworking areas in the Civil Government.
“Don’t tell me you got the Master of Ordnance to spring for this,” he said.
The last major innovation had been the Armory rifle, nearly two hundred years before. The Civil Government quite literally worshipped technology—but technology was what the miraculous powers of the UnFallen could accomplish, flying faster than sunlight from world to world and inspired by the indwelling Spirit of Man. Ironmongery did not qualify.
Raj’s grin grew savage. “Tzetzas paid for it,” he said. “I used some of the surplus we got from his estates when we sold him back his rotten hardtack and waste-dump bunker coal.”
He turned back to the map. “Let’s get to work.”
Hereditary Major Elfred Stubbins bent to look through the telescope. One of his neighbors was an amateur astronomer, and had imported the thing from East Residence at enormous expense years ago; most thought it mildly disgraceful, even religiously suspect—wasn’t the Spirit of Man of This Earth alone? Why look at a heavens which held only the Outer Dark? Stubbins considered himself an up-to-date and broad-minded man, able to both read and write. He had remembered the instrument when his neighbors met in hasty conclave to plan their flight to the Crater, and it was proving very useful. Clumsily, his sword-calloused hands turned the focusing screw.
A man leaped out at him, brought from two thousand meters to arm’s length. Round and brown and button-nosed, with a tuft of scalplock on the crown and bracelets of brass wire up the forearms. The rifle he balanced across a bronze-shod shooting stick was a joke, longer than the man aiming it. What in the Outer Dark was—
CRACK.
The fifteen-millimeter bullet drove the narrow final segment of the telescope four inches into Stubbins’ brain. He pitched backward onto the gritty surface of the limestone block, limbs thrashing like a pithed frog, beating out a tattoo on the dusty stone. Men exploded from all around him, to stand staring as the body stilled, lying spread-eagled with a four-inch stub of tattered brass protruding from one eye-socket
CRACK. A man’s head splashed away from the monstrous sauroid-killing bullet.
The Brigade warriors didn’t need a third prompt. Every one of them was down behind cover within a few seconds.
“What the fuck is happening here?” someone cried. “Is it the civvies?” Kettledrums began beating the alarm in the camps below them where the refugee households had set up.
A few muskets crashed, firing blind towards the hills to the north, then fell silent. The small figures moving out of the low scrub there on the karstic hills were plainly visible, but they were scattered, too far for any effective fire from the rifle-muskets that most of the men carried. More and more of the strangers were strolling forward; not looking in any particular hurry, calling to each other in high mild voices, yipping and hooting.
A Brigade officer came panting up the rocky way; there was a faint path worn just enough to be visible through the thirst-tolerant native vegetation that drove tendrils into the rock. Limestone drains freely; down lower where there was soil, trees grew. Many of them were fruit trees run wild, others spiky red-green Bellevue vegetation. Men had lived here before, the native forest-thieves of a generation ago, before that others from time to time, from century to century. The Brigade fugitives had found scraps of PreFall plastic and ancient charcoal beneath a deep overhang. Troops followed the officer, and further back women with their skirts kirted up and loads in their hands.
“Skinners,” the officer said, as he stoop-crawled around the block Stubbins had used to set up his telescope. A ripple of curses ran along the waiting riflemen; most of them had heard of the tribe, at least. They were childhood boogies among the more northerly of the Brigade.
Another savage crack, and a man who had raised himself to fire slid backward with the top taken off his head the way a spoon does a hard-boiled egg. Freshly exposed brain oozed pink out of the shattered bone and white lining tissue; the limbs twitched for a second, the body hung in equipose, then began sliding further down the slope. Some of the women screamed as it bounced and rolled by, but they kept coming.
“Nomads from up northeast of the Stalwarts, east of the Base Area,” the officer went on, for the benefit of those who hadn’t heard of the Skinners. Few of their raids had penetrated to the edge of Brigade territory, although their pressure was one factor forcing the Stalwarts south.
“Spread out there, and keep your heads down. Adjust your sights for maximum and don’t forget to shorten ’em again when they get closer.”
The men obeyed, as they might not have the retainer of another landowner; the officer was a General’s Dragoon. There was still a snarl in the voice of one who asked: “What’re they doing here? And what are those gawdammit women doing?”
“Coming up to load,” the man called, raising his voice so everyone on the knoll could hear. “We’re going to try and hold these high spots along the crater wall. Three women are going to load for each of you. Remember to check the sights. Shift rocks—they’ll be looking for your powder-smoke.”
“You can’t bring women into a battle zone!” one man protested; a prosperous freeholder by his cowhide jacket.
“Fuckhead!” the officer screamed, frustration suddenly snapping his control. “Fuckhead! D’you think the Skinners will kiss their hands if they get through? They’ll cut their throats and rape the dead bodies, you shit-eating civvie-breed. I’ve fought them before. The grisuh’ve brought them as mercs, Spirit eat their eyes for it.
“All of you!” he went on. “The only way we’re gonna stop them is kill every one of them, because otherwise they’ll keep coming till they blow away every swinging dick in this valley. Get ready!”
The Skinners ambled forward, climbing nimbly over the tumbled whitish-gray rock. Some of them were smoking pipes, and now and then one would stop to adjust his breechclout or take a swig of water from a skin bag. Big flop-eared brindled hounds walked behind them, some riding animals, some with wicker panniers of extra ammunition. Those came forward whenever a Skinner whistled, and the man would grab another handful of the carrot-sized shells. They were firing more often now; a nomad would stop, let the shooting stick swing down, aim, fire, reload, and start forward again in ten seconds or less. Most of them were catching their spent brass and tucking it into belt pouches. A Brigade warrior lurched back screaming with his hands to his face as rock-fragments clawed across his eyeballs from one near-miss.
The women had made it to the top of the trail, scurrying along well below the crestline to take positions below each rifleman before they set down their burden of hundred-round ammunition boxes. The men with them were carrying several muskets each; they used their swords to pry open the lids of the boxes and then handed out the weapons. Many of the women’s palms were bleeding from the rough hemp of the rope handles, and some were crying silently, but they started loading immediately. More slowly than a trained fighter, but there were many of them. Two older women travelled f
rom one clump of loaders to another, distributing small leather boxes of percussion caps they held in a fold of their skirts.
“Let ’em have it!” the officer shouted, as the Skinners came to about a thousand meters, maximum effective range.
Smoke jetted from hundreds of muzzles. Half a dozen of the Skinners were hit, of the hundreds swarming down the slope; some of those rose again. Some of those too badly wounded to rise—even a Skinner could not force a shattered thighbone to function no matter how indifferent to pain—tied rough bandages or tourniquets and started firing from a prone position. The rest of the Skinner force slowed their advance; not from fear, but because this was the optimum range. Their rifles were more accurate than their enemies’, and nearly every Skinner could use his to the limit of the weapon’s capacities.
The Brigade men reached behind for new weapons thrust into their hands, fired, fired again. Any man who raised his upper body for a better shot died, and many who showed only an eye and a rifle-barrel through a crack in a boulder did too. The iron-and-shit stink of death began to hang heavy; bodies bled out quickly when fist-sized holes were blasted through their torsos. Blood sank quickly into the porous rock, turning the surface slick and greasy. Screams and moans from men blinded or flayed by rock-fragments were continuous. The women dragged wounded men backward, and fresh riflemen—many of them boys and white-bearded grandfathers, now—climbed the trail to take their places. After a while, some of the women themselves climbed up to take the spots of men who’d been killed and not replaced. Few of them were as accurate as the men, but the Skinners were much closer now. Everyone could hear them hooting and laughing as they walked forward, laughing and killing with every shot.
The officer who had fought Skinners before lay behind a rock; the tourniquet which had saved his life let only a dribble of blood out of the shattered stump of his left forearm. He kept his head well-down the rock; his face was mud-gray with shock and covered with fat beads of sweat. His lip bled too, where he had bitten it to make himself stay conscious. Four revolvers lay conveniently near his right hand, and his unsheathed sword.