by David Drake
* * *
“Halt,” Kaltin Gruder said, as the rise steepened to twenty degrees, fissured water-rotted rock beneath their feet.
No point in taking the dogs forward further. They were sure-footed, much more so than a hoofed animal, but size and the stiff backbone needed to bear the weight of a man exacted its price in agility. A saddle-dog had to watch its step on going like this, and there was worse ahead. Mice can fall hundreds of feet and walk away; a cat may or may not escape with bruises or break a bone; a man dropped from the same height will almost surely die. A twelve-hundred-pound wardog would splash.
The officers and noncoms passed it down the line verbally; the Brigaderos would probably realize they were here soon, despite the continuous crackle of firing and thick pall of smoke from the far northern side of the crater, but there was no point in advertising with a trumpet-call designed to carry. The action was about three long rifle-shots from the southern rim, and as many more from his present position. The long slopes were thick with scrub oak, chinquapin, and witchhazel, too thin-soiled to support the big beeches that predominated further south. Ahead the scrub thinned to occasional patches dominated by reddish-green native climbers and many-stalked bushes. The slope was also littered with boulders from head-size to twice man-height, almost all the way up to the notched rim that stood like a line of decaying teeth a hundred meters high.
The dogs crouched, and men stepped out of the stirrups and loaded their rifles.
“Fix bayonets.” Rattle and snap, and a subtle change in attitude. There was nothing like that order to drive home that it was about to hit the winnowing-fan. “Company A in reserve. B, C, and D will advance in extended skirmish order, by squads.”
Eight-man squads moved forward cautiously, covered by the next; they took firing positions behind cover and waited alertly while their comrades leapfrogged forward. It was part of the drill, albeit not one used all that often. The dark blue of their jackets and the dull maroon of their pants blended well with the shade and varied colors of vegetation, soil and rock. In a minute or two nothing remained but an occasional glimpse, a stirring of leaves against the wind, or the clink of metal on stone. Back here the lines of dogs waited motionless, the riderless whining softly and staring with fixed attention at the direction their masters had taken.
Kaltin Gruder was nervous. Not about his men’s performance. Even if this wasn’t the most common form of combat, they’d trained for it . . . and they were all hunters at home, skirmishers when they or their squire had a quarrel with the neighbors. His own first smell of powder had come that way, stalking through a maze of gullies and canyons after a sheep-lifter, and you could die just as dead as in a major battle.
What worried him was the loss of control. He couldn’t see more than a few of the men. In most situations a battalion commander expected to keep his whole force under observation, or at least ride around to his company-level officers checking on things. In this scrub even the lieutenants wouldn’t have direct control over their units. Shouldn’t be a problem keeping the advance going unless it got real sticky, no—although he pitied an infantry commander with a job like this. Men didn’t join or stay in the 7th Descott Rangers unless they could be relied on to keep moving toward the sharp end without someone prodding them up the arse. The troops wouldn’t stand for anyone like that, and they had emphatic and very practical ways of making it known.
The other thing that worried him was that his men knew the Skinner attack had got in before theirs. That was fine, keep the barbs’ attention pinned one way, they’d still have men on the south fringe but not as many or as alert. But the Spirit of Man with a nuke in Its hand couldn’t stop Skinners from lifting everything worth taking if they got into the refugees’ stores first. His men wouldn’t endanger the mission for loot . . . but since they were supposed to attack in that direction anyway, he knew they’d move faster than they should. Some of them, and the rest would keep up with their friends.
Everything’s a tradeoff. Soldiers were useless without the will to fight. But men trained to kill and too proud to show fear in the face of fire were never easy to control.
Starless Dark with this, he thought. He certainly wasn’t going to maintain control if they couldn’t see him.
“Captain.” Company A was always overstrength and commanded by a captain rather than a senior lieutenant. “I’m taking the HQ squad forward. You’ll act to prevent a breakthrough if the barbs counterattack, and advance on order or signal”—a red rocket—“or at your discretion after one hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Falcones said with notable lack of enthusiasm.
“Your turn will come, Huan. You men, follow me!”
The signaler brought his trumpet, but he licked his thumb and wet the foresight of his rifle as they moved forward. A crackle of shots broke out, nearer than the slamming firefight along the north edge of the crater. Echoes slapped back and forth from the rocks.
“This way.”
Braaaaaaaap.
The splat-gun to Raj’s left fired. Thirty-five rounds slapped into the Brigaderos rush, and men went tumbling. Only five or six out of nearly sixty, but the rest stopped to shoot back—exactly the wrong thing to do. Bullets cracked through air, dipped leaves from the bushes, sparked and pinged off stones. Few of them were aimed in his direction anyway, and if his luck was that bad he’d better get it over with.
He looked right and left; the two companies of the 5th were advancing in staggered double line, with five meters between platoons. Thin, but he didn’t have very many men with him to cover over a kilometer of front. North and south of that the ground got too rugged for easy movement and the barbs didn’t look to be in any mood for fancy flanking maneuvers; clots and dribbles of them were filtering through the narrower neck of the exit and attacking as they came without waiting to mass. Bad tactics, but they were being squeezed forward toward him like a melon seed between two hard fingers.
“Platoon will advance with volley fire,” the lieutenant of the platoon he had with him shouted, pointing with his saber. The front rank went to one knee, dipping in unison. Their rifles steadied.
“Fire!”
BAM. Greasy gray-black smoke spurted. The spent brass went flying backward as they worked the levers, and the bolts retracted and slid down; one man had a jam, the thin wrapped brass cartridge heat-welded to the walls of the chamber and the iron base torn off by the extractor.
“Scramento,” the trooper muttered, snatching out his boot-knife and ignoring everything around him as he probed delicately to peel the foil away from the steel.
Braaaaaaaap. Another splatgun fired, chewing into the stationary Brigaderos as they frantically bit open cartridges and dumped the powder down the barrels of their rifles. Ramming, withdrawing the rod, fumbling at their belts for a cap . . .
The second rank of 5th troopers walked through the first, knelt, fired.
BAM.
Click. From the first rank. Rounds pushed down the grooves on top of the bolts and into the chamber with the thumb. Clack. Levers pulled back to lie along the stock, the same motion locking the bolts into the lugs at the rear of the chamber and cocking the internal firing pins. They rose, trotted through the reloading second rank, knelt, fired.
BAM.
Braaaaaaaap.
The lieutenant looked up and down the line, where variations on the same scene were happening. Most of the enemy in front of him were still loading.
“Charge!” he shouted.
One of the Brigaderos fired from the hip, his ramrod still in his rifle. By a chance someone who’d never seen a battlefield wouldn’t have believed it speared through the chest of the Descotter charging him. Both men wore identical expressions of surprise, until the Civil Government trooper went to his knees and then his face, the iron rod standing out behind his back. The Brigadero was still gaping when the trooper’s squadmate fired with his muzzle not two feet away. The barbarian flew backward, punched away as much by gasses that had no chance to dissi
pate as by the bullet, his leather jacket smouldering in a circle a foot wide over his belly.
The rest clubbed their muskets or drew swords; the Brigaderos carried bayonets but evidently didn’t much like to use them. The troopers fired again at point-blank range and then there was a brief flurry of butt and bayonet, the ugly butcher’s-cleaver sound of steel parting flesh.
More rifle fire from ahead, from behind a boulder. Two or three men . . .
“Prone!” the lieutenant snapped; he stayed on one knee, as did Raj and his HQ group. “Somebody get—”
Braaaaaaaap. The surface of the boulder sparked and spalled under the impact of another thirty-five rounds. Something hit; a rifle-barrel jerked up over the squarish boulder and stayed there.
“Forward,” Raj said, and then to his trumpeter: “Sound maintain advance.”
Behind them he could hear the ground crunching as the splatgun’s crew manhandled it up at a trot. That solves that problem, he thought; he’d been wondering if the new weapon was more like close-range artillery or small arms. They were best deployed well forward, probably in the gaps between units, to shoot men onto their objectives. Maybe an iron shield on either side of the barrel?
“Mi heneral?” the lieutenant asked, hopping a step to keep up with Raj’s longer stride.
The men were moving forward again, the line of bayonets glittering . . . or in some cases, dull. Nothing ahead for the moment, but the burbling echoes of the firefight in the crater were getting closer. So far they’d seen the ones the enemy had stationed here, or the quickest-witted and fastest on their feet. A serious attempt to force the gap could come any moment.
“Yes?” Raj asked, startled out of a world of lines and distances, alternatives and choices.
“Why are we attacking the enemy, sir? Not that I mind—but wouldn’t it be tactically sound to make them come to us? We’re across their line of retreat.”
Raj looked at the painfully earnest young face. He nodded in recognition; he’d always wanted to know how to do his job better too.
“Son, if we had four or five companies, yes. As it is, we can’t hold this width of front, even with those little beauties.” He gestured back at the splatguns with his revolver. “There are probably still enough of them to pin us down while a lot of the rest get through and scatter into the hills.
“But. We’re not really attacking them, we’re hustling them, they’re bouncing around like bees in a bucket and we’re not going to give them time to sit down and organize a breakout attack. Defeat takes place in the mind of the enemy.” The puppy awe in the young man’s face was embarrassing. “We’ll hold a bit further forward, where the chokepoint narrows.”
“Watch it!”
They crouched slightly, instinctively, and ran forward. There had only been one Brigadero behind the boulder, and a girl loading for him. The man lay dead, slumped back against the stone with his brains leaking down the rough surface. The girl was lying curled on her side, a dagger with a gold-braid hilt and gold pommel sunk to the guard under her ribs. Her mouth was a soundless O, her eyes round and dark as her body shuddered.
Missed the kidney, Raj knew. It might take her some time to bleed out, blood leaking into her stomach cavity like water around a badly packed valve.
“Kicked t’rifle outta her hands, but t’cunt cut belly affore I could stop her, ser,” the corporal said apologetically.
The girl made a small sound; the lieutenant looked at her and swallowed. The older man knew it was because he’d suddenly seen her as a person, not a target, not another barb; perhaps because she’d done pretty much what a Descotter woman would have in her place. Raj moved forward and put his revolver to the back of her neck, squeezing the trigger carefully; even touching was far enough away to miss, if you jerked. The body bucked once, but the sound of the shot was almost lost in the noise of battle.
He looked up. The entrance to the crater was narrowing here, and there was less in the way of large boulders for cover.
“All right,” he said to his runners. “My compliments to Captains Fleyez and Morrisyn, and we’ll hold here—men to take cover. Get that splatgun up here, this is a good position for it.”
The trumpet sounded, and the long line of blue-coated men sank into the ground; hands shifted rocks to give good firing rests and make improvised sangars. The splatgun came bounding up under the hands of its enthusiastic crew, one wheel crunching over the Brigadero woman’s legs before the weapon settled into the depression behind the boulder. That put its muzzle at waist height above the ground.
“Ah, good,” the artillery corporal in charge of it said. He noticed the gold-chased dagger and pulled it out, wiping the blade on the girl’s stockinged leg and checking the metal of the blade by flicking it with a thumbnail before sticking the knife into his boot-top.
Raj moved a few meters to another boulder, sat and uncorked his canteen. “The 7th and the Skinners will drive them to us,” he said, half to himself. From the volume of fire, within a few minutes.
“Drive them to us, sir?” the lieutenant said. “The 7th is finally doing the 5th a favor?” His color was returning, a little.
Raj looked over at the boulder, where the gunners were piling head-sized stones in front of their weapon. They’d tossed the bodies out to have more room; the girl’s long black hair hid what was left of her face.
“Nobody’s doing anybody any favors here today, Lieutenant,” he said. “Nobody.”
“Here theyuns come, tall’s storks n’ thick as grass!”
Kaltin Gruder had a girl on the saddlebow before him when he rode up to the command-station at the exit to the crater. That might have been expected—although it was a bit early for an officer as conscientious as Gruder to be looting, with the odd shot still going off behind him. Except that she was about eight years old, a huge-eyed creature with braided tow-colored hair in a bloodied shift.
“Took her away from a Skinner,” he said, at Raj’s raised eyebrows, his voice slightly defensive.
Embarrassed at impulse of compassion, something as out of place here as a nun in a knockshop, Raj supposed. Feelings were odd things. Antin M’lewis had adopted a three-legged alley cat that spring and lugged it all the way from East Residence.
Gruder shrugged: “Well, Mitchi”—the slave-mistress Reggiri had given him last year—“can use a maidservant, or whatever. There, ah, weren’t many prisoners. Most of the Brigaderos civilians killed themselves before we broke through, when they could tell nobody was getting out.”
Raj nodded. That simplified things for him . . . and for them, come to that, if they felt like that about it. He could understand that, too.
Gruder was looking around at the number of bodies lying in the five hundred meters before the final stop-line the 5th’s two companies had established. A D-shape of corpses, two or three deep in spots, a thick scattering elsewhere.
“Hot work,” he said.
“The splatguns,” Raj said. “We put them on the flanks and had the Brigaderos in a crossfire; they were worth about another company each, in sheer firepower on the defensive.”
Kaltin frowned, stroking the whimpering girl’s head absently. She clung to the cloth of his uniform jacket, although the right-hand sleeve was sodden and streaking her bright hair with blood.
“This was certainly more like a battle than most of what we’ve seen this campaign, Messer,” he said. “I’ve got twenty dead, and as many again badly hurt.”
“Ten from the 5th,” Raj confirmed. Spirit dump Barholm’s cores into the Starless Dark, I told him to give me forty thousand men. Even thirty thousand—
He sighed and rose, swinging into Horace’s saddle. “Let’s see if there’s some wheeled transport for our wounded.”
Chief Juluk was riding up, seven-foot rifle over his shoulder. He looked as if he’d waded in blood, and quite possibly had; one of the subchiefs behind him had managed to cram his body into a ball-gown covered in ruffled lace and had a bearded head tied to his saddlebow by its long h
air. That must have been a brave man, to be worth preserving.
The Skinner looked around at the carnage. “Bad like us!” he giggled. “You one big devil, sojer-man. Bad like us!”
Raj felt his head nodding in involuntary agreement.
no, raj whitehall, you fight for a world in which there will be no men like him at all.
Or like me, he thought. Or like me.
“Lion City next,” he said aloud. “Spirit of Man, I hope they have sense enough to come to terms.”
Kaltin had been trying to disengage the girl’s hands so that he could turn her over to an aide, but she clung desperately and tried to keep him between her and the Skinners.
“What do we do if they don’t accept terms?” he said with professional interest, giving up the attempt. “We’ve nothing that’ll touch their walls.”
“Do?” Raj said. He reached out and touched the girl’s hair with careful tenderness; she buried her head in Gruder’s shoulder. “Anything we have to. Anything at all.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Excellent work, Abdullah,” Raj said.
The maps were sketched, but accurate; street-layouts, the locations of listed merchants’ and landowners’ mansions, the waterworks, warehouses, estimates of food-reserves, number of men in the militia and their commanders. A little of it overlapped with the Ministry of Barbarians’ reports, somewhat more with Muzzaf Kerpatik’s data from his merchant friends, but a good deal was new—particularly the information on the large Colonist community that controlled Lion City’s grain trade. He flicked through; faster than he could read, but Center was looking out from his eyes and recording. He’d have to go over it again; Center’s knowledge was not accessible to him in really useful form most of the time, not directly. Center could implant it; without the learning process it was there, but not understood.