by David Drake
“At a quick walk,” he said to Staenbridge. “Try out your Namerique, Gerrin. Captain Hortez—” one of the Descotter officers he’d posted to the 2nd Cruisers as company commanders “—tell the men to fix bayonets, load and shoulder arms. Sling their helmets.” That would show their barbarian haircuts and coloring. “Follow me.”
The towers bulked ahead, squat pairs on either side of the gate joined by a bridge over the arch itself, making the gateway into a huge block of masonry twenty meters high. There were lights there, one above the gate itself, another over each tower door on the rear. Not many lights inside, because the troops would be peering out at the encircling army and wouldn’t want to destroy their night vision. The door to each tower was half a story up, with a staircase leading to an arched door wide enough for two men. Those were open, with soldiers lounging on the stairs.
Gerrin’s company peeled off to the right. Ignore them, Raj told himself. Nothing he could do, and if he couldn’t count on Gerrin Staenbridge he didn’t have a single competent man with him and might as well die anyway. . . .
Closer. The soldiers were in General’s Dragoon uniforms. Damn. He’d been hoping for city militia, but High Colonel Strezman had done the sensible thing. Certainly what Raj would have done, were he holding a city whose leaders had publicly considered surrender. He was willing to bet the other three gates were in the hands of Brigaderos regulars as well.
His mouth was dry with the running. He worked it to moisten it, concentrating on marching. Not stiff, just a company of soldiers going where they were told to, with the easy swing of men who’d done the same thing a thousand times before and would again. Really not much light, only a single kerosene lamp over the doorway, far too little to see details. The civic militia wore dozens of different outfits or their street-clothes according to whim and the depth of their pockets, so the distinctive Civil Government uniform might pass, would pass until it was too late.
“Whir dere ko?” a man challenged in Namerique. Who goes there? A young man’s voice, probably a noncom. Strezman would be stretched thin, watching his putative allies along kilometers of city wall and keeping a big enough reaction force ready as a reserve.
The men at the gate scooped up their dice and stood, buttoning their jackets. They reached for their weapons, not concerned, just veterans’ reflexes.
“Captain of Guards Willi Kirkin,” Raj said.
His Namerique had something of a Squadron accent, and he let the harsh syllables roll across his tongue. There were quite a few Squadron refugees serving as mercenaries among the household troops of the magnates of Lion City.
The other man’s reply sounded nervous, which was to be expected after the riot of the previous evening.
“What’re you doing here, then, southron? Halt. Halt, I said!”
“Ni futz, greunt,” Raj went on in a bored voice. Don’t get upset, trooper. “The Colonel thinks the grisuh may try something tonight, and we’ve been sent to reinforce the gate. Better us than those chicken-hearted civvies.”
Raj was at the foot of the stairs. He pulled a piece of folded paper from his pocket. Time slowed as the corporal reached for the note, then got his first good look at Raj’s face. His beardless, brown-tanned Descotter face, with the cold gray eyes like slitted ice under the brim of the bowl helmet.
The young Brigadero had only a ginger fuzz on his own cheeks. His eyes were green and very wide. They bulged as Hortenz’s pistol bullet took him under the angle of the jaw and snapped him around like the kick of a plow-ox.
“Go!” Raj screamed.
His shoulder hit the door to the tower as his hand came clear of the holster with his revolver. Raj was no gunman, no pistol-artist, just a fair-to-middling shot. The sword had always been his personal weapon of choice, and with that he was very good.
There was a ready room beyond the door, with five men in it—three sitting around a plank table playing cards, another two lying on benches. A grid flashed over Raj’s vision, and the outline of one man glowed. The man with the pistols already nearly out of the holsters strapped to his thighs as he surged backward from the table. The one good enough to fill the doorway with bodies while his comrades rushed to swing the iron-strapped teak closed again.
A green dot settled on the man’s chest as Raj swung the pistol toward him. The weapon bucked and roared, and the gunman’s chest blossomed with a red flower exactly where the dot had rested. Dust puffed from the gray-green cloth around the impact point, the man was falling and Raj wheeled. The dot slid across a face. Crack, echoing within the stone walls. An eye erupted. On a neck. Crack. Arterial blood spouted against the whitewashed wall and ceiling as the brigadero spun. Against ribs. Crack. Another man had rolled behind a bench, fumbling with the hammer of his rifle. Crack through his pelvis.
The hammer clicked twice more by reflex. Raj staggered for a moment, wheezing in the fetid air through his mouth: he had ample strength and speed for that three-second burst of gunplay, but the skill was as much beyond him as a circus juggler’s talents. The first kill’s body was still twitching in a great pool of spreading blood. The men on his heels hesitated for a second, awe on their faces.
“Go, go,” Raj ordered, over the moaning of a dying Brigadero.
His hands clicked open the revolver, dumped the spent brass, reloaded. Hortenz dashed by, through the ground-level door to secure the first floor of the towers and the exterior gunslits. Another squad of 2nd Cruiser riflemen went past to the staircase in a bristle of bayonets, behind a lieutenant. Raj tossed his revolver into his left hand and drew his sword with his right. One part of his mind was still shuddering with the icy feeling of . . . otherness, of being a weapon, pointed like a rifle by a directing hand. He’d use the trick again if he had to, as he’d use anything that came to hand. That didn’t mean he had to like it.
The stairs were a narrow spiral, almost pitch-black. Iron hobnails and heel-plates gritted and clanged on the stone, from the squad ahead and the men following close behind. It would be a great pity if he slipped and toppled back onto their bayonets. The thought twitched at the set grin that rippled his lips back from his teeth. Gunfire crashed ahead of him, red muzzle flashes blinding in the dimness. Men shouted; he kept going past the door, past the tumbled bodies of Brigaderos and a trooper of the 2nd. All the enemy bodies had multiple bayonet wounds; the 2nd had learned to make very sure of things.
“Get those charges up here,” he shouted down.
Men came back into the stairs, their rifles slung and their arms full of linen powder-bags for the light swivel guns on the second level of the tower; one of them had a coil of matchcord around his neck. Remember that face. That’s a sergeant, if he lives. More gunfire slapped at his ears, echoes bouncing through the narrow corridors, screams, shrieks of fury and fear and raw killing-lust.
“GITTEM, GITTEM!” That was his ex-Squadrones forgetting themselves, giving the Admiral’s war shout.
The stair gave out at the third-story landing. Only a ladder led above to the top of the tower; he snapshot, and a man tumbled down it and halted halfway, his legs tangled in the rungs. Blood spattered across Raj’s face. He stepped aside, swearing mildly to himself, and let the next dozen or so behind him take the ladder without pausing, ripping the corpse free and bursting out onto the tower roof. More followed, including an officer; he could hear orders up there, and then a staccato volley.
“Quick,” he said to the man with the charges.
The door opening right into the rooms above the arch of the gateway was barred. Raj thrust his pistol into the eyeslot and pulled the trigger; there was a scream, and somebody slammed an iron plate across it. The cloth bundles of gunpowder tumbled at his feet.
“Good man,” Raj said “Now, pack them along the foot of the door, in between the stone sill and the door. Cut them with your knife and stick the matchcord—right.” He raised his voice; more men were crowding up the stairs, some to take the ladder and others filling the space about him. “Everyone down the corridor,
around the corner here. Now!”
The quick-witted trooper and he and another lieutenant—Wate Samzon, a Squadrone himself—played out the cord and plastered themselves to the wall just around from the door. The matchcord sputtered as it took the flame. Raj put his hand before his eyes. White noise, too loud for sound. He tensed to drive back around to the door—
—and strong arms seized him, body and legs and arms.
“Ni, ni,” a deep rumbling voice said in his ear. “You are our lord, by steel and salt. Our blood for yours.”
Lieutenant Samzon led the charge. A second later he was flung back, hands clapped to the bleeding ruin of his face, stumbled into the wall and fell flat. The men who followed him fired into the ruins of the door and thrust after the bullets, bayonets against swords, as their comrades reloaded and fired past their bodies close enough for the blasts to scorch their uniforms. When they forced through the shattered planks the men holding Raj released him and followed them, with only their broad backs to hold him behind them.
The only Brigaderos left in the big rectangular room were dead, but the troopers of the 2nd Cruisers were still looking terrified—of the winches and gear-trains that filled the chamber. A year ago, anything more complicated than a windmill had seemed like sorcery to them, and some had screamed with fear at their first sight of a steam engine. They’d gotten over that, but they had to do something with these machines, these complex toothed shapes of black iron and brass.
Raj knew fortifications and their ancillary equipment from years of study. “You, you, you,” he said crisply. “Take that maul and knock those wedges loose. Pull those lockbars out—those long iron rods through the wheels with the loops on the end. The rest of your squad, grab that crank and get ready to put your backs into it. Those winches too.”
The inner gates were not held by a bar across the leaves. Instead, thick iron posts ran down from this chamber through loops on their inner surfaces into deep sockets set in the stone beneath, covered with wooden plugs when the gates were open. Toothed gearwheels raised and lowered the massive posts, driving on notches cut into their sides. Metal clanked and groaned as the troopers heaved at the crank-handles. Winches running iron chains lifted the portcullis into a slot just in from the channels for the bars. The chain clacked over the drums, making a dull ringing as the great iron gridwork rose over the tunnel way.
“Ser!” A panting trooper with the 5th’s shoulder flashes. “Colonel says they’ve got the outer gateway.”
Which was controlled from the right-hand towers, as this inner one was from the left. Raj nodded curtly and stepped out of the chamber, calling up the ladder to the top of the tower:
“Two white rockets!”
General assault, all around the circuit of the walls. Back inside the lifting room, gunfire blasted, needles of pain in the ears in such a confined space. A duller explosion followed.
“Shot through the door,” the sergeant of the platoon said, as Raj returned. “It started to open.”
He nodded to the door at the outer side of the room; that would give to the middle section of the arch over the gate, a series of rooms above the roadway where the murder-holes gave onto the space below. It was wood and iron; there were lead splashes on the planks and frame where the soft hollowpoint bullets had struck—they had terrible wounding power but no penetration. The brass-tipped hardpoints had punched through, and then an explosion from the other side had buckled the whole portal.
“Thought they was goin’ to chuck a handbomb through,” the sergeant said. A few of his men were down, wounded by ricochets from their own weapons. “Must’ve gone off in their hands,” he went on with satisfaction.
Raj nodded. “Get those prybars and open the door,” he said. “Quickly, now.”
They’d have to clear out the men there, or the troops coming through the tunnel would get a nasty surprise. Gerrin would be working his way in as the men under Raj’s command worked out through the line of rooms over the tunnel.
And it was time he checked on Ludwig. Now that the focus of concentration was relaxing a little, he could hear a slamming firefight going on out in the plaza. No point to the whole thing if the Brigaderos broke through to the towers before his men got here.
* * *
“Prepare to receive cavalry!”
The company commander was down with a sucking chest wound, and Ludwig Bellamy was doing his job as well as trying to oversee the battle.
The Brigaderos cavalry were charging again, straight down the street. It was wide, by Lion City standards, which meant they were coming in six abreast and three ranks deep. The front rank of 2nd Cruisers knelt with their rifles braced against the cobbles and the points of their long bayonets at chest height. Two more ranks stood behind them with rifles levelled. It seemed a frail thing to oppose to the big men on tall dogs that raced toward them, the shouting and the long swords gleaming in the pale moonlight—but the pile in front of the position gave the lie to that: dead men and dogs lying across one another in a slithering heap.
Once Ludwig Bellamy had believed that nothing on foot could stand before brave men charging with steel in hand. Messer Raj had disabused him of that notion, him and what was left of the Squadron.
The charge slowed at the last instant. War-dogs were willing to face steel, but their instincts told them to crouch and leap, not impale themselves in a straight gallop.
“Fire!”
The sound crashed out, like one giant shot impossibly long and loud. The muzzle flashes lit the dim street with a light as bright as a red day for an instant. It lit the edges of the Brigaderos swords and the fangs of their dogs like light flickering from hell. A hundred heavy eleven-millimeters bullets drove into the leading rank of the charge. All of the first mounts were struck, most of them several times, and the muscular grace of the wardogs turned to flailing chaos in a fraction of an instant. Half-ton bodies cartwheeled into the barricade of flesh, or dove head-first into it if they had been brainshot, as several had. The sounds of impact were loud but muffled. Few of the men had been shot, but they parted from their tumbling animals, arcing to the pavement or disappearing under thousands of pounds of writhing flesh.
Their screams were lost in the sounds of the wounded dogs. One came over the bodies, its hind legs limp and with an empty saddle, dragging itself up to the soldiers. It was still snarling when two bayonets punched through its throat.
“Reload!”
The Brigaderos in rear ranks had managed to halt their dogs in time. They tried to come forward at a walk, levelling their revolvers. Men fell in the front rank of the Cruiser line as the pistols spat. Behind him a shout rose, and rockets soared from the gate towers.
“Fire!”
The Brigaderos turned and spurred their dogs, turning aside into alleys as soon as they could. Behind them was a solid block of dismounted dragoons, filling the roadway from side to side and coming on at the quickstep. The 2nd Cruiser lieutenants shouted:
“Prone, kneeling, standing ranks.” The first line of men propped their rifles over dead Brigaderos and dead wardogs. “By platoon sections, volley fire, fire.”
BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
The enemy raised a shout and charged, rifles at the port, leaning forward as if against rain. Men from the rear ranks pushed forward to fill the gaps each volley blasted, and they came on. Not pausing to fire until they were close, not when they loaded so much more slowly.
“This is it, boys—they’re going to run over us or die trying. Make it count, aim low. Fire!”
BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
Bellamy skipped back to view the rest of the action. Holding the roadways into the plaza wasn’t too much trouble, no—but it tied down too many of his men. Even with all five hundred, minus Company A, he wouldn’t have enough to hold the whole perimeter of the plaza, and Strezman was sending in everything he had. More than three thousand men, coming through the houses and mansions around the square, firing from windows and rooftops. Ignoring everything else to retake the mai
n gate before the assault force reached the wall.
Just what Messer Raj told me he’d do.
Any second now he’d have to pull back to prevent his men being overrun in detail. How long a battalion line would last in the open against five times its numbers the Spirit alone knew.
They’d last as long as they lived.
“Damnation to Darkness,” Raj swore softly.
Cannon were going off all along the walls of Lion City, shaking the stone beneath his boots. But raggedly, and fewer than he would have thought. A lot of them could see the open gates, and more could see the glare of fire shining from the gate-tower windows, or hear the firing from within the walls.
The room with the winching material was full of smoke; powder-smoke, and from the barricade of burning furniture the holdouts were defending one room in. Wounded men were coming out of the door, and more troopers of the 2nd Cruisers forced their way toward the action. His eyes watered and he coughed as he leaned out the slit window, but the breath of air on his sweat-sodden skin was like a shock of cold. So was what he could see. The bulk of the 2nd Cruisers were withdrawing across the plaza toward him, backing three steps and volley-firing, backing again; the stuttering crash of their rifles carried even over the cannonade from the walls. Their line had bent back into a C-shape as Brigaderos swarmed after them, thrown into confusion by their passage through house and alley, but attacking relentlessly despite gruesome casualties.
The light was bad and his eyes were watering, but he could see the battalion flag of the 2nd Cruisers in the center of the bowing line. The enemy were pressing in, a reckless close-range exchange of slamming volleys that no troops could stand for long. The ex-Squadrones’ rate of fire was much higher, but there were so many of the enemy. Their firepower was diffuse, but it was enormous in relation to the target, and they were swarming around the flanks. In minutes the 2nd would be forced to form square, and hundreds of enemy troops would pour past them to hold the gate. And the gatehouse was still not clear.