by David Drake
“Colonel Otto Witton,” he said hoarsely.
“Captain Bartin Foley,” the younger man replied in careful Namerique. “This is your regiment?”
Witton laughed, then coughed wrackingly. “What’s left of it,” he said. “The ones who didn’t bug out last night.” He laughed again, then coughed until he retched. “We’re the rearguard, officially.”
Foley touched his lips with his hook. “Colonel, you may be in luck,” he said. “I’m sending back an escort with our walking wounded.” The Brigadero nodded, as aware as he of the other option. “However, there are a few things I’d like to know . . .”
Witton grunted and spat red-flecked spittle into the mud. “Ask away. A brother and a son I’ve lost because that pig-ignorant sauroid-fucker Manfrond bungled this war into wreck, and Teodore Amalson’s whole legacy with it. Outer Dark, Forker might have done better.”
“The Spirit of Man is with General Whitehall,” Foley said. “Now, what we’d like to know is—”
The sound from the edge of the swamp was nearly half a kilometer away, and still loud enough to stun. The form of it was something halfway between a gobbling shriek and a falcon’s cry, but the volume turned it into a blur in the background, like the stones in a watermill. The creature charged before the last notes died. Its body was seven meters long and it had the rangy lethality of a bullwhip. Half the length was tail, and most of the rest of it seemed to be head, split in a gape large enough to engulf half a man’s torso. It was running on its hind legs, massive yet agile, thick drumsticks pushing the clawed eagle feet forward three meters for each bounding birdlike stride. The forelegs were small by comparison, but they each bore clawed fingers outstretched toward the prey. Mottled green scales covered the upper part of its body; the belly was cream, and the wattles under its throat the angry crimson of a rooster’s comb.
The stink of decay had brought it out of the swamps where it hunted hadrosauroids. The target was the three hundred disarmed Brigaderos, and it would plow into them like a steam-powered saw through soft wood. A big carnosaur like this would kill until everything around was dead before it started feeding, then lie up on the kills until the last shred of rotting meat was engulfed.
“Dismount, rapid fire, now!” Foley shouted, his voice precise and clear and pitched high to carry.
A hundred men reacted smoothly, only the growling of anxious dogs making it different from a drill. The first shot rang out less than twenty seconds later. Foley could see bullets pocking the mud around its feet, small splashes amid the piledriver explosions of mud and water each time the three-toed feet hit the ground. More were striking the outstretched head, but a sauroids brain was smaller than a child’s fist, in a large and very bony skull. Then a lucky shot hit the shoulder girdle and bounced down the animal’s flank. It was far from a serious wound, but it stung enough to make the carnosaur think—or to trigger one of the bundles of hardwired reflexes that passed for thought.
It spun in place, tail swinging around to lever it and jaws snapping shut with a sound like a marble statue dropping on flagstones as it sought the thing that had bitten it. That put it broadside-on to Foley’s company, and he could hear the bullets striking, a sound like hailstones hitting mud. Most of them would be brass-tipped hardpoint sauroid killers. The beast swung around again and roared, breaking into a fresh charge. Foley clamped his legs around the barrel of his dog and drew his pistol, aware as he did so that he might as well kiss the beast on the snout as shoot it with a handgun. Ten meters from the firing line—a body length—the carnosaur’s feet stopped working; one slid out in front of it, the other staying behind instead of moving forward for the next stride. The long head nosed down into the soft dirt, plowing a furrow toward them.
The jet-colored eyes stayed open as the three-ton carnivore slid to a halt barely a meter away. The troopers went on shooting, pumping four or five rounds each into the sauroid; that was experience, not nervousness.
Foley quieted his dog, fighting to control his own breathing. He’d done his share of hunting for duty back home in Descott, although he’d never much enjoyed it. But Descott was too arid to support many big carnivores, the more so as the grazing sauroids had all been shot out long ago. A pack of man-high sicklefeet, of which there were plenty, were just as dangerous. But not nearly so nerve-wracking.
“Sorry for the interruption,” he said, turning back to Otto Witton. The Brigadero’s hands were still making grasping motions, as if reaching for a nonexistent gun.
“They ah, they usually don’t—”
“—come so near men,” Foley finished for him. “Except when we make it safe for them by killing each other off.”
Which happened fairly often: one reason why it was so easy for land to slip back into barbarism. Once a tipping-point of reduced population was reached the native wildlife was impossible to keep down. How anyone could think that the Spirit of Man was of this Earth was beyond him, when Man was so obviously unsuited to living here. It probably wasn’t the time for a theological controversy, though.
“Thank you,” the older man said. He inclined his head toward his men, most of them too exhausted even to run when the carnosaur appeared.
“Danad,” Foley said in his native tongue: it’s nothing.
Witton took a deep breath, coughed, and began: “Ingreid’s got about—”
“Ser,” Antin M’lewis said. “ ‘Bout six thousand of ’em, workin’ ter ourn left, through thet swamp.”
Raj nodded, looking southeast. The main force of the Brigade host had shaken itself out into battle formation, although that had taken most of the morning. The countryside here was almost tabletop flat, planted in grain where it wasn’t marsh. There were still an intimidating number of the enemy, stretching in regular blocks from one end of sight to another, but they were advancing very slowly. Noon sun cast back eye-hurting flickers from edged metal and banners, but there was a tattered look to the enemy formations even at this distance.
“Is it my imagination,” Gerrin said, focusing his binoculars, “or are they even slower than usual?”
“One-third of them aren’t mounted any more,” Raj replied.
They both grimaced; scouts had found charred dog bones in the Brigaderos’ campfires, the last couple of days. That was not quite cannibalism, but fairly close for a nobleman bred to the saddle. The enemy might be barbarians, but they were gentlemen of a sort. It probably came no easier to them than it would to either of the Descotters, or to any Messer.
“Well, we’ve cost them a day,” Gerrin said.
“Indeed. Grammeck, stand ready to give them a quick three-round stonk when they get in range, then pull out.
“Jorg.” Raj raised his voice slightly; Menyez was on his long-legged riding steer, and the beast liked dogs no better than its master. “Get the infantry back, mounted and moving.”
“We’ll backpedal?” Staenbridge said.
Raj shook his head. “Take the cavalry, loop over and have a slap at that flanking column,” he said. “M’lewis, you and the Forty Thieves accompany. We’ll cover your flank. Don’t push unless you take them by surprise; if you do, run them into the marsh.”
Gerrin nodded, tapping on his gauntlets and watching the Brigade army. “Maybe it’s my classical education,” he said, “but don’t you get a sort of unfulfilled feeling at winding up a campaign without a grand climactic battle?”
“I certainly think Ingreid would like to go out in a blaze of glory rather than lose to runny guts and no rations,” Raj said. “Personally, it’s my ambition to set a new standard someday by winning an entire war without ever actually fighting. This one, you’ll note, is not over yet.”
The five thousand Civil Government troops along the gunline stood, turned and marched smartly to the rear as the trumpets blared. They were not exactly on a ridge, this terrain didn’t have anything worthy of the name, but there was a very slight swelling. Enough to hide the fact that they’d mounted and ridden off, rather than just countermarching
and ready to reappear as they’d done half a dozen times.
“And it’s only another week to Carson Barracks,” Raj said.
“Ten days, if Ingreid doesn’t speed up,” Gerrin replied. “See you at sundown, mi heneral.”
Raj stood for a moment, looking at the advancing army. Waste, he thought. What a bloody waste.
He didn’t hate Ingreid Manfrond for resisting. Raj Whitehall knew that it was absolutely necessary to reunite Bellevue, but the Brigaderos didn’t have his information. You couldn’t blame the Brigade’s ruler for wanting to defend his people and hang onto his position. It was the man’s sheer lack of workmanship that offended Raj.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“General.”
Cabot Clerett’s salute was precise. Raj returned the gesture.
“Colonel.”
They walked into the tent and sat, waiting silently while the orderly set out watered wine.
“A first-class encampment,” Raj said.
It was: right at the edge of the causeway that carried road and railway to Carson Barracks, and hence commanding the canal as well. Clerett had dug the usual pentagonal fort with ditch and bastions, but he’d worked a small Brigadero fort into one wall, making the position very strong. It smelled dismally of swamp and the stingbugs were something fierce, but the men and dogs were neatly encamped, drainage ditches and latrines dug, purifying vats set up for drinking water. He’d made it larger than necessary, too; with some outlying breastworks, it would do for the whole force at a pinch and as long as they didn’t have to stay too long.
“However, Ingreid should be here in about a day or so,” Raj went on.
Cabot leaned forward. The past few months had fined down his face and added wrinkles to it as well; he looked older than his years now, stronger, more certain of himself.
Not without justification, Raj thought grudgingly. It had been a daredevil campaign, but apart from the recklessness of the concept quite skillfully managed. The man could command.
“And we’re between him and his capital!” Clerett said, striking the table with his fist. The clay cups skittered on the rough planks of the trestle, which looked as if they’d been salvaged from some local stable. “We’ve got him trapped.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” Raj nodded. “Or you might say that he’ll have us between his field army and the garrison of Carson Barracks, who together outnumber us by about five to one.”
Clerett’s hand clenched on the table. “I consider it absolutely essential,” he said, his voice a little higher, “to maintain my force in its present position. If Ingreid gets behind the fortifications of Carson Barracks, he can bring supplies in through the swamp channels, or move troops out—it could take years to complete this conquest if we were to allow that.”
“Reconquest,” Raj said, sipping some of the sour wine and looking out the open flap of the tent. “It’s a reconquest.”
The sun was setting over the swamps, red light on the clouds along the horizon, shadow on the tall feathery-topped reeds. The milk-white fronds dipped and billowed across the huge marsh, tinged with blood-crimson. Above them the sky was darkening to purple.
“You consider it absolutely essential?” he went on. Clerett nodded curtly, and Raj smiled. “Well, then it’s fortunate I agree with you, isn’t it, Colonel?”
Clerett nodded again, looking away. He still needed to do that, not experienced enough to hide his expression completely. “I’ve been in correspondence with Marie Manfrond—Marie Welf, she prefers—since I got here last week,” he said neutrally.
“Excellent; so have I. Or rather, so has Lady Whitehall.”
“Suz—Lady Whitehall is here?” Clerett asked. His hand tightened on the cup.
“Indeed. So we’re aware of the supply situation in Carson Barracks.” And I hope she’s not aware of dissension in our ranks, Raj added to himself. Maintaining psychological dominance over a proud and intelligent barbarian like Ingreid’s unwilling wife was difficult enough.
Clerett cleared his throat. “What about Ingreid? I’ve got about a week’s supplies.”
“I’ve got three days. Ingreid doesn’t have a supply situation . . . but he’s a stubborn fellow, and he may be learning. We wouldn’t want to have him move north up the Padan and entrench in Empirhado or one of the riverport towns.”
Clerett shook his head. “No more sieges,” he agreed.
“Well.” Raj stood. “I’d better see to settling the main force,” he went on. “If you’d care to join us for luncheon tomorrow, we could settle plans.”
There was something pathetic in the way Clerett thanked a man he hated for the invitation.
“I hope you’re feeling well,” Raj said.
Teodore Welf looked from Raj’s face to Suzette’s, to the Companions grouped around the table. The Expeditionary Force was digging in outside, and this inn at the head of the causeway had been selected as the praetorium at the center of the encampment.
“Thank you, Excellency,” he said. “The dog-litter wasn’t too uncomfortable, and the ribs are healing fine. The priests say I can ride now.” His arm was still in a cast and strapped to his chest, but that was to be expected. “Although at the rate I’ve been going this past year, my skeleton is going to look like a jigsaw puzzle.”
Raj nodded; broken bones were a hazard of their profession. “I’ve brought you here to discuss a few things,” he said. Young Teodore had talked a little with him, rather more with Ludwig Bellamy and some of the Companions, and Suzette had ridden by his litter a good deal.
He nodded at the pile of letters before the Brigadero noble. “You can see your cousin Marie doesn’t think much of Ingreid Manfrond’s stewardship.”
Teodore nodded cautiously, running his good hand through his long strawberry blond hair. “I may have made a mistake supporting Manfrond for General,” he admitted. “In which case the marriage was an . . . ah, unnecessary sacrifice.”
“Let’s put it this way,” Raj said. “Ingreid Manfrond came at me with rather more than a hundred thousand fighting men—about half the home-levy of the Brigade, and the better half. Right now, between disease, desertion and battle, in the siege and the retreat, he’s down to about forty-five thousand, all starving. While we’re stronger than we were when we started.”
Teodore nodded, tight-lipped. Raj went on: “Now, let’s say Ingreid has the sense to retreat, heading for the north or even the Costa dil Orrehene in the far west. He’d be lucky to have twenty thousand by the time he reached safe territory where I’d have to let him break contact. Personally I think every man with him would die or desert before then. But say he did, and raised another hundred thousand men, stripping your garrisons in the north. That’d be the last of your fighting men this generation. Do you think he’d do any better in a return match?”
Teodore hesitated for a long moment. “No,” he said finally.
Center’s grid dropped down around the young man’s face, showing heat distribution, capillary flow, pupil dilation.
subject teodore welf is sincere, probability 96% ± 2.
“Ingreid Manfrond isn’t the only noble of the blood of the Amalsons,” Teodore said. Beads of sweat showed on his forehead, although the evening was mild.
Raj nodded again. “There is that,” he said. “But honestly now, could any of the likely candidates—could you, for example—do more than prolong the war even more disastrously for the Brigade—given the situation as it now exists?”
The pause was much longer this time. “No, curse you,” he said at last, his voice a little thick. “Ingreid’s tossed away the flower of our strength and handed you half the Western Territories on a platter. The south and the coastal cities will go over to you like a shot; there are hardly any Unit Brothers down there anyway. We’d end up squeezed between you and the Stalwarts and Guard to the north and ground into dogmeat. It might last one year, maybe two or three, but that’s it.”
subject teodore welf is sincere, probability 91% ±3,
Center said. high probability of mental reservations to do with period after your departure.
Teodore sighed and relaxed in his chair. “Anyway, I don’t have to worry about it anymore, Excellent Heneralissimo.”
Raj grinned, a disquieting expression, and jerked his chin toward the door. “On the contrary,” he said. “Outside there is a saddled dog, with that priest of your household on another. This,” he slid a paper across the table, “is a safe conduct through our lines.”
The blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Your terms, Lord Whitehall?”
“No terms,” Raj said, spreading his hands. “I make you a gift of your freedom. Do with it what you will.”
The Brigadero picked up the paper and examined the seals, gaining a few seconds time. “How do you know I won’t advise Ingreid to resist and tell him what I know of your dispositions?” he said.
“I don’t,” Raj replied. “But I’m fairly sure of your intelligence . . . and your regard for your people.” Also of your hatred of Ingreid and regard for the fortunes of the House of Welf, but let’s be polite.
An orderly came in with Welf’s sword-belt. The weapon was in its scabbard, the flap neatly buckled over the butt of the revolver opposite it. Teodore stared at him wonderingly as he stood to let the man buckle it about him. Then his face firmed, and he made a formal bow.
“Messer Heneralissimo, Messa Whitehall, Messers,” he said, and turned on his heel to walk out into the gathering darkness.
“That was a bit of a risk,” Jorg Menyez said soberly.
“About a nine-tenths’ chance I’m right,” Raj said. He looked around at the Companions and his wife. “And now we can expect another guest.”