The curs' size varied greatly. Most were slightly smaller than a human. Some were quite a bit smaller. With a gray tick on their shoulders, even the small ones formed a fearsome fusion of species that was taller than a human. The ticks hung on with their legs, while their arms usually held a long knife in each hand.
A few curs were considerably larger than humans and they tended to carry an extra large tick. These were usually Guldur officers and it was just such a creature that rose up in front of Melville as he raced forward.
Melville didn't hesitate. Muttering "Front sight, front sight!" to himself, he thrust his right pistol forward. The Guldur were still disoriented by the sudden blast of the cannon. The ones who had survived needed just a split second to adjust themselves to what happened. Melville was determined not to give them that split second. Tempo, tempo, tempo. The momentum of the attack was everything.
He superimposed the pistol sight over the enemy's throat, brought the front sight briefly into focus and thumbed the Keel charge. <
Regardless of how it sounded, it placed a high-velocity .50 caliber ball precisely up through the top of the cur's throat, shattering the base of its skull, traveling on through and slamming into the chest of the tick on its back. Guldur were notoriously hard to kill, but no creature survives a bullet to the base of the brain. The cur crumpled back like a toppled statue. Its tick went down with it, a miniature parody of its Guldur mount, arms spread wide and face turned upward as it fell.
The ease with which he dispatched this huge enemy officer was reassuring to Melville. He continued to take each of his three remaining pistol shots with calm precision as he moved swiftly forward. <
He had a vague impression of Corporal Kobbsven's great sword slashing red havoc among the enemy ranks to his left, and Josiah and the dog weaving an intricate network of red death to his right. What was the dog's name? Melville thought. How odd to think of that question now!
All around him the sailors and marines of the Kestrel fought in swirls of blue and red jackets. Most of them had fired both barrels of their muskets early on in the battle. They were now little more than pikemen, fighting with their bayonets.
Around their feet the ship's dogs snapped and bit, confronting the ticks that tried to attack and infiltrate the battle line down low to the deck. Beside them were the ship's boys, also joyfully gutting ticks, and hamstringing and "neutering" the curs with their razor-sharp knives.
There were even a few ship's cats mixed into the melee. Greatly distressed, irked, outraged cats. The ship's cats never participated in boarding parties, and seldom participated in combat at all. Their job was to control the rats, mice, cockroaches, and the other, alien, critters that tried to hitch a ride on the Ship. Now they found themselves mixed into a boarding party and they didn't like it. Not one bit. The ship's dogs and boys responded to the battle with their customary boisterous, gleeful spirits.
Immediately behind Melville, Petreckski was performing his usual, splendid dance, emptying his pistols and then turning to precision sword work. Many times throughout the battle Melville saw a sword blade dart under his arm or beside his head to strike home into the enemy. Once it even darted out from between his legs and into the groin of the enemy in front of him. A macabre phallus of death. It never occurred to Melville to worry that the blade might harm him. He knew that this blade was guided with superb skill and speed, and it was dedicated to keeping the path in front of him clear.
Also behind him were the midshipmen, each with a double-barreled pistol in each fist. One of them was wounded even before crossing to the Guldur ship, and another fell with a musket ball in the head as soon as he crossed. But the remaining four were still behind him, including all three of those who had landed on Broadax's world. Periodically they took shots with their pistols. Shots carefully chosen to aid and protect him. Having the young middies shoot from behind him was something that concerned Melville and he reminded himself to have Petreckski take charge of their pistol marksmanship training in the future. Assuming there was a future.
As Melville and Petreckski fought with their swords, their left hands were usually back behind them in a fencer's stance. As the middies' pistols ran dry their job was to reload, and then place the loaded, cocked pistols into Petreckski and Melville's outstretched left hands. Periodically during the battle, Melville and Petreckski gained added momentum when a double-barreled pistol was suddenly slapped into their hand.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter
Stand savagely at bay:
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"
Well, he was no "Astur," or any other hero of ancient legend, but Melville's sense of duty did put him at the forefront of the battle, in the most dangerous position, so that he could "clear the way." That didn't mean that he had to do it stupidly. His best fighters, Gunny Von Rito, Corporal Kobbsven, and Josiah, were to his left and right. Petreckski was immediately behind him, and the middies were also lending their assistance. The net effect was like the vanguard of a military attack, supported by artillery and the covering fire of all the units behind him. Even his monkey seemed to be adding its two bits, as it gibbered madly and flailed its belaying pin around with amazing speed and agility.
Archer and Crater had a special task in this attack. These two senior midshipmen had each been issued a powerful flashbang concussion grenade, to be used if the attack stalled. These terribly expensive devices were one of the Kingdom of Westerness' most closely guarded secrets. They were powered by a little piece of Keel contained in a special lining. The concussion and flash contributed by these devices wasn't much of a "secret weapon" but it was the best that Westerness could do, and it could make a critical difference if used correctly.
The momentum of the attack bogged down as the enemy forces mustered and met the warriors of Westerness in a solid line to the left and right of the mainmast. These curs and ticks were fresh, and organized two deep. The Westerness boarders were beginning to tire, and they weren't able to get their superior numbers into play along this straight line.
Melville was hard pressed. He was dodging blows from his enemy's sword and from the short sword of the tick on the cur's shoulders, although his monkey seemed to be helping a lot with this latter threat. Immediately behind this foe was another cur with a long boarding pike, thrusting and stabbing at Melville in a very proficient manner.
He considered calling for a flashbang . . . if he could just get a free second! Then one sailed over his head. Behind him the four middies began to chant, "ONE-thousand!, TWO-thousand!, THREE-thousand!, FOUR-THOUSAND!" On the last count there was a sudden flash and a loud "BLAAMM!" behind the enemy's line. There was a heartening chorus of yelps, and for one split second the enemy was surprised, stunned, and distracted. Even after that effect passed, the enemy remained slightly cowed and dismayed.
In the early twenty-first century, some obscure pioneer in the field of warrior science introduced the concept of the Bigger Bang Theory. "In combat, all other things being equal, whoever makes the bigger bang will win."
Napoleon said that, in war, "The moral is to the physical as three is to one." That is, the psychological factors are three times more important than the physical factors. One of the most important of these "moral" or psychological factors is noise.
In nature, whoever makes the biggest bark or the biggest roar is most likely to win the battle. Bagpipes, bugles, and rebel yells have been used throughout history to daunt an enemy with noise. Gunpowder was the ultimate "roar." It had both a "bark" and a "bite." First used as fireworks by the ancient Chinese, later in cannon and muskets, gu
npowder was a noisemaker that provided sound and concussion. Concussion is felt and heard, and gunpowder also provides the visual effects of flash and smoke. Often a gunpowder explosion, or its drifting smoke, can be tasted and smelled. Thus gunpowder provides a powerful sensory stimulus that can potentially assault all five senses.
This is one of the primary reasons why the early, clumsy, smoothbore, muzzle-loading muskets replaced the longbow and the crossbow. The longbow and the crossbow had many times the rate of fire, much more accuracy, and far greater accurate range when compared to the early smoothbore muskets. Yet these superior military weapons were replaced, almost overnight (historically speaking) by vastly inferior muskets. Inferior at killing, that is, not inferior at psychologically stunning and daunting an opponent.
Back on Old Earth, in the incredibly violent world of the early twenty-first century, the police forces often encountered criminals who would surround their houses with dozens of vicious dogs. The police tactical teams found that the best way to counter this problem was with a flashbang concussion grenade. One of these, tossed into the yard, seemed to "take the fight right out of them." It was like the dogs were saying, "Whoa! That's some bark you got there, fellow. I give up." The men of Westerness had hoped that, if they ever went to battle against the Guldur, the effect of a concussion grenade might be the same.
In two-space it was very difficult to get a true concussive explosion. The Keel charge of a 12-pounder did make a significant noise, especially when the cannonball slammed into your Ship's hull. But it was nothing like the concussion, flash, and smoke that a gunpowder weapon of similar size can create. Rifles and pistols in two-space provided significantly less noise than an equivalent gunpowder weapon. So the wise men of Westerness, steeped in the lore of warrior science, were determined to find something that would provide a true concussion effect in two-space. The result was the flashbang.
On the deck of the Guldur Ship the curs were surprised by the flashbang, but every Westerness warrior was cocked and primed to strike on the middies' count of "FOUR THOUSAND!" Every warrior within reach of the enemy thrust home a blow at the instant immediately after the explosion. Melville cut down and left to deflect the pike, using the recoil from that blow to deliver a powerful backhand slash that decapitated the cur in front of him.
And out the red blood spouted,
In a wide arch and tall,
As spouts a fountain in the court
Of some rich Capuan's hall.
As the cur's blood fountained upward into the face of its tick, Melville continued the sweep of his sword, bringing it around and to the right. He stepped in and to the right of his headless foe, before the body could even fall. The Guldur with the boarding pike still held his weapon on the other side of the corpse, which was now crumpling to its knees. Melville was completely free to thrust his sword up and to the left, into the torso of the cur with the pike.
Melville was vaguely aware of the fact that Kobbsven and Von Rito, to his left, and Josiah, to his right, were having similar success. Kobbsven's mighty sword was threshing Guldur like wheat. His huge size, his terrifying strength, the awful pallor of his face, and his way of foaming at the mouth, all made him a dreadful incarnation of berserker rage.
Von Rito still fought with only his ancient fighting knife. Gunny Von Rito had been the Westerness Marines' primary trainer in hand-to-hand combat, and he had demonstrated that, one-on-one, a man with a knife would defeat a man with a bayonet more than nine-out-of-ten times. The gunny practiced what he preached, and his fighting knife combined with Kobbsven's huge claymore to form a long-range, close-range team that was a joy to behold. All along the battle line the curs' defense was giving way and the boarding party again began to move forward.
At that instant, Melville also became aware of Fielder and the men from the cutters hitting the enemy in the flank. Initially they took them silently from the rear. Fielder demonstrated extraordinary ability at lopping off heads from behind, slaying many of them before the enemy even knew he was there. When the enemy finally began to turn to face this new threat, he combined excellent sword work with supernatural pistol skill. He's a consummate bastard thought Melville briefly, but he's also one hellacious pistol shot.
Fielder seemed to be truly peeved. No, he was flat pissed off, and was now screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs. He'd always been a bully, a cad and a bounder. At heart he knew he was a coward. Now, against his nature he'd been drawn into suicidal battle. His latent rage and fighting instincts took over his usual cynical self-serving nature. He was seriously irked and feeling abused about it all. He was a bellowing, flailing, flashing paragon of berserker death and destruction, urging his men into desperate battle, and his impact turned the tide completely. He might be a "wicked contumelious discontented forward mutinous dog," Melville thought with an appreciative grin, but lord that man could fight like a trapped ferret when caught in "death ground."
Hans, Valandil, and a party of elite topmen fought their way through flocks of Goblan in the upper rigging. Hans' monkey clung to his back, chittering and screaming exultantly.
Never in his long life had Hans seen anything remotely like what Valandil was doing in the upper rigging of this Ship. First the ranger stood on the end of the yardarm and fired both barrels of his rifle with deadly accuracy, picking off what appeared to be the Goblan captains of the foretop and maintop. Then he ran forward, leapt onto the enemy yardarm and fired all four barrels of his two pistols, picking off the four nearest Goblan, all before the rifle he dropped had time to fall halfway to the deck below. Then he dropped his pistols and drew his sword in a blur of motion. Then the real show began.
It defied description. The Sylvan flew, spun, sailed, and flipped in an astounding display of low-gee acrobatics. All the while his sword was a flickering, flashing red scythe that left Goblan falling from the rigging like overripe fruit shaken from a tree.
The Goblan in the enemy's upper rigging fled Valandil like cockroaches caught in the sudden light of a torch. Those who were too slow, or too brave, died like moths caught in a torch's flame. But he was just one warrior and the others were less successful at fighting the Goblan.
The battle in the upper rigging was slow and painful. If not for Valandil it would have been a failure. Even after being savaged by the Kestrel's grapeshot, there were so many, many ticks. Some sailors were shot by Goblan. Others were overwhelmed by a swarming mass of the nimble ticks. Dead, wounded, or simply tipped off balance, the fate of combatants on both sides was usually the same as they fell, spinning, cursing and fighting, to their deaths on the deck below.
Hans' monkey was like a gibbering guardian angle, flying along beside and above him. All eight arms expertly fended off Goblan attacks and constantly assisted Hans in maintaining his balance and his grip. On several occasions Hans found himself stabilized by his hair, as his monkey held onto his thin, wispy gray locks with two hands, while clinging to a line with four others, and fending off the enemy with its remaining two hands and its flashing white teeth.
Hans had one additional weapon in his arsenal, a stream of tobacco juice. Spat out in this light gravity, it had excellent range and effectiveness as it splashed with superb accuracy into hapless Goblan faces.
Finally, after much heart-wrenching battle up in the dizzying heights where a slip meant certain death, they reached the enemy's mizzenmast. Then the remaining sailors of Westerness, led by Valandil and Hans, spun, slithered, slid, and spat down the rigging, to land with a "thump!" en masse, to visit sudden death and destruction on the small fortress of the enemy's upper quarterdeck.
Lieutenant Broadax flipped through the hatch and led her marines into the upper hold. Mr. Tibbits, the old carpenter, still knelt, weeping, holding the shards of the Keel.
"Chips," said Broadax, as gently as her harsh, rumbling voice was capable of speaking, "we must go."
"Aye," said Tibbits, looking up at the short, red, viscera-coated apparition that stood before him. He sent one last m
essage of love and gratitude to a faithful servant of his race, asking her to hold on for just a few more minutes. Then he picked up a small shard of the shattered Keel, reverently laid a piece of canvas over the Ship's gaping wound and left. As they were leaving, through their bare feet, through the Elbereth Moss on the deck, they felt the reply to Tibbits' message of love.
In the upper fo'c'sle of the Kestrel Lady Elphinstone knelt to help evacuate a wounded marine. As she touched the deck, she too felt the Ship's response to Chips' final message. The ancient Sylvan healer paused in wonder, that this young race should be worthy of such a message from the spawn of the Elder King. And she kept this thing, and pondered it in her heart.
As the bows of those two great Ships rubbed together, the white Elbereth moss of those two sentient vessels was in contact, and the Guldur Ship also felt Kestrel's final message. A fierce, slow, strong pulse of deep affection and loyalty surged across. The Guldur Ship was a young Ship, a new Ship, freshly and roughly constructed. Her spirit and soul was still unformed, and what she felt coming across from the Kestrel rocked her to the depths of her being.
Broadax raced up the ladder from Kestrel's upper gundeck, leaping onto the maindeck with a wounded marine draped over each broad shoulder. The marines moaned, groaned and grunted with every step. "Be quiet, ye wimps!" said Broadax, ever the soul of sympathy and compassion, mourning her eradicated, disintegrated cigar. "Would ye rather I left ye?"
Two Space War Page 13