Clash of Empires

by Brian Falkner

“How are you faring?” Big Joe asks.

  “I have just finished,” Willem says.

  “Good,” Big Joe says. “There are sounds from outside the great door. We think they are preparing to attack.”

  “Then it is time for us to mount the beasts,” Willem says.

  “With your permission,” Frost says.

  “It would be my honor to have you on board,” Willem says, as Frost, without any assistance, finds and begins to climb the ladder.

  Willem turns his attention to the shackles chaining the tricorne to the rock wall. He releases a metal pin and slides out a heavy catch. The chains fall away. The beast is free.

  It does not move at first, but merely stands where it was chained, as if unaware it has been released.

  “You must hurry, Willem.” Frost’s voice comes from the rear saddle.

  Willem pulls lightly on the cords so that the creature will turn to the right, then flicks the lever on the battery for the merest fraction of a second. There is no reaction from the tricorne. He presses the lever forward a little longer and the animal stirs and shakes its head, but does not move.

  He presses it forward firmly and the beast shudders and begins to step forward, veering to the right. Willem releases the lever and the beast continues to trudge along. He turns to see the other tricornes slowly forming a line behind him.

  They round the corner to the main cavern and his tricorne stops immediately at the sight of the greatjaw shackled to the wall. He has to nudge it again with the battery to get it moving.

  He is halfway down the length of the main cavern when the great wooden door explodes.

  The shattering crash of thunder that comes from the entrance is followed by a deadly whirlwind of smoke, dust, and shards of wood.

  Willem ducks behind the bony ridges of the shield at the tricorne’s neck, instinctively hauling the noseflaps and blinders shut to protect the tricorne from the worst of the blast that washes over and around them.

  Light pours in through the gaping hole where the great wooden door used to be.

  The battlesaur shackled to the wall close to the door is falling, hit by the explosion—dead, unconscious, or injured, Willem cannot tell. There is a loud, meaty thud as it hits the ground.

  The French are inside the cavern now, marching down the main ramp.

  In the confusion of the smoke and dust Willem sees Arbuckle stand up in full view of the oncoming troops, a huge saur-gun in his hands. He fires and a sheet of flame belches out of the end of the gun, a cloud of musketballs filling the air. French soldiers scream or grunt as they fall, but behind them are more, rank after rank.

  Already Arbuckle has dropped the saur-gun and picked up another. Another roar, and more French soldiers fall, but now Arbuckle is running, ducking and dodging as metal balls dig rock chips from the wall and floor of the cave around him.

  The unstoppable tide of French soldiers pours into the cave and Willem knows all is lost. They are too few. They have pistols against muskets. The great, audacious plan is over before it has really begun. He cowers behind the body shield of the tricorne as musketballs pound into it.

  But now there is a sound of a different kind and through the swirling clouds of dust and smoke Willem sees the battlesaur, back on its feet, free of its shackles, raising its head to the roof of the cavern and filling it with its terrifying guttural roar. Its eyes sweep around the cavern, finding Willem, who shudders, but its gaze moves on and it rampages forward, toward the light, toward the ramp. The French retreat in confusion before the beast, leaving bloodied and wounded comrades littering the ramp and the cavern floor.

  “Now!” Arbuckle cries. He scales the ladder up the side of Cosette’s tricorne, then hauls it up, hooking it onto the saddle.

  Willem needs no encouragement. He rams the lever on the battery forward. The animal shudders and begins to move. Willem flicks the lever again and the beast breaks into a trot.

  The ramp is short and the sunlight in the courtyard of the abbey is sudden and shocking for eyes that have spent too long in the dark reaches of the caves. Blinking through the pain, his eyes filling with tears, Willem sees the French soldiers screaming, running, only a very few aiming their muskets at the beast that rages in the enclosed courtyard.

  Then they are through the abbey gate and onto the wide path outside. Willem steers the great animal to the west and feels branches and leaves brush at his legs as they begin the long charge.

  To Calais.

  BY THE RIVER

  She finds François kneeling by the riverbank, staring at the water. She knows this place, and knows it is his favorite part of the forest. She has seen him here many times, and knew it was where she would find him.

  He does not seem to hear Héloïse approach and so she stands for a while behind him, also watching the water. The way it moves, ripples that merge and form whorls before spinning away into nothing. She listens to the sound of the river as she listens also to the sounds of the forest around them.

  It has not taken her long to find him. There are places known only to those who know the forest. Places of peace, of sanctuary.

  She slides the bayonet silently out of her smock and moves close behind François.

  “Do not move,” she says as she presses the edge of the blade against his neck. Her knees press into his back and her hand is on his forehead. He stiffens with surprise, but does not move.

  “I was foolish,” he says. “To think that she could ever love someone like me.”

  “Cosette,” Héloïse whispers softly.

  “She is not like us,” François says.

  “She is from a different world,” Héloïse says.

  “So it is,” François says.

  “I could kill you now,” she says. “It would take no more than a twist of the blade.”

  “You will not,” he says, though he does not know how he knows this.

  “You are to blame,” she says. “For everything. For everyone. I should kill you.”

  He waits and gradually the pressure on his neck eases.

  “Today you live,” she says.

  With that she steps back and the bayonet suddenly juts from the ground next to him.

  He grabs it, seizing her arm at the same instant, pulling her down, rolling on top of her, the bayonet now at her neck.

  He presses down and she feels a trickle of blood on her skin.

  “I do not do this lightly,” François says. “I feel that if circumstances were different, it might be a ring, not a blade, that I press upon you.”

  “That is a choice you must make,” she says, making no effort to fight.

  “I serve Napoléon, and nothing, not even you, must divert me from my purpose,” he says.

  “Napoléon is dead,” Héloïse says.

  His eyes widen in shock, but then narrow.

  “You speak the words of the devil,” he says. “It is nothing but trickery to save your own life. Napoléon was sent by God to unite the world; God would not allow him to be killed.”

  “You know me, François,” Héloïse says. “There is no deceit or trickery in me.”

  “Then you were lied to,” François says. “How did you come by this news?”

  “From Jack, the simple one,” Héloïse says. “He is without guile.”

  François nods, acknowledging this truth.

  “He witnessed the event with his own eyes,” Héloïse says. “Napoléon is dead, at the hand of Thibault. It is Thibault who will unite the world under his banner.”

  “The devil!” François is aghast.

  “It gives me no pleasure to speak these words,” Héloïse says.

  “But the things that I have done!” He raises his head and lets out a scream. A primal sound of fear and loathing, it echoes through the trees. “I did them for God!”

  “You were deceived by the devil,” Héloïse says.

  “I will go to hell, and it has all been for nothing,” François says.

  “Not yet you will not,” Héloïs
e says. “With confession and repentance can come absolution.”

  “I have sinned,” François says. “I am responsible for many deaths. I killed my own cousin.”

  “That is the past,” Héloïse says. “You must now look to the future. Stay with me. Here in the forest. Lead a good life with me. God will see this.”

  He sits with his head in his hands, quietly sobbing.

  She makes a bowl out of a leaf and squats by the river, filling it with water for him.

  When she straightens, he is gone and it is her turn to weep.

  RIDING TO CALAIS

  Jack has ridden up a long, winding slope, cresting it within sight of the walled city of Calais. The sun is bright and the sea sparkles beyond the walls. There are ships in the distance too, and he does not need to see their colors to know they are British.

  Back in the priest hole, Frost had entrusted Jack with a mission: “Ride to Calais. Ride like the wind. Find Blücher. Stop him. At all costs he must not engage the French Army. Can you do this?”

  “I can try, sir,” Jack said. He hesitated. “But why would he listen to me, sir?”

  Arbuckle pulled a sheet of paper from inside his tunic and wrote rapidly on it with a quill pen. He folded it and handed it to Jack.

  “Give this letter to Blücher,” he said. “Whoever you speak to, say this: ‘Dringende Nachricht für Blücher.’ Repeat it back to me.”

  Jack tried his best, struggling with the unfamiliar sounds.

  “Good enough,” Arbuckle said. “It means ‘Urgent message for Blücher.’ Practice it on the way.”

  “You must stop Blücher at all costs,” Frost said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  Arbuckle pulled a pistol from his holster. He took a pepper cartridge from his ammunition pouch and quickly loaded the pistol before handing it to Jack.

  “Go, man,” Arbuckle said. “Every second counts.”

  Now, after hours of hard travel, Jack has arrived. On the farmlands stretched out below him he sees the Prussian Army, neat rows of soldiers, cannon, and horses.

  His own horse is almost spent, spittle coating the sides of his face, his labored breathing only easing when Jack lets him rest for a moment at the top of the hill.

  “Good boy,” he says affectionately, patting Marengo’s neck. The horse shakes his mane and gives a soft whinny.

  The army below him looks as if it has just got here; the soldiers are still setting up camp. Rows of tents at the rear are being erected. There are no signs of battle, no smoke, no sounds of gunfire. He thinks he might just deliver his message in time, and rehearses in his head the phrase that Arbuckle taught him.

  Marengo is breathing a little easier and they are starting down the other side of the hill when Jack sees a streak of fire from within the walls of the city. A rocket sending up a flare on a parachute that drifts slowly to earth, a yellow star hanging above the city like in the stories from the Bible.

  He digs his heels into the horse’s sides and this magnificent stallion flies down the hill, mane streaming behind him.

  From the base of the hill Jack rides through a small glade where leafy trees form a roof over the road, an oasis of peace that belies what is ahead.

  Then it is farmland and Jack encounters the first of the Prussian soldiers, two light cavalrymen patrolling the rear.

  “Dringende Nachricht für Blücher,” Jack cries as soon as he is within earshot, before they have a chance to challenge him.

  One of them starts to talk, a long string of incomprehensible sounds. Jack just keeps repeating: “Dringende Nachricht für Blücher.”

  He remembers the envelope and pulls it from his tunic, waving it at the men. “Dringende Nachricht für Blücher!”

  They look at each other, then one of them nods and points down the road. Jack is gone before the arm is half-raised, spurring the horse forward. There are more soldiers here, the rear echelons of the army. The cooks, the engineers, the caravans of the merchants who trail behind the army.

  To everyone he meets he repeats the phrase he has memorized.

  The words as he says them start to get mixed up in his mind and he says them in the wrong order or misses words until he is so confused that he can only hold up the envelope and say, “Dringende. Blücher.”

  It is enough. Everyone nods and points him in a direction until he arrives at a tent, well guarded.

  “Blücher,” Jack says. “Dringende!”

  A guard takes the letter from his outstretched hand and disappears inside. A moment later a man in the uniform of a field marshal emerges. He speaks at first in German, then switches to English when Jack shakes his head.

  “Who are you?” Blücher asks.

  “Sir, I’m Private Jack Sullivan, Royal Horse Artillery, G troop. I mean I used to be, before I went to work for Lieutenant Frost, sir.” Jack stops, flustered.

  “Is this information true?” Blücher thunders, waving the letter.

  “You must not attack!” Jack cries. “The devil has battlesaurs!”

  A peal of thunder comes from the front line and smoke and the smell of gunpowder are brought swiftly to them on the freshening breeze.

  “Your message arrives too late,” Blücher says.

  IN THE NAME OF THE DEVIL

  François wanders in the place that is most his home, the great forest of the Sonian.

  He walks aimlessly, following routes instinctively, barely seeing the huge trees and the restless undergrowth, stumbling over rocks that normally his feet would know and avoid. Seeing shards of sky through eyes blurred with tears. He does not question the direction he is taking, allowing himself to be guided by unseen powers.

  He prays as he walks. He prays in a shout that sucks the air from his body and leaves him panting and wheezing. His words echo from tree to tree, shimmering through the forest, but that is what he wants. He shouts to make sure God will hear.

  “Forgive me, Lord,” he screams in wretched pain and grief. “Forgive me for I have sinned. Forgive me, Lord, I believed I was doing Your work. Forgive me, Lord, the evil trickster had me fooled.”

  He does not see the forest because his head is full of images. The faces of his mother, his uncle, the people of the village. All dead at the order of the devil. His cousin, Jean. His eyes, shocked, frightened, and slowly growing cold as François sat over him with the bloodied knife.

  So much death and destruction. François had not understood it, but he had accepted it as God’s will.

  But it was not God’s will. It was the devil’s.

  That trickster. That fraud. That liar.

  François comes to the top of a cliff and a waterfall. He blinks away tears. This is a place he knows well. It was here that he, Jean, and Willem found the firebird nest. It was here that it all began. It can be no coincidence that he has been guided to this place.

  It is a place of peace. Around him the trees are full of birdsong. Far below, a horse, a British officer’s horse still in its full regalia, lowers its neck to drink from the cool running water. There is no sign of the officer. The river sparkles in the sunlight, gurgling through boulders.

  A winged saur swoops down the cliff, skimming the stream, its claws trailing in the water, then dipping in with a splash, emerging with a struggling fish. François looks down at the sharp rocks below and he thinks of Héloïse. He thinks of her forgiveness and her unconditional love, and finally, here in the open on the edge of the cliff, God speaks to him and he knows what he must do.

  A breeze ruffles the leaves on the trees at the top of the cliff, a gentle hand at François’s back, urging him toward the edge.

  INTO BATTLE

  The rain starts just after midnight. Softly at first, a fine mist, giving them enough warning to fold the leather covers down over the three pistols strapped to either side of the saddle. The rain intensifies, as does the wind, driving sheets of hard water at them sideways. Willem ducks behind the bony shield of the tricorne’s head. In the saddle behind
him, Frost is silent.

  They have passed through many small towns on the road to Calais. Still nobody has seen them. The residents remain asleep, perhaps dreaming of thunder, as the huge hooves of the tricornes tear up cobblestones through the center of each town.

  Occasionally Willem glances behind him, and each time he is awestruck at the huge horns of the beasts that follow. What will happen when they encounter the French greatjaws, he has no way of knowing.

  It is only when they pass through the thriving city of Kortrijk that they are seen for the first time, by milkmen and delivery boys beginning their morning rounds. All watch with gaping mouths as the four massive horned creatures charge through the city streets.

  * * *

  The attacks continued throughout the night, growing more daring as the rain intensified. Jack makes sure to keep both of his pistols dry. When the time comes to use them he wants them to work.

  Rain changes war. He knows this. It makes muskets harder and slower to load and fire. Cannon can get bogged down in muddy ground. As the meat-eaters have charged in from the sides, the Prussian soldiers have often had to defend themselves with only swords and bayonets, virtually useless against the great battlesaurs.

  They roam now around the edges of the army, their very presence terrifying the soldiers in the formations. There has been no sleep tonight for the Prussians.

  Jack, although just as terrified of the beasts, wishes that a battlesaur would attack where he is standing. One of his pistols is loaded with pepper. If he can get close enough to the saur and fire the pepper into its eyes, he thinks he can improve the odds for the Prussians on this wet and windy night.

  Another scream comes from somewhere behind him and peering backward through the rain he sees a battlesaur stomping away from the lines with pieces of soldier falling from its mouth.

  Everywhere the Prussians cower, useless, waiting for the next attack, wondering who will be next to be crushed and dismembered by that fearsome mouth and the teeth, those huge, terrifying teeth.

  They cannot retreat and they cannot advance. All they can do is wait for morning and pray for dry weather.