“What is that?” Nerino demanded, pointing. The aide peered through the smoke. A steady trickle of wounded had been stumbling or crawling out of the fight in front of the enemy works, but now men were running from the battle, apparently unharmed and many unarmed. Nerino’s face purpled as he recognized what he saw. “Send in my personal guard,” he snarled, “to push those men back into the fight. If they will not go, kill them!”
The aide signaled the guard captain, who seemed to be expecting the command. Fifty lancers wearing red capes and gold-washed helmets and cuirasses quickly formed a line and advanced across the field.
“We have no more lancers near, my general,” the aide reminded nervously. “The rest are on the flanks. And your guard may be sorely diminished amid that storm of fire.”
Nerino looked at him. “I still have my army to protect me, Captain, at least what remains of it.”
“But . . . how much is that?” A droning interrupted him, and they both stared at the northern sky. The flying machines were returning, this time in a staggered formation. Some clearly meant to burn the battlefield where Nerino’s guards had just gone—but others seemed to be aiming right at him! Dragons swirled above them, but seemed hesitant to descend into the dense smoke of battle. “Even our own demons have deserted us,” he murmured as the bombs tumbled to the earth.
* * *
Captain Blas’s line was beginning to falter. The shields had been battered into uselessness, and almost no one was firing anymore. The line had thinned too much to maintain a third rank, much less the luxury of loading their muskets. The fight in the center had essentially turned into a stabbing match of bayonets, and despite the skill of the Marines, they were exhausted by a full hour of constant, physical combat. There were just too many Doms. Spook’s BAR still fired sparingly, allowing “his” guns to spew canister, but that couldn’t last much longer. Blas rammed her bayonet through the chest of a burly Dom in front of her, but she had trouble pulling the sticky blade free. A Dom sword banged her helmet, and she stumbled to the side. A roaring shout rose around her, and, in her disorientation, she thought the enemy had broken her line at last. Shapes rushed around her, and she waved her musket, fending them away.
“Easy there, Cap’n Blas!” came a voice she vaguely remembered from another time, as hands took her by the shoulders and steadied her.
“Corporal Smuke,” she said dully, remembering the Imperial’s name. Against her will, she sagged heavily, the last of her strength fleeing her legs, and she blinked away the gummy tears that started to fill her eyes. “I haven’t seen you since New Ireland,” she murmured. “What are you doing here?”
“Me an’ me lads’ve come to your rescue fer a change,” Smuke said. “Have a taste o’ this!” He held a canteen to her mouth. She coughed on water grogged with something strong she didn’t recognize, but her weary wits were returning. Imperial Marines streamed past her, filling gaps in the line and firing muskets directly in the faces of their attackers.
“Col-nol Blair has reinforced us!”
“Aye,” Smuke confirmed, scooping her up in his arms. She struggled weakly, indignantly.
“Put me down this instant, Corporal! I’ll have you on a charge!”
Smuke laughed. “Charge all ye like, Cap’n Blas, but the colonel hisself bade me take care o’ ye, an’ if ye dinnae notice, ye’ve taken a wee scratch ain yer leg! Now trouble me nae further. Colonel Blair’ll stop me grog if I leave ye—an’ ye’d never allow ’im ta do sich a heinous thing!”
* * *
Shinya’s arms hurt from holding his binoculars to his eyes for so long. Just moments before, Lieutenant Reddy’s Nancy squadrons had gone in again, their firebombs erupting far beyond the closer battle for the most part, though a few gushed flames extremely close behind the second attacking force in the center. Shinya winced when he saw yet another Nancy cartwheel out of the sky, Grikbirds bolting away from it just before it impacted in the smoke-hazed field. The crumpled corpse of the plane immediately burst into flames. He winced again at the sight of a lone smoldering horse, probably a lancer’s mount, galloping aimlessly, panicked or wild with pain. Beneath its hooves, the cropland beyond the perimeter was covered with butchered, bleeding bodies.
“Colonel Blair’s going in,” Fred said quietly at his side, and Shinya refocused his binoculars.
“At laast,” Kari breathed with relief. The pressure was becoming unbearable in the center, and it had looked like Blas and her Marines were about to fold. A stutter of musketry, so long quiet there, suddenly erupted, and flashes of orange fire stabbed at the Doms. Shinya handed his glasses to Fred, resting his arms, and Fred raised them gratefully.
“That’s done it!” he shouted triumphantly. “My God, the Doms are pulling back!”
“No troops, ours or theirs, can withstand such horror forever,” Shinya said. He didn’t add that he’d seen such intense, sustained fighting only once before, at Aryaal, and that time it had been Allied troops that finally broke. But he’d gained a new regard for their eastern enemies that day, if not outright respect. Nerino’s troops had advanced, and then stood and fought in the face of far superior weaponry, and even while being savaged in front and behind by other weapons they’d never faced before. He didn’t know if they were motivated by courage, fear, or simple fanaticism, but it made him question his fundamental strategy of drawing as many Doms down on them as they could. A breakthrough in the center could’ve probably been contained and there’d been little real pressure elsewhere, but a more thoughtful attack supported by greater numbers might’ve overwhelmed them here at Guayak.
“Keep at it! Pour it in!” Fred grated excitedly. “Shit! There they go!” He urgently handed the binoculars back to Shinya. “They’re breaking!”
Shinya took the glasses and watched the Dom line. It had pulled back in the face of Blair’s fresh troops, but with bayonets jammed in their muzzles, they couldn’t return the renewed firing that scythed them down. Shinya understood perfectly what began to happen next. Incapable of advancing and unable to stand any longer—or even withdraw in an orderly fashion under such a hail of bullets and increased artillery fire—the Dom line appeared to spontaneously shatter. What had been a disciplined, cohesive force a moment before, teetering on the edge of victory, suddenly became a wild mass of terrified individuals, streaming to the rear as fast as their exhausted legs and lungs could take them. A great cheer resounded from the Allied line, and clumps of men and Lemurians actually leaped the earthworks and started chasing the fleeing Doms.
Whistles and horns immediately sounded the recall, and most of those who’d been carried over the works by their passions began to halt, but as he watched, Shinya continued to wonder if he didn’t need to revise his overall strategy to some extent.
“They’re pulling back everywhere, Gener-aal,” Kari said, her voice almost drowned by the exuberant exclamations of Suares and the alcalde. Shinya focused his binoculars beyond the battlefield, at the smoldering gun emplacements, the scattered ranks of reserve troops, broken up by Reddy’s bombing run—and particularly at the area he suspected Nerino had been watching the battle as intently as he. The whole Dom army was recoiling, folding back, pulling away from the radically expanded killing field in disarray.
“I wanted to draw the Doms here, army by army, and destroy them as they came,” he said softly, “but I think now that such a plan will not work.” He gestured across the field. “Whatever the Grik have become, there was a time when such a repulse would have ruined many of their warriors that fled in such a way—but these are not Grik, and I must stop equating this enemy with them. Those Dom troops, those men, no matter how terrified at present, will eventually take control of themselves. They will re-form. They will not be surprised by our weapons again, and may gain even greater confidence for having survived them. They will pass their knowledge to others, and we will face them again.”
“What’re you saying, G
eneral?” Fred asked.
“Only that my every instinct has always compelled me to pursue a beaten enemy and drive him without pause.” He smiled. “I believe I have objectively convinced myself that I should follow those instincts in this case after all, despite what I originally thought. That gives me a measure of satisfaction on this otherwise terrible day.”
Fred looked out at the battlefield. “Chase ’em? Wow. That’s a tall order.”
“No. We will chase them hard for a distance beyond this field, far enough that they know they are chased.” He frowned. “Because I did not prepare for it in advance, we can do little more at present, but I won’t allow them to imagine later that they chose to leave on their own.”
“Just so long as we don’t wind up like the poodle that chased the bear—until it stopped running,” Fred muttered.
“You think of Colonel Flynn, and his fate beyond the Rocky Gap in India?” Shinya asked.
Fred hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. How can I not? I didn’t know him well, but Billy—I mean Colonel Flynn—was a right guy by all accounts. Hearing what happened to him and all those others . . . It came hard.”
“I’m sure it did,” Shinya agreed, “but I can assure you we shall not share his fate, Lieutenant. Do you know why?”
Fred and Kari both shook their heads.
“Because we’re facing men, for one thing. Granted, the Doms are very strange men, but men nevertheless, and they strike me—so far—as more predictable foe than the Grik have become. We also have the two of you.” He smiled. “And Colonel Blair, Lieutenant Reddy, and such as Captain Blas. There is also me, of course, and I have the honor of commanding a largely veteran army that has trained together extensively.” He shrugged. “Behind us are Admirals Lelaa and Jenks. That is a good team, I think.” He grew somber. “And we do have Colonel Flynn’s example. Not only of how he was lost, but of his courage and determination. Our enemy fought better than I expected today,” he allowed, “but for all the treachery of their leaders, their commanders cannot match our technology, determination, or experience.” He straightened. “Our greatest asset is our experience, and we must deny the Dom survivors the experience they gained today. The only ‘experience’ I want them to take from this field is that we mauled them, and then chased them until it suited us to stop.”
“Where will we stop, Gen-er-aal?” Kari asked.
Shinya smiled. “At a most interesting and convenient place for our next encounter!”
* * *
General Ghanan Nerino moaned softly in the black night atop the battered ammunition cart as the wheels jounced across scattered rocks. The many layers of his elaborate uniform coat and the aide who’d covered him with his own body had protected Nerino to some degree from the sticky, obdurate flames of the enemy bombs, but his head, hands, and lower body had been badly burned. If he hadn’t been drugged into near senselessness, the bumpy ride would’ve had him screaming as piteously as the few other wounded being carried down the track. The loyal aide, and all those around him, had burned to death.
Normally, the rocks would’ve been heaved aside by troops detailed for that purpose, and the general would’ve barely noticed them in his elegant carriage protected by gentle springs. Now, even if the carriage hadn’t been destroyed in the bombing and subsequent counterattack by the heretic horde, it was certainly in their hands. And frankly, Nerino was lucky to have the cart. Few vehicles were saved during the nearly complete rout that ensued when the enemy, flushed with victory, charged out of its earthworks around Guayak and slammed into the shattered, terrified, and disorganized Army of the South. The counterattack had been stunning in its barbaric relentlessness, and only a full commitment of the thus far reserved, but limited regiments of elite Blood Drinkers had slowed it enough to get anything out. Little, if any of the army’s artillery had been withdrawn, and though they fought like the fiends they were, the sounds of battle to the south that dwindled with the day made it likely that even the Blood Drinkers had been destroyed at last.
Some hoped that the brief, relative quiet meant the rear guard had been successful and this long, terrible day might end at last. What remained of the army would retreat to a position where it could re-form and establish a defense. But then the night resumed crackling with musketry as enemy skirmishers regained contact with the ragged column and began applying pressure once more. Worse, a few of the enemy flying machines remained aloft, still battling dragons, but occasionally swooping to drop one of their terrible bombs. Even when they burned nothing but grass and trees, the remorseless, unnatural assault from the sky further unnerved the defeated troops—and sometimes, a hideous chorus of screams arose with the roiling flames. The loitering menace above prevented any lights from being made along the line of retreat, and that added even more confusion and misery to the defeated force. Few could’ve imagined a worse, more terrifying hell in the flaming caverns beneath the earth than they were now enduring.
Nerino understood little in his drug-hazed state. He knew pain, of course, but he’d lost his connection to the unfolding events. He could hear voices, and recognized what was being said, but he couldn’t relate any of it to his own unpleasant situation. Very quickly, anything he heard was forgotten. He became aware that a squadron of lancers had appeared in the darkness alongside his cart and managed to raise himself up slightly to see. He couldn’t focus, but his eyes were drawn south toward a pulsing glow. A fire, he thought muzzily. A fire back there where I was today. How lovely it is, yet so dreadful as well. Why is it dreadful? Because it hurts! It has hurt me! He lay back with a moan.
“Quickly, you four men—get those armabueyes out of their traces! Replace them with your own mounts. We must get the general out of here at once!” cried an authoritative voice Nerino didn’t recognize.
“But these are not draft animals, Colonel!” a man protested. One of the lancers, Nerino assumed. Quite right, he agreed. Lancers often sprang from landed families, and not only were they responsible for providing their own mounts; the beasts were some of the finest horseflesh in all the Dominion! “Ridiculous!” he exclaimed.
“Do it now, or I’ll give you to the priests!” the colonel warned, ignoring Nerino.
“Oh, all right! No reason to get nasty! We’ll have to ride them, though. They’ve never been harnessed before.”
“Of course. Take these other lancers with you as a guard, but don’t hesitate to change horses when they tire.”
“Don’t worry about that!” the lancer assured, his tone implying the other men in his squadron better not refuse to do their part.
“Go as quickly as you dare,” the colonel urged, “and try to get him through the pass before daylight.”
“But won’t that just kill him? And what if he starts screaming?”
“My healer priest will ride along in the cart. He says the general may live if the pain doesn’t reach his heart. He will ensure that General Nerino gets as much medicine as he can bear.”
“All right. But after today, the Pajaros Rojos will just have him flayed anyway.”
“Perhaps,” the colonel allowed, “but I hope not. General Nerino may be a fatuo, but he’s smart, and he may be the only one who can sort out what happened to us when his wits return. Now hurry! The heretics are getting closer.”
Fatuo indeed! Nerino fumed silently through the mounting waves of pain. Then his wandering mind fastened onto something else he’d heard. I would so dislike being flayed. I do so hope that I can sort out whatever it is that has happened!
CHAPTER 6
////// Empire of the New Britain Isles
New Scotland
June 21, 1944
Her Majesty, Rebecca Anne McDonald, Governor-Empress of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, was working diligently at her murdered father’s desk. Around her, in Gerald McDonald’s expansive Government House library at Scapa Flow, reposed every “original” prepassage book that came t
o this world aboard the three East Indiamen that brought her ancestors here. They’d been her father’s most prized possessions, and though expensive reprints were available throughout the Empire, Gerald had considered his guardianship of these precious links to the old world one of his most sacred trusts. Now they, and all the interesting gadgets and contrivances her father had tinkered with in the chamber, remained just as he’d left them: essential links between an idolized father and his grieving daughter.
Rebecca supposed she probably ought to be at Government House across the strait in the capital of New London, on New Britain Isle, particularly now that the “Time of Treachery” seemed to have passed, but she felt much more comfortable in what had been her childhood home. Besides, Scapa Flow was a Navy port and a Navy city, and its people were unreservedly devoted to her. Some might be uncomfortable about the Decree of Manumission she’d recently issued, giving full citizenship to women and officially ending the age-old practice of female indenture, but women had always enjoyed better conditions in Scapa Flow than elsewhere in the Empire. They’d been Navy auxiliaries, skilled yard workers and shipwrights. Some had even been entrusted with real authority within those occupations. That made their transition from virtual slavery to legal equality less tumultuous across New Scotland than elsewhere. Even there, however, some stodgy traditionalists railed about “slippery slopes” and remained horrified by the notion of allowing women in the Navy itself. But they were careful not to criticize the young empress’s reforms in general terms. Despite her tender age, and having established the framework for the restoration of the Courts of Directors and Proprietors, Rebecca Anne McDonald had snatched back a great deal of executive power that had been seeping away for generations. She’d also shown herself to be a courageous, determined leader when the Empire needed one most, as well as a ruthless enemy to her foes—foreign and domestic.
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