Battle Hymn

by William R. Forstchen

  "That child, that poor child." Manda, Ketswana's wife, came to her husband's side. He could see the accusation in her eyes. "It's getting worse," she said. "There's no stopping it. It will get worse yet."

  He knew what Gregory, his old chief of staff, was thinking. His anger was all too evident. The idea had been presented to him time and again… and always he had refused. The risks were simply too great. But now?

  "When will they come for your child, Hans?" Manda asked. "Was not Lin's baby like yours?"

  Her words cut like a knife into his heart. Suddenly ashamed, he turned away. Was that the restraint? Was that the reason that had compelled him to be cautious? For, after all, though Karga might drag others to the pit, Hans knew in his heart that the bastard would never directly strike at him unless he committed a grievous error. And even then, the case would go to Ha'ark before death would be inflicted.

  That is how they bought me, Hans realized with a sense of inner loathing. I have become their instrument. I allow the horror to continue so that Tamira and our precious child will be safe.

  He slammed his fists against the side of the furnace until blood trickled from the battered knuckles. He looked back at his friends, fearing that their eyes would be filled with contempt. Instead he saw only compassion, which made his anguish worse.

  Lin's child… her look will haunt me forever, he realized. He could remember how six months back he had first held young Andrew, only minutes old, and gazed into the newborn's eyes and seen the mystery of life in them, the eternal spirit. And that same look was in the eyes of the child that knowingly had gone with her mother into the darkness.

  "I'm sorry," Hans whispered, his voice thick. "For three and a half years I've tried to keep all of you alive."

  He looked back across the furnace, toward the Portal of Death.

  "And for what? I was a coward. I can see that now."

  Manda stepped up to his side and rested her hand on his shoulder. He was startled at the understanding and gentleness that still existed in the middle of hell.

  "I said no because I feared what would happen. To you, to all of you"—he hesitated, wanting to stop the words from flowing—"and to Tamira, and now Andrew."

  "It will happen anyhow," Ketswana replied.

  Hans nodded.

  "Gregory, can you round up the people you told me about?" Hans finally whispered.

  A smile creased Gregory's features and he nodded.

  "Meet me in my quarters when the shift ends. Tell Karga we need to plan the work schedule and repairs."

  The three gathered around him grinned, their eyes suddenly filled with hope.

  "Signal the attack!"

  Ha'ark Qar Qarth sat back in his chair and observed as the attack went into motion. There were no cheers at first, only the sound of a telegrapher's key clicking behind him. The Bantag warlords, arrayed in a circle a respectful distance behind Ha'ark, looked at each other in silence.

  Signal rockets suddenly arced up from the left and right wings of the assault force, which was arrayed in a crescent formation across the open steppe. From the targeted Chin city, on a low plateau a mile away, a flash of light snapped atop a battlement, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

  Ha'ark watched intently, counting off the time. A piercing shriek rent the air and the shot screamed past, not a dozen paces to his right. More than one of his Bantag umen commanders blanched and ducked low. Ha'ark laughed.

  “Get used to the sound of it."

  “My Qarth, it is my right to speak."

  Ha'ark turned in his chair and looked back. It was Yugba, commander of the speckled-horse umen.

  Ha'ark nodded.

  “Sire, good warriors of my clan will die this day."

  “The survivors will learn how not to die," Ha'ark snapped back. “Now watch and learn."

  More flashes of light rippled along the battlement walls, shot screaming through the air, several of the rounds plowing bloody furrows through the ranks of the third black horse umen, which was mounted and deployed to Ha'ark's right. The commander of the umen stood silent, his eyes straight ahead.

  “They're wasting ammunition at this range, but the way you have your formation deployed, the target is far too tempting," Ha'ark said quietly.

  He saw, off to his left, the skirmish line of mounted warriors, now deploying across the open field, and he studied them carefully, raising his field glasses to observe the advance.

  "Look to your left there. They're keeping their intervals spaced wide enough not to present a target. If a hit is made, only one warrior is lost."

  "It lacks power," Yugba replied.

  "If you think it lacks power, then send your own umen in and let us see who takes the center of the city first.”

  Yugba looked at him cautiously.

  "Go ahead and let's see.”

  Yugba nodded. Mounting his horse, he unsheathed his saber.

  "The old ways are still the best for us," he snarled, and he galloped down the line to join his command.

  Ha'ark surveyed the other umen commanders. "Any others?"

  The rest stood silent. Ha'ark now faced his own circle of four, who stood casually to his left, watching the developing battle with feigned indifference.

  Ha'ark smiled. "Any of you care to join the amusements?"

  "Why bother?" Jamul, the radio operator from his old unit, replied, making it a point to let his boredom show. "The results will be the same. We trained our warriors; they know what to do."

  Ha'ark smiled inwardly. Jamul's words rankled him, but he knew that was Jamul's intent. Show them a different attitude to war.

  Ha'ark watched the deployment. The skirmishers were dismounting six hundred yards from the enemy wall, advancing now on foot. A second wave dismounted, advancing fifty strides behind the first, and two more waves spaced themselves at even intervals of fifty paces. Warriors in the front rank opened fire with their rifles—taking careful aim, choosing targets, firing deliberately, reloading their weapons as they advanced, pausing to fire, then advancing again.

  A loud cry erupting from the right of the line claimed Ha'ark's attention. Now an entire umen was advancing, warriors riding stirrup to stirrup, the great narga horns sounding the attack, pennants marking the line, the triangle flag of Yugba fluttering above him. The charge thundered forward.

  Ha'ark turned to his signaler. "Artillery to advance. Mortars open fire as well."

  The signal clicked out along the line, and seconds later the deep, coughing rumble of the mortar batteries opened up. Ha'ark trained his field glasses on the line.

  The mortar tubes had already been set and aimed. Crews stood ready, dropping rounds in, the shells lofting upward, slowly enough that they could be seen as flashes of metallic gray streaking heavenward. The weapons were so blasted simple, he could not understand why the Yankees had never thought of them. They were nothing more than iron pipes with a firing pin in the bottom, a small explosive charge in the tail of the round with a percussion cap, and then the shell mounted in the front with another cap to set it off when it hit.

  Thirty artillery pieces started forward, the horses pulling them kicking up clods of dirt as they struggled to build up speed. The defenses in the city opened up in dead earnest. A lucky shot caught a caisson, and it disappeared in a thunderclap roar.

  All eyes turned toward Ha'ark.

  "To be expected," he said quietly, and then he nodded toward Yugba's advancing umen. "I suggest you look to our right for a moment."

  The charge was thundering across the steppe, the high, ululating cries of the Bantag host echoing across the field. The cry was picked up by more than one of the umen commanders behind Ha'ark. Some of them drew their scimitars and waved them overhead.

  White puffs of smoke erupted along the wall, and seconds later the shots plowed into the line. Horses tumbled down, riders were thrown and then crushed beneath the inexorable wall charging up behind them. The umen commanders were completely carried away by the sight, screaming curses, encour
agements, urging the charge forward.

  On the left the skirmish line's firepower was increasing. In places the lines were bunched up, and Ha'ark looked significantly at Jamul, who nodded that he was aware of the mistake.

  "They still need training," Ha'ark said quietly. As if to add weight to his argument, a shell burst in the middle of a knot of warriors, knocking down more than a dozen of them. The line continued to surge forward. In some places the range was now less than two hundred yards. A scattering of casualties dotted the field, warriors from the rear ranks rushing forward to fill the gaps. The artillery was unlimbering behind them, gunners swinging their weapons around. He trained his field glasses on a crew and watched as they unscrewed the breech, then rammed a shell in, followed by a powder bag.

  Primitive, Ha'ark thought, but we don't have the metallurgy skills yet for high-grade steel and brass shell casings except for some lightweight equipment. The gun commander sighted down the barrel, a crew member working the screw to lower the elevation. The commander stepped back and held his hand up as another crew member inserted the primer, then moved to one side.

  The gun kicked back, disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Ha'ark swung his field glasses toward the wall and grunted in satisfaction at the explosion, only a few paces from the main gate.

  He turned his attention back to the right. The umen, now within a hundred paces of the wall, came to a stop, the riders milling about as they sent volleys of arrows heavenward, darkening the sky. Arrows thundered into the city, some of them flame-tipped, and fires were beginning to erupt. But along the battlement wall the artillery continued the pounding, delivering deadly loads of canister that tore bloody paths through the ranks.

  A cry of alarm went up from the warriors behind him.

  "Yugba's down!" one of them gasped.

  Ha'ark trained his glasses on the confusion but could no longer see the triangular blood-red flag.

  "Get a rescue team down there with a healer," Ha'ark commanded, and seconds later a horse-drawn cart bounced across the field.

  His own artillery on the left was in full play, smothering the gate and walls to either side. Several guns mounted on the battlements were already out of action, one of them lying broken in a pile of rubble. A well-placed shot burst the gates wide open, and Ha'ark looked at Jamul, who grinned with delight.

  "I thought the place of a umen commander was forward with his warriors," someone in the crowd behind Ha'ark sniffed.

  Ha'ark turned in his chair. "No longer. Let the regiment commanders be the examples. A commander of ten thousand will now lead from the rear, observing the battle, controlling it. What good did Yugba do?"

  "He died a Bantag," came the reply.

  "He died and the wall in front of him still stands. That was a wasted death. Dying does not equal victory, and victory is what I seek."

  Ha'ark turned away with a gesture of contempt and pointed toward the chaos on the right flank. Riders were galloping straight at the wall. Some of them gained the side of the battlement and then leapt on their saddles and attempted to vault up onto the walls. Crossfire from the bastions kept knocking them down. Others were at the eastern gate, axes flashing as they attempted to cut through. Most were able to make only one or two strokes before being swept away by blasts of canister or crushed by rocks thrown from above. Sections of the overhead roofing of logs, designed for protection from plunging flights of arrows, were on fire, but Chin defenders gamely hung on, continuing to fire their cannon and muskets and throwing anything that might crush a Bantag storming beneath them.

  "Call them back," someone whispered behind Ha'ark. He turned and looked at the umen commanders.

  "What, order a retreat from mere cattle?" he asked sarcastically.

  "Call them back, my Qarth. This slaughter is senseless." It was Katu, of the yellow horse umen. Ha'ark could see that Katu fully understood now. As for the others, it was clear that some still did not see.

  "In a moment."

  Ha'ark faced the battle. On the western side, the entire wall for fifty paces to either side of the now shattered gate was nothing but smoking rubble. Not a single Chin could be seen standing, and the houses behind the wall were in flames. The artillery fire suddenly shifted, pouring in on the flanks of the breech.

  The heavy skirmish line stood up and rushed forward in short bursts, warriors in the front stopping to fire, then kneeling to reload as those behind them dashed another dozen paces forward and did the same. The first warriors hit the rubble and scrambled it. Several of them dropped, but the wave continued forward and stormed into the city. From the left flank a column of mounted warriors also rushed forward at the gallop, racing to the shattered wall, dismounting and pouring in. Where the shattered gate had stood, half a hundred warriors with rifles slung on their backs labored to clear a path as the supporting artillery started for the city as well. Along the western crest line facing the city the mortars fell silent.

  Ha'ark finally stood up and faced the Bantag umen commanders, ignoring the debacle that was still under way on the eastern wall.

  "Any questions?"

  "This was a senseless slaughter," one of them snarled bitterly.

  "Yes, it was," Ha'ark replied quietly, "but necessary because of you."

  "Because of me?"

  "Yes. You. And all like you. For four long seasons I've been telling you that what you call cattle have mastered war and you have not."

  "They changed everything, the soulless scum."

  "And either you must change or they will plow all our bones into the earth. That is why we must make new weapons and learn how to use them. A third of our army, twenty umens, is now arrayed with guns and artillery, but still you did not understand. Thus this little game today.

  "Jamul, what are the estimates on losses?" Ha'ark asked without turning his head.

  "I'd say less than two hundred dead and wounded gaining the western gate, it would have been fewer if they hadn't bunched up. At least a thousand on the other flank, and they're just gaining the wall now."

  Ha'ark scanned his commanders with an icy stare, challenging a response.

  "But the way you did this?" one of them finally offered.

  "You mean this exercise?" Ha'ark snapped. "You had to be shown."

  "But to deliberately arm cattle, train them, then promise them their lives if they can hold until dark? You just killed and crippled a thousand of our best in this mad show of yours."

  "Yugba did," Ha'ark replied calmly. "I did not order him to charge. He did it himself."

  "You goaded him, my Qarth."

  Ha'ark nodded. "As will our enemy when we face them. Learn that as well!"

  Ha'ark pointed at the chaos on the eastern flank.

  "Oh, they would have taken the town eventually, but at what cost? What you saw there was exactly the mistake the Tugars and the Merki made. In their arrogance they could not accept the fact that the humans could outthink them."

  There was an angry stirring from the assembled commanders.

  "I know that it stings," Ha'ark said, his voice dropping. "After all, they are only cattle."

  He smiled. "That is undoubtedly what our cousins said, first in their disdain and then in their shock as they lay dying. 'After all, they are only cattle.' We must purge that thought from our minds if we are to win. They are crafty, capable, and in many ways better than we are at this new way of war."

  "My Qarth, you are asking us to believe that the world has been turned upon itself, that we now walk in the sky and the earth is above us."

  Ha'ark nodded as Vakal, commander of the fourth black horse, spoke. He could sense that Vakal was speaking not in defiance but in confusion.

  "We shall set the universe right again," Ha'ark replied calmly. "But your words are true. These humans have set the world, the universe, upon its head. It is our task to set it right again."

  "This war will corrupt us," someone in the back of the group hissed. "Let us leave this place. Let us do as Tamuka of the Merki said he would do
. We should slaughter all cattle on this world, riding eastward as we have since the beginning. Then when we return to this place in a generation, we can slaughter what is left."

  "Madness," Ha'ark snarled. "Do you leave the fanged leopard at your back while you pursue the rabbit at your front? No! You first turn and slay the leopard. You cloak yourself in his pelt, and then, if you wish to lower yourself, you hunt the rabbit."

  Ha'ark saw heads nodding reluctantly in agreement.

  Damn primitives, he thought to himself. Four long years of this, trying to drum it into them, that they were on the brink of disaster, annihilation. Even though many had come to accept the guns, still they did not understand the fundamental change in tactics and, beyond that, the profound societal changes that went with it. The day of the mounted charge against a well-positioned enemy was dead. The horse was nothing more than a means of getting to the battlefield. The shock that he would soon deliver would strike even harder—the majority of the Horde would go to battle on foot. Keeping six hundred thousand warriors mounted was a logistical nightmare. With the rail line to the sea completed, and his plans for projecting power on the sea, there was no need for his warriors to ride. How that would hurt their pride!

  The umen commanders stood silent and he scanned their eyes. Some still gazed upon him as the Redeemer, the one of prophecy sent to return them to their glory. But in the thousands of years on this world their vision of glory had changed. They would charge to it, horses galloping to other worlds. The thought of doing it on steam engines was beyond them. Some had come to waver, his growing net of spies telling him of dark whisperings that he was an impostor. It was time to play upon prophecy again. He nodded to the four companions who stood behind him.

  "We came to you from another world as a fulfillment of prophecy. For has it not been chanted that in the time of darkness there will be five, and they will return the Horde unto its former greatness? That we shall stride between worlds and take into our hands all that is rightfully ours?"

  He saw that the appeal to the ancient prophecies still worked as many nodded in agreement. The prophecy was remarkably convenient. It never ceased to amaze him how an ancient chant about five warriors who disappeared but would one day return was one of the key tools in his quest for empire. What fascinated him as well was that fragments of the legend existed in the ancient history of his own world, yet another proof that this was indeed the home from which the race had sprung.