Conflagration

by Mick Farren

  “Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes!”

  The front ranks of the Mosul were parting. Faysid Ab Balsol was sending out his cavalry, a final play of fanatic desperation. Ranks of horsemen plunged through the gap. With the red and black flame banners of Hassan IX fluttering and streaming above them, they bore down on the front ranks of Albany. Bergmans barked and horseman after horseman went down in a wreck of thrown men and rolling, thrashing beasts, but they still managed to maintain a tight spearhead, with enough momentum to punch a temporary hole in the Albany lines, while roaring encouragement was bellowed from the Mosul trenches.

  “Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes!”

  Although the Mosul mob was chanting for the Mamalukes, the cavalry racing across the battlefield was far from wholly Mamaluke. Almost as many Teuton uhlans, in their too-familiar plumed shakos, galloped flat out on their heavy chargers, firing long-barreled revolvers and slashing with bloody sabers. Regular Mosul horsemen, less flamboyant in drab khaki, and on shorter ponies, added their number to the wild and suicidal charge. When Ab Balsol’s cavalry had streamed out of the sudden gap in the lines like greyhounds from the slips, it had appeared that no plan existed beyond doing as much damage as possible before they were cut down by superior Albany weapons, but then, after a wild and costly ride through the Albany lines, they began to wheel. At first Jesamine was amazed that any discipline could remain after so many casualties, but, when the turn ended with the thrust of the continuing charge coming straight at her, she abandoned all objectivity and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do? She might be dressed like a solider, but, unlike maybe Argo and Raphael, she was hardly trained, or even prepared for bloody and mounted combat, and, unlike Cordelia, she had not ridden horses almost from birth. The Mamaluke breakout had plunged the Albany horsemen into an instant of milling confusion, but they were rapidly sorting themselves, coming back under the control of their officers, and, with the exception of Dunbar’s escort, deploying to counter the Mosul cavalry assault.

  As the personal escort backed up to shield Dunbar and his people, The Four and their light horsemen moved back with them. Dunbar was standing in the open staff car, observing the Mosul and encouraging the men around him. “Stand firm, gentlemen, they won’t reach us. Our lads will stop them.”

  The Albany horse soldiers were moving forward at an orderly walk. Slide had moved protectively up to The Four, and watched with them as their cavalry broke into a trot and slowly gathered speed, heading for the inevitable clash with Mamaluke and Teuton. Jesamine eased closer to Slide, finding an irrational comfort by the way he always smelled of oiled leather, cigars, and gunpowder. “Will our boys hold them?”

  “You want truth or patriotism?”

  “Truth.”

  “They’ll be hard-pressed.”

  “What are the Mosul trying to achieve by this?”

  “Balsol has a sense of history.”

  “What?”

  “He’s emulating Alexander the Conqueror at Abban.”

  The Albany cavalry was running at a full gallop. Sabers flashed, pennants fluttered, and the drumming of hooves was deafening. Jesamine fancied she felt the ground shake, and she had to shout so Slide could hear her. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Macedonian used his cavalry to break through the Persian lines and go after their King Darius.”

  The rattle of small-arms fire was added to the awesome din as the two sides came within range of each other, and cavalrymen fired from the saddle.

  “Does Balsol think killing Dunbar will end it?”

  “I figure…” His eyes became narrow and disbelieving. “Holy shit!”

  Jesamine followed his gaze as Slide actually pushed back his hat and stared. The Mosul front line was dissolving and what appeared to be the entire compliment of Mosul infantry was charging at a run in one of their notorious human waves. Slide grimly shook his head. “Balsol’s going for Armageddon.”

  “What’s Armageddon?”

  The answer was uniquely Slide. “In other realities, it’s what they called The End.”

  CORDELIA

  The sound of two charging armies colliding head on was like nothing Cordelia had heard before. It was louder and more terrible than she might ever have imagined; a death-spawned symphony of collective momentum, muscle on bone, striking each other a thousand times over, the scream of men and horses likewise multiplied, the explosion of guns as though heard from inside the cannons’ mouth, the amplified crash of endless steel on endless steel, all the way to hell and beyond, as the impact went on and on. From where she sat the sound was all she had, the entire field was blanketed in an impenetrable maelstrom of dust and smoke in which dark figures grappled, and explosions flashed a lurid orange. Cordelia knew, inside the dreadful cloud, the Mosul human wave was being massacred by the Albany Bergman guns, and crushed under the treads of the Albany fighting machines. The crucial question was whether Albany could kill enough of the enemy before they were overrun and drowned by the weight of numbers.

  A riderless horse plunged out of the smoke, and the small force around Dunbar raised their weapons. The frightening truth was that, if even a small squadron of Mamalukes overran the Albany cavalry, visibility was so poor that those around the commander would not know about it until the very last moment. His staff and escort sat their mounts or stood to beside automobiles, with weapons in their hands, vainly trying to make out any detail of the booming but hidden combat. The wireless and ticker tape machine had been reinstalled, but the airship, even from its vantage point in the sky, could only report what they already knew. The Mosul had thrown in their cavalry and an entire human wave, but beyond that, all was smoke and confusion and nothing was clear. Some of Dunbar’s staff were urging the Field Marshal to withdraw to some safer place, but, as Cordelia expected, he dismissed the idea out of hand. “If I leave now, I will concede the field. If our arms cannot prevail and hold their assault, then I have lost the Army of Albany.”

  Another horse galloped out of the smoke and dust, this time with a rider. Cordelia saw him clearly, a gaunt Mamaluke on a tall but ill-fed black horse. His cloak was filthy, his breastplate and helmet were dull, but the edge of his scimitar gleamed. He was all but upon Dunbar and the Albany command before they knew it. Cordelia fancied he looked surprised as he reined in his horse, causing it to rear and paw the air. Turning in his saddle, the man let out an ululating roar that could only be a signal to others. Three officers fired and three bullets hit the Mamaluke, knocking him out of the saddle. Cordelia felt her life go into slow motion. Was this the end? Had the Mosul broken through? Would this first one be followed by a thousand, or was he merely a stray? She clutched her revolver and waited for an answer.

  The wait was not long. Six riders came at them; two Teutons, leading on their heavy chargers, and four Mamalukes behind. Again Albany guns barked and chattered, and more riderless horses ran loose. Perhaps these were only dislocated outriders from the original charge. Certainly the distinctive Bergman guns could still be heard. Dunbar stood up, as though filled with a sudden resolve. “Mr. Fletcher.”

  A young captain on a bay responded. “Sir.”

  “I need your horse, boy. I’m not waiting here for them to come for me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your horse, boy. I need your horse.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Fletcher’s face betrayed that the last thing he wanted was to give up his mount, but he was not about to argue with a Field Marshal. He dismounted, and Dunbar climbed into the saddle. He turned the horse, apparently relieved to be in motion. For a moment, he studied the faces of those around him. “Well, boys, shall we go and find the enemy?” He glanced down at the now unseated captain. “Don’t worry, Fletcher. You can catch yourself a runaway.”

  No sooner had Dunbar spoken than at least a dozen riders, maybe as many as twenty, all Mamalukes, boiled from the reek of battle, and as many Albany horsemen leapt forwar
d to counter them. Cordelia found herself part of a confusion of dirty sweating faces, pistols and sabers, flashes and smoke, bucking horses, and men fighting hand to hand. She was in the middle of unfocused, dangerous chaos. More Mamalukes seemed to be coming at them, but, in the immediate dust and smoke, it was hard to tell who was friend and who was foe. Yancey Slide was easy to spot. The reins of his horse were gripped between his bared teeth, and he had his oriental sword in one hand and one of his strange square-sided pistols in the other. He was hacking and shooting with a vengeance, but, at the same time, along with the light horsemen of their escort, attempting to herd The Four out and away from the mounted mêlée to some safer place. This was easier said than accomplished. The combatants were packed so tight that it was hard to go anywhere in the ebb and flow. Then Sergeant Teasle went down, and a Mamaluke, with gold teeth and a raised scimitar was on Cordelia. She did not hesitate. She brandished her revolver at the smoke-blackened face and wild bloodshot eyes, and pulled the trigger. The pistol bucked in her hand and the Mamaluke was knocked backward. Her gelding reared and Cordelia desperately fought him down, while still holding on to her gun. To be thrown and find oneself on the ground among so many stamping, frightened horses would amount to a death sentence.

  Cordelia calmed the horse, and was surprised to see feathers and buckskins amid the cavalry uniforms. Warriors of the Ohio were in among them, bringing down Mamalukes left and right with lances and tomahawks. A fighting machine came lumbering towards them, guns stammering and flashing, but it initially created even more confusion as Mamalukes spun away from the fire of its heavy, side-mounted repeaters. The gunfire, grinding machinery, and belching exhaust was too much for Cordelia’s gelding. The gray bucked and plunged. Cordelia hung on for dear life, but then the horse collided with a riderless charger. The gelding stumbled, and she found herself pitched from the saddle, down amid the cruel stamping hooves.

  ARGO

  Slide had swung down from his saddle and was standing over Cordelia, blazing away with his twin pistols at anything that threatened them. Cordelia’s gelding had collided with a runaway and she had been thrown. Slide was the first to react. Straddling her body, he thrust his sword into the ground, and drew his second pistol. Argo spurred his horse forward in an attempt to cover both Slide and Cordelia from at least one side, but even as he moved to help, it became clear that the Mamalukes were turning. The fighting machine was too much for them. They might be insane fanatics, but they were not immortal. They wheeled and hightailed it into the smoke. Ohio warriors and Albany officers gathered around Dunbar, still watchful and protective. Slide pulled Cordelia to her feet and dusted her off, checking that no bones were broken, and that she did not have a concussion. Argo managed to grab the reins of the spooked gelding, and, when it had calmed a little, he led it to where Cordelia was standing and handed her the reins. She took them and spent some time stroking the animal’s muzzle before she attempted to remount. The fighting machine ground to a halt and a crewman popped the dorsal hatch. Dunbar saw him and pushed his commandeered horse through those packed around him.

  “How goes the day, Captain?”

  The crewman’s battle suit was so stained with sweat, oil, and soot, Argo was surprised that Dunbar could tell the man’s rank. The tank captain pulled off his goggles, and they left circles of pale skin around his eyes. “The enemy charge has been contained, sir.”

  “That’s extremely good news.”

  “The Mosul are falling back, but falling back in good order.”

  “Are we pressing them?”

  “A lot of units are catching their breath, Field Marshal. Turning them back was hard.”

  “I understand, but we can’t wait too long, Captain. We can’t wait too long.”

  “The lads all know that, Field Marshal. They won’t wait.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Captain.”

  The captain mopped his face with a rag. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to find a fuel lorry before I get back into it.”

  “Carry on, Captain. You are all making me proud.”

  The captain dropped into the body of the machine, and pulled the hatch closed. The engine started, and the cavalrymen tightened their grip on their mounts as it clanked away. Dunbar turned in his saddle and met the eyes of his staff. “We have to get Albany moving again, gentlemen. We need one last effort before the sun goes down. I can’t allow Balsol the generosity of night.”

  RAPHAEL

  Mosul dead were everywhere. They carpeted the valley all the way back to their own forward trenches where the survivors were now bracing themselves for the next Albany attack. Some lay slumped, and others hideously contorted, mouths silently screaming, clawed hands frozen by death in the act of clutching for dear life. Others only remained as pieces of sundered flesh, severed legs, or unrecognizable torsos in the rags of blood-soaked uniforms. But for the strangest and most elaborately twisted fate, Raphael might have been among them, and not following Virgil Dunbar as he rallied his weary troops to make one final effort to finish Faysid Ab Balsol. Dunbar himself had seemed shocked when he saw the terrible extent of the carnage, and Raphael was one of the few who heard him utter what would later be his best known observation. “Next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained.”

  But the battle was not yet gained, and Dunbar rode among his men, with his staff, and the wider retinue that included Slide, Raphael, Argo, Jesamine, and Cordelia, behind him. Morale was high, but the men were tired. They would do their duty, but with a grim determination, giving all of their final reserves. Make or break, this would be the last push, or they would know the reason why. While a front line of riflemen and Bergman nests kept the remaining Mosul either pinned down or jumping, scattered units were being reassembled, and, where the casualties had been high, new ones formed from survivors. Ammunition was being resupplied, and the motor vehicles rearmed and refueled. Some men were eating and others avoided food, believing that it was bad to take a bullet on a full stomach, and depending for sustenance on their gin ration. Gin had been issued in most regiments, and, where it hadn’t, men had broken out the final stashed bottles from their kit. Even Argo had found a bottle of sipping whiskey, and ridden up beside Raphael and offered him a drink. The bottle was already a third empty and Argo’s voice was slurred.

  “We’ve come one fuck of a long way, Major Vega.”

  Raphael accepted the bottle and took a serious swallow. “We have indeed, Major Weaver. And I hope we still have a long way to go.”

  Argo laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You should be drawing all this, partner. Preserving it for posterity.”

  Although Argo didn’t know it, Raphael had stopped once and attempted to sketch what he was seeing, but Slide had chided him, patting him on the shoulder and moving him along. “The battle isn’t over, young Vega. There will be plenty of time to sketch the dead later.”

  Argo cantered ahead and Raphael followed. All round them Albany was making its move. The engines of the fighting machines were in gear, and some were already moving forward. Infantrymen fixed their bayonets. Few orders were being shouted. The entire force was advancing as if by organic mutual agreement, and the Mosul trenches were the only objective. The cavalry streamed ahead; Albany regulars with lance and saber, the proud and furious war bands of the Ohio, and irregulars like the Appalachian partisans, the mountain men, and trappers out of the interior, and former bandits like English John and his boys, and the Presley Brothers with their mad old patriarch, who had started to fight the Mosul because there was nothing left to steal. The horsemen, however, did not have it all their way. The infantry ran hard on their heels, with the lumbering fighting machines bringing up the rear. As his entire force proceeded with a will, Dunbar sat on his horse among his aides and said nothing. He was not about to interfere with the process.

  The army moved as a surge of men, a rising tide building to high water. No reserves were being held back, everyone was going to the show. No man wanted to be left
out of the fall of the Mosul in Virginia. Scattered fire came from the Mosul front line. A handful of cannon had been assembled and half-hearted and poorly-aimed shells burst in front of the Albany advance, but the pace only quickened. Some units had broken into double time, and a strange wordless roar came from the men of Albany. The first cavalry units were almost at the Mosul trenches. Mosul officers were screaming at their men to repel the attackers, but something seemed to have snapped. At first the Mosul ranks merely stood mute and seemingly paralyzed, but then one or two climbed the crumbling walls of their trenches and began to run. A few at first, but then in increasing number, the Mosul broke ranks like a great dam bursting until a flood of men was pouring down the valley, fleeing from Albany, looking for any way to escape.

  A great cry of jubilation went up. “The Mosul have broken! They are running!”

  Some men halted and embraced each other. Other pressed on, caught up in the fury of the moment, charging after the bolting Mosul, looking to exact fatal revenge.

  “The Mosul have broken!”

  JESAMINE

  Dunbar and all of those around him rode in dour silence towards the tattered flame banner that hung from a broken flagstaff. With the onset of the evening, the earlier breeze had dropped, and the once-feared flag hardly moved, drooping like a torn and smoke-stained rag. Faysid Ab Balsol waited beneath it with a handful of his surviving officers. The dead lay piled and contorted all around them as though the standard was the focus of a desperate final stand. These last remnants of their foes were silhouetted against a setting sun that had been made a blood red orb by the smoke that hung in the air, and they cast grim and elongated shadows. The Mosul general was tall. Even stooped in defeat and leaning heavily on his scimitar, he towered over the others around him. He must have been all of six-feet-five or -six, and his elaborate helmet with its flowing chain mail and plumed spike added even more inches. Jesamine, who was riding a few horses’ length behind Dunbar, as close as she was able to maneuver herself, calculated that Ab Balsol had to be of equal parts high-born Mamaluke and blood Mosul, the perfect symbolic scion of Hassan’s empire, and she wondered how the man could be feeling at that moment. For two centuries, the invading armies of the Mosul Empire had experienced precious few reverses. Their only real setback had been the ill-fated expedition into the snows of the Northern Plains, when they had ridden against the Saami and the Russe, only to be forced back by Joseph the Terrible into that legendary retreat through the deadly Russland winter. Now, in the space of a single year, they had twice been soundly beaten in the Americas. Jesamine was surprised the Mosul general was allowing himself to be taken at all, and had not killed himself when all was so obviously lost. The banner was slowly lowered, and Faysid Ab Balsol pulled his sword from the ground. Dunbar reined in his borrowed mount and spoke for all to hear. “Faysid Ab Balsol, I demand your unconditional surrender.”