by David Drake
“Do you want me to let you go?” he said.
She shook her head. “No. Don’t let me go,” she said.
He held her tighter.
“Bring me back,” she whispered. “You brought back Loreilei. Bring me back.”
Holding her in this manner, he found—felt—his way inside her.
Then, as suddenly as the storm took her, she was calm. Her breathing eased. She opened to him like the Land itself.
* * *
Mahaut gave him the dagger to take with him.
“It was my grandmother’s,” she said. “For protection in the streets of Mims, she told me. I used to always carry it, but I’ve got a pistol now.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“We are rich. Such things can be acquired. It’s only for the protection of my virtue, such as it is,” she said. “I use a bow for pleasure.”
“And use the occasional Scout captain for pleasure, as well?”
She laughed at that, but continued to proffer the dagger. “I want you to carry it with you. Always. Will it be a hindrance to you?”
Not a hindrance, but probably as useless as Father’s saber, he thought.
“I will carry it,” he said.
He left at dawn, and slept in the saddle on the way back to Hestinga. His dont knew the way, and though it stopped a few times to graze upon the thorny grass on the side of the road it craved, he made it back in time to deploy up the Escarpment.
He was at the Upper Cliffs by nightfall.
PART FOUR
The Battle
1
Observe:
The Blaskoye flowed down from the Escarpment on new three-moons night. They chose four discrete paths down. It was impossible to guard the length of the Rim, and, though the Scouts were aware of where the breaches occurred, there was little they could do except provide intelligence. The bands bypassed Hestinga fifteen leagues to the south, riding over the broad expanse of farmland south of the road and headed for Garangipore. It was then Abel knew.
The map. He’s taken the bait, Abel thought. We put an arsenal with a small guard in Garangipore. It would be a natural point to attack: take out a poorly guarded but crucial supply depot.
This is the feint we have been looking for, said Center. It will be an attempt to draw out the forces of Hestinga, including your father. The Blaskoye have learned since Lilleheim not to underestimate the Militia, and especially the Regulars. They will not wish to be trapped and encircled in a village again, but will have a different plan.
What plan?
There are various permutations, Center said. A countermarch—or, in their case, a counterride—back on Hestinga. A raid combined with an invasion from the north. An ambush attempt, after drawing out the forces from Hestinga.
It will be ambush, said Raj. This has become personal for the Blaskoye.
Yes, said Center. Observe what has happened:
The attack on Garangipore began on the same moonless night as the invasion. Such was the size of the Blaskoye horde that flooded down the Rim that the Redlanders were not through invading the Valley before the first of the dontriders had travelled the eleven leagues to Garangipore. There was nothing to see except black shapes against the stars, but there was plenty to hear. It came across the bottomlands south of the Canal road like the rumble of distant thunder. There were only two men out that night traveling on the road who were older than twenty—brothers who were now merchants and delivering barge goods to Hestinga that included containers of wax that must travel out of direct sunlight. Both were barely old enough to remember when the last rainstorm came up the Valley. One turned to the other and, fearing the lightning and slashing and impossible water from the sky that they so well recalled, even though they had only been seven and eight years old at the time, had wordlessly urged their dak team to a hell-for-leather run into the safety of Hestinga and a roof, however sun-rotted and weak, over their heads.
If they had stayed a little longer to listen, they might have heard the blowing of the bone horns and known it was something else entirely that was happening to their Land.
Over ten thousand Redland warriors on dontback were in the process of entering the Valley. By sunrise the invasion was complete. The horde was rampant in Treville.
The garrison at Garangipore stood no chance. The village itself was half the size of Hestinga, more trading outpost on the River than town. It was also spread out and had none of the walled compactness and tidiness of Hestinga. The Blaskoye simply overran the garrison and the village. The soldiers of the garrison, one hundred Regulars, and what Militia was able to turn out—not many, the surprise was complete—were slaughtered. The bodies of the Regulars were tied to ropes and dragged through the streets to cow the residents, as if they needed further cowing.
By noon, the first impalements of town leaders had been set up along the road, with men run through on stakes writhing in a line that stretched two hundred paces from the village’s west entrance.
Yet, to the utter frustration of the Blaskoye, not one of the impaled or of the others variously murdered had revealed what they, the Blaskoye, so desperately wished to know: where was the great stockpile of gunpowder that was stored in Garangipore?
It is here, shouted the warriors into the faces of the tortured and damned. It has to be here, we know it! And when it was the big one, the man in blue and white raiment who sported the great black beard, who was doing the questioning, he would shake a papyrus scroll in the faces of his victims.
“It is here somewhere,” he shouted in his heavily accented Landish. “It says so on this map! Now show me! Show me or die!”
But they could not show him, for they did not know.
A great many died before Rostov was convinced of this fact, however.
The map was wrong.
He had been tricked.
There was no gunpowder stockpile in Garangipore.
There was no greater military garrison. The men he had killed were all there were.
He would still destroy them. Take and rape their Land, make it bear his fruit, his seed, instead of theirs. Come in from the miserable desert to a place of plenty and live not as a beggar, but as that land’s ruler.
He would do this.
The task was just going to take a bit longer, that was all.
So he put out his Scouts and pickets and waited. They would come. And they would come along the Road. They would have to. And when they were on the march from Hestinga, he would be ready—ready to fall upon and destroy them.
Patience and savagery in striking. These were the traits of the raptor, the totem of Blaskoye. He would pray to his raptor god, find patience. The savagery he could handle on his own without the god’s help.
* * *
Where? thought Abel. When?
Remember, the Blaskoye must behave as cavalry to be effective. You saw what happened to them in Lilleheim when they dismounted and fought on the ground. Militia were able to rout them. They’ll need to use the donts’ speed to concentrate in overwhelming numbers. But that can’t take place just anywhere. Village streets, alleys, and pathways are a barrier, not an advantage, to a soldier on dontback.
So it won’t be in Garangipore or another village, Abel thought. Which leaves the River, the bottomlands, and the Escarpment.
Now consider the Militia at march, Raj continued patiently. Will they travel overland, through fields and patties?
Not if they can help it. They’ll stick to the road.
Exactly. Not only will they stick to the road, they’ll travel down it in line. How wide would you make the road between Hestinga and Garangipore to be?
A few paces. Ten at its widest. Abel began to realize what Raj was getting at. They’ll be strung out in line for a league or more along the Canal road between Hestinga and Garangipore. Either side of the road will form a perfect flank to attack. It’ll be difficult to concentrate and rally. The Blaskoye could overwhelm any given spot in the line and then travel up the road in ei
ther direction to wrap up the rest, one double-filed marcher at a time.
This would seem the most probable strategy for the Blaskoye, but prediction of exact locations produces probabilities of less than fifty percent in all present instances.
But it’s the Canal road, thought Abel. From Hestinga to the bridge at Talla, the Canal levee is within sight on the north side of the road. After Talla, it’s on the south side, and just as close. If it were me, I wouldn’t come from the Canal side. Instead, I would try to drive the forces on the road toward the Canal. It’s not the River, by any means, but: first of all there are the earthen levees on either side, at least fifty elbs high. Then there’s the Canal itself. It’s too deep to wade across. You’re swimming in the middle for a good fifteen paces. And it has carnadons in it. Not as many as the River, but plenty enough. It’s a barrier. I’d trap my enemy with his back to it, run him up against the levees and destroy him.
Aye, the lad has something, said Raj.
The Talla bridge is closer to Garangipore, at league nine point seven of the eleven point two six leagues between Hestinga and Garangipore.
I would destroy the bridge while I was making the ambush farther down the road.
Theoretically, yes, Raj replied. But coordinated attacks are a very difficult proposition to pull off when you’re essentially a rabble of mounted horse.
They’re beginning to acquire discipline. That’s probably all Rostov has been working on in the past three-moons, and even before that. You saw how he’d concentrated them at Awul-alwaha.
Easier wished for and blustered about than actually done, Raj said. Of course they might try.
And we could be there, ready.
Exactly.
So a thrust across the Canal road coming from south and moving to the north, wheeling out of Garangipore, thought Abel. That narrows the possibilities considerably.
But leaves seven point two leagues of open road, Center said. We have not won even this theoretical battle yet. And there is one other factor to consider. The levees themselves have pathways running along their tops. These are wagon tracks for transport of the sluice-gate machinery. Furthermore, there are the gates themselves.
Yes, that’s right, thought Abel. The fields between the Canal road and the levee are rice paddies. They’re kept dry half the year, and flooded the other half. This is, of course, not long after harvest time, and they are dry.
But they don’t have to be, Raj added with an evil chuckle.
We now have a workable plan, said Center. It is time to risk discovery by Zentrum. It is time to introduce the innovation you and Golitsin have been preparing.
So, he was finally going to see in reality what had only been an idea placed in his mind for years. But surely there’s no time to convert the Regulars’ guns, Abel thought. And the Militia is mostly pikemen and archers, of course.
Converting regular army rifles to breech fire will not be necessary, said Center. No, only one military component need receive the innovation.
Scouts, Abel thought.
* * *
“Delta gum,” Golitsin said. “It is the most amazing substance!”
“You mean the nasty stuff the Delta men chew instead of nesh?”
“Exactly. We’ve solved the blowback problem with it.”
“I’ll have to see it to believe it.”
“I’ll do you one better than that,” said Golitsin. “You can shoot it to believe it.”
He showed Abel the prototype.
He half cocked the hammer to safe in order to slide back the breech dog, the heavy covering that kept the trapdoor opening fully shut during firing. Then he fingered the little hook and latch lever he’d created and popped the top of the breechlock up. It did look like a trapdoor, swinging on a hinge open upward and toward the muzzle of the rifle. He pulled the breech piston back and showed Abel his latest innovation. “See how I’ve made a round, flat piece out of the Delta gum, but left a hole in it so the hammer can strike the percussion cap?”
The ancient term for such an object was a “rubber washer,” Center said.
“That stops the back-gassing problem we were having,” Golitsin went on. “Forms a tight seal, like beeswax, but won’t melt and is reusable. Well, reusable to a point. Until I can perfect the formula, those gum pieces will need to be replaced ever twenty or thirty rounds. But if you look at the rear of that stock . . .”
Abel turned the rifle over in his hands and saw a small sliding wood door intricately set into the wood of the rifle butt. He pushed it aside to reveal a small compartment.
“Spare parts and cleaning kit go there,” said Golitsin. “We’ll put five of these washers in every compartment to start with.”
“Nice.”
“Now, I know we were talking about an ejection device for the spent caps, but I haven’t had time to do that yet. The chamber will have to be cleared by hand. They’ll probably get it down to the flick of a thumb, or hooking a finger inside to pop it out.”
“What about papyrus residue?” asked Abel. “We were getting fouling on the tests before.”
Golitsin chuckled. “Solved that, too,” he said. “I got some of those lucifers you Scouts always seem to be carrying against Stasis, and figured out how they’re made. I used some of the same essence of sulfur in a liquid goop I cooked up to soak the paper. Then I let it dry and, bang, you have cartridge paper that burns completely up, leaves as fine an ash as you could wish for.”
“Which brings me to the cartridges.”
“You’ll have to see this to believe it,” Golitsin said. He rose and indicated that Abel should follow him out. The pounding and scalding cacophony of the smithery reached their ears full force. He ushered Abel into the rear of the complex with its final assembly stations. “We’re turning out five hundred a day. We have a built stockpile of five thousand. And we’re getting faster at it.”
Golitsin reached into a wicker basket and picked up four of the paper cartridges, about all his hand could hold. Each was about as big around and as long as a regular-sized man’s thumb.
Equivalent to forty-five caliber, eight-five grain cartridges, Center said. Impressive.
The construction was simple. On one end was a standard percussion cap of the sort that all muskets used. Glued to this using standard dakhoof glue was a cylinder of about a thumbnail in length. The cylinder was made of thinly peeled rolled papyrus, and was a pale yellow in color. Inside, the paper cylinder was two-thirds filled with gunpowder. On top of that, a lead two-ridge minié ball was fitted and attached with a dab of wax where bullet met paper casing.
What about those metal cartridges you told me about, Abel thought. Wouldn’t it have been better to manufacture bullets instead of this?
With what? said Center. Your society’s metallurgy skills are barely good enough to create the breech lock mechanism. The large-scale production of copper casing is beyond your existing technological base for the time being. That will change rapidly after successful deployment of these cartridges. For the moment, paper will have to do. It will prove effective if deployed correctly. In ancient times, paper cartridges were extremely effective in the Chassepot needleshot breechloaders of old Earth, and elsewhere. And the fact remains that we simply do not have appreciable supplies of metal to work with.
So we go with paper casings, said Abel, and hope the paper is mightier than the sword.
It will certainly have a longer range, Center answered.
Most importantly, your rate of fire will be at least three to one, Raj said. Probably more, after the Scouts get the hang of it.
“How much more time do you need?”
“Two days to change out the washers,” said Golitsin. “Then we’ll have two hundred rifles ready in addition to the two hundred your Scouts already have.”
“Make it tomorrow,” Abel said. “Keep at it all night if you have to. I’ll bring the wagon at midmorning to pick them up.”
“The Blaskoye must be at Garangipore by now,” Golitsin said,
shaking his head.
“Yes,” Abel replied. “We’re getting reports. It’s not pretty.”
“You’ll have your rifles,” Golitsin said. “Come at dawn.”
* * *
All the Scouts had fired at least five practice rounds with the breechloaders. All were drilled weekly on its operation. Only the first two hundred carried the weapons every day, however. They had practiced extensively with their weapons and had been given ample ammunition with which to drill and fire at targets.
They had developed a method of holding cartridges—someone said it had been developed by Maday, or at least by a man in Maday’s squad—between the fingers of their stock hand, usually their left hand, so that three cartridges protruded out. This way they could fire four rounds in rapid succession, with no fumbling in a cartridge box for replacements.
Abel, who had known to expect good things, was stunned at the rate of fire they achieved. He counted it off, just to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him. A shot every two heartbeats. The men with rifles were able to undog the bolt, slide it back, clear the spent cap (the cartridge paper had burned up in the barrel and was no more), load another paper cartridge, slide the bolt closed, take aim, and fire. What was more, they were perfectly able to do it from a prone position as well—something that was impossible when reloading via the muzzle of a musket.
And when Abel checked the targets, he could see that the accuracy was there, as good as ever. It was phenomenal. At least in theory, it was like having five more muskets in ranks, stepping forward one after another, and firing.
* * *
Joab was on dontback when Abel found him on the muster field to the west of Hestinga. To the north lay the lake, a blue-green expanse that was the biggest stretch of water in the Valley. Abel wondered how the sea would compare. Perhaps one day he would find out. Abel rode up beside Joab and hailed his father.
“I have it,” Abel said.
“All right,” replied Joab. “I’ll get Courtemanche to round up the staff. I’m over there—”