by David Weber
Like a machine—or like what it really was: an abattoir—each bound captive would be placed upon an altar, then quickly dispatched and butchered, the parts separated into manageable chunks. The offal was hurled by teams of lower priests into the maw of the furnaces at the rear, while others bore the edible materials away even as another “Servant” was brought forward. The worshipers’ deep, rhythmic chanting was a bizarre counterpart for the frantic screams as the captives were dragged forward . . . until the screams were abruptly cut off by the priests’ knives.
If anything was worse than the hideous efficiency of the sacrifices, with its clear implication of frequent and lengthy experience, it was the well-dressed worshipers, swaying back and forth in hysterical reaction to the slaughter and chanting their ecstatic counterpoint to the prayers of the priests.
When Kosutic opened the door, the priests’ prayers stopped abruptly, and the chanting shuddered to a halt in broken chunks of sound. Roger looked out over the suddenly silent tableau and shook his head.
“I’m just not having this,” he said in an almost conversational tone.
“We’re low on ammo, Sir!” Kosutic pointed out. “We can retreat. The door will hold them for a bit.”
“Hell with that.” Roger reached over his shoulder with his right hand. “The best, shortest way out is through the temple, Sergeant Major. And I don’t think they’re going to just let us walk through, do you?”
“No, Your Highness,” the Satanist replied.
“Well, there you are,” Roger said reasonably. “And I suppose if we’re low on ammo, it’ll just have to be cold steel, won’t it?”
Steel whispered in the near-total silence as he drew his sword once more, and Dogzard lashed her tail back and forth. The smell of blood had hit her, and her spikes were shivering.
“Roger!” Despreaux yelled from the press around the door, then—“Ow! Dammit, Dogzard—watch the tail!”
“You hang back, Nimashet,” Roger snarled. “Let me and the Vashin handle this.”
“Allow me to note that this is not a wise endeavor,” Cord observed as he hefted his spear. “That being said, clear the door, Your Highness!”
“Let me at them!” Pedi called, waving both bloodstained swords over her head. “I’ll give them ‘lesser races’!”
“Oh, the hell with that!” Despreaux said, stepping forward as the ceremonial guards in the temple below raised their staves. “You’re not going any place without me!”
“No,” Kosutic interjected, never taking her eyes from the waiting guards. “Cover the back door. We don’t want to get hit from behind.”
“But . . .”
“That wasn’t a request, Sergeant!” The sergeant major snapped. “Cover our damned backs!”
“Vashin!” Roger called. “One volley, and draw! Cold steel!”
“Cold steel!”
“The People!”
“SHIN!”
“Two of the main intersections are secure,” Rastar called as his civan trotted down the broad boulevard past Pahner. “We took the main Flail headquarters for the sector on the way. They tried to fight, but these guard pukes are no use at all.”
“Basik to the atul,” Fain agreed as another volley crashed out. The Diaspran had tucked his company tight around the retreating wagons, letting the Vashin clear the way ahead. “They just fight dumb. Almost as dumb as barbs. No style, no tactics—simple personal attacks, and they just advance into our fire. Dumb.”
“Not dumb, just . . . stagnant,” Pahner corrected. “They’re so used to fighting one way they don’t know any other. And they haven’t figured out how to change. I suspect that they’re as good as it gets against other satrap forces or when it comes to suppressing riots in the city. But they’ve never dealt with rifle volleys or snipers.”
The latter—mostly Marines, but a few of the Diasprans as well—had been picking off any leaders who showed real imagination.
“Any word on Roger?” Rastar asked.
“Nothing since they called from the Temple,” the captain said.
“They’ll make it, Sir,” Fain said. “It’s Roger, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me.” Pahner shook his head. “I almost wish he was still considered incompetent. Maybe then I’d have sent a decent sized force to look after him.”
“You know,” Roger parried a blow from a staff and slid his blade down the shaft to cut off the Mardukan wielder’s fingers, “I could wish that Pahner didn’t have so much confidence in me!”
“Why?” Kosutic punched her bayonet through the roof of the staff wielder’s screaming mouth. Unlike the Diaspran riflemen, the Marine’s bayonets were made of monomolecular memory plastic, not locally produced steel blades. The impossibly sharp bayonet sliced up and outwards in an effortless spray of blood, and she kicked the falling body out of her path with a grunt.
“Well, if the captain hadn’t been so sure we could handle anything, he would have sent more troops with us!” Roger yelled as Dogzard, unnoticed, landed on the back of a guard about to strike Cord. The Mardukan might have been able to support the one hundred and twenty kilos from a standing start, but when it hit him at forty kilometers per hour, he went over on his face in the red mash of the floor. And down on his face, with an enraged Dogzard on his back, there wasn’t much he’d be doing but dying.
“But more troops would mean fewer guards for each of us!” Pedi protested as she slashed the throat out of one attacker and wheeled to chop another’s true-arm just below the shoulder. A staff clanged off her horns in response, and she kicked out at the wielder, slashing at him with the edge of her horns and following up with the thrust to the chest. A handspan of bloody steel protruded out of the Krath’s back, and she twisted her wrist. “Fewer Krath to kill and bodies to loot! What fun would that be?”
She withdrew her blade in a flood of crimson, and Roger paused to survey the blood-soaked sacristy. The area—fortunately or unfortunately—had been designed for adequate drainage, and a nasty sizzling sound and a horrible burned-steak smell rose from the furnaces at the rear, where the gutters terminated. The ground was littered with the bodies of priests and guards left in the Vashin’s and Marines’ wake. The few worshipers who had joined the guards to attempt to stop them had fared no better, and the Vashin had been particularly brutal. Many of the corpses showed more hacks than were strictly necessary.
“I suppose when you look at it that way,” Roger said as one of the Vashin pried an emerald the size of his thumb out of a statue. Between the ornamentation and the clothing of the priests and worshipers, there was probably a month’s pay per Vashin in this room alone. The prince leaned down and picked up a more or less clean cloth from the . . . debris and wiped his sword. There was hardly a sound in the entire Temple, except for the sizzle from the rear and an occasional groan from their only serious casualty. The Vashin had been particularly efficient in ensuring that there were no Krath wounded.
The sacrifices had scattered. Whether they would be able to survive and blend into the population, Roger didn’t know. All he knew was that the way out was clear, and that there were no living threats in view. On Marduk, that was good enough.
“Three minutes to loot, and then it’s time to go, people!” he called, waving his sword at the door. Even after a quick wipe, the blade left a trail of crimson through the air. “Let’s find a way out of this place!”
“Third Squad has closed up, Captain, but we’re getting quite a bit of pressure from the rear,” Fain said. A rifle volley crashed out from someplace downslope, answered by high-pitched screaming. “Nothing we can’t deal with. Yet.”
“Still haven’t heard from Roger,” Pahner said with a nod. He looked around in the gloom and shook his head. One of the “civilized” aspects of Kirsti was that many of the major boulevards had gaslights. Now he knew why they had gaslights; it was so they could see during broad day.
“There’s been the occasional explosion from his direction, so I take it he’s on
his way,” the Marine continued. “Now, if we could just take the gate before he gets here.”
“Sorry about that.” Rastar shrugged. “It was closed when we arrived. They probably did it ahead of time.”
“Why not use a plasma cannon, Sir?” Fain asked.
“Signature.” Pahner pulled out a bisti root and cut off a sliver; it was covered with a thin layer of bitter ash by the time he got it into his mouth. “If they’re going to be watching for advanced weapons anywhere, it will be on this continent. And plasma cannons aren’t the weapon of a lost hunter. Much the same reason why, after his first message, we’ve been out of contact with His Highness. No, we’re going to have to take this thing the old-fashioned way.”
“That will be expensive,” Fain said, looking at the gate defenses. The central gatehouse was flanked by two defensive towers, both of them loopholed to sweep the exterior of the gatehouse with arquebus and light artillery fire. The fortifications were obviously meant to be equally defensible from either side, so that if an enemy made it over the wall, he would still have a hard fight for the gate tower.
“Boiling oil will be the least of it,” the Diaspran added.
“Well, I’m not planning on stacking bodies to climb up and over it,” Pahner said, and pointed to a stairway. It ran up the inner face of the gatehouse to a heavily timbered door at the third-story level. “We go up there, blow the door with a satchel charge, and take the interior. Somewhere in there will be the controls.”
The doorway in question was on the top of the wall, in full view of the western tower. Firing slits along that tower’s eastern side had a clear shot at the stairs and the area in front of the door. Rastar surveyed the slits, which probably concealed heavy swivel guns. They would undoubtedly be loaded with canister, like giant shotguns. He’d seen the same sort of weapon in Sindi, used on the Boman barbarians, and knew exactly what the effect would be.
“We’ll still take quite a few casualties.”
“I know, Rastar,” Pahner said sadly. “And it will fall mostly on the Diasprans and the Vashin. I can’t afford to lose many more Marines. Hell, most of the ones I still have left are already busy, anyway.”
“What’s to be done, must be done,” Rastar said philosophically, drawing his pistols. “We’ll need the satchel charge prepared.”
“I got t’at,” Poertena said, pulling out his pack. “Two satchel charge. One or t’e other gonna work.”
“Not your specialty, Sergeant,” Pahner said. “Somebody will need to go into the gatehouse and find the gate controls. That won’t be like working in an armory.”
“I’m a po . . . a Marine, Sir,” the Pinopan shot back. “Gots to die someplace.”
Pahner gazed at him for perhaps one second, then shrugged.
“Very well. It appears that the Vashin will have the honor of taking the gate, supported by the unit armorer.”
“What’s next?” Julian asked with a smile. “Arming the pilots?”
“And the cooks, the clerks, and the sergeant major’s band,” Pahner told him. “Take it from here, Rastar.”
“Right.” Rastar had revolvers in all four hands now, checking to make sure the ash hadn’t jammed the actions. “Honal?” he said to his cousin.
“Vashin!” Honal called in turn to the cavalry drawn up behind him. “Good news! We get to take the gates! Up the stairs, the shorty blows the door, and we’re in!”
“Well, I suppose that’s as close as they’re getting to an operations order,” Pahner murmured as he stepped back. He hoped they would at least dismount. The civan might possibly make it up the stairs—all the Vashin were superb riders, after all—but getting them through the doorway would be tough.
As Honal was waving the cavalry to the ground, the lower embrasure on the western tower suddenly gouted flame. A tremendous explosion rocked the fortification, smoke poured through the structure, and a racket of rifle fire sounded from the conflagration.
“I believe His Highness has made an appearance,” Pahner observed. “Go! Get up there now, Rastar!”
“About bloody time, Roger!” the former Vashin prince yelled. Then he waved his pistols at the wall and looked at his own men.
“Therdan!”
“I think we may have overdone it there, Sergeant Major,” Roger said with a cough as he scrabbled in his pouch for cartridges. He’d expended the last of his irreplaceable pistol beads on the way out of the Temple. Then he’d expended all of the rounds for his own, human-sized revolver on his way into the gate tower defensive complex. That was when he’d picked up the revolver and ammo pouch from a wounded Vashin. It was oversized, designed for Mardukan hands, and fit to fracture even Roger’s wrists each time he fired. But the one thing he really hated about it was that he was flat out of ammo for it, too.
“Oh, I dunno, Your Highness.” Kosutic shook her head to clear the ringing. “I think a keg of gunpowder was about right.”
“The door is stuck!” St. John (J) announced. Through the smoke, Roger could just barely make out Kileti, levering at the door with a piece of bent iron. The prince smothered a curse and squinted, but even with his superb natural vision, details were impossible to make out. All morning, he’d regretted leaving his helmet behind at the barracks, since the entire trip had been from gloom to deeper gloom. And smoke-filled deeper gloom, at that.
“Well, we’d best get it unstuck,” he said calmly as another volley echoed from behind him. “Don’t you think?”
“And they would do that how, exactly, Your Highness?” Cord asked, then looked up suddenly. “Down!”
The spear had somehow flown past the blockade of Diasprans and Vashin holding the rear guard. How his asi had even seen it under such conditions was more than the prince could say. Unfortunately, just seeing it wasn’t quite enough.
Cord’s arm sweep knocked Roger to the side, but the short, broad blade of the spear took the shaman just below the right, lower shoulder.
“Bloody hell!” Roger rebounded painfully off the stone wall. Then he saw Cord. “Bloody pocking hell!”
The spear was embedded deep in the shaman’s lower chest. Cord lay on his back, breathing shallowly and holding the spear still, but Roger knew the pain had to be enormous.
“Ah, man, Cord,” he said, dropping to his knees. His hands fluttered over the surface of the shaman’s mostly naked body, but he wasn’t sure what to do. The spear was in the shaman’s gut up to the haft. “I gotta get you to Doc Dobrescu, buddy!”
“Get out,” Cord spat. “Get out now!”
“None of that,” Roger said, and looked across at Pedi. The shaman’s benan had both blood-covered swords crossed across her knees. “I guess we both missed that one, huh?”
“Will my shame never end?” she asked bitterly. “I turn my back only for a moment, and this—!” She shook her head. “We must take it out, or it will fester.”
“And if we do that, we’ll increase the bleeding,” Roger disagreed sharply. “We need to get him to the doc.”
“Whatever we do, Your Highness, we’d better do it quick,” Kosutic said. “We’ve got the door clear, but the rear guard isn’t going to last forever.”
“Take the Marines. Clear the tower,” Roger snapped as he pulled out his knife. Even with the monomolecular blade, the spear shaft twisted as he secured a firm grip on it, then sliced through it. The shaman took shallow breaths and slimed at every vibration, but the only sound he actually made came with the last jerk, as the shaft parted—a quiet whine, like Dogzard when she wanted a snack.
“We’ll carry him out,” Roger said as he threw the truncated shaft viciously across the stinking, smoke-choked stone chamber.
“We who?” Kosutic asked, shaking her head as she imagined trying to lift the two hundred-kilo shaman. Then she drew a deep breath. “Yes, Sir.”
“Ammo! Anybody got any?” Birkendal called from the door. “Most of the lower room is clear, but we’re taking fire from the second story.”
“I do.” Despreaux threw
him her ammo pouch. “St. John, take your team and clear the upper stories,” she continued. “I’ll take an arm, Pedi takes an arm, Roger takes a leg, and we let the other one dangle.”
“Chim Pri’s down,” Roger said as he grabbed a leg. “Who in hell is in charge of the Mardukans?”
“Sergeant Knever,” Despreaux said. “Knever! We are leaving!”
She saw a thumbs-up sign come out of the force packed around the doorway and grabbed Cord’s arm.
“Let’s go!”
Poertena stepped over the remains of one of the Vashin cavalry. He placed the satchel charge against the door, pulled the friction tab to start the fuse, and looked around in the gloom for some cover. His helmet adjusted everything to a light level of sixty percent standard daylight, but the rendering washed out shadows, which had a negative effect on depth perception. Despite that, he could clearly tell that there wasn’t much cover on the wall, but at least ducking around to the right of the door put a slight protuberance between his body and the two kilos of blasting powder.
He set his helmet to “Seal,” folded his body into the smallest possible space, and pushed against the tower wall, but the overpressure wave still shook him like a terrier shaking a rat. The oversized pack was no help at all, as the blast wave caught it where it protruded from cover, spun him away from shelter, and hammered him down on the wall’s stonework. He picked himself up and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and took a mental inventory of the situation. The downside was that he couldn’t hear a thing; the upside was that there was now a hole where the door used to be.
Not that he had a whole long time to evaluate things.
Poertena had never been much of a hand with a rifle. He realized that no true Marine would ever admit to such an ignoble failing, yet there it was. And he was an even worse shot with the chemical-powered rifles the company had improvised in K’Vaern’s Cove. Which was why he’d built himself a pump-action shotgun at the same time he designed Honal’s.