A slash of rain washed over him, and Hans shivered.
"It's getting colder," he whispered. "Storm should be clearing soon."
Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a pocket watch and unsnapped the cover. Like all the watches that had been brought through the tunnel, every day it registered an extra hour compared to time on this world. He did a quick calculation.
"Dawn nearly an hour ago."
He put the watch back in his jacket and looked eastward.
Should have been here an hour ago. Where the hell are they?
Six lousy trains. All I need is six trains. To hell with the equipment, just get these men out.
"How far do you think we've gone?" lngrao asked, leaning forward in the saddle, swaying with exhaustion.
"Six miles, maybe seven or eight. Hard to tell."
A horse neighed and Hans turned. Shadows swirled to the south. A horse rider appeared for a second, sitting motionless.
A Merki.
"Bastards must have swung in behind us, figuring to cut us off. Now they're on the hunt."
A gust of wind stirred, rolling the mist back as if drawing a curtain aside. Several dozen riders were visible, racing parallel to the track, several hundred yards to the south.
"They've found us," Hans snapped. Standing, he climbed back into the saddle.
"We fight it out here!" he shouted, and with a vicious pull drove his mount up onto the tracks, motioning for the regimental commanders who had been riding with him to come to his side.
"Those are scouts; the main van should be up shortly. I want a full division square, first brigade north and east, second brigade south and west. Five company front to each regiment, other five companies forming a second line. I want this thing four ranks deep, two ranks kneeling, other two standing. First brigade, second division, is to form a reserve in the center. Charlie, post what guns we've got left on the four corners and keep a battery in the center. We've got men spread out for more than a mile alongside the tracks, and we've only got minutes to get them ready. Now, ride!"
Bugles echoed out commands and officers galloped off, shouting orders. Men stirred, officers urging them on at the run. The square started to form. Regimental groups were forgotten, the men simply falling in where placed. The soldiers looked grimfaced, pulling leather cartridge boxes to their side and fumbling gingerly with the double flaps that had been clamped down tight to keep the rain out.
Hans galloped up and down the inside of the forming square, marking positions, shouting out encouragement, cursing any who were too slow.
The smattering of Merki scouts started to grow into clusters, a gradual line of skirmishers moving around the square, staying out of range. Riders with blue pennants started to gallop along the south side of the square, barely visible in the mist.
Another two miles and we'd have been into the woods, Hans thought coldly. Two goddamn miles, and now we're caught out in the open. He looked northward. The trees of the forest were clearly visible. A mile northward and they'd be into the woods. For several seconds he thought of moving them that way, but knew instantly that it would be suicide. The Merki would cut him off up there. Once the square was formed he'd have to keep pushing eastward straight along the track and cut a way out.
Another sound echoed, and all stopped for the briefest moment. A whistle, high and urgent in its calling, drifted in from the east.
A ragged cheer swept the line, to be stilled when another sound, dark with menace, rolled over them. It was the sound of a rising thunder, the ground trembling. From out of the dying storm the Horde emerged, and at the sight of their hated foe the Merki broke into song.
"Skirmishers, cover the flanks!"
Pat leaped down from the cab of the train, barely noticing the arrows arcing in.
From out of the twenty boxcars behind the engine two regiments piled out, men already running to cover the flanks. The armored car forward of the engine cut loose with a spray of canister that sliced out into the dying mist, the concussion and swirl of shot spinning the wisps of fog into eddies.
Pat raced down the track, screaming for men to follow, cursing wildly at the sight of a section of missing rail.
In the shadowy mists he saw a cluster of Merki riding slowly off, dragging something between them.
"Stop them, goddammit, stop them!" Pat roared.
A young soldier stood beside him. Snatching the rifle out of the youth's hand, he raised it to his shoulder and fired. A rider pitched forward out of the saddle.
"Come on!" Pat screamed.
Leaping from the roadbed he started to run through the knee-high grass, his leather-soled shoes slipping. The ground was torn up in front of him from something being dragged over it.
"Stop them!"
Several soldiers paused and fired, and another rider went down. A Merki turned in the saddle, bow drawn. With the release Pat saw the spray from the string. The arrow came in slow yet still found its mark, dropping the man next to him.
Screaming with a wild rage, Pat rushed on into the open field, men racing by his side. A flurry of shots snapped out and another rider fell, the burden dropping into the grass.
He pulled his revolver out, firing as he ran. The warriors scurried off.
Gasping for breath, his stomach knotted, Pat slid to a stop by the twenty-foot section of rail.
"Now, pick it up! Let's get the hell back!"
A dozen men gathered round, hoisted the section of iron up, and started at a slow run back to the track. Another low thunder was starting to build, and suddenly there was the loud shriek of the train whistle.
Pat looked back over his shoulder. From out of the disappearing fog a dark wall appeared, moving fast, sweeping to the west several hundred yards away, weaving their way past the occasional clumps of conifers that marked the edge of the great forest. The wall started to turn, horns sounding and chants growing. From out of the mist a line of Merki appeared, scimitars raised. They came in at a charge.
"Run!" Pat screamed.
Alongside the engine the first regiment was forming up, deploying lines to either side of the track and forward of the armored car, which was holding its fire, waiting for the struggling party to get in.
The charge continued to surge up the slope. The men around him looked over their shoulders, panic in their eyes, but not one let go of the precious rail.
A snap of light appeared off to the south. Seconds later the shot screamed in, the range high, the round snapping through a treetop to the north of the track.
"Move it, move it!" The chant roared up from the line of Roum infantry, who now formed a wall in front of the train.
Pat looked over his shoulder, and saw that they were less than a hundred yards away and closing in.
A shower of arrows snaked up from the line, slamming into the ground around him. A man holding the rail dropped without a sound.
"First rank, aim!" The command echoed out in Latin. Muskets flashed up and were leveled.
The line parted as they raced into its protection.
"Fire!"
The volley snapped out, horses shrieking, skidding on the wet turf, going down.
The six guns inside the armored car snapped off a volley of canister, cutting gaping holes in the line.
Pat directed the gasping men to lay the rail back in place.
"The spikes are gone!" one of the firemen shouted, barely audible above the crash of the second volley.
"Bayonets, then!" Pat shouted. "Drive the bayonets in! Use the musket butts as hammers!"
A horse, coming forward under its own momentum though already dead, crashed into the volley line not twenty feet behind him, crushing down the double rank, the body slamming alongside the track. Several Merki waded in through the gap, mounts and warriors dying under bayonet jabs but slashing men down in their dying. The wave receded.
A deep, booming roar was now plainly heard. Climbing up the side of the armored car, Pat looked forward. Another line of Merki cavalry was setting up astride
the track a hundred yards forward. And beyond them, not a half-mile away, barely visible, he saw the sharp flash of a volley. Several seconds later a patter of bullets snapped past.
A gust of wind swirled through the light scattering of trees, drawing the mist away. An entire division in square had been formed down in the gentle drop of the valley just ahead. Pat unsnapped his field glasses then raised them, ignoring the rain of arrows dropping in from the riders who ranged a hundred yards out, galloping down the length of track, firing bolt after bolt.
From all sides of the square down in the valley Merki were surging in, scimitars flashing. In measured pace, volley after volley rippled down the line, holding them at bay.
In the center of the square he saw a cluster of horsemen, the guidon of the corps planted in the middle, fluttering alongside the dark blue flag marked with the chevrons of a sergeant major.
"Hans!" Pat screamed, slamming his fists against the side of the car with impotent rage.
The men working on the track struggled to pound the bayonets in, to anchor the rail in place so they could advance the last short distance. Musket butts shattered from the blow, barrels bent, but ever so slowly the bayonets inched their way into the rain-swollen wood.
And with every passing second more and yet more Merki filtered out alongside the trains, and dense columns moved to fill the few hundred yards that separated the division from safety. Pat swung his glasses to the south. Coming across the field, he saw battery after battery of guns advancing at the gallop, wheels bouncing and careening, the Merki gunners lashing their mounts on.
Tears of frustration clouded his eyes.
"There's the train!" lngrao shouted.
Hans spared a quick glance up the long gentle slope to where the lead engine was stalled, the dark tan line of Roum infantry fanning out to form a line before it.
"Something's stopped them!" Hans shouted. "They most likely cut the rail."
A volley crashed out, and then from all sides a continuous roar of musketry swelled.
A steady hail of arrows was winging in, but the arrows came down in a high arc rather than in a deadly flat trajectory. Hans watched their fall.
Wet weather affects their bows, he thought. Not as much punch, thank god.
Charge after charge came in. The fire to stop them was nearly continuous, and hundreds of bodies piled up, formations breaking apart.
Hans looked back up the hill to where a sharp volley had kicked out.
"Charlie, we'll have to fight our way the last half-mile!" Hans shouted.
Charlie looked over at him.
"Holding square's one thing, Hans. Marching and fighting that way is another."
"Ney did it."
"Who?"
"Dammit, didn't they teach you anything?" Hans shouted. "Now pass the order. North and south walls to sidestep, west to back up, east to move forward. Keep them tight. If we start to break in, those bastards will ride right through us."
A hissing whine kicked overhead.
Startled, Hans looked to the southeast. The smoke from a field piece was rolling out on the wind, the Merki gunners leaping forward to reload.
From across the field, screened by a column of horse warriors, a long line of guns was being driven across the field, moving between the division and the trains atop the low ridge.
"We've got to move!" Hans shouted, edging his horse to the east side of the square, raising his carbine and pointing toward the train.
Bugle calls sounded. The men looked about in confusion as officers shouted to hold the formation.
The square started to move. Another flurry of shot crashed into the line as two more guns opened up. Casualties went down, men breaking formation to help the wounded.
"Walk or die!" Hans screamed. "No helping the wounded!"
On the flanks the Merki charged in, regardless of loss, nargas braying their insistent call. A vast wedge formation turned and started in from the south, riding at full gallop, hundreds of Merki on foot racing to keep up.
The musketry rose to a crescendo. Horses dropped, pitching their riders to the ground, flailing hooves kicked their owners to death. The foot warriors charged on, leaping over the dead and dying, screaming their chants, scimitars raised high, flashing through the air.
The charge crashed into the southwest corner of the square, the line collapsing, Merki pouring into the hole. Part of the reserve brigade, turning about, raced back in a solid line, bayonets at the level, desperate to seal the breach.
Like carrion drawn to death, the Merki charged toward the breach, struggling to crack the line clean apart. Forward, the line of guns moved to deploy, the first piece kicking into the air as the team drove it up over the grading, the iron-shod wheels striking sparks as it slammed over the rails.
A second line of guns was beyond the first. Crews swung the pieces out to face east, back up the hill toward the train.
"Keep moving!" Hans screamed.
He swung in beside the regimental colors of one of the two regiments on the east side.
"Men of the 7th Novrod, we've got to take those guns!" Hans roared, pointing his carbine forward.
He looked back over his shoulder. The breach was closing, but nearly an entire regiment was gone, the square curving in as if a surgeon had sliced off part of a body to save the rest. A knot of survivors outside the protection of the formation fought on and were finally swarmed under.
"Bugler, sound double time!"
Tamuka reined his mount in, grinning with satisfaction at the battery commander, who bowed a salute and then turned back to his guns.
"Load double canister!"
Merki gunners leaped to their work, racing to load, oblivious to the screaming wall of cattle rushing toward them.
Now they will see what we can give back, he thought with a smile.
The square lurched forward. All around him it was starting to come apart as they swept up the slope, racing to beat the guns before they were unlimbered—and loaded.
A hundred yards! Hans thought. Through the guns and we're home. Thirty seconds, and he saw the rammers stepping away from their pieces.
Fifty yards, and before him the batteries were silent, waiting, and in his heart he knew.
"Home, boys, home! Home's just on the other side of the hill!" Hans screamed.
Thirty guns fired at once. Six thousand iron balls snapped across the field into the line not thirty yards away.
Groaning with anguish, Pat could not look away. The entire east side of the square seemed to go down, the formation stopping as if striking into a stone wall.
The second line of guns facing in his direction fired, shot screaming up the slope. The volley line before him riddled, bodies disintegrating, tumbling into the air.
An explosion of steam shot out around him, the boiler of the train exploding as a solid shot tore through its guts.
Pat stood in numbed silence.
"Rally, goddammit, rally!"
He was on foot. How he had gotten there he couldn't tell. Someone was next to him. The flag-bearer, the staff broken, the boy sobbing as he waved the colors over his head.
"Once more!" Hans screamed.
From out of the confusion individuals rose up, staggering forward as if going into the teeth of a gale.
Flashes rippled in front. Iron hail smashed through, unable to miss. Hans felt as if he were walking in a nightmare. It was a nightmare.
He looked back into the center of the square. What had missed the line had smashed into the reserves, staggering them. Men were streaming back into the center of the formation. The east side of the square was gone. Like a dying animal the three brigades started to curl up into themselves.
"One more time!" Hans screamed. "We can't stop!"
He snatched up his guidon, holding it high, and started to run forward.
A storm swept past him, picking him up as if he were a dried leaf in a gale, tossing him down.
Hands were around him, dragging him back. His leg felt numb.
>
"Let me go!" He kicked and struggled, but they would not let go. Men closed around him. He struggled free at last, hands releasing him.
"You're hit, sir."
Ignoring the cry he gingerly stood up, grimacing with the pain.
Same damn place the reb sniper got me, he thought coldly.
A regimental commander came up, leading his mount. Without asking, Hans climbed into the saddle, stifling the groan of pain.
The square was going fast. The southwest corner was torn open again, with Merki pouring in. The eastern line was gone, the field a carpet of white-clad bodies, tunics stained red, hundreds of wounded screaming, crawling, staggering back. Up the slope the artillery continued its deadly fire, sweeping in. All that was left was the knot of men around him, the last of the reserve, the survivors running in from the disintegrating line. Officers struggled, pushing the men into lines, plugging the holes with bodies. The air was alive with shot.
And above the wild screams of battle, the nargas sounded.
As if guided by a single hand, the riders swarming through the broken lines turned and galloped out, slashing at all in their way.
The artillery facing the trains continued to pound the line cresting the hill, a high plume of steam venting up from a smashed engine, but over what was left of the three brigades an eerie silence prevailed.
As the smoke momentarily cleared a Merki rider came out of the columns surrounding them, waving a white flag.
"Hold fire!" Hans roared.
The rider came up, reining in his mount.
"My Qar Qarth offers surrender. You will be spared the feasting pits, but subjects of the Merki you will be for the rest of your lives."
Hans looked at the grim-faced men who surrounded the torn standards of what had once been fifteen proud regiments.
The men looked up at him expectantly, their eyes hard and dark, and he smiled.
He leaned forward, shooting a stream of tobacco juice toward the envoy.
"Shit," Hans snarled, and a defiant shout greeted his words.
The Merki snarled angrily, turned his mount around, and galloped back.
"You took that from the Imperial Guard at Waterloo."
Terrible Swift Sword Page 24