It all had a toylike appearance, which fascinated him as the ship climbed ever higher. The reservoir was now below, stretching for several miles through the low, tree-lined hills. Farther to the south he could see the low ridges above abandoned Fort Lincoln, where the ore and coal mines were. Atop the highest of the hills the slender line of a watchtower jutted up, the position from which the enemy aerosteamers had first been sighted.
Near the earthen wall of the dam, the valley below revealed the vast factory complex, the tracks bordering each building aswarm with workers, disassembled machines piled high, engines backing in to the siding, pushing a long line of empty boxcars. A sea of tiny oval faces was turned upward, and Jack felt a surge of pleasure. He and Feyodor were alone on the stage, like the knights of old going forth to single combat, a David facing four Goliaths. Even at this great height he could hear the faint echo of their cheering.
"Well, now everyone knows!" Feyodor shouted.
"Let's hope we get back to bask in the glory."
The enemy ships were already above the mouth of the Neiper, slowly moving up the river in single file, each ship a mile behind the one in front.
Jack had yet to learn how to gauge relative height and distance, for all the sensations in their realm, both physical and visual, were far too new. But it was obvious they must be having some sort of effect on the Merki ships. The lead vessel was at a near stop, the three behind coming up and spreading out to the east.
Continuing to climb, they rose above the factory and headed straight over Suzdal, the church bell ringing below, those still in the city looking up, shouting and pointing. It was a lovely sight; the old city a warren of narrow lanes leading to the great square, the cathedral, and the partially bombed ruins of the Presidential and Senate building.
"Prelate Casmar!" Feyodor cried, leaning over to point straight down at the cathedral tower, where a lone, black-robed figure stood, waving excitedly. Feyodor again made the sign of blessing, and Jack wondered if prayers could float up to be captured and held.
On the far bank of the river the low hills rose up, their crest marked by felled trees and the raw slashes of gun emplacements. The forest rolled on for miles, the open steppe beyond visible on the horizon, the southward run of the Potomac military railroad an arrow-straight line through the woods, crammed now with a long column of Merki horse warriors. He was tempted to push on, to do a little reconnaissance of his own, but the orders were clear there as well: Do not risk the ship over enemy territory. If the engine should cut out now, the wind would bring them far across the river before Jack could bring her down. He didn't relish the thought of landing inside Merki lines.
The enemy aerosteamers were gathering just above Fort Lincoln, as if waiting to see what he would do. He pushed the rudder over to the left, the Flying Cloud turning to run southward with the wind at its back.
"We're definitely above them!" Jack shouted.
The south side of Suzdal passed below, the river just to his right with two ironclads anchored in midstream. The bed of the MFL & S traced southward the few scant miles to Fort Lincoln, which now stood covered in high grass, the old cabins of their first home on this world sitting abandoned and derelict.
The four enemy aerosteamers were drawing up abreast, their noses pointed high, struggling to climb.
"Get ready, Feyodor!"
The Rus engineer tore open a wicker basket lined with straw and gingerly lifted out a thin-walled jar, a linen wick sticking out of the wax-sealed top.
Nervously, Feyodor looked over Jack's shoulder as the range closed.
"A good thousand feet above the bastards!" Feyodor shouted.
Jack nodded and pushed the rudder forward. The nose of the Flying Cloud dropped and its speed increased, as the ship went into a slow dive, engine howling.
"I'm lighting it!" Feyodor shouted. With a gloved hand he pulled open the door to the engine boiler and stuck the linen wick inside. Pulling it out, he held the pot nervously, watching the wick flicker, terrified that a burning ember might snap lose and get whisked astern to lodge against the underbelly of the aerosteamer.
He looked back over his shoulder.
"Dropping now!"
He released the jar, flame snapping around it. With a groan, he watched as the jar fell far forward of the center airship and continued to plummet to the ground, the wick going out. The enemy ship soared by beneath them, nose still high, the eyes of the eagle that were painted forward barely visible. Jack steered straight on.
"Give us full power, Feyodor!"
He pushed the rudder hard over, the Flying Cloud turning eastward, drifting astern of the enemy ships, which were still climbing.
The enemy airships continued to climb slowly, like black whales of the sky. Reaching a full easterly heading, the wind continued to push the Flying Cloud aft of the enemy ships. Jack continued the turn and leveled the ship, coming out a good half mile astern of the enemy vessels, which were still pushing northward and slowly rising.
He singled out the ship farthest to the east and headed straight for it.
Directly below the old forge, the first iron foundry of Valennia passed beneath, the crew of workers out on the track jumping up and down, shouting, urging them on.
The climbing race continued, with the enemy ships slowly pulling ahead, though Jack found he climbed at a slightly higher rate with the exhaust vent fully closed off.
Running parallel to the MFL & S rail line, the five ships moved up toward Suzdal.
"Can't you get any more speed?"
"At full throttle already!" Feyodor cried.
Jack pushed the ship into a shallow dive, wind buffeting his face, the ship rippling up and down in the northerly breeze, a thermal rising from an open field causing an upward surge. They started to gain, and he nosed over even further.
Hands white-knuckled on the controls, he guided the Flying Cloud in, coming up astern of the most easterly ship, which was still rising as he dived down. He pushed hard rudder over to the right to avoid smashing into the tail, and then hard left.
"Now, Feyodor!"
The aerosteamer mechanic lifted up a revolver as the cabins of the two ships came alongside with not ten yards separating them, the air bags above brushing alongside each other.
The two Merki looked over at him wide-eyed. Feyodor leveled the revolver and squeezed, cocked, and squeezed again and yet again.
One of the Merki flinched and the other shook its fist, its cries of rage heard above the roaring of the caloric engine. The enemy ship continued to rise as they shot past. The revolver empty, Feyodor lifted a musket, the barrel sawed off. Leaning far out of the cab, Feyodor fired it off with an explosive roar, the recoil of the double load of buckshot slamming him back with such force that he dropped the weapon, which tumbled end-over-end to the ground below. One of the Merki slumped back, clutching its shoulder.
"Got him!" Feyodor screamed.
Shouting with joy, Jack pointed the nose of the Flying Cloud up, as the enemy ship started to turn to the west and continued on through, putting its stern to the wind.
Jack swung the Flying Cloud into a shallow turn to the left, then pulled the nose up again, angling in toward the other three vessels. The nearest one suddenly turned head-on, nose pointing up at a forty-five-degree angle, the two Merki engineers hanging in their side-by-side chairs.
Jack was tempted to run head-on, plowing the nose of the Flying Cloud straight into the cabin dangling below the balloon, but the thought of what might happen caused him to push the rudder forward, dropping Flying Cloud back down, pushing it hard over to the north again. The two vessels crossed, the Merki above. He felt a thump.
"Bloody Kesus!" Feyodor screamed.
Jack looked aft to see a Merki bomb tumbling end-over-end toward the ground, sparks trailing from its fuse. The bomb turned into a black point, an explosion detonating in a field just south of the city.
"Dropped it on us, and it didn't explode," Feyodor gasped.
Jack's legs
started to tremble, feeling as if they had turned to jelly. The other two ships were turning as well, coming straight at him.
"Hang on, Feyodor!" He pulled the up-rudder full back.
The ship started to surge upward, and he prayed that the Merki ship that had bombed them had cleared, since the vast bag overhead blocked all view in that direction.
The nose climbed past forty-five degrees up to sixty, and he leveled the rudder and pressed back in his chair, Feyodor behind him cursing wildly as he dangled from his safety belt.
Like two lines of a triangle climbing toward the apex, the Merki and Rus ships rose heavenward. Jack pushed the rudder over to the right, pivoting the vessel toward the northwest. The next Merki ship passed to the right, climbing in the opposite direction, the engineers on board shaking their fists in rage. Jack pulled out a revolver and, Feyodor following suit, they blazed away. The two Merki ducked down as the ships passed, and when the shooting had stopped they rose back up, shouting insults.
The last ship was before him, and he could see they were climbing at a slightly faster rate than the enemy.
"Get another one ready!"
Feyodor reached over to his side, this time cutting free from alongside his chair the wicker basket filled with the fragile jars. Balancing the basket on his lap, he pulled a jar out. He stuck the wick into the boiler for a moment, then pulled it out and placed it back in with the other containers.
He held the basket over the side as it started to flame.
"Hurry up!" Feyodor roared.
Jack turned the ship back toward the southwest, and the nose of the enemy ship passed by not a hundred feet below.
Feyodor dropped the flaming basket. It slammed into the top of the enemy balloon, even as the Merki pilot started to turn to the west in a vain attempt to run parallel with the Flying Cloud. The basket slid off the side of the balloon, a burst of liquid flame trailing behind it.
The enemy ship continued to turn, the flame licking the silk covering. It seemed to wink out with a wisp of smoke.
Feyodor leaned out of his chair, watching. The silk top of the ship suddenly appeared to melt open, a barely visible tongue of blue flame rippling along the top of the ship where a river of benzine from the broken jug had soaked the silk.
"It's catching!" Feyodor roared.
Jack looked over his shoulder.
The melted circle of silk rolled back, and a jet of blue flame roared up.
"She's going up!" Jack screamed.
A shudder passed through the Merki ship, the bag buckling in. It started to nose over, wisps of flaming silk shooting skyward on a river of heat, soaring straight up into the underside of the Flying Cloud which surged upward, bucking wildly.
Terrified, Jack pushed the rudder hard to the right and turned to the northwest, going straight over the Neiper. The enemy ship started to fold in, pointing a trailing arc of fire down across the river, which caught and reflected the fiery glow of the death plunge. In a river of flame, the ship tumbled from the sky in a fireball. A smoke-wreathed body
leaped free, and even though it was a Merki Jack felt sick at the sight of it tumbling, trailing smoke, its arms flung wide. The body slammed into the west bank of the river, followed seconds later by the rest of the ship, which crashed into the woods and ignited the forest in a smoking inferno.
"Kesus and Perm protect us from that," Feyodor whispered.
Awed by what he had done, Jack let the ship continue straight on for some seconds, silently contemplating the flaming wreck half a mile below.
"The others are getting the hell out," Feyodor said. Looking back over his shoulder, Jack saw that the ship with the wounded engineer was already a couple of miles astern, the other two swinging in behind it. They themselves were now more than a mile over the west bank, looking down on the line of Merki guns dug in on the crest of the hill. Far out to the south, more than thirty miles away, he could see dark, serpentine lines, columns of the Horde.
"We'll hold station over the city," Jack announced, suddenly anxious at being over enemy territory, where a sudden engine failure might bring on a decidedly unpleasant conclusion.
He turned the ship eastward, passing north of the still flaming wreck.
"Scratch one," he said coldly.
"They've only got about twenty more," Feyodor replied.
Jack nodded, saying nothing. This first one had been a surprise—next time, they'd come up ready for battle. It wouldn't be so easy the second time around.
Crossing back over the river he turned Flying Cloud into the wind, Feyodor throttling the engine down till they had matched the breeze from the north and hovered above the great square. The cathedral bell was pealing, and the square below was tilled with upturned faces, their cheers rising up. Looking back over his shoulder, Feyodor watched as the enemy ships continued southward, growing smaller and smaller.
"They've had it for today," Feyodor announced.
"Well, let's bask in some glory!" Jack cried. Reaching up he pulled the black vent cord, letting the ship settle, then closed it off till they were only a couple of hundred feet above the square.
Leaning out of the cab, the two waved and bowed like triumphant knights returning from the joust. With a kick of the rudder Jack turned the ship northeasterly, and moments later they were slowing, to hover above the factories as thousands cheered.
"Time for supper!" Jack finally shouted. "Let's head for home!"
Feyodor gave him full throttle, and pointing her nose heavenward the Flying Cloud climbed upward to race back to its hanger.
"Well, now we've got to figure out how to fight them next time," Feyodor announced gravely.
"Jesus, one thing at a time," Jack replied, his mind still filled with the sight of that burning body, tumbling end-over-end to its brutal death.
Raging, Jubadi watched as the cattle airship swung to the northeast and climbed into the afternoon sky.
"How, by the hide of Bugglaah, how?"
"It is always the same," Hulagar said. "They build something, we take it and build. And then they create something new to best us. We gained the advantage with the cloud-flyers. Now they have figured out the same."
"We should have anticipated it!" Jubadi snapped.
"We did. It's just that we did not find where they were building them."
"But the engine! We found ours in the barrows of the ancients. Where did they find such a thing?"
"They made their own," Muzta said.
Jubadi looked over at the Tugar angrily.
"I need to know where they are, what they are doing beyond this damned river."
"Don't blame me," Muzta said with a smile.
"Perhaps we should," Vuka interjected. "If you had taken care of your own cattle at the start we would not be troubled by this now."
"I'm eager to see you try them, o Zan Qarth. Perhaps you would care to lead the charge across the river, as my own youngest son once did."
He paused for a moment.
"He died, of course."
"Doubt my courage, Tugar?" Vuka snarled. He stepped up closer to Muzta, the Tugar guards around him stepping forward, hands leaping to hilts.
"The Yankees are laughing twice as loud," Tamuka said coldly. "Laughing at their triumph. And if they can see us argue thus, they are laughing about this as well."
Muzta grinned sardonically at Vuka.
"Of course I would never doubt your courage," he whispered. "All know how well you fought on the river before us."
Vuka bristled, yet there was a sudden nervous look in his eyes.
"Zan Qarth," Jubadi snapped. "The enemy is across the river."
With a bitter curse, Vuka let his hand drop from his blade and stalked away.
"We must find where their cloud-flyers hide, where they are made, and smash them," Hulagar said. "Let weapons to kill other cloud-flyers be made." "By whom?" Tamuka said quietly.
"By the cattle who made the machines in the first place," Jubadi replied.
"Oh yes, but of co
urse," Tamuka replied.
The cracking of a whip disturbed the group, and Jubadi turned to look back down the slope. Along the rail bed a long column of Cartha cattle were coming into view, staggering forward.
"Tomorrow they will be at the first ford. We can start building another mole. Within five days I want the river covered for a hundred miles. We must keep the pressure on. If we stay pent up in these woods beyond then, disaster will start to loom."
Tamuka said nothing but looked closely at Muzta, who was gazing at the flaming wreck, a thin smile lighting his features.
Chapter 9
"What a mess, what a godawful mess!"
John Mina slapped his gauntlets against the side of his leg, as he waded through the sea of refugees climbing down from the train.
As far as the eye could see, the hills rising to the south and east of Kev were carpeted with a ragtag tent city. The air was filled with incessant hammering, shouting, the sounds of squalling babies and shouting women, a mad cacophony of noise. A team of horses pulling a wagon laden down with fresh-cut lumber went past, splattering him with mud. He looked down at his stained, bedraggled uniform and cursed. It was one thing he had always hated about the army, one could never get clean. Back in the old Army of the Potomac days he had been filled with self-loathing and embarrassment the day he discovered that he was lousy. It did not matter that everyone else, from Andrew on down, was vermin-ridden. The abominal creatures were on him, and that's all that mattered.
Nervously, he scratched at himself. Was the itching from being in the same clothes for five days and nights without a change, or had he caught them again?
He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring 362
the delegation from the town council, which always attempted to grab any official it could find to scream out its complaints.
He paused for a moment to look at a pile of ground wheat in canvas bags that lay by the side of the road, half-buried in mud and soaked through from the rain.
"What dim-witted, son of a goddamned devil's spawn is responsible for that?" John raged, pointing at the ruined food.
The unloading master stood mute.
"Enough wheat there to feed a thousand people for a day, and it's ruined!" John shouted.
Terrible Swift Sword Page 31