Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  Hutton thought for a moment. “As far as people we can send attacking, I’d guess around five thousand. But gathering them with the enemy in the sky will take time.”

  “Five thousand troopers. That’s a big brigade.”

  A big brigade against multiple Flesh-Eater regiments all along the length of the Southern Wall, and that brigade’ll need to be split. This is insane.

  But on the other hand, a bullet or bomb was quicker than hunger or scurvy.

  Alonzo returned to the map. Those three forts lay fifteen miles west of where he’d initially wanted to attack. The Flesh-Eaters’ strength was infantry, not cavalry. The Merrill horse could handle their Flesh-Eater opposite numbers, and it would take close to a day for their footsloggers to arrive.

  And there was open country beyond the forts, green country the Merrill horsemen could maneuver in and keep their horses fed. It would seem right plausible the Merrills would try to crack the Southern Wall there.

  “All right.” Alonzo pressed his finger down on the three forts. “The diversionary attack will hit here. We’ll need to recall the Asherton from counter-patrolling and send it after Fort Hartford. That’ll draw the enemy away from Fort Deming and then the troopers’ll hit Deming and Stirling. How many troopers do you think it’ll need to fool the bastards?”

  Hutton raised an eyebrow. “Trapping the enemy within their forts is one thing. But if you want to take them, you’ll need artillery.”

  “Artillery,” Alonzo repeated. “Something we don’t have a lot of.” He looked at Paul. “Any pikeys selling artillery or gun parts?”

  “Parts, maybe,” the older man said. “But whole guns? I doubt it. If the Flesh-Eaters even suspected they’re selling us cannon, they’d crush them, no matter how useful they are trade-wise.” Alonzo swore. He didn’t think the pikeys could fully revamp the Merrill artillery corps, but he’d hoped they could at least manage something.

  “Still,” Hutton said. “I’d guess we’ve got maybe fifty galloper guns and a few bigger pieces.”

  “How many antiaircraft guns do we have in movable condition?”

  “One Old World four-barrel gun, but not a lot of ammunition. Some balloon-poppers.”

  “We’ll take the big one with us. Once they figure out it’s me leading the raid, we’ll definitely have the type of company that flies.”

  “Sir, about that. This isn’t like you ambushing a column or raiding the Southern Wall. The Flesh-Eaters will massively respond to this. I’m willing to lead this one —”

  Alonzo shook his head. “The men’ll fight better knowing I’m with them.”

  Hutton frowned. “I remember your brother saying much the same —”

  His words physically jerked Alonzo. Grendel’s freak general had sent John’s body back in mock courtesy, in such condition the first man who saw it vomited. They had to close the casket for the funeral. Alonzo bared his teeth. Hutton’s eyes widened slightly. “And if John hadn’t been there, the army might’ve broken earlier and might not have hurt the Blood Alchemy freaks like they did. More of them would’ve meant more of our people being mutilated or dragged off to fuck monsters.”

  “With all due respect, sir, a member of House Merrill is more valuable —”

  Alonzo scowled. “General, this matter is closed.” Hutton fell silent. “How long do you think it’ll take you to prepare?”

  “Two weeks. If we want to rob the Flesh-Eater tax collectors, we can’t wait. But the men will need more training and moving at night will slow things.”

  Alonzo turned to Paul. “Requisition the supplies Hutton needs, anything he asks for. Strip the camps bare if you have to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul left the tent. Alonzo returned his attention to Hutton. “Now, where should the main blow fall?”

  The bugle blew in a dark lit only by a few small fires. Andrew joined the files of men marching across the dusty ground beneath the watching moon to where both companies’ wranglers gathered the horses. The pack full of supplies for the saddlebags bore down on his shoulders. For the second time since Andrew had been rescued from the desert, the entire unit would make the long ride to war.

  Zeke loped alongside the squad, already wearing the duster with the sergeant’s stripes. Hank followed close behind. Beyond them were Wyatt and his men. As they streamed toward their mounts, Andrew brooded.

  Both companies had been assigned to attack Fort Deming, part of the Southern Wall. Zeke wouldn’t say why – and Andrew dared not eavesdrop on Hardy – but he reckoned they were after supplies. It was the smart thing to do after the piss-poor harvest and the cattle-killing.

  To prepare, the squad’s patrol duties were halved and even camp chores were neglected. Instead, they’d been drilled on the use of grenades and fighting supported by artillery.

  Two cannon mounted on large wooden wheels — “galloper guns” — had been rolled out. Close behind came a long upward-pointing gun the others called a “balloon-popper.” The gunners were already hitching them to the horses.

  It would have been nice if we’d had those ambushing that Flesh-Eater column, Andrew thought glumly. We could’ve punched some right big holes, maybe taken out a couple mortar teams.

  But artillery would have slowed them and it was speed they’d needed, to hit and run before help arrived. That didn’t seem to be much of a concern this time.

  The drilling in protecting the artillerymen wasn’t hard. Assaulting fortifications, that was hard. They’d thrown dirt, scrap wood, and other odds and ends into something approximating a Flesh-Eater fort and then attacked it. Not only was it hot, heavy work, but it gave Andrew a damn good idea of the butcher’s bill they’d have to pay.

  The soldiers began mounting up. The horses reminded Andrew of Alyssa. She was another bushel of grain entirely. They’d started drilling harder two days after she’d come by and he hadn’t seen her since. The fact the squad was so busy meant the others weren’t seeing her either, but that wasn’t much of an improvement.

  He closed his eyes. She was right fascinating — a woman as tough and ornery as any man. What if one of them died today and the last thing they’d done was fight?

  He shook his head. She had just as much chance of coming out alive as he. Hell, she probably had more, fighting from horseback and all. Maybe he’d look for her later, after the battle…

  He tensed. What the hell was he thinking?

  He tried to force Alyssa out of his mind. Maybe Cassie was at the fort. Maybe they’d rescue her from the cannibal bastards. She and the other girls from Carroll Town counted on the Second Pendleton to get them out.

  But if Cassie wasn’t there, or if he was too late? Had he pushed Alyssa into the arms of someone else for no reason?

  “Something bothering you?” Owen asked.

  Speak of the goddamned devil.

  Andrew looked away. The fact Alyssa’d put her cap out for Owen — a pikey, even though he obviously wasn’t selfish or greedy — had made things worse.

  Owen sighed. “We’re about to attack a goddamn fort. I’ve done this before, and they’re a right bitch, even with cannon. If you’re distracted, you or one of us might end up dead.”

  Hank rode up alongside. Resentment flared. Andrew didn’t want someone else poking their nose into the situation.

  “Owen’s right,” the former Flesh-Eater said. “I’ve been in forts under attack. The butcher’s bill without cannon is right huge and” — he gestured toward the company’s two cannon — “that’s not much. We’ll have to storm.” He swallowed.

  Owen laid his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew forced himself not to flinch. He locked his dark eyes with Andrew’s. “What’s coming is going to be bad enough without your mind wandering. So what the hell’s eating you?”

  Andrew sighed. He couldn’t argue with that, pikey or not. “I had a girl back in Carroll Town. I’d met her at the fair about a year ago. She’s swell, but I didn’t want to marry her.” He drew a breath. “Then the Flesh-Eaters
came. I guess you don’t know what you’ve got until they take it from you.” He paused. “And now I meet Alyssa, who’s after me like I was after Cassie. But Cassie might still be alive.” The next words were like pulling teeth. “And anyway, it seems Alyssa wants you now.”

  Owen stared at Andrew. Then he started laughing. Hank joined in. Andrew scowled. “What’s so goddamn funny?”

  “For someone who’s got a twin sister, you don’t seem to know much about women,” Owen said. “She’s playing with you.”

  Hank finally managed to stop laughing. “Yeah.”

  The thought had never occurred to Andrew. He’d seen Sarah flirt with Elijah, but he’d never seen her use another man to annoy him. And Cassie had never done the same to him.

  Looking back, it all made sense now.

  When she flirted with Will, she was looking at me.

  “Oh.” Andrew drew a breath. “So you and her aren’t —”

  Owen laughed again.“Nope.” Then his expression hardened. “She knew flirting with me would piss you off. Don’t think I haven’t heard you say ‘pikey.’” Andrew swallowed. His jaw worked. Owen was his friend. Owen had saved his life. And yet he’d said something that hurt him. He searched for words, but they didn’t come.

  “Menceir is better,” Owen continued. “That’s what we call ourselves. ‘The trading folk’ will do. But not ‘pikey.’” Andrew nodded. Owen smiled. “By the way, I prefer brunettes.”

  Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Andrew laughed.

  The bugle blew again. All three snapped to attention. While they’d talked, all of the soldiers had mounted up and a detachment of cavalry arrived. Andrew saw long blonde hair among the new arrivals.

  Alyssa!

  He was glad she came along, but knowing they’d bleed for the fort dampened his joy.

  The burly, deeply-tanned major emerged from the shadowy horsemen and faced the column. “All right, boys,” he called out. “We’re going to Fort Deming. We’re going to crack that nest of cannibals open and serve them a breakfast of lead!” He paused. “Now ride!”

  The troopers thundered through the two vertical logs marking the entrance of the Merrill camp. A pillar of dust rose behind them. Those few left behind cheered. Many troopers shouted back or pumped their free hands into the air. Will and Owen were among them. Even Hank joined in.

  Andrew remained quiet as the darkness deepened around them. David did the same beside him. It hadn’t been that long since they’d ridden out of Carroll Town to face the Flesh-Eaters on the hills. He’d ridden with Sam then, and it was Sam who’d died, gutted like a fish from the river.

  His eyes narrowed. The men of Carroll Town rode into the teeth of a much stronger foe, knowing they’d die but hoping that’d buy their kin time. The Merrill host was — probably — riding out to capture the food the Flesh-Eaters denied the residents of the camps, leaving them all but starving.

  Good Lord willing, the Merrill troopers’ sacrifice would be more effective than the Carroll Town militia’s had been.

  A Meeting of Minds

  Falki sat on a fine wooden chair carved with serpents beside Father’s steel throne. The rising sun barely pierced the skylights above. The weak light glinted on the interspersed swords and rifles of Father’s enemies that haloed the top of the mottled green and brown chair. Father’s throne had been forged from the remains of the Iron Horse, the Old World machine that had nearly killed the man when Falki was twelve.

  That would have been just lovely. A frown crossed Falki’s wide face. Most of our armies would be gone. The Camrose Confederation would have claimed the whole Basin.

  Falki would still be lord of Sejera, and Alexander would have backed him. However, Father had only recently subdued Quantrill. The opportunistic bastard would have thrown in his lot with Camrose. Then things would have gotten ugly…

  He shook his head. Great doings were afoot. Once he’d returned, Father had told him the entire scheme. It was clever, so many of his plans. Give his subordinates a new enemy to fight, all while accumulating territory and resources under Norridge’s direct control. Centralization of power without civil war. And Father was too busy with his plan to notice Rosalyn.

  And Falki wasn’t going to be in Norridge long. The latest settlement of Guard veterans had displaced some freeholders and they were causing trouble. Unless Father really wanted to discuss the issue, he was going to be out of sight and out of mind soon enough.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” his younger half-brother Arne interrupted from his right. Like all of Grendel’s children, he had Father’s gray eyes. Although his hair was dark, it curled like his mother’s. He was also fair-skinned like his mother Signe, and his eyes weren’t narrow like Falki’s.

  “Your tutor’s working with Astrid,” Falki said. “You’re going to learn directly from Father now.”

  He gestured to the round mahogany table edged in gold set before them. Around it sat the Host commanders and the once-independent warlords. A motley crew all united by the blood on their hands.

  Falki’s hand tightened on his holstered revolver. Mangle and Quantrill had not made trouble while he was in the north, but Father had not gotten to where he was by trusting people. The guardsmen in the room would make quick work of anyone threatening Grendel or his heirs, but it was always best to err on the side of caution.

  “Today’s lesson is going to be about keeping an empire once you have got it.”

  Grendel strode in through the hall’s great double doors, wearing his full armor for effect. He nodded to each man at the table before taking his seat on the throne. “Good morning. I imagine most of you are wondering why I summoned you here.”

  Nods circled the table, stopping at Alexander to his left. Grendel had entrusted his blood-brother with the plan earlier, as he had Falki. He briefly described the recent fighting between the Blood Alchemy Host and the Legio Mortis. Quantrill smiled triumphantly when Grendel assigned the blame to Mangle. That is probably not the only reason the son of a bitch is happy.

  “I have considered requiring you to demobilize most of your standing troops,” Grendel began. “That should limit anyone’s ability to cause trouble.”

  Although no one spoke, Grendel could feel the tension in the subtle frowns, the tightening of hands and mouths. Demobilization meant unemployment and depressed wages, strikes and unrest. Sending soldiers to crush men they’d fought beside risked mutiny. And those demobilizing first would be vulnerable to those demobilizing later. Mangle’s stupid attack on Quantrill was no doubt on everyone’s minds.

  The guardsmen could kill anybody who make a stink, but that would mean war with their successors across the entire realm. He would win, and that war would give him absolute power over the entire Northlands. But he had no desire to rule a ruin, nor pass one onto his sons. And the plan he would reveal today would make him the same gains at home — and abroad as well — without civil war.

  “However, I thought it might be better to put your skilled and brave soldiers to something more suitable than farming, mining, or working in the factories.”

  “What might that be, my lord?” Alexander played his part in the drama.

  “An expedition across the Iron Desert.”

  No one responded. Some looked at each other. Grendel made a note of those that did — potential co-conspirators, if they thought him mad. Those he could not trust he had taken pains to set against each other, but Quantrill in particular was intelligent enough to put aside old grudges if it benefited him. And with what he suspected Quantrill had done, he would be the most dangerous one of all.

  “Since the Fall, many believed the Iron Desert extended to the end of the world. Educated men like ourselves know this a lie. Everett has traded with us for centuries and no matter how tight-lipped they are about their homes or tight-fisted they are about their monopoly, their goods have to come from somewhere.”

  The doors to the throne room swung upon. Servants in black carried a pallet bearing foreign goo
ds brought to Norridge as trade or tribute. Most were from lands under Leaden Host control. Still playing his part, Alexander rose and made space for them to push the pallet onto the table.

  Although southern goods were not difficult to acquire if one had sufficient means, seeing so much at once was rare. The assembled warlords leaned forward at the sight of the stacks of gold bars marked with the image of a globe, anchor, and eagle, clothes assembled far more precisely than any northern factory could make them, and lenses whose smoothness exceeded any ground even in Norridge itself. And there was something else, something Everett’s sailors said was new even in their homeland.

  It was a large box with a round black disc on it. The merchants called it a “gramophone.” Alexander leaned forward, placed the box’s metallic arm on the disc, and turned a crank on the side. Jaunty music began playing. Grins broke out all around the table.

  “For too long, the Northlands fought itself. Nobody had the resources to challenge Everett’s sea monopoly. Even now, building a fleet to match theirs would ruin us. Invading the south and bringing these goods — and those who produce them — under our control will break Everett’s monopoly without lifting a finger against them.”

  That should quiet any potential troublemakers. War with Everett risked Alexander’s ships and cities. Those who resented Grendel’s yoke might think Alexander might turn against his old friend. No risk to the western coast meant they could not hope to have Alexander as a co-conspirator.

  Quantrill opened his mouth. Of course he had to throw a spanner into the works. “My lord, all this is well and good, but do we have any idea what we’re facing? Superior goods mean superior technology, which typically means superior weaponry. Whatever lies south of the desert could be as superior to us on land as Everett is at sea.”

  Grendel, of course, had thought of this. “Agreed. I have just begun probing with my own dirigibles. My agents have been trying to loosen some tongues, to figure out what kind of armies and weapons will be waiting for us on the other side. Too much reconnaissance risks losing strategic surprise, but we have established the peoples south of the desert, like Everett, speak something like the flatlander tongue. There are even Jiao, although they do not seem to have had contact with their kin here. They use airships and trains for transportation like we do.” Quantrill nodded. That put him just where Grendel wanted. “Since you are concerned, I will borrow some of your airships for further reconnaissance. Once they return, you will have firsthand information on what we will face.”