CHAPTER EIGHT
“Allahu Akbar! Gur! Gur!”
The band of Colonials swept out of a side street in the maze of alleys. The morning sun burned bright on their scimitars and spiked helmets; beneath their djellabas they had wound tight linen strips, the winding-sheets of men determined to seek Paradise in battle with the unbelievers.
The main street was narrow and crooked as well; only one file of troopers was between Raj and the attack. Horace spun beneath him with a roaring growl, and his hand swept out saber and pistol. A grid of green lines clamped down over his vision, and the outlines of the Colonial troopers glowed. One strobed; the one with his carbine in his hands. Still a hundred paces away: a long pistol-shot but not impossible for a skilled man on dogback to make with a shoulder-weapon. And the Arab looked good. . . .
Raj moved his wrist. A red dot settled on the Colonial’s midriff. His finger squeezed the trigger. Crack. The carbineer flipped over the cantle of his saddle. Crack. Another down. Place the dot and the bullet went where Center indicated it would. Crack—crack—crack. The revolver was empty, and the Colonials were through.
A clang of steel on steel as a scimitar met his saber. He flexed his wrist to let the sharply curved blade hiss by, then cut backhand across the Arab’s face. A second was barreling in with his blade upraised. Horace lunged with open mouth for the Bazenji’s throat. Raj stabbed, and the point of his weapon went in below the breastbone. He ripped it free with desperate strength, wheeling. Suzette’s carbine clanged and nearly dropped from her hands as she used it to deflect a cut. Raj rose in the stirrups and chopped downward; there was a jar like the blade hitting seasoned oak, and a splitting sound. It nearly wrenched from his hand, sunk to brow-level in the Colonial’s skull, but the weight of the falling body pulled the metal free.
There had been no time for fear. Something contracted in a hard knot under his ribs when he saw his wife clutching at her upper arm.
“It’s nothing, light cut,” she said.
He checked; in the background rifles barked as the troopers put down the dogs of the dead Arabs where they stood snarling over their masters’ bodies. She was right; she held a dressing over the superficial wound while he tied it off.
“Damn, that was too close,” he said. “Anyone else wounded?”
His bannerman had gashed fingers where he’d used the staff to block a cut. Suzette heeled Harbie closer and went to work on that. The sergeant of the color-party was looking at him wide-eyed.
“Spirit, ser,” he blurted. “Five dead wit’ five shots!”
Raj felt a flush of embarrassment. He wasn’t actually a first-rate pistol-shot; the sword was his personal weapon of choice, and with that he was very good. With Center’s eerie trick, you didn’t have to be good. He didn’t much like the experience. It was too much like being a weapon yourself, in another’s hand.
Whatever works, he thought.
precisely.
“Keep moving,” he said sharply.
The suburbs of Ain el-Hilwa were burning already, as the Civil Government troops shot and hacked their way through the crowds who ran screaming towards the gates. Shells went by overhead in long ripping-canvas arcs, to crash on the massive stone-faced walls behind the moat. It was a wet moat, full of canal water, right now dark with the heads of refugees swimming across; and getting no help from the garrison. The gates were jammed tight with a press of humanity.
“Forward!” he said again. “Dammit, bugler, sound Advance at speed!”
The brazen scream cut through the white noise of the crowds, the gathering roar of the flames. Sheer press of numbers was slowing the advance despite complete surprise. The people ahead wanted to get out of the way of the sharp blades and snarling meter-long jaws and rifle fire; they couldn’t.
Should have stayed in their houses, he thought—or in the sprawling city of reed shanties and tents outside the suburbs. There was no wisdom in panic.
A field gun bounced up behind him. The crew pulled the trail free of the limber and spun it around, running it forward with the long pole held up and the nose of the gun down. They pushed it through the front line of Civil Government troopers and let the trail fall.
“Stand clear!” the gun commander said. He skipped aside himself and pulled the lanyard.
Pomph. The shock of discharge slapped at him, bouncing back and forth from the narrow walls.
So did the hundreds of lead shot in the canister charge. Men—and women and children—splashed away from the spreading scythe of it.
“Waymanos!” Raj shouted again. “Forward!”
The buildings dropped away on either side as they came out into the broad cleared area around the moat. Cannon and pompoms were firing from the walls, but most of the shots went overhead, into the belt of houses, helping with the work of destruction. In the gates, the garrison were firing down into their own people, dropping handbombs and pouring burning naphtha from the murder-holes over the arched entrances to clear the press. The gates swung shut, and the bridges over the moats gaped as hinged sections were pulled up.
“Damn,” Raj said aloud. “Runner, to battalion commanders. Get the fires going and pull back.”
A shell burst twenty yards ahead. Raj stood in his stirrups and brought out his field glasses, sweeping along the walls. Chaos, but active chaos—groups in the crimson djellabas of Colonial regular troops, infantry from the looks of them, and the white-and-colored patchwork of city militia. More and more of the fortress guns were getting into operation, too.
He turned Horace to the rear. “Come on, let’s get out before the fires spread.”
He was conscious of a few odd looks. Technically, this was a defeat—they hadn’t been able to rush the gates, despite the shambolic panic of the Colonial garrison’s response. Raj grinned a little wider.
A reputation for having something up your sleeve could be quite helpful. Even when you did have something up your sleeve.
Suzette was flexing her arm, wincing only a little, as they turned and trotted back through the smoke and noise. Shells whirred by overhead; ash and bits of debris fell into the dirt streets about them.
I’m almost glad that happened, Raj thought. Something sounded an interrogative at the back of his mind. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d lost my capacity for strong emotion.
i am not contagious.
The hell you’re not, Raj thought. For example, I wouldn’t have dared to talk this way to an angel a few years ago. He looked down at the city. For another, I wouldn’t do what I’m going to do to Osterville a few years ago. Even to Osterville.
ah. that is the effect known as “life,” raj whitehall. and it is contagious; not only that, but fatal. for all of us.
“Should be ready in about three hours, mi heneral,” Dinnalsyn said.
The gunner and Raj stood together outside the earthworks, five kilometers from Ain el-Hilwa. Two thousand troopers and as many press-ganged Colonial refugees dug steadily, hauling the dirt from the growing ditch upslope in baskets, buckets, helmets, and cloth slings improvised from coats. The sun was high, and the men sweated as they worked; an hour on and an hour off, with the off spent standing guard or watering and feeding the dogs. The earthwork fort was two hundred meters on a side, a standard marching camp with a ditch as deep as a standing man, an earthwork rampart as high inside with a palisade on top, and bastions at the corners and gates with V-notches for the guns. The air was full of the smell of sweat and freshly turned earth.
He walked over to the edge. “Found that buried cask of beer yet, dog-brothers?” Raj called in Namerique.
The big fair men in the nearest section groaned laughter. “Don’t worry, lord,” one yelled back. “By the Spirit of Man of This Earth, we’ll have a grave big enough for all the enemy we kill if it takes us all day.”
Raj waved as he turned away. Not bad, he thought. Back home, these men scorned digging in the earth as fit for peons and women; real men fought, hunted, and drank. They’d learned something of soldiering, then—granted he’d had to kill about a third of the adult males in their nations to get their attention, but they were learning.
Within the enclosure medics were setting up, and tents being pitched in neat rows along the streets; everything necessary for a mobile military city of five thousand men. It could be made more elaborate the longer they stayed, but by midafternoon the camp would be ready to defend. It was said, not without truth, that watching a Civil Government army encamp was more discouraging for barbarians than fighting a battle with them. The Colonials wouldn’t be intimidated, but they’d know exactly how hard it was to storm this sort of earthworks.
“Good, Grammeck,” he said. “Keep pushing it. Gerrin, once we’ve got the wall up, let all these Colonials go—it won’t hurt the troops to finish up by themselves. Kaltin, you’ve got overwatch—”
“Ser,” his color-sergeant said.
Raj looked around. A party of Civil Government officers was riding up; not his own, Osterville’s banner. Raj waited in silence.
“General,” Osterville said.
“Colonel,” Raj replied. Formally: “Colonel Osterville, I’m ordering you to bring your command within the walls of this encampment.”
Osterville sneered, a rather theatrical expression. “I’ll have to deprive you and Messa Whitehall of that pleasure. As Commandant of the Military District of Sandoral, our authority is concurrent. These commands remain separate, and I’m not afraid of that lot of wogs over there.”
He pointed; his own four battalions were setting up camp on a hill no more than a kilometer from the walls. Beyond that was a dense pall of smoke, as the ruins of the suburbs beyond the wall smoldered. Not coincidentally, there was an orchard and pleasant little country villa on the hill.
“I warn you,” Raj went on, stroking his chin, “that the Colonials may try to sally. Your position is more vulnerable than mine.”
Osterville spat—toward the city, which made the gesture ambiguous. “They’re scum, with incompetent officers. Obviously, or they’d be over the river with Ali, wouldn’t they?” His voice took on a faint hectoring, lecturing note. “Look at the way they reacted when we attacked this morning. As I said, I’m not afraid of them, and neither are my men. We’re staying where we are.”
“By all means, Colonel Osterville,” Raj said mildly. “Perhaps it’s advisable, all things considered.”
From the ranks of officers around Raj a loud whisper continued the thought: “Considering what our men would do to those garrison pussies who’ve been shorting the take.”
Osterville’s head whipped around, finding a wall of bland politeness. He saluted and pulled his dog around, with a violence that brought a protesting whimper as the cheek-levers of the bridle gouged.
“Ser.” A messenger this time, from the heliograph detachment who’d been setting up a relay back to the bridgehead. “Message from Colonel Menyez.”
The silence grew tense. Raj read. “Ali’s arrived,” he said. “And tried the usual. So far—”
observe, Center said.
“Noisy beggars,” Major Ferdihando Felasquez said.
The Colonial army was parading past the walls of Sandoral, fifty thousand strong. Tabor after tabor of mounted men in crimson djellabas and pantaloons, in a perfect order that rippled with the rise and fall of the trotting dogs. Between the blocks of men came guns, light pompoms and 70mm field pieces, with heavier siege weapons behind. Beyond that, on a hillock just out of medium artillery range, an enormous tent-pavilion in brilliant stripes was already going up. From the tallest pole flew the green crescent banner and the peacock of the Settlers.
And over it all came an inhuman pulse of drums, like the beating heart of some great beast. Beneath that the clang of cymbals and the brazen scream of long curled trumpets.
Felasquez tapped his gauntlets against his thigh. “Should we send them a few love-notes?” he asked. “Some of the heavier pieces on the wall could reach that far.”
“No,” Jorg Menyez said, scanning down the line of units with the big tripod-mounted field glasses. “We’re playing for time, so there’s no sense in poking the sauroid through the bars. Ah, yes. Notice something?”
He stepped aside and Felasquez bent to the eyepieces. A forest of banners was going up before the Settler’s pavilion. “Ali, Hussein the Wazir, the Grand Mufti of Sinnar, the Gederosian Dervishes . . . wait a minute.”
Menyez nodded. “No Seal of Solomon. Tewfik’s not here.”
“Unless they want us to think that.”
“No, that’s not the way Colonials think.”
Felasquez nodded. “I’d still feel easier if you weren’t splitting up so much of the 24th Valencia,” he went on.
“The garrison infantry need stiffening; we haven’t had enough time to work them into first-class shape.”
“You can’t stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of lead shot,” Felasquez said.
Menyez clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not as bad as all that. They’re trained men, sound at bottom; they’ve just been neglected recently. Standing behind a parapet and shooting is about the easiest type of combat for ’em. They just need some examples. How’re the militia-gunner volunteers showing?”
“Pretty well; still have to see how they stand fire, of course. But the ones who stayed were the ones who wanted to fight. A lot of them were with us when we fought Jamal, five years ago.”
Along the walls of Sandoral men stood to the parapet and looked out the merlons, but their numbers were sparse. Most of the garrison stood to in the cleared space within the walls, or waited in their billets. Apart from them the city was a ghostly place, where little moved but rats and cats almost as feral.
“It’s all waiting now,” Menyez went on, “and I want my supper. Runner; message to the Heneralissimo—”
This time the viewpoint shifted to a point on the rail line west. Raj recognized it: a long viaduct over a gully that was a torrent in the winter and spring. The burning remnants of the wooden trestle bridge lay scattered below.
A long file of Colonial dragoons rose from prayer and rolled up their issue rugs. Naiks and rissaldars screamed at them, and they returned to their work—hacking through the ties of the railway line. As each section of track came loose, they carried it at a run to one of the bonfires that blazed at intervals down the line and threw it on. The dry wood flared up like tinder, and in the heart of the furnace-heat he could see the thin strap iron turning cherry-red and then yellow, slumping and twisting into a mass of metallic spaghetti that would have to be carted to the forges and rolling-mills as scrap.
Raj nodded to himself, tight-lipped. No surprise; a railroad was the best military target there was. But it had taken generations to get the line from Sandoral to East Residence completed; until Barholm Clerett came to the throne and Raj reconquered the territories to the west, there always seemed to be a more urgent short-term priority.
The Colonials were doing a good professional job of the wrecking, and there were a lot of them.
Dust smoked up from the road. Sweat dripped off the twenty-hitch train of oxen as they strained at the trek-chain. The big tented wagon rolled forward, its axles groaning, man-high wheels turning at the steady, inexorable pace that would take it ten kilometers a day and neither more nor less. It was one of a line of two dozen, between them taking up several kilometers of road; all of them had the Crescent pyrographed on the wood of their sides, and the Peacock stenciled on their tilts.
The load was sacked grain, and bales of a repulsive-looking dried fish; even in the holographic vision he could imagine the mealy, oily smell of it. Advocati, the staple dog-fodder of the Drangosh valley, a sucker-mouthed parasitic bottom-feeder with no backbone. Dogs would eat it, just; even slaves would refuse it if they could. As he watched, the oxen halted as the drivers snapped their whips. Men with baskets of grain and dried alfalfa pellets went down the train, dumping loads by the draft cattle.
The escort sank down and unlimbered the goatskin water-bottles at their waists, stacking their light lever-action rifles. Infantry, with short curved falchions at their belts rather than the scimitars of the cavalry. Tewfik wouldn’t be wasting his best men on duty like this, but here was about a platoon of them. The drovers were civilians, slight men in ragged clothes.
A voice called, and drovers and soldiers alike knelt in the dust, performing the ritual washing and unrolling their mats. A call, and they knelt to distant Sinnar, the holy city where the first humans on Bellevue had landed, bringing a fragment of the ka’ba from ruined Mecca.
A Colonial officer with gold-rimmed spectacles and a green-dyed beard stood beside a hole. It was outside the walls of Sandoral—he could see the city in the middle distance—but outside ordinary artillery range. There were several hundred Colonials working in the hole, mostly stripped to their loincloths, but they had the look of soldiers. Probably engineers; the Colony had whole units of them, rather than expecting line units to be able to double up at need, the way the Civil Government did. He’d never seen men work harder, or with more skill.
Picks were flying; plank ramps went down into the hole, and wheelbarrows came up at a trot, full of earth. The dirt was piled neatly in heaps not far away; other men were filling sandbags from the heaps. Still more shaped timber, raw beams from orchards around the city, or seasoned timber salvaged from houses. A knocked-down floor of planks waited to be assembled.
A bunker, Raj decided. Cursed large one, too. Probably for Ali.
Raj blinked, conscious of the eyes on him. They were all used to his . . . spells of inattention . . . by now.
He cleared his throat. “Ali’s reached Sandoral and he’s digging in around the city. So far he hasn’t mounted an assault—bringing up his siege train, at a guess. He’s got the full fifty thousand men with him; it must be straining his supply of wagons and fodder to keep them fed. Tewfik’s banner isn’t with the main army.”
There was a stir at that. “What do we do, mi heneral?” Staenbridge asked.
“We dig, and we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the wogs” —he nodded toward Ain el-Hilwa— “to take the bait. In which case, we—”
The officers waited in silence, a few taking notes. “Is all that clear?” Raj finished.
“No reserve?” Staenbridge asked.
“Not this time; it’s a calculated risk, but so’s this whole expedition.”
He turned and looked at the Arab city, surrounded by the smoldering wreck of its suburbs, crammed to the very wall with refugees.
“Either this will be easy, or it’ll be impossible,” he said.
probability of action proceeding according to current projections, 78%±7, Center said helpfully.
“I’d put it at about three to one on easy,” he went on. “If not, we’ll just have to react fast.”
“When you go by the Camina Bellica
As thousands have traveled before
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw home anymore!
Oh, dear was the lover who kissed him
And dear was the mother that bore;
But then they found his sword in the heather,
And he never saw home anymore!”
“Ser.” Antin M’lewis was Officer of the Day; he slipped into the circle around the fire. “Major Hwadeloupe t’see yer.”
Raj finished the mouthful of fig-bread and dusted his hands, leaning back on the cushions—someone had salvaged them from a nearby Colonial mansion, and they were all resting on them and the Al Kebir carpets from the same source. A roast sheep on rice had been demolished, and they were punishing the sweetmeats and pastries the Colonials were famous for. The wine was too sweet, even diluted, but nobody was drinking all that much of it anyway; they knew him better than that. The firelight played on the faces around it, bringing out scars on Kaltin Gruder’s as he leaned forward to light a twig and puff a cheroot alight.
“By all means, Antin, bring him along,” Raj said.
Hwadeloupe commanded the 44th Camarina Dragoons, one of Osterville’s battalions.
“An’ ser . . . he’s got ‘is men out there. Hunnerts of ’em, not too far.”
“Keep an eye on them, Captain.”
The strong male voices were roaring out the next verse, the one that had gotten the song officially banned centuries ago. It was a truth the Governors preferred that the Army not be too conscious of:
“When you go by the Camina Bellica
From the City to Sandoral,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the rifle and saber,
He stood his watch and rode tall,
Till the Army hailed him as Governor
And he rose to be master of all!”
“Glad you could join us,” Raj said as Hwadeloupe strode up. “No, no, no salutes in the mess, Major. Have some wine.”
The soldier-servant handed him a mug of half-and-half, watered wine. He gripped it distractedly, a middle-aged man with the marks of long service on the southern border on his leathery face.
“Mi heneral, if we could speak privately?”
“I have no secrets from my officers and Companions, Major.” Not quite true, but it was a polite way of telling Hwadeloupe that he couldn’t expect to hedge his bets.
“Ah . . . sir, I would like to transfer my battalion to your command—to this encampment, that is.”
The rest of the command group had fallen silent; Suzette kept strumming her gittar, but softly. Without the song, the minor noises of the camp came through: dogs growling, a challenge from the walls, the iron clatter of a field gun’s breechblock being opened for some reason.
“If I might ask why?” Raj went on implacably.
Hwadeloupe stood very straight. “Sir. Colonel Osterville thinks there’s no risk from the garrison of Ain el-Hilwa. But I know you don’t think so, and I see your men still have their boots on, and your guns are limbered up. Colonel Osterville may be right. On the whole, though, when he and you disagree, I’ll bet on you. With respect, sir.”
Raj shoulder-rolled and came erect. “I can always use good men,” he said. “And I don’t think you’ll regret that decision. Captain M’lewis will show your men to their bivouac area within the earthworks.”
“Ah, sir. There’s one other matter.” Hwadeloupe kept his eyes fixed over Raj’s shoulder. “We have, ah, a considerable quantity of booty with us. Just picked up, you understand. We’d like to turn it in now to the common fund, as per your standing orders.”
Raj raised an eyebrow; one of Gerrin’s expressions, and very useful in situations like this. “That’s odd, Major. We’ve had several smaller parties in from Colonel Osterville’s camp, and they’ve all had some late-arriving booty to turn in too.” He extended his hand. “No hard feelings. M’lewis will settle your people in.”
“I’ll see to that myself, if it’s all the same to you, mi heneral,” Hwadeloupe said, taking the extended hand in his own. “And thank you, sir.”
Raj returned to his cushion beside Suzette. “That’s about two hundred in all,” he said.
“Separating the sheep from the goats,” Staenbridge replied. “Or those too stupid to live from the remainder.”
Foley frowned. “Some of them are staying over there to follow orders,” he pointed out.
“My dear,” Gerrin said, “what’s that saying—from the Old Namerique codexes—”
Foley was something of a scholar. “ ‘Against Fate even the gods do not fight,’ “ he quoted.
“Exactly.”
Raj nodded and leaned back, his head not quite in Suzette’s lap. Both moons were out and very bright, bright enough to interrupt the frosted arch of stars. Her fingers wandered over the strings.
“It’s twenty-five marches to Payso
It’s forty-five more to Ayaire
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on the Governor’s Chair
But whether the Army obeys us,
Or we serve as some sauroid’s fare
I’d rather be Lola’s lover
Than sit on the Governor’s Chair!”
Cut-nose Marhtinez lay in the dark and breathed quietly. He was ten meters from the walls of Ain el-Hilwa, outside the north gate. An overturned two-wheel cart hid him; the bodies of the two dogs who’d been drawing it until they met a cannonball were fairly ripe after a day in the hot sun, and so was the driver: black, swollen, the skin split and dripping in places, like a windfallen plum. He’d had about seven FedCreds in assorted silver in his pouch, though.
The night was fairly dark, only one moon in the sky and that near the horizon. The starlight was enough for him to see men moving on the walls—and they were moving without torches. He could even hear some wog curse when he ran into something and barked his chin. A whistling and dull thudding followed, about the sound you’d expect one of those nine-barbed whips the wog officers used to make. The yelp of pain that followed was strangled, and the next slash brought no sound at all.
Quiet’s a whorehouse on payday, he thought scornfully. It was a good thing there weren’t any Bedouin scouts with the Ain el-Hilwa garrison. Those sand-humpers were too good for comfort.
Cut-nose moved his head slightly. The star he was using was still a fingerbreadth above the horizon. An hour and a bit short of dawn, call it an hour and twenty minutes.
He moved backward out of the wrecked cart, keeping it between him and the wall. Nothing on his body clinked or reflected light, and his hands and face were blacked; Mother Marhtinez might not have known exactly who his father was, but she hadn’t raised any fools. Pause, move, pause, until he was behind a snag of ruined wall, still hot enough from the fire to feel on his skin. He picked up his rifle—nothing but a hindrance and a temptation in the blind where he’d spent the night—and eeled cautiously back to his dog.
Captain M’lewis was waiting there. Cut-nose grinned ingratiatingly. He didn’t have much use for officers, and still less for a promoted ranker who might be a kinsman. He did have the liveliest respect for Antin M’lewis’s wits, his wire garrote, and the skinning-knife he wore across the small of his back beneath the tails of his uniform jacket. All the Forty Thieves—the Scouts—had a standing invitation to go out behind the stables and settle things with knives if they felt they couldn’t obey someone who wasn’t Messer-born.
So far only one fool had taken M’lewis up on it; he was on the rolls as a deserter. Nobody had found the body. Good riddance, Cut-nose thought. The Scouts beat regular duty all to hell. Less boring, more plunder—a lot more in some cases—and no more dangerous. M’lewis wasn’t the charge-the-barricade type.
“They’re movin’, ser. Gittin’ ready, loike,” he said in a soft whisper, directed at the ground—nothing to carry far.
M’lewis nodded. “Messer Raj was expectin’ it, an’ t’scouts at t’other gate says th’ same,” he observed. “Here, git this t’him fast.”
“Sir.”
Kaltin Gruder’s voice. Raj rolled out of his blankets; Suzette was already reaching for her carbine. He fastened his weapons belt. His boots were already on; if the men had to sleep in them, so could he.
“Message from M’lewis just got in.”
A Scout was behind the battalion commander. “Ser. Noise in t’wog town. I weren’t more ‘n ten meters off, an’ heard it plain. North gates.”
The ones nearest Colonel Osterville’s camp. Raj took the message and read it. “Boots and saddles, please. Quietly. We’ll deploy as arranged.”
“Line of march?”
“Scout troop has pickets along it. They’ll signal with shuttered lanterns.”
Raj could hear the noise spreading; not very loud, no shouting, but a long-drawn out clatter as men rousted out of uneasy sleep and saw to their equipment. The Companions arrived, and the other battalion commanders. Shapes in the night, dimly lit by the embers of the fire, a feeling of controlled anxiety. He grinned into the dark. A night march. Difficult. An invitation to disaster, with any but very experienced troops. The handbooks were full of bungled night attacks, men firing on their comrades, whole battalions wandering off lost, irretrievable disaster.
“Barton,” he said. “What’s that toast again?”
“ ‘He fears his fate too much, and his deserts are small, who will not put it to the touch—to win or lose it all.’ “
“Exactly. Messers, to your units. Waymanos!”
An orderly brought up Horace; he put a foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The headquarters party fell in around him, bannermen and buglers and gallopers. Men blinked and dogs yawned cavernously; the wet clomp-clomp sound of jaws snapping closed rippled through the dark streets. Iron-shod wheels rattled on dirt as the 75s and splatguns moved. He cantered down the east-west notional laneway of the camp, the wia erente, keeping to the side. Men and dogs were moving the same way, the lead element of the 5th, followed by the 1st and 2nd Cruisers. The other gates were all open as well, flanked by lantern-bearing pathfinders. Thousands of heavy paws thumped the earth, an endless rumbling sound.
Flat terrain, mostly. Nothing between him and Osterville’s camp but four kilometers of fields, with the occasional orchard or shallow ditch. The objective was on the same side of the Ghor Canal, thank the Spirit, even Osterville wasn’t stupid enough to put an obstacle that needed bridging between him and the only supports available. Keep in column, he decided. In column they could move down the laneways, at a fast walk. Once deployed into line their speed would drop by four-fifths.
The night was still quiet, almost chilly in the last moments of predawn; overhead the arch of stars was a frosted road leading to infinity. The command group rode silently, no need for talk unless something went very wrong. The palms that lined the roadway were black silhouettes against the sky. He looked over his shoulder to the west and caught the faintest rim of peach-pink there.
He reined Horace sideways into the fields, a hunching scramble through the ditch, then stood in the stirrups to look. Nothing but a few watchfires from Osterville’s camp. The north gates of the city were hidden by the western wall. Flags rippled behind him, his personal banner and the Star. Over his shoulder he could see the other gates of the camp, now; the spiked-log barricades were pulled aside, and a steady stream of men and dogs and guns was pouring out. Not a single jam-up, not a voice raised . . . damn, but these are good troops.
Three columns, each about half a kilometer apart, each a little over two thousand strong. And—
“ ‘The gates flew back, and the din of onset sounded,’ “ Bartin murmured.
“More Old Namerique?” Raj said.
“From the Fall Codexes,” the young man replied.
When the Fall began, books had died with the machines that recorded them—the Church called it the Great Simplification. In the first generation the survivors wrote down as much as they could, most of it in Old Namerique, the official language of the Federation. Bits and pieces survived, even a thousand years later.
The gates of Ain el-Hilwa had certainly flown back with a vengeance.
“One hell of a din, too,” Raj said; even at more than three kilometers, it was louder than the noise his own men were making.
Then light winked from the parapet of the low-set city wall, and a deep whirring sound crossed the sky. A dull booming echoed, and under it the sharper sound of the exploding shells. The winking lights, scores of meters apart, rippled from east to west across the north face of the city. Heavy rifles, aimed at Osterville’s camp. The shells seemed to be contact-fused rather than airburst, but it would still be an unpleasant way to wake up, and there were a lot of those guns.
The white dust of the road stretched out ahead of him. The dawn was just touching the western horizon behind him, but there was a sudden flare of white light stabbing north toward Osterville’s position, arc-searchlights from the city wall. My, all the modern refinements, Raj thought. Intended to light up the Civil Government position for the attackers and blind any defenders looking toward the city.
Dun and off-white, men were running up the long gentle slope toward the smaller Civil Government camp. On foot, mostly, with gun teams among them, pulling the light five-shot pom-poms the Colonials favored for close support. They were shouting, too, high wailing shrieks. Raj unclipped his binoculars and brought them to his eyes, body adapting to the swing of his dog’s trot with the unconscious skill of a lifetime.
Only half a kilometer from the walls. And they didn’t dig in at all. Osterville had been very careless.
A stutter of gunfire broke out from Osterville’s camp, building rapidly. Raj could imagine the chaos, men rushing half-dressed from their blanket rolls, grabbing up the rifles stacked by their campfires. Red light winked from the hilltop, muzzle flashes like fireflies in the dark; the sun was just edging over the horizon.
The Colonials were making some effort to deploy, spreading out in an irregular mass—more a thick skirmish order than a real firing line. The pom-poms wheeled about and opened up, firing uphill. The CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK of the clip-loaded weapons sounded through the dawn, and their little one-kilo shells burst upslope in petals of fire. The return fire was building fast, panicked, with no ordered crash of volleys. Smoke began to shroud the hilltop, from the defensive fire and the incoming Colonial shells, and—
“Bugging out already,” he said. In the long-shadowed light of dawn he could see a trickle of mounted men heading north from Osterville’s encampment. “Ludwig, how many of the Colonials would you say?”
“Seven or eight thousand at least, mi heneral.”
Raj nodded thoughtfully. The whole garrison of Ain el-Hilwa, or near enough. Attacking Osterville’s position was actually not a bad idea—he would have tried it, in their position—but sending everyone haring out of the gates like this? No more sense than a bull carnosauroid in breeding season, he decided.
“Captain Foley, the signal.”
Barton swung down out of the saddle and stuck the launching-stick of a small rocket in the dirt.
Fisssssth. The little rocket soared into the paling sky and burst with an undramatic pop. Red and blue sparks shot out in a perfect round puffball. Behind Raj trumpets sang in harsh antiphonal chorus. The long column dissolved as units spurred out left and right, like a huge fan snapping open. It was lighter now, light enough to tell a dark thread from a white, the traditional dividing line between night and day. Light enough for the men to move across the fields without much trouble, at least.
The other columns were following suit. Ten minutes, and there was a continuous two-deep line moving northeastwards with his banner at the center. Not parade-ground neat—the line twisted and curled a little around obstacles, with fifty meters or so of gap between each battalion. The guns pulled through, heading east and a little south, setting up by groups of batteries on prechosen hillocks. The Colonials were fully occupied, their front ranks within two hundred meters of Osterville’s position and moving in fast. Close enough to use their carbines, and a huge snapping crackle went up from their front ranks; not only from their front ranks, either—they were losing men to friendly fire, if he was any judge.
“Sound Prepare for Dismounted Action,” he said.
The bugles sang again, taken up and relayed down the line. Men pulled the rifles from the scabbards before their right knees, resting the butts on their thighs.
“Are they bloody blind?” Staenbridge asked in amazement, looking at the Colonials.
“No, just very preoccupied, and extremely badly led,” Raj said.
There were probably individual men in the Colonial force who could see what was happening, but it was a scratch put-together and whoever had done the putting hadn’t arranged for signals and gallopers. A penalty of taking all your best troops along in a single expeditionary force; what was left to defend against a counterstroke wasn’t up to much.
Six hundred meters, Raj thought.
five hundred eight-eight and decreasing to nearest enemy element. five hundred eighty. five seventy-six. Center provided a numbered scale on the whole Colonial formation; their right wing was just out of extreme rifle-shot.
More of Osterville’s men were bugging out, but that wouldn’t be visible to the wogs. A slamming close-range firefight ran in a C all around the front of the hill, as the larger Colonial force overlapped the Civil Government forces upslope. Most of the pom-pom shells were flying right over the hill, dangerous only to the deserters streaming northward—who deserved whatever they got. The Colonial rifle fire was uneven; their men were pumping out their seven-shell magazines and then pausing to reload. That had to be done by pushing one round at a time through the loading gate in the side of the weapon, which evened things out a little, but Osterville’s fire was dropping off noticeably, as the Colonials beat down his men by sheer weight of numbers.
Five hundred meters. “Sound Dismounted Advance.”
The buglers sent the message down the lines: a four-note preparation, twice repeated, then a single sustained note taken up by the signalers in unit after unit. Six thousand dogs crouched. Not quite in unison, but nearly so within battalions. The men stepped free of the stirrups without pausing, and the dogs rose and walked behind, still in ranks as regular as the men’s. A good cavalry battalion drilled six hours a day, six days a week for this moment, until the signals played directly on the nervous systems of men and mounts. Raj turned his binoculars to the far right of his line: Hwadeloupe’s men were badly under strength, but they were carrying it off quite well.
A long clatter as the men loaded. Raj’s head went back and forth; the troops were advancing at a steady walk, the splatguns trundling forward with the soldiers, two per battalion. They were light enough for the crews to manhandle them like that; they looked much like field guns, but each was actually thirty-five double-length rifle barrels clamped in a tube. He watched as one crew let the trail thump to the ground and loaded. One man swung the lever down, another inserted an iron plate with thirty-five rifle cartridges, the lever went back up with a thump. Waiting for the order—but they were artillerymen and very good at estimating ranges. He chopped out his palm. The buglers took it up. All up and down the line men checked a half-pace. And . . .
“Halto!”
Officers ducked ahead and spread arm and drawn saber to mark the firing line. Another bugle call and the front rank dropped to the ground and the men behind them went to one knee, right elbow resting on it. The platoon commanders and senior noncoms walked quickly between the two ranks for a moment, checking that the sights were adjusted for the range. The muzzles quivered as each trooper picked a target. The dogs crouched; only the mounted officers, Company-grade and above, marked the line. Company pennants and battalion banners too, of course; the men took their dressing from the flags.
Raj took a deep breath. It was a peculiar exultation, like handling a fine sword with perfect balance; the pleasure that came only from a difficult task performed exactly as it should be.
Some of the enemy were turning now, firing frantically. Far too late. The trumpets spoke again, preparing men for the order:
“Fwego!”
BAMMMbambambambabam . . . Six thousand rifles fired within a few seconds of each other. A discordant medley of battalion trumpeters sounded the Fire by Platoon Volleys. BAM. BAM. BAM. Rippling down the formation. Front line prone, second rank kneeling. Front rank fire-and-reload, second rank fire-and-reload, a steady pounding crackle. The dawn wind was from the east, blowing the new fogbank of powder smoke backward in tatters. The smell was overwhelming in the fresh morning air: a sharp unpleasant reek of burnt sulfur and stinging saltpeter. The smell of death.
The splatgun crew spun the crank at one side of the breechblock. Brraaaap. A long splat of sound as the thirty-five rounds snapped out. K-chung as the lever went back and the plate was lifted out by the loop on its top, a rattle as another was slapped home and the lever worked. Brraaaap. Brraaaap. Three hundred rounds a minute. An ancient design, ancient before the Fall, from man’s first rise; primitive enough that men in these days could build it. The priests said that Man had been perfect, before the Fall. Raj had always been a believer; it was obscurely disturbing that part of that perfection was better and better mechanisms of slaughter.
He threw the thought aside, with a touch to the amulet blessed by Saint Wu; there was the work of the day to be done. Raj turned and cantered down the line. The Civil Government formation was at right angles to the Colonial formation, like the crossbar on a “T.” The whole weight of its fire was crashing into the end of the Arab line. And most of the Civil Government cavalrymen could hit a man-sized target at three hundred meters, many of them at twice that range. Even if they missed, their 11mm bullets would run the entire length of the enemy line, with good odds of hitting something. The Colonials were melting away, men smashed to the ground by the heavy hollowpoint bullets with massive exit wounds that bled them out in seconds, or tore limbs from bodies.
He paused behind one of the ex-Brigadero units. A noncom was walking down the line, slapping men across the shoulders with the flat of his saber when they instinctively rose to fire standing. Problem, Raj though. They’d trained on muzzle-loading rifle muskets. You had to stand to reload those, tearing open the paper cartridge and pouring the powder down the barrel. They were excellent shots even by Descotter standards, but not used to getting under cover—and even at this range, some of the Colonial carbine-bullets would hit standing men. A few snapped by him.
Ludwig Bellamy rode up. “It’s a slaughter, heneralissimo,” he said enthusiastically. “Teodore—Major Welf—asks permission to remount his battalion and charge—”
“Denied,” Raj said sharply.
Welf had been a very tricky opponent in the Western Territories, but he was still a Brigadero at heart and had a lingering fondness for cold steel. The Civil Government military style was economical of men where it could be, not having so many trained soldiers to expend.
“I’m not going to waste men on this lot.” He raised the binoculars again. “Besides, about now—”
There was boiling confusion all down the front of the Arab army. A knot of mounted officers around a huge green banner was galloping toward the threatened flank, with more courage than sense. At their head was a portly gray-bearded man waving his ceremonial lash and shouting furiously, probably trying to pull units out of line and get them to face front left. Small chance of that, since Osterville’s men were still firing from their front, besides which most of them probably hadn’t realized what was happening, and facing about would put the morning sun directly in their eyes.
The enemy bannerman went down. Seconds later half a dozen of the officers around him did, and then the elderly man with the whip punched backward over the cantle of his saddle. His dog whipped about and sniffed him, then sank down on its haunches and howled.
“—they’re going to bug out.”
It started with the men in sight of the dead commander. They broke like a glass pitcher dropped on a stone floor, and fled back toward the city. Bullets kicked up dust around their feet like the first raindrops of a storm, and littered the ground with bodies. That unmasked the central part of the Colonial host, and for the first time they could see exactly what it was that had devoured the left wing of their army. And the steady, unhurried volleys punched out, from a Civil Government line marked by a growing tower of smoke that made their position clear even a kilometer away. The Arabs disintegrated like a rope unraveling from the left end, men throwing away their weapons to run screaming for the city gates. Droves piled up at ditches that a man could leap easily, as the first tripped and the men behind trampled on them.
“Spirit, sir—if we charge now—”
“Major Bellamy, all that charging now would do is give them an opportunity to hurt us.” He looked around. “Messenger to Major Gruder: advance from the left in line, by battalions, pivoting on . . .” —he considered— “on the 3/591st.” You had to start moving the outside of a line first, or the whiplash effect would leave the outermost man running.
“Are we going to let them back into the city, mi heneral?” Ludwig Bellamy asked, crestfallen.
Raj smiled unpleasantly. “By no means, Major. By no means.”
“Range three thousand. Up three. And a bit. Contact fuse. Load.”
Grammeck Dinnalsyn raised his eyes from the split-view rangefinder. Three batteries were deployed along the slight rise: twelve guns. Another three were a few hundred meters farther on, setting up amid the outer spray of the dead Colonials. Dismounted men were trotting by in waves as the left flank of the Civil Government force swung in to pin the retreating Colonials against the walls of Ain el-Hilwa, but that was no concern of the artillery today; they weren’t tasked with supporting the dogboys. The riflemen were firing as they advanced, independent fire in a continuous crackle all up and down the line. The sun sparkled on the bright brass of the spent cartridge cases.
Breechblocks clattered as the big 75mm shells were passed from the limber and rammed home. The crew stood aside as the master gunner clipped his lanyard to the trigger and payed it out.
“Ranging gun, shoot,” Dinnalsyn said.
Battery commander’s work, really, but enjoyable, and he rarely got a chance to do it these days. The gunner jerked sharply.
POUMPH. A long jet of smoke shot out from Number One of A Battery. The gun threw itself backward in recoil, the trail gouging a trough in the clay. The crew jumped forward as soon as it came to rest, grabbing the trail and the tall wheels and running it back to the original position.
Dinnalsyn raised his binoculars. A tall plume of black dust sprouted from the roadway outside the northeast gate of the city, like an instant poplar that bent in the breeze and dispersed as the dirt scattered.
“Excellent,” he said. “Batteries, range.”
The thick tubes of the guns rose as the gunners spun the elevating screws under the breeches.
Excellent shooting on the first try, and it was excellent to serve under a commander who understood what artillery could and could not do.
The other two batteries were tasked with the northwestern gate, a bit farther—near maximum effective range. Their ranging gun fired seconds after his, and the gout of dirt flung skyward was a hundred meters short. Even that trial shot told, flinging parts of men and equipment skyward. Both roads into Ain el-Hilwa were black with running men, and more every second. They tried again, and the next round fell neatly before the open gates.
“Airburst, three-second fuse, shrapnel, load.”
Blue-banded shells from the limbers, passed forward hand to hand three times; gun crews had redundant members to replace casualties in action. Not that there looked to be much counterfire this time. The master gunners pulled the ring-shaped blockers out of the noses of the shells, arming the fuses. Into the narrow hole went a two-pronged tool they carried chained to their wrists, to adjust the timers. A brass ring on the fuse turned, listing the time in seconds; within, drilled beechwood turned in a perforated brass tube, exposing a precisely calculated length of powder-train.
“Number one gun ready!”
“Number two gun ready!”
“Number three gun ready!”
“Number four gun ready!”
“Battery A ready!”
“Batteries will shoot, for effect. On the word of command.”
He raised his free hand, the other holding his binoculars. Use your judgment, the general had said. Men were running through, but that was the first spray of them. He waited, gauntleted hand in the air. The gates were narrow, and so were the arched bridges that carried the roadways over the city moat. You wanted city gates to be a chokepoint, for defensive reasons, and Ain el-Hilwa had excellent fortifications. Routed, the Arab troops were not going to wait while they were marshaled through with maximum efficiency. Every man for himself meant a tie-up.
Sure enough, the roadways were black with men and great fans of them were spreading out along the edge of the moat. He chopped his hand downward.
“Now!”
POUMP. The first gun fired. A precise twenty seconds later the second followed. POUMP. POUMP. POUMP. By the time the last gun fired, the first had been pushed back into battery and was ready to fire again. A steady two rounds a minute, to conserve barrels and break armies. No problem, with the men fresh. Pushing the ton weights of metal around was hard work, but they were trained to a hair and the day was young.
Four crack sounds downrange, as the shells burst. Ragged black smokeballs in the air over the crowd at the gates; below them panic, as the shells’ loads of musketballs scythed forward in an oval pattern of destruction.
POUMP. POUMP. POUMP. POUMP. This time one of the rounds hammered into the dirt before exploding, a faulty time-fuse. No great problem this time; the crater made the pileup greater. He shifted his glasses to the other gate. The spread of shell was wider there, some far enough from the gate to kick up dust, but you expected that at extreme range.
The general cantered up with his staff and messengers. He paused for a moment, leaning on the pommel with both hands and studying the artillery. Strange man, Dinnalsyn thought. He saw too much, knew too much. Knew as much about guns as he did himself, and was better at judging distance and trajectories; a cannon-cocker’s skills, not a talent you expected in a hill-squireen out of Descott. And he never forgot anything, never missed a detail—as if angels were whispering in his ear. There were those strange little trances, too. Grammeck was city-born to a merchant family, and prided himself on his modernity, but there might be something in the tales of Messer Raj being touched by the Spirit.
“I could do better execution with more tubes, mi heneral,” he said.
They had fifty-five guns along, and they were all reconcentrated now that the raiding parties had joined forces.
Raj shook his head, his stone-hard face still turned to the gates where men screamed and died and the corpses tossed under the hammer of the shells.
“Not for this,” he said. “We don’t have the ammunition to expend.”
True; they were limited to what they’d brought along. He made a mental note to shift things around to even out the reserve supplies between batteries before they broke camp. A glance at his watch told him it was still early, barely 0800.
“And speaking of which,” the general went on, “give them another three rounds per gun and cease fire. Another few minutes and the guns on the walls will have you registered here.”
As if to punctuate the thought, a heavy shell buried itself in the earth a hundred meters ahead of them and exploded, throwing clods of dirt as far as the second hillock.
“And then limber up and get out of range,” Raj said.
“Si, mi heneral.”
seventy-six rounds per gun, Center said.
Ah, Raj thought. About his own offhand estimate. Strange, that so much of Center’s advice was a refinement of what he’d have done anyway.
of course. otherwise i would not have selected you.
Which was reassuring. There were times he doubted he was the same man who’d blundered into the centrum beneath the Gubernatorial Palace.
that youth would be gone forever by now in any case.
Raj shrugged and looked down at the field of battle with a mixture of distaste and the sensation a farmer had looking back over an expanse of grain cut and stooked in good time. The Colonials had finally gotten their gates shut and the cannon on the wall active; but that left most of their garrison trapped outside the wall and exposed to fire.
“Signal cease-fire. And get a truce flag ready.”
“What terms?” Staenbridge said.
“The usual. Parole not to participate further in this campaign, and one gold FedCred per head.”
One advantage of fighting the wogs was that they and the Gubernio Civil had been locked in combat so long they’d developed an elaborate code of military etiquette and generally observed it for sound reasons of mutual long-term advantage. One provision often used was releasing prisoners on parole, when the alternative was killing them for want of time and facilities. It put them out of action for the remainder of the war in question, and was about as profitable as selling them for slaves, which was the other choice. Granted that they could be used on some other frontier, which freed up troops to be used against you; on the other hand, both powers had an interest in keeping the barbarians at bay.
and the cause of civilization is served, as well.
Kaltin Gruder came up. Raj nodded. “Nice turning movement, Kaltin.”
“Work of the day, mi heneral. Are we going to take their parole?”
Raj nodded. Kaltin’s mouth tightened, but he nodded unwillingly.
“Ali might not keep it,” he pointed out. Reluctantly: “Of course, it wouldn’t matter, with these handless cows.”
“There are no bad soldiers, Kaltin, only bad officers. But these have had their morale fairly thoroughly shattered, and they won’t be any use to anyone for a good long while. See to it.”
Another party rode up; this one included a number of bandaged and bleeding men. The most senior seemed to be a captain; Raj didn’t recognize him, which probably meant he was from Osterville’s command.
captain fillipo swarez, 51st mazatlan.
Thank you, Raj thought. Aloud: “Captain Swarez.”
The man blinked at Raj through red-rimmed, exhausted eyes, holding his bandaged arm against his chest to limit the jarring of his dog’s movement.
“General Whitehall. I am reporting as senior officer in . . . as senior officer of the other field force battalions.”
Raj raised an eyebrow. “Major Gonsalvez?”
“Dead, sir.”
“Colonel Osterville?”
observe:
A brief vision this time: Osterville’s muddy sweating face, bent low over the neck of his dog and slashing behind with his riding crop. A string of remounts followed, and several servants, and pack dogs with small heavy crates strapped to their carrying saddles.
Swarez spat. “That for the hijo da puta! Nobody saw him after the shelling started, and his dogs and personal servants are missing.”
One of the lieutenants behind him spoke. “Heneralissimo, let me send a patrol after him—let me take a patrol after him. I guarantee, he’ll never trouble you again.”
Growls of assent rose from the survivors; their mounts snarled in sympathy, scenting their masters’ mood. No zealot like a convert, Raj thought.
He shook his head. “Messer Osterville” —he omitted the military rank— “suits me well enough where he is.” He looked back at the captain.
“Captain Swarez, how many survivors?”
“Six hundred in all, sir. Two hundred wounded.”
Half Osterville’s original force, but that included several hundred who’d defected to Raj during the night, and the Spirit alone knew how many who’d bugged out this morning.
“How many of those in your 51st Mazatlan?”
“Two hundred twenty-six. Fit for duty, that is, sir.”
Which meant they’d kept together fairly well. “All right. Tell the remainder that those who wish may transfer to your unit, or to any of my other battalions that’ll take them—some of them are severely under strength. Have everyone ready to move shortly.”
Swarez saluted, relief on his face. A soldier’s battalion was his home and family, and his had just been spared from disbandment. The other survivors could count themselves lucky to have open slots waiting for them.
Raj watched the party with the white flag riding up to the gates of Ain el-Hilwa. He doubted the negotiations would take long; they’d be too hysterically thankful not to face a storm and sack, which they now lacked the men to stop. Say until noon to get the wounded sorted, police up and destroy the enemy weapons, collect the ransom . . .
Demand some fast sprung wagons as part of it, he decided. There were good roads all the way from here to the bridgehead opposite Sandoral. Then . . .
“Meeting of the command group at midday,” he said. “Now let’s get this wrapped, gentlemen.”
He looked down at the field again before he reined about. A good workmanlike day’s effort. Unpleasantly final for several thousand Colonials.
It wasn’t going to stay this easy. This was a sideshow so far. Ali’s main attention was focused on Sandoral.