CHAPTER 5
////// Battle of Guayak
June 18, 1944
A hundred Dom guns, many quite large, commenced firing one after another at almost exactly noon. A great, rolling billow of white smoke eventually obscured the entire enemy line, and the deep-throated roar was tremendous. Heavy roundshot crashed into the soil and stone earthworks around the city, but many shrieked overhead to impact the buildings beyond with the clattering crash of shattered masonry. Only six batteries of “light” Allied guns, thirty-six in all, plus a few heavy Dom guns taken from the harbor fort opposed them, but they replied immediately, snarling defiance from prepared embrasures in the works. Mostly twelve-pounders, and Imperial eight-pounders, the Allied guns were light, highly mobile field artillery pieces, but they possessed several key advantages. All of them, even the “Impie” guns, were provided with more than just solid roundshot now. At this range, and with the enemy in the open, exploding spherical case shot snapped above and among the Doms, spraying them with musket balls and hot shards of iron. The Allied gunners didn’t even have to aim particularly well—impossible through all the smoke at any rate—they just had to keep firing at the same elevation, with fuses set for the same time of flight for the well-observed range.
Shinya was on top of one of the taller buildings near the eastern line with a relatively small staff, observing with his binoculars. They didn’t have any of the new field telephones in the East yet, but they’d had plenty of time to string telegraph wires to numerous command posts around the city. If lines were cut by the bombardment, a number of locals stood by to act as runners. Besides the runners, however, the only locals present were Suares and the alcalde in his robes and goofy headdress. Both looked nervous, and they hadn’t spoken since having arrived together. The rest of the city’s population, those not on the line and armed with Dom muskets from the fort armory, had taken shelter in cellars beneath the more-imposing structures. That was good, Shinya realized, because no matter how destructive his own fire must be to the enemy, the Doms’ heavy shot would ultimately pulverize the city.
A big ball struck the building he was standing on, near street level, and the dust swirled up to engulf them four stories up.
“Damn,” he said. “I can see nothing from here!”
“You won’t see better anywhere else,” said Fred Reynolds. He and Kari-Faask remained weak from their ordeal, and Orrin still hadn’t cleared them to fly. But they knew more about the Doms on the continent than anyone else—or at least that was the excuse they used to get Shinya to let them “tag along” with him. They hadn’t needed an excuse. Shinya remembered Fred as the youngest member of Walker’s crew, and the kid had always been friendly to him when almost no one else was. His carefree, California attitude had also aroused nostalgic memories of Shinya’s own college days at Berkeley, which may have even facilitated his “Americanization” on this world. He liked Fred—and Kari—and was glad for their company.
“I suspect you’re right,” Shinya grudged. “This artillery duel may go on for some time, so you may as well elaborate on some of the points you began to make earlier. You still believe they will strike first at the center?”
“Yessir.” Fred nodded. “I’m no infantryman, and I’m sure no strategy or tactics guy, but those people”—he waved toward the enemy—“they’re really arrogant, y’know? And I don’t mean the kind of arrogant some folks get when they’ve done a lot of stuff they’re good at. It isn’t earned arrogance, if you know what I mean. I’m not saying that kind of arrogance is any prettier, and that it won’t bite you on the ass, but folks can kind of understand it.” He shrugged. “Their kind isn’t based on anything other than they know they’re right because they’ve been told they’re right—commanded to accept they’re right—so long that they don’t dare question it. They think God’s on their side, period.”
“But they have built formidable armies and navies, and they handle them quite professionally,” Shinya objected.
“Sure, they move ’em around just fine, but that’s all drill. Rote training. From what I’ve heard, they don’t fight ’em very well once they lock horns. I mean, the troops fight hard, sure. They won’t hardly quit. But you guys marched rings around ’em on New Ireland, and the Skipper and Walker stomped their whole fleet with just a few other ships to help. They’re not . . . flexible.”
Shinya didn’t entirely agree that things had been quite so one-sided on New Ireland. The Doms had devised a good and dangerous plan—based on inside information, it turned out—and they’d executed it very creditably. But they hadn’t reacted well when the Allies changed their tactics in response, had they? As for Captain Reddy’s victory off Saint Francis, that was more complicated as well—but maybe it really wasn’t when all was said and done.
“Straight at us, you say, right up the middle,” Shinya mused.
“Keep it simple,” Fred agreed. “I’m not saying they won’t give us a shove here and there in other places; that would be expected by all the brass over there. Let everybody have their little part in the big dance.”
Shinya looked sharply at Fred, remembering Nerino’s flowery speech at the end of their parlay in which he said something to the effect of “Let the glorious dance of battle commence!” He nodded at where Suares and his alcalde had stepped away to view the panorama from a different position. “Would you ask Mr. Suares—or his alcalde—if they agree with your assessment?”
“I’ll try.” A few moments later, he returned to Shinya. “They don’t know, sir. I guess they’re even less ‘tactical’ than I am. Even more edgy too. But I think I’m right.”
“Signalman,” Shinya snapped. “Send: each regiment, but particularly those along the southern line, will stand ready to shift one company in three to the center at my command.”
Moments passed while the bombardment continued, amid a continuous thunder of guns and crash of shot. Most of the Dom shot was falling in front of the earthworks now, striking the soft earth and skating upward to fall almost harmlessly behind the defensive lines and their reserve detachments as well. The Allied gunners had laid timbers beneath their guns to keep their elevations consistent, but the Doms hadn’t taken time for such, so their wheels would be digging deeper in the earth with every shot and recoil; if their gunners couldn’t see what they were shooting at, most were probably not compensating for lost elevation. As if the enemy realized this, and even expected it, his guns slowly stopped firing, allowing the battlefield to clear a bit. The Allied guns didn’t stop, however, and for the first time, Shinya saw the carnage they’d been wreaking. Mangled bodies writhed and crawled or lay completely still on the hazy ground among and beyond the enemy guns, some of which had been dismounted. Ragged gaps had been slashed in the ranks of the infantry, and it appeared stunned, for a moment, by what the clearing smoke revealed. Distant shouts erupted, and the lines started closing up. Even as he watched, a case shot exploded above the Dom ranks, mowing down half a dozen men.
“The artillery will cease firing and replenish ammunition!” Shinya ordered.
“But we killin’ hell outa them!” Kari-Faask protested, her keen eyes needing no binoculars.
Shinya looked at her and spoke gently. Few people had suffered worse than she had at the hands of the Doms. “We are, but we will do far more when they advance, I promise. And I do not want to discourage them from doing so.”
“I get replies from all but Sixth Impie Maa-rines!” the signals ’Cat announced. “We must’a lost that line.”
“Send a runner. Inform Mr. Reddy that his squadrons may lift off now, but they must wait for my order to attack.
“Ay, ay. What about Maaka-Kakja’s planes?”
“Not yet. I don’t want the Doms to know we have anything at our disposal beyond what they see here.”
* * *
Captain Blas-Ma-Ar was coughing dust. “Daamn,” she finally managed. “That last one was close.”
“Right on the other side o’ the heap,” Spook agreed. He’d taken off his helmet and was shaking out his near-white fur. A few of the Imperial militiamen from the Saint Francis region, leaning on their long guns, watched him with amusement. “You think they comin’ now?”
Blas peered over the earthwork, blinking, her eyes wet. “Yeah. C’mere, First Sergeant. You gotta see this.” The rumble of drums had replaced the artillery fire, and now a loud, strange, martial tune began to play. With hundreds of red flags streaming above them, perhaps ten thousand Doms, across a half-mile front, stepped off. Above them, now that the smoke was clearing, Grikbirds—more than she’d ever seen—swooped and swirled. She doubted the things would be much of a menace on a battlefield, particularly once the smoke returned. Everyone now knew they didn’t like smoke at all. But the scary-looking things, so obviously in the power of the Doms, were an intimidating sight.
“Can we start shootin’ now?” demanded a militiaman. He was taller than most Impies and had a long dark beard. Imperial Marine regulations allowed just about any form of mustache a man could imagine or achieve, but no beards. The militia from the continental colonies generally obeyed “sensible” orders but paid little attention to that sort. They wore no uniform either, unless a kind of apparently universal hunting frock might be considered such, and didn’t participate in close-order drill. Their large rifled weapons that would’ve even impressed Dennis Silva were well designed to kill some very large continental monsters, but had no provision for a bayonet. For close-up work, they carried two-handed “hunting swords,” longer and heavier than any military sword Blas had ever seen. Blas already knew their rifles were accurate enough to kill a specific man at the roughly three hundred tails to the enemy.
She looked back at the advancing Doms. Hell, our aar-tillery canister would even be effective at this range! Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la Arsenal smoothbore muskets were still the standard infantry arm in the East and would probably remain so for a while longer. They had tight enough tolerances to be effective at two hundred yards, and fairly accurate at a hundred. Impie flintlocks weren’t quite as good, but all of them could already be taking some toll. These particular Doms had never fought the Allied armies before, however, and had clearly formed to fight an enemy equipped just as they were. Blas wondered if they’d be foolish enough to do so again after today. Apparently, Shinya wanted to reinforce their misconceptions a little longer, and had something other than just a slugging match in mind—at least she hoped he did. In any event, she hadn’t yet received orders to open fire.
“Soon,” she promised the militiaman. “When we get started, though, I want you Saint Francis-aans killin’ officers, savvy?”
“An’ them damn Blood Priests too, I hope?” the man asked. Blas nodded. “My pleasure, Cap’n,” the man said. “They’re easy enough ta spot!” It was true. Lemurian troops had always dressed the same, first by clans, then regiments, and now almost universally. Lemurian Marines still wore their blue kilts in battle, and Safir Maraan’s personal guard regiment, her “600,” retained their house colors as well, but with the exception of stripes and other rank devices—much smaller now on combat dress—officers were indistinguishable from privates. Even the Imperial Marines, once given to a degree of pomp, had adopted the practice, even if their tunics remained red, at least here in the East. But Dom officers, like General Nerino, were easily distinguishable—as were the bloodred-robed priests that accompanied them.
“Captain Blas!” came a cry from behind, and again Blair appeared atop his horse, followed by a larger staff than before.
“Sur?”
“That music they play is most disagreeable,” Blair announced loudly enough to be heard by hundreds. “Their notion of melody is quite grating on my ears. Pray, is there anything you can do about it?”
“May I?”
“By all means, Captain.”
Blas hurried to a ’Cat commanding a section of guns to her left. She remembered him from the fighting on New Ireland and knew he was good. “Can you silence that screeching band, Lieuten-aant?” she demanded, just as loudly as Blair.
“Wit much happy!” Most Lemurian-Americans spoke passable English now, or the near-universal patois that had sprung up. Some still relied on a kind of pidgin. “Action front!” The ’Cat roared memorized commands to his two grinning gun’s crews, their embrasures about twenty-five yards apart. “Load case, target dat skeechy band!”
“Two fifty!” chorused the chiefs of each piece sending the appropriate ammunition forward. The gunners pierced their fuses for one second, fudging them a bit shorter still. Lemurian cannoneers rammed the fixed charges down the barrels and then stepped back, leaving the gunners and one other to quickly aim each piece. When the gunners were satisfied, others pierced the charges through the vents and primed them. It all took mere seconds before each gun was ready and waiting. The section chief was still watching the stately, plodding advance of the enemy, and when the target neared the estimated range, he took a breath and roared, “Fire!”
Linstocks slapped down, and both guns roared as one, rumbling and jangling back across the planked overlays. An instant later, two gray and white clouds burst nearly amid the enemy band, and the musicians were swept to the ground, either by fragments of metal or the concussion of the twin blasts. Cheers erupted up and down the earthworks, and somewhere far to the left, where several entire companies of continental militia were gathered, strange, yowelly music such as Blas had never heard squawked to life.
“Oh dear,” Colonel Blair said with a false frown. “We’ve awakened the bagpipes! Pity we can’t silence them so easily!” Another cheer rose, but Blas listened to the pipes. Whatever they looked like—she had no idea—they didn’t sound that different from some of her own people’s instruments. Maybe louder. She decided she rather liked them.
They may have slain much of the enemy’s main band, but the drums still thundered, and the Doms continued inexorably forward.
* * *
“They’re gettin’ awful close!” Fred Reynolds murmured to Kari.
“Indeed,” Shinya agreed sourly. “I did not expect so many Grikbirds. Look at them all! I wanted COFO Reddy’s planes to have a clear view of their targets, to avoid hitting any of our own people, but his planes may collide with Grikbirds if they remain so thick and low!” Decisively, he lowered his binoculars. “This to all commands,” he said tersely to the signal-’Cat. “Commence firing, but do not, repeat, do not employ mortars!” He looked at Fred. “We don’t want Reddy’s aircraft to collide with them either!” He stepped to the ’Cat, already tapping out the message. “The Grikbirds should rise with the smoke and the bombing squadrons will strike low, beneath most of them, I should think. Mr. Reddy’s machine-gun-armed craft will drive through first, hopefully scattering any Grikbirds that remain.” He paused. “My desire is that the attacking division or corps, or however the enemy designates such things, should be annihilated, but no plane will drop without a visible target. We can afford no accidental gaps in our defenses! Pilots without such targets may drop on the enemy reserves, but they must clear the airspace above the battlefield as soon as possible so I may use my mortars. Subsequent air strikes will focus on the enemy reserves and rear areas.”
“What about those parts of the line the Doms aren’t coming at yet?” Kari asked.
Shinya’s brow rose. “All commands may shoot at whatever they think they can hit! The more smoke the better, I suppose.”
* * *
“Hold yer mortars, but commence firing! Commence firing, but hold yer mortars!” shouted an Imperial Marine on Blair’s staff, galloping down the road behind, and parallel to the works. Blas nodded. The word about the mortars had already arrived via messenger from her comm shack. The final word had awaited only this runner, and guns north of her position, closer to the bay, had been pounding for several moments already. A crackle of musketry was growing to a roar. She glanced at Lieutenant Finny, who’d remained nearby with his adjoining company, and blinked an irony Finny caught with a swish of his tail. Neither was anxious for what was to come; they’d seen it often enough. But the waiting only intensified the dread, and they were glad it was over. “Mortar sections, hold,” Blas trilled. “Aar-tillery sections will load caanister!” She stared down the line of expectant faces turned to hers, “gun ’Cats” and Marines poised by and with their weapons. “Commence independent fire!” At this range, careful aim was more important than the stunning effect of a volley—and the approaching Doms ought to be sufficiently stunned by something else directly.
* * *
“Jeez! Look at that!” Orrin Reddy shouted at his OC through the plane’s voice tube. He’d seen battles from the air before, first against the Japanese in the Philippines, then against the Doms on New Ireland, but never had they been so concentrated and on such a scale. The whole city seemed surrounded by a gigantic, rising doughnut of smoke, and he and his two squadrons of Nancys, racing in at low altitude after a swing around the bay, were headed right for it.
“I say jeez too—for all the Grikbirds!” came the reply.
Orrin sobered. Seepy was right. There were hundreds of the damn things, rising above the smoke and kiting on thermals over the city like monstrous reptilian vultures. “Yeah, and we have to run interference.” Orrin was personally leading the 9th Bomb Squadron on this mission. Their ship and Lieutenant Ninaar-Rin-Ar’s (CO of the 11th Bomb Squadron) were the only ones armed with .50s in the nose. Every plane in both squadrons had Blitzer Bugs, but they’d be of limited use on a bomb run. But four more ships had been designated as “top cover” for the attack, and would follow Orrin and Ninaar straight in to blow a hole for the others.
“Remind everybody to be extra careful where they drop!” Orrin told Seepy one more time. The two bombs each Nancy carried were terrible things—one hundred pounds of gasoline mixed with obstinately flammable sap from the gimpra tree. The stuff didn’t stay mixed very well, but it didn’t really have to. Detonation, or a high-speed collision with the ground would recombine the substances sufficiently to provide an expanding inferno of sticky gobbets of flaming sap that could land as far as seventy-five yards from the detonation point. Other compounds had been considered, of course, as had airbursts, but fusing remained an issue in the second case, and in the first—what was the point? In any event, every aviator in the 3rd Naval Air Wing was more terrified of accidentally dropping one of the weapons on his own people than he was of death. Orrin was confident there’d be no accidents.
“Here we go!” he announced. A gaggle of Grikbirds had noticed them and was swooping down in front of them, still just above the battlesmoke. Ninaar was off his left wing and Orrin glanced down. He had his landmarks, and stabbing flashes of cannon fire confirmed his line. His eyes twitched to his mirror to confirm that both squadrons remained tucked in a tight column of twos behind the lead ships. As soon as he gave the order, Seepy would press his telegraph key and hold it down—until he had to start shooting. That would send the bombers diving through the smoke, and into the attack.
“Tally ho!” he shouted, and Seepy jammed his key. Immediately, eighteen Nancys dove, and Orrin centered his crude sights on the Grikbirds ahead and fired.
* * *
“Their artillery is disturbingly effective, considering its size,” General Nerino observed, maintaining an urbane fa?ade. In truth, he’d been terrified when the heretics’ shells began exploding among his advancing troops, and even disconcertingly close to him. The armies of the Holy Dominion used exploding shells in their monstrous twelve-inch mortars, but they had none of those here. They had nothing, in fact, that fired anything but solid shot and grape. Ramming a lit projectile down the long barrel of a field piece before firing it was considered far too dangerous and unpredictable. He wondered how his enemies had solved the problem with such apparent safety to their crews, and precision of effect. There’d been proposals that simply firing a gun would serve to ignite a fuse, he remembered, but few hereditary officers had given the notion much credibility. They might have to rethink that. At last, however, the guns had fallen silent, and his heart no longer raced as he sat on his gilded chair and watched his first shell-torn Corps, or “El Mano del Papa,” march across the broad gap to grasp the enemy at last. The red flags made a seamless, protective river of divine blood above his host, and the thundering drums echoed the pulsing rush of blood in his ears. The band advanced as well, providing a stirringly devout martial accompaniment to the dance of war. So thrilling! All his life, General Nerino had waited to see such a sight! He felt like falling to his knees and joining his priest in thanks to God and His Holiness for this opportunity.
He might have actually done so if two gray shell bursts hadn’t suddenly, deliberately, slaughtered the noncombatant musicians.
“Qué terriblemente grosero!” he exclaimed, stunned. Never had he imagined anyone capable of such rude behavior on a battlefield! An instant later, a great cheer built among the enemy, joined by an appalling squealing sound. Then the distant guns spat fire and smoke, and a rising crackle of musketry erupted.
“They do not even wait for the exchange of volleys!” the priest seethed. “They are animals, my general!”
“Perhaps not all,” Nerino said defensively. “The enemy army is a mixed force. Perhaps many are amateurs. To foul their weapons at such a hopeless distance certainly does not seem very professional!” The standard musket of the Holy Dominion was wildly inaccurate and couldn’t strike any specific man-size target beyond seventy or eighty paces. Nerino had no reason to suspect Imperial muskets were any better, and frankly suspected the Imperials had armed what he considered their animalistic allies with spears at best. It never occurred to him that the Lemurian “Americans” might have their own, even better weapons. “Our noble Salvadores will show them what discipline in the ranks may achieve.” He paused. “But what is that absurd buzzing sound? Not more of their odd flying machines, I hope! Surely we have sufficient dragons above us to protect against any mischief they may cause?” He turned to his aide, the sound growing more insistent. “Captain, what . . .” Something flashed in the corner of his eye, and he turned back to the battlefield in time to see a great, sprawling mushroom of fire, crowned by greasy black smoke. “What?” he murmured again, just as an enemy machine darted past the white smoke of battle and climbed up and away to the south. Then there was another terrible, orange flash—and another! Even from where he sat, the screams were clear. Obviously, the heretics were dropping some kind of bomb, in much the same way that dragons had been taught to attack ships, but these were not the large rocks or roundshot the dragons carried, but some kind of demonic incendiary device.
“They are burning our army!” Nerino shrieked, standing from his chair. Whump! Whump! Whump! went the bombs and more screams mounted, even while the fire from the enemy earthworks redoubled. More flying machines roared by, rising in the sky. Nerino saw one, diving down to the north. Two pointed cylinders fell away and tumbled to the ground, igniting among his terrified, surging troops. He continued watching as it too pulled up and away, but then saw several dragons slash into the thing and carry it tumbling to the ground.
“They only have the two bombs each,” he cried. “Doubtless, they go back for more, but it will take time. We must push the next Hand of the Pope forward immediately!”
“It is already formed, my general!” the aide assured him.
“Send it!” Nerino waved his hands manically. “Send everything! I want a general attack around the entire perimeter at the rush!”
* * *
“Wow,” said First Sergeant Spook. “Lookie at ’em burn!”
“They’re not all burnin’,” Blas muttered. “Them flyboys were maybe a little too careful not to hit us. A buncha Doms were already past the drop point!” Even as she watched, a second Nancy staggered in the sky as a pair of Grikbirds fastened onto its port wing and sent it into a helpless spin. It impacted on the other side of the line of fire, and as far as she could tell, the Grikbirds never let go. She felt bad for the brave aviators she’d just seen die, but she had more pressing problems. Thousands of Doms were literally running at them now, partly to escape the fire, no doubt, but also to come to grips with their tormenters. She raised her voice. “Let ’em have it! Keep firing! Chew ’em up! Kill ’em!”
“Load double canister! Load and hold!” the section chief to her left cried out, and she nodded on hearing his words. The Doms were coming fast, and the lieutenant’s guns would get only one more shot before the wave hit. Clearly he meant to make the most of it. At that moment, another rider galloped past on the road behind. “Commence firing mortars!” he yelled, over and over. Almost instantly, the distinctive toomp! sounds stuttered behind the lines. Blas turned back to her troops, tightening her helmet strap. “Fix bayonets!” she trilled.
“Comin’ just like Grik!” Spook shouted over the growing roar.
“No! These Doms have minds, and they’ll fight with ’em—if we don’t change ’em first. Take your Bee Ayy Arr and cover the gunners after they fire. Maybe they can keep shootin’ if you keep the Doms off ’em!”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Blas,” Spook replied, then blinked irony. “Watch yer tail!”
Blas unslung her Baalkpan arsenal musket and affixed the bayonet. In seconds, she’d be needed more on the firing line than standing back, giving orders. She disagreed with Spook in more ways than she’d had time to explain, however. Wild as the Dom charge had become, no similar Grik assault ever came at her with more than a single thought behind the onslaught. These Doms, these men, each had their own thoughts just as surely as her troops had theirs. Did that mean they’d be easier to break—or fight even more ferociously than any Grik she’d ever faced? On the other hand, from what she’d heard, the Grik were fighting with their minds now too. . . . Added to this was the conflict many Lemurians faced, a lingering discomfort at the prospect of killing humans with the same ruthlessness they killed Grik. It was hard sometimes to reconcile what this war had become with how it started. “Shields up!” she roared at her Marines, who still carried the things, and stepped into the line. “Brace for it!”
Horns sounded and loud cries of “Alto! Alto!” rose above the tumult, even as the defenders continued pouring in loads of “buck and ball” at a mere thirty yards or so. Sluggishly, like an animal goaded beyond endurance, the charging horde managed to arrest its sprint and try to dress its ranks in the face of the withering fire. “Escopetas aplomo!” came another repeated shout. One officer, just across from Blas, never finished the command, thrown back by the heavy slug of a militiaman’s rifle. Around him, however, gasping, bloodied Doms raised their muskets and took a wavering aim.
“Down!” Blas shrieked, ducking behind a Marine’s angled shield.
“Disparar!”
A ragged but thundering volley churned at the earthworks, pitching Marines backward amid a hail of vipping balls and screaming rocks and gravel. A ball whacked the shield just in front of Blas’s face and moaned away overhead, and just as suddenly as the volley came, the screams of her own troops filled the air. She noticed a stinging pain in her left thigh and glanced down to see the twisted tang of a buttplate, a jagged splinter of wood still attached, sticking out of her leg. She’d been hit by a piece of a musket, struck by a Dom ball. She yanked it out with a gush of breath.
“Up! Up! Fire into them! Let ’em have it!” she roared in that peculiar Lemurian way that carried her voice so far. Immediately, those around her started firing again, tearing paper cartridges with their teeth, pouring powder, and forcing .60-caliber balls topped with three pieces of buckshot down their barrels with iron rammers. Even as they died, the Doms were obeying unheard commands to draw their long, swordlike bayonets, and jam them in the muzzles of their muskets. Unlike the defenders with their socket bayonets, the Doms would no longer be able to fire their weapons, but soon, a good pike or spear might be just as dangerous. Another horn blew, and the Doms lowered their weapons with a desperate yell and charged. With a thundering crash, they slammed into the upraised shields of the Marines, and the first rank bowed back under the blow. The second rank stabbed at the enemy over the shields with their bayonets, while the third rank kept firing. Spook’s BAR opened up with a Wham! Wham! Wham! staccato, punctuated by another blast of double canister to the left, its yellowish smoke swirling and mixing with the white smoke of the muskets. Almost unheard, the stutter of exploding mortar bombs began.
Pushed into the second rank, Blas stabbed at anything that showed itself beyond the shields. The sharp point of her bayonet skated off a nose and found the wide eye of a Dom. She literally felt the scream through the wood and metal of her weapon. That, of all the events she’d ever experienced in combat, sickened her, but there was no time to contemplate it. Killing was killing, after all, and nothing she did could possibly compare to the agony the firebombs had caused. She fought on, quickly losing the extra breath to shout any orders, but further such were pointless now at any rate. Her whole world became the thrust and parry of the bayonet, the grunting of Marines straining to hold the shield wall, the screams and wails of the wounded and dying, and the foamy sweat that leached down from the leather band in her helmet to sting her eyes.
It seemed to her that they were holding, even though the greater mass of the enemy corps must have chosen her section of the line to concentrate, but she had to wonder how the rest of the line was faring. Only the Marines, and a few other Lemurian regiments had shields. They were heavy and cumbersome, and would only turn musket balls at a certain angle or until badly dented. The Imperials didn’t like them at all. She knew they’d been mostly done away with in the West, against the Grik, but the troops there had breech-loading rifles. Even then, recent experiences had indicated that shields still had a place. They were helping here, no question, and if the pressure might not be so great on other parts of the line, she suspected they were having a bad time without the extra protection.
“Mortars are gettin’ louder!” a ’Cat next to her huffed, breaking her metronomic reverie.
“They’re walking back this way,” Blas confirmed breathlessly. “The fires from the bombs must be going out, and I bet the Doms’re sending more troops at us here. Mortars are prob’ly trying to break ’em up!”
“Well,” the ’Cat—a corporal—gasped, “they gonna hafta get through the ones we killin’ now to get at us!” Spook’s BAR was hammering away, and the pair of guns he protected thundered again. More guns were firing now, Blas suddenly realized, meaning the pressure must be easing a bit—somewhere besides here, anyway. “They ain’t gonna like it if they do,” she promised grimly.
* * *
For the next three-quarters of an hour, the battle convulsed like a tortured snake all around the perimeter, except along the bayside docks. Kari Faask was practically hopping up and down, trying to see through the smoke obscuring the eastern line. The Doms were attacking everywhere, but it was at that point that the heaviest blow had fallen—perhaps twenty thousand troops funneled into a front barely a mile wide. Of course, nowhere near twenty thousand had made it all the way to the Allied defenses. The mortars still churned the rear ranks of the second corps, and shredded the bodies strewn across the field behind it.
“Mortars say they runnin’ low on aammo!” A comm-’Cat fretted, approaching the command staff that had remained on the roof throughout the fight. “Dom guns have opened up again, even wit their own troops under the shot, an’ its dis-ruptin’ replenishment!”
“Where’s Colonel Blair?” Shinya demanded.
“He tryin’ to bring up the reserve brigade o’ Impie M’reens to reinforce Cap-i-taan Blas.”
“He had better hurry. What’s Lieutenant Reddy’s status?”
“He takin’ off again now, rearmed an’ refueled. But he down to he call ‘baker’s dozen’ ships. Grikbirds chase ’im all the way back to bay. He say there maybe not so many Grikbirds now, though, either. They Blitzer Bugs shoot ’em down in bunches.”
Shinya nodded. They’d seen that; quite a few of the terrifying creatures had even fallen in the city itself—along with several planes.
“We, Kari and I, ought to be helping,” Fred stated grimly.
“Are you fit to fly?” Shinya demanded. “Even if you are, there are no extra aircraft. You are certainly not fit for the firing line. I honor your desire to fight, Lieutenant. Believe me, I share it most strongly. But we must all do what we are able, or our duty requires. Right now, your duty requires you to heal—and advise me on matters concerning aviation. Tell me, what should Lieutenant Reddy do now?”
Surprised, and a little suspicious that Shinya was only pretending to need his counsel, Fred concentrated. “Mr. Reddy can’t target the enemy infantry this time,” he said. “It’s too closely engaged. I’d suggest he concentrate on the Dom artillery and reserves.” He paused. “If he sees anything that might be General Nerino’s command post, he might take a whack at that.”
“An excellent recommendation, Lieutenant,” Shinya said. He turned to the comm-’Cat. “Send it.”
“Ay, ay.”
* * *
“What is happening? I cannot see!” General Nerino thundered, rising to pace and stare at the unprecedented chaos of the battlefield, before self-consciously returning to his gilded chair.
“I do not know, my general,” his aide almost wailed. “The smoke is too thick to see even the signal flags. The mortars . . .” He paused. Hundreds, thousands of deadly little bombs still blanketed the Army of God, sometimes dangerously close to where he stood. They had to come from some kind of mortar, though he had no idea how the heretics could have shipped so many of the monstrous weapons so far, and brought them ashore. Scouting lancers had described small, lightweight tubes within the enemy positions in past days, but surely they could not achieve the range and destructive power of the rain of bombs he was watching! “It must be mortars, my general, though how . . .”
“What is that?” Nerino demanded, pointing. The aide peered through the smoke. A steady trickle of wounded had been stumbling or crawling out of the fight in front of the enemy works, but now men were running from the battle, apparently unharmed and many unarmed. Nerino’s face purpled as he recognized what he saw. “Send in my personal guard,” he snarled, “to push those men back into the fight. If they will not go, kill them!”
The aide signaled the guard captain, who seemed to be expecting the command. Fifty lancers wearing red capes and gold-washed helmets and cuirasses quickly formed a line and advanced across the field.
“We have no more lancers near, my general,” the aide reminded nervously. “The rest are on the flanks. And your guard may be sorely diminished amid that storm of fire.”
Nerino looked at him. “I still have my army to protect me, Captain, at least what remains of it.”
“But . . . how much is that?” A droning interrupted him, and they both stared at the northern sky. The flying machines were returning, this time in a staggered formation. Some clearly meant to burn the battlefield where Nerino’s guards had just gone—but others seemed to be aiming right at him! Dragons swirled above them, but seemed hesitant to descend into the dense smoke of battle. “Even our own demons have deserted us,” he murmured as the bombs tumbled to the earth.
* * *
Captain Blas’s line was beginning to falter. The shields had been battered into uselessness, and almost no one was firing anymore. The line had thinned too much to maintain a third rank, much less the luxury of loading their muskets. The fight in the center had essentially turned into a stabbing match of bayonets, and despite the skill of the Marines, they were exhausted by a full hour of constant, physical combat. There were just too many Doms. Spook’s BAR still fired sparingly, allowing “his” guns to spew canister, but that couldn’t last much longer. Blas rammed her bayonet through the chest of a burly Dom in front of her, but she had trouble pulling the sticky blade free. A Dom sword banged her helmet, and she stumbled to the side. A roaring shout rose around her, and, in her disorientation, she thought the enemy had broken her line at last. Shapes rushed around her, and she waved her musket, fending them away.
“Easy there, Cap’n Blas!” came a voice she vaguely remembered from another time, as hands took her by the shoulders and steadied her.
“Corporal Smuke,” she said dully, remembering the Imperial’s name. Against her will, she sagged heavily, the last of her strength fleeing her legs, and she blinked away the gummy tears that started to fill her eyes. “I haven’t seen you since New Ireland,” she murmured. “What are you doing here?”
“Me an’ me lads’ve come to your rescue fer a change,” Smuke said. “Have a taste o’ this!” He held a canteen to her mouth. She coughed on water grogged with something strong she didn’t recognize, but her weary wits were returning. Imperial Marines streamed past her, filling gaps in the line and firing muskets directly in the faces of their attackers.
“Col-nol Blair has reinforced us!”
“Aye,” Smuke confirmed, scooping her up in his arms. She struggled weakly, indignantly.
“Put me down this instant, Corporal! I’ll have you on a charge!”
Smuke laughed. “Charge all ye like, Cap’n Blas, but the colonel hisself bade me take care o’ ye, an’ if ye dinnae notice, ye’ve taken a wee scratch ain yer leg! Now trouble me nae further. Colonel Blair’ll stop me grog if I leave ye—an’ ye’d never allow ’im ta do sich a heinous thing!”
* * *
Shinya’s arms hurt from holding his binoculars to his eyes for so long. Just moments before, Lieutenant Reddy’s Nancy squadrons had gone in again, their firebombs erupting far beyond the closer battle for the most part, though a few gushed flames extremely close behind the second attacking force in the center. Shinya winced when he saw yet another Nancy cartwheel out of the sky, Grikbirds bolting away from it just before it impacted in the smoke-hazed field. The crumpled corpse of the plane immediately burst into flames. He winced again at the sight of a lone smoldering horse, probably a lancer’s mount, galloping aimlessly, panicked or wild with pain. Beneath its hooves, the cropland beyond the perimeter was covered with butchered, bleeding bodies.
“Colonel Blair’s going in,” Fred said quietly at his side, and Shinya refocused his binoculars.
“At laast,” Kari breathed with relief. The pressure was becoming unbearable in the center, and it had looked like Blas and her Marines were about to fold. A stutter of musketry, so long quiet there, suddenly erupted, and flashes of orange fire stabbed at the Doms. Shinya handed his glasses to Fred, resting his arms, and Fred raised them gratefully.
“That’s done it!” he shouted triumphantly. “My God, the Doms are pulling back!”
“No troops, ours or theirs, can withstand such horror forever,” Shinya said. He didn’t add that he’d seen such intense, sustained fighting only once before, at Aryaal, and that time it had been Allied troops that finally broke. But he’d gained a new regard for their eastern enemies that day, if not outright respect. Nerino’s troops had advanced, and then stood and fought in the face of far superior weaponry, and even while being savaged in front and behind by other weapons they’d never faced before. He didn’t know if they were motivated by courage, fear, or simple fanaticism, but it made him question his fundamental strategy of drawing as many Doms down on them as they could. A breakthrough in the center could’ve probably been contained and there’d been little real pressure elsewhere, but a more thoughtful attack supported by greater numbers might’ve overwhelmed them here at Guayak.
“Keep at it! Pour it in!” Fred grated excitedly. “Shit! There they go!” He urgently handed the binoculars back to Shinya. “They’re breaking!”
Shinya took the glasses and watched the Dom line. It had pulled back in the face of Blair’s fresh troops, but with bayonets jammed in their muzzles, they couldn’t return the renewed firing that scythed them down. Shinya understood perfectly what began to happen next. Incapable of advancing and unable to stand any longer—or even withdraw in an orderly fashion under such a hail of bullets and increased artillery fire—the Dom line appeared to spontaneously shatter. What had been a disciplined, cohesive force a moment before, teetering on the edge of victory, suddenly became a wild mass of terrified individuals, streaming to the rear as fast as their exhausted legs and lungs could take them. A great cheer resounded from the Allied line, and clumps of men and Lemurians actually leaped the earthworks and started chasing the fleeing Doms.
Whistles and horns immediately sounded the recall, and most of those who’d been carried over the works by their passions began to halt, but as he watched, Shinya continued to wonder if he didn’t need to revise his overall strategy to some extent.
“They’re pulling back everywhere, Gener-aal,” Kari said, her voice almost drowned by the exuberant exclamations of Suares and the alcalde. Shinya focused his binoculars beyond the battlefield, at the smoldering gun emplacements, the scattered ranks of reserve troops, broken up by Reddy’s bombing run—and particularly at the area he suspected Nerino had been watching the battle as intently as he. The whole Dom army was recoiling, folding back, pulling away from the radically expanded killing field in disarray.
“I wanted to draw the Doms here, army by army, and destroy them as they came,” he said softly, “but I think now that such a plan will not work.” He gestured across the field. “Whatever the Grik have become, there was a time when such a repulse would have ruined many of their warriors that fled in such a way—but these are not Grik, and I must stop equating this enemy with them. Those Dom troops, those men, no matter how terrified at present, will eventually take control of themselves. They will re-form. They will not be surprised by our weapons again, and may gain even greater confidence for having survived them. They will pass their knowledge to others, and we will face them again.”
“What’re you saying, General?” Fred asked.
“Only that my every instinct has always compelled me to pursue a beaten enemy and drive him without pause.” He smiled. “I believe I have objectively convinced myself that I should follow those instincts in this case after all, despite what I originally thought. That gives me a measure of satisfaction on this otherwise terrible day.”
Fred looked out at the battlefield. “Chase ’em? Wow. That’s a tall order.”
“No. We will chase them hard for a distance beyond this field, far enough that they know they are chased.” He frowned. “Because I did not prepare for it in advance, we can do little more at present, but I won’t allow them to imagine later that they chose to leave on their own.”
“Just so long as we don’t wind up like the poodle that chased the bear—until it stopped running,” Fred muttered.
“You think of Colonel Flynn, and his fate beyond the Rocky Gap in India?” Shinya asked.
Fred hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. How can I not? I didn’t know him well, but Billy—I mean Colonel Flynn—was a right guy by all accounts. Hearing what happened to him and all those others . . . It came hard.”
“I’m sure it did,” Shinya agreed, “but I can assure you we shall not share his fate, Lieutenant. Do you know why?”
Fred and Kari both shook their heads.
“Because we’re facing men, for one thing. Granted, the Doms are very strange men, but men nevertheless, and they strike me—so far—as more predictable foe than the Grik have become. We also have the two of you.” He smiled. “And Colonel Blair, Lieutenant Reddy, and such as Captain Blas. There is also me, of course, and I have the honor of commanding a largely veteran army that has trained together extensively.” He shrugged. “Behind us are Admirals Lelaa and Jenks. That is a good team, I think.” He grew somber. “And we do have Colonel Flynn’s example. Not only of how he was lost, but of his courage and determination. Our enemy fought better than I expected today,” he allowed, “but for all the treachery of their leaders, their commanders cannot match our technology, determination, or experience.” He straightened. “Our greatest asset is our experience, and we must deny the Dom survivors the experience they gained today. The only ‘experience’ I want them to take from this field is that we mauled them, and then chased them until it suited us to stop.”
“Where will we stop, Gen-er-aal?” Kari asked.
Shinya smiled. “At a most interesting and convenient place for our next encounter!”
* * *
General Ghanan Nerino moaned softly in the black night atop the battered ammunition cart as the wheels jounced across scattered rocks. The many layers of his elaborate uniform coat and the aide who’d covered him with his own body had protected Nerino to some degree from the sticky, obdurate flames of the enemy bombs, but his head, hands, and lower body had been badly burned. If he hadn’t been drugged into near senselessness, the bumpy ride would’ve had him screaming as piteously as the few other wounded being carried down the track. The loyal aide, and all those around him, had burned to death.
Normally, the rocks would’ve been heaved aside by troops detailed for that purpose, and the general would’ve barely noticed them in his elegant carriage protected by gentle springs. Now, even if the carriage hadn’t been destroyed in the bombing and subsequent counterattack by the heretic horde, it was certainly in their hands. And frankly, Nerino was lucky to have the cart. Few vehicles were saved during the nearly complete rout that ensued when the enemy, flushed with victory, charged out of its earthworks around Guayak and slammed into the shattered, terrified, and disorganized Army of the South. The counterattack had been stunning in its barbaric relentlessness, and only a full commitment of the thus far reserved, but limited regiments of elite Blood Drinkers had slowed it enough to get anything out. Little, if any of the army’s artillery had been withdrawn, and though they fought like the fiends they were, the sounds of battle to the south that dwindled with the day made it likely that even the Blood Drinkers had been destroyed at last.
Some hoped that the brief, relative quiet meant the rear guard had been successful and this long, terrible day might end at last. What remained of the army would retreat to a position where it could re-form and establish a defense. But then the night resumed crackling with musketry as enemy skirmishers regained contact with the ragged column and began applying pressure once more. Worse, a few of the enemy flying machines remained aloft, still battling dragons, but occasionally swooping to drop one of their terrible bombs. Even when they burned nothing but grass and trees, the remorseless, unnatural assault from the sky further unnerved the defeated troops—and sometimes, a hideous chorus of screams arose with the roiling flames. The loitering menace above prevented any lights from being made along the line of retreat, and that added even more confusion and misery to the defeated force. Few could’ve imagined a worse, more terrifying hell in the flaming caverns beneath the earth than they were now enduring.
Nerino understood little in his drug-hazed state. He knew pain, of course, but he’d lost his connection to the unfolding events. He could hear voices, and recognized what was being said, but he couldn’t relate any of it to his own unpleasant situation. Very quickly, anything he heard was forgotten. He became aware that a squadron of lancers had appeared in the darkness alongside his cart and managed to raise himself up slightly to see. He couldn’t focus, but his eyes were drawn south toward a pulsing glow. A fire, he thought muzzily. A fire back there where I was today. How lovely it is, yet so dreadful as well. Why is it dreadful? Because it hurts! It has hurt me! He lay back with a moan.
“Quickly, you four men—get those armabueyes out of their traces! Replace them with your own mounts. We must get the general out of here at once!” cried an authoritative voice Nerino didn’t recognize.
“But these are not draft animals, Colonel!” a man protested. One of the lancers, Nerino assumed. Quite right, he agreed. Lancers often sprang from landed families, and not only were they responsible for providing their own mounts; the beasts were some of the finest horseflesh in all the Dominion! “Ridiculous!” he exclaimed.
“Do it now, or I’ll give you to the priests!” the colonel warned, ignoring Nerino.
“Oh, all right! No reason to get nasty! We’ll have to ride them, though. They’ve never been harnessed before.”
“Of course. Take these other lancers with you as a guard, but don’t hesitate to change horses when they tire.”
“Don’t worry about that!” the lancer assured, his tone implying the other men in his squadron better not refuse to do their part.
“Go as quickly as you dare,” the colonel urged, “and try to get him through the pass before daylight.”
“But won’t that just kill him? And what if he starts screaming?”
“My healer priest will ride along in the cart. He says the general may live if the pain doesn’t reach his heart. He will ensure that General Nerino gets as much medicine as he can bear.”
“All right. But after today, the Pajaros Rojos will just have him flayed anyway.”
“Perhaps,” the colonel allowed, “but I hope not. General Nerino may be a fatuo, but he’s smart, and he may be the only one who can sort out what happened to us when his wits return. Now hurry! The heretics are getting closer.”
Fatuo indeed! Nerino fumed silently through the mounting waves of pain. Then his wandering mind fastened onto something else he’d heard. I would so dislike being flayed. I do so hope that I can sort out whatever it is that has happened!