Deadly Shores (11 page)

“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.