Authors: S.M. Stirling,David Drake
Staenbridge nodded. He turned to Bartin Foley and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now.”
The younger man grinned and leaned out of the saddle, extending his hook. One of his platoon commanders dropped the loop of a leather satchel over it. Then he lit a length of fuse-match that extended from under the buckled cover.
“Ha!”
Foley clapped his heels into his dog’s flanks, heading for the timber gate that barred the northern entrance to the Colonial fort. Men were fighting hand-to-hand on the wall to either side, shooting and stabbing and swinging clubbed rifles; there had to have been Colonials on duty at the gate, at least, if not all around the walls. Bodies tumbled down the steep slope of the berm, dead or wounded. Troopers in Civil Government uniform shot through the stubby planks of the palisade at the top, or joined to pull the wood aside, or boosted their comrades over the pointed tops. Probably the towers on either side of the gate had held swivel guns as well as searchlights, but they were both blazing torches now, burning hard enough to make the heat noticeable at a hundred meters.
Foley covered the distance to the gate in a few seconds. A mounted man drew attention, even in the melee above him. Bullets kicked the gravel roadbed around him; once he swayed in the saddle and Staenbridge stiffened beside Raj. The satchel arched through the air and thumped into the dirt at the base of the gate, its momentum wedging it under the palm-log timbers where they swung at ankle height above the roadway. At the same instant he pulled the dog’s head around; the beast whirled so quickly that it reared almost upright on its hind legs, with Foley hanging on like a jockey. It landed facing the way it had come, and running. The rider’s display of skill would have been worthy of attention in itself, in any other context.
“Damned good man,” Raj said, easing back the hammer of his revolver with the thumb of his right hand. Horace tensed under him.
“. . . Five, six,” Staenbridge said. “Yes, he is, and I wish to the Starless Dark he’d stop
volunteering
for this sort of shit, the hand’s enough. Seven, eight—”
Barton Foley had covered three-quarters of the distance back to their position when the satchel charge blew. There were twenty-five kilos of powder in it; the gates disappeared from sight, and chunks of wood flew past them. Foley’s dog yelped and leaped forward so quickly that he had to slug the reins back with brutal force to stop it. A splinter a double handspan long stuck out of one haunch; the animal kept trying to turn and reach the wound with its tongue.
Two of Foley’s troopers grabbed the bridle while he dismounted; one of them threw a neckerchief over the dog’s eyes while the other pulled the splinter out with a single swift yank. The dog’s howl of agony was loud even by comparison with the noises of battle.
“Go!” Staenbridge barked. “Go, go,
go
.”
The dust billowed away from the gate, showing a shattered ruin that sagged back out of the way. Bartin Foley was first through again, his riot gun in one hand; at his shouted direction a dozen men threw their shoulders against the splintered wreckage and walked it clear. Raj heeled Horace through a dozen paces, then drew him up with the pressure of his knees.
The interior of the camp was a checkerboard of stores in huge pyramids under tarpaulins, interspersed with tents. Some of the tents were on fire, and there was also light from iron baskets of burning greaseweed at the intersections. His head whipped left and right. To the left the Civil Government troops were already over the wall and down into the roadway that circled just inside it. The inner face of the berm was sloped dirt, or broad steps cut into the clay and faced with palm logs. Men poured down in, rallied around unit flags on the flat, moved off. There was a thick scattering of dead Arabs on the roadway, a few on the inner slope, more living ones running like blazes southward. To his right, toward the river, the fighting was still on the parapet itself. In a few places Civil Government banners waved from the parapet.
“All right,” he said.
Just what I expected.
That section had had fewest of his veterans, and most of the Sandoral garrison troops. “Gerrin, let’s collect some men and go help out.
Waymanos!
”
The issue of the day was no longer in doubt. Now he’d make sure the butcher’s bill wasn’t any higher than it had to be.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Breakfast was astonishing.
Well, we did just overrun a supply dump,
Raj thought, looking over the collection of delicacies.
He spooned up more potted shrimp. Peydro Belagez was eating them mixed with candied dates, which was something only a Borderer would do; Gerrin watched him with the horrified fascination of a gourmet, or a priest witnessing blasphemy. The commanders were seated at a long table in the huge pavilion tent that had been the base HQ. The Colonial engineers, left with time on their hands, had gone a little berserk. There were even
baths
, complete with kerosene-fired water heaters, enough for several hundred men at a time.
The morning air was fresh and hot, still a little smoky with the fires they’d spent half the night putting out. A bugle sounded outside, and a pair of mounted troopers trotted by with a long string of dogs on a leading rein: more of the force’s mounts from the site where they’d landed. The barges and rafts were mostly here by now too, grounded on the riverbank or against the stub of the pontoon bridge that still extended halfway across. On the tall flagpole outside the HQ tent the Starburst banner snapped in the breeze.
The commander of the Rogor Slashers went on:
“And they still haven’t stopped running,
heneralissimo.
They’ve split up into small parties and none of them show fight.” Belagez’s dark leathery face showed a combination of exhaustion and satisfaction. “Your instructions?”
“Ignore them,” Raj said. “They weren’t a problem in here, and they’re not going to be one out there, either.”
He swallowed another mouthful of excellent-quality
kave
—the Colony sat astride the trade-route from Azania and kept the best for itself—and looked at Suzette. She had peeled an orange and then set it aside untouched, looking a little pale.
Damnation. Think about that later.
“Casualties?”
“Less than two hundred,” Staenbridge said, sounding slightly surprised. “That’s not counting walking wounded fit for duty. We only had twenty dead.”
“Most of the live ones will pull through,” Suzette added. “There are plenty of medical supplies here, and some excellent Colonial doctors, besides our own. Working under guard, of course.”
“Prisoners?”
Kerpatik thumbed through his lists. “Over two thousand,
heneralissimo.
That is, two thousand military personnel. There were substantial numbers of camp followers here as well. The families of the soldiers have mostly fled. The, ah, commercial elements—” he rubbed thumb and the first two fingers of his hand together, “—they care little about the coinage as long as the metal is good.”
Raj nodded. Where you had a military base, you got knocking-shops. He’d be willing to bet there was alcohol for sale too, Koranic prohibitions or not.
“Jorg, issue
Guardia
armbands to some of your footsoldiers and get that under tight control. We’re still in the field, even if we’ve captured all the comforts of home. Let’s not let the troops relax just yet.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“Strip them down to their loincloths and let them go; tell them to start walking south. Now, we captured a good many documents here, including the daily logistics summaries.”
Several men exclaimed in delight. That meant they would know the Colonial army’s situation in detail, right down to the names of the units and their muster strength.
“Evidently they’ve been having problems getting the supplies from the railhead to the siege lines outside Sandoral—plenty here, but they’re short of draft oxen and fodder over on the west bank.”
Dinnalsyn nodded. “They were trying to use locomotive engines to rig up a couple of spare pontoons as steam tugboats, to pull raftloads up to Sandoral,” he said. “I had a look; it would have worked, more or less. Whoever was in charge knew his business.”
Raj nodded acknowledgment. “In any case, the Colonials have virtually nothing in the way of reserve with their field army. They were living from day to day on what their convoys brought in, once the countryside was laid waste. Now, Messers, here’s what we’ll do. Jorg, you’re in charge here. How many dogs did we capture?”
Muzzaf Kerpatik looked up from a mass of papers. “Over twenty-five hundred, not counting gun teams, sir,” he said.
“Good. Jorg, I’m leaving you all the infantry. Mount half of them—the best half—on the captured dogs. You’ll also have, hmmm, Poplanich’s Own and the 21st Novy Haifa for stiffening. And half the field guns. Move them north in parties of a couple of hundred; keep in continuous contact. Your objective is to prevent Tewfik from making any lodgment on the east bank. Shouldn’t be difficult; there isn’t much in the way of boats over there, and it would take weeks to put enough material together for another bridge. Which they couldn’t build in the face of our artillery, anyway—but keep a sharp lookout; we don’t want to get as overconfident as the previous tenants.”
“Patrol the vicinity?”
“Vigorously. The infantry in good spirits?”
“Any better and they’d want to march on Al Kebir,
mi heneral.
Their tails are up.”
“Deservedly so. Now, I’ll take the rest of the cavalry, and the guns, over to the west bank. There are probably still intact supply trains on the road north, and I want to sweep those up immediately.”
He rose, picking up his sword belt from the back of the chair. “I want to be on the move in no more than five hours. Tewfik is crazy like a ferenec, and Ali is just plain crazy; let’s not give them time to think up any way out of their predicament.
Waymanos.
”
“That will not work, Ali my brother,” Tewfik said.
His voice was dangerously calm, and he left out the honorifics. Ali turned his head slowly, the great ruby that held the clasp of his turban winking in the stray beams of light that came through ventilation slits in the ceiling of the pavilion high above.
The nobles and officers sitting on cushions around the carpet looked at Tewfik as well, mostly with the same expression they might have used if a man kicked a carnosauroid in the snout.
“Dog will not eat dog,” Tewfik went on. “This has been proven many times, as any fool of a soldier would know. Rather,” he corrected himself, “most dogs will not. Nine in ten. So we will lose all our cavalry at once, and cannot preserve a portion of our mobility by sacrificing the rest.”
Ali’s face went a mottled color. It had been a very long time since anyone had dared to call him a fool to his face, even by implication. Even his brother.
“Go!” he said, pointing with a trembling hand. “You are dismissed from the
durbar.
Return when you learn manners!”
Tewfik rose and bowed deeply, hand going to brow and lips and chest; the other clenched on the plain, brass-wired hilt of his scimitar.
His officers fell in about him. That brought another round of silent glances around the council carpet. It was also unheard-of for men to leave the Settler’s presence without word. And Ali looked suddenly thoughtful, conscious of the gaps. The nobles remained, and the heads of the religious orders . . .
In the harsh sun outside, Tewfik halted, beyond earshot of the mamluks who stood like ebony statues around the Settler’s tent.
“How long?” he said, to an elderly officer with a green-dyed beard.
“There is no reserve. None. The camp is on quarter-rations, but we have fifty thousand men, as many dogs, and twenty thousand camp followers here. There was no food to be had in Sandoral, none at all. I have set men to fashioning nets, and we may gain a little fish by trolling the river; but the
kaphar
hold the fort you planted on the eastern bank opposite the city, and the guns there command much of the water surface. There will be hunger by sundown, starvation by tomorrow’s night. Our dogs will be too weak to carry men in three days, and dying in six. By then the men will be dying as well.”
Tewfik’s hand withdrew the scimitar a handspan, then rammed it home again. “If we lose this army, our people will perish,” he said. “And we cannot maintain discipline, even, if we cannot feed the troops.”
He looked around. “Ibrahim, put the camp on one-quarter rations—and the camp followers are to receive nothing. Confiscate
all
private supplies of food. Hussein, mount ten thousand men and be ready to ride within the hour.”
“Glad to be out of the ruins,” Staenbridge said, looking back at the walls of Gurnyca.
Raj nodded. The faint stink of the piles of heads still clung to the inside of his nose, an oily thing like overripe bananas. Almost as bad had been the rats and the scavenging sauroids, rabbit-sized scuttling things all spidery limbs and teeth. One had gone past him with a desiccated arm in its mouth, still wearing the lace-cuffed sleeve of a lady’s day-dress.
“That sort of thing has to stop,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think the wogs will be invading us again in the near future,” the other man said with a predatory smile.
Raj shook his head. “I mean it’s got to
stop.
We did pretty much the same to the country around Ain el-Hilwa. Look at this!”
He gestured at the territory around them. A few weeks before it had been among the richest land in the Civil Government. Now the fields lay waste, empty except for the ragged scraps of sheep and cattle that the scavengers had left. Burnt stumps marked the remains of orchards, tall date palms and spreading citrus lying amid drifting ash. The adobe of the roofless peasant huts was already crumbling; the fired brick and stone of the burnt-out manors would last only a little longer. Weirs and sluice-gates and the windmills that watered the higher land were blackened wreckage as well. The long column of Civil Government troops rode through silence, amid a hot wind laden with sand. The sand would reclaim everything to the river’s edge, in time.
“There are enough barbarians to fight, without wrecking civilization,” Raj said. “
That’s
why Ali has to be stopped. Barholm wants to unite the planet, even if it’s only so he can rule it himself. Ali’s a sicklefoot and he destroys for the love of it.”
Staenbridge glanced around instinctively, with the gesture anyone in East Residence—or in the officer corps—learned to use when a too frank opinion of the Governor was voiced. Raj nodded silently. Staenbridge had a family to protect.
Raj’s lips tightened. Suzette should be in no danger even if Barholm killed her husband; her family was old and well-connected. A child, though . . .
“Well, this will simplify
our
logistics,” Bartin Foley said happily.
The wagons stood abandoned but not empty in the middle of the road, their trek-chains lying limp like dead snakes. From the sign, the teams had been driven on ahead with the dogs of the escort, but no attempt had been made to damage the cargoes.
“Which is fortunate,” he murmured, taking off his helmet.
It was surprising; even now he had to remind himself not to scratch his head with his left . . . well, left hook. He juggled the bowl-shaped steel headpiece and ran a hand through sweat-damp black curls. His scalp felt cooler for an instant, then hot again as the noon sun struck it. He heeled his dog and rode slowly down the line of wagons. Half the loads were ammunition, loads for heavy siege guns.
Very
fortunate that the teamsters had been struck by blind panic. The other half was wheat biscuit and bundles of dried
advocati
.
“Ser.”
A plume of dust was coming up the road from the south; the banner of the 5th and Messer Raj’s personal flag at its head. He kneed his mount over to the side of the road, smiling to himself. Suzette wasn’t along this time, and he suspected why. He knew the signs. Fatima had borne her first in Sandoral, during the winter Raj spent preparing to meet Jamal’s invasion. The whole process was rather disturbing, like a good many things female, but the end product was delightful.
It was also pleasant not to be facing destruction at the hands of an army that outnumbered them seven to one.
The command group pulled up, the battalion fanning out into the fields on either side. “Drag it all down to the river?” Gerrin said.
Foley shook his head. “It’s about half ammunition. If we push everything together and set a fuse . . .”
Troopers came in by squads and pulled out bales of
advocati
to bait their dogs, filling their own haversacks with Colonial hard tack and strips of dried mutton. It was a little past noon and intensely hot, the land and sky turned white in the blaze of the sun.
“Ser.” A much smaller plume of dust this time, approaching from the north.
The officers corked their canteens and waited with a stolid patience that ignored the discomfort. Their dogs twitched ears and tails against the omnipresent Drangosh Valley flies. Antin M’lewis pulled up at the head of ten of his Scouts.
“Ser,” he said, with a casual wave that approximated a salute. “ ‘Bout a thousand wogs comin’, all cavalry, six guns. Five klicks off an’ closin’ fast.”
Raj nodded, wiping sweat and dust from his face with his neckerchief. “We’ll give them a reception,” he said. To a messenger: “My compliments to Majors Bellamy and Gruder, and would they close up quickly, please.” He looked around at the terrain. “This should do; Gerrin, set up along this crestline.”
“Guns to the left?” Staenbridge asked, pointing to the snags of a citrus orchard that ran down the gentle slope east of the road.
“By all means.”
“I presume we don’t intend to stay here long.”
“No,” Raj said. “The last thing we want is a general engagement; we’ll just show them they have to stay bunched up and slow them down.”
He turned to Foley. “Barton, how many wagon trains does this make?”
“Altogether? Including the ones wrecked when we were coming downstream?” At Raj’s nod he continued: “Twenty-seven; four hundred twenty-two wagons of all sizes. Mostly these standard models,” he concluded, waving a hand at the ones in the road.
“That means they shouldn’t have recovered more than twenty or thirty tons of supplies altogether,” he said. Softly: “Most excellent.”
The messengers went out; on either side the 5th’s troopers fanned out, sending their dogs back and unlimbering their entrenching tools for hasty heaped-earth
sangars
to their front. A few minutes later Ludwig Bellamy and Kaltin Gruder trotted up the roadway with their banners fluttering in the hot wind, the dust clouds of their commands behind them.