Men of War (36 page)

“My friend, today will be a good day to die,” he whispered.

* * *

It felt like the old days, the assault on Caradoga, the fifth year of the War of the False Pretender. The city had been hit by the third atomic to be used in the war, the air assault was dropped upwind to seal off the retreat of the refugees and drive them back in to the inferno, since Caradoga had been a center of stiff resistance. That was the battle where he had lost faith in the cause. Ha’ark had joined the unit shortly after that fight. Perhaps it would have tempered him more to have seen it, Jurak thought.

The Chin city of Huan looked the same now. It had been their beacon for the last fifty leagues of the flight, first a glow on the horizon, then a soaring pillar of light, so bright that it filled the cockpit of the aerosteamer with a hellish red glare. It reminded him as well of the Sacred Texts, the destruction of the city of Jakavu for its sinful ways.

Explosions ignited in the city, entire blocks of cramped derelict homes, abandoned as the population had been driven to work in the factories, rail lines, or to the feasting pits, were now consumed, flaring to explosive incandescence. From the north to southern wall the entire city was burning. By the glow he could make out snakelike columns moving out of the gates to the west of the city, where more fires burned.

Even as his attention turned to that direction a glaring white-hot explosion ignited, soaring heavenward in a giant fireball. It was the powder mill. Damn all, so they were into the factories. A dozen plants or more, foundries, cannon works, powder mill, cartridge works, rifle works, all of them burning.

It was hard to see the works to the east and south. He never should have left old Ugark as umen commander. He was far too much of the old ways, and bitter as well for not having command at the front. For that matter those who were there were, in general, warriors not fit for the front anymore, or those who were never fit, willing enough to torture a defenseless cattle, but not so willing to face one that just might be armed.

It was always the same mistake, to group together the less competent, then send them off to some forgotten front.

And yet the war was so damn close to victory, he could feel it within his grasp. The raids, both here and across from Tyre, though brilliant, were indicators of a final desperation. All that was needed now was to hang on, to contain this madness, save the factories that were left. Once that was done, return to the front and make a final push as if nothing had happened at all. That would shatter their morale once and for all, and they would give in.

The wind was building; the column of smoke ahead rose ten thousand feet or more to the heavens, then spread out in a dark mushroom cloud that blotted out the Great Wheel. Even from two leagues out bits of ash and smoldering embers were raining down. The machine lurched, bounced.

Firestorm, the outer edge of the winds being sucked into the heart of the inferno, he realized, and ordered the weary pilot to turn about and find a spot to land along the railroad tracks north of the city.

He could see the troop trains lined up, over two dozen of them. In the distance the headlight of another one came down from Nippon, winked, and shimmered. The pilot spi-raled down, deciding to alight on what appeared to be open land parallel to the track where the long line of trains were parked.

A volley of bullets slashed through the cabin. A red mist sprayed into Jurak’s eyes as the machine lurched over. Wiping his eyes clear he saw the pilot, the side of his head a shattered pulp, slumped over the controls.

More bullets slammed into the cabin as Jurak leaned over, trying to push the pilot to one side and free the wheel.

He caught a glimpse of a locomotive, sparks soaring up from the stack, winks of light flashing behind it, rifle fire, and for an instant he wondered how the damned humans had gotten this far, then realized his own men were shooting at him in blind panic.

Jerking the wheel back he banked sharply, closing his eyes for a moment and turning his head away as the forward glass panes exploded, showering him with fragments.

Damn, after all this, to be killed by your own warriors, he thought grimly as he opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of several yurts straight ahead, pulled back up to go over them and felt the shudder of a stall shaking his machine. The controls were mushy, and the machine started to settle, tail first, then slapped down hard.

The forward cabin snapped off from the front of the machine, and, covering his face, he fell.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then he felt the heat. The hydrogen bags were burning.

Kicking, clawing, he tore himself free of the tangled wickerwork of the cab and crawled out onto the grass. A clump of dirt sprayed up into his face, the crack of another bullet whined overhead.

“You damned fools, it is your Qar Qarth!” he roared.

Another bullet snicked past so close that he felt the hollow sucking pop of it as it brushed his face and then the shouts of a commander echoed, screaming to the warriors to cease fire.

Hesitantly, he came to his knees, knowing that to cower on the ground would be a loss of face. He stood up, brushing himself off. A commander of ten raced up, slowed, turned to shout for everyone to ground arms, then fell to his knees.

“Forgive us, my Qarth.” His voice was trembling.

“We thought . .

“I know, that it was a Yankee airship.”

“Yes, my Qarth. Take my life in atonement.”

Jurak reached down and grabbed the commander by the shoulder, pulling him up to his feet.

“If I killed everyone who made a mistake, I don’t think I would have much of an army left.”

The commander looked at him wide-eyed, and nodded.

“Your umen commander, where is he?”

The trembling leader of ten pointed to the train. He could see that hundreds were coming over out of curiosity. In the long history of the hordes, he realized, never had a Qar Qarth arrived in such a manner.

“Take me to him.”

Jurak followed as he was led to the long line of trains. Word had already spread of what had happened and all were on their knees, heads lowered in atonement and fear.

Bokara, the commander of the umen of the white-legged horse, came forward at the run, stopped, and went to his knees.

Jurak motioned for him to stand.

He started to sputter an apology, and Jurak cut him off. “Will your warriors be ready by dawn?”

“Yes, my Qarth. The last of the trains is coming in even now.”

“The situation?”

Bokara looked south toward the flaring inferno.

“The truth, my Qar Qarth?”

“What I would expect and nothing less.”

“Ugark panicked, my lord. When he heard the Yankees had landed at Xi’an he ordered all the cattle leaders of the city to be rounded up and slaughtered. I am told rioting was already breaking out even before the Yankees landed here early in the afternoon. Rumors had swept through the Chin that their liberator, the god Hans, was coming to free them.”

“Slaughter the leaders? I didn’t order that.”

“I know that, my Qar Qarth.”

“Go on.”

“I am told that last night the Chin telegraph operators in the city received your message. I know that it was correctly relayed through Nippon, for I was there and received it, making sure it was passed on.”

Jurak nodded, sensing that Bokara was also being careful to wash his hands of this mistake.

“It is apparent the cattle operators did not give the messages to Ugark but did spread the word among their own kind. Thus the riot which actually started before the Yankees even landed here.”

Jurak nodded. Again it shows our weakness, he thought. Our very messages carried by our enemies. He should have realized that given what his message to Ugark contained, of course the cattle operators would hide it and use it against him. And the way Bokara said the word rioted carried with it a certain disbelief, that the Chin slaves, dumber than the dumbest beast, were incapable of such rebellion.

“My train arrived here just before dusk. I heard Ugark was already dead and that Tamuka had seized command.”

“The Merki?”

“Yes, my Qar Qarth.”

“How, damn it? I wanted him detained.”

“Sire. He wears the crest of a Qar Qarth and said that you had given him authority.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, my Qar Qarth. Reports are he is west of the city, fighting, rallying the warriors that survived. They say he fought well.”

Jurak caught the note of admiration in Bokara’s voice. Was this also a subtle way of conveying his disagreement. Far too many of his own Horde actually admired Tamuka’s fanatical manner and hatred of the cattle.

“Then let him fight there for the night,” Jurak finally announced, deciding that dealing with Tamuka could wait.

“I arrived here just as the cattle started to swarm out of the burning city. It was like waves upon a great ocean, my Qar Qarth, no one could stop them, driven in panic as they were by the flames behind them. I abandoned my attempt to try and link up with those rallying to Tamuka, thinking it best to pull back, form my umens here, to the north of the city, and wait till dawn to move in strength.”

Jurak nodded in agreement.

“The second umen?”

“Already forming as well. We’ll have twenty thousand warriors well armed, with artillery support and half a dozen land ironclads I managed to get out of one of the factories before it was taken.”

“Very good.”

“My lord.”

“Yes.”

“The encampments of the clans of the black horses and of the gray-tailed horses. Our people are in the summer encampments to the south in the hills.”

Jurak did not quite grasp for a moment what he was driving at.

“The cattle, my Qar Qarth. They are between us and a hundred thousand yurts of my own clan. The cubs of my own young, all that is left of my blood, are but a day’s ride south of here.”

He caught the edge of fear in the old warrior’s voice. “They are armed,” Jurak replied, trying to reassure. “Only with bows, my lord. Many of the Yankees and the cattle they’ve freed now have guns.”

“We defeat the Yankees tomorrow morning, then that fear will be put to rest.”

“Yes, my Qarth.”

“I’m exhausted; I need some food and a place to rest.”

“This way, my Qarth.” Bokara started to lead him toward the train.

He stopped for a moment and saw a dark form lying on the ground, then another and another. Ten of them in all. Other warriors stood in silence. It was the commander of ten and his warriors, all of them dead, having performed the ackba, the ritual of forming a circle and simultaneously slitting the throat of the comrade to their right in atonement for a failure by the unit.

He wanted to denounce such madness; it had been a mistake, but ritual had to be obeyed. He said nothing, the ten were fallen, it would not be seemly for him to comment upon those who should be beneath his notice. His gaze swept the circle, warriors carrying rifles, yet still wearing the horned and human-skull-adorned ceremonial war helmets of old, the train venting steam while Chin slaves, moving furtively so as not to draw notice, tended to it, feeding wood into the firebox, while another was oiling the driveshaft. What acts of destruction might they be secretly planning at that very moment, he wondered.

Ahead the city still burned, silhouetting the spreading encampment of his army, fieldpieces lined up next to felt-and-hide yurts, a dozen warriors gathered round a fire, roasting what appeared to be the legs and arms of a human while another casually cracked open the severed skull to scoop out the brains.

To make them modern, he now realized with grim certainty, was impossible; one could not expect them, in the span of a few short years, to leap generations. Somehow the humans were more adaptable, or was it simply more desperate. Did his own people truly realize just how desperate they were at this moment?

He felt a twinge of fear. No, not now, I can’t lose my nerve now though the dark foreboding is ready to consume me. Victory first, then let the rest fall where it may.

S
itting atop his ironclad, Vincent Hawthorne raised his field glasses, scanning the horizon to the east, which was silhouetted by the dawning light.

“See them?” Gregory asked. “I count at least twenty-five plumes. They must have brought them up by rail during the night. And there, see it, four, make that five flyers are up as well.”

Vincent said nothing, slowly sweeping the line of the horizon. Gregory’s eyes were undoubtedly far better, and he was trained for this through a year’s hard experience.

“Fine then. They’re going to make a fight of it,” Vincent announced, lowering his glasses.

A sharp rattle of rifle fire, sounding sharp and clear in the early-morning air, ignited. Directly ahead a line of cavalry skirmishers was drawing back from the opposite ridge. Ever since the men had dug into camp just after sundown, the ridge had been a source of contention throughout the night. If the bastards were allowed to deploy artillery up there, they could fire right down into the fortified camp of 3rd Corps.

Standing up, he slowly turned. The dawning light was starting to reveal the encircling host. It was hard to tell, but he sensed that more Bantag had come up during the night. The odds were running steep, at least six to one, perhaps even seven to one, the advantage held by having thirty-eight ironclads offset by the arrival of the enemy machines.

This day would be the day, then, and for all he knew, in the greater world beyond, the war might already be over. There was no word from Hans, not a single flyer had come back from Xi’an with a report. He was beginning to suspect that it would prove to be a very bad day.

“Should we move up to meet them?” Gregory asked.

Vincent shook his head.

“Get the men digging in. We’ve got fresh water here.” He nodded to the oasis-like spring that was in the center of the camp. “Even if the water is somewhat bitter, they can’t block it off. We dig in and let them come at us. As for our ironclads, we move up onto the ridge east of here to keep their artillery back. That’s where we’ll meet their ironclads coming in.”