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Authors: Taylor Anderson

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BOOK: Firestorm
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Jindal shook his head. “Marvelous,” he confessed. “The scope of your planning . . .” He chuckled nervously. “The scope of this
war
is beyond anything I ever trained for!”
Chack blinked a sentiment Jindal hadn’t seen before—not that he remotely grasped any of the Lemurian blinking yet. “For all your naval power, your people have little more experience at this kind of war than mine did not long ago,” he said. “You’ll learn, as I was forced to; as Major Blair has done. I was lucky to have good teachers, but the lessons have been . . . hard.” He blinked something else. “Pray you never face a lesson such as Major Blair first endured; his might have destroyed a lesser person.” He paused, then gestured around. “This fight is a
skirmish
compared to what this war has become in the west; compared to what it’ll likely become here before all is done. Learn it well—however it turns out—because the most important points are these: plan for the best, but prepare for the worst, and every battle is won or lost in the planning, in the
mind
, before the first sword is ever drawn.”
Jindal gulped and felt a chill.
A srmish?
He was thoughtful a moment. “But this fight, your plan . . . will leave the enemy no avenue of escape. The rebels might surrender, but the Doms will fight ferociously if they can’t withdraw!”
“Very good! You think ahead. What you say is more than likely true,” Chack said. “It is in fact a . . . consequence of the ‘best case’ part of the plan. As a certain large . . . strange . . . man once told me, ‘Any we don’t kill today, we’ll have to kill tomorrow.’ You have your orders.”
The first battery to arrive had long since ceased firing, but within an hour, twenty-four guns had wheeled into place at the edge of the forest. Most were Allied six-pounders, but four were Imperial eight-pounders—their standard fieldpiece—and six were the new twelve-pounders. A hundred of the highly effective three-inch mortars came forward as well, each weapon with a crew of two, and each section with a squad of animal holders, ammunition bearers, crew replacements, and its own paalka, heavily laden with ammunition for the tubes. The enemy was throwing up a new defensive line on the outskirts of the town and emplacing a battery of their own guns there. That would be the first target.
“The division artillery is ready in all respects, Major,” Blas reported. To punctuate her words, the first Dominion piece fired and a cannonball struck the damp ground short of the Allied line, spraying dark earth in the air and sending the shot bounding into the trees.
“Commence firing,” Chack said, and Blas wheeled her horse and raced off. Moments later, amid shouted and repeated commands, the mortars erupted with a staccato
pa-fwoomp!
and twenty-four guns belched fire and smoke one after the other from the left, and recoiled backward as the case and roundshot soared downrange. The Imperials didn’t have case shot yet, and with their “nonstandard” bores, the allies couldn’t share. The eight-pound solid shot got there first, retaining its velocity better, and geysered earth and fragments of the breastworks around the enemy guns. The case shot was lighter for its diameter and bucked more wind for the weight, but there was only the slightest hesitation before white puffs detonated above the enemy line, spraying shards of iron and copper down on the defenders. Then the mortars fell.
Some of the bombs landed short. The range had been only a good estimate before, and some of the late arrivals had little time to make the crude elevation adjustments on the simple tubes. Despite their simplicity, however, the mortars were amazingly reliable, largely due to careful weighing of propulsive charges back in Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la, and the steadily improving quality control on the projectiles themselves. Bigger mortars were in the works that would reach a mile or more, but even though nine hundred yards was stretching the limit of the current model, seventy or more of the bombs fell right among the enemy.
The rippling detonation of the bursting charges sprayed dozens of prescored fragments from each bomb, decimating the Dominion defenders with the effect of a point-blank musket volley. None of the fragments were aimed, of course, so there were fewer real casualties, but the very . . . impersonal, utterly random nature of the projectiles unnerved the enemy like no volley could. And more were on the way. Section chiefs called range corrections, and the second barrage was more precise. The delayed, rippling blasts reached them long moments after the weapons blanketed the enemy position with white smoke once again. A third hail of mortars left their tubes even as the fieldpieces erupted with an earsplitting, rolling roar. So far, there’d been only that one cannon shot by the enemy.
“It is practically murder,fen said the young lieutenant Chack had spoken to before. The man had suddenly joined Chack, Blas-Ma-Ar, and several other officers who’d gathered to “watch the show.” He was riding a horse of his own now, and his uniform was rumpled; blood staining the yellow facings of his coat. Somewhere, back in the woods, he’d lost his shako.
“There was a time when I would’ve agreed with you,” Chack said softly in the brief quiet imposed on the division artillery by the necessity of reloading. “My people long believed that to kill
anyone
was tantamount to murder, aside from the very rare duel. But Grik are not people; they’re brutal animals—and no one would call killing
them
murder. In self-defense, we killed some of the Jaaps that aided them, and I admit I felt . . . unhappy about that. But still, it wasn’t murder.” Another stream of mortars thumped into the sky, and he looked at the lieutenant. “And the Doms started this war with as clear a case of murder as I’ve ever seen one species commit against itself. Perhaps war distorts perceptions—I’m rather new at it myself, you know—but is it murder to kill a murderer? I think not. It has more the feel of justice to me.”
The lieutenant watched the mortars erupt among the enemy again. “But those are only soldiers, men like me. They follow orders. Their leaders are the murderers.”
“Do you really think so? Would you have obeyed orders to kill civilians? Innocent, noncombatant females and their younglings?”
“Of course not!”
“Then there you have the difference, Lieuten-aant. Those we kill are ‘only soldiers,’ but they protect and do the bidding of their murderous masters. While the masters may be chiefly to blame, their soldiers—their tools—must be destroyed.” Chack shook his head. “To kill them is not murder; it is war.” He cocked his head. “And it is a
good
war. I feel . . . a sense of righteous vengeance, a desire to punish them for what they’ve done—and for my troops they’ve killed today. Do you not feel it? To fight a war without that . . . sense . . . must be a terrible thing. Perhaps
that
is what makes a murderer?”
“I feel it,” replied the lieutenant, “but I do pity them.”
“As do I. As must anyone who desires to remain a person.” Chack paused. “Where is your captain?”
“Killed, sir. In the charge against the breastworks in the forest.”
“Then you must take his place,” Major Jindal said, rejoining the group. He turned to Chack. “The companies on the right have extended the line and made contact with Major Blair’s command at last. There is . . . confusion there, but I believe all will be well. The enemy already seems to be reacting to our presence here, and a courier from the major indicated he may move more quickly than expected to take advantage.”
Chack had suddenly removed his battered old helmet to listen carefully for a moment, ears erect and alert. Jindal had no idea what he could possibly hear over the pounding guns and mortars nearby, but Blas-Ma-Ar was listening too.
“Assemble your companies,” Chack instructed the lieutenant, “if you think they have another charge in them.”
“They do, sir.”
“Very well. It would seem Major Jindal is correct. Blair is stirring! The division will soon advance!”
Blair unleashed his own mortars then, weapons no Dominion troops had faced until earlier that day. He’d been saving them sincehe arrived— unless he’d had no choice—until this very moment. White puff-balls appeared on the now-visible flanks of the mountains to the west, popping soundlessly, the smoke streaming back uphill toward Blair’s hidden force. The detonations became constant, creating a great, opaque cloud.
“The artillery will cease firing and prepare to advance with the infantry,” Chack bellowed, his order repeated down the line. “The mortars will continue to target the enemy position to cover our advance. When the signal to ‘cease firing mortars’ is given, their crews will advance with their weapons to the next line and commence firing on the enemy camp, or anywhere the enemy gathers!”
Jindal reached across, extending his hand to Chack. “God be with you, sir,” he said.
“May the Maker be with you!” Chack replied, grasping the offered hand. He looked at the lieutenant. “With you as well. Now see to your troops!”
The lieutenant saluted and galloped away, quickly followed by Jindal, who peeled off to the right.
“Now is an excellent time to dismount,” Blas said, grinning and hopping down from her horse. “Not only for the beast’s sake, but your own. Riding him in the open will make you both a target. Fear not,” she added. “They will be brought to us if we need them!”
Chack clumsily stepped down from the saddle, his legs feeling strange. “Good advice, Lieuten-aant . . . and may the Maker be with you as well!”
Most of the 2nd (largely Lemurian) and 5th Imperial Marine regiments—eight companies strong—crossed the wide fields of a grain Chack didn’t know amid a thunder of drums and behind a curtain of mortars. Some musket fire came from the enemy position, but it was ineffective across such a distance. There’d still been no more enemy artillery. Perhaps the guns were wrecked? The division advanced across a wide front with open files, four ranks deep. Furious firing erupted on the far right, where Jindal’s companies slashed unexpectedly into the enemy flank, just as Blair’s infantry struck the disorganized line head-on. The movement there was lost in the forest and beneath a growing fog of rising, swirling smoke. Ahead of Chack, there were still just the hasty breastworks.
They’d learned at the Dueling Grounds that the shield wall afforded some protection from Dom musketry, and they’d close files and use it here if need be. In the meantime, tightly massed troops only gave the enemy a better target. Three hundred yards separated the forces when Chack ordered the mortars to cease firing. The dirty white plumes were more impressive the closer they got, and by now they could even hear the screams amid the explosions. At two hundred yards, the barrage gradually lifted and for a time, all that was visible of the Dom position was a dark, hazy cloud drifting from left to right across their front. The sporadic musket fire gradually increased, forcing Chack to call his Lemurian Marines to the front rank to shield those behind. Balls struck their angled shields, ricocheting away with low, whirring moans. A man screamed and fell, just a few paces from Chack. Another fell without a sound other than that caused by a ball striking flesh. At one hundred yards, the Dom fire reached a fever pitch. They’d probably killed or wounded half the defenders, but there were more than enough left to take a terrible toll, and, despite the shields, men and ’Cats began falling with a wrenching regularity. Chack noticed the men around him literally
leaning
into the fire, as one would struggle against a gale, and he realized with surprise that he was doing it too.
They’d come far enough like this, hearded, unable to return fire. They’d pounded the Doms with their artillery and mortars, and now they were taking their turn. Much closer, and even the smoothbores of the enemy would be just as effective as the battered Krag Chack always carried. He unslung the weapon and affixed the long Springfield bayonet.
“Division!” he trilled in his best long-distance tone, only to hear the word race down the line, repeated half a dozen times. “Prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by an animalistic roar, and sixteen hundred glittering steel, two-foot spikes came down and leveled at the enemy.
“Remember to reserve your fire until you’re right on them!” an officer shouted from some distance away. “It seems to rattle the sods!”
“Charge!” screamed Chack.
He’d faced more Grik charges than he could remember, and no matter how often he endured and survived the primal force of the Ancient Enemy—its wicked swords, short, thrusting spears, claws and ravening jaws—he still felt a shadow of the visceral horror that struck him the very first time. Implacable and remorseless as the Grik were, however, they attacked as a mob, a “swarm” as even they described it. General Alden had long told Chack that, daunting as their charges were, nothing could be more terrifying—to people—than a disciplined bayonet charge, executed by thinking, committed,
determined
beings. Chack had faced Dom bayonets, but not yet in a charge. He’d seen the effect
his
charge had at the Dueling Grounds . . . and he saw it again now. As usual in such matters, General Alden knew what he was talking about. Of course, Chack had added his own little twist that seemed to shake the Doms as badly as anything else: the point-blank volley before the clash that the Doms, with their plug bayonets, never expected—yet—and couldn’t answer. The rippling blast was devastating, and delivered so close that even after their short sprint, the unsteady hands of gasping men and Lemurians simply couldn’t miss. Then, with another roar that all but shattered the remaining defenders, the bayonets went to work.
BOOK: Firestorm
12.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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