Rally Cry (51 page)

Tula
nodded his agreement and gave the orders, sending his couriers galloping out.

Now they will see our surprise, Muzta thought grimly. Though he hated to pollute his people with the instruments of the cattle, which took away all heroism, there was nothing else to be done.

"Bring him over here!" Kathleen cried
,
horrified at what she was seeing.

An attendant threw a bucket of water across the rough-hewn table, and the casualty was laid down.

Weakly Kal opened his eyes to look at her.

"This mouse forgot to duck. I must talk to O'Donald about his aim," the peasant said, trying vainly to smile.

"Oh Kal, Kal," she whispered, trying to force back her tears.

She had studied with Emil for months preparing for this day. Why the hell wasn't he here? Arrow wounds, cuts, and stabs she could patch, but this? She had helped Emil after the first round of battles, but now for the first time she would have to do it on her own.

A young Suzdalian girl came up to Kal's side and gentry tried to cut his tunic off. He tried to stifle his screams as the blood-caked garment was peeled off the wounds. Working quickly, the girl wiped the blood off the mangled arm.

Turning away, Kathleen stuck her hands into a fresh bowl of tincture of lime, rushing to scrub.

What was this, the fiftieth, the hundredth casualty today?

A thunderclap roar echoed through the room, the wounded inside stirring nervously and looking about with fear. From outside the door she could see a building collapsing in flames.

Don't think about it, she kept trying to tell herself. Don't be afraid.

She motioned to the boiling kettle. An attendant pulled a hot pincer out of the fire, and using it to reach into the kettle, fished out the instruments, laying them on a freshly boiled rag.

Nerving herself, she came up to Kal's side.

"It'll hurt," she whispered soothingly.

Kal grimaced and closed his eyes. She already knew what would have to be done, looking at the mangled limb, but hoping against hope, she slipped her finger into the wound. Arching his back, Kal let out a muffled scream as her finger, probing inward, felt nothing but jagged splinters of bone.

Gently she pulled her hand back.

"You know what I have to do?" Kathleen whispered.

Wide-eyed, the peasant merely nodded.

"We still have something to put you to sleep while I work," Kathleen said, motioning to her assistant.

"Do you have enough for everyone?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, lying.

"I think for once I'll take advantage of my rank and take the special treatment," the peasant whispered.

"Go to sleep now," Kathleen replied, her voice husky.

The attendant stepped forward with the paper cone and started to place it over Kal's face.

"Now your colonel and I can buy our gloves together," Kal whispered, trying to force a laugh even as he drifted off into blessed oblivion.

"Dear God, please let me save this man," she said, openly making the sign of the cross for the first time in years.

Bending over, she started to cut.

Wearily Andrew leaned against the parapet, trying to force down a cup of scalding tea brought to him by a young acolyte. The entire outer ring of the city seemed wreathed in flames, covered with a roiling blanket of smoke, punctuated by unceasing explosions, and roaring fires now consuming most of what was left of the
new city.

"Can we stop them?" Casmar asked nervously, looking out at the madness.

"We at least are making them pay for their dinner," Andrew said grimly.

Mitchell, sweat streaking his face in spite of the cold, tore off another sheet of paper and handed it to Andrew.

Andrew turned and looked up at the balloon hanging several hundred feet above him. Picking up his field glasses, he tried to see through the smoke in the direction Petracci had indicated to him.

A gust of wind came out of the west, and for a moment, as if a curtain were being drawn back, the smoke parted.

Andrew put down his glasses and looked over at Mitchell.

"Send word down to
Houston to prepare to move the rest of the reserves to the northeast bastion on my command. Contact the south bastion and tell them to move the armor train northward and be quick about it. Tell Hans we're bringing up everything we've got."

Andrew handed the field glasses over to Casmar, who gasped in disbelief.

"This is the test," Andrew said coldly, taking the glasses back.

Since dawn the attack had been raging all along the line. Half a dozen breaches had been cut, the latest and worst down by the south wall, where he had finally been forced to commit half his reserves, which were just now sealing the breach.

And now, as the sun hung low in the western sky, the
enemy were
throwing their major blow, the block of fifty thousand warriors who had stood motionless throughout the day coming now like an arrow point straight at the northeast bastion.

Muzta Qar Qarth pulled his mount over to the side, letting the first lines of the advancing host march past. A hundred nargas were about him, sounding their deep-throated
call,
a hundred drummers of doom swung their mallets, setting up a thundering roar that put one's hair on edge.

"Muzta, Muzta,
Muzta
!" the Olkta roared, as they climbed up over the entrenchments and started forward at the double,
Tula in the lead. Thousands of mounted archers swung out to either side, bending their bows, aiming heavenward, launching their deadly flights, and then yet another and another.

"May I still ride with you, my Qarth?"

Muzta turned to see Qubata come up by his side, wearing the simple armor of an ordinary warrior, a battered scabbard hanging at his side.

Muzta was silent for a moment.

"You should be with the old ones," he said quietly.

Qubata tried to force a smile.

"You would not heed my warning," Qubata said evenly, "and thus
Tula has given you this," and he pointed out across the bloody field of action.

"But you are still my Qar Qarth, the horde are still my people, a place of battle still my choice for where I wish to die. Besides, I heard my little experiment was about to be used, and I wished to see it."

"Go back," Muzta said evenly.

Qubata shook his head.

The briefest of smiles crossed Muzta's features.

"Let us go see what these creatures you now call men are made of," the Qar Qarth said quietly, and bringing his mount around, he fell in alongside the advancing ranks.

"Hold your fire!" Hans shouted, leaping up onto the battlement walls, oblivious to the rain of arrows slashing past.

Their reserves were nearly depleted. Nearly ten hours of continual fighting had consumed ammunition at a fearful rate.

The first ranks were coming in at the charge. Crouched low, Hans held his carbine up high, and then pointed it straight down.

A thousand muskets and a dozen artillery pieces snapped out.

Instantly the view disappeared in clouds of billowing smoke. From out of the shadows he saw the enemy swarming forward, leaping into the moat, scrambling up the sides.

Jumping back into the protection of the bastion, Hans looked around at his battle-weary men. They were stretched to the limit. They had to break this attack quickly or break themselves.

Along a front of four hundred yards, the concentrated wave hit, pushing relentlessly forward. Within minutes he could see shadowy forms gaining the top of the breastworks, tumbling over as the defenders fired
wildly,
and then yet more would leap to fill the gaps.

Never in all his years had he seen such fury in attack. Not even at
Antietam when six times the rebs had charged across the cornfield, their casualties stretched out in rows from the devastating volleys that greeted them.

"Ammunition is almost out!" an aide shouted, pointing back to the magazine, where men were hurriedly pulling out boxes laden with cartridges and packed artillery rounds.

Looking back over the wall, he saw something that left him speechless.

From out of the Tugar formation a double line came running forward, their long legs bounding in ten-foot strides. Leaping into the moat, they scrambled up the wall, just south of the bastion, shouldering aside the warriors in front of them. In their hands they carried muskets.

They've figured out how to use them, Hans thought, feeling sick with the shock of what was unfolding.

As one the enemy gained the top of the wall. Hundreds of muskets were lowered, pointing straight down at the defenders, who were still in double line, grimly holding on.

A sheet of fire washed out from the Tugar line. A hundred or more casualties tumbled back from the breastworks. In an instant the regiment holding the line broke and started to run at the sight of the Tugars who now bore weapons like their own.

A storm of ax-wielding warriors came over the wall, charging through the Tugar musketmen, who clumsily reloaded their pieces.

Several artillery pieces in the bastion swept them with canister, knocking down dozens, but still they held. Another volley slashed out, ripping over the heads of the ax warriors sliding down inside the breastworks, tearing gaping holes in the Novrodian regiment which was attempting to regroup. The line broke apart from the blow, and, panic-stricken, headed for the rear.

The militia who had surged up to plug the hole stood dumbfounded at the sight before them, and with wild cries of consternation started to flee.

Hans watched grim-faced as within seconds a hole two hundred yards wide was cleaved into his position.

"The other side too," someone shouted, and racing down the bastion line, Hans came up to the northwest corner. Down by the river road he saw another hole, even bigger than the first, with Tugar musketmen swinging outward, their fire punching the defenders back.

From over by the river the
Ogunquit
was pouring out broadside after broadside into the flank of the charge, but still the enemy pushed in regardless of loss.

Hans walked over to the telegrapher.

"Signal back to headquarters," he said quietly. "Low on ammunition, am abandoning the northeast bastion, suggest entire outer line be evacuated."

Hans turned away from the wide-eyed signaler and looked around at his staff.

"Spike the guns, and let's get the hell out of here before it's too late."

Horrified, O'Donald leaped atop the armored car for a better view as the train, backing up the track, came to a halt.

From the outer breastworks to the inner wall, the Tugars were swarming in by the thousands. There was no hope of going forward, as thousands of panic-stricken men streamed past, pushing in a giant seething mass through the eastern gate by his side to reach the supposed safety of the inner city.

O'Donald ripped open the hatch and stuck his head into the car.

"Tear open the sides and get the guns out of here," he screamed.

Jumping down, O'Donald ran down the length of the car, yanking off the bolts that held the collapsible side in place. The men inside pushed
outward,
and the side of the car dropped out.

Grabbing hold of ropes, the gun crew swarmed out, pulling on the Napoleons. The pieces were edged out and clattered down the car side, which was now a ramp.

The men struggled to control the one-ton monsters which crashed into the mob streaming past, crushing a number of refugees. No one stopped to help the fallen in the mad flight.

Racing past the
Bangor
,
O'Donald prepared to climb atop the other armored car. But he saw it was useless to try—the mob was pressing in too tight around the train.

"Spike the guns and get the hell out!" O'Donald shouted to the Suzdalian crew, who abandoned their weapons and, falling in with the Napoleon crews, started to maneuver the weapons to safety on the other side of the eastern gate.

"Malady, let's get the hell out of here!" O'Donald shouted, climbing back into the cab.

"Just let me shut her down," Malady shouted. "I'll be along in a minute."

O'Donald grabbed hold of his hand.

"Don't do anything stupid," the artilleryman said, staring straight into the burly engineer's eyes.

"Who, me?
Get the hell out of here, you dumb Irishman."

Sensing something, O'Donald pulled the revolver out of his holster, tossed it over, and disappeared into the swirling retreat.

Grabbing a heavy wrench, Malady jumped from the cab and rushed to the front of the train. Climbing onto the coupling he disconnected the engine from the forward car, which had held the heavy Napoleons. Then he climbed atop the engine and swung the wrench down, smashing the steam safety valve into a mass of twisted metal.