Terrible Swift Sword (25 page)

"One-oh-eight is going down," Ingrao said quietly, pointing to the fort. A half-mile away the regimental flag of the Novrodian Regiment in the bastion fluttered down from the pole. Tiny forms appeared on the south side of the bastion, sliding down the ramparts and then breaking into a run, towering forms appearing behind them, bodies tumbling over.

Across the broad, open front, covered with scattered clumps of trees, the Merki umen continued on, advancing at a steady pace.

Hans swung up on his mount, slinging his carbine into its scabbard, his staff mounting as well. The command guidon drifted up alongside of him. He looked over at the tow-headed Rus boy carrying it.

"Scared, son?"

The boy gulped and shook his head.

"Well, I sure the hell am," Hans whispered.

"Gregory!"

"Here, sir." The young staff officer edged his mount in alongside of Hans.

"Get down to the far right of the line, and keep it anchored on the far side of the clearing. Now move it!"

He reached over and slapped the rump of the boy's horse. Grinning as he saluted, Gregory galloped off.

Hans again focused his attention forward.

The Merki advance halted for a moment, and he scanned the enemy line. They were shaking their columns out, forming into an attack front several ranks deep.

Ingrao, walking amongst his batteries, turned to judge the range.

"Batteries, load case shot. Four-second fuses, range eight hundred yards!"

A distant chanting started, an eerie, minor-keyed cry. It rose and fell, sending a shiver down Hans' spine. The warriors swayed back and forth and the chant grew in volume, counterpointed by the rhythmic stamping of their feet, which rumbled across the field.

"Batteries, fire!"

Twenty-four guns kicked back, and seconds later a scattering of shell bursts blossomed above the enemy line, bodies dropping.

The chant rose ever higher in volume.

"Reload case shot, same fuses!"

Four horse-mounted warriors appeared before the enemy line and stood tall in their stirrups, the leader raising his scimitar, the blade flashing. The three riders behind him lifted red standards in the air, and then held them out parallel to the ground.

As if guided by a single hand, the Merki battle front started forward.

"Batteries, fire!"

More bodies went down.

"Reload case shot, three-second fuses!"

The thunder of the chant started to resolve into a single word.

"Vushka, Vushka!"

Hans felt his throat tighten. Cartha intelligence had spoken of the "Vushka Hush," the elite guard of the Merki Horde. Was that what he was facing now?

"Batteries, fire!"

The standard-bearers raised their pennants, waving them in a circle, and then held them back out at a forty-five-degree angle. The advancing line broke into a slow run.

"Reload! Case shot, two-second fuses!"

"Vushka, Vushka!"

Hans pulled out a plug of tobacco and bit off a chew. His jaw working furiously, he offered the plug to Charlie, who took a bite and tossed it back up to the sergeant major.

"Batteries, fire!"

Gaping rents opened in the enemy line, but were quickly filled as the enemy formation dressed to the right.

"Professionals," Charlie snapped, looking up at Hans. "They know what they're doing, as good as reb infantry. These ain't no Tugars."

The standard-bearers stood up tall in their saddles, holding the pennants aloft, swinging them in a circle and then lifting them vertically.

"Vushka Hush da gu Merki!"

The Merki line broke into a running charge yet held in a perfectly straight line, still moving in step, each stride taking up five yards. The thunder of their advance was like the roaring of the ocean breaking on a rock-bound shore.

"Batteries, load with canister!"

Hans nudged his horse, moving down the line.

"Steady, boys, hold steady!"

The batteries kicked off tin loads of canister, two thousand iron balls cycling down range, dirt flying up, bodies tumbling over, hoarse screams cutting the air.

"Batteries, independent fire at will with canister!"

"Get ready!"

Twenty-five hundred rifles were raised up to the poised position.

"Vushka, Vushka!"

Hans looked over at the guidon-bearer. The boy was staring straight at the advancing charge, eyes wide with terror, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Hans leaned over, shooting a spray of juice to the ground. He unslung his carbine, then cocked back the hammer.

"Set range at three hundred yards!"

The long line of the infantry levered their rear sights up.

"Take aim!"

There was the reassuring sound of hands slapping barrels, the rattle of equipment, burnished steel barrels flickering in the drizzle as they raised up, and then lowered, bayonet-tipped weapons pointed straight down-range.

"First rank only!"

"Vushka!"

"Fire!"

A sheet of fire and smoke exploded out. The enemy line staggered, dozens falling, and without hesitation continued in at a run.

Ramrods snaked out and arms rose rhythmically, slamming cartridges home.

"Second rank, fire!"

Another volley ripped down the line, more bodies falling.

"Range, two hundred yards."

Hans watched in silence. The storm was advancing, and it seemed unstoppable. He could sense the growing fear, the tension coiling.

"First rank, fire!"

The Merki line staggered, as if it had hit a wall. The batteries to his left continued to thump out their deadly loads, canister tearing up swaths of dirt, smashing into bodies. The line slowed and then picked up, continuing on.

"Aim low, boys!" Hans shouted, unable to contain himself, the old instinct of the sergeant major coming back. He saw a boy in the line with sights still set at three hundred yards, and he wanted to unsaddle and go up and grab the gun away.

"I'm a general, goddammit," he mumbled to himself.

The charge pushed in.

"Vushka, Vushka!"

"Second rank, fire!"

This one, at one hundred yards, cut in with devastating effect, rippling the line, each body going down in a tangle with the warrior behind, alongside. Hundreds dropped.

"Independent fire at will!"

Miraculously, the Vushka commander and one of his pennant-bearers was still up, galloping down the line, waving his sword, the pennant dipping, pointing straight back at the Vushka line.

The charge stopped, and Hans watched in silence as thousands of bows were raised.

A steady patter of rifle fire increased to a crescendo, Merki dropping. Stirring, Hans drew a bead on the Vushka commander and squeezed the trigger of his carbine. The commander's horse reared up, nearly going over, and then collapsed.

"Eyes are getting bad," Hans growled, as he cocked open his Sharps and slid another round in.

The sky suddenly turned dark, followed an instant later by a whistling hail of bolts. Men collapsed, staggering backward from the impact. High shrieks rent the air; in an instant it seemed as if a forest of four-foot bolts had sprung up from the ground by the thousands.

Another cloud rose up, rising far higher, this one emerging from behind the charging line.

A second rank behind the first, Hans realized; they've got one hell of a lot more than I thought.

The cloud appeared to hover in midair, then came roaring down. The aim had been slightly long, and the majority of bolts struck forty or more yards behind.

At seventy-five yards the deadly firefight was traded out. The smoke eddied upward in coiling spirals, the enemy was all but invisible, the field guns kicked back and tore up the turf. Wounded horses screamed, cannoneers cut the tormented beasts from the traces of cassions, a continual stream of wounded poured to the rear.

Another shower of death rose up from the rear, hovering and then racing down, this time bracketing the volley line. Heavy bolts pinned men to the ground.

Hans rode up and down the line, gauging his strength, watching the men. These were veteran regiments, formed in the first Tugar War, armed with the newest Springfield rifles. Their pride showed— they were unwilling to break, knowing that to run now was certain death.

Holes were opening in the line. File-closers strung the double rank into a single row at points, while junior officers on the flank of each of the five regiments made sure that a dangerous gap didn't open between two units.

Light four-pound guns, two to each regiment, thumped away, their charges sounding almost tinny compared to the deep-throated roar of the twelve-pound Napoleons.

The fire forward suddenly died away. Standing tall in his stirrups, Hans looked forward through the smoke. A ragged cheer started to go up, and as the smoke dissipated he saw the enemy falling back, leaving a straight line of dead piled up not fifty yards away.

"General Schuder!"

Hans turned to see a courier galloping up from the rear, riding over toward Ingrao's batteries.

Hans looked around and saw that his guidon was missing. On the ground nearby the young boy lay spread-eagled, a four-foot arrow driven through his chest, the standard still clutched in his hands.

Hans motioned to one of his aides to get the messenger.

"Here they come again!"

From out of the retreating line a second formation started to surge forward at a run.

"Vushka, Vushka!"

"Prepare for volley! Fire at one hundred yards! First rank, present!"

The messenger came galloping over.

"From General Kindred, sir," the messenger shouted, reining his mount in alongside Hans.

He felt his heart knotting, a brief flutter. Again the shooting pain, but he forced it away. "Not now, don't trouble me now," he whispered to himself.

"The Merki, the Horde, sir, coming along the edge of the woods!"

"How many?"

The boy looked at him wide-eyed.

Hans saw that he was clutching a sheet of paper, and he grabbed it.

" 'Hans. A solid block of Merki, miles deep, advancing in from the west, along the edge of the woods. Looks like entire Horde. Will hit within the hour, near Bastion 90. Doubt if we can hold. Kindred.' "

"Fire!"

His mount shied from the explosion. He looked back at the advancing line. This time they were coming straight on, scimitars raised, bows slung over their shoulders.

"Independent fire at will!"

It was going to be hand-to-hand. The volley had torn gaping holes but the Merki pressed on, leaping over the casualties. Their formation started to disintegrate as the bravest, and fleetest, surged forward, swords flashing.

"Load double canister!"

Hans looked back up the line.
Murphy.

"Where's Murphy?"

"Dead, sir." An orderly pointed to where the division commander lay on the ground, several of his staff kneeling around him.

Hans spurred his mount around, galloping back toward the massed battery.

"Ingrao."

The short, soft-spoken artilleryman looked up.

"Fire when they're on top of us!" Ingrao roared, then ran up to Hans's side.

"You're in command here, Charlie. Murphy
's
dead. Send a courier down to Gregory, tell him to take control of the division," Hans shouted. "You've got to hold, but get ready to pull out if ordered!"

Without bothering to return a salute he started to wheel his mount around, then looked back.

The wall came crashing in. The battery fired atless than ten yards, the charge in front of the guns disintegrating. Merki bodies, heads, limbs, were lifted into the air, the few survivors staggering forward, gunners raising revolvers and firing at point-blank range.

A loud, thudding crash of steel on steel, and steel on flesh, snapped down the line of infantry, which in places staggered and broke clean open. Many of the first wave of Merki were rushing in without slowing, impaling themselves on poised bayonets, their weight crashing down the defenders. Those following them leapt in, swords flashing.

"Guidon!"

"Here, sir."

Another boy had filled the place of the last. He had not known the other, and the body was nameless now.

"Follow me, boy!" He kicked his mount into a gallop and raced across the field, back to where his command train waited on the siding.

"As planned," Vuka announced, laughing with triumph as he reined his mount in and signaled for a servant to bring a fresh horse up for the charge into battle.

Tamuka reined in beside him, pushing his helmet back to wipe the sweat from his brow. Another servant of the Zan Qarth tossed over a water sack and, raising it, Tamuka washed the dryness from his mouth.

Uncasing one of the precious far-seeing glasses, Tamuka scanned the enemy position on the other side of the stream. The battlements looked nearly defenseless, exactly as the airship hovering above the cattle line had announced. The ship was gone now, driven back southward by the rising storm rolling in from the north. A near thing—a couple of hours difference, and the signal might not have gotten through to the Vushka. The ancestors were watching, holding the weather back, and he mumbled a silent prayer of thanks.

The cattle had fallen for the bait, swinging north to engage the Vushka. It would take some loses getting across, to be certain, but the line was as thin as a rotting eggshell. One strong push and they would crash through, able then to wheel to the south and slice into the rear of the enemy fortress line.

The vast line of the advancing Horde, which had been moving in a long column, started to shake out into formation, ready to present a front a full umen across for the charge, sweeping in two miles' wide, the column of umens behind them coming forward to exploit the breach.

Tamuka tossed the water sack over to Vuka. who was astride his fresh mount. The Zan Qarth leaned back, water cascading down his throat and running down his armor.

Tamuka said nothing. Water was life, the gift of Narg to give life to the world. Even if a river was but a mile away it was improper to waste it.

Vuka unsheathed his blade. He made a quick turn of his mount, then bowed to the west in salute to his sires, beckoning them to witness what he would accomplish.