Men of War

by William R. Forstchen

  “They’ll charge as soon as the artillery stops firing! So get ready,” Ketswana roared, trying desperately to be heard. Few paid attention.

  Ketswana unholstered a revolver, opened the barrel, dropped the empty cylinder, and, reaching into his haversack, pulled out a loaded cylinder and clicked it in. He looked over at Hans.

  “Figured to save the last six rounds.”

  “Got one for myself,” Hans said, trying to smile as he patted his carbine.

  “So we have come full circle.” Ketswana sighed. “Until you gave me hope I always figured I’d die here.”

  Hans looked around at the terrified mob, remembering all too painfully the same sight of not much more than a year ago, when he had fought his way through this same building to gain the tunnel and escape, leaving thousands of others to die. Perhaps this was atonement.

  “At least we smashed this place,” Hans announced grimly. “Smashed the whole damn place from here to Huan and beyond. Took their port of Xi’an as well and smashed that up good and proper. It’ll be months, a year or more, before they can even think of recovering.”

  The artillery fire slackened and stopped. The cries from within the building hushed. Horrified, Hans saw that some of the Chin were already making their final choice, more than one turning a blade upon themselves or loved ones rather than endure the horror of the final butchering.

  The nargas sounded the charge.

  * * *

  “Damn Tamuka,” Jurak roared. “Damn him. I wanted the flank kept back, give them room to run, let them break.”

  Jurak stalked back and forth, angrily shouting at no one in particular. He knew he should have slain Tamuka. It was undoubtedly he who urged the charge forward that had cornered the Chin into a fight. He wondered if Zartak had somehow foreseen this, and wished that his old friend was here now.

  The losses had been appalling. Nearly half his warriors were down, most of them dead, swarmed under in the slaughter. Now word had come that Chin by the tens of thousands were coming up from beyond Huan and out of what was left of the burning city. In another hour they’d be into his flank, forcing him to disengage. He had already passed a signal all the way up to Nippon to bring down yet another two umens. But every train available had been used to bring the forces he now had. It would take at least two days, perhaps three, to bring up the reserves. As for the vast encampments to the south, he had dispatched a flyer to them. The females, cubs, and old ones had to be prepared to defend themselves, and that was his true concern. A hundred thousand yurts with nowhere to go farther south because of the mountains and jungles. If he broke off the fight, if he allowed those still dug in along the line a breathing space, they’d rally the hundreds of thousands of Chin still alive and it would be massacre if they turned south. He had to kill the core of resistance now … or lose the war.

  The wall of the factory finally collapsed under the incessant pounding. That, at least, was a relief. His battery commander before being killed by a sniper had already informed him that they were digging dangerously into their reserves of ammunition. A ragged cheer erupted from the warriors who had been ordered back, and they surged forward again, closing in for the kill. Soon it would be finished.

  Somehow word had spread into his army that it was the legendary Hans who was leading this fight. A Chin demigod, a legend returned to liberate. And something now told him that directly ahead was where Hans was cornered. He had already passed the word to his warriors that if Hans could indeed be captured and brought to him alive, the warrior would be promoted to command of a thousand.

  It wasn’t that he wanted Hans to die in agony as Tamuka muttered about. True, Hans would have to die, and the Chin had to see him die to crush their hope of resistance forever. And then the Chin would have to die as well.

  Hans would have to die, but first he wished to speak to him. Ha’ark had had that privilege a number of times. He had but observed him from a distance. If one was to understand Keane, Hans was the teacher. He was, as well, a consummate foe, a warrior worthy of respect for what he had accomplished, escaping, leading the flanking attack that finished the campaign in front of Roum, and now this.

  So he would feast him once and talk long into the night. Perhaps he would learn something from him, perhaps not, but still he wanted that moment, and then with the coming of the following dawn he would offer him the knife or the gun so that he could finish it with his own hand. Then, after the Chin were brought forth to see the body, he would bum and scatter his ashes to the wind out of respect.

  The charge reached the wall and within seconds gained the entryway, a desperate hand-to-hand struggle erupting in the piled-up rubble.

  And then he saw them.

  A commander of a thousand had just ridden up to ask for orders and his gaze, locked on Jurak, drifted, looking past him, eyes going wide. Raising a hand, he pointed.

  Jurak turned and looked. For a moment he refused to believe, and then the enemy aerosteamers began to fire.

  Hans, standing by Ketswana’s side, waited just inside the shattered wall. The first of the Bantag were up and over the barrier, crouched low against a hail of thrown bricks and chunks of iron ore. They slashed into the defenders, the killing frenzy upon them. Several, looking in his direction, shouted to each other and came on, as if recognizing him.

  Instinct took hold and he raised his carbine, aiming straight at the chest of the nearest one, and fired, dropping him. He heard a revolver let go, several rounds, dropping the next two.

  Ketswana was by his side.

  “Two rounds left,” his friend cried, looking at him questioningly.

  Hans smiled.

  * * *

  Skimming the ground, Jack Petracci bore straight in, aiming directly at the tall standard adorned with horse tails and human skulls. An umen commander at least, perhaps even Jurak, he thought grimly.

  There was no need to tell his copilot to open fire. Crouched behind the steam-powered Gatling in the nose, his copilot fired the forward weapon. A steady stream of bullets stitched into the low ridge, slicing through a mortar battery, walking up along the hillside, the standard-bearer collapsing.

  Continuing to fire, the gunner shifted aim, slashing into the open-order columns of Bantag infantry. As they raced past the first compound, which was blanketed with smoke and fire, he saw a charging column gaining a shattered wall. Looking down from above, he saw the thousands huddled inside and knew what was about to happen.

  Hoping that the other aerosteamers were not following too closely and would continue to press toward Huan, he banked his Eagle hard over, shouting to his top gunner to bring the column under fire as they turned.

  Swinging about to the south, he spared a quick glance back to the west. Twenty Hornets, flying nearly wingtip to wingtip, were coming straight in, joined as well by the four surviving Eagles. The arrival of the Hornets in Xi’an just before dawn had left him stunned. The Eagle he had sent back to Tyre had actually survived and touched down. The pilots of the Hornets clamored to be released, to go up and save Jack and Hans. The fact that they had actually made the audacious jump from Vincent’s position all the way to Xi’an, burning nearly every ounce of fuel they had to make it, had filed him with awe. As it was, nearly half of them had been lost in transit. Never had he known such pride in his command as he did at that moment.

  The twenty Hornets and four Eagles were all that was left of a force of over eighty that existed but a week before. From the looks of what was going on below, once they expended their ammunition there would be no place left to land. He might be able to get back to Xi’an, but with the increasing wind out of the west the Hornets were doomed. Yet still they came on, sweeping low over the ground.

  Behind them, half a dozen miles back, he could still see the eight trains. He had almost strafed them coming in until he spotted a makeshift flag of the Republic fluttering from each of the locomotives, and then realized that the thousands packed aboard the flatcars were in fact Chin. What they proposed to do was
beyond him.

  He bore straight in at the compound, top and forward gunners both firing continual blasts of Gatling rounds into the attacking column. Within seconds the enemy began to dissolve, looking up in panic, turning aside, and running.

  As he winged up over the compound he wagged his wings, hoping all below would see the stars of the Republic painted on the bottom of his ship. And in spite of the noise of battle, he could hear the cheers.

  Banking hard up to the left, he winged over sharply, turning to head straight toward the artillery batteries that had been pounding the makeshift fortress only minutes before. Gatling fire from a Hornet flying across his own path at a right angle slashed into the position, decimating the crews. As the Hornet passed he added his own fire into the balance. A caisson blew, and he winged over yet again to avoid the exploding mushroom cloud.

  He was behind the advance line of Hornets, who now that they were into the fight had poured on full throttle and were quickly surging ahead at nearly a mile a minute.

  Smoke poured out from underneath as twenty Gatlings fired, sweeping the Bantag lines, tearing them to shreds. The enemy quite simply broke apart from this unexpected pounding from above. Chin started to pour out from the beleaguered compounds, racing forward, a human wave of tens of thousands, moving like a swarm of locusts.

  He circled back around once more to check on the first compound. But the countercharge was already up and over the broken wall, some of the Chin were nearly into the Bantag artillery positions.

  And then he spotted him, a ragged guidon, several Zulus around him standing out in dark contrast to the surrounding Chin.

  And then he saw him fall.

  Jurak stood motionless as the burst of fire swept past him, knocking over his standard-bearer, and he wished at that instant that it would take him as well, ending this horrible burden forever.

  The rounds stitched past, clumps of sod kicked up in his face, then the machine passed. Another one soared by, skimming the ground so close he could look straight into the cab and see the human pilot.

  Around him was chaos. A mortar battery annihilated, a caisson erupting in a fireball. He could see his warriors falling back, not giving ground doggedly but running, frightened of the mob, the tens of thousands of Chin pouring out from their beleaguered positions sweeping all before them.

  Looking back to the west he saw the plumes of smoke, and for a brief instant there was a renewed flash of hope, but he knew in his heart that it had to be Chin coming up from Xi’an. If it had been his own warriors, the Yankee aerosteamers would have strafed them.

  At that instant he knew that he had lost a war.

  Warriors raced past him in panic, and press of the crowd forced his horse to turn. Suddenly his mount reared, screaming in pain. Never a trained horseman, he panicked, sawing on the reins rather than letting go and jumping off. The horse went down heavily on its side, pinning him.

  Cursing, he gasped for breath, trying to pull himself free and then was shocked by the explosion of pain from his broken ankle, which was twisted in the stirrup.

  Warriors continued to run past, not noticing him. Suddenly there was a shadow, and looking up he saw an emaciated Chin standing above him, holding a broken rifle tipped with a bayonet. The Chin gazed down at him, eyes wide with lust and hate. He raised the weapon up. Jurak looked straight at him, not resisting, at the moment not caring.

  “No!”

  A man, a black man, grabbed the Chin by the shoulder, pulling him back.

  * * *

  Jack’s aerosteamer had barely rolled to a stop next to the wreckage of the factory compound when he was already out. He had passed over once more to check, and what he had seen convinced him something was wrong and caused him to venture the landing. Running across the field he made his way through the press of advancing Chin.

  He spotted Ketswana, kneeling by the side of an artillery piece, and he pushed his way forward.

  They had Hans sitting up, jacket torn open. No blood, but his features were deathly pale, beads of cold sweat on his forehead. Ketswana, obviously frightened, was holding his hands.

  Jack burst through the crowd, cursing at them to move aside. He knelt by Ketswana’s side and to his relief saw that Hans’s eyes were open, though dull.

  “What happened?” Jack cried.

  “We thought it was finished,” Ketswana whispered, “I had two rounds left, I was saving one for him, one for me, and then you soared over us. Never have I seen him smile like that, and laugh, the first time in so long he laughed from the depths of his soul.

  “We followed the charge out. He had just spotted Jurak, pointing him out, when suddenly he stopped, grasping his chest and fell.”

  Ketswana lowered his head, a sob wracking him.

  “Still here, my friend,” Hans whispered.

  Hans stirred, life coming back into his eyes.

  “Jack, that you?” he spoke in English, the words slightly slurred.

  “Here, Hans. I couldn’t leave you out here. A lot’s happened, Hans. Word reached Tyre last night that the government wanted an armistice. The damn stupid Hornet pilots decided on their own to fuel up and see if they could reach Xi’an. They touched down just after dawn. I was getting set to come back here anyhow, and they wanted to come along.”

  “You broke them with that.”

  “No, you did. We just mopped up.”

  Hans chuckled softly, then was silent for a moment, obviously wracked by another seizure of pain.

  “Damn, hurts worse than getting shot.”

  “What’s wrong, Hans?”

  “I think the old heart finally decided to give it up.”

  Jack tried to force a smile.

  “Hell, if that’s all it is, we’ll have you up and around in no time.”

  Hans looked up at him, his silent gaze frightening Jack.

  There was a stir behind Jack, a confusion of angry voices.

  Ketswana stood up to see what was going on, then barked out a sharp command. Jack saw several of Ketswana’s men dragging a Bantag toward them. He instantly suspected who he was, the gold trim to the uniform, the gilting on the bent horns of the war helmet.

  “Hans, is that him?”

  Hans stirred again.

  “You got him?”

  “I think so.”

  “Help me up. Don’t let him see me like this.”

  Ketswana grabbed several Chin, placing them around Hans, blocking the view.

  Jack was down by his side.

  “You need rest. Don’t move.”

  Hans smiled.

  “Son, I’ve been in this war for how long now? I’m not going to miss the final act. Now button up my jacket for me.”

  Jack didn’t move for a moment.

  “Do it now, son,” he gasped through clenched teeth.

  Jack let his hand rest on the narrow chest. It was the chest of an old man who had been filled with unstoppable strength in his youth but was now sunken, flesh sagging, as if ready to begin the final breaking away. The skin felt cold, clammy, and though not a doctor, he could tell there was something wrong with the heart fluttering beneath the ribs.

  “All right,” he finally whispered, and he buttoned the jacket, the buttons still the old eagles from his Union Army uniform,, the gilding long since polished off.

  Hans nodded his thanks.

  “Now help me up.”

  Jack took him by the arm and there was a gasp of pain as Hans stood. He swayed uneasily for a moment, took a deep breath, and it seemed as if by sheer strength of will the heart continued to beat.

  He slowly brushed the dirt off his jacket and stepped out of the surrounding circle. Jack wanted to stay by his side, to help him walk, but Ketswana held him back.

  He fought to block out the pain, the strange, empty sensation that part of him was floating away. He focused on the warrior before him, leaning awkwardly against the wheel of an artillery caisson. Though he had only seen him from a distance, Sergeant Major Hans Schuder knew he was fac
ing Jurak, Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde.

  He approached slowly, warily. Except in the heat of combat, the last time he had been this close to a horde rider he had still been a slave, and he was ashamed that the old instinct almost took hold, to lower his head and avert his eyes until directly spoken to.

  He maintained eye contact. Jurak shifted slightly, and there was a slight grimace of pain.

  “Are you wounded?” Hans asked, speaking again in the tongue of the Bantag, the mere act of it sending a chill through him as he carefully sorted out the words.

  Jurak said something in reply, a bit too quickly, and Hans shook his head, a gesture they used as well.

  Jurak spoke again, more slowly.

  “The ankle is broken; it is nothing. You look wounded as well.”

  Hans paused for a moment on the mental translation, startled to realize that in the language of the Horde, Jurak had used the personal form of you, used only when addressing another of the same race, rather than the contemptible kagsa, their form of the word you for speaking to cattle.

  It took him a moment to regain his poise from that. The pain in his chest was still there, coursing down his arms; he forced the recognition of it away.

  “Knocked down by an explosion. It is nothing,” he lied.

  Jurak stared at him and Hans wondered if the ability to see into the thoughts of others was with this one. He realized he had to be careful, to stay focused.

  “Though enemies, we must talk,” Hans announced.

  He felt light-headed, knew that Jurak was in pain as well. Finally, he motioned to the ground. Jurak nodded and, with leg extended, sat down, Hans making it a point of not waiting to be invited to sit as well.

  “You’ve lost,” Hans said.

  “Today yes, but not tomorrow. I have two more umens arriving by train even now.”

  He waited, forming his words carefully so as to not imply that Jurak was lying and therefore automatically dishonorable.

  “My eyes see differently,” he finally said.