Jindal gulped and felt a chill. A skirmish? 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,” 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 since he 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, he decided, 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.
Despite Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s best attempts to stop him, Chack went in with the rest of them. He never fired the old Krag; the ammunition in its magazine was the “real stuff,” not the hard-cast black powder reloads. It was precious for its long-range accuracy and utter reliability, despite its age. He went in with the bayonet just like his Marines and fought with a savagery that frankly unnerved a few Imperials, and an economical proficiency and precision that came only with the hard experience he’d gained. Through it all, his diminutive female lieutenant and apparently self-appointed “protector” fought alongside him with similar competence and equal vigor. That would later unnerve some of Chack’s Imperials even more, when they had time to reflect on various things, such as their own attitude toward women—and the kind of combat that had taught Chack and Blas, and all the Lemurians, their skill. But more than that, if there’d been present any Imperial Marines who, despite the reputation Chack had gained at the Dueling Grounds, still clung to any concern or discontented notion that they were commanded by an “ape” or “wog,” it vanished in the swirling smoke and bloody ground north of Waterford, New Ireland, that day.
The sky was purple, with long bloody streaks, when Major Blair found Chack in a large Dominion tent that was spared the firestorm that engulfed most of the enemy encampment when the mortars turned their wrath there. As always, Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar stood beside the brindled Lemurian while he sat on a bench, his furry torso bare, stoically enduring the stitches “Doc-Selass-Fris-Ar” applied to the dark, shaved skin over his left shoulder blade. Other wounded were in the tent, being tended by more “corps-’Cats” as even they’d begun calling themselves, and Chack seemed annoyed that Selass was bothering with him when others needed her attention more. In the middle distance, at the south edge of town, mortars still burst with their distinctive crackling thuds, and all the artillery of two divisions now thundered continuously, pulverizing the final works of the enemy along the shore of Lake Shannon.
“I’m heartily glad to find you in one piece, my friend,” Blair said with a touch of reproach. “Or at least fit to be sewn back into one,” he added.
Chack snorted. “You chastise me, when you creep along like a freshly hatched grawfish in the mud!” Chack pointed at Blair’s leg. “You still limp from the wound you had at the Dueling Grounds! You hid that before.”
Blair chuckled and patted his leg. “Actually, this is new. Courtesy of a Dom musket butt.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not entirely new, then. The bugger hit me in the same blasted spot!”
“Do you need someone to look at it?” Selass snapped, her large eyes flashing.
Blair was taken aback, and wondered why she was so angry. Then it hit him. He suddenly remembered the rumors that she and Chack had a “history” of some sort; a history perhaps aggravated by her proximity, continued devotion, and Chack’s betrothal to the distant “General” Safir Maraan.
“Um, no, not at all. It’s just a slight ache.”
“Then, as soon as I’m finished with this foolish person, you can take him off somewhere where he can hurt himself yet again—and I can resume treating others!”
“I just came here to check on the wounded. I never asked . . .” Chack began.
“Be silent!” Selass ordered. “If you speak again . . . I will sew your arms together behind your back!”
Chack said nothing more until Selass clipped the thread and daubed the wound with the purplish polta paste that would prevent infection. Even then, he didn’t speak while he snatched his bloody armor from a hook and gathered his weapons. Only once he, Blas, and Blair were outside the tent and among his and Blair’s waiting staffs—and the horses!—did he mutter, “I have always been respectful to that . . . spiky female. I can’t imagine why she hates me so.” Blas turned her head to hide the blinking she
couldn’t stop, but her tail twitched erratically. “What?” Chack demanded angrily.
“Nothing, Major,” Blas replied, hiding her eyes under the rim of her helmet. “I’m just a lowly Marine. Selass-Fris-Ar is almost royalty, as our Imperial allies reckon such things. Her father is the great Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, and ahd-mi-raal of First Fleet! Who am I to grasp the thoughts of one such as she?”
Chack growled with frustration, but went to his horse and patted the animal affectionately. He turned to Blair. “Come, it is time to finish this. The enemy here cannot escape and can no longer harm us.” He remembered the sincere, confused sentiments of an Imperial lieutenant he’d last seen lying facedown in the bloody mud at the bottom of a Dom trench. “Perhaps we are doing murder now,” he murmured, swinging stiffly into the saddle. Then his voice grew louder. “We must at least offer them surrender.”
“Pity for the enemy?” Blair asked strangely as he and the others mounted as well. “This from the hero of the Dueling Grounds who was physically dragged from the fighting?”
Chack sighed. “Of course I pity them. Hard as it may be to remember at times, the Doms are people. They’re not born evil. They do evil because they’re taught to, forced to, bred to. . . .” Suddenly, Chack felt heat at the back of his neck, coursing into his head—along with a staggering revelation. “Bred to evil,” he said again, a picture of Lawrence, cheerfully—and relentlessly—guarding Princess Rebecca from any possible harm springing to his mind. Lawrence wasn’t Grik . . . but he was as much like them as Imperials were to Doms—or the remnants of the New Britain Company. Lawrence was no more different from the Grik than the evil Rasik-Alcas had been from Lord Rolak, his beloved Safir, or all the good People he knew. “Maker above,” he whispered, “let us hurry and see if the enemy will let us save them.”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 30
