by David Drake
He spun the rifle in his hands into a blurring circle; the bayonet was fixed, but with the sheath wired on to the blade. The three big men lying wheezing or moaning on the ground before the stocky Descotter had been holding similar weapons. The company behind them were standing at ease in double line with their rifles sloped. None of them looked very enthusiastic about serving as an object lesson. . . .
“Ten-’hut!” the sergeant said. The men were stripped to their baggy maroon pants, web-belts and boots; he was wearing in addition the blue sash, sleeveless gray cotton shirt and the orange-black checked neckerchief of the 5th Descott. “Now, we’uns will learn how to use the fukkin’ baynit, won’t we?”
“YES SERGEANT!” they screamed.
“Right. Now, yer feints to the eyes loik this, then gits ’em in t’belly loik this. Baynit forrard! An’ one an’ two—”
“Eager to learn from you, sir, actually,” the artilleryman said. He was a slim man of medium height, with cropped black hair and black eyes and pale skin, and a clipped East Residence accent.
“It soothes their pride,” he went on. “They call you an Avatar of the Spirit. And what man needs to be ashamed of yielding to the Spirit Incarnate? Not that I’d dispute you the title myself.”
Raj frowned, touching his amulet. Dinnalsyn’s casual blasphemy was natural enough for a man born in the City, but Raj had been raised in the old style back home on Hillchapel. A soldier of the Civil Government was also a warrior of the Spirit.
the ex-squadron personnel are undergoing transference, Center said, a common psychological phenomenon, and technically, you are an avatar.
“Speak of the Starless,” Dinnalsyn noted.
He and Raj turned their dogs aside as a battalion came down the camp street toward them. First the standard-bearer, the long pole socketed to a ring in his right stirrup; the colors were furled in a tubular leather casing. Then the trumpeters and drummers, four of them. The battalion commander and his aides in a clump with the Senior Sergeant of the unit; then the six hundred and fifty men in column-of-fours, each man an exact three meters from the stirrups of his squadmates on either side, half a length from the dog before and behind. Triple gaps between companies, the company pennant, signaler and commander in each. An Armory rifle in a scabbard before each right knee, and a long slightly-curved saber strapped to the saddle on the other side.
The men wore round bowl-helmets with neckguards of chainmail-covered leather, dark-blue swallowtail coats, baggy maroon pants tucked into knee boots. Their mounts were farmbreds, Alsatians and Ridgebacks for the most part, running to a thousand pounds weight and fifteen hands at the shoulder. Everything regulation and by the handbooks, all the more startling because the men wearing the Civil Government uniforms were not the usual sort. The predominant physical type near East Residence was short, slight, olive to light-brown of skin, with dark hair and eyes. There were regional variations; Descotters tended to be darker than the norm, square-faced and built with barrel-chested solidity, while men from Kelden County were taller and fairer. The troops riding toward Raj and his companion were something else again. Big men, most near Raj’s own 190 centimeters, and bearded in contrast to local custom; fair-skinned despite their weathered tans, many with blond or light-brown hair.
The massed thudding of paws and the occasional whine or growl was the only sound until a sharp order rang out:
“2nd Mounted Cruisers—eyes right. General salute!”
A long rippling snap followed, each man’s head turning sharply and fist coming to breast as they passed Raj. Raj returned the gesture. It was still something of a shock to see the barbarian faces in Army uniform. Even more shocking to remember the Squadron host as it tumbled toward the line of Civil Government troops; individual champions running out ahead to roar defiance, shapeless clots around the standards of the nobles, dust and movement and a vast, shambling chaos . . .
The ones who couldn’t learn mostly died, he thought.
The battalion commander fell out and reined in beside them as the column passed in a pounding of pads on gravel and a jingle of harness.
“Bwenya dai, seyhor!” Ludwig Bellamy said.
He’s changed too, Raj thought, offering his hand after the salute. Karl Bellamy had surrendered early to the Expeditionary Force, to preserve his estates and because he hated the Auburns who’d usurped rule of the Squadron. His eldest son had gone considerably further; the chin was bare, and his yellow hair was cut bowl-fashion in the manner of Descotter officers. His Sponglish had always been good in a classical East Residence way—tutors in childhood—but now it had caught just a hint of County rasp, the way a man of the Messer class from Descott would speak. Much like Raj’s own, in fact. The lower part of the Squadron noble’s face was still untanned, making him look a little younger than his twenty-three years.
“Movement orders?” he said eagerly. “I’m taking them out—” he tossed his head in the direction of his troops “—on a field problem, but we could—”
“No es so hurai,” Raj said, fighting back a grin: not so fast. He had been a young, eager battalion commander himself, once. “But yes, we’re moving. Stern Isle, first. You’ll get a chance to show your men can remember their lessons in action.”
“They will,” Bellamy said flatly. Some of the animation died out of his face. “They remember—they know courage alone isn’t enough.”
They should, Raj thought.
Their families had been settled by military tenure on State lands as well, which meant their homes were here too.
“And they’re eager to prove themselves.”
Raj nodded; they would be. Back in the Southern Territories, they’d been members of the ruling classes, the descendants of conquerors. Proud men, anxious to earn back their pride as warriors.
I just hope they remember they’re soldiers, now, Raj thought. Putting a Squadrone noble in command had been something of a risk; he’d transferred a Companion named Tejan M’Brust from the 5th Descott to command the 1st Cruisers. So far the gamble with the 2nd seemed to be paying off.
Aloud: “Speaking of education, Ludwig, I’ve got a little job for you, to occupy the munificent spare time a battalion commander enjoys. We’ll be having a young man by the name of Cabot along.”
The fair brows rose in silent enquiry.
“Cabot Clerett. I’d like—”
CHAPTER FOUR
The longboat’s keel grounded on the beach, grating through the coarse sand. Sailors leaped overside into water waist-deep, heaving their shoulders against the planks of its hull. Raj vaulted to the sand, ignoring the water that seethed around his ankles, and swept his wife up in his arms to carry her beyond the high-tide mark. Miniluna and Maxiluna were both up, leaving a ghostly gloaming almost bright enough to read by even as the sun slipped below the horizon.
Offshore on a sea colored dark purple with sunset the fleet raised spars and sails tinted crimson by the dying light. Three-masted merchantmen for the most part, with a squadron of six paddle-wheel steam warships patrolling offshore like low-slung wolves. Not that there was much to fear; unlike the Squadron, who had been notable pirates, the Brigade didn’t have much of a navy. Some of the smaller transports had been beached to unload their cargo; the rest were offloading into skiffs and rowboats. Except for the dogs. The half-ton animals were simply being pushed off the sides, usually with a muzzle on and fifteen or twenty men doing the pushing. Mournful howls rang across the water; once they were in, the intelligent beasts followed their masters’ boats to shore. A few who’d been on the expedition against the Squadron jumped in on their own.
As Horace did; the big black hound shook himself, spattering Raj and Suzette equally, flopped down on the sand, put his head on his paws and went to sleep. Raj laughed; so did Suzette, close to his ear. He jumped when she ran her tongue into it briefly.
“When you start ignoring me even when I’m in your arms, my sweet . . .” she said playfully.
He walked a few steps further and set he
r down. In linen riding clothes, with a Colonial-made repeating carbine across her back, Suzette Whitehall did not look much like a Court lady of East Residence. But she looked very good to Raj, very good indeed.
“To work,” he said.
The camp was already fully set up, a square half a kilometer on a side and ringed with ditch and earth embankment, and a palisaded firing-step on top. Within was a regular network of dirt lanes, flanked by the leather tents of the eight-man squads which were the basic unit of the Civil Government’s armies. Broader lanes separated battalions, each with its Officers Row and shrine-tent for the unit standards. The two main north-south and east-west roadways met in the center at a broad open plaza, and in the center of that was a local landowners house that would be the commander’s quarters. Dog-lines to the east, thunderous with barking as the evening mash was served; artillery park to the west; stores piled up mountainously under tarpaulins . . .
“Nicely done,” he said. And exactly where we camped the last time, he thought, with a complex of emotions.
A tall rangy man with a moustache pulled up—on a riding steer, an unusual choice of mount. Especially for a man with a Colonel’s eighteen-rayed gold and silver star on his helmet and shoulder-patches. The inflamed rims around his eyes told why; he was violently allergic to dogs. A misfortune for a nobleman, disastrous for a nobleman set on a military career. Unless one was willing to settle for the despised infantry, of course. Probably a source of anguish to the man, but extremely convenient to Raj Whitehall. Usually the infantry got the dregs of the officer corps, men without either the connections or the ability to make a career in the mounted units.
“Nicely done, Jorg,” Raj repeated, as the man swung down.
Jorg Menyez shrugged. “We’ve had three days, and I haven’t wasted the time we spent stuck down there around Port Murchison,” he said. They saluted and exchanged the embhrazo. “Spirit of Man but I’m glad to be out of the Territories! Nineteen battalions of infantry, five of cavalry, thirty guns, reporting as ordered, seyhor! And campgrounds, food, fodder and firewood for five more battalions of mounted troops.” He bowed over Suzette’s hand. “Enchanted, Messa.”
“Excellent,” Raj said again. It was damned good to have subordinates you could rely on to get their job done without hand-holding. That had taken years.
indeed, Center said.
“All the old kompaydres together again, eh?” Jorg went on, as Gerrin Staenbridge came up. His eyes widened slightly as Ludwig Bellamy joined them, dripping.
“Sinkhole,” the ex-member of the Squadron said, and sneezed.
“Make that sixty field guns, now,” Grammek Dinnalsyn noted. “We brought another thirty, and some mortars. They may be useful.”
“Staff meeting at dinner,” Raj said. He toed Horace in the flank. “Up, you son of a bitch.”
The hound sighed, yawned and stretched before rising.
“To fallen comrades,” Bartin Foley said, rising and offering the toast as junior officer present. The remainder were battalion commanders and up, two dozen men who would form the core of the Western Territories Expeditionary Force from this day on. Plus the Honored Messer Fidal Historiomo, the head of the Administrative Department team who would handle civil control, but he had been notably quiet.
“Fallen comrades,” the others replied, raising their wineglasses as the servants cleared away the desserts which had followed the roast suckling pig and vegetables.
Raj rose in his turn. “Messers, the Governor!”
“The Governor!” Then they all stood. “To victory!” At that the wineglasses went cascading out the tall glass doors which stood open around three sides of the commandeered villa’s dining room. A mild curse from one of the sentries followed the tinkle and crash of shattering crystal. A louder one followed, from his NCO.
The ladies withdrew in a flutter of fans and lace-draped headdresses; ladies by courtesy, for the most part, of course. Except Suzette, and she stayed. Nobody looked surprised at that, except possibly Cabot Clerett, and he had been looking at her with a sandbagged expression all evening as she teased him gently out of shyness. The servants set out liqueurs and kave, and withdrew.
Raj rose and walked to a map-board on an easel that had probably served the local squire’s daughter when she dabbled in watercolors, before the Civil Government armada landed. Now it held a tacked map of Stern Isle, a blunt wedge shape of about thirty thousand square kilometers. The bottom of the wedge pointed south, and the Expeditionary Force was encamped on the northern coast. It was an excellent map; the Civil Governments cartographic service was one of its major advantages over its barbarian opponents. Center could give him more data, in any form it pleased . . . although some of it was a thousand years old, the time-lag since Bellevue’s surveillance satellites had died.
Silence fell as he took up a pointer. “All right, messers,” he said quietly. “Most of you have campaigned with me before; those who haven’t, know my reputation.”
Which was why there had been a flurry of resignations and shifts of posting among the commands of units assigned to him. The first time he’d led an army in the field he’d broken one in six officers out of the service before the campaign even started. This time there had been plenty of officers volunteering for the slots opened; in fact, there had been duels and massive bribery to get into the Expeditionary Force. That had not happened the first time, out on the eastern frontier. The type who wanted to join a field force under Raj Whitehall’s command presented their own problems, of course.
Better to be forced to restrain the fiery war-dog than prod the reluctant ox, he thought, and went on:
“Let me sketch out the general situation. We have eleven thousand Regular infantry, about seven thousand Regular cavalry, since some of the battalions are overstrength, and about a thousand tribal auxiliaries. Mostly mounted. Including six hundred Skinners, who will be useful while there’s fighting and a cursed nuisance the rest of the time.” There were a few chuckles at that. “The Skinners will join us when and if we move to the mainland—leaving them on this island for any length of time would wreck it.
“The Brigade territories have a total population of about thirty million.” Less than a third what the Civil Government did, but still a vast number for thirty-one battalions to attack. “Of those, the overwhelming majority are civilians.”
Worshippers of the Spirit of Man of the Stars, and closely related to the population of the Civil Government proper. In theory, they—more importantly, the landowners, priests and merchants among them—would be on the invaders’ side.
“One and a half million are Brigaderos. Unlike the late unlamented Squadron, the Brigade has a regular army, besides the private retainers of noblemen—some of whom have whole regiments, by the way. Fifty thousand of the General’s troops are under arms at any one time; they have a system of compulsory service. Another two hundred thousand can be called out at need, not counting mercenaries—and all of them will have some military experience. The Brigade has strong enemy tribes on its northern frontiers, and most of their standing army has seen action.
“Furthermore,” he went on, “also unlike the Squadron, the Brigade troops are not armed with flintlock smoothbores.” Raj nodded to the orderlies standing in the back of the room. The men laid half a dozen long muskets on the table among the kave-cups.
“An external percussion cap fits under the hammer,” he said, as the officers examined the enemy weapons. “It’s loaded with a paper cartridge and a hollow-base pointed bullet, from the muzzle. Two rounds a minute, but the extreme range is up to a thousand meters. Note the adjustable sights. At anything under six hundred meters, it’s man-killing accurate against individual targets. The Brigaderos are landed men, mostly, even those who aren’t full-time soldiers. They like to hunt, and most of them are crack shots.”
Which was more than could be said of the Civil Government force, especially the infantry, even after more than a year under Jorg Menyez’s training.
Cabo
t Clerett stirred. Like his uncle, he was a square-faced, barrel-chested man. Unlike him he had the weathered look of an outdoorsman despite being in his twenties.
“The Armory rifle fires at better than six rounds a minute,” he said. “Twelve, in an emergency.”
“I’m aware of that, Major Clerett,” Raj replied dryly. A flush spread under the natural olive brown of the younger man’s skin. Suzette leaned close to whisper in his ear, and he relaxed again.
“However, it means we’re not going to be able to stand in full sight and shoot them down outside the effective range of their weapons, the way we did with the Squadrones. Nor can we count on them simply rushing at us head-on, like a bull at a gate. They’re barbarians and will fight like barbarians—”
They’d better, he added to himself, or Center or not we’re fucking doomed.
“—but they won’t be that stupid.”
observe, Center said.
Rat-tat-tat beat the drum. The line of blue-coated Civil Government infantry stretched across the fields, wading through the waist-high wheat and leaving trampled desolation behind them. The battalion colors waved proudly ahead of the serried double rank of bayonets; officers strode before their units, sabers sloped over their shoulders. Sun glinted on edged steel, hot and bright. Shells went by overhead with a tearing-canvas sound, to burst in puffs of dirty-white smoke and plumes of black earth at the edge of the treeline ahead. Apart from the shelling and the crunching, rustling sound of the riflemen’s passage, the battlefield was silent.
Then malignant red fireflies winked in the shadow of the trees. Thousands of them, through the off-white smoke of black powder rifles. Men staggered and fell down the Civil Government line, silent or screaming and twisting. The Armory rifles jerked up in unison in response to shouted orders and volley-fire crashed out; then the bayonets leveled and the men charged forward with the colors slanting down ahead of them. More muzzle flashes from the treeline and the snake-rail fence that edged it, again and again, winking through the growing cloud of powder smoke and tearing gaps in the advancing line. It wavered, hesitated—trapping itself in the killing zone, caught between courage and fear.
