Hope Rearmed

by David Drake

  “Meanwhile, I’m going to keep five battalions of cavalry with the main column and send the rest of you out raiding. Round up supplies, liberate the towns and incidentally, knock down the defenses—we don’t want Brigaderos occupying them again in our rear. Be alert, messers, there’ll probably be more resistance soon. I’ve furnished a list of objectives of military significance. Grammeck?”

  “I don’t like these roads,” the artilleryman-cum-engineer said.

  Like most of his branch of service, Grammeck Dinnalysn was a cityman, from East Residence. Unlike most of the military nobility, Raj Whitehall had never hesitated to use the technical skills that went with that education.

  “They’re just graded dirt, and it’s clay dirt at that. Much more rain, and it’s going to turn into soup.”

  Raj nodded again. “Nevertheless, I intend to make at least twenty klicks per day, minimum.”

  Jorg Menyez shrugged. “My boys will march it,” he said and sneezed, moving a little aside to get upwind of the dogs. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen more resistance already,” he added. “We’re well beyond the zone Major Clerett raided.”

  Raj grinned. “A little dactosauroid flew in and whispered in my ear,” he said, “in the person of the Esteemed Rehvidaro Boyez—he was one of the Ministry talkmongers at Carson Barracks, bribed his way out—that the Brigade has called a Council of War there.”

  Harsh laughter from the circle of Companions. The Council of War included all male Brigade adults, and decided the great issues of state in huge conclaves at Carson Barracks, the capital the Brigade had built off in the swamps. Or to be more accurate, debated the issues at enormous length. To men used to the omnipotent quasi-divine autocracy of the Civil Government, it was an endless source of amusement.

  “No, no—it’s actually a good move. They have to decide on their leadership before they can do anything. Filip Forker certainly won’t.” Forker was a mild-tempered scholar, very untypical of the brawling warrior nobility of the Brigade; he was also a defeatist who’d been in secret communication with the Civil Government.

  “So they have to get rid of him and elect a fighting man as General. Of course, they have left it a little late.”

  The troopers below roared out the last verse of their marching song:

  Much joy we reap by diddlin’ sheep

  In divers nooks and ditches

  Nor give we a damn if they be rams—

  We’re hardy sons of bitches!

  “Let’s get moving, gentlemen. I expect some warm welcomes on the way to Old Residence.”

  “Compliments to Captain Suharez, and Company C to face left, on this line,” Gerrin Staenbridge said. He sketched quickly on his notepad, and tore off the sheet to hand to the dispatch rider. The man tucked it under his jacket to shelter the drawing from the slow drizzle of rain.

  Gerrin raised his binoculars. The lancepoints of the Brigaderos cuirassiers were clearly visible behind the ridge there, four thousand meters out and to the west. From the way the pennants whipped backward, they were moving briskly. Bit of a risk to spread his front, but the fire of the other companies should cover it. Better to stop the flanking movement well out than to simply refuse his flank in place.

  “And one gun,” he added.

  The messenger spurred, and the trumpet sounded. Men moved along the sunken lane to his front, where the main line of the two battalions faced north. A company crawled back and stood, then double-timed west in column of fours. Water spurted up from their boots, and squelched away from the gun that followed them, its dogs panting and skidding on the surface of wet earth and yellow leaves as they trundled out of sight to meet the enemy’s flanking attack. The remaining men moved west to occupy the vacant space, spreading themselves in response to barked orders.

  The paws of the colonel’s dog squelched too as he rode down the lane; it was barely nine meters wide, rutted mud flanked on either side by tall maple and whipstick trees. North beyond that was a broad stretch of reaped wheat stubble with alfalfa showing green between the faded gold of the straw. Beyond that was a line of orchard, and the Brigaderos, those whose bodies weren’t scattered across the field between from the first failed rush.

  “That’s right, lads,” Staenbridge called out, as he cantered toward the center of the line, where the standards of the 5th Descott and the 1st Residence Life Guards flew together, beside the main battery. “Keep those delectable buttocks close to the earth and pick your targets.”

  The men were prone or kneeling behind the meter-high ridge that marked the sunken lane’s northern edge. The trees and the remains of a rail fence gave more cover still; there were a scatter of brass cartridge cases and the lingering stink of sulphur under the wet mud and rotting leaf smell. Most of them had gray cloaks spread over their backs; Lion City had had a warehouse full of them, woven of raw wool with the lanolin still in them, nearly waterproof. Staenbridge had thoughtfully posted a guard on that when the city fell, and lifted enough for all his men and a margin extra. Raindrops glistened on the wool, sliding aside as the men adjusted sights and reloaded. The breechblock of a gun clanged open and the crew pushed it forward until its barrel jutted in alignment with the muzzles of the riflemens’ weapons.

  He drew up beside the banner. “Captain Harritch,” he went on, “shift a splatgun to the left end of the line, if you please.”

  The commander of the two batteries shouted, and the light weapon jounced off down the trail, the crew pulling on ropes; there was no need to hitch the dog team for a short move, but it followed obediently, dragging the caisson with the reserve ammunition.

  “We could put a mounted company behind the left and countercharge when those lobster-backs are stalled,” Cabot Clerett offered.

  It was the textbook answer, but Staenbridge shook his head. “Fighting barbs with swords,” he said, “is like fighting a pig by getting down on your hands and knees and biting it. I prefer to keep the rifles on our firing-line. We’ll see if they come again.”

  “These’re going to,” Bartin Foley said emotionlessly.

  He was peeling an apple with the sharpened inner curve of his hook; now he sliced off a chunk and offered it. Staenbridge took it, ignoring Cabot Clerett’s throttled impatience. It was crisper and more tart than the fruit he was used to. Probably the longer winters here, he thought.

  Cabot Clerett probably resented the fact that Bartin Foley had started his military career as a protégée—boyfriend, actually—of Staenbridge’s. Although the battles that had taken the young man’s left hand, and the commands he’d held since, made him considerably more than that.

  “Look to your right, Major Clerett,” Gerrin said. “They may try something there as well.”

  Long lines of helmeted soldiers in gray-and-black uniforms were coming out of the orchard three thousand meters to their front. Serried lines, blocks three deep and fifty men broad all along the front, then a gap of several minutes and another wave, but these in company columns.

  “Two thousand in the first wave,” he said. “A thousand in column behind. Three thousand all up.”

  “Plus their reserve,” Foley noted, peering at the treeline.

  Clerett snorted. “If the barbs are keeping one,” he said.

  “Oh, these are, I should think . . . this is Hereditary High Colonel Eisaku and . . .”

  “Hereditary Major Gutfreed,” Foley completed. “Thirty-five to forty-five hundred in all, household troops and military vassals.”

  To the right a battery commander barked an order. The loader for the guns shoved a two-pronged iron tool into the head of a shell and turned, adjusting the fuse to the distance he was given. Within the explosive head a perforated brass tube turned within a solid one, exposing a precise length of beechwood-enclosed powder train. Another man worked the lever that dropped the blocking wedge and swung the breechblock aside, opening the chamber for the loader to push the shell home. The blocks clattered all along the line, five times repeated. The gunner clipped his lanyard to
the release toggle and stood to one side; the rest of the crew skipped out of the path of recoil, already preparing to repeat the cycle, in movements better choreographed than most dances. The battery commander swung his sword down.

  POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. Five blasts of powder smoke and red light, and the guns bounced backward across the laneway, splattering muddy water to both sides. Crews heaved at their tall wheels to shove them back into battery, as the loaders pulled new shells out of the racks in the caissons.

  The crack of the shells bursting over the enemy followed almost at once. Men died, scythed down from above. Staenbridge winced slightly in sympathy; overhead shrapnel was any soldier’s nightmare, something to which there was no reply. The Brigaderos came on, picking up the pace but keeping their alignment. The columns following the troops deployed in line were edging toward his left; he nodded, confirmation of the opposing commander’s design. It was a meeting of minds, as intimate as a saber-duel or dancing. Closer now, it didn’t take long to cover a thousand meters at the trot. A thousand seconds, less than ten minutes. The Brigaderos dragoons had fixed their bayonets, and the wet steel glinted dully under the cloudy sky. Their boots were kicking up clots of dark-brown soil, ripping holes in the thin cover of the stubblefield.

  POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. More airbursts, and one defective timer that plowed into the dirt and raised a minor mud-volcano as the backup contact fuse set it off.

  Nothing like the Squadrones, Staenbridge thought. The barbarians of the Southern Territories had bunched in a crowded mass, a perfect target. These Brigaderos were much better.

  POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. POUMPF. Powder smoke drifted along the firing line, low to the ground and foglike under the drizzle.

  At least the Southern Territories were dry, he thought. Descott County got colder than this in midwinter, but it was semi-arid.

  “I make it eleven hundred meters,” Foley said. Getting on for small-arms range.

  “Ready,” Staenbridge called. Officers and noncoms went down the firing line, checking that sights were adjusted. “I wonder how the left flank is making out.”

  “Did ye load hardpoint?” Corporal Robbi M’Telgez hissed.

  The rifleman he addressed swallowed nervously. “Think so, corp,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at the noncom.

  Company C were kneeling in a cornfield, just back from the crest of a swell of ground. The corn had never been harvested, but cattle and pigs had been turned loose into it. Most of the stalks were broken rather than uprooted, slick and brown with decay and the rain; they formed a tangle waist-high in wavering rows across the lumpy field. Just ahead of the line of troopers was the company commander, also down on one knee, with his signallers, and a bannerman holding the furled unit pennant horizontal to the ground. The field-gun and its crew were slightly to the rear.

  “Work yer lever,” M’Telgez said.

  The luckless trooper shoved his thumb into the loop behind the handgrip of his rifle and pushed the lever sharply downward. The action clacked and ejected the shell directly to the rear as the bolt swung down and slightly back. The noncom snatched it out of the air with his right hand, as quick and certain as a trout rising to a fly. There was a hollow drilled back into the pointed tip of the lead bullet.

  “Ye peon-witted dickhead recruity!” the corporal said. “Why ain’t ye in t’ fukkin’ infantry? Ye want one a’ them pigstickers up yer arse?” Hollowpoint loads often failed to penetrate the body-armor of Brigaderos heavy cavalry.

  He clouted the man alongside the head, under his helmet. “Load!”

  The younger man nodded and reached back to his bandolier; it was on the broad webbing belt that cinched his swallowtail uniform coat, just behind the point of his right hip. The closing flap was buckled back, exposing the staggered rows of cartridges in canvas loops—the outer frame of the container was rigid sauroid hide boiled in wax, but brass corrodes in contact with leather. This time there was a smooth pointed cap of brass on the lead of the bullet he thumbed home down the grooved ramp on the top of the rifle’s bolt. Hunting ammunition for big thick-skinned sauroids, but it did nicely for armor as well.

  “Use yer brain, it’ll save yer butt,” the corporal went on more mildly.

  He sank back into his place in the ranks, watching the platoon’s lieutenant and the company commander. The lieutenant was new since Stern Isle, but he seemed to know his business. The platoon sergeant thought so, at least. They’d both behaved as well as anybody else in that ratfuck in the tunnel. M’Telgez smiled, and the young trooper who’d been looking over to him to ask a question swallowed again and looked front, convinced that nothing he could see there would be more frightening than the section-leader’s face. M’Telgez was thinking what he was going to do if—when—he found out who had started the stampede to the rear in the close darkness of the pipe tunnel. There’d been nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, once it started. Except move back or get trampled into a pulp and suffocated when the pipe blocked solid with a jam of flesh.

  The 2nd Cruisers, jumped-up Squadrone barbs, had gone in instead of the 5th Descott. With Messer Raj. The stain on the 5th’s honor had been wiped out by their bloodily successful assault on the gates later that night . . . but M’Telgez intended to find out who’d put the stain there in the first place. The 5th had been with Messer Raj since his first campaign and they’d never run from an enemy.

  The gunners were rolling their weapon forward the last few meters to the crest of the slight rise, two men on either wheel and three holding up the trail.

  “On the word of command,” the lieutenant said, watching the captain. A trumpet sounded, five rising notes and a descant.

  “Company—”

  “Platoon—”

  “Forward!”

  One hundred and twenty men stood and took three paces forward. The lieutenants stopped, their arms and swords outstretched to the side in a T-bar to give their units the alignment.

  To the Brigaderos, they appeared over the crest of the dead ground with the suddenness of a jack-in-the-box.

  Five hundred meters before them about a quarter of the Brigaderos column was in view, coming over a slight rise. They rode in a column six men broad; expecting action soon, they’d brought the three-meter lances out of the buckets and were resting the butt-ends on the toes of their right boots. The dogs they rode were broad-pawed Newfoundlands, shaggy and massive and black, weighing up to fourteen hundred pounds each. They needed the bulk and bone to carry men wearing back and breastplate, thigh-guards and arm-guards of steel, plus sword and lance and firearms and helmet. Their usual role was to charge home into Stalwart masses already chopped into fragments by their dragoon comrades’ rifle fire. Sometimes the savage footmen absorbed the charge and ate it, like a swarm of lethal bees too numerous for the lancers to swat. More often the cavalry scattered the Stalwarts into fugitives who could be hunted down and slaughtered . . . as long as the lancers went in boot to boot without the slightest hesitation.

  It was a style of warfare that had ended in the eastern part of the Midworld basin two centuries ago, when breechloading firearms became common. The Brigaderos were about to learn why.

  Of course, since there were nearly a thousand of the cuirassiers, the Civil Government troops might not survive the lesson either.

  POUMPF.

  The field gun recoiled away from the long plume of smoke. The first shell exploded at head-height a dozen yards from the front of the column; pure serendipity, since the fuses weren’t sensitive enough to time that closely. It was canister, a thin-walled head full of lead balls with a small bursting charge at the rear. The charge stripped the casing of the shell off its load and spread the balls out, but the velocity of the shell itself made them lethal. The first three ranks of the lancers went down in kicking, howling confusion. The commander of the cuirassier regiment had been standing in his stirrups and raising the triangular three-bar visor of his helmet to see what had popped up to
bar his command’s way. Three of the half-ounce balls ripped his head off his torso and threw the body in a backwards somersault over the cantle of his saddle.

  Behind him the balls went over the heads of the rear of the column, protected by the dip in the field in which they rode. The projectiles struck the upraised lances instead, the wood of the forward ranks and the foot-long steel heads of those further back and lower down. The sound was like an iron rod being dragged at speed along the largest picket fence in the universe. Lances were smashed out of hands or snapped off like tulips in a hothouse for a dozen ranks back. Men shouted in fear or pain, and dogs barked like muffled thunder.

  The cuirassier regiment was divided into ten troops of eighty to ninety men each, commanded by a troop-captain and under-officers. None of them knew what was happening to the head of the column, but they were all Brigade noblemen and anxious to close with the foe. They responded according to their training, the whole mass of lancers halting and each troop turning to right or left to deploy into line. When the Civil Government or Colonial dragoons deployed for a charge under fire they did so at the gallop, but the Brigaderos were used to fighting men equipped with shotguns and throwing-axes. Used to having plenty of time to align their lines neatly.

  M’Telgez watched his lieutenant’s saber out of the corner of his eye. It swung to the right. He pivoted slightly, taking the general direction from the sword as his squad did from him; a group of lancers opening out around a swallow-tail pennant, borne next to a man whose armor was engraved with silver, wearing a shoulder-cape of lustrous hide from some sauroid that secreted iridescent metal into its scales. The corporal picked a target, a lancer next to the leader—no point in shooting the same man twice, and he knew someone wouldn’t be able to resist the fancy armor. The rear notch settled behind the bladed foresight, and he lowered his aiming-point another few inches—six hundred meters, the bullet would be coming down from the top of its arch at quite an angle.