A strange sense of panic enveloped Robert, and he wondered why the Boatswain should seek to block him with such determination. He knew the woman in the tunnel. He needed to get back to her. His pace slowed, and he caught the smell of her perfume, a bright, citrus blend that tickled his nose.
Whelan grabbed the lapel of his uniform a final time and dragged him into the sunlight.
"You can thank me later, Sir," he said, and pushed Robert ahead of him.
Robert shook his head to clear it. The fog crept between his ears and clouded his thinking, but the sunlight burned it away. Her face, however, remained clear within his mind.
"Pardon the assault on your person, Sir," Whelan said, "but you were steps away from being lost to us all. And us with a war to conduct and all."
"What was that?" Robert said. He still faced the tunnel, and felt the temptation to run back inside. "She was beautiful."
"The Fae called to you," Whelan clapped him on the shoulder and drew him away. With each step, Robert's mind seemed to clear. "I did warn you to ward yourself with the Zenzil. You should have listened."
The last of the fog cleared from Robert's brain, and he shook off the Boatswain's grip.
"I have no patience for any of that superstitious nonsense," Robert said with more vehemence than he intended. "But I saw her, clear as day. She was walking in the woods, leading her horse. Whelan, she saw me."
Whelan shrugged, but continued on.
"You have much to learn pup. I thought you were in the Temples long enough to know better," he said. "Just be glad we're free of it."
Walk beneath the Sharikeen star and no harm shall befall you, Gal'Preston's ghost said. Arrogant fool. You ignore our teachings at your own peril. He should have left you behind to rot in the mire.
Listen to Whelan, Winslow said. His counsel is seldom wrong. But be warry of him. He is not all what he seems.
Robert ignored them both. He did not need their counsel, and he knew better than to let their voices consume him. The Sharikeen teachings stood adamant in his mind on that point. Along the eight-fold path of the Sharikeen existed a road to madness, and it was to be avoided at all costs.
"That was no illusion," Robert said. "She was real."
"I'm sure she was," Whelan said.
"Don't patronize me." Robert jogged in front of the Boatswain and stopped before him. "She was real."
Whelan did not cower back, but moved forward until their noses almost touched.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "You cannot get to her from here. That's not the way this works. What you saw was a lure. Some think it's a glamour, others are convinced they're real."
"What do you think?"
Whelan regarded him a moment. He looked behind them, and then back to Robert. He took his elbow, and urged him onward.
"I think they show us our truth," Whelan said. "At least one possible truth out of many."
"That was my future?" Robert said with a sudden rush of excitement, and allowed himself to be guided.
"Not your future per se, but a possible part of your life's journey," Whelan said mournfully. "Call it an axis, or a pivotal moment. Whatever. The point is, it's a path the Fae want you to take. But be careful. Like I told you, the Fae are not what you think them to be, not what the folktales claim they are."
"You were in there," Robert said. "What did you see?"
Whelan hesitated, as if weighing whether to trust Robert with the revelation.
"A woman with silver hair," he said at last. "She held a child in her arms."
"The love of your life, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," Whelan said, and the edge of irritation stood stark in his voice. "But she's married, so it doesn't make a damned bit of difference."
"What are they?" Robert said. "The Fae."
"You wouldn't understand if I tried to explain it," Whelan said. "Well maybe you would, but it's a much deeper conversation than we have time for right now. In case you forgot, there's a host of Aeresian soldiers behind us. They'll not be too pleased with us should we be captured."
"We'll talk about this later," Robert said. "You have to show me how to find her."
"We'll see," Whelan said. "You need to be alive to do so. If you survive this entire affair, I will be more than happy to help you."
"Then let's get a move on, old man." Robert sprinted ahead.
They overtook the company after the next bend, and the crew greeted their return with a chorus of cheers. Without pausing to acknowledge the calls, Robert and Whelan resumed their position at the head of the terra-track and slipped into the harness. The crew fell silent until McCarthy chanted the cadence once more, and the march continued.
The first of the citadel's trenches reared minuscule in the distance, and faint calls of encouragement sounded from behind the encircling barbed wire. Seeing sanctuary so close, the men picked up their pace.
"They're too few." Whelan indicated the fortifications with his chin. "They'll fold with the first push."
Robert nodded. He agreed with the assessment, though it took him a few moments more to calculate the odds. Three conventional cannon batteries dominated the facade, and cycling guns from the Dreadnaut added to the defenses. A full platoon of riflemen completed the line, and filled the spaces between the cannons.
"Lindstrom," Robert called, and waited for the aeronaut to respond. "When we stop, take the fallen to the citadel, and have Captain Rassnaren send reinforcements. The crew and I, along with the Zephyrs will augment the line until the deployment is complete."
Lindstrom acknowledged the command with a muttered, "Sir, yes Sir."
"You've consigned us to the midden heap," Whelan said. "Those traps won't delay them for long."
"Afraid to die, Boatswain?" Robert said. He did not want his orders second guessed by a subordinate, especially when he voiced a correct assessment. But, he did not see another way to augment the position.
"I'd welcome death if it came for me," Whelan said. "Not so sure about the crew, though. And I'd like to keep aeronaut Rin alive if possible."
"Why's that?" Robert said. "He owes you money?"
"More like I owe him," Whelan said. "It's an old family debt. I'd appreciate you keeping that quiet, though. He doesn't know I'm looking out for him."
"So long as they follow orders, that'll be enough for me," Robert said. "But I'd love to hear the story once we're free of this canyon."
Whelan regarded him, his lips pursed in thought. At length, he nodded.
"I might at that," he said. "If you survive the battle, of course."
"I wouldn't mind some looking after, myself," Robert said. "You watch my back, and I'll watch yours?"
Whelan smiled, and thumped his fist against his chest.
"An offer of friendship, freely given," he said, almost too low for Robert to hear. "A rare thing that."
Soldiers rushed from behind the palisades to aid with the fallen and the sled. The crew accepted the assistance, and made their way behind the wire. Robert gave orders where to place the cannon and cycling guns, and supplemented the ammunition stores as well.
The sergeant in charge of the platoon wandered over and saluted.
"Our thanks for the resupply, Lieutenant," he said. "We can take it from here."
"I doubt that, Sergeant." Robert shrugged out of his harness and slung his rifle before him. "Handling the cycling chambers is a holy order, and you're not ordained in the mysteries."
Lindstrom took the controls of the terra-track once they removed the ordinance, and continued toward the Keep with the bodies of the fallen.
The sergeant spit to the side, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced at the extra cycling guns being lifted into position, and sketched the Zenzil over his heart.
"No offense meant, Sir," he said. "Where do you need the men?"
Robert paused in his reply. Whelan watched him, his gaze speculative.
"What are your thoughts, Boatswain?" Robert said. "I'd like to lay down a full coverage
field of fire, but I don't want to damage Caliban's Crossing."
"I'd say unleash a full barrage on the tunnel now and seal the pass," the sergeant said. "Good riddance to the place."
Robert gave him a blank expression, but refrained from calling him out for speaking out of turn. The sergeant interpreted the silence correctly, tipped the brim of his cap, and moved back a step.
Whelan suppressed a smile, and alternated his attention between the batteries and the tunnel. "Conventional rank at fifteen degrees, and cycling guns straight on. Fire in formation when they're at a thousand yards, that reddish outcropping that spills into the river. Keep pounding until they're all dead."
Robert considered the plan and found it sound.
"Sergeant, we'll follow the Boatswain's suggestion," he said. "Have your riflemen fix bayonets and form up between the batteries to target any who slip through."
The sergeant saluted and raced off to relay the order.
Aeresian soldiers emerged from the tunnel of Caliban's Crossing and milled about in confused disarray. More continued to exit, and the congestion of bodies caused a bottleneck. The press continued and the numbers forced them forward. The further they got from the entrance, the more organized they became, and eventually they formed into tidy units.
As if remembering their purpose, the lead ranks issued a wordless cry and charged the citadel's defenses.
The first rank of guns opened fire with a steady percussion of sound. Cannons vomited clouds of smoke to project the conventional shells down range. Cycling guns emitted beams of light that seared past with the crackle of ozone.
Iron shot tore through the onrushing enemy and cast mangled bodies aside. The shells bounced through the ranks to increase the damage, before coming to rest and exploding. Shrapnel ripped through those who avoided the initial impact. The high energy blasts from the cycling guns lanced into the enemy and raked across them for several seconds. Whatever living flesh the discharge touched, evaporated in a puff of steam. The clothing and weaponry carried by the soldier fell empty and unharmed to the ground.
The second rank fired before the concussion of the first faded.
Minutes passed, and the guns kept up a steady rhythm of wanton destruction. An occasional blast sizzled through the air at a higher elevation, and a distant detonation told of an enemy airship that ventured too close. The heavy haze of smoke drifted over the river and obscured the enemy from view.
Robert called a cease fire, and a ringing silence descended. Distant shrieks of the enemy ghosted through the fog.
And from the mists the groans shifted and became impassioned cries of anger and loss. A lone soldier ran screaming toward the line, his sword raised before him.
"Hold," Robert ordered, and raised his hand above his head. More soldiers appeared behind the first, and body after body exited the smoke with their pikes and halberds swaying while they ran.
"Hold."
The enemy drew closer, and passed the threshold of the outer range.
"Fire!" Robert lashed his arm forward, and the rifles opened up.
The cannon followed moments later, and the buffeting dissonance of sound washed across the world. Along the line, the spinning barrels of the Zephyr's machine guns whined above the fray.
Minute after minute ticked by, and the carnage mounted.
A tap on Robert's shoulder drew his attention. Lieutenant Perritt, the Citadel's Second in Command leaned in to speak into his ear.
"Thank you for holding the line, Lieutenant," Perritt yelled to be heard over the guns. "Captain Rassnaeren requests your presence in the command center."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder and ran up the steep steps to the Keep.
In a Name
The precise bustle of military efficiency wafted over Robert and Whelan when they entered the Citadel's operations center. Lyle and his commanders stood before a great table, which bore a miniature, detailed model of the Keep and the surrounding terrain. Robert marveled at the exactitude of the representation; the entire array bore a striking resemblance to reality, even to the highlights of the river. Intricately painted representations of the separate units, both Aeresian and Patheranian, stood in position according to the most recent intelligence. A private added miniature stones to the river in representation of the landslide caused by the detonation of the Albatross. Replicas of the airships for both sides floated in the air feet above the table. Several under officers read placement coordinates from printed reports, and soldiers moved the models on the tabletop by adjusting an array of dials on the edge of the table.
"A watchmaker's legacy," Whelan whispered. "It's said to be over four hundred years old. They have a squad of clockwork specialists stationed here to adjust and cast new gears when needed."
Lyle spared Whelan a frown, but his countenance shifted when he noticed Robert.
"The hero of the hour!" Lyle called out, and spread his arms wide in greeting. He moved around the table to embrace his friend. "That was an amazing display of courage and fortitude, my friend. I'm recommending you for the Silver Star when this is over."
"I only did what was needed of me," Robert said, uncomfortable with the praise. "There were far too many examples of real heroism in the trenches today, and many of them did not make it through. Give their families the Silver Stars."
Lyle held him at arm's length by the shoulders. "And they shall have it, my friend," he said. He motioned to one of the young soldiers holding station by the door. "Bring warm towels. The Viscount needs to freshen up."
"There's no need, Captain." Robert waved away the offer. "There's more serious work to be done."
Whelan leaned in closer. "Talk sense, Sir," he said. "The soldiers respect your rank, and they expect to see you live up to your station, not coated in grime and powder like one of them. Take a moment to tidy up. I'll help you." To Lyle, he said, "Warm towels will be just the thing, Sir. Is there a space we can adjust his carriage?"
"Of course," Lyle said, and motioned for another soldier. "Show them to my chamber."
"This is a waste of time," Robert muttered, but followed while Whelan drew him along. The Captain's quarters sat off the war room, to enable a swift response if needed in an emergency.
Whelan shook the soldier's hand, and to Robert's eye, it looked as if he passed something along with the handshake.
"Thank you for your assistance," Whelan said.
The soldier glanced at his palm, and his face split in a grin. "Anything you need, Sirs, just send for Private Jonas."
Whelan pushed the young private out before he closed the door.
"So, you're a valet now?" Robert did not try to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
"I'm whatever the situation requires me to be," Whelan said, without a touch of irritation. He helped remove the weapons belt, and unbuttoned the two rows of buttons that ran up Robert's chest to remove the over coat. "You'd be well to adopt a similar attitude. You're a symbol to them, and they need a symbol right now. You represent everything they fight for."
"I joined the army in part to avoid all this nonsense," Robert said. He removed his shirt, no longer white, but stained with sweat and grime from the powder. "I haven't had much practice playing a Viscount. I was boarded at the Temples too early to learn any of the etiquette involved."
"So learn," Whelan said. He laid the outercoat atop a hanging table and worked the leather with a stiff, damp rag while Robert rubbed his face with the towel. "I can show you the finer points, if you need me to."
"You're a noble?"
"I'm a painter," Whelan said. "At least I was before I joined the Dreadnaut's crew."
"Ah yes, to help keep aeronaut Rin safe." Robert found a shirt in the wardrobe and put it on. Though tighter than he preferred, it did allow him enough room to move.
"Correct," Whelan said. The leather garment now glistened beneath the oils he used to buff it.
"So how did you become an expert in etiquette?"
"I've been many things in my life," Whelan
said, but he did not elaborate.
"Well, if I'm to play the part, I guess your assistance will be beneficial," Robert sat on a backless upholstered chair and watched the Boatswain work. "But I fail to see the motive behind your actions. Aeronaut Rin is still down at the line, but you're up here with me. Doesn't that run contrary to your promise?"
"Not in the least, Sir," Whelan said. "Rin was injured in the last salvo, but he survived, thanks to my intervention. He lives, and will be removed back to the Dreadnaught to convalesce. My obligation is met, for now."
"So am I your new ward?"
Whelan stopped his work and fixed his piercing dark eyes on Robert.
The man carried a quality about him that went far beyond the purview of normal men; greater than mere worldliness, and beyond simple intelligence. He possessed a grandeur that existed behind the thin veneer of a petty officer.
"Call it another obligation, Sir," Whelan said, and he resumed his task. "One that is older, and far weightier than the trifling pledge to young Rin."
"We never exchanged more than a dozen words on the Dreadnaut," Robert said. "And as far as I can recall, you have never indebted yourself to me."
Whelan folded the rag and placed it on a shelf of the garment hanger. He withdrew the outercoat and held it open for Robert to step into. Robert, however, made no move to stand. Whelan sighed and lowered the coat.
"It is not an obligation to you, per se," he said. "Rather, it is a duty I set for myself pertaining to House Raen'dalle. I know Banton, your father, and knew Montgomery, your grandfather. I offered them both the same service I grant you."
"How?" Robert stood, and though they both stood at the same height, Whelan seemed larger. "You can't have more than a decade of years on me. How did you serve my grandfather? You would have been only a child."
Whelan chuckled and shook his head.
"I misspoke, Sir," he said and hefted the coat. "If you would be so kind? There are more important matters to attend to."
Robert stepped into the coat and allowed Whelan to adjust it over his shoulders. He turned, and let his new valet do up the silver buttons.
Of Steel and Steam Page 33
