Conqueror g-2

by S. M. Stirling

  The confused-looking group halted and gave fire; too ragged to be a real volley, a long staccato flurry. The Brigaderos heading for them returned it, but they didn't bother to stop. They charged, while the militiamen fumbled with ramrods and percussion-caps. Raj gave a silent whistle of amazement; the city troops didn't disintegrate in panic. Some did, running back along the way they'd come, but most stood to meet the gray-and-black tide. They were going to be slaughtered when it came to hand-to-hand, but they were trying, at least.

  "Ser," the Master Sergeant said at his elbow. "Got a bunch've t'locals comin' up behind us, say they wants t'help, loik."

  The seamed, scarred face of the noncom looked deeply skeptical.

  "Bring them forward, sergeant," Raj said. "By all means. Beggars can't be choosers."

  * * *

  Ludwig Bellamy reined in. "Cease fire!" he shouted, and the trumpets echoed it. The last of the enemy ahead were hoisting reversed weapons, or helmets on the muzzles of their rifles. "Get these men under guard."

  Silence fell, comparative silence after the roar he'd grown accustomed to over the last two hours. He waved his bannerman forward, and they rode past the last Brigaderos holdouts within the walls of Old Residence and down the wall toward Messer Raj's command post.

  Bellamy looked around. "Spirit of Man," he swore.

  The carnage around the gate had been bad. Probably more bodies than here. It had taken a fair amount of time to get the way unblocked. But this looked every bit as bad; smelled as bad, as far as he could tell through a nose already stunned into oblivion today. The whole two-hundred meter width of cleared ground inside the wall was carpeted with bodies, no matter how far they rode; black-and-gray uniformed Brigaderos dragoons, armored lancers, men in the blue and maroon of the Civil Government. Stretcher-bearers had to step on the dead to get at the wounded, and there were thousands. More bodies hung from the walls, or carpeted the earth ramp where the enemy had tried to retreat when they realized what was happening outside. Occasionally a patch of living Brigaderos sat with their hands behind their heads, or putting field-dressings on their own wounded.

  He stopped at a mound of dead gathered more thickly around a banner of a running wardog; the pole still canted up from the earth, but the bodies were two and three deep in a circle around it. Armor rattled.

  "Stretcher bearers!" he called sharply, reigning aside. A pair trotted over. "This one's alive."

  "Sir. Orders are for our wounded first."

  "This is an exception," Ludwig bit out. The man's armor was silver-chased and there had been plumes in his helmet. "Get him to the aid station, now." Although from the amount of blood and the number of bullet holes, it might be futile.

  The three-barred visor was up, and the face inside it was enough like Ludwig Bellamy's that they might have been brothers. It was something far more practical that prompted his action, though. If that was Teodore Welf, he had two presents for Messer Raj today.

  He swore again when they finally pulled up in front of the forward HQ building. The stone facing looked as if it had been chewed. Men were sitting in the windows, or leaning against the walls, looking a little lost. Another stood in the main entranceway. A tall man, his face black as a Zanjian's with powder-smoke. Suzette Whitehall stood beside him with her arm around his waist.

  Ludwig Bellamy drew rein and saluted. "Mi heneral," he said.

  Raj grinned, a ghastly expression in the sooty expanse of his face. When he removed his helmet, there was a lighter streak along the upper part of his forehead.

  "Took you long enough," he said.

  Bellamy motioned a man forward; he dismounted and laid a flag at Raj's feet. "It's the flag of Howyrd Carstens, Grand Constable of the Brigade," he said. "We would have brought the head, but. ." Ludwig shrugged. A 75mm shell had landed close enough to Carstens that there really wasn't much left besides the signet ring they'd identified him with.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "It seems a good deal of trouble to go to, to hang me healthy," Teodore Welf said; his voice was low, because it hurt to breathe deeply.

  He was sitting propped up in the big four-poster bed, swathed in bandages from neck to waist, one arm immobilized in splints. A priest-doctor in the ear-to-ear tonsure of a Spirit of Man of This Earth cleric stood by the bedside, glaring at Raj and Suzette and the Companions; he was of the Brigade nobleman's own household, allowed in during the after-battle truce. It was a cold spring night, and rain beat at the diamond-pane windows, but a kerosene lamp and a cheerful fire kept the bedroom warm. The flames lit the inlaid furniture and tapestries; also the hard faces of the fighting men behind Raj.

  "I'm a thrifty man," Raj said, in Namerique almost as good as Teodore's Sponglish. "I've no intention of hanging you, or anything else unpleasant."

  "Excellent, your excellency: I've had a surfeit of unpleasantness just lately," the young nobleman said. "Did you take Howyrd, too?"

  "The Grand Constable? I'm afraid he died holding the rearguard."

  Welf sighed. "Spirit have mercy on the Brigade," he said.

  "I doubt that the Spirit will, just now, since the Spirit has tasked me with reuniting civilization and you're trying to stop me," Raj said.

  The young Brigade noble looked at him; his eyes went a little wider when he saw the flat sincerity in Raj's.

  "Particularly since the Spirit has given you Ingreid Manfrond for a ruler," Raj concluded.

  Teodore was a young man, and still shaken by the wounds and the drugs the surgeons had given him. His agreement almost slipped out.

  Raj nodded. "We'll talk more when you're feeling better," he said, and raised a brow at the priest.

  The cleric bowed his head grudgingly. "Lord Welf will live," he said. "Fractured ribs, broken arm and collarbone, and tissue damage. Much blood loss, but he will walk in a month. The arm, longer."

  A servant came in with a tray bearing tea and a steaming bowl of broth, dodging with a squeak as she met the high-ranking party going out through the same entranceway. Nothing spilled on the tray despite her skittering sideways, a feat which required considerable dexterity and some risk of dumping the hot liquids on her own head. Raj absently nodded approval as they tramped down the corridor. It wasn't far to his own quarters; Teodore Welf was one ace he intended to keep quite close to his chest.

  "I suppose you've got some use for him?" Gerrin Staenbridge said, as they seated themselves around the table. Orderlies set out a cold meal and withdrew. "Apart from making sure that Ingreid doesn't have the use of him, that is."

  Raj nodded. "Any number of uses. For one thing, while he's here he can't replace Manfrond-which would be a very bad bargain for us."

  Staenbridge laughed, then winced; there was a bandage around his own head. "I imagine he's not too charitably inclined toward the Lord of Men right now," he said. "About as much we were toward our good Colonel Osterville down in the Southern Territories."

  Kaltin Gruder drew the edge of his palm across his neck with an appropriate sound. Gerrin nodded.

  "I might have done that, if we'd had a war down there after you left," he said to Raj. "He'd have gotten us all killed."

  Raj nodded. "Young Teodore probably does feel like that," he said judiciously. "Something we can make use of later, perhaps. Now, to business."

  Jorg Menyez opened a file. "Ten percent casualties. Fifteen if you count wounded who'll be unfit-for-service for a month or more. Unevenly distributed, of course-some of the infantry battalions that held the north wall are down to company size or less."

  "The 5th's got five hundred effectives," Staenbridge said grimly.

  Raj nodded thoughtfully. "Ingreid lost. . at least twenty-five thousand," he said.

  "Plus five thousand prisoners," Ludwig interjected, around a mouthful of sandwich. "From their rearguard, mostly-they fought long enough to let the rest get back to their camps, but we had them surrounded by then. None of them surrendered until Carstens died, by the way."

  "All of which leaves us with about
seventeen thousand effectives, and Ingreid with nearly sixty thousand," Raj said. If the Brigade hadn't had fortified camps to retreat to he would have pursued in the hope of harrying them into rout. He certainly wasn't going to throw away a victory by assaulting their earthworks and palisades.

  "Still long odds, but their morale can't be very good. What I propose-"

  A challenge and response came from the guards outside the door, and then a knock. Raj looked up in surprise.

  "Message from Colonel Clerett, mi heneral," the lieutenant in charge of the guard detail said.

  "Well, bring it in," Raj said. He'd left standing instructions to have anything from Cabot Clerett brought to him at once.

  "Ah-" the young officer cleared his throat. "It's addressed to Messa Whitehall."

  "Well, then give it to her," Raj said calmly. He kept his face under careful control; there was no point in frightening the lieutenant.

  The younger man handed the letter to Raj's wife with a bow and left with thankful speed. Suzette turned the square of heavy paper over in her fingers, raising one slim brow. It was a standard dispatch envelope, sealed by folding and winding a thread around two metal studs set in the paper, then dropping hot wax on the junction and stamping it with the sender's seal. Silently she dropped it to the table, put one finger on it and slid it over the mahogany toward Raj.

  A bleak smile lit his face as he drew his dagger and flicked the thin edge of Al Kebir steel under the wax. The paper crackled as he opened it. There was nothing relevant in the first paragraphs. . the others looked up at his grunt of interest.

  "Our dashing Cabot fought an action outside Las Plumhas," he said. A sketch-map accompanied the description. "He's got the four thousand cavalry with him, and twenty-seven guns. Met about ten thousand of the Brigaderos, and thrashed them soundly."

  Nice job of work, he thought critically. Got them attacking with a feigned retreat-barbs usually fell for that-and then rolled them up when they stalled against his gun line. Our boy has been to school.

  "What!"

  The roar of anger brought the others bolt upright in surprise; Raj was normally a calm man. His fist crashed down, making the cutlery dance and jingle.

  "The little fastardo! The clot-brained, arrogant, purblind little snot!" Raj's voice choked off; there were no words adequate for his feelings.

  Suzette's fingers touched his wrist; the contact was like cool water on the red-hot heat of his anger. He drew a deep breath and continued reading, lips pulled tight over his teeth.

  "Our good Colonel Clerett," he said at last, throwing down the paper-Suzette scooped it up and tucked it into a file of her papers-"has decided that it's pointless to join us here. Instead he's going to head straight southwest across the Brigade heartland, wasting the land, and head for Carson Barracks to draw off Ingreid's main force and free up the situation."

  The shocked silence held for a full minute. Then Gerrin Staenbridge spoke: "You know, mi heneral, that might just work."

  Raj gulped water and spoke, his voice hoarse. "It might work if I was leading the detachment. I might've told you to do that if you were leading it. Cabot Clerett-"

  observe, Center said.

  Reality faded, to be replaced by a battlefield. He had an overhead view, of three hills held by ragged squares of Civil Government soldiers. Columns of smoke rose from each, as rifles and cannon fired down into a surging mass of Brigaderos that lapped around like water around crumbling sandcastles. As he watched the wave surged up over one of the squares, and the neat linear formation dissolved into a melee. That lasted less than a minute before nobody but the barbarians was left alive on the hilltop. Those men turned and slid down the slope in a charge like an avalanche to join the assault on the next formation.

  A flick, and he saw Cabot Clerett standing next to his bannerman. A dozen or so men were still on their feet around him. Cabot's face was contorted in a snarl that would have done credit to a carnosauroid. He lunged forward and drove the point of his saber through a barbarian's chest. Six inches of metal poked out through the back of the Brigadero's leather coat. The blade was expertly held, flat parallel to the ground so that it wouldn't stick in the ribs. It still took a moment to withdraw, and a broadsword came down on his wrist. The sword was sharp and heavy, with a strong man behind it. The young noble's hand sprang free; he pivoted screaming, with arterial blood spouting a meter high from the stump. The bannerman behind him drove the ornamental bronze spike on the head of the staff into the chest of the swordsman who'd killed Clerett, then went down under a dozen blades. The Starburst trailed in blood and dirt as it fell.

  probability 57 % ±10, Center went on dispassionately.

  Raj blinked back to reality, feeling the others staring at him.

  "Well," he said calmly, "the way I figure it, there's about an even chance or a little more he'll get himself killed and his force wiped out."

  Kaltin filled his wineglass. "You've taken the odd risk yourself, now and then," he pointed out.

  Raj shrugged, loosening the tense muscles of his shoulders. "Only when it's justified. We don't need to take risks now. With those four thousand men, I can wrap this war up in a year or two. The Western Territories have waited six hundred years for the reconquest, a year won't make any difference."

  Kaltin's right, he thought. A couple of years ago I'd have done the same thing myself. For a moment he felt Center's icy presence at the back of his mind, wordless.

  "Anyway," Ludwig said thoughtfully, "they'll have to detach a pretty big force to deal with Cabot. That should give us an opportunity."

  "Expensive if it costs four thousand of the Civil Government's elite troops," Raj said. He shrugged. "Let's deal with the situation as it is. Bartin, bring the map easel over here, would you?"

  * * *

  "Most Excellent mistress, there's been a terrible disaster!"

  Marie looked up from the pile of samples the merchant was showing her.

  "News from the front?" she said tonelessly.

  The steward shook his head and continued in his Spanjol-accented Namerique. "No, the main granaries down by the canal, mistress."

  He wrung his hands; Marie stood and swept out of the room, up the grand curving staircase to the rooftop terrace. It was a clear spring night in Carson Barracks, smelling as usual faintly of swamp. Some previous General had bought an astronomical telescope. Marie had ordered it brought out of storage and set up here, on the highest spot in the city; she wasn't allowed out of the palace much, but she could see the whole town. When she put her eye to the lens the squat round towers of the grain storage leapt out at her. Smoke was billowing out of their conical rooftops, red-lit by the flames underneath. The warehouses were stone block, but the framing and interior partitions and roofs were timber. . and grain itself will burn in a hot enough flame.

  One of the towers disintegrated in a globe of orange fire that swelled up a hundred meters above the rooftops. Burning debris rained down on the surrounding district, and on the barges and rail-cars in the basins and switching-yards near the end of the causeway.

  Flour will not only burn: when mixed with air, as in a half-empty bulk storage bin, it is a fairly effective explosive.

  "Manhwel," she said crisply to the steward, standing and drawing her shawl about her bare shoulders against the slight damp chill. The ladies-in-waiting were twittering and pointing about her. "Send all the Palace staff but the most essential down to help fight the flames."

  "At once, Most Excellent Mistress," he said.

  "The rest of you, back to your work. Don't stand there gaping like peasants."

  All of them surged away, except Dolors and Katrini. And Abdullah, bowing with hand touching brows and lips and heart, a slight smile showing teeth white in his dark beard. He didn't say a word: none was necessary. Thanks to a few gallons of kerosene and a few loyal Welf followers, and the Arab's timing devices, Carson Barracks was now in no state to stand a siege. With harvest four months off, the central provinces around the rail l
ine to Old Residence devastated, and every city short of food as winter stocks dwindled, it would probably be impossible to resupply to any meaningful degree.

  "And Manhwel, send my personal condolences immediately to General Manfrond."

  There was a fairly good courier service between the capital and the forces in the field. Her lip curled. Good enough for her to learn how that fool Ingreid Manfrond was wasting his fighting men. Every second family in the Brigade was in mourning for a father, a son, a husband. With Teodore prisoner and Howyrd Carstens dead, he'd be even worse.

  We cannot win this war, she told herself. And if Manfrond remains General, he will destroy the Brigade trying to.

  The flames were mounting higher, and the red glow was beginning to spread as timbers from the explosion caught elsewhere, for thousands of meters around. Bells clanged and ox-horn trumpets hooted, but Carson Barracks was a city of women and old men and servants now.

  Ingreid Manfrond must go. . and there would be revenge for her mother and for the House of Welf. The servant shivered as he watched her smile.

  She motioned Abdullah closer as the steward left. The guards at the corners of the terrace were well out of earshot.

  "I suppose you'll be reporting as well," she said. He shrugged expressively. "Those devices you showed us worked well."

  "They are of proven worth, my lady," he murmured, bowing again.

  "Everything I've done has been my own decision," Marie said after a moment, looking at his bland expression. "Why do I get this feeling that you're behind it?"

  "I merely offer advice, my lady," he said.

  "We're like children to you, aren't we?" she said slowly.

  He must be conscious that the guards would hack him in pieces at her word, but there was a cat's ease in the way he spread his hands.

  "There is much to be said for the energy of youth, Lady Welf," he said.

  "Send my regards to Teodore," she went on. "Tell him I was right about Manfrond."

  * * *

  "He's definitely pulling out," Raj said.

  The windows of the conference room were open to the mild spring day; the air smelled fresh and surprisingly clean for a city. Buds showed on the trees around the main plaza-those that hadn't been cut for firewood during the siege-and a fresh breeze ruffled the broad estuary of the White River, past the rooftops of the city. A three-master was standing downstream, sails shining in billowing curves of white canvas as she heeled and struck wings of foam from her bows. Pillars of smoke marked the Brigade camps on the distant southern shore, where excess supplies and gun-rafts burned.