CLOSING IN. She checked the battery dial in the dim light of her pin lamp It was nearly down to the red band. Another mortar shell exploded nearby, shaking the wagon.
BATTERIES FAILING. BOMBARDMENT INTENSIFYING. ESTIMATE
ONE MORTAR SHELL IN FOUR IS NEW EXPLOSIVE TYPE. REPORT BY
LIEUTENANT DOLORIAN JELVERIA, SPARK FLASH 7, FIRST ALLIANCE
SPARK FLASH CORPS.
She hesitated a moment, then took a deep breath and added SENIOR SURVIVING OFFICER. END OF TRANSMISSION. As Dolorian stepped from the wagon she suddenly remembered that there were two fully charged batteries in each of the mast wagons. If what remained of the encampment square held until daylight, she could make another transmission. The Overmayor would at least know what forces were crossing the bridge, and have a last estimate of enemy strength. The batteries had only to be unclamped and carried to the spark flash wagon. She blew her whistle amid the dim forms of scurrying musketeers.
"I want four strong men here, at the double!" she shouted in a hoarse voice.
SOULS IN THE GREAT MACHINE
"Should we form a queue?" Glasken called from somewhere in the confusion.
Dolorian slid to the mud beside the spark flash wagon, giggling uncontrollably. Presently Glasken came over and sat beside her. "I nearly choked. Keep your mouth open in case an explosive one comes down, that's what they told me: saves your eardrums. Well the bugger didn't mention the risk of swallowing a pint of mud and horse turds, did he?"
Glasken had a deep but short shrapnel wound in the lower leg. Medician Torumasen cleaned and sewed the gash, and in spite of Dolorian's protests he managed to walk a few experimental steps with a staff and bar crutch.
"I thought you were dead," she admitted as she supported him. "I--I reported it to Oldenberg. I said I was in command."
"No matter, Frelle. Leave it a few hours and both of those may become true."
She helped him to the command tent and he lay with his head in her lap while she stroked his hair and teased out the gritty knots. "Now what manner of woman could capture your heart, Fras? I would guess one who is very pretty, but not so much as to catch the eye of too many men, one who is bright enough to appreciate your very real talents but not so bright as to overshadow you. Well off for funding, and.." you would probably expect a virgin as well."
"As a matter of fact I did lose my heart," replied Glasken dreamily. "She was pretty, intelligent, ambitious, poor, and someone else's wife." "Fras, my word! I was unfair. Who was she?" "Jemli Cogsworth. Milderellen is her maiden name."
It was some moments before Dolorian recovered her breath and composure. "Is--" "Yes."
"Enough! Too much! Far too much!" Dolorian exclaimed with her hands over her ears. "Change the subject, anything."
"Ah... I'm told you are a fine shot," ventured Glasken.
"Oh, I practiced my pistol work for years in Libris. It got me through promotions and re gradings and helped keep me out of duels."
"How so?" "I've had five challenges to legal duels, but each time I hit the target more squarely than my challengers. That denied them the right to the duel."
"How many were over the poaching of other Frelles' men?" "All," admitted Dolorian. "Lemorel's sister," she marveled with her next breath.
Glasken raised himself on one arm, then pressed his forehead against hers in the universal gesture of relaxed affection.
"I'm proud of you, Frelle Dolorian, and I think you lovely. Hardest of all to say, but I forgive you too. Does that help?"
Dolorian put her arms around him and kissed the remains of his left ear. "Darling Fras, sweet man," she whispered. "You no longer wish to die?" "Not unless it's for you."
An hour passed, during which the bombardment slowed to a shell every ten minutes. Dolorian was dozing when a flickering blue light blazed up outside the tent. It was followed by a deep hum mingled with a vast crackling in the air. She came back to her senses with a start.
"Callshewt! My batteries!" she shouted, seizing Glasken's rain cape and darting outside. At the spark flash wagon, two technicians were standing staring at the horizon. "It's a short-circuit, you're draining the power!" she called. "Cut the cables, use your saber."
"We haven't even got the insulator caps off, Frelle Lieutenant," one of them called back. "You--" There was a distant rumbling explosion, followed by another, and another. "Then what was that noise.." and that smell in the air, like thunderstorms?"
"The sky lit up like lightning, Frelle. Aye, it may be a storm, you can hear the thunder." The man did not sound convinced by his own words.
Dolorian looked to the horizon, which was glowing red. "By the Call, are they the Alspring campfires?"
"Can't say as I've noticed, Frelle Lieutenant. Been busy withe clamps,
was glued down by some loon back in Oldenberg." "They's cover fires," speculated a deeper voice behind the wagon. "The blue flash were probably a signal flare, a signal for 'em to all start fires to for smokescreen before dawn. Mark my words, Frelle Lieutenant, they's told of us as havin' this manner of spark flash Those fires are to blind us from reportin' their numbers before they flay us te pie meat come dawn."
Dolorian looked to the horizon again, not fully convinced by the Beneath Glasken's rain cape she was shivering, and her feet were bare in the cold mud. I'll note it down for when we can transmit again," she decided. "Carry on."
"Ah, Lieutenant?"
"Yes?" "We... we just wanted to say what a great shot that was you did." "What he means is, Lieutenant, is that we're with you." "You an' the Captain, too."
When Glasken awoke the sun was just above the horizon, but glowed pale and cold through a pall of smoke. The mortar-bombards had ceased to fire during the night and there was not even sniper fire. Dolorian briefed him on what had happened while he slept. Glasken sniffed the air.
"Charred meat," he said in a flat voice, as if he was in a dream.
"They must be burning their dead," replied Dolorian.
"No, no... Strange, silent stillness. Not normal, not real. Perhaps we're dead. Was there an attack? Were we killed?" His questions surprised Dolorian. She put a hand to her face and said, "Your only death was the little death." She kissed the wound on his cheek that she had made the night before.
"They should have attacked at dawn, when the sun from the eastern horizon was in our eyes. Is the spark flash wagon working?" "Several coils and joints melted last night, probably because some terminal was connected awry in the dark. My crew should have it live in a quarter hour."
Glasken stood up with the aid of his crutch and looked out of the tent into the swirling smoke.
"There's nothing alive beyond the trenches," he said. "No noises, no shouts,
no jingles of gear and harnesses. How long has it been like this?"
"Hours. Since long before dawn."
"Your command, Lieutenant," he said as he began to limp toward the trenches facing the bridge. I'll not be long."
"Johnny, get down!" she shouted, running in front of him and trying to push him back. For all his wounds, Glasken resisted. "There's no alarm, Frelle Lieutenant," he said dreamily. "They're all dead. Your command, mind the square." He limped on.
"All dead?" she said aloud, then beckoned to Sergeant Gyrom. "Go after him, drag him to the ground at the first shot!" she hissed. "We'll stand ready with covering fire."
"Frelle!" said the sergeant with a crisp salute, then he went after Glasken in a crouching ran. They made their way past the dogleg in the trench line, then out into the no man land of the previous day's fighting. They reached charred scrubland. Many of the trees were still burning, and the blackened grass was brittle underfoot. Glasken passed several corpses, charred and smelling obscenely succulent. Dark trenches gashed the red earth, and the reek of roasted flesh was even more sweet and pervasive.
"Captain, Fras Captain, come back!" Gyrom whispered, tugging at his ann. "This is an evil, devil place. The Ghans have sent daemons against us."
Glasken shook him off and
tried to lift a heavy, charred plank that was lying at his feet. The effort made him reel, and he could feel his stitches tearing.
"Sergeant, help me lay this across the trench," he said softly, as if fearful to break the stillness.
Beyond the trench they walked down the road in utter stillness and silence. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Men, animals, insects and birds, all were dead. Smoke drifted and swirled like cream stirred into coffee. They reached the bridge. The railings had been burned away, but the boards had been covered with wet sand and gravel as a precaution against fire bombs. Down on the river a galley wrecked in fighting days earlier was burning where it had been grounded.
Bodies floated on the water. Glasken walked out onto the bridge.
"Fras Captain, the bridge isn't safe," called Gyrom. "Walk in the middle, as I do," replied Glasken, neither stopping nor turning. "But the Ghans' camp is just beyond the bridge." "That's where I'm going."
Not far from the bridge was a vast field where the Ghan camp had been made. Glasken looked across the field but did not walk any further.
"Captain, they are all gone."
"Not so, Fras Sergeant, tents burn easily. They are still here." Gyrom stared more closely at the nearest mound, then took a few steps toward it. He scrambled back. "You're right, Captain Glasken, these are all bodies. Thousands of men, with their horses and camels. Look over there, that great hole: thunderbolts from the sky."
"No, that was an ammunition dump exploding in the heat that did all this.
Some ancient weapon, perhaps. A glass that concentrates the sun so as to bum..."
"But this happened at night." "Then I don't know what to say. Whatever has been turned loose here has made no distinction between Ghan and Alliance warriors, except for a circle a couple of hundred yards in radius.." centered somewhere near our spark flash wagon." He scratched at his stub bled jaw. "Sparkflash seven was at the very center."
Glasken gestured to Gyrom to return. The sergeant hurried after him and they crossed the bridge again. "Have the men bring a barrow of gunpowder here," Glasken said as they stepped back onto the south bank. "Tell them to place the barrels low in the supporting framework, make sure that the walkway cannot be as easily rebuilt as last time."
Later that morning the explosion that shattered the bridge echoed out across the blackened land. A cloud of smoke and debris rose into the air, then silence returned.
"Annihilated!" the sergeant was crying over and over again as the cart returned to the circle. "It's the Overmayor. How did she do it?" The forty riders that made their way through the charred landscape were evenly divided between Ghan, Southmoor, Confederation, and Alliance representatives.
A truce pennant fluttered above them on the lance of one of the Confederation officers. They rode uneasily at a brisk trot, surveying the desolation and fearful that it might come again. It was with considerable relief that they reached the untouched Alliance square at Ravensworth.
In a sense Lemorel had the advantage at Ravensworth, because she still had fifty thousand lancers just outside of Haytown. It would have taken but a word from her for the Alspring forces to break the treaty and pour through Haytown unopposed, crossing the river. In another sense time was running out. The renewed rain and unending mud and cold were draining the morale of her men, and now the circle of char seemed to be a warning that the Alliance was favored by the Deity. The truce delegation was a way to check just what was happening near Ravensworth. If the Alliance forces had some advanced weapon, then it was all over. If the catastrophe was something else, the drive to cut the Alliance in two would go ahead.
"Just as I suspected, no mighty weapon," she said to Overhand Baragania as they approached the Alliance encampment. "This was some natural disaster. Haytown will offer no resistance if my lancers cross their bridges without attacking the town. The Central Confederation will demand reparations, but their Overmayor wants to stay out of the war if possible."
Baragania was wide-eyed and ashen-faced. He rode hunched over, as if he expected to be shot at without warning. "Commander, this horror could well have been an act of wrath by the Deity. How can you be so sure of yourself?"
"It's obvious what has happened. The blocking of our way at the Ravensworth bridge meant that a huge buildup of metal weapons and cooking fires took place in a very small area. Why do you think that steam engines and the like are proscribed by all major religions, and why is industry now spread thin over the countryside? Metal, heat, and smoke. If they become too concentrated in a small area.." well look around you. When my army was compressed into this tiny area, it became like an industrial town in the ancient civilization. Old Anglaic writings talk of industry causing 'greenhouse warming." Now we can see what that mysterious term 'greenhouse warming' really means."
Baragania looked about him. Her explanation was plausible, but the sheer magnitude of the forces that had been unleashed was still terrifying.
"Why were the Alliance forces spared?" he asked. "I say they were not. This was but a pocket of a much larger Alliance unit, the rest of which was destroyed. As for this little area, well, why will nine of a city's spires be struck by lightning in a thunderstorm while a tenth is untouched? Pure chance."
"You will have to convince a lot more followers than me, Commander. The men are cold, homesick, and frightened. The war has gone from a triumphal promenade to a slow, bloody, hard-fought nightmare. Of late there has been talk of the Deity sending all that rain to blight us as a sign of displeasure. Now... this."
"I explained it to you!" snapped Lemorel, growing impatient. "I am an educated man, Commander. I can trace out the mathematics of planetary motion and explain the optics of a telescope. Thus I can accept what you say, but there are no more than a few hundred like me in all of your remaining army."
"Then the educated elite will have to convince the others." "This is just my concern, Commander. The elite, as you call them, have the strongest sense of honor and chivalry. Violate the truce at Haytown or behave dishonorably in any otherwise, and you may find that the nails that hold your army together are pulling loose."
"I am a ruthless hammer, Overhand."
"You are a leader, even if your title be Commander. If none follow, you cannot lead."
"That's enough! You're treading a dangerous border." "Commander, if you do not hear this from me, nobody else will tell you. Meantime the fears and mutterings will still be there. I shall say this once more because I really am dedicated to your service: behave with honor and do not lose the respect of your officers. We are on the balance, and the needle is finely poised."
"If you want to see honor dragged in the mud, just observe the Alliance captain in this encampment ahead. My spies have warned me that it is John Glasken, the very incarnation of dishonor."
"This officer cannot be the man you have spoken about. By all accounts he's a brave and popular leader whose men would follow him to hell and back."
Lemorel cut her riding whip across his arms with a sudden swoosh. Baragania flinched at the stinging blow.
"That's enough," she said between clenched teeth. The incident was not lost on John Glasken, who was watching their approach with a heliostat telescope. The veiled one in blue, he thought to himself. Only their Supreme Commander would whip an Overhand: it just has to be Lemorel. If he could insult her sufficiently, she might just take offense and challenge him to a duel. She was said to be fond of personally executing senior officers who failed her and killing those who challenged her in duels.
"Let's hope that I live up to your small-arms training, Abbot Haleforth," Glasken whispered as he lowered the telescope. Dolorian met him back at the command tent. "I made another transmission to Oldenberg," she reported. "They know about the charring now." "Lemorel's with that delegation, and disguised," he explained hastily with a flourish of his telescope. "When I meet them I'll drop a few choice Glaskenisms, try to goad her into challenging me to a duel."
"Duel with Lemorel?" Dolorian cried in alarm. "Even if you wer
e Frelle Zarvora I'd advise you to think again, Johnny. And how can you pace out a duel while walking with a crutch?"
"I can manage--but yes, the crutch would be a good prop to give her false confidence. After she bites at the bait I'll drop the crutch, have my leg bound with splints and walk flat footed If I die, you're in charge. Make for the Confederation. They're neutral, and there's said to be no chocolate shortage."
"Good fortune, sweet Fras, and shoot straight."
"Good fortune, sweet Frelle, and do nothing that I would not be proud of." Glasken chose to meet the truce party beside the spark flash wagon. The Confederation officer bearing the truce pennant rode up and saluted him. The other thirty nine representatives gathered in a wide semicircle.
"Are you in charge here?" he asked Glasken in Austaric after noting the standards and pennons flying over the camp. "Captain John Glasken, I'm the most senior officer left alive," replied Glas ken, supporting himself with a staff and bar crutch. "What are you doing here?" "We heard an explosion two hours ago. We made for the cloud of smoke." Glasken leaned more heavily on his crutch. I'll put it another way. What are you Confederation neutrals doing out here with those Ghans and Southmoors,
and why won't those Alliance officers speak with me?"
"We are here only to observe."
Glasken bit his tongue, barely intercepting an obscene and sarcastic reply. "Is all that out there enough fact for you?" he snarled.
"We rode through it for seven miles. They're all dead, tens of thousands. How did you do it?"
"Me? With three hundred infantry, a medic ian and six signalers?"
"Thousands died last night, Captain, roasted instantly. You must have a weapon."
"Balls. We were preparing to be overwhelmed. I want to speak with the Alliance officers in your party." "No. That would violate the terms of the truce sealed under that pennant," he said with a gesture upward. "There can be no exchanging of tactical information that could benefit either side."
Glasken made a desultory flourish in the direction of the command tent. "All right then, so how can I help you? A formal coffee? Dancing girls? A troupe of Alspring eunuchs to draw you a hot bath and lay out a change of under cottons
Souls in the Great Machine Page 56
