Conflagration

by Mick Farren

  While the battle remained strictly terrestrial, The Four had no function, and Slide had organized that they be stashed close to the top brass until they were needed, believing absolutely that the generals always found the safest place on the field. The theory seemed to be that no shell would dare land among the stiffly immaculate commanders, and no shrapnel would dare tear through the tailored uniforms, the medal ribbons, mirror-shined boots and belts, and the scarlet epaulets of the general staff. A ten-man detachment of light horse had also been assigned as their escort. Albany believed that The Four were their paranormal secret weapon, and were protecting them accordingly. The last thing Albany wanted was that their spooky wonder-children, their antidote to the Dark Things of the Zhaithan, should be shot down, blown up, or captured in some idiotic battlefield mishap. Argo totally agreed with Albany’s view of things. If the winter training had taught him anything, it was never be in a hurry to fight. He had his part to play and he was under no illusion that his time would not come. Romantic ideas of charging with the cavalry were exactly that. They were romantic ideas and, as such, had nothing to do with the conflict at hand.

  Unfortunately, the conflict at hand was not going quite as well as the Albany High Command had hoped. Around the map table, faces were grim, and Field Marshall Virgil Dunbar had not been happy since the command vehicles had first come within sight of the valley and he had seen the disposition of the enemy as it really was rather than an abstraction on a map. He had cursed for all to hear. “Goddamn him. I swear that son-of-a-bitch Balsol has had this place in his back pocket since he marched into Virginia, going the other way as a conqueror. It’s too perfect for his purpose to be blind happenstance.”

  He had turned excitedly to one of his aides. “You see that third ridge behind him? I’ll wager good money there’s some backdoor there that he can take his whole army through if the day goes against him, and he feels the need to slip away. We are going to have our work cut out, and no mistake.”

  The Mosul, under the command of Faysid Ab Balsol, were dug in at the far end of the valley, and, as Dunbar had expected, were waiting for Albany to take the fight to them. The valley, according to Slide, was created by some prehistoric glacier or movement of ice. It was narrow at the end into which Albany was expected to advance, but then it quickly broadened out into a broad, flat, expanse of green, valley-floor meadow flanked by steeply wooded ridges on either side. The original Albany plan had been to clear the ridges before any major assault on the Mosul center. With Mosul guns on the high ground, an Albany advance into the valley would be through a withering crossfire. Unfortunately, the original Albany plan had only been half implemented. The ridge to the east had been cleared and was held by Albany Rangers, the Ohio, and various cavalry units and crews of irregulars, but the slopes on the west side of the valley were still in Mosul hands. The enemy guns were in a dominating position, and although their fire had so far fallen short, any further Albany penetration would be met with both exploding shells and solid iron cannonballs. The enemy was now deployed as an elongated crescent, with the greater mass of them on the valley floor but with a stretched, but fully intact, left flank extended along the western ridge, and this was very close to the last thing that Dunbar wanted. Instead of a fast thrust at the heart of the Mosul center, they would be attacking a double objective, half of which had the full advantage of the local geography.

  Albany was not, however, without some advantages of its own, and the greatest of these was their weapons. They came at the Mosul with the edge of aircraft, flying bombs, breech-loading howitzers, and repeating Bergman guns. One on one, they enjoyed overwhelming range and firepower, but, in this battle that so far did not have a name, the balance was nothing like one-on-one. The Mosul outnumbered Albany perhaps three or four to one, despite the Mosul losses on the Potomac, and while holed up in Richmond. Faysid Ab Balsol still had reserves of men to more than counter Albany’s superior ordnance. Virgil Dunbar could, of course, hold off and simply pound on the Mosul with his artillery without unduly exposing his troops. Given the time, Dunbar’s guns could inflict such devastating casualties from a distance that the enemy would either mount a last-ditch attack or attempt to flee, but time was something Dunbar did not have. An army of reinforcements was on its way from Savannah, and, with the weather clear and the ground dry as a bone, there was no reason to suppose it was not coming with all speed. As soon as Balsol had lured Dunbar and his divisions out from under the protective umbrella of the Norse rocket bombs, both commanders knew that Dunbar’s best chance was to finish Balsol and his battered and hungry troops as fast as possible, then quickly pull back into the operational range of the rockets. The fresh Mosul forces coming up from Savannah would have to choose between advancing into the decimating ravages of a prolonged rocket attack, or turning back and leaving Albany in control of Virginia.

  All of this must have weighed heavily on Dunbar’s mind as he faced his commanders across the mobile map table, but Argo could see no signs of strain in the Field Marshal’s face or posture. Dunbar had a reputation of a steely, if withdrawn, cool, and, once a decision was made, he was totally resolute. He maybe leaned forward on the map table a little heavily, but Dunbar did walk with a limp, the legacy of a Mosul sniper who had nicked him in the leg during the standoff on the Potomac. As the Albany field guns were momentarily quiet, he spoke with careful urgency. “The option is a hard one, gentlemen. To advance into this forsaken valley is going to cost us dearly, but we have no other choice, except to brace ourselves and pay the price. Without the luxury of time, we have no other alternative. We have to go, and we have to go now.”

  He looked round the assembly of his senior commanders as if daring them to counsel further delay. No one did. The smooth-shaven faces of the officers were grimly impassive, as the breeze fluttered the corners of maps that might have flown away if they had not been strategically weighted down with large stones. Dunbar was running the battle from a grassy knoll that overlooked the main trail into the valley and was sufficiently elevated to provide a clear view of the valley floor beyond. Although a command tent had been pitched, he was issuing his orders in the open, in full view of his men, and everyone who was able had crowded round to watch. Argo had used his rank and his position to get as close to the maps and the flow of action as he could. The soldier in the field had no grasp of any bigger picture. All the swaddie knew was shot and shell and the smoke that surrounded him, and the man next to him being suddenly cut down. Beyond that, he had little clue of what was going on, or even whether the fight was being lost or won. Argo liked to know what was happening and what was about to happen, and, the more he saw of war, the more he became convinced that knowledge was the ultimate weapon.

  Dunbar raised his voice to take in all those present. He was not generally the kind of commander who made rousing speeches to his men, but he apparently considered this the day to make an exception. “I can’t tell you that there won’t be blood spilled this day, and I’d be a fool or a liar if I pretended the coming fight won’t be bitter. The butcher is going to present us with a bill today, lads, and it’ll come with a total we’ll read and weep. The valley in front of us is going to be immortalized in history, and too many will find their last resting place there. Our task is to ensure that the majority of those who fall are Mosul, and only a very few are from Albany. This day will be formidable, my friends, and nothing is going to be improved by waiting. The time has come, gentlemen. We have prepared long enough, and now we must rise to the occasion. Return to your units. We’ll let the ordnance pound them a while longer, and then we’ll move.”

  CORDELIA

  Cordelia closed her eyes and concentrated, focusing to the near-exclusion of everything around her. Finally she opened them, shook her head, and replaced her blue sunglasses. “Nothing. No sign of anything. So far it’s a totally terrestrial battle.”

  Jesamine looked around as though seeking something that wasn’t there. “I feel we ought to be doing more. So many are going t
o sacrifice so much and we’re just standing around.”

  Over to Jesamine’s right, a column of mounted Ohio was wending its way up into the small segment of the western ridge that had been taken and held by Albany. They were following other cavalry units that had already made the ascent. While the infantry and fighting machines advanced down the valley, they were going to make one more attempt to dislodge the Mosul from the high ground. Cordelia shared Jesamine’s frustration. She had friends in that desperate bid to clear the heights, but venting didn’t help. She was about point that out when Argo did it for her.

  “We’re doing what we have to do, and, right now, we have to wait until we’re needed. Ask any of the poor fucking grunts. Waiting is what war’s all about.”

  Behind him, Raphael nodded in agreement. “It’ll be our turn soon enough. No need to rush.”

  The Four had come to war and found that they had nothing to do, a situation that failed to improve their already shaky cohesion. The guns had stopped some fifteen minutes previously, and the fighting machines had finally ground down into the valley, lurching forward on their steel tracks and iron treads, while the exposed infantry, advancing with fixed bayonets, stayed as close as possible to their armored sides, taking advantage of all the cover offered by the rumbling juggernauts. Some regiments had even gone into the valley singing.

  Oh, Annie gal, I must away

  On and on and on and on

  But I’ll fuck you come the break of day

  On and on and on and on

  Then the captain calls and I obey

  Over the hills and far away.

  The assault force had been advancing for maybe three minutes, when the Mosul guns on the ridge opened up, breaking the infantry formations with sudden spurting geysers of flame, dirt, and black smoke. With at least a mile to go to the Mosul’s forward trenches, the Albany boys would have to endure shelling from the ridge all of the way, unless the cavalry and the Ohio could take that western high ground and silence the enemy cannon. There would be no more singing. This first crash of the Mosul artillery had been like a clap of massed thunder, and thrown Cordelia into a sudden if momentary panic. She didn’t want to play any more. War was no place for her. She was born for soft pretty things, not the implacable ugliness of combat. She wanted to run away from the smoke and the flame and death-dealing explosions. She wanted to hide. She didn’t want to die. But then she found her strength and reestablished control, sternly reprimanding herself. “We all have to die sometime, darling.”

  “What?”

  She thought that no one had heard her over the guns, but Argo, Jesamine, and Raphael were all staring at her curiously. “Are you alright, Cordelia?”

  She looked from face to face. They all seemed genuinely concerned, but Cordelia tried to laugh it off. They didn’t need to see her weakness. “I was finding encouragement in a well-worn platitude. We lived through the Potomac, and we’ll live through this.”

  Right at that moment, the first Albany fighting machine was hit. A triple explosion shook the ground; the exploding shell, then the machine’s magazine detonating and boiler blowing in quick succession. Hot metal, dirt, and smoking debris rained from the sky. Cordelia ducked, as did everyone around her. A chunk of twisted steel buried itself in the ground just a few feet from her.

  “Fuck!”

  Crouching on one knee, she glanced in the direction of Dunbar, to see if he had reacted like everyone else. Apparently the Field Marshal was made of sterner stuff than his underlings. Virgil Dunbar stood straight and still while all around him sought cover. Either he believed that he would never be touched, or he didn’t care if he was. Whatever the source of his strength, he ignored the danger and stared unflinching down the length of the fateful valley where hundreds of his men were going to their deaths. Cordelia knew this was probably the only way to deal with war and command, and wondered if, one day, she would be able to do the same.

  Cordelia straightened up, and looked round for the others. “Is everyone okay?”

  Jesamine and Argo nodded, but Raphael was tentatively touching his forehead, where a trickle of blood ran down from just above his eyebrow. Argo was the first to notice. “Hey, man, you’re bleeding.”

  Raphael tersely shook his head. “It’s nothing, just a scratch.”

  “You want a medic to take a look at it?”

  Raphael found a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut. His expression was scathing. “Be real. There are guys being blown to pieces just over there.”

  Cordelia didn’t want to look, but Raphael was right. The infantry and the fighting machines were advancing into a hell of shot, shell, and deafening cacophony. Within just minutes, they had been almost totally obscured by dark billowing smoke, curling in sudden eddies, and punctuated by flashes of red-orange flame. Starshells burst overhead, leaving blossoms of white cloud, and a dirigible rode the wind currents, but safely to the east, out of the reach of even the most optimistic Mosul fire. The terrible beauty of it all left Cordelia scarcely able to speak. The battlefield was a place of brutal fascination, to which all must succumb, no matter how many engagements they had seen. The aides and officers around her had all been at the Battle of the Potomac, but they still stared in awe as the main Albany assault ground deeper and deeper into the valley that so far didn’t even have a name.

  Dunbar observed what was happening and cleared his throat. “Yes, gentlemen. Take a good look, and tremble. You have one minute to stare in horror at what we have wrought, and then, goddamn it, get yourselves back to the task at hand.”

  The officers around the map table visibly pulled themselves together. Dunbar took out a pocket watch, read the time, and then snapped it closed. He turned briskly to his artillery coordinator. “Musgrave…”

  The stocky, red-haired colonel stiffened. “Sir?”

  “Move the guns into the valley. Fast as you can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cordelia had once been friends with Musgrave’s daughter Hyacinth but, when Hyacinth had enlisted in the Royal Nursing Volunteers, Cordelia had lost track of her. Musgrave picked up a field telephone, briskly cranked the handle, but nothing happened. He cursed all modern contraptions of wires and batteries, then quickly turned and signaled for a galloper. A young lieutenant stepped forward—little more than a boy who had yet to start shaving. He was given quick instructions, and then ran for his horse. The spell of first combat was broken, now the officers were all in motion, casting worried glances from the battle itself to the maps in front of them. The near end of the valley was now so swathed in smoke that to see whether the advance was still moving proved hard. Bursts of small-arms fire seemed to indicate that the infantry was engaging the Mosul on the ridge. One group of staff officers was peering at the high ground through field glasses. “Field Marshal, I see explosions in among the trees, near the summit line.”

  “Cavalry making contact?”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Dunbar searched for Musgrave. “Where are those damned guns?”

  “They’re moving now, sir.”

  Cheers broke out from across the knoll as galloping teams of horses, a mounted rider on the leader, charged through the camp with all the show and bravado of the mobile artillery, and then plunged on, each dragging a light howitzer. Down the trail and into the valley, they maintained a reckless speed across ground already torn up by armor and infantry. The gun-carriages were making for the base of the eastern ridge, before the enemy could draw a bead on them, to set up forward firing positions from which they could rain down all hell on the Mosul in the opposite trees.

  As the last caisson rattled past, Cordelia could not resist clasping her hands together in wonder and delight. The gunners had charged out so breakneck, and splendidly headlong, Albany suddenly seemed to have a chance. They were taking the fight to the Mosul at such a dashing fury, how could they not prevail?

  “Oh, magnificent.”

  She had exclaimed louder than she had intended
, and some of Dunbar’s immediate staff turned and looked at her. Dunbar himself glanced up and arched an eyebrow. “You approve of my gunners, do you, Lady Blakeney?”

  RAPHAEL

  “Are we connected to the airship yet?”

  When Dunbar moved, his aides moved with him like chicks following an angry mother hen, except the Field Marshal was no mother hen, and right at that moment, a Colonel Ailes, the engineer responsible for communications, was the target of his ire. Raphael didn’t envy the man who was shaking his head and looking decidedly unhappy.

  “No, sir. We’re having trouble picking up the signal.”

  “Damn it, Ailes, when?”

  Raphael knew that the airship constituted Dunbar’s eye in the sky. He turned and looked at the pall of smoke and fire in the valley. Even with field glasses it was hard to tell what was really going on and how much progress the assault troops were making. He could see the howitzers firing from their new position at the base of the eastern ridge, but little else.

  “Just five to ten minutes, Field Marshal.”

  “You told me that five minutes ago, damn it.”

  “It’s a brand new system, sir. It’s never been used in the field before.”

  “You know my feeling about excuses.”

  Two electricians, a corporal and a private, came in laying electrical cable as they went, and temporarily removing Ailes from the hook. Two more pushed their way through the officers carrying a ticker tape machine, and began stripping wires and connecting them to shiny copper terminals. Dunbar stood over them, watching with interest. “Is this going to work for me, Corporal?”

  “We’ll soon find out, sir.”

  The corporal screwed down the final terminal and the machine commenced to clatter. A length of paper tape unspooled and was typed on by the automatic keys. When the process stopped, Dunbar ripped the tape from the machine and examined it. “This is gibberish.”

  The corporal was unconcerned. “Just a test, sir. But it shows that everything’s working, if you know what I mean.”