by Robyn Bennis
“Gaston, what in hell is wrong with those horsemen? Why don’t they charge?”
Gaston looked at the field. A shell exploding overhead made both their horses jump. “I believe they’re having trouble in the mud, sir,” he said when he had his horse under control. “The good news is the Vin horsemen have even farther to go, over ground just as muddy.”
It was true. Hell, it was part of the reason he’d chosen this place to make his stand—it neutralized the Vins’ advantage in cavalry—but he hadn’t counted on conditions this bad. As he watched, the flank of the Vin skirmish line fired a rippling volley that put down dozens of dragoons. “Goddamn it!” he bellowed.
They were only skirmishers, which God in His wisdom had placed on Earth so they could be slaughtered by horsemen, and yet here they were, taking a piss on his dragoons.
Gaston had a telescope to his eye. He lowered it and said, “I fear we cannot blunt this assault, sir. We might think of an ordered withdrawal.”
“To where, Gaston?” He paused to take a cup of tea from the aide he’d sent out. He sipped it. Nice and hot. Wonderful. “To Arle? To be trapped there by encircling forces? No, it’s here or nowhere.”
He could tell Gaston didn’t agree, but Gaston was a good officer and said nothing of it.
General Lord Fieren sipped his tea, accidentally wetting his mustache when a round shot shrieked overhead and his horse shied. “Goddamn it,” he muttered. “Can nothing go right today?”
“There’s another one, sir,” said the aide to his left.
He looked up to see an airship fall, burning, from the clouds. “Not a good day for airmen,” he said. “Is it ours or theirs?”
Gaston was watching it through a telescope. “Hard to tell through all the smoke, sir. And I think its bow markings have burned away.”
“Any chance it’s that harlot’s ship? The one my idiot nephew is aboard?” He’d asked much the same question of the other falling ships, but until now the big ones had all been Vin. He dearly hoped the answer would be different this time—that the Vins had rid him of that troublesome little bastard. If only that ship would do him the courtesy of going down with all hands, then he could make up any story he liked about the harlot’s cowardice in the face of danger, end this foolishness about an integrated service, and go back to having a proper army.
“I think it may indeed be the Mistral, sir,” Gaston said. “And I wouldn’t put money on anyone escaping that wreckage alive.”
General Lord Fieren sipped his tea. “What a terrible shame,” he said. “Isn’t that a terrible shame, Gaston?”
“I was just about to say what a terrible shame it is, sir. Just terrible.”
The fires aboard the ship licked higher and it fell faster. The inert hulk landed on the field somewhere behind the Vin advance, its superstructure collapsing in on itself and sending up a swarm of burning embers. Looking through his telescope, General Lord Fieren saw no one escape.
“It crashed right in the line of their grand battery, sir,” Gaston said. “The smoke may throw off their aim.”
“It’s nice to see an airship making itself useful for once,” General Lord Fieren said, lowering his telescope. The comment brought a few polite chuckles from his staff. He turned his attention to dispatches and reports.
“Our dragoons are about to make contact with the Vin skirmish line, sir,” Gaston said, a few minutes later.
He looked. “Too damn late to do any good.” The skirmishers were finally dying under dragoons’ sabers, and the line infantry in the rightmost column was forming square, a prickly formation which made them all but immune to cavalry attack, but from which they couldn’t attack the Garnian line. But it was only that one column. The others continued on without missing a step, and would soon deploy, if he didn’t miss his guess.
They came on through artillery fire, closing ranks as men fell, seemingly undiminished no matter how many died. Through his telescope, he could now make out the blue, red, and gold of a Vin royal guards regiment coming right for one of his artillery batteries. These battle-hardened veterans didn’t blob up and veer away from the danger of the guns, as the conscripts had during the first attack, but marched straight into the dragon’s maw.
“Goddamn,” he said, collapsing his telescope with a slap of his palm.
“If we lose those guns,” Gaston said, “we’ll lose the whole flank.”
“Goddamn!”
Just before entering musket range, the Vin columns deployed into mixed order, the rear ranks fanning out to form firing lines that would engage his infantry, while the front ranks massed together to assault and silence his artillery bastions. He had to admire the bastards. They deployed as if practicing on a parade ground, rather than marching through ankle-deep mud while under cannon fire.
And now they advanced calmly against volleyed muskets. Along the defensive line in front of him, he heard the crisp, satisfying bang of the regular army regiments firing by platoon, and the uneven crackle of the militia regiments doing their feeble best to fire together. The Vin front ranks had to be getting a damned good thrashing, but from this vantage point he couldn’t see it for himself, for by the time the smoke of a volley cleared, the gaps were closed. All he could see were unbroken ranks of men in the Vin firing line, and forests of gleaming bayonets in the massed columns.
“Send any airship you can to attack their center,” he said. “I doubt it’ll do any good, but it can hardly hurt at this point.”
Gaston took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and consulted it. “Sir, those would be the Ibis and the Grouse. The Grouse is only a scout ship.”
“Yes, yes, those,” Lord Fieren said, waving his hand in the direction of the Vins.
Gaston scribbled the orders on a page, tore it out, and handed it to another aide. The aide galloped off to the command tent. When Gaston pushed the notebook into his pocket and looked up, his eyes caught on something ahead. “Sir,” he said, and his voice trailed off.
“What is it, man?”
“Another airship, sir.”
Lord Fieren followed his gaze. Above and behind the Vin formations, an airship emerged from the glowing brimstone of the low cloud. It streamed smoke and belched steam behind it, like some infernal demon escaping from hell. He looked through his telescope and could not believe the ship was still in the air. The damn thing looked like a burnt-out barn. Its nose was nothing but a charred skeleton of girders, and there were similar wounds on its flanks. Where the skin wasn’t burnt out entirely, it was peppered with tears, large and small, that flapped in the wind as it drove forward.
“What ship is that?” he asked.
“Can’t tell,” Gaston said. “Its markings are burned away.” A lamp began to flash from the ship’s gondola. “It’s signaling, sir.”
“Well, I can see that, man! What’s it say?”
Gaston lowered his telescope, frowning in confusion. “It says … ‘Tallyho.’”
* * *
“HAVE WE SPOTTED the fox?” Bernat asked.
“Right there,” Josette said, pointing to a battalion of elite Vinzhalian infantry directly ahead.
“That’s, uh … that’s not a fox,” Bernat said. “Has an air of wolf about it, as a matter of fact.”
“Whatever it is,” Josette said, “it’s heading right for a critical gun battery, and we’re going to stop it.”
Bernat looked back along the length of the ship. “In this?”
Josette had to admit that her ship was a wreck. Mistral was still streaming smoke from the extinguished fires. In several frames, the envelope was more ash than canvas. The steamjack was barely working, and threatened to give out entirely at any moment. Two of the nine gas bags had burst outright, and the rest were leaking so fast she’d soon have to drop the cannons over the side just to stay in the air.
“She’s still flying,” Josette said.
“In spite of our best efforts.”
“Elevators up another degree,” she ordered. “Let’s try to stay above
effective musket range. Cannoneers, ready bombs. Shortest fuses, please.”
Closer to the Garnian line, the Vins were in mixed order. That alone showed they were taking this assault more seriously than the last, and were not counting on the Garnian line to fall into shambles at their very approach. As a further caution, they had a second set of columns waiting in reserve, standing ready to make another assault if this one should fail.
Mistral sputtered and coughed along, coming at one of the reserve columns from behind. They cheered Mistral when she approached, and Josette had to laugh. “They think we’re a Vin ship,” she said. “Someone told them an airship was coming forward to support the attack, and here we are.”
Ahead, one of the Garnian artillery batteries was already under assault. Amid the smoke from its four cannons and the hundreds of muskets firing from the flanking regiments, she couldn’t tell who was winning. She only knew that the cannons suddenly stopped firing, their booming thunder replaced by the clash of swords and bayonets.
Mistral passed over the reserves and reached the rearmost ranks of the nearest Vin assault, where men who could smell victory were pushing their way forward, striving to be a part of it. “Cannoneers, light your bombs and drop immediately,” Josette said. “Drop as soon as the fuse is lit. Don’t wait.” With the fuses so short, a cannoneer’s hesitation might blow the entire hurricane deck apart.
The cannoneers blew on their slow matches, set the glowing ends to their fuses, and dropped the shells. One fell amid the ranks and would have killed a score of fusiliers if one of them hadn’t leapt at the smoking shell and pulled the fuse out before it could detonate. Two shells exploded early. Hot metal fell into the ranks, hurting no one, but checking the advance of the rear ranks. A few of the men fired their muskets upward. Others, still under the impression that the ship was an ally, waved their arms and shouted at it.
The next shell did better, exploding ten feet above the Vins’ heads to send deadly shards tearing through the ranks. Several more exploded harmlessly or were put out, before another burst at shoulder height. Its effect made even Josette wince. It made a crater in the middle of a mass of men, hurling them outward against their fellows, who in their turn fell in blue-and-yellow rows that lay as flat and motionless as trampled grass.
More shells followed, but they were over the gun smoke now. Whatever carnage they might cause below, from above they only appeared as flashes in a white cloud. “Cease bombing,” Josette ordered. “Stow the remaining shells.”
The Vin grand battery, now that Mistral had revealed herself as a Garnian airship, hurled shells at her by the dozen, until the air was again filled with flying metal. An explosion to port tore ragged holes in the envelope over frame six and sent a smoking shell fragment arcing through the air to land near Bernat’s feet. As he prodded it with the toe of his boot, he said, “Oh, good. I was worried we were getting a bit too chummy with the Vin artillery.”
Directly ahead, Ibis was flashing a message. “We’re ordered to attempt a landing, sir,” Kember said.
“Damn it!” Josette said. “This ship has plenty of fight left in her.” Then a grin came to her lips, spreading into a wide and eager smile.
Bernat’s expression fell. “Oh God,” he said. “You’re smiling. You’re going to try to get us killed, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who told me to smile more,” she said. “Steersman, right rudder. Elevators down full. Pass the word to rig a drag anchor. Break out pistols and sabers. Oh, and acknowledge the order.”
Bernat’s eyes went wide. He looked over the side, down to a column packed shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of veteran soldiers—hardened killers who’d spent years or even decades perfecting the art of war. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “There are too many of them.”
“Nonsense,” Josette said. “There’s plenty of room in hell.” A pair of cannoneers distributed weapons. Josette tied a sash around her waist, into which she tucked a saber and two pistols.
Mistral was well into her turn now, sweeping around to come at the artillery battery from along the stream. At the tail, they were lowering the canvas bucket that would serve as a drag anchor.
When she looked back, she saw Bernat taking a sword. “Joining us?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Mother always said a woman would lead me to ruin.”
“Do you even know how to use one of those?”
“Of course,” he said, raising the blade in salute. “I’m an aristocrat. We like swords.”
She knew that, of course, but she had to talk to occupy her mind, or else she’d start to think about what she was doing and be overcome by anxiety. “Just remember to jump exactly when we do,” she said. “If you hesitate, the ship will be a hundred feet in the air before you know it.” She was about to add some words of encouragement, but she saw him staring with determination into the smoke ahead, and knew it was unnecessary.
Against all odds, Bernat was unafraid.
* * *
BERNAT WAS TERRIFIED, absolutely terrified, but he dared not show it. He hoped that if he just stared forward and looked determined, they wouldn’t notice. He only wished he had Josette’s natural courage. There she was, calmly speaking to the crew, chattering on as if this were any given day.
Ensign Kember walked into his line of sight and leaned far over the rail. “Ibis is signaling,” she said.
“But you can’t make it out,” Josette said, before Kember could relay the message. “At this altitude, our envelope blocks the line of sight to their lamp.”
Kember leaned back and nodded. “Yes, sir. I see now that it does.”
“Ensign, can you handle both control wheels on your own?”
Kember looked nervous, but nodded. “I think so, sir, if I only have to fly a straight line.”
“Good,” Josette said. “Once we’re off, just get her to the rear and set her down on the first flat piece of ground you come to. Vent as much luftgas as it takes to keep her there. Don’t worry about the cost. We’ll say it was lost in action, and God help anyone who calls us liars.”
There was a jolt as the drag anchor hit the stream. Bernat looked back to see it filling with mud and blood-tinted water. The ship lurched and began to swing downward on the end of its anchor line, straight toward the thickest fighting on the entire Garnian line.
Lieutenant Martel, Sergeant Jutes, and most of the riggers rushed down the companionway and gathered weapons. Martel flashed a toothy smile at Josette. “Monkey rigger will cut the line as soon as we touch down, sir. And Private Grey would, uh, like to have a word with Lord Hinkal before we disembark.”
“Make it fast,” Josette said, looking at Bernat and pointing her thumb at the companionway hatch.
Bernat had to push through the crew, so many were now gathered on deck. There were more than a dozen here, leaving only the wounded and a few extra crewmen to fly the ship. Bernat pressed between two riggers and looked up through the companionway, where Grey knelt at the edge.
“Good luck,” she said.
“Thank you,” Bernat said, hoping there wouldn’t be more.
There was. She swallowed and said, “My lord, do you think … I mean, do you suppose … that there’s any possible way that someone like me, and someone like you…”
The deck suddenly quieted as everyone on it held their breath.
“No,” Bernat said, before things got out of hand. “No, there absolutely isn’t.”
The moment seemed to hang in the air for several seconds, until Grey snorted and said, “Well, to hell with you then.” She rose, turned, and went back to her engine without another word.
The silence on the deck persisted for some time after that, until Josette finally said, “This is why they shouldn’t allow men aboard airships.”
Sergeant Jutes snorted. “I’m startin’ to see the wisdom in that line of thinking, sir.”
“Are you sure you’re up for this, Sergeant?”
He grinned at her. “Doctor back on base said I sh
ould stay out of the air with this leg,” he said. “I’ll only be following his instructions.”
“Pass out rifles to the men on the rails,” she said, then raised her voice to address the men packed in front of her. “Stand clear of the guns!”
Bernat took a rifle from Jutes and pushed his way to the rail. Musket balls were now hitting the envelope, fired by men in the rear ranks of the column.
“Left rudder,” Josette called. “Down half a turn on the elevators.”
Mistral twisted on her kite string until her guns were pointing just ahead of the battery, where Bernat could see the faint glimmer of tightly packed bayonets. There, where the attacking column had to climb the mud-slick fortifications in front of the guns, the Vin column was bunched up, the attackers packed in like fish in a barrel.
“Rudder amidships. Elevators down another half turn. Wait for it, Ensign.”
The Vins on the shelf seemed to suddenly realize their peril. Muskets flashed in the smoke. Most were ill-aimed, fired not at the hurricane deck itself but at the massive shape looming out of the smoke above them, but not all the shots were wasted. The man next to Bernat fell, clutching his chest, and there was a cry of pain on the other side of the deck.
“Now!” Josette said.
Ensign Kember pulled the lanyard on the port gun. It threw the entire deck back and added its own smoke to the morass already ahead. Bernat could not see the shot’s effect, but he heard a great, terrible groan rise up from the packed ranks as dozens of men cried out in pain together.
Kember ran to the other gun and fired it without delay. As soon as it recoiled, men rushed forward to fill the space on the forward rail.
Bernat knew the ship was still plunging downward, but in the smoke he couldn’t tell how fast or how far away the ground was. He only knew that his stomach was rising into his throat, and the sounds of pain and battle were growing closer with every passing second.
“Rifles!” Josette called.
Along the rail, every rifle went up and fired, Bernat’s last of all, for he sought a target in the smoke before realizing the futility of it. Following the example of the others, he fired blindly into the morass and hastily discarded his weapon on the deck.
