by David Weber
Whatever they were thinking, they were also lining up for yet another attack on Second Platoon, and he lifted the visor of his helmet to scrub his eyes in exhaustion.
He could shift some of Third Platoon over to Second’s area, but if he did that and the scummies hit Third’s bastion simultaneously, they would sweep away the reduced defenders. No. The only option was to order Third to fire everything it had into the flank of the assault. That hadn’t stopped the last one, but maybe it would work this time. Something had to break these bastards.
He shook his head again as the scummies surged forward. The ground was so thickly covered with their dead that they literally had to climb over drifts and hills of bodies just to reach the wall, but they didn’t even seem to notice. They just came on through the hail of bead and grenade fire from front and flank until they hit the wall. Then the ladders went up again, and the Kranolta swarmed upward.
The plasma cannon in the keep and Third Platoon’s bastion could bear on them as they topped the battlements, but the gunners had to be careful. Not only was there the danger that they might inflict human casualties in the wild melee atop the wall, but one twitch to the side, and the plasma bolts could blow the door right out of the other bastion.
Now that door rang to the sound of axes again, and bead gunners from Third Platoon’s bastion picked off the axmen carefully. Again, a burst of beads in the wrong spot would do the scummies’ work for them.
Only three of Third Platoon’s spear slits overlooked the other platoon’s doorway. Against any rational foe, that should have been enough, but these were Kranolta. A bead rifleman stepped back with a jammed rifle, and for the flicker of time required for someone to replace him, a single scummy was able to survive long enough to drive three more blows into the hastily assembled timber barricade.
The barrier had finally taken all it could stand. It crumbled, and a wild, hungry scream of triumph went up from the Kranolta as they saw their chance at last.
Pahner dropped down to the plasma cannon and slapped the gunner on the helmet. He pointed to the open doorway and the line of scummies clawing towards it against a solid wall of bead fire.
“Fire it up!”
“But, Captain—” the gunner began. The angle to the doorway was acute, and it the odds were better than even that none of the plasma bolt itself would carry through it. But they were just barely better than even, and even if the bolt itself didn’t, blast, fragments, and thermal bloom through the doorway and its covering spear slits would be more than sufficient to turn the bastion’s interior into a vision of Hell.
“Do it!” Pahner snapped, and keyed the general frequency. “Second Platoon! Duck and cover!”
The gunner shook her head and triggered three rounds into the mass around the doorway, clearing the narrow walkway. Someone shrieked over the radio as the rounds impacted, but there was no time to think of that, and Pahner leapt back to his previous perch as the Kranolta recoiled again.
But they didn’t recoil far, and the Marine cursed. They’d barely retreated at all this time, dropping below the level of the now unmanned wall, which put them just out of the angle of fire from the defenders clinging to the bastions and the keep. His taccomp threw fresh strength estimates up on his HUD, and he swore again. There were still three thousand or so of them left. Which wasn’t very many for a force which had begun with eighteen thousand, but his readouts showed only thirty-one of the company still mobile.
We can still win this thing, he thought. They’re wearing us away, but we’re wearing themaway even faster. Two more assaults. Maybe three. That’s all we’ve got to make it through, and—
The enemy’s horrible trophy horns brayed as they worked themselves up for yet another assault, and Pahner’s nerves tightened. But then he heard another sound, an answer to the Kranolta horns. A harsher, deeper braying came from the west, and Pahner looked in that direction and his heart seemed to freeze.
Another entire army was deploying out of the forests beyond the ruined city. It was barely a fraction of the original Kranolta host, but it was also fresh and unbloodied as it marched to join the assault. The new warriors were heavily armed and armored, and they were accompanied by flar-ta —the missing baggage train the initial Kranolta army had left behind, no doubt. Some of the pack beasts seemed to be covered in glittering bronze, and as the taccomp projected the new numbers, Armand Pahner knew utter despair.
The Kranolta reinforcements outnumbered the mangled force at the foot of the wall, and their addition to the next assault would break the Marines’ back at last.
He stared at the death of every one of his people for perhaps ten seconds, then sucked in a deep breath. If he and his people were going to go down, he would be damned if they died cowering in these holes like Voitan’s last defenders.
“If you can make a heap of all your winnings. . . .” he whispered then opened the company frequency. “Bravo Company. All units, prepare to sally. A new force has just arrived. If we can hammer them badly enough in the open field, it will give us a little time to regroup. Immediately upon return to this position, I want everyone to fall back to the keep. We’ll reform our line there.” As if any of them were going to return, he thought bitterly. “All units, arm your wounded and prepare to sally.”
“Oh, fuck,” Julian muttered as he began to tear at the barrier across the keep door. Like the curtain wall gate, the keep doorway had been too large for them to hang a portal that could be easily opened and closed. Instead, it was barricaded by a pile of braced tree trunks, hammered together by the armored suits. Taking it down was a permanent operation; putting it back would not be an option.
“It’s cool,” Macek said unevenly. “We can do this.”
“Sure, sure,” Julian said as he ripped down another support with the mechanically enhanced power of the armor. “We’ll live until the juice gives out. While we watch the damned Kranolta kill everybody else. Then we’ll have a choice between opening up or suffocating.”
“We’ll kill them at the same time,” the private said. “We’ll kill most of them that are left.”
“Sure, but they’ll wipe out the company while we do it. Which is why the Old Man didn’t send us out in the first place.”
He pulled down the last support and opened up the door to the bailey.
The door to Third Platoon’s bastion was already open. Nobody was in sight, yet, but Julian figured they would be coming out as soon as Captain Pahner gave the word. Second Platoon’s door was just . . . gone. He didn’t want to think about what it must be like inside that tower.
He looked out over the rubble where the gatehouse had been. From the elevated “porch” in front of the keep, he could just make out the distant army that Pahner had spotted, and it looked formidable indeed. He dialed up the magnification on his helmet, and his jaw tightened. Most of the new force was armored, and if bronze armor wouldn’t do the Mardukans much good against the rifles, it would let them hammer the Marines right under when it got down to hand-to-hand. And it would.
He jumped off the platform and onto the rubble in two long “bounces,” then checked to be sure his chameleon system was engaged. The active system on the suits was more effective than that of the uniforms and made the armor virtually invisible, although the suits were “loud” both electronically and audibly, which gave advanced enemies many ways to target them. There were ways to counteract that as well, but not easily or when the suits were moving fast.
Not that it mattered in this case. The Mardukans weren’t going to see anything but a flicker and bursts of bead fire punctuated with plasma bolts. It should seem like evil demons in their midst . . . as long as the juice lasted.
The original Kranolta force had moved around the shoulder of the hill and was preparing to hit Second Platoon again. He thought about triggering a burst of bead fire into them, but waited for orders. They would be coming soon enough, and he saw Third Platoon filing out of its bastion even as the army by the jungle started up the long slope to t
he battleground. The scummy reinforcements were at least four or five thousand strong, and their banners flapped in the breeze. Their horns brayed again, and some of the survivors of the original Kranolta force turned and spotted them. They blared on their own horns, and waved their weapons in excitement as the newcomers hurried towards them.
“Who is that?” Danal Far asked.
“I don’t know,” his second in command replied, but he sounded uneasy. “It looks like . . . the host of Voitan.”
“Hah!” It was the first good laugh Danal Far had had since this slaughter began. But they’d nearly taken the outer defenses, now. But for the damned fire-weapons, they would have already. The next push would see them in firm control of the bastion, and from there they could roll up these damned humans easily.
“Ghosts!” he scoffed. “No, it’s some other tribe come to help us against these humans. Perhaps the Talna or the Boort.”
“Nooo,” Banty Kar said dubiously. “Neither use armor. The last time I saw such a host was in the fighting for T’an K’tass.”
“Ghosts,” the chieftain grunted again, but with a nervous edge. “All of those lands are ours, now. We took them, and we keep them. Even against these ‘human’ demons.”
“Took them, yes,” Kar said as he started toward the walls. “Keep them? Maybe.”
“How’s it going, Julian?” Pahner asked over the radio. Third Platoon—what remained of it—had gathered on the gatehouse rubble while Second and First pulled their dead and wounded out of the damaged bastion.
“Oh, fair, Sir. Looks like they’re getting ready to come back.”
“Very well.” Pahner looked around at the pitiful remnants of his company, and shook his head. “Swing around to cover our front. Third Platoon, prepare to deploy over the rubble.”
“It is T’an K’tass!” Banty Kar cried. The Kranolta second in command gestured at the flag that had just been unfurled atop one of the armored flar-ta. “That’s the Spreading Tree!”
“Impossible!” Far shouted, refusing to believe his eyes. “We killed them all! We destroyed their warriors, and scattered their people to the winds.”
“But we didn’t kill their sons,” his second grated in a voice of bleached, old bone, and a groan of despair went up from the Kranolta host as another banner was unfurled and the long-lost symbol of the Fire and the Iron soared over the battlefield.
“Nor all the sons of Voitan.”
“Captain,” Julian called, “you might want to hold up. Something just happened with the two forces. The new one just raised some flags. I don’t know scummies real well, but I don’t think the Kranolta are all that happy to see these new guys after all.”
“Understood,” Pahner replied. “Keep me advised,” he finished just as the Kranolta broke into a chant.
“Do you hear that?!” T’Leen Targ demanded. “That’s the sound I’ve waited to hear most of my life: the sound of the Kranolta Death Chant!” The big, old Mardukan hefted the battle ax attached to his stump and waved it high. “Suck on this, you barbarian bastards! Voitan is back!”
“Aye!” T’Kal Vlan shouted back. The last of the princes of T’an K’tass grunted in laughter as he listened to the mournful dirge. “It’s time for T’an K’tass to collect a debt!”
Much of the force consisted of mercenaries, gathered from all over the lower city-states. But the core of the army were the sons and grandsons of the cities fallen before the Kranolta. Both Voitan and T’an K’tass had managed to evacuate not only noncombatants, but also funds. Those funds had been scattered in businesses ventures in multiple city-states, awaiting the day when Voitan could rise again.
And this day, the humans had cleared the way.
“Oh, the demons are feasting well this day!” Targ clapped his remaining true-hand to the ax in delight as he surveyed the mountainous piles of corpses. “Look at the souls these humans have sent on!”
“And it looks as if they’re still holding out.” Vlan gestured at the smoking citadel. “I think we should hurry.” He turned to the force at his back. “Forward the Tree! Time to take back our own!”
“Forward the Tree!” the roar came back to him. “Forward the Flame!”
“Hammer those Kranolta bastards into atul food!” T’Leen Targ howled, waving his ax overhead.
“Forward the Tree! Forward the Flame!”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Despreaux knelt beside the prince in the dim light.
The wounded had been gathered in a line on the ledge on the north side of the cavernous keep, and the bandaged and burnt Marines were mostly asleep, courtesy of Doc Dobrescu. Their wounds were horrible, even by modern standards. Most of the wounded seemed to be from First and Second platoon; despite the protection of their flame resistant chameleon suits, most of them looked like so many pieces of barbecued chicken, and she shook her head and turned away when she realized that the white thing sticking out of Kileti’s uniform was his ulna.
Horrible though it was, the damage would heal. Even the severed limbs would regrow over time, and the nanites and regenerative retroviruses the Marines were pumped full of were already hard at work repairing the gross wounds. As skin grew over burns and muscles mended at impossible speeds, the limbs would start regrowing, as well.
There was a metabolic penalty, of course. For the next several days, the wounded would be able to do nothing but eat and sleep as the nanites worked feverishly to repair the wounds and combat infections. But in time—short or long, depending mostly on the amount of damage rather than its severity—the terrible wounds would reduce themselves to nothing but scars. In time, even those scars would fade. To be replaced by new ones, undoubtedly.
She touched the prince’s face and picked up the diagnostic tag attached to his uniform. There were only a few of those, and she was surprised Dobrescu had used it on him. Or maybe she wasn’t. There were more seriously wounded—the tag told her that immediately with its readout of his alpha rhythms, blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen—but there were none so precious.
She touched his face again, gently.
“He gets to you, doesn’t he?” a gravelly voice asked.
She froze and looked up at the sergeant major.
“You look like a rabbit in a spotlight,” Kosutic told her with a quiet chuckle. The senior NCO had propped herself up on her uninjured right arm to contemplate the squad leader with a quizzical smile.
“I was just checking on Third Platoon’s wounded, Sergeant Major,” Despreaux said guiltily . . . and almost truthfully. That had been her rationale for the visit, but she’d realized almost immediately what she was really after.
“Try to tell the Old Man that, girl—not me!” the sergeant major snapped, shifting her burnt and mangled left arm into a better position. Or, at least, one that was marginally less uncomfortable. “You haven’t so much as looked at any of the other wounded. You’ve just been making cow eyes at Roger.”
“Sergeant Major—” Despreaux began.
“Can it, I said! I know exactly what’s going on. It was obvious even back on the ship, if you had eyes. And I do.”
“But . . . I hated him back on the ship,” the sergeant protested. “He was so . . . so. . . .”
“Snotty?” Kosutic suggested with a chuckle that cut off abruptly. “Shit, don’t make me laugh, girl! Yeah. And you were making cow eyes at him, snotty attitude and all.”
“I was not making cow eyes,” Despreaux insisted firmly.
“Call it what you want, girl,” the older woman said with a grin. “I call it cow eyes.”
Despreaux looked around almost desperately, but all the other wounded seemed to be asleep. If they weren’t, they were being incredibly disciplined in not laughing at her. Then she looked back at Kosutic.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” the sergeant major said, and chuckled again at her look of surprise. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about, Sergeant. And so far he seems to be either oblivious or beating
you off with a club. I’m not sure which.”
“Neither am I,” the squad leader admitted sadly.
“Look,” Kosutic said, “when I’m not feeling like a pounded piece of liver, come talk to me about this. I don’t know if I can do anything, but we can talk. No reports, no notes, no counseling. Just . . . girl talk. About boy problems.”
“Girl talk,” Despreaux repeated incredulously. She looked at the sergeant major, then down at the line of combat ribbons and the burnt and mangled arm. “You realize that that sounds . . . odd.”
“Hey, you’ve got boy problems,” the senior NCO said, pointing at the sleeping prince with her chin. “Think of me as your older sister.”
“Okay,” Despreaux said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “If you say so. Girl talk.”
“Later,” the sergeant major agreed, lying back down. “When I don’t feel like pounded liver.”
The first thing Roger noticed was a raging thirst. Hard on the heels of the thirst, though, was a headache that put it to shame.
He groaned and tried moving his fingers and toes. Something seemed to happen, so next he tried opening his eyes.
Well, he thought, cataloging his sensory impressions, it was hot and close, and there was a rock roof overhead. There was also a distinct stench of flar-ta droppings, and he swore, as he gagged on the dreadful smell, that he would never complain about grumbly oil again. He’d found so many, many smells that were worse.
