by David Weber
“Contact,” Julian murmured so quietly that Roger was certain the intel sergeant didn’t even realize he’d spoken aloud. Not that any of the Marines in the cellar had needed to be told. They were watching their pad displays as the probing tentacles of Boman warriors ran into the first strongpoints and battle was joined.
“What do you make the numbers, Julian?” Pahner asked.
“Hard to say exactly, Sir,” the NCO replied, “but I don’t see how it can be much more than sixty, sixty-five thousand.”
“Did we really whittle them down by forty percent in one day?” Roger wasn’t quite able to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
“Probably not,” Pahner said. “Oh, we could have come close to that, but it’s more likely that they’ve got a lot of stragglers who are still heading in. They might even have a few chieftains or subchiefs who’ve decided not to participate in this little party, whatever the new management wants. Still, it’s enough to get the job done, don’t you think?”
The leading waves of Boman ran into a blizzard of rifle fire and died.
Rus From’s engineers had sited the strongpoints with care. Wherever possible, they’d placed the rubble revetments where sunken lanes through the ruins would inevitably channel the heads of any invading columns into heavy interlocking fires, and the riflemen and spearmen manning those entrenchments took brutal advantage of their positions. The broken streets of Sindi ran red with barbarian blood, and fresh clouds of smoke and brimstone rose above the ruins as torrents of bullets hammered through flesh and bone.
The Boman shrieked enraged war cries as their point elements recoiled, but all they did was recoil. The clans had experienced what the new rifles could do the day before, and they were as prepared as anyone could be for the carnage they faced today. No one had ever accused the Boman of cowardice, and their frantic need to rescue their women and children drove them forward even more savagely than usual.
But for all Tar Tin’s determination to storm the shit-sitter positions regardless of cost, he wasn’t an utter fool, and even if he had been, many of his chiefs and subchiefs were not. They knew that driving directly into the fire zones of their entrenched enemies would invite casualties not even they could endure, and so they drew back and probed, looking for ways to bypass the dug-in defenders and get behind them.
As it turned out, there were many bypass routes. Sindi had been an enormous city, by Mardukan standards, and the full strength of the K’Vaernian army would hardly have sufficed to cover its interior in depth once the walls were lost. There simply weren’t enough bodies in Bistem Kar’s divisions to do that, which was why he and Pahner had placed his people in nodal positions covering primarily the approaches to the Great Bridge. They’d also paid meticulous care to planning and marking retreat routes through the rubble, complete with two alternates, for every unit. When the Boman managed to begin working their way around a position’s flank through the broken stone and wreckage, the infantry manning it simply fell back—promptly—to the next prepared position on its list.
It was a dangerously complicated maneuver, requiring discipline, communication, and perfect timing, and only the army’s faith in Bistem Kar and the electronic wizardry of the Marine communication links and remote sensors scattered through the ruins made it possible.
“All right, gentlemen,” Kar said, looking around his command group as the last infantry battalion between them and the Boman began to fall back, “it’s time we were going, too. Lieutenant Fain, if you please?”
“Yes, Sir!” Fain threw the general a salute he hoped didn’t look too relieved and nodded to his top sergeant. The top nodded back, jerked his head at First Platoon, and Delta Company formed up in a ferocious, bayonet-bristling moving perimeter around the command group as it fell back towards its first alternate position.
“We’re on our way, Captain,” Fain heard Kar telling Pahner over the communicator clipped to the general’s harness. “So far, they don’t seem to suspect a thing.”
The long morning wore away in a nightmare of thundering rifles, screams, smoke clouds, and carnage. It was impossible for any Boman chieftain to form a clear picture of everything that was happening, but certain essentials were clear enough.
Whatever the shit-sitters had done to Mnb Trag and his warriors when they took the city away from him, it had changed the northern portion of Sindi beyond all recognition. The Boman were hardly city dwellers to begin with, but the tortured wasteland of broken walls and roofs, heaps of rubble, and fallen timbers had obliterated the landmarks many of them had learned to recognize during their months in the city.
Yet in many ways, that actually favored them, for the burned-out shells of buildings and the haphazard heaps of stone helped to conceal and cover them as they probed for ways around the shit-sitter strongpoints. They were taking losses—hideous losses—as they stumbled into one entrenched position after another, but they were also driving the shit-sitters inexorably back. The broken city deprived the shit-sitter riflemen of extended fire lanes and left no place for those deadly pikes to deploy, and the force of Boman numbers gradually forced Bistem Kar’s troops back, and back again, and back yet again.
Exactly as Armand Pahner had planned.
“And now,” Bistem Kar murmured, “comes the difficult part.”
Krindi Fain could hardly believe his ears, yet he knew the general was serious. The long, bitter battle had reached the approaches to the Great Bridge. In fact, most of the surviving infantry had already retreated across it. But Kar had retained his own First Division to cover the final withdrawal, and Colonel Ni’s regiment had the honor of forming the division’s rearguard.
The afternoon was mostly gone, and evening was coming on quickly, but the Boman seemed inexhaustible. The God only knew how many thousands of them had already been killed, but it seemed not to have fazed them in the least. Probably that was because, despite their casualties, they’d been so successful in driving back the K’Vaernian forces. Whatever their losses here in the city had been so far, they were lower than the casualties they’d taken in the jungle the day before, and unlike yesterday, they had a clear meterstick—the ground they’d gained—to prove they were winning.
They had also been killing K’Vaernians, Diasprans, and Northerners. Fain didn’t know what total casualties were, but he knew they’d been painful. The worst had been the loss of the entire rifle battalion from the Tonath Regiment when a Boman thrust broke through more quickly than anticipated and cut its carefully planned retreat route. The rest of the regiment had tried desperately to cut its way through to rescue its comrades, but the attempt had failed, and General Kar had ordered the surviving Tonath battalions to fall back. It had taken his direct order—repeated twice—to convince them to break off, and they’d retreated only sullenly even then, but they must have known it was the only thing they could do.
The loss of four hundred riflemen, along with the regimental commander and the human Marine private who’d been his communication link to headquarters, had been more than merely painful, but they were scarcely the only losses the army had suffered. The best estimate currently available was that the defenders had so far lost almost twelve hundred men, almost as many casualties as they’d suffered in the all-day fight in the jungle. Yet severe as those losses might be, they were a mere fraction of the casualties the Boman had taken, and they were also the grim but necessary price the army had to pay to bait Captain Pahner’s trap. Coupled with the ground the Boman had recaptured, they “proved” that the “shit-sitters” were being driven back, with no option but to continue to yield ground.
Now the trick was to get the rearguard across the Great Bridge intact and without discouraging the barbarians’ enthusiasm for keeping up their attack.
The command group was already at the northern end of the bridge, awaiting Colonel Ni’s troops. Captain Pahner had been pressing General Kar to fall back earlier, but the K’Vaernian Guard commander had politely but firmly resisted the human’s pressure. He wo
uld retreat only with the last of his own troops, and that was the way it was.
Fortunately for Fain’s peace of mind, those final troops were falling back rapidly, and the moment of the general’s departure was at hand.
The lieutenant looked out over the Great Bridge and shook his head in admiration. The troops retreating across it presented a picture of absolute chaos, obviously jostling and shoving one another in their desperate haste to escape the oncoming Boman. Of course, the effect would probably have been somewhat spoiled for an observer with an eye to detail, because none of those “fleeing” soldiers had thrown away their weapons, which was almost always the first thing troops did when they’d truly been routed. Aside from that minor detail, however, the picture could hardly have been more convincing, and Fain hoped that whoever was in command of the Boman had an excellent view of it.
But the rearguard couldn’t afford to present the same picture of confusion, and as Colonel Ni’s reinforced regiment came into sight, it was obvious that it wasn’t going to.
The northern end of the Great Bridge opened into a large plaza or square, and the Marton Regiment moved slowly but steadily backward across it. Both pike battalions were in line, facing north and three ranks deep to hold the Boman beyond hand-to-hand range. The assegai companies had each been reinforced by a hundred and fifty dismounted, revolver-armed League cavalry, each with at least two pistols, which gave each of the assegai companies almost as much close-in firepower as the regiment’s rifle battalion. One of the reinforced companies of spearmen covered each flank of the pike line, while the rifle battalion moved wherever it was needed to pour in a heavy fire and drive back particularly enterprising Boman thrusts.
“Nice, very nice,” Kar commented to an aide, and Fain was forced to agree. Which didn’t keep him from clearing his own throat pointedly from his position at the general’s elbow. The K’Vaernian turned and cocked his head at the lieutenant, and Fain gestured at the bridge.
“Sir, I imagine that Colonel Ni would be just as happy if we would get out of his way and give him room to maneuver his troops.”
“My, how tactfully phrased,” the towering Guard commander murmured with a grunting chuckle. But he also nodded, much to Fain’s relief, and the Diaspran lieutenant muttered a silent prayer of gratitude to the God of Water and nodded to Sergeant Knever once again.
The command group moved out onto the bridge, conspicuously isolated from the rest of the army as the “panicked retreat” of the previous units streamed towards the southern bank of the Tam. Fain would have been considerably happier if the general had kept a bit closer to the troops who’d preceded them across the bridge, but Kar was in no hurry. In fact, he had a distinct tendency to lag behind even his aides-de-camp and his message runners while he watched Ni’s troops falling back to the bridgehead. The barbarians seemed determined to prevent this final group of shit-sitters from escaping their vengeance, and groups of them charged forward despite the surf roll of rifle and revolver bullets, screaming their war cries and hurling throwing axes even as they were hammered down. Troopers were going down, as well, most wounded, rather than killed, especially among the pikemen, but the regiment’s discipline held, and the Boman were losing at least three for every casualty they inflicted, even now.
Which didn’t mean that they couldn’t still overwhelm the regiment by sheer weight of numbers, Fain reflected, and dropped back beside Kar once again.
“Sir, the General might want to move along a bit faster,” the lieutenant suggested diffidently.
“In a moment,” Kar replied with an impatient wave.
“Sir, the General keeps saying that,” Fain pointed out. He watched another wave of Boman crest and die less than twenty meters in front of the retreating pikes, and beckoned unobtrusively to Erkum Pol, who sidled closer.
“I’ll retreat when I’m ready to, Lieutenant,” Kar rumbled in a deep, repressive tone. “It’s not going to do the Regiment’s morale any good to see me go scampering off to safety, you know.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” Fain said diffidently, “I’m sure the Regiment would be very relieved to know you were out of harm’s way. And whether they would or not, Sergeant Julian told me that Captain Pahner wants your butt at the reserve command post before the Boman come across the fucking bridge. That’s almost a direct quote, Sir,” the lieutenant added in an apologetic but politely firm tone.
“I said I’ll come in a moment,” Kar said even more repressively, and Fain shook his head.
“Erkum?”
“Yeah, Krindi?”
“Escort the General across the bridge,” the lieutenant said flatly.
Bistem Kar’s head snapped up, and for an instant, his eyes narrowed dangerously. Then they swiveled to Pol, who stood a full head taller than even his own formidable stature, and something like an unwilling chuckle escaped him.
“All right, Lieutenant,” he told Fain wryly. “I’ll go. I’ll go! Who am I to argue with the mighty Erkum Pol? I don’t want to get laid out with a plank!”
“I wouldn’t hit you, General,” the private said reproachfully.
“No doubt,” Kar said, laying one hand on the towering Diaspran’s upper shoulder, and then gathered up the rest of his command group with his eyes. “Gentlemen, Lieutenant Fain would appreciate it if we’d all step briskly along.” He made a shooing gesture with both false-hands and flashed a bare-toothed human-style grin. “No dawdling, now!”
“Press them! Press them!” Tar Tin howled as the final band of shit-sitters retreated onto the bridge. The new war leader was trapped well back from the van of the host, but he could see the Great Bridge from his vantage point atop a collapsed house. And if he couldn’t get at the shit-sitter rearguard now, he’d been in the forefront of the warriors who’d overwhelmed the trapped arquebusiers, and his ceremonial battle ax ran red with their blood.
The battle frenzy hadn’t quite claimed him, but he felt the exaltation and the fire blazing in his own blood. They were only Southern shit-sitters, true, yet they’d stood and fought as courageously as any iron head—indeed, as any Boman—and the honor of their deaths filled his soul.
It had been a good battle, a great one whose grim glory the bards would sing for generations, and despite the host’s losses, victory was within their grasp. However courageously the shit-sitter arquebusiers might have died, Tar Tin himself had seen the panic and terror with which the other shit-sitters had fled across the bridge. He knew the signs—he’d seen them often enough on many another battlefield. That was a broken force, one whose leaders would never convince it to stand if he could only hit it again, quickly, before it had time to untangle itself and find its courage once more.
“Once across the bridge, and the city is ours once more!” he shouted, brandishing his battle ax and waving still more of his warriors into the assault on the stubborn shit-sitter rearguard.
The host attacked with redoubled fury, but the shit-sitters were fully onto the bridge now, and it was no longer possible to threaten their flanks. The ones armed with those long, dreadful spears thickened their ranks, presenting an impenetrable thicket of needle-sharp points, and withdrew at a slow, steady pace. It was impossible to get to hand strokes with them, but at least the thicker formation also blocked their infernal arquebusiers, and the Boman pressed them harder, showering them with throwing axes. The shit-sitters’ raised shields were a roof, rattling under the keen-edged rain of steel, and here and there one of them went down. But there were always other shit-sitters ready to drag the wounded to safety, and the slow, sullen retreat continued without breaking or wavering.
Tar Tin snarled, for he wanted that rearguard crushed, yet despite his frustration, he was satisfied enough. The shit-sitter rearguard might be retreating in good order, but it was retreating, and rapidly enough that the host would still arrive on the other bank before the rest of their broken army could reform.
“All right, people, let’s get into our party dresses,” Pahner said, and the squad of Marine
s around him reached for their helmets.
Roger reached for his along with them, and reflected that it was just as well that he’d spent so many days marching around the jungle in his own powered armor before the company left Q’Nkok. It had given him the opportunity to thoroughly familiarize himself with the armor’s capabilities and limitations. He was still far from competent by the standards of the Imperial Marine Corps, and he knew it, but at least he was confident of his ability to move wearing the stuff.
The Marines obviously shared his reservations about his other abilities where the armor was concerned, for the plasma cannon with which his armor had originally been armed had been replaced with a bead cannon. The “stutter gun” was a thoroughly lethal piece of hardware, but its current loads, although ruinously effective against unarmored barbarians, would not take out a suit of IMC combat armor. He supposed that he might have felt a little offended by their evident concern over where his fire might go, but all he really felt was relieved.
All around him, helmets were being affixed, and he watched the HUD come up in his own visor as the helmet sealed to its locking ring. Most of the really power-intensive systems remained on off-line standby, but the armor was live, and a slight shiver ran through his nerves as he reflected upon the destructive power massed in this cellar.
As Pahner had told Rastar on the day the Northern cavalry first joined forces with the Marines, they had sufficient spares and power for two uses of the armor, and this, the captain decided, was the right place to expend one of them. Roger knew that the Marine had considered using the armor in an open field fight, but the Boman had been too dispersed. The Marines would have exhausted their power packs before they could have covered even a fraction of the host’s geographic dispersal.
