The Savior - eARC

by David Drake

  It seems so long ago now.

  He’d been in his first firefight when he was fourteen.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to the man in a low voice. “Just stand tall and do what your staff sergeant tells you.”

  And then they were among men falling back and shooting, then falling back again. “Get in there!” Abel shouted to the platoon.

  They charged forward into the breach with bayonets fixed and guns blazing. Abel drew his dragon from his waistband—he’d left his rifle stacked back in the command zone—and trotted along with the platoon for a moment. He wanted to charge forward. Everything in him told him to do it.

  But von Hoff has specifically ordered me not to, thrice-damn him.

  Reluctantly, Abel slowed himself and watched the others disappear into a haze of smoke lit by flashes of fire. It was as if they plunged into one of the thunderstorms of Valley legend. He himself had never seen rain.

  He stayed long enough to be sure that the line was holding. Those who had fallen back began working their way forward again. For a moment the smoke parted and there was the platoon Abel had led forward. Many of them lay dead on the ground. He tried to see if one of the dead men was the young lieutenant, but couldn’t make him out in the scrum.

  Then Abel turned and worked his way back to the rear and von Hoff.

  When he arrived, at first he couldn’t find his colonel. He began to fear that von Hoff had gone down, but then he spotted the colonel kneeling beside a tarp laid out on the ground. Several other older men stood around, also staring down.

  On the waxen tarp lay General Josiah Saxe. Around him was a hovering cloud of commanders and staff officers.

  Saxe was alive, but blood was flowing from a wound under his right arm, spurting out with each beat of his heart. A rough tourniquet had been tied at the shoulder, but the wound was too far toward the shoulder for the tourniquet constriction to do much good. The artery was protected by bone here and couldn’t be squeezed shut.

  Saxe was trying to say something, and Colonel von Hoff was leaning over, his ear to Saxe’s mouth, attempting to listen. But blood bubbles were forming on the general’s lips instead of words. Then the general gave one violent shudder from his head to his feet, and lay still.

  Von Hoff slowly stood up, still staring down at Saxe and shaking his head. “Gentlemen, the general has gone to the grain halls of Zentrum, just as we all shall.”

  The other men Abel recognized now by their shoulder sash insignia: gold and red. Green and red. Yellow and red. And von Hoff’s own gold and indigo. The other two were the commanders of the First and Second Brigades, Muir and Deerfield. Kanagawa, captain of the mounted regiment, was also present. The only leader missing was the colonel of the quartermaster corps.

  As if on cue, the sun set behind the western Rim. Dusk fell across the Valley. The fighting continued until pitch blackness arrived. It was only when complete darkness arrived that the armies slowly disengaged, and they did so in haphazard fashion. Abel did not know who, if anyone, had taken overall command. He suspected they had been fighting as separate batallions.

  For the most part the forces pulled back out of musketry range of one another, and then collapsed where they were. Abel led an attempt by the engineers and medical units to distribute rations and, more importantly, water, to the exhausted troops. The operation lasted late into the night.

  Landry Hoster stood by Abel’s side the entire time. His engineers had put wooden spigots on the water barrels instead of the usual cork plugs at the bottoms. Spigots were items brushing close to nishterlaub, but Abel figured it was Landry’s right to endanger himself if he wanted. In any case, the spigots worked wonderfully as the water wagons trundled along the line, and much water was saved from spilling uselessly onto the ground.

  Abel stumbled back to the command camp to find the brigade commanders gathered around a small fire. They were speaking in low voices, but an argument was taking place.

  He tried to listen in, but could not make himself concentrate. Then he found himself sitting down next to his pack, and couldn’t remember how he got there.

  Sleep, man, said Raj. You’re doing no good awake. You’ll find out in the morning what they’ve decided. I expect you’ll going to need some rest to act on it, whatever it is.

  Abel dozed for perhaps a halfwatch, then started awake. It was still dark. He stumbled to his feet, looked around for a latrine, and, when he couldn’t find one, pissed in a spot he judged was outside of the sleeping area. Even though he still felt tired, the edge of exhaustion was gone from his body. He found a barrel of water, drank a dipperful, and splashed a few drops on his face.

  When he looked up, he saw von Hoff sitting on his camp stool gazing into the remains of the little fire from the night before. Von Hoff saw him and, with the wave of an arm, motioned Abel to join him. Abel went to stand by the pile of coals.

  “The brigade colonels have elected me as provisional commander of the Corps,” von Hoff said. “I’m taking Saxe’s place for the duration of this operation.”

  “Good,” said Abel. “That’s for the best.”

  The two sat silently for a moment.

  “How old are you, Major?” von Hoff finally asked.

  “Thirty, sir.”

  “I see.” He nodded, laughed to himself. “So you wouldn’t be the youngest in recorded history.”

  “Youngest what, sir?”

  “There were at least three before you: Vajiravud about a hundred years ago. I think he was twenty-seven. Kulmala, of course. That was under extreme conditions during the Delta campaigns. He went on to lead the Corps. And that other one, I can’t remember his name.”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “The youngest Goldie brigade commander,” said von Hoff. “In the military, you don’t want to set precedents if you can help it. Brings too much attention. Makes you a target if anything goes wrong.”

  “I suppose that’s true, Colonel.”

  “So you see, I don’t want to do that.”

  “What…” Abel’s head was spinning. What was von Hoff talking about? Then it hit him with a certainty as solid as a brick in the face.

  “Vallancourt,” Abel said. “You’re going to give Vallancourt the Third because of seniority.”

  “Blood and Bones, man, why would you think that?”

  “He’s safe. He’s next in line for promotion to brigade commander. It wouldn’t set a precedent.” Abel swallowed. His throat felt dry even though he’d just taken a drink of water. “I suppose I could work with him. If it were a direct order from you to do so.”

  “Why in cold hell would I give it to Vallancourt?” von Hoff said. “He’s a complete idiot. No, I’m giving you the Third, Dashian. Starting with a field promotion right now, Colonel.”

  Abel stood still for a moment, trying to be sure he’d heard correctly.

  “Me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve informed the other brigade commanders. It’s done.”

  “Colonel, you should reconsider this decision.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m tired. I could make mistakes.”

  “Excellent point. Yes, I’ve changed my mind.”

  For a moment, Abel thought he’d won the argument. Then he saw the crooked smile on von Hoff’s face.

  “The colonel is being sarcastic.”

  “The general is being sarcastic,” von Hoff said. “The colonel is in need of hot cider.”

  He’s talking about you, Raj said.

  “Yes,” Abel said. “I’ll have some shortly.” Abel rubbed his temples.

  Something Father said years ago when he’d made lieutenant in the Scouts. How’d the saying go? “If you’re going to do it, own it.”

  He looked up, met von Hoff’s gaze. “General von Hoff, now that I’ve got the Third…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve examined the terrain, and I have an idea for a flanking maneuver that I hope you’l
l consider.”

  “I’ll consider it,” said von Hoff. “How many men do you think it will take?”

  “About five thousand.”

  Von Hoff said nothing for a moment, huffed out a laugh. “Where am I going to get five thousand men?”

  “The Third Brigade has approximately five thousand troops in it, although we’ve taken casualties, of course.”

  Again von Hoff was silent for a moment. He finally spoke in a low voice. “You want me to divide my army, Dashian? Divide my army in my first act as a general. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Abel nodded. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would work, sir.”

  4

  Rousing the Third before dawn and having them on their way was the hardest part of the morning, but finding the Third was in itself a very difficult task. The battle had devolved into separate pockets of fighting throughout the course of the previous day, with some tiny landmarks—a mound of dirt here, a low embankment there, even a clump of thick swamp grass—becoming focal points, landmarks the men would long remember as places of glory, shame, and terror. Names that would call up memories for the rest of their lives, for those who had more life to live.

  Bodies lay strewn about at dawn. No one had yet had the time or strength to move them. The wounded who could, dragged themselves toward the rear. The severely wounded remained, mixed with the dead, especially those within musket range of either side. The only way to tell the two apart was by the faint movement. It was terrible to see the mounds of men that twitched here and there and be able to do nothing about it.

  There were some slain donts on the field as well, but most had been lost on the charge up the mountain and they lay there on the slopes. Those that remained had been held in reserve.

  Most of the fighting was musket and bow and arrow. In only a few places had the forces gone at one another hand to hand, but those taken down by bayonet wounds were the slowest to die, and many of them moaned and cried out for water, cursed the world, or begged for their mothers, throughout the night.

  Many had been dragged to relative safety by a brave foray into the darkness, only to die quickly once they were back behind the line. The huge Escarpment flitterdonts wheeled in the pink-black air above.

  Some brave ones were already on the ground feasting. The smell of spent gunpowder and carnage hung in the marshy air. It was only a matter of time before the odor of decay would mingle with it, bringing more.

  Groelsh and Abel’s company sergeants seemed to have a special sense of direction when it came to their units, and Abel was surprised by how quickly and silently the muster was accomplished. The Third Brigade withdrew in relatively good order, and assembled a dozen fieldmarches behind the front line. Von Hoff had even given Abel the few specialized mounted who possessed donts, and artillery transports. Abel knew how difficult assembling for march was even in ideal circumstances. That the assembly took less than a watch impressed him.

  Abel figured he had gotten about four hours of sleep. He sensed himself sagging, and nearly slid off his dont—and would have, if Nettle hadn’t been a sensitive creature that moved to keep him on. But the sight of the brigade assembling drew him back to full alertness.

  His brigade.

  His responsibility.

  Groelsh and his sergeants banged them into rough company order and had them marching south just as the sun rose over the eastern Rim. Abel ordered them to double-time it past the guns of what everyone was now calling Fort Sentinel, the redoubt on the mountain.

  They were spotted and fired upon. But it was as if the enemy had acquired a coldblooded sluggishness in the night, and they managed to get off only a few strafing fusillades from the volley guns, and one badly aimed rock throw, before the entire brigade had made the passage and was out of range.

  Abel asked Center to make an interpolated tally of casualties. He learned he’d lost ten so far.

  Then it was a matter of threading their way through the pinned-down Second Brigade, which had retreated south along the road until they were just out of musket range from Fort Sentinel. The Second did not want to give an inch of the Road, and there were some minor tussles between Guardians that threatened to turn deadly. Fortunately, tiredness overcame anger, and most decided the easiest course was the course of least resistance. The Second took a look at the beat-up state of the Third and knew that they soon would be ordered forward to join the same fight.

  A watch and a half later, the head of Abel’s columns arrived at the ferry crossing. Here Abel called his company commanders to him. His newly appointed adjutant and executive officer looked them over with a cold eye.

  He’d appointed Timon Athanaskew to the position.

  Timon rolled out a map and went over the first part of Abel’s plan. “We will divide into company-sized units and head down the Ferry Road, circling east of Sentinel Mountain. We’ll run the gauntlet one company at a time at quarter-watch intervals, more or less. These may be divided into units as you see fit—but must be well on the way before the next are sent.”

  Abel continued, “Each captain will be responsible for getting his company to the rendezvous point: the base of the saddle ridge connecting the two southernmost of the Three Sisters.” Abel pointed to the papyrus map. They were gathered around a large flat boulder and Timon had the map laid out over its top, which served as a makeshift table. “Don’t want to be too regular about it. Major Athanaskew will keep time.”

  Abel looked up at his captains. “Do you understand?”

  A chorus of “yes, sirs.” He hoped they meant it.

  “Any questions?”

  “What if we come under fire at the assembly point?” asked the Sunday Company commander, Wilton. “There’s another fort on the next mountain over, sir, if I’m reading the map correctly.”

  “There is,” Abel answered. “But we demonstrate. In other words, be out of rifle range at the our rally point. When you get there, I want you to make a racket. I want anybody on Tamarak Peak to know we’re down there, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any more questions?”

  This time there were none.

  It was midmorning when they set out, Abel and his command staff on donts, a few auxiliary scouts and skirmishers on animals, and all others, including company captains, on foot with their men. It did not take the eastern lookouts of Fort Sentinel long to spot them, and a rattle of fire began from the fort. The sound was intimidating, but they were still well out of musket range. Let them waste shot and powder.

  Yet it appeared they had a near infinite supply.

  Abel sent his first company down the Valley at a trot. The musket fire from the fort’s lower trenches might be technically in range, but evidently its soldiers couldn’t shoot well enough to hit much of anything this far away.

  The company—Wilton’s Sunday Company—made it past with no men killed, and only two wounded. Thursday Company was next. It made its way carefully up the Ferry Road just as the Sunday men had done, keeping as far to the eastern side of the little Valley as they could.

  Suddenly there was a tremendous roar and a rising billow of smoke.

  Something—something large—crashed through the midst of Thursday Company, cutting down donts, decapitating men, and splintering bones.

  Cannon, said Raj. But why on this side only?

  Not wheeled, probably impossible to aim. Barely classifiable as a cannon at all. It is a welded-seam device, Center replied. Inaccurate and inherently dangerous.

  Inaccurate? It just cut a swath through my men!

  A random shot. The probability of a strike was fairly low, but the probability of mortal injury once the projectile did strike was very high.

  No shit, said Abel. Does that thing fire the clumps you were telling me cannons used to shoot out?

  Grapeshot? said Raj. I don’t see why it couldn’t. But grapeshot’s for close range. They’ll stick to cannon balls if they want to touch you.

  Another WHUMP, and yet ano
ther ball flew by, this one crashing into the brush on the eastern side of the road.

  Abel realized he needed to lead the command staff through next to set an example. He ordered his group forward. They were mounted, and they moved at a steady clip, but by no means as fast as a dont could run. He wanted to save the donts for later. A lot was going to be asked of them today.

  The cannon got off two shots as Abel was crossing under it. One struck the road just in front of his flag, kicking up dust and gravel, but harming no one.

  The second took off the head of Colquehoun, a captain who had two watches before been promoted from courier to command staff proper. Blood and viscera surged in gouts from the severed neck for a moment, then ceased. Colquehoun’s body fell to the side, but a foot remained in a stirrup.

  Timon took the reins of Colquehoun’s dont and led it forward, while Coulquehoun’s body dragged along beside it.

  And then the command staff was by and out of range.

  The next company, Ogilvy’s Friday, began its run. Abel looked up the mountainside. He could see tiny stick figures of men swabbing the cannon, getting it ready for the next shot. Then they levered it back down. Aimed.

  A boom louder than any before. Abel was focused on Friday Company, so he did not see at first what happened above. A miss. They were coming through unscathed, thank the Lady. Distant shouts. Then he looked up the mountain.

  Fire had broken out in the fort. Pieces of burning timber were everywhere, strewn down the side of the mountain. The cannon was hanging over the edge of the fort’s wall. For a moment, Abel didn’t recognize it. It was burst and splayed outward. It looked like a metallic chrysalis, opened by an insectoid rebirth.

  Not unexpected. As I noted, cannons made with welded seams are prone to bursting, Center said. The manufacture of true cannons requires casting technology.

  Abel could hear the sound of men screaming above. It seemed burst metal cannons made their own deadly shrapnel.

  The remainder of his companies passed without incident. But now that the enemy knew they were headed up the Manahatet Valley, he had to hurry. He knew there must be wigwag between Sentinel and Tamarak. The other fort would be on the lookout for them, training their guns down into the narrow valley. Which is what he wanted.