The sky suddenly turned dark, followed an instant later by a whistling hail of bolts. Men collapsed, staggering backward from the impact. High shrieks rent the air; in an instant it seemed as if a forest of four-foot bolts had sprung up from the ground by the thousands.
Another cloud rose up, rising far higher, this one emerging from behind the charging line.
A second rank behind the first, Hans realized; they've got one hell of a lot more than I thought.
The cloud appeared to hover in midair, then came roaring down. The aim had been slightly long, and the majority of bolts struck forty or more yards behind.
At seventy-five yards the deadly firefight was traded out. The smoke eddied upward in coiling spirals, the enemy was all but invisible, the field guns kicked back and tore up the turf. Wounded horses screamed, cannoneers cut the tormented beasts from the traces of cassions, a continual stream of wounded poured to the rear.
Another shower of death rose up from the rear, hovering and then racing down, this time bracketing the volley line. Heavy bolts pinned men to the ground.
Hans rode up and down the line, gauging his strength, watching the men. These were veteran regiments, formed in the first Tugar War, armed with the newest Springfield rifles. Their pride showed— they were unwilling to break, knowing that to run now was certain death.
Holes were opening in the line. File-closers strung the double rank into a single row at points, while junior officers on the flank of each of the five regiments made sure that a dangerous gap didn't open between two units.
Light four-pound guns, two to each regiment, thumped away, their charges sounding almost tinny compared to the deep-throated roar of the twelve-pound Napoleons.
The fire forward suddenly died away. Standing tall in his stirrups, Hans looked forward through the smoke. A ragged cheer started to go up, and as the smoke dissipated he saw the enemy falling back, leaving a straight line of dead piled up not fifty yards away.
"General Schuder!"
Hans turned to see a courier galloping up from the rear, riding over toward Ingrao's batteries.
Hans looked around and saw that his guidon was missing. On the ground nearby the young boy lay spread-eagled, a four-foot arrow driven through his chest, the standard still clutched in his hands.
Hans motioned to one of his aides to get the messenger.
"Here they come again!"
From out of the retreating line a second formation started to surge forward at a run.
"Vushka, Vushka!"
"Prepare for volley! Fire at one hundred yards! First rank, present!"
The messenger came galloping over.
"From General Kindred, sir," the messenger shouted, reining his mount in alongside Hans.
He felt his heart knotting, a brief flutter. Again the shooting pain, but he forced it away. "Not now, don't trouble me now," he whispered to himself.
"The Merki, the Horde, sir, coming along the edge of the woods!"
"How many?"
The boy looked at him wide-eyed.
Hans saw that he was clutching a sheet of paper, and he grabbed it.
" 'Hans. A solid block of Merki, miles deep, advancing in from the west, along the edge of the woods. Looks like entire Horde. Will hit within the hour, near Bastion 90. Doubt if we can hold. Kindred.' "
"Fire!"
His mount shied from the explosion. He looked back at the advancing line. This time they were coming straight on, scimitars raised, bows slung over their shoulders.
"Independent fire at will!"
It was going to be hand-to-hand. The volley had torn gaping holes but the Merki pressed on, leaping over the casualties. Their formation started to disintegrate as the bravest, and fleetest, surged forward, swords flashing.
"Load double canister!"
Hans looked back up the line. Murphy.
"Where's Murphy?"
"Dead, sir." An orderly pointed to where the division commander lay on the ground, several of his staff kneeling around him.
Hans spurred his mount around, galloping back toward the massed battery.
"Ingrao."
The short, soft-spoken artilleryman looked up.
"Fire when they're on top of us!" Ingrao roared, then ran up to Hans's side.
"You're in command here, Charlie. Murphy's dead. Send a courier down to Gregory, tell him to take control of the division," Hans shouted. "You've got to hold, but get ready to pull out if ordered!"
Without bothering to return a salute he started to wheel his mount around, then looked back.
The wall came crashing in. The battery fired atless than ten yards, the charge in front of the guns disintegrating. Merki bodies, heads, limbs, were lifted into the air, the few survivors staggering forward, gunners raising revolvers and firing at point-blank range.
A loud, thudding crash of steel on steel, and steel on flesh, snapped down the line of infantry, which in places staggered and broke clean open. Many of the first wave of Merki were rushing in without slowing, impaling themselves on poised bayonets, their weight crashing down the defenders. Those following them leapt in, swords flashing.
"Guidon!"
"Here, sir."
Another boy had filled the place of the last. He had not known the other, and the body was nameless now.
"Follow me, boy!" He kicked his mount into a gallop and raced across the field, back to where his command train waited on the siding.
"As planned," Vuka announced, laughing with triumph as he reined his mount in and signaled for a servant to bring a fresh horse up for the charge into battle.
Tamuka reined in beside him, pushing his helmet back to wipe the sweat from his brow. Another servant of the Zan Qarth tossed over a water sack and, raising it, Tamuka washed the dryness from his mouth.
Uncasing one of the precious far-seeing glasses, Tamuka scanned the enemy position on the other side of the stream. The battlements looked nearly defenseless, exactly as the airship hovering above the cattle line had announced. The ship was gone now, driven back southward by the rising storm rolling in from the north. A near thing—a couple of hours difference, and the signal might not have gotten through to the Vushka. The ancestors were watching, holding the weather back, and he mumbled a silent prayer of thanks.
The cattle had fallen for the bait, swinging north to engage the Vushka. It would take some loses getting across, to be certain, but the line was as thin as a rotting eggshell. One strong push and they would crash through, able then to wheel to the south and slice into the rear of the enemy fortress line.
The vast line of the advancing Horde, which had been moving in a long column, started to shake out into formation, ready to present a front a full umen across for the charge, sweeping in two miles' wide, the column of umens behind them coming forward to exploit the breach.
Tamuka tossed the water sack over to Vuka. who was astride his fresh mount. The Zan Qarth leaned back, water cascading down his throat and running down his armor.
Tamuka said nothing. Water was life, the gift of Narg to give life to the world. Even if a river was but a mile away it was improper to waste it.
Vuka unsheathed his blade. He made a quick turn of his mount, then bowed to the west in salute to his sires, beckoning them to witness what he would accomplish.
Tamuka felt a ripple of disdain. Was the brother he had murdered looking down now, cursing him? Was Vuka so ruthless, so blind, that he did not even care, feeling no guilt, no fear for what he had done?
Their gaze held for a second.
"What troubles you, shield-bearer?"
There was the slightest hint of taunting challenge in Vuka's voice. More than one of the companions turned from their excited chatter to listen.
Tamuka smiled.
"I am ready to ride at your side, my lord, my shield, my life, your protection," Tamuka answered, no trace of sarcasm betraying his contempt.
He could remember how Vuka had watched him fearfully after the fiasco in Roum, terrified that the shiel
d-bearer had become Incataga, the messenger of death from the Qar Qarth to remove one not fit to rule. But now he was safe, the only surviving son of the blood, the only one to inherit.
"Then let us wet our blades," Vuka laughed, flicking his scimitar about. The tip of it whistled before Tamuka's eyes, but the shield-bearer remained motionless, refusing to blanch.
"The orders of the Qar Qarth were that the Kavhag Umen was to advance under the leadership of their Qarth, not under you," Tamuka said softly.
Vuka reined his mount in sharply, looking around at his companions.
"The blood should not be risked for the stray bullet of a cattle lurking in a pit; such death would be of little glory."
"And to linger here is of even less glory," Vuka snapped.
"His words, my lord, not mine. Even the Qar Qarth will not be in the van. This is but the opening move—there will be many battles to come. It would be a shame to miss them because a cattle shot you before the war had even started."
Vuka turned his mount away from Tamuka.
Regiment after regiment of the Kavhag Umen galloped past, wheeling to the southeast, falling in on the right, extending the line outward. Messengers on lathered mounts raced back and forth, signal poles tied to their backs, the flags fluttering above them, signifying who they were sent from and who they sought. Those bearing the gold flag of the Qar
Qarth rode sleek white mounts, the fastest of horse bred for their beauty and speed.
Red pennant-bearers positioned themselves in front of the Kavhag, broad red flags on long poles resting on the ground. Youths and old warriors with graying manes moved along the lines, bringing up strings of fresh remounts or moving away from the front, taking exhausted horses out into the open steppe to the south to be pastured and rested after the grueling forced ride that had started the evening before.
Tamuka took all of it in: the vast organization, the precision of the movements, the planning of months coming to fruition at last, right down to the number of arrows in each warrior's quiver and the whet stone in his carrying bag. Again he felt the stirring of the ka, the warrior spirit, seep into his soul as the steppe thundered with the power of the Merki Horde. Even against soulless cattle there was a glory to this vast panorama of primal strength.
Raising the field glasses he focused them on a rise in the ground a mile or more away. Jubadi sat atop the hill, the silent ones surrounding the position. Dozens of aides, messengers, commanders of umens, shamans, the sounders of the nargas, the rollers of the drums, and companions of friendship were positioned around him, the focus of power.
Vuka had deliberately chosen to range off on his own at this moment. He knew why, for to be in the presence of the Qar Qarth was to still be second. He could see Muzta standing behind Jubadi, the accursed leader joined by but a few, their two umens far to the rear. The breaking of the cattle line, the first victory, would not be theirs to boast of.
Tamuka shifted in his saddle, leather armor creaking, the bronze aegis of his office riding heavy upon his back. This was no place now for the tu, the spirit of the bearer, to speak, this was (he place of passion. He struggled for the control of feelings to return.
"Merki Gor Rivah Macr!" (Who rides thus of the Merki?)
The lone chanter raised the call and the long line stirred, warriors coming erect in their saddles.
As one they raised their voices.
"Navhag vug darg!" (We are of the Navhag!)
The announcing of clan started on the lowest bass, rumbling like the throaty growl of the nargas. The rhythm of the chant having been established, other voices started to weave in the counterpoint, voices sliding high.
The chanters raised the question again, and the umen roared their response. The slow tempo gradually rose in speed, question and answer came faster and yet faster. Drummers, with huge cattle-hide kettle drums slung across their horses' backs, rolled out a steady beat, timed to that of a pulsing heart. Nargas, the horn-blowers, mounted as well, raised their fifteen-foot-long trumpets into the air, sounding a strident, dissonant note that grated through the air. Tamuka felt his hackles stand on edge, his pulse matched that of the drums, which ever so imperceptibly were picking up the beat.
Totem-holders positioned themselves forward of each regiment. Smoking pots shaped from cattle skulls coiled with blue-green clouds, as incense rose up on the breeze to awaken any of the ancestors who still might be slumbering.
A golden pennant topped by a red flag rose up from the position occupied by Jubadi. All along the front of the Navhag red flags were raised.
"Navhag, Navhag, Navhag!"
The red pennants dropped, held out sideways, the bearers twirling the colors in tight circles. Ten thousand sand scimitars flashed out and were held aloft, a if a curtain of burnished steel had materialized b magic.
The Navhag advanced, their mounts at the walk, chanting their clan name. Drummers kept the temp up, horns trumpeted, totem-bearers trailed clouds of smoke. Vuka swung his mount around, unsheathed his blade, and held it up.
"Let us take blood!" Vuka roared, spurring his mount forward.
Cursing silently, Tamuka pulled the bronze shield off his back while raking his spurs in. The horse leaped forward. And even as he cursed the insane bravado of his appointed charge, he gave an inner thanks for the release and the prospect of killing cattle.
Hans looked around at his aides, who stood gathered by the side of the command car.
"You've got your orders—now move!"
The dozen couriers galloped off.
"Here they come," Kindred announced.
Hans looked westward. The lowering sun, showing momentarily through a break in the storm clouds, forced him to squint his eyes half-shut.
The vast line was starting forward.
He looked down the line.
Two goddamned regiments, to cover a front of over six miles. One more brigade, and he could have held.
Wheezing, Tim leaned over the withers of his horse, coughing hard, his breath coming in short gasps.
"Goddamn asthma ... It would hit at a time like this," Tim gasped.
"We better get going," Hans said sharply. "There's not much more we can do here."
Tim unsnapped his holster and drew out a revolver, half cocking the weapon and spinning the cylinder to check the load.
"Think I'll stay a while," Tim gasped.
"You're a corps commander," Hans snarled peevishly. "This isn't the time for heroics."
"I've just ordered a thousand boys to stay here, you know," Tim replied, "and I know not one of them will live through this."
He started to cough again.
"Damn spring grasses . . . Always said they'd kill me."
He looked over to Hans and extended his hand.
"Navhag!"
Hans looked up. The line had moved into a canter as they'd hit the broad shallows of the Potomac, which here was little more than a stream. The single battery of four-pounders on the front kicked into action, while individual soldiers ventured their first shots at long range.
"I've decided to make my stand here," Tim said. "Take care, sergeant. I think we're all going to have to choose our place to stand, and I guess I'm just plain tired of fighting."
Hans grasped Tim's hand, holding it tight.
The few staff officers and the guidon-bearer behind Tim looked about nervously, knowing what this decision meant for them, but they remained silent.
Tim pulled free. Leaning over, he slapped the side of the engine, as he wheeled his mount to start back toward the front.
"Now get the hell out and save my corps!"
Hans watched as Tim cantered down the slope, moving straight toward the advancing Merki.
The engineer, who had been standing to one side, looked up at Hans.
"Get us back up the line to Bastion 100," Hans growled, trying to conceal the tightness in his voice.
The engineer saluted and ran back to his cab. Seconds later the train lurched forward, moving back north again to wh
ere Ingrao was still holding against the Vushka. Once this position here fell the line was finished—everyone north of Bastion 100, over two divisions, would be cut off from the rest of the army farther south. The Potomac line was finished.
He raised his carbine and fired off a round—a childlike action, he knew, as were the tears of humiliation and rage.
"We can expect them to hit come night," Andrew said, looking around at his staff. "I want fifty guns raking that crossing once the sun goes down, and then keep it up till dawn."
"That's going to come out to nearly ten thousand rounds fired by dawn," Yevgeni, the corps artillery commander interjected. "It's going to dig into our reserves, and the war is only three days' old."
"The Merki will be stuffed on the leavings," a young aide said coldly, standing up for a moment to look over the battlement wall.
The officer staggered backward, turned limply, and collapsed without a word. Andrew looked over at the dead soldier, who but seconds before had been trading a ribald comment with his friends. The casualties were becoming a slow yet maddening wastage, as the Merki guns across the river kept up a steady spray of canister and shrapnel.
Andrew looked away as the body was dragged off.
"You need some rest, sir," an aide ventured.
Andrew nodded woodenly. He had been up since dawn of the day before. In another couple of hours it would be dark. He had to get some rest.
Without comment Andrew turned away from the battlement. He left the bastion and walked back to his headquarters, oblivious to the shells bursting overhead.
The tolling of a bell signaled a train pulling in behind the protection of the secondary line. The puffs of steam and smoke were shilhouetted behind the battlement walls.
A Merki airship, struggling against the increasing wind and lowering clouds, was turning about after attempting to hit the engine. With the strong tail wind it raced overhead, running back to the protection of its hanger somewhere beyond the Shenandoah Hills.
Andrew stepped into his headquarters and went over to his cot. He stretched out with a groan.
"Andrew?"
Startled, he sat up. Kathleen stood in the shadows.
She came forward, a worried smile creasing her features.
Terrible Swift Sword Page 21
