“Yes, sur, General. But what about Flynn?”
Pete shook his head. “I . . . don’t know. It all depends on his position and whether he has the supplies—and troops to hold it.”
March 15, 1944
Below North Hill
“They cannot resist much longer!” Halik ranted aloud to himself as a third, properly coordinated (this time) attack ground up the corpse-choked slopes of that wickedly tenacious hill on the long grass prairie. The horns brayed insistently, and his army roared with something he remembered as akin to glee as the bloody banners swept forward and up. A thunderous staccato booming erupted in all directions and smoke churned down the slopes, engulfing the front ranks of the charge. Halik knew those first ranks had been flayed, but there were more behind them, many more. The stutter of enemy muskets—Better than mine, he seethed—became a continuous crackle, like dry sinik wood in a roaring flame. Still, this portion of his army, a quarter the size of that attacking the mouth of the mountain gap, still outnumbered the enemy at least eight to one, and he’d sent nearly all of it this time. The enemy had to be running out of ammunition—and warriors—by now.
This was the first time General Halik had led an entire battle alone. He and General Niwa had realized that staying together had been the greatest mistake they’d made on Ceylon. Neither had been in a position to avert several disasters that occurred too far away for them to influence, and they’d determined never to allow such a concentration of command again. Niwa was in the south, coordinating the various actions there, and Halik wasn’t nervous, exactly, but he did feel a measure of unease. He believed he’d planned this battle well, and the enemy had done exactly as he hoped—at first. The resilience of the defenders on that cursed northern hill and the speed with which the force in the pass had reacted to his attack there had surprised him, but he didn’t think he needed Niwa here. His battle was taking longer than expected, but he believed it was still in his grasp—yet he missed the Jaaph officer. Niwa’s cool counsel was always welcome at times like this, when Halik’s blood began to boil.
A shadow flitted across him, and he looked up. Not again! Several of the blue-and-white enemy aircraft swooped low, directly over his converging horde, and released more of their hideous firebombs. The things exploded, flinging streams of fire among his precious, disciplined Uul more vigorously than his own similar weapons could ever manage. He raged. He didn’t have any of the large fire throwers here, nor did he have enough artillery. What guns he had were deployed against the force in the gap. Worse, he had no more airships to use here either—all that remained in India had been taken from his command for “something else,” even General Niwa had no details about. He assumed General Esshk and General of the Sea Kurokawa were coming at last, but he had no confirmation. His rage dampened just a bit. It barely mattered. The enemy machines would make short work of his airships again, even if he still had them at his disposal.
This fight would have to be decided the old-fashioned way, but he still needed to win it quickly. The first “new” Uul had been landed a few weeks before in the Cambay Gulf, just as he’d asked. He’d actually been surprised by that, but he was grateful. Now they were hurrying here, even as the battle raged. They were not “attack” troops. Not yet. They had been designed from birth to defend. They were very young, barely mature, but he’d been assured they could do what they were made to do: stand and fight to the bitter end—just as his enemies now did atop that thrice-cursed hill!
This attack had to succeed, but at what cost? What price could he pay for that wretched hill? He still needed these attack warriors in the gap, and they were withering before his eyes! Had he become distracted from his own plan? He might yet win the hill and lose his primary objective. Only once the enemy in the gap had been pushed back could he fortify a defensive, impervious position with invincible troops! The enemy would never break out onto the prairie where its better, more coordinated mobility could be fully employed. Again he wished he had fast animals his own troops could ride! The enemy cavalry, as Niwa called it, had been nearly as dreadful a surprise as its aircraft! He wondered if there was not something, somewhere, in all the realms of the Grik, that could be tamed for such a purpose.
More bombs fell, and now the summit of the hill was all but invisible through the roiling black smoke of burning fuel and bodies, and the white smoke of guns. He tensed, watching closely.
* * *
Flynn’s defenses had been forced back into secondary positions all around the perimeter by the amazingly well-executed attack. A couple of Sularan guns had been overrun in their forward positions, but not before they’d been disabled. Most of the paalkas were dead, either riddled by Grik bolts or burned to death two nights before. Unlike meanies, the stupid damn things wouldn’t lie down under cover. Billy Flynn had heard from the Maa-ni-los that they couldn’t lie down or they’d suffocate. He figured they would know, but the result was that his draft animals had been effectively exterminated. The rest of the guns had been heaved, by hand, into a contracting circle around the central hospital stockade, where new positions had already been dug. At the moment, it didn’t look like it would matter. Ammunition was dwindling fast, particularly for the new breechloaders and mortars, and they were almost out of canister. All they had was what they’d brought with them, and there was little possibility of resupply. General Maraan probably had the power to reach them, but she couldn’t deploy it in the narrow gap and pop the cork the Grik had shoved in. Worse, from what Flynn heard through Madras HQ, if she did break through to them before General Alden could support her, Flynn would probably have to find room on North Hill for all of II Corps! What a crazy mess.
“Hammer ’em,” Flynn yelled as he moved, crouching, behind the secondary breastworks. The Grik crowded so densely in front of it that it was impossible for a shot to miss. Crossbow bolts thrummed past or stuck in the shields that a pair of Marines insisted on defending him with as he moved. “Chew ’em up! Shred ’em!” he chanted. “Stomp ’em like the goddamn lizardy roaches they are!” He wasn’t even sure his troops could hear him, but they poured in the fire or stabbed with their bayonets at anything that got close enough. This would be a swell time for grenades, he thought, but they’d already run out of those. It was terrible and horrifying—and magnificent all at once.
One of his Marine guards dropped suddenly, his head misshapen by a Grik musket ball that punched right through the shield and hit him above the ear, sending his helmet flying. A Sularan quickly slung his musket and snatched up the shield. Dammit, I wish they’d just use their weapons! Flynn seethed to himself, angry that yet another of his guards was dead—but this was the crisis, the tipping point, and he thought he had no choice but to expose himself so. If there was any consolation, he didn’t think he was being specifically targeted. The smoke was so dense and visibility so poor, few of the enemy could even see him. Besides, the Grik leaders in this attack, if there were any, seemed to be leading from the pack, and the common Grik warrior probably didn’t know to single him out.
“Captain Bekiaa!” he shouted, finally slipping down into the trench beside the female ’Cat, where he sensed the greatest enemy pressure. Trust her to find the hottest spot first! His guards followed and he yelled for them to get back in the fight, which they gladly did.
“So, you’re our reserve now. Huh, Colonel?” Lieutenant Leedom asked ironically. He’d found a bloody Lemurian helmet and had tied the straps beneath his chin. He also had Flynn’s own ’03 Springfield, since he wasn’t as familiar with a musket. Flynn had kept the weapon but hadn’t used it himself since they invaded Ceylon. Apparently, the ’03 was in good hands. The long bayonet was reddish black, and Leedom was pushing bright brass shells through a stripper clip into the magazine.
“I’m all that’s left,” Flynn confirmed, raising his musket and firing. He nodded at the guards as he started to reload. “Me and those fellas.”
“We’re almost out of ammunition!” Bekiaa yelled.
“Th
ere’s more on the way,” Flynn assured her, “but it’s about the last of it.” He nodded at the surging enemy. “Won’t need it in a second. Bayonets!” he roared as the Grik hurtled forward.
Few in what remained of Flynn’s division had shields anymore. Only the Marines still habitually carried them, and that was mainly because the Marines at the Dueling Ground had done so, and it had been reported that they could turn musket balls—for a while—if held at an angle. Flynn realized now that letting his Rangers discard their shields had been a mistake. The weird Grik matchlocks fired bigger balls than the Dom muskets did, and if they didn’t always punch through a shield, they made very short work of it. But shields still came in very handy against crossbow bolts, and at that moment, as in the jungles around Raan-goon, a wall of shields would have been very welcome. The Grik must have recognized that too, because the biggest Grik charge didn’t come against the Marines; it came right at Flynn, Bekiaa, and Leedom, and the now utterly mixed “company” of Rangers and Sularans.
One very important thing Flynn suddenly—vividly—remembered from his time in France was that once the enemy reached your trench, you didn’t stay in it and let him land on top of you unless you wanted to die.
“Up!” he roared. “Up and at ’em! Charge bayonets!” Shrilly, the order swept down the defending line like a crackling electric current. Even as the Grik charge waded through the entanglements and reached the breastworks beyond, the Rangers and Sularans flowed up out of their trench and met them in a slashing, shooting, stabbing melee. As had long been observed, the Grik were better armed, physically, for such a fight, but the training and discipline—not to mention the bristling bayonets and thundering muskets that fired in their faces—left the Grik stunned for an instant. An instant was all it took.
Saachic’s cavalry, dismounted and without orders, joined the countercharge with a stutter of carbine fire and their long, deadly blades. A clawing, shrieking, hacking brawl ensued like hadn’t been seen since the fighting for the south wall during the battle of Baalkpan. Grik claws slashed and tore past their own small shields, which were suddenly in the way. ’Cats screamed and rolled back into the trench, bleeding or dead, but the long bayonets on the Allied muskets were sharper, better, and more horrible than any spear. Also, if a ’Cat had a chance, he or she could still load and shoot—and the steel butt plate on the other end of the musket was a far better weapon than the butt of a spear.
These Grik were better trained than any they’d faced before, and they fought with greater skill. But if they’d largely learned not to wildly break, to “turn prey” in what Bradford had once coined “Grik Rout,” that ability was achieved only through greater awareness—an awareness that permitted a variety of somewhat normal, genuine fear. They didn’t break in the face of the sudden, ferocious countercharge, but they did recoil from it just enough to allow it to gain some momentum.
Other Grik regiments pressing forward on the flanks also paused, bewildered and frightened as their comrades gave ground. That allowed other Ranger companies, Marines, and Sularans, to push back as well, and soon the Grik were falling back, still fighting savagely, all around the hill. The last few dozen grenades exploded among them, and cannon sent hoarded canister sleeting through the disconcerted ranks.
“At ’em!” Flynn kept screaming, over and over, stabbing with his long bayonet as he’d been taught so long ago. Bekiaa appeared beside him. She’d lost her musket, but she plied her cutlass with practiced, savage ease, hewing heads and grasping, slashing arms. The Baalkpan Armory copies of the 1917 Navy cutlass were outstanding weapons. Just like those that inspired them, they were the culmination of thousands of years of human experience. Fairly short, they were handy in close quarters, but their sharp, heavy-spined blades were ideal for slashing and chopping flesh and bone. Grik swords were great for hacking or slashing too, Flynn had seen, but generally lighter and even shorter, and shaped more like a sickle or claw, so they tended to turn in the attacker’s hand if they struck another sword, shield, or even musket barrel. Bekiaa and many other veterans were well aware of this and exploited it mercilessly.
Flynn took a clawed slash across his chest, unable to block it in time, then had the wooden forearm gnawed off his rifle while he tried to wrench it from clinging jaws. He finally yanked it free in a shower of splinters and shattered teeth and drove his bayonet through the eye of the Grik that tried to eat his gun. He thought he heard a squeal. Another lunged for him, batting at his rifle with its small shield, but Leedom drove it back against those behind it with a roar and sixteen inches of Springfield Armory steel.
Bekiaa was down! A Grik stood over her, sword raised for the killing blow. Flynn flung his rifle at the beast and chased after it, drawing his own cutlass. He hadn’t practiced with it much, but great skill would’ve been wasted just then. The Grik deflected the thrown musket, but screeched when the cutlass tore into its chest. A blow on his helmet hammered Flynn to the ground as well, but somebody must have killed or distracted his assailant, because there was no second strike. For a moment, he was knocked back and forth on his hands and knees by the legs and feet of friend and foe alike, and couldn’t get up. Grik hind claws slashed his thigh, and he gasped. Finally, a harried ’Cat hauled him up and pushed him out of the way. He saw Leedom then, Springfield on his shoulder, dragging Bekiaa back out of the fight while firing his pistol in the crush.
Flynn could sense the enemy was still afraid—he saw it in their wide eyes—but they just wouldn’t break. There were too many, and he was so tired! His wonderful Rangers—and all the others, of course—had done all they could. The Grik were firming up now, and his countercharge had stalled. There was nothing for it. He started to yell an order for his troops to fall back to their trenches when he suddenly heard the dull, thrumming roar of Grik horns in the distance. Obediently, but almost reluctantly, it seemed, as if the warriors themselves had known how close they were to finishing it, the Grik started backing away.
“Don’t chase ’em, for God’s sake,” Flynn croaked. “They wanna retreat, let ’em!”
He didn’t give the order to cease firing, however, and able to reload at last, the horribly diminished troops around him sent a patter of musketry after the Grik until they were beyond crossbow range. Few fired after that. They couldn’t have had much left to fire with.
“All right,” he said at last, his knees turning rubbery. “Form details to get our wounded out of this mess.” He waved at the carpet of corpses strewn around. “And pick up any weapons and ammunition you can find.” He stopped a furiously blinking Sularan lieutenant who was pulling cartridge boxes off the dead. “You take charge here, son. Get somebody else to do that.” He lowered his voice. “The guys and gals love to see their officers fight, but they’d rather we tell them to do stuff like this, while we pretend to think about what’s next.”
The lieutenant looked at him, his tail still swishing erratically from side to side, but the blinking stopped. “Yes, Col-nol,” he whispered.
* * *
“Lord General Halik!” the warrior cried as he flung himself into the grass at Halik’s feet. “I beg to report!”
“Rise, General Ugla,” Halik said almost mildly.
Ugla instantly rose to his feet, perhaps surprised he still lived. “Yes, Lord General!”
Halik looked at him, eyes steady. Ugla had reason for concern. Halik had not always been kind to those who brought ill tidings. But that was before. General Niwa had taught him a great deal. “Your assessment, General. Withhold nothing you perceive as truth.”
“Yes, Lord General.” Ugla still paused.
“Only your silence will anger me at this point,” Halik warned.
Ugla removed his helmet and shook out his crest. Halik noted that it was stiff with . . . anger?
“Lord General, we had them in our grasp. The prey was at bay and could not escape. It had gone to earth! It fought hard, still, and many Uul were slain. Many more would still have been lost . . . but we had them! Only y
ou . . . Forgive me! Only the horns called us back before we gained all the prey atop that hill to feed upon!”
Halik said nothing for a moment, but only gazed into the west. Then he looked back at Ugla and pointed his sword at the smoldering hill.
“You are right, General. You would have had them. I know that as well, and I am . . . unhappy that I was forced to stop you.” He took a deep, rasping breath. “Not long ago, I wouldn’t have, no matter the cost, but the price of that stinking hill has grown too great to bear at present.” His own crest flared. “I like to believe I have grown wiser in the ways of war and I need your seasoned warriors, those that remain, for a far more important task we must set them to immediately.” He pointed back to the west. “We are out of time to pursue this sport. As you can see, the hatchling host draws near,” he said, using the somewhat derisive term he’d heard his generals use to describe the barely mature army of culls—some said—that had been bred to defend. “There are their banners now.”
It was true. Cresting a nearby rise, hundreds of bloodred pennants streamed in the afternoon sun, each signifying a hundred Uul warriors.
“We cannot linger here,” Halik stated. “As you say, the enemy on the hill is crushed, cut off from resupply or reinforcement. They can no longer threaten us. Leave a few thousands of your warriors to ensure they do not escape, but we must rejoin the bulk of our army and push the greater force of the enemy back, deeper into the gap. There we will hold him while the hatchlings deploy.” He paused. “You have shown great promise, General Ugla, and I need you and your warriors there.” Hesitantly, he patted Ugla’s shoulder as Niwa had often done to him. It wasn’t his people’s way to touch each other at all, other than while killing or mating, but Niwa’s touch had become oddly . . . comforting. Ugla recoiled, as Halik expected, but then let him pat him again. “Once that is done,” he continued, “we can finish our business here.”
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