Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  And the heat. It was almost as bad as the burning sands beyond Constan. Only light breaths of air occasionally stirring, the sky cloudless, the color almost of polished brass.

  Water now had become a serious problem. Fetching it from below the crossing was no longer possible because of the rotting corpses in the river. No water could be taken from the few muddy rivulets running in this valley; his warriors refused to drink water that smelled of death and corruption. Already it was reported that thousands in the ranks were sick, some even dying, vomiting or shitting uncontrollably, adding to the general stench of the area. As he rode down the line he could see his warriors, heads lowered in the heat, panting, commanders shouting orders not to drink.

  It was almost time. It.had to be now.

  He crossed over a small creek, water no longer flowing, the bottom churned to mud, bodies pressed into it, bloated, swollen, and distended. His horse, trying to gain the opposite bank, stepped on a corpse, shying away nervously; a puff of air came up from the body.

  Tamuka retched, ashamed at his display of a weak stomach, even though more than one on his staff had vomited from the cloying stench. He gained the opposite bank and started to retch again from the smell. Before him, what had once been a cattle house was now a burned-out ruin, charred corpses of his warriors piled around the building, a half-burned body hanging out of a broken flame-scorched window, its insides spilling out onto the ground like a bloody curtain. Upon a stake beside the house the decapitated head of one of his warriors had been set, mouth open, swollen blackened tongue protruding, eyes gouged out.

  Drawn up beside the house was a line of warriors on horseback, and he approached them, angry that the sacrilege had not been taken down.

  Tamuka snapped his fingers and pointed at the head. A silent one ran up to the head and removed it from the stake, setting it next to a corpse that it might belong to.

  Muzta Qar Qarth watched the action with bemused interest. “Sorry, we forgot to clean up around here,” he said with a grin.

  Tamuka said nothing.

  “Merki seem to smell the same as Tugars, maybe a bit worse. Another day of your fighting and you’ll even have as many dead.”

  “There’ll be more of you as well,” Tamuka said coldly.

  “I assumed that.”

  “You’ve ridden with the horde of Merki for more than a season now and have done precious little. Today your umen can start the assault,” and as he spoke he pointed at the grand battery positioned in front of Hispania.

  “And see my remaining people killed on a useless assault?” Muzta snapped. “This battle is all wrong— it’s become a madness.”

  “Are the Tugars afraid to fight?”

  “We do not believe in suicide.”

  “You seemed to do a good job of it once before.”

  “You do not know about these people at all,” Muzta snapped. “You still see them as cattle, but by all my ancestors I’ve seen cattle fight with a ferocity unimagined,” and as he spoke he pointed to the piles of dead that were heaped across the field. “Tamuka, our enemies have become like us, perhaps even better, in the making of war.”

  Tamuka continued to point at the grand battery.

  “I don’t mind dying when there’s a purpose,” Muzta snarled, “but to attack that cannon-covered hill is madness.”

  “We will attack all along the line, from north to south, the pressure striking everywhere at once.”

  “You are fighting on the field Keane chose. I heard he slaughtered fifty, maybe sixty thousand yesterday, and he’ll do the same today.”

  “Damn your soul! Attack!” Tamuka snarled.

  “You think you have the ka,” Muzta said coldly. “You have the spirit to kill, yes, you have that, but you have none of the cunning of the true warrior. That is how my people beat yours at Orki when outnumbered more than two to one—we fought with cunning and skill. Keane has walked you straight into this valley, and you batter your head against the wall he has made. You are a fool and your people are fools for letting you rule over them, a weakling who plays at war and does not understand it. A hundred thousand of your people will be dead or wounded before this day is done, and still the cattle will stand. It is a lesson that Qubata finally taught me, but you have no Qubata, only yourself.

  “Tamuka, our enemies now excel over us even in the art of killing. Stop this madness now, use your tu, not the ka, see and find another path to victory.”

  “Attack, or I’ll cut you down myself for your impudence, you Tugar bastard!”

  The knot of mounted warriors around Muzta drew their scimitars, edging up to protect their Qar Qarth, the silent ones of Tamuka nocking arrows, standing ready, half-raising their bows toward Muzta.

  A thin smile creased Muzta’s face.

  “Murderer of Jubadi and Vuka, watch how Tugars can die,” he snarled, and with a vicious jerk to his mount he turned to gallop down the front of his line, waving his sword and pointing straight up the hill.

  Tamuka looked around at his staff, who sat astride their mounts, impassive, no comment made.

  “Order the assault to begin,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  Andrew lowered his telescope and looked over at Pat.

  “I think that’s him, Vuka, the one on the left.”

  “Where the hell is O’Quinn, the bastard? We could have tried a shot.”

  “Never mind that now,” Andrew said, raising his telescope.

  The other one was Muzta Qar Qarth, he was certain of it. Twice he had met him face to face, the first time in the parley just before their final assault, the second when, in a remarkable display, the Tugar had returned Kathleen and Vincent alive.

  He braced the telescope on the parapet wall, oblivious to the bombardment raging around him, cursing when a curtain of smoke blocked the view, a wisp of noisome breeze pulling the curtain back again.

  He saw the flicker of swords, a circle of warriors on foot surrounding the other one, bows half drawn.

  It was the same Merki he had seen before, and somehow he sensed it was the same one who attempted to walk in his thoughts.

  Curious.

  The standard was nearby, that of the Qar Qarth, but no shield-bearer’s emblem.

  Muzta turned and galloped off, the circle of warriors around the leader lowering their bows at his departure.

  A horn sounded and Muzta rode on, waving his scimitar, pointing straight to where Andrew was.

  “Forced to attack,” Pat observed. “A bit of trouble in the ranks.”

  He could hear the excited cries rippling along his line, men standing up, pointing down the long slope, as the umen of the Tugars stepped off, coming straight north toward the grand battery.

  “Load case shot, five-second fuses!”

  The gunners with the Napoleons leaped to their work, eager to begin, having sat out the entire bombardment and counterbattery fire in order to conserve ammunition, the work left solely to the far more accurate three-inch rifles.

  Andrew barely paid attention. Instead he was focused on the other, who was now pointing to the ridge to the east and then to the south, as if drawing a half circle.

  “They’re going to hit everywhere at once,” Andrew said quietly.

  More horns sounded, the cry carrying off to the south.

  Tamuka, is that you? Are you the Qar Qarth?

  The leader turned and looked over his shoulder, his gaze rising up, looking straight at Andrew.

  Unable to resist the urge, Andrew lowered his telescope, climbed up atop the parapet, and stood with his one arm extended in full view of the valley below.

  He focused his thoughts as if his confidence and rage could somehow strike into Tamuka like a spear.

  So now you’re the warrior king and no longer the adviser. How do you like it, you bastard? Did you kill Vuka to get it?

  “Andrew, what the hell are you doing?”

  Pat was standing on the ground beside him, looking up gap-mouthed, shuddering as a shell screamed in, det
onating overhead, shards of shrapnel hissing down.

  Andrew laughed coldly and leaped back down, his features grim.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Nothing,” Andrew said, still shaken by the focus of rage he had sensed in return.

  The Merki guns below started to fall silent, and from out of the swirls of smoke he saw the advancing lines of the Tugars coming straight at his position.

  The thirty Napoleons within the battery fired in salvo. Andrew leaned against the parapet to watch, raising his telescope, searching for Muzta.

  Case shot burst over the line, and he found Muzta, his horse rearing, going over and down. He held his breath and saw Muzta stagger back up, his aides running up to him. He shook himself and started back in.

  Surprised at his own reaction, Andrew actually felt a flicker of relief. He’s the enemy, dammit, he argued to himself. Yet he had spared Kathleen and Vincent, returned them, honoring the memory of a fallen comrade.

  “I almost hope you make it,” Andrew whispered.

  Back along the rest of the line the assault was coming forward, a dark wave moving out in a vast semicircle, horns blaring, chanting rising up. Along the crest he saw the regiments coming to their feet in anticipation, hundreds of puffs of smoke snapping out as all the artillery, which had held back for this moment, opened fire.

  He looked over his shoulder at his headquarters building. The clock face was smashed, the hands twisted. He pulled out his own watch to check. A quarter to three—more than five hours of daylight left.

  “I’m going over to the central battery. You stay here and keep an eye on the situation to the north.”

  Pat smiled, looking down the slope at the advancing Tugar charge, shells blossoming over the ranks, the four-pounders now opening up, hurling their solid shot down the slope.

  “It’ll be some fine killing here.”

  Andrew nodded, then mounted his horse and galloped off down the line.

  It was an insane madness, and he gloried in it. He had lost count after six assaults. Nothing mattered anymore, not even victory, only the killing.

  All the way up to his lines the forward slope was blanketed with Merki corpses. To the right of the central battery they had even lapped a hundred yards into his rear, until Gregory had brought up what was left of Third Corps to seal the breach.

  He looked back behind his line. A train was rolling north, pulling a dozen flatcars, hundreds of casualties piled aboard, heading to the hospital. On the opposite track, racing south, another train screamed past, whistle shrieking, more flatcars, laden with limber chests filled with artillery ammunition.

  Madness, magnificent madness.

  He looked to the north, seeing bursts of smoke on the ridge, Merki artillery rolled up, a breach in the line across the crest.

  “Here it comes again!”

  He looked forward, squinting into the early-evening sun. Another wall advanced out of the smoke, chanting now, a hoarse guttural shrieking.

  “Rifles at two hundred and fifty yards, smoothbores at seventy-five!” His voice was barely a whisper, but it didn’t matter; the men knew what to do, his men, fighting like tigers.

  He looked along the slope. In sections the regimental lines were down to single ranks, torn flags fluttering, 31st Roum to his right, 2nd Capri to his left, anchoring into the grand battery, reinforced now by a regiment from Third Corps.

  The battery was in ruins, a sustained barrage of a hundred Merki guns having pounded it now for over four hours. Half the guns were smashed or crewless.

  The charge continued forward, coming straight at him.

  He grinned.

  “Once more, just once more!” Tamuka screamed. Helmet off, black hair streaming, scimitar in hand, he galloped along the front of the line, pointing forward.

  Three times they had gained the crest this afternoon, and one breakthrough was still pushing in. He could sense it—their reserves were gone, the lines thinner.

  His warriors looked up at him, eyes bloodshot, tongues lolling, panting for breath, gasping in the heat and smoke, moving as if possessed, exhaustion sinking in. Warriors were collapsing from lack of water and the heat. Five fresh umens were supposed to be up, crossing the river even now, struggling forward through the ruins, the wreckage, the streams of casualties staggering to the rear.

  He pointed forward, looking up the slope, seeing the thin line atop it.

  Now I have you now, he thought, sensing the presence. Look upon me and despair.

  The charge lurched forward, warriors stepping over bodies, hoarsely chanting their death songs, breaking into a staggering run, moving slowly, woodenly, yet pressing forward one more time, and he reined in to see the final destruction.

  Andrew pulled up hard alongside Vincent, Mercury shivering with exhaustion, dried sweat caking his sides.

  “You’ve got to hold!” Andrew screamed. “You’ve got to hold!”

  Vincent looked up at Andrew, sensing the desperation, his commander on the edge.

  “I’m shifting what’s left of Third and Fourth Corps to cover the breach to your right,” Andrew said.

  “I need reserves,” Vincent said, pointing forward to the Merki advance, now less than five hundred yards away.

  Andrew leaned forward, his vision blurring. He felt light-headed, on the point of fainting. The hundred-degree heat, the goddam heat—he could never stand it.

  Not now, dammit, don’t faint, not now.

  An orderly came up to Andrew’s side, uncorked a canteen, pulled Andrew’s open collar back, and poured water down Andrew’s neck. He started to shiver, and leaning over Mercury’s flank, he vomited, knowing that heat stroke was taking hold. He felt a cold sweat breaking out. Almost in a fatherly fashion the young orderly talked softly, soaked a handkerchief, and draped it around Andrew’s neck.

  He sat back up, near to swooning.

  “You’ve got to hold, Vincent. We’ve got to make it to sundown.”

  “Reserves?” Vincent’s voice was cold.

  Andrew, squinting, looked to their left. The higher ground held by Marcus’s Seventh and the division of the Fifth was still secure, the grand battery at the far end of the line smashing the flank of the Merki assaults.

  “I’ll bring up Marcus’s reserve brigade.”

  He spurred Mercury and galloped off, swaying, trying to hang on, to keep his mind working. The entire line was set to crack, the pressure unbelievable, the slaughter in five hours as bad as all the day before. The third division of Second Corps had been completely overrun, annihilated. Every other unit had sustained horrific casualties from the long hours of a stand-up toe-to-toe fight that seemed to go on without letup. His only advantage lay in the artillery, the three hundred remaining guns firing downslope, chewing up the charge before they even got into arrow-volley range. And yet enough survived to get forward and to pour in a devastating fire. Everyone was screaming for reserves. Barry, up in the forest, was fighting desperately to close yet another breach, begging for just one more regiment. But there was none left; the army was cracking apart.

  He swerved around the back of the central grand battery, riding hard down the road, casualties moving aside at his approach, men looking up to him in blind shock, some in recognition, feebly saluting, shouting encouragement.

  Behind him he heard what was left of Sixth Corps cut loose with a thundering volley.

  John Mina awoke as if from a dreadful dream. He opened his eyes and looked around weakly.

  So it wasn’t a dream. All the memories came back of what he had said, all that he had done, the failure at the end of it all.

  Shakily he stood up, noticing for the first time that the tent was packed with wounded. A thundering roar outside.

  Then the battle was already on.

  His trousers and uniform jacket were draped over the edge of his cot, and he pulled them on, not bothering with his boots, and stepped out of the tent.

  “My God,” he whispered.

  At the edge
of the hospital area he could see the thin line standing, wrapped in smoke, shadowy forms coming up over the inner line of breastworks.

  To his left a pistol shot snapped out, and he turned. A Merki staggered forward into the hospital area where the wounded lay, collapsing.

  The wounded by the hundreds stirred, looking up, watching as the line forward started to buckle in. A boy came out of the smoke, wide-eyed.

  “Ammunition, ammunition,” he chanted hysterically and disappeared to the rear.

  Overhead a flurry of arrows arced past, some of them coming down into the tents, men screaming inside.

  John looked around. How long had this been going on? There was still powder to get, trains to move, ammunition to send out, all of it.

  No, not now, and then he remembered the rest.

  It was finished, all of it finished, but there was still one last thing to do, to retrieve it all in the end.

  He saw a discarded musket on the ground, barrel bent, bayonet still attached, dried blood on the gleaming shaft. He picked it up and looked forward, and then back at the wounded that carpeted the field.

  “Come on!” John screamed, and the men looked at him.

  “Do you want to die lying down or standing up? Come on!”

  Men started to stand back up, picking up their weapons, slowly moving back toward the crumbling line. He looked down at his gun. Ammunition? It was .58 caliber, wasn’t it, or was it? Cartridge box—where was that? Where was any of it? And then he started to laugh. It simply didn’t matter anymore.

  “Give ’em the cold steel!” John screamed, and lowering his musket he ran into the smoke, disappearing from view.

  “Stand, boys, you’ve got to stand!”

  Vincent walked along the back of the line, peering forward through the smoke, trying to gauge what was happening.

  Arrows were streaking in low, hissing past, the ground a forest of shafts sticking out of the ground. The dead lay in a long row directly behind the firing line. Open gaps were evident everywhere, sections of twenty, thirty feet or more where not a single man was left standing, the regiments dressing to the center, contracting in around their flags, tight knots of beleaguered survivors. He looked to his rear. The plateau behind him was empty, the vast open plain stretching on to the far horizon. He could see it clearly now, the horde riding straight on east, spreading out, mushrooming far into the rear.