Volley after volley tore across the fields, and as quickly as a Tugar line went down, more rushed forward, driving ever closer to the breastworks. The supporting archers, in block formations, started to weave their way through the entanglements, lowering their trajectories until finally they were shooting straight into the defensive lines. Already Andrew could see casualties tumbling from the firing line, militia units helping to drag the wounded off into the protection of the sheltered ways that led back into the city.
The ground between the outer breastworks and inner wall was rapidly turning into a deadly killing ground, for anyone outside the sheltered paths was forced to run a gauntlet of indirect fire raining out of the skies.
Fires started to break out in the new city between the two walls, those struggling to contain it falling victim to the deadly suppressive fire.
The thundering roar of battle seemed to wash over the city in waves, the horrible screams of the casualties, the unceasing cries of the enemy, and the now continual rattle of musketry and artillery blending into one inferno of sound unlike anything Andrew had ever experienced before.
Just north of the east bastion, dark forms appeared atop the breastworks, leaping into the fire-pit lines. A wild melee of hand-to-hand fighting broke out, reserves of spear-armed militia rushing up the side of the breastworks and pushing and shoving to close the sudden breach.
The telegraph key next to Andrew started to clatter, and Mitchell bent over and furiously started to take down notes.
"Barry, sir," Mitchell called out, "asking for another regiment of musketmen."
"Not yet, dammit," Andrew snapped. "It's only minutes old. Tell him he's got to hold with what he has."
The breach on the wall started to widen. Nervously, Andrew focused his field glasses on the endangered line. He could see Kal's command unit surging forward with thousands of men and prayed silently that they could somehow plug the line. Before he had always stood in the line, caught up in the terrible thrill, losing himself in the strife. Now he had to stand here alone, waiting to move his pieces, to hold as long as possible against the inexorable wave.
"The first breach, my Qarth," Tula roared triumphantly. "The sun not two handspans above the horizon and already we are winning."
Excited, Muzta fought to keep his mount in check, focusing his attention on the gradually expanding hole.
"Push more archers up on the flank to support them," Muzta shouted. "We must stop them from closing it. Keep the pressure up all along the line!"
Grim-faced, Kal stood in the open field, oblivious to the men who circled their leader, holding their shields aloft to protect him from the deadly rain which lashed down around them.
Militia by the thousands swarmed forward, shouting their defiance, and by the hundreds died before even reaching the breach.
The Tugars continued to swarm through the hole now fifty yards wide, some of them now completely off the wall and wading in on the level ground, swinging their swords with deadly ease, slaying two, even three with a single blow.
All was a wild mad press of confusion. From the high bastion to the right, field pieces were swung around, pouring their deadly load down into the swarming sea of confusion below, taking friend and foe alike with each blast.
Yet still the Tugars pushed forward. The militia started ta break, looking over their shoulders nervously to the eastern gate, which was aswarm with men coming out to close the gap.
"All right, my mice," Kal shouted, clumsily holding a sword up, "let's see what we can gnaw from them," and despite the protests of his staff, he started forward into the insanity.
"Let's go!" O'Donald shouted, racing out from the northeast bastion. Leaping onto the cab of the Bangor, he roared with delight as Malady set the throttle down. The engine strained with the load, its wheels spinning, and then with a lurch the train pushed forward and started clicking down the tracks. Its whistle shrieking, the engine picked up speed, the militiamen swarming down toward the breach leaping to either side as the train, bearing its two metal-shrouded cars ahead and behind the engine, tore down the track.
The press of men around the track grew thicker by the minute, shouting and screaming as waves of arrows slashed into their ranks, while buildings to either side roared into flames. Coming around a bend between two infernos, consuming now-empty warehouses, O'Donald saw their goal a quarter mile away.
"Christ in heaven, Malady, get us there," O'Donald cried.
Crawling out of the cab, O'Donald climbed along the side of the engine, hanging on to the railing as the engine jostled and swayed. Steel-tipped shafts slammed against the engine, striking sparks. Reaching the front coupling, he leaped onto the car ahead of the train and clambered on top.
The track ahead was aswarm with men, who struggled to clear a way, the engine now going ahead at a crawl, its whistle shrieking incessantly.
"Clear it, goddammit!" O'Donald screamed. "Clear a way!"
Gradually they pushed forward, yet at the same time it seemed as if the battle was rushing outward to them as well.
Militia units started to break, struggling vainly to get out of the way of the dark horde. Hundreds of Tugars were now leaping over the battlement, oblivious to loss.
The train hit a low trestle that spanned a broad shallow gully and started to pick up speed again. When it reached the other side, the press of bodies started to give way as militiamen now pushed to the edge of panic started streaming by in the opposite direction.
A lone Tugar stood on the track, staring wide-eyed at the train. Raising his spear, he hurled it at O'Donald, who, ducking low, fired off a shot, sending the warrior staggering to one side.
The train hit the edge of the breach, so that ahead and to the left there was only a thin line of militia giving way, under the inexorable weight of the charge.
"Stop it here, Malady!"
There were still militiamen forward, fighting desperately, but he couldn't wait.
"Get down!" O'Donald screamed. "Get down!"
Those who could see or hear what was about to occur dived to the ground, covering their heads, but not all were aware of what was happening behind them.
"God forgive me," O'Donald whispered, crossing himself, and then, reaching down, he pulled open the hatch between his feet.
"Open up and let the bastards have it!"
The sides of the car dropped open, revealing the muzzles of four Napoleons.
A deafening roar snapped out, the guns firing in sequence, the recoil knocking O'Donald off his feet, and for an instant he feared that the entire car would tumble clear off the track. The other car followed suit with its six four-pounders. Over a thousand iron balls, along with hunks of chain, glass, and scrap metal, slammed into the breach.
The enemy attack was staggered by the blow.
Racing down the length of the car, O'Donald leaped back to the engine, burning his hands when they hit the hot metal. An arrow slashed by, tearing open his sleeve, and his arm suddenly felt like ice. A sheet of arrows came in as he leaped into the cab and ducked down beside Malady.
"Keep inching her forward," O'Donald shouted.
The train rocked again as one after another the four heavy guns forward and the six to the rear repeated their performance.
Behind the train, the militia, taking heart, started to swarm back into the breach. Climbing over the wood tender, O'Donald crawled through the hatchway into the aft car.
The Suzdalian crew were wild with excitement, loading their pieces, pushing them up through the hatches, and firing into the enemy at near point-blank range.
Arrows skidded in through the firing ports, finding their marks, yet as quickly as a man fell another leaped in to finish the task and fire once again.
"Raise your sights for the walls!" O'Donald cried. "Sweep them damn archers off!"
Moving to the first gun, he sighted down the barrel, spinning the elevation gear down so that the barrel slowly climbed. Satisfied, he stepped back, grabbed hold of the lanyard, and gave a sha
rp yank. The flintlock trigger set into the breach snapped down. The gun exploded, punching out a whirling hunk of chain and nails that swept the wall clear for half a dozen paces.
Gradually the train inched forward, sewing up the breach as it passed, until finally, as they pushed their way to the edge of the parapet protecting the eastern gate, the Tugars started to break, falling back before the death-dealing dragon.
Heartened, the militia swarmed forward, oblivious to the losses caused by the arrows still raining down. From out of the gatehouse bastion a fresh regiment of musketmen swarmed, pushing up the wall to plug the hole. Within seconds their fire started to sweep outward, driving the last of the attackers back into the moat.
Covered in sweat, his face blackened with powder smoke, O'Donald crawled out of the armored car and forward to Malady, who looked at him, grinning broadly.
"Not the best ride I've had, but pretty damn close," Malady shouted, his voice pitched high like that of a man who was near deaf after the thunder of fire.
"Hold it here!" O'Donald shouted, and leaping from the train he ran toward the covered entryway into the gatehouse. A minute later he came back out, pointing southward.
"Another breach down by the Fort Lincoln road! Let's go!"
As the train pulled out, O'Donald looked back on the carnage they had wrought. For a hundred yards of line, barely a place could be found where the ground was visible. The buildings between the track and the wall were ablaze, casting their lurid light on the carnage.
So thick were the dead and wounded that O'Donald did not even notice a lone peasant who lay spread-eagled on the ground, the standard bearing the image of a mouse by his side.
"Keep pressing!" Tula shouted, his voice near to breaking. "We cannot stop now—we cannot stop, do you hear me?"
The staff gazed at him, some with fear in their eyes.
Tula looked back at Muzta, who sat expressionless on his mount.
"It is a question of who will break first, my Qarth. They cannot take this pounding much longer!"
Muzta did not even bother to spare his war leader a glance. The sun had shifted to the western sky, yet still the outer works of the cattle held. Half a dozen times they had slashed a way in only to be driven out, by the concentrated blasts of the dragon, or thunder weapons and gun men lined up behind the wall. This has got to end, it's got to end, Muzta thought grimly.
"Prepare the Olkta," Muzta said, looking at Tula, "and send them in there," and as he spoke he pointed to the northeast bastion, wreathed in smoke. "Bring up as many catapults as possible to that position. We move in late afternoon before the sun disappears."
Tula nodded his agreement and gave the orders, sending his couriers galloping out.
Now they will see our surprise, Muzta thought grimly. Though he hated to pollute his people with the instruments of the cattle, which took away all heroism, there was nothing else to be done.
"Bring him over here!" Kathleen cried, horrified at what she was seeing.
An attendant threw a bucket of water across the rough-hewn table, and the casualty was laid down.
Weakly Kal opened his eyes to look at her.
"This mouse forgot to duck. I must talk to O'Donald about his aim," the peasant said, trying vainly to smile.
"Oh Kal, Kal," she whispered, trying to force back her tears.
She had studied with Emil for months preparing for this day. Why the hell wasn't he here? Arrow wounds, cuts, and stabs she could patch, but this? She had helped Emil after the first round of battles, but now for the first time she would have to do it on her own.
A young Suzdalian girl came up to Kal's side and gentry tried to cut his tunic off. He tried to stifle his screams as the blood-caked garment was peeled off the wounds. Working quickly, the girl wiped the blood off the mangled arm.
Turning away, Kathleen stuck her hands into a fresh bowl of tincture of lime, rushing to scrub.
What was this, the fiftieth, the hundredth casualty today?
A thunderclap roar echoed through the room, the wounded inside stirring nervously and looking about with fear. From outside the door she could see a building collapsing in flames.
Don't think about it, she kept trying to tell herself. Don't be afraid.
She motioned to the boiling kettle. An attendant pulled a hot pincer out of the fire, and using it to reach into the kettle, fished out the instruments, laying them on a freshly boiled rag.
Nerving herself, she came up to Kal's side.
"It'll hurt," she whispered soothingly.
Kal grimaced and closed his eyes. She already knew what would have to be done, looking at the mangled limb, but hoping against hope, she slipped her finger into the wound. Arching his back, Kal let out a muffled scream as her finger, probing inward, felt nothing but jagged splinters of bone.
Gently she pulled her hand back.
"You know what I have to do?" Kathleen whispered.
Wide-eyed, the peasant merely nodded.
"We still have something to put you to sleep while I work," Kathleen said, motioning to her assistant.
"Do you have enough for everyone?" he asked.
"Of course," she said, lying.
"I think for once I'll take advantage of my rank and take the special treatment," the peasant whispered.
"Go to sleep now," Kathleen replied, her voice husky.
The attendant stepped forward with the paper cone and started to place it over Kal's face.
"Now your colonel and I can buy our gloves together," Kal whispered, trying to force a laugh even as he drifted off into blessed oblivion.
"Dear God, please let me save this man," she said, openly making the sign of the cross for the first time in years.
Bending over, she started to cut.
Wearily Andrew leaned against the parapet, trying to force down a cup of scalding tea brought to him by a young acolyte. The entire outer ring of the city seemed wreathed in flames, covered with a roiling blanket of smoke, punctuated by unceasing explosions, and roaring fires now consuming most of what was left of the new city.
"Can we stop them?" Casmar asked nervously, looking out at the madness.
"We at least are making them pay for their dinner," Andrew said grimly.
Mitchell, sweat streaking his face in spite of the cold, tore off another sheet of paper and handed it to Andrew.
Andrew turned and looked up at the balloon hanging several hundred feet above him. Picking up his field glasses, he tried to see through the smoke in the direction Petracci had indicated to him.
A gust of wind came out of the west, and for a moment, as if a curtain were being drawn back, the smoke parted.
Andrew put down his glasses and looked over at Mitchell.
"Send word down to Houston to prepare to move the rest of the reserves to the northeast bastion on my command. Contact the south bastion and tell them to move the armor train northward and be quick about it. Tell Hans we're bringing up everything we've got."
Andrew handed the field glasses over to Casmar, who gasped in disbelief.
"This is the test," Andrew said coldly, taking the glasses back.
Since dawn the attack had been raging all along the line. Half a dozen breaches had been cut, the latest and worst down by the south wall, where he had finally been forced to commit half his reserves, which were just now sealing the breach.
And now, as the sun hung low in the western sky, the enemy were throwing their major blow, the block of fifty thousand warriors who had stood motionless throughout the day coming now like an arrow point straight at the northeast bastion.
Muzta Qar Qarth pulled his mount over to the side, letting the first lines of the advancing host march past. A hundred nargas were about him, sounding their deep-throated call, a hundred drummers of doom swung their mallets, setting up a thundering roar that put one's hair on edge.
"Muzta, Muzta, Muzta!" the Olkta roared, as they climbed up over the entrenchments and started forward at the double, Tula in the lead. Thousands
of mounted archers swung out to either side, bending their bows, aiming heavenward, launching their deadly flights, and then yet another and another.
"May I still ride with you, my Qarth?"
Muzta turned to see Qubata come up by his side, wearing the simple armor of an ordinary warrior, a battered scabbard hanging at his side.
Muzta was silent for a moment.
"You should be with the old ones," he said quietly.
Qubata tried to force a smile.
"You would not heed my warning," Qubata said evenly, "and thus Tula has given you this," and he pointed out across the bloody field of action.
"But you are still my Qar Qarth, the horde are still my people, a place of battle still my choice for where I wish to die. Besides, I heard my little experiment was about to be used, and I wished to see it."
"Go back," Muzta said evenly.
Qubata shook his head.
The briefest of smiles crossed Muzta's features.
"Let us go see what these creatures you now call men are made of," the Qar Qarth said quietly, and bringing his mount around, he fell in alongside the advancing ranks.
"Hold your fire!" Hans shouted, leaping up onto the battlement walls, oblivious to the rain of arrows slashing past.
Their reserves were nearly depleted. Nearly ten hours of continual fighting had consumed ammunition at a fearful rate.
The first ranks were coming in at the charge. Crouched low, Hans held his carbine up high, and then pointed it straight down.
A thousand muskets and a dozen artillery pieces snapped out.
Instantly the view disappeared in clouds of billowing smoke. From out of the shadows he saw the enemy swarming forward, leaping into the moat, scrambling up the sides.
Jumping back into the protection of the bastion, Hans looked around at his battle-weary men. They were stretched to the limit. They had to break this attack quickly or break themselves.
Along a front of four hundred yards, the concentrated wave hit, pushing relentlessly forward. Within minutes he could see shadowy forms gaining the top of the breastworks, tumbling over as the defenders fired wildly, and then yet more would leap to fill the gaps.
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