Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  This merited further thought. “I will be in my quarters,” he told the captain. “Inform me when we are close to Stilesboro.”

  Harvest Problems

  The angry sun lashed Andrew’s neck. His squad wasn’t among the lucky ones on patrol or sweeping the countryside for game. Instead, they’d been sent with the women and children to cut hay from the grasslands well east of the camp.

  Andrew swung the scythe through the waist-high dry grass, the blade cutting through the stalks just above the ground. He looked behind him. It had been hours and the two dozen or so workers had cut only a few acres. The nearby reaper would do the same work in half the time with two men and a horse, but it hadn’t moved in a spell. Andrew hoped it wasn’t permanently busted. The grass stretched out a fair distance ahead and with only scythes, it would take days to harvest it all.

  Back in Carroll Town, he could hunt to earn his keep and pawn off the work on the family’s fields on those who wouldn’t get bored and distracted easily. David in particular was good at the sort of dull, necessary tasks that would drive Andrew mad.

  He reproached himself for his attitude. He owed the Merrills for saving him in the desert, and they were his best shot at punishing the Flesh-Eaters besides.

  Still, his arms and back were getting sore, the back of his neck was sunburned, and he was having difficulty focusing.

  Maybe pondering the better aspects of the situation would make things easier. Thanks to the drought, the hay would dry quickly and it wasn’t likely to be ruined by rain. That meant the horses and cattle had fodder.

  But thanks to the drought, the hay was sparse. Rumor had it the grain fields cut into the sod elsewhere were worse. If the harvest were anything like Carroll Town’s would have been, the Merrill camp would hunger during the coming year.

  He kept that bleak thought to himself. If only David had more sense.

  “This is awful,” David grumbled ahead of Andrew. “How are thousands of people and horses going to eat —”

  Will struck him on the shoulder. “Shut the hell up, you dumb shit. Nobody needs to hear that now!”

  Andrew glanced over to the nearest group of workers. Most were women and kids, but it looked like another squad had been detailed to help. Those men were giving David powerful ugly looks.

  Andrew looked straight at them and shook his head. Most returned to work. The other, a man a foot taller than Andrew and bulkier besides, returned his look. Andrew did not lower his gaze.

  “But it’s true!” David said. “There are two thousand people at this camp and —”

  The man who met Andrew’s gaze narrowed his eyes. Any fight’d likely turn into a riot. Everybody’d be lucky if they just had to do gaspers until they collapsed.

  The man took a step forward. Andrew raised a finger.

  “Hold on,” he mouthed. The other man nodded, though he didn’t return to his work. Andrew turned toward David and Will. “Both of you stuff it. That fella over there already wants to fight. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Yeah,” Owen added. “I’m not interested in more gaspers or a spell in the stocks.”

  Hank nodded his agreement. Will shrugged and returned to work. David scowled. “All right.”

  Once everyone was cutting again, Andrew looked at the big man and nodded. The titan nodded back and slowly returned to work.

  Looks like that’s taken care of.

  After a few more minutes, someone shouted from the machine. It was Zeke, crawling out from under the reaper.

  “Simmons! Get your ass over here!”

  “Yes, sergeant.” Will set the scythe down and headed over with a slight spring in his step. Andrew reckoned he didn’t cotton to cutting hay either.

  “What’s he doing?” David asked. “Zeke wouldn’t let him shirk.”

  Andrew recalled the battle with the Flesh-Eaters. “He was good with the mortar. Maybe he’s good with machines. That reaper’ll get all this hay mowed right quick. And after that, it can get cracking on the wheat. Maybe we’ll have it all done in a few days.”

  Of course, one reason the machine could harvest so quickly was because there simply wasn’t a whole lot to harvest.

  Gears began turning in Andrew’s mind. The fields around the Merrills’ hideaways weren’t their sole food source. They raided the Flesh-Eaters when they could, stealing food or loot they could sell to the pikeys. If the harvest this year couldn’t replenish the army’s food supplies, they’d need to raid the enemy a hell of a lot more.

  A smile spread across his face. He’d have the chance to kill Flesh-Eaters and maybe find Cassie and Sarah.

  Alonzo wiped the sweat from his forehead as he entered the spacious tent where he met with his advisors. The others rose from their wooden benches. He gestured for them to sit. “Harvest’s taking longer than I thought. One of the reapers broke down again.”

  The camps and refuges making up the present Merrill domain had only perhaps a dozen reapers, all horse-powered to avoid the smoke that would bring Flesh-Eater dirigibles. Most were about to fall apart. Harvesting by hand meant more work and less return. Father had done his best to make sure it wasn’t too bad working in a factory and the Shoemakers repaid the favor by doing their damnedest to keep him supplied with manufactures, but the Flesh-Eaters kept a sharp lookout. Dozens of Shoemakers had ended up on the cross or the barbecue grill. And getting equipment to the Merrills’ camps meant more deals with the trading folk, who drove hard bargains.

  “We’ve been discussing the information you asked us to collect,” said white-haired Gideon Paul, who’d been his father’s treasurer. The Merrill cause was not exactly rich at the moment, so he handled logistics in general and not just money. “You won’t like our conclusions.”

  “I haven’t liked your conclusions since the war started. That don’t mean I don’t need to hear them.”

  The old man nodded. “We’ve had to tighten rations twice last year and that was with much better crops. This year is going to be even worse.”

  Alonzo swore. “How does it break down?”

  “Well, we have five thousand men and six thousand women and children. Three horses per man, the sheep and cattle…” He paused. “We’re going to run out of food. Spring at the earliest and we definitely won’t survive summer.”

  Alonzo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Was this it? Did he survive Fairmont and Pa’s death just to starve in the high plains? Was the last living Merrill going to be Catalina, soiled by a tyrant? Was the Merrill line going to be stained forever by some wicked Sejer?

  He ground his teeth and clenched his fist. To hell with that. He’d send all the women and children in small groups west. The lord of Hamari needed workers and tended not to ask questions. Then he’d take all the men and ride for Jacinto or, if a way around the Pass’s defenses could be found, Norridge, for death or glory. It would be the end, but it would be a far better end than eating one’s own boots before dying of scurvy or, Good Lord forbid, eating the dead.

  “We can cull the livestock, of course,” Paul continued. “That’ll free up hay to sell to buy food for people, and we can sell the meat or give the people a feast to keep up morale. But that presents its own problems. Culling means much less milk, leather, and wool in the long run. Hungrier people and less trade.”

  Alonzo knew what was next. “We can’t cull the horses. We’d all be dead five times over if it weren’t for the troopers all being mounted.”

  “Damn right,” said Major General Thomas Hutton, the last of his father’s commanders. Sweat shone on his bald head. “Mounting up everyone barely got us out of Fairmont. If we have to march everywhere, we might as well hop on the barbecue grill now and get it over with.”

  “What do you propose?” Paul asked. “Each day, the Southern Wall gets stronger and the airships come farther south. We won’t be able to raid for supplies much longer. If we don’t starve, they’ll come down here and finish us.”

  Hutton’s brown eyes narrowed.“Trying to breach the S
outhern Wall where it’s strongest is suicide. But so long as it’s being built, there’s food headed there, payroll —”

  “We’ve been raiding that to keep ourselves alive and keep pressure on the Flesh-Eaters,” Alonzo interrupted. “I propose we step up some.”

  In order to get the food and fodder — or the gold to buy more — to survive the next year, they’d need to steal colossally. Thus far, he’d contented himself with pinpricks, hitting isolated Flesh-Eater troops or filching supplies. This kept them in the fight but did no serious damage. A raid big enough to get what his folk needed would provoke serious Flesh-Eater reprisal or even intervention by the Leaden and Bloody Alchemy Hosts. At worst, Grendel himself might come south with the Obsidian Guard.

  This might be a swift end by bullet or bomb instead of a slow one by hunger and sickness. It’d be the final victory for the sons of bitches who’d butchered his family and stolen his country, a victory they’d get without bleeding for it.

  Well they’ll bleed for this one all right. Oh, they will bleed.

  Imposing Peace

  Garbed in his full armor, Grendel sat in a carved oaken chair on the dais in the stone and timber great hall of Stilesboro. The town council had wisely offered him their meeting place and made themselves scarce. Guardsmen as still as statues flanked him; others formed lines on either side of the dais. Below him to his right stood Clark in his military garb, barely-repressed eagerness on his face.

  Enjoy this glory while it lasts. I’m raising you up only to dash you to pieces. The higher the climb, the worse the fall.

  The oaken double doors opened. The bright light outside framed Travis “Mangle” Steuben, the first to arrive, and his bodyguards.

  Despite the heat outside, Mangle wore a hooded cloak. Crimson eyes peeked out from underneath. His hands, one blackened and twisted and the other made of metal and clockwork, remained at his sides. What Mangle did to himself in the years he had ruled north of Norridge made Grendel uneasy, but he would not show this weakness.

  And like Mangle, his bodyguards were also unusual. Mangle’s men were huge and twisted, looking like they had bulls in their pedigrees. Hell, one even had horns.

  The terrible man who once tended the wounds of Grendel’s soldiers — and tortured his enemies — walked toward his master across the hardwood floor. Fifty feet from Grendel, the guards stopped and stood at attention. Mangle came forward alone.

  “My lord.” His voice had more than a hint of machine in it.

  “Where is Quantrill?” Grendel asked.

  “Here, my lord,” Stephen Quantrill called from the doorway. A tall and slender man with a receding hairline, he wore a simple blue coat that reminded Grendel of his own preference for black. He came with only two guards, men wearing dark blue with light blue scarves

  Grendel examined his pocket watch. Quantrill was on time, but only just. And arriving later than Mangle, symbolically keeping Grendel waiting. Grendel frowned. Though he was certain who started this war, Quantrill was not helping his cause. The second warlord approached Grendel’s seat, leaving his guards behind the same way Mangle did.

  “So glad you could join us, Quantrill,” Grendel rumbled. “Now that we are all here, we can get straight to business.”

  And I can get back to Norridge in case another fire breaks out while I’m dealing with this bullshit.

  Quantrill nodded but remained silent, watching Grendel with his dark eyes. Sweat shined on the exposed skin of his head and moistened the white hair fringing it. He should be afraid. Though the Blood Alchemy Host started this war, that did not mean Quantrill did not merit a reminder that pride came before the fall.

  “As I’m sure you know, I have the Obsidian Guard, two Hosts, and the Flesh-Eating Legion ready to grind both of you into dust if you two do not cooperate. And my son has been itching for a fight lately. He is well to the rear, so do not think treachery will save your hides.”

  “I intend no treachery,” Mangle intoned. “I have been your loyal man for many years. Unlike him.”

  “Don’t let him poison your mind against me, my lord,” Quantrill spat. “The fact he has served you longer does not affect the fact his wolves have been raiding my border, carrying off my people to be mutilated or to fuck monsters to make more!” He glared at Mangle. “You’re trying to make it hard for me to mine the coal, hoping I’ll cede it to you for less than it’s worth.”

  Grendel’s spies had been about since the messages from Norridge silenced the guns. The locals reported raids from the west. The attackers did not bear the bloody heraldry of the Blood Alchemy Host, but the dead they had left behind did not always look right.

  Deformed, freakish soldiers were Mangle’s stock in trade. Mangle was not stupid — Grendel would not have made him his man if he were. But not using his normal soldiers was a fatal error.

  “The coal does not solely belong to you,” Mangle retorted. “The veins abut my border and your works cross over. I have offered you those best-suited for such work, but your miners do not tolerate them and you don’t make them.”

  Grendel knew “best-suited” meant the biggest and strongest of the horrors Mangle’s breeding pens spawned, as well as the ones able to crawl into tight spaces or see in the dark. When Quantrill accepted a previous offer the miners went on strike rather than work alongside “freaks.” Quantrill swiftly crushed the unrest, but dead men mined no coal. He had probably refused further offers from Mangle and offended the deformed man.

  Grendel frowned. The welcoming feast in Hamari and the arguments between the Leaden Host and the Flesh-Eaters took valuable time, time for the situation in the north to erupt. Who knew what might happen if he dawdled too long far from Norridge? He would end this quickly. “When my children fight over a toy, I take it away from them both. I would much rather not treat you, my brave and clever men, like children, but in this case, you have earned it.”

  Grendel turned to Clark.“For services rendered in the fight against the Merrill pests, I award you the disputed region. The center of the territory will be the coal mines with the bounds thirty miles in all directions. It is yours until I conclude these gentlemen have earned it back. Use its resources widely.”

  Clark grinned. “I am honored, my lord.”

  As usual, Clark played right into Grendel’s hands. His gladness meant he would likely send quality soldiers, not the sweepings, to this faraway post. It would be easier to suborn or destroy them once the time came to turn the Flesh-Eater realm over to his son.

  Grendel turned back toward Quantrill and Mangle. Mangle remained inscrutable as ever, but Quantrill looked pissed.

  “I defended myself,” he grated, eyes angry in his narrow face. “And defended the people I rule in your name. Your treating me as equally at fault is unworthy of a wise ruler such as yourself —”

  “Do not worry,” Grendel interrupted. “I know who is responsible and who is not.”

  Grendel’s gaze fell on Mangle like a thunderbolt. The twisted man’s red eyes widened. “You will return all prisoners and pay Quantrill three hundred gold dollars each. Depending on what you have done to them, they might not be much use as workers.”

  “My lord,” Mangle said. “That could run into many thousands —”

  “You should have considered that before you attacked Quantrill instead of bringing the matter to me. Pawn some of your Old World gear to Alexander or rent out your aberrations if the cupboard is bare. I have supplied you with rebels and the sweepings of the jails for years now, so it is not like you are going without.”

  Mangle nodded. “Your will be done, my lord.”

  “It will be done. Falki will be staying here with the Obsidian Guard to make sure.” That should ensure his decree would be followed without problems.

  Meanwhile, it was time for Arne to start receiving direct lessons in ruling. The boy was sixteen now and if some other crisis required his attention while Falki was up here, he would be unprepared to rule in his stead.

  “Both of you
are to remain in the area to supervise the transfer of territory,” Grendel continued. “Clark is needed elsewhere, but he will be sending a representative to handle his interests here.” That should keep them busy and, more importantly, under Falki’s guns.

  “It will be done, my lord,” Mangle said.

  “Aye,” Quantrill said, a bit slower than Grendel liked. Falki would need to keep an eye on the man.

  “Good,” Grendel said. “Dismissed.”

  Grendel sat in his cabin aboard the Nicor and sipped his mead. Alrekr watched from his cage. A folder full of reports about the brief war lay open in his lap.

  There had been two days of sustained combat with twelve regiments involved. This had been preceded by raids from Blood Alchemy territory into Quantrill’s realm and some retaliatory attacks. Total casualties amounted to two thousand dead and four thousand wounded soldiers, with six hundred dead and nine hundred wounded civilians and two thousand taken captive. Small as far as wars went, but worse than the border skirmishes between the Leaden Host and the Flesh-Eaters.

  His firm response should have nipped the problem in the bud. But if it did not, the next one would be worse.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Father.”

  “Come in.”

  Falki, wearing the dark uniform of an Obsidian Guard captain, stepped inside and sat in a chair across from Grendel.

  “I assume you have received my orders?”

  “I’m to assist with the evacuation of the Legio Mortis and the Blood Alchemy Host and the establishment of the Flesh-Eater garrison in the buffer zone. I’m to delegate the duties as a company commander I can no longer perform to Lieutenant Nahed.”