Battle for the Wastelands
Page 27
Grendel frowned. Did Clark suspect? He did not need the cannibal potentially allying with Quantrill.
He turned his attention to the rail yard. Below the gathered warlords, steel rails split and snaked across the vast plain of gravel like the arms of a kraken. Ordinarily, passenger and freight trains filled the yard, bringing the commerce, tribute, and ambitious of a continent to the heart of Grendel’s realm. But he had ordered traffic diverted to the lesser rail yards to accommodate a special purpose.
While servants kept the alcohol flowing, Grendel watched the guardsmen drive lines of chained prisoners into waiting cattle cars that would take them to Hamari. There, the rail line supporting Grendel’s planned expedition slithered south into the Iron Desert.
The convicts who did not move fast enough got a taste of the lash. One man fell to his knees and despite repeated blows could not rise again. The guardsman kept at it. The whip tore through the man’s gray prison shirt. Blood painted the gravel around him.
Grendel frowned. A couple blows were a good motivator to get thralls moving, but beating them immobile defeated the entire purpose.
A sergeant stopped the guardsman. The kneeling man wept. The weeping grew more intense when the sergeant unshackled him.
CRACK!
The man’s forehead and what was behind it decorated the ground. He slumped forward, his shattered face sinking into the slurry of meat and gravel. Alrekr hooted appreciatively and dropped from the railing, gliding across the rail yard toward the still-warm snack.
“Keep moving!” the sergeant shouted in the flatlander tongue. The line of convicts resumed shuffling into the car. Chains banged on metal as they marched up the ramp. Men — and a few women, who would keep the men entertained on the long, hot ride — disappeared into the maw of the car like little fish swallowed by a whale.
The rail line ate up laborers, especially the expendable prisoners. Alexander had standing orders to feed them more than the bare minimum, in order to keep them alive and working as long as possible. He probably delegated the task to the known soft-heart Mifshud. But working the three shifts needed to get the project done quickly ground men to dust.
The convicts spilled back out onto the ramp. Guardsmen lashed them, trying to force them onto the train. They did not succeed. Eventually the sergeants intervened, pulling back the lines of prisoners. The cars disgorged them like a sick dog vomiting until it was possible to close the door.
“Do you think this will be enough?” Grendel asked Alexander. His old friend stood beside him, mug of beer in hand. “I have emptied the jails all across the Basin and put out the call for troublemakers the jailers missed.”
“And the breeding pits have contributed their fair share,” Mangle rumbled from behind Grendel. “This year’s crop will be much smaller. Fewer fathers to sire and mothers to bear.”
Grendel turned to face his misshapen subordinate. He smiled, making sure it reached his eyes.
“But they will talk all the way to Hamari. Think of the fame this will bring you.”
And the fear that will sow in the entire realm, he added mentally. With fewer soldiers left behind, keeping control will be harder than before.
“Eighty prisoners per car and there are fifty cars on that train,” Alexander said. “Assuming most make it, this should make up for the losses we’ve taken in the past weeks.”
Grendel nodded. More workers equaled more rest and fewer deaths. Convicts were cheap but not unlimited. Once they ran out, he would need to conscript laborers. That would stir unrest.
Meanwhile, Quantrill stood alone, watching the trains much like Grendel had. That he was not politicking with the others meant whatever treachery he had brewed had not gotten far. No matter how unsettlingly close he was to Norridge, he could not beat Grendel alone.
Booted feet and, incongruously, the clacking a woman’s shoes would make, sounded in the room behind the balcony. Grendel’s ears perked up. The latter meant a woman, unless one of his commanders had odd habits.
He turned to see Falki, in his Obsidian Guard dress uniform, emerging onto the balcony. Behind him came Rosalyn, wearing a long, black skirt fringed with gold and a silver leaf-patterned vest. She wore her golden hair up.
Grendel frowned. When it rains, it pours. Falki was no simpleton and his battlefield exploits showed tactical skill. But the gang leaders and two-bit warlords he had swept aside had that. To rule, one had to be a warrior and a politician. Flaunting his souvenir before the man whose daughter he was supposed to marry was stupid.
Alexander stirred beside Grendel. He looked Rosalyn up and down. His eyes narrowed. He stepped toward the two, boots loud in the sudden quiet.
Grendel’s gaze snapped toward Alexander. Falki is my son. This is my business. Alexander took one look at his master’s face and stopped abruptly. Good.
Grendel stepped over to Falki and, placing his hand on his shoulder, dragged him away from Rosalyn. That left the girl alone with his warlords, but he doubted any harm would come to her in a few minutes. No loss to him if any did.
“Falki, did you leave your brain in your bedroom this morning?” he snarled in Sejer when they were off the balcony and out of earshot. “Bringing her here, into the presence of Alexander?”
“Alexander is your friend, Father. And he wouldn’t be so foolish as to try anything in your presence if he weren’t.”
“It is a needless reminder you slighted his daughter. Rosalyn may be your concubine and nothing more” — Falki’s expression darkened at the word — “but concubines can bear sons just as well as wives.”
“Oh, I’ve learned that lesson well enough.”
Grendel shoved his son against the wall. “As I’ve told you before, my life is no concern of yours. I will have you note I have not fathered nearly as many sons as I could have.”
Pennyroyal and other herbs were not always reliable, but they worked well enough. He had an heir, a spare, another spare, a boy he intended to unseat Clark with, and many marriageable daughters. Another son would not be too problematic and would help ensure his line continued in the event of disaster. But too many risked a dynastic war that could ruin everything.
He released Falki. “Now, what is done cannot be undone, and you bringing her here has the silver lining of letting Quantrill think his scheme is working. But when we are through, take Rosalyn back to the citadel. Do not ever bring her anywhere she will cross paths with Alexander again. Even when I am gone. Do you understand?” Falki nodded. “Good.”
He would need to keep a closer eye on the boy. Falki had complained about his personal life before, but never this vehemently.
Grendel had a very good idea of the cause. Before, he assumed Quantrill simply wanted to spy on Falki or disrupt relations between himself and Alexander. That this woman intended to set his eldest son against him had never crossed his mind.
“Falki.” Halfway to the balcony door, Falki froze. He turned to face his father, as pale as his skin would allow. “Do not be too eager to put on my cloak.” Falki’s jaw worked, but no sound emerged. “You helped bring down the Merrills and killed a lot of bandits and rebels. That is all well and good. However, the men outside all achieved much more. Even if you were to replace me, you could not control them.”
Falki looked hurt. “Father, I —”
Grendel stepped past his eldest son back onto the balcony. He noted Quantrill’s gaze was the first to fall upon him. He nodded, his politeness masking his wrath.
It had been a long time since he killed a foe worthy of him. Although he had joined the guardsmen in practicing with live targets before, those were easy prey, barely armed and desperate.
He closed his eyes, remembering the last battle with James Merrill, the repeaters tearing and the cavalry crunching against his defenses. Grendel had found the dying James Merrill amidst the heaps of dead men and horses and took his head with his axe in the old manner. Then he returned to his throne in Norridge and left the necessary head-breaking to his subordinates.
He shook his head. Patience. There were many ways for a man to die on campaign.
Relief Arrives
The first faint boom of the enemy guns twisted Andrew’s guts. It grew louder as the captured airship approached. Andrew’s heartbeat rose with it. Rifles and galloper guns soon played counterpoint from the ground. The four enemy dirigibles swelled from dark specks in the blue sky into enormous red and black engines of destruction raining death onto the trapped Merrills. Andrew forced himself to watch the enemy as the stolen dirigible drew closer.
The vessel came in above four Flesh-Eater craft and far too many enemy infantry and horsemen on the ground. Three of their flying foes were the same size as the intruder, but one was vastly larger. Guns far smoother and streamlined than anything made in a modern forge emerged from not one but two gondolas. Whenever those guns spoke, a huge fireball erupted from where the target used to be.
The sight of what must be the Bailey Mines made Andrew need to piss. Four on one was bad odds, even with the advantage of height and surprise. He looked over his shoulder toward one of the back windows. There was no sign of the Asherton. He returned his attention to the gigantic airship below. Clark’s flagship made it all worse.
On the other hand, Clark’s presence cut both ways. If they killed him, maybe the whole Flesh-Eating Legion would fall apart. He frowned. If.
Two smaller airships floated below the Bailey Mines. The other dirigible floated above and behind the Flesh-Eater flagship. Andrew frowned. There went dropping it on the bigger dirigible.
“Get men on the guns and the fire extinguishers upstairs!” Hardy ordered. “The rest, open the windows and get those rifles up!”
The troopers obeyed, scrambling for the gun emplacements or the ladder leading up into the balloon. Will manhandled one of the Sawyer guns toward the first enemy airship. A cruel grin formed on his wounded face. New blood darkened his bandages. Andrew allowed himself to imagine the gas holding up the airship spewing from the holes the gun would make, some lucky spark igniting the whole mess.
Andrew stepped to an open window and set down his familiar rifle. He picked up the repeater he’d taken from the guardsman. Below, signal flags ran up and down the sides of the dirigible guarding the Bailey Mines’s rear. Andrew didn’t know what they meant, something that sent fear crawling up his spine and spreading over his scalp. The dirigible slowly turned their way. He tensed. Images of gunfire and fiery death rolled through his head.
Hardy swore. “Wreck its engines now!” Andrew squeezed the trigger. The repeater kicked against his shoulder much like his rifle, but there was no smoke. The Sawyers drowned out the chattering as Will turned the crank beside him. Smoke poured off the weapon as it spun.
Sparks danced on the enemy airship’s engines. Their distant rumble took on a painful, twisted tone. Rounds that didn’t tear into the engines slammed into the rear of the balloon. The holes merged into flapping mouths puking lifting gas. The bag shrank. The dirigible sank. But instead of plummeting straight down, its damaged engines drove it toward the Bailey Mines.
Will laughed. “Keep going you bastard! Keep going!”
Andrew laughed too. Hopefully the balloon wouldn’t deflate too quickly.
The Bailey Mines was turning now. Andrew leaned forward. Would it get away? Would it get away and then rise up and kill them?
Something flashed within the smaller airship’s balloon. Will shouted. Andrew did too. Fountains of fire tore long rents in the bag’s red and black fabric. Flames snaked across the balloon as it careened downward. Metallic ribs shined through the burning cloth.
Despite the fiery display, Andrew kept watching the Bailey Mines. It was moving now. If the dying dirigible missed and the monster turned its guns their way, they’d all burn. Just like the Flesh-Eaters below.
The burning dirigible did not slam into the tyrant of the air like Andrew hoped. Instead, its blazing balloon entangled the enormous engine on the lower left of the Bailey Mines, beyond its rearmost gondola. An explosion flashed amid the burning morass of fabric and metal. Serpents of fire crept upward along the big airship’s side. Andrew grinned. Hydrogen was a real bitch.
But the fire wasn’t fast enough. The Bailey Mines kept turning. Andrew’s heart sank. One shot from a big gun could smash their gondola. The enemy vessel’s huge guns rose away from the battered excavation site. Andrew swallowed. It wouldn’t be long now...
Then the rearmost gondola exploded. The Bailey Mines bucked like a maddened horse. Beside Andrew, Will laughed.
“Ammo cookoff, you sons of bitches! Burn!”
A pillar of fire burst through the balloon. The airship’s remaining engines drove it nose-first toward the ground. The Flesh-Eater soldiers besieging the excavation site scattered. Ballast fell like iron and stone rain. One piece crushed a fleeing Flesh-Eater’s skull. The burning dirigible began pulling out of its dive. Its front gondola skimmed the brown earth.
The rest of the dirigible slammed into the ground. The front end snapped upward. What was once the king of the Flesh-Eater aerial fleet settled onto the stony ground. Small fires erupted all around as flaming debris rained over the excavation site. Black smoke rose into the sky, nearly shrouding the remaining enemy airships.
Andrew laughed. They’d done it! They’d killed Jasper Clark! They’d avenged Carroll Town! More cheers erupted throughout the gondola.
“That’s for Ma!” Andrew shouted. “There’s for Sam! That’s for Sarah! That’s for Cassie!”
“Sight on the next one!” Zeke shouted, his words silencing the cheering. “They’ll be moving up to meet us!”
The two remaining Flesh-Eater dirigibles surged upward. A bow gun boomed on one. The stolen dirigible shook. If they couldn’t put the enemy craft in boot hill right quick, they were dead. Hell, if the enemy craft got too close before exploding, they’d die.
Will strained to turn the gun right. Andrew set the repeater down and grabbed onto the hot metal. Pain flared in his fingers and palms. The gun clanked into position. Andrew released the weapon, giving his reddened hands a bit of relief, as Will cranked the gun.
The third dirigible buckled and shuddered as the captured dirigible’s guns tore into its balloon. Flames spurted from holes torn in its sides. Still it kept climbing, absorbing hit after hit. Andrew snatched up the repeater, ignoring the pain in his hands. How much more would it take to kill the damn thing?
Eventually something important got hit. The wounded craft slewed sideways, debris falling from its gondola. It carved a huge furrow into the ground as it crashed.
The last one kept coming. Andrew’s heart sank. The next fight would be a battle of equals.
Thunder cracked. The dirigible shook. Andrew tumbled to the floor and rolled up against the ladder that rose into the balloon. A fireball bloomed at the front of the gondola, blowing away the smoke the troopers’ guns had made. Something whooshed overhead. Cold white foam dropped from above onto Andrew’s body.
Andrew had barely dragged himself to his feet when another shell slammed into the gondola. The roaring explosion sent daggers into Andrew’s ears. He nearly fell. Metal flesh split open like a sideways mouth. Two screaming men tumbled out, along with the heavy gun they manned.
“Sutter!” Zeke roared over the gunfire. He sounded so far away. “Get over there!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
Andrew grabbed both his weapons and crawled toward the yawning gap in the gondola’s side. The enemy airship was parallel with them now. If it got higher, its gunners would hole their balloon just like the Merrills had the others. Every man aboard the captured dirigible would burn alive on their way down.
The huge mouth of a heavy gun yawned directly in front of the hole in the gondola
’s side. Behind it, soldiers in red and black shoved a shell into the breech.
He grit his teeth. Not today!
He squeezed the trigger. The repeater bucked in his hands. One Flesh-Eater went down with the shell. Another Flesh-Eater grabbed for it. Andrew pulled the trigger again.
The gun clicked empty. The Flesh-Eater picked up the shell and shoved it into the breech.
Goddamn it!
Andrew had never figured out how to reload an Old World repeater. This was no time to learn. He threw the repeater aside and snatched up his familiar rifle.
Thunder cracked. Andrew threw himself onto the metal floor. No heat filled the gondola. Had the Flesh-Eater missed?
The gondola tilted. Andrew slid toward the yawning hole. It was a long way down. He scrabbled for anything that could stop him. The repeater vanished through the gap.
His shoulder and side slammed into the metal wall. His feet kicked in empty air. He screamed and grabbed at the supports of a Sawyer gun. Pain stabbed his palms. He briefly gripped a metal spar before his hand slipped on what was probably blood.
A hand grabbed onto his wrist. It was one of the soldiers from Wyatt’s squad. The trooper pulled Andrew to safety as the dirigible righted.
Andrew looked out the gap. The captured airship now faced the prow of the enemy gondola. A single Sawyer pointed at them. That was nothing to sneeze at, but now all their airship’s guns could be brought to bear against just one of the enemy’s.
Andrew grinned as the Merrill guns roared. The Flesh-Eaters’ forward gun vanished in fire and smoke. The entire front of the airship crumpled inward.
The enemy dirigible began its slow descent. The soldier beside Andrew whooped. “We must’ve taken out the pilot! It’s going to crash!”
“Into us if we don’t bring it down!” Zeke roared. “Start putting rounds into the goddamn balloon!”
Andrew knelt before the huge hole and fed the last of his bullets into the ammunition tube. He squeezed the trigger over and over and over, the rifle butt pounding his shoulder raw.