Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Countryside Burns
A Different Battle Than Planned
A New Friend for Scheming…
A Short Respite
Raiding
A Battle, and Terms
A New Player in the Game
An Exciting and Dreadful Night
Complications
Spinning Plans
Pursuit to the Death
Derailing a Train
The Reward for Good Work…
Back at the Ranch
Meeting Monsters
Laying Siege to One’s Own Home
Clearing the Path
Parley
Laying Mines
Upping the Stakes
Wrong Side of the River
Hard Choices
Devil’s Bargain
The Long Flight
It Begins
More Complications
Line of Succession
Death Above
Meeting Friends
Escaping Failure
SERPENT SWORD
BATTLE FOR THE WASTELANDS #2
MATTHEW W. QUINN
Copyright © 2023 by Matthew W. Quinn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Artwork © by Matthew Cowdery
THE COUNTRYSIDE BURNS
The wind whipped across the parched grasslands surrounding Andrew Sutter. It passed under his slouch hat, cooling his sweaty, straw-colored hair. Based on the muttering from the Merrill platoon’s other forty-odd riders, they liked this small relief from the late August heat too. Less welcome was the smell of smoke.
Ahead a filthy black column rose into the wide blue sky. Andrew’s hand drifted to the stock of the long, black Old World repeating rifle lashed to his saddle. The curving magazine was already locked and loaded. A trio of scouts in Merrill brown appeared beneath the smoke. Andrew exhaled in relief.
He focused on Alyssa Carson, riding between two men, and her honey-colored hair. They’d been an item for three weeks now, since the raid that destroyed the Flesh-Eater dirigibles and felled their overlord Jasper Clark. He hadn’t poked her yet, but there’d be time enough once they’d kicked the cannibals’ asses up between their tailbones.
“Flesh-Eaters have been here,” one scout said, an ugly expression crossing his thin, scarred face. “Burned buildings and crucified men.” Curses swept the troopers. Andrew added his own.
The Merrill armies had rolled northeast since Clark’s demise, and Lieutenant Jack Hardy’s platoon and attached cavalry were part of the vanguard. The good folk the Merrills once ruled, long oppressed by the cannibalistic Flesh-Eating Legion the tyrant Grendel had placed over them, had rebelled. Their numbers swelled the Merrill army and, as far as Andrew knew, the quartermasters still hadn’t run out of the repeaters the Merrill had seized from the Flesh-Eaters’ ancient flying machines. Outranging any ordinary rifle and firing much faster, they allowed the Merrills to pulp any who dared face them.
Prisoners and turncoats said although the Flesh-Eater deacons and generals squabbled over succeeding Clark, all had agreed to trade space for time. The enemy fell back toward Jacinto, the old Merrill capital. They laid the land in ashes behind them, denying the Merrills vittles, fodder, and most ruthlessly of all, fighting men. And it looked like Pleasanton, where Hardy’s troopers were to wait for the rest of the regiment, had gotten that treatment.
The short, tanned Hardy rode up alongside his burly subordinate Zeke — First Sergeant Ezekiel Thaxton until his field promotion came through — and addressed the scout. “Anyone still alive?” the lieutenant asked, a missing front tooth visible when he spoke.
“Didn’t see any, sir.”
Hardy spat. “Let’s move on.”
The platoon reached Pleasanton in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. They rode through burned fields beyond the outermost blackened, gutted buildings. From what remained, Andrew reckoned they’d been built of white clapboard.
Just like Carroll Town. His hands clenched on the reins as he remembered his hometown, butchered by the Flesh-Eaters not long before. His best friend Sam Cotton stabbed to death in an alley, bright red blood on a Flesh-Eater’s blade. His breathing came faster. He’d kill —
“No woolgathering, Corporal Sutter,” Zeke interrupted.
“Yes, sergeant.”
The line of men and the occasional woman followed the long, dusty street from the ruined gateway arch toward the town square. Just like Carroll Town. He wondered if the Flesh-Eaters had burned his hometown when they were done with it.
Cries of dismay rippled through the riders when they reached the town square. Someone puked. Andrew’s eyes bulged when he saw what stood before them.
Five crosses ringed the square, each bearing a ravaged, naked man. The hot sun had left them cracked and blistered all over. Rough nails pierced hands and feet. Ropes bound arms and legs. Only five, Andrew noted. Enough to make the point. The remaining townsfolk had probably been taken away, meat on the hoof.
“Goddamn it,” Owen Gollmar said beside Andrew, horror etched onto his broad, ruddy face. His big nose crinkled, no doubt at the stench of smoke and piss. Andrew wondered if Owen would be even more horrified if it had been members of his own Iron Desert trading clan on the cross. Then he remembered Owen had saved his life — despite his use of the hated word “pikey” — so he pushed the prejudiced thought away.
One of the crucified men moaned. Blue eyes crackled in a sun-ravaged face. “Merrills,” he gasped. It wasn’t clear who he was talking to. “The Merrills have come.”
“Don’t just stand there gandering!” Hardy ordered. “Get him the fuck down!”
Andrew doubted he’d live long even after they got him off the cross. But the Merrills would never leave a man behind, either to be crucified or eaten. And redheaded Will Simmons had insisted he knew troopers who’d survived crucifixion.
Zeke turned to Will and Tommy Sears, a lanky, stringy-haired private. He’d replaced the Flesh-Eater turncoat Hank Evans, who’d died helping take Fort Deming, and Andrew had no idea of his mettle. “You heard the L-T.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Tommy said. Will just nodded. Andrew reckoned he didn’t want to talk much owing to the stitched-up wound on his cheek that’d only partially healed. The two rode over to the cross on which the living man hung. While they rummaged through their saddlebags for the necessary tools, Alyssa rode up beside Andrew.
“First time you’ve seen this?”
“This close. I saw crucified men from the dirigible on the way to the excavation site.”
Alyssa laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re taking it better’n I did. I couldn’t even look at the first ones I saw. Course, I wasn’t much more than eighteen. A raid south, while Grendel’s main army kept the Merrills busy.”
Andrew kept one eye on Alyssa, but kept his other on the crucified man as Will and Tommy, assisted by Owen, prepared to free him. They secured him with new ropes to support his weight before cutting the old ones.
“They tight?” Will asked. “Once we start pulling the nails, gravity’s going to be a right bitch.” Owen checked their work and nodded. “Good.” Will turned to Tommy. “Get Owen here that pair of pliers, then grab one rope. I’ll get the other.”
Tommy handed up the biggest, ugliest pair of pliers Andrew had ever seen. Owen went to work on the nails in the man’s wrists. The man on the cross groaned. One twisted, bloody nail, then the other, hit the ground. The new ropes held him, still groaning, as Owen went to work on the nail through his ankles.
Andrew dismounted and approached the cross. The reek of urine grew stronger as he stood beside Owen. The pikey kept working the long, hideous nail, tearing groans from the man. “Cannibals got this one in deep,” Owen griped. “Shouldn’t take this long.”
“Need help?”
“Almost there. Just another — ”
The man’s left foot, pinned beneath his right, came off the cross. His weight pulled the ropes taut. “Hold on!” Owen shouted. With a swift yank, he pulled the nail out completely. The ropes held. The man didn’t fall.
“All right,” Owen continued. “Lower him. Slowly.”
Andrew watched. He was a corporal now, having earned the rank for helping capture the enemy dirigible that saved the Merrill and helped bring down a fleet of enemy airships, but that didn’t mean he knew everything. Best leave it up to the people who knew what they were doing.
Andrew forced himself to examine the wounds in the man’s feet. Assuming they didn’t mortify and kill him, the poor bastard would be lucky if he could do more than hobble. His jaw clenched. They’ll pay for this. They’ll pay for this in blood.
As Will and Tommy got the man to the ground, balancing on bloodied feet that couldn’t possibly support him on their own, Andrew returned to his horse and pulled his canteen from his saddlebags. He poured water into the man’s gaping mouth. Though much spilled down his chest, the man gulped eagerly.
“Thank you,” he rasped. He winced as blood burst anew from cracked lips.
Zeke rode up. “When did this happen?”
The man took another gulp. “Y
esterday afternoon. Bastards should be long gone.”
Zeke pointed to the nearest ruined house. “Get him inside. We’ll talk more once he’s rested.”
Andrew put his now-empty canteen away and got his hands under one of the crucified man’s arms. Owen took the other, while Will and Tommy undid the new ropes.
They had barely gotten him settled when hooves pounded on the street. A scout rode up, pinto horse shiny with lather. Hardy stepped forward to meet him.
“Flesh-Eaters!” the scout gasped. “Squad or two. Horsemen.” Andrew gritted his teeth. Maybe the same ones who’d put the village’s good folk on the crosses. He’d give them a taste of his repeater.
Hardy frowned. “Thought they were trading space for time. Not sure why they’d stick around.” He looked at the scout. A cruel expression twisted his face. “You reckon they saw you? The scout shook his head. “Go back and make sure they do. Let them think they missed somebody.”
IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the Flesh-Eaters to take the bait. From inside the house where he hid with several other troopers, Andrew watched the line of mounted men in red and black enter the town. His heart sank. Before, only a few Flesh-Eater troops carried repeaters. This time, every third man did.
He slipped down from the window. His hand tightened on his weapon. He wanted to kill them, make sure they could never again do to anyone what they’d done to Pleasanton’s folk. But Hardy had ordered half the platoon to wait until the enemy had gotten too deep into the town to easily escape. He’d sent the rest — including Alyssa — the Good Lord knew where.
Andrew closed his eyes. He remembered hiding beneath a window in Carroll Town, watching the Flesh-Eaters march in. Carroll Town died that day, just like Pleasanton. But he and the others had repaid the enemy with Clark’s death. Now these Flesh-Eaters too would suffer.
He only had to be patient.
Something exploded outside. Men shouted. Rifles cracked and repeaters chattered. “Here we go!” Zeke shouted. He rose, shouldering what looked like a huge gray sawed-off shotgun with a bulky magazine of six cylinders underneath. Andrew grinned. The enemy would find out real soon what it was.
Zeke pulled the trigger of the Old World grenade launcher they’d salvaged from the flying machine. Andrew barely heard its deep pop over the din outside. But when the grenade exploded, the bang drowned out the crackling gunfire. When the noise receded, there was a whole heap less shooting.
Andrew and Tommy rose into the window, repeaters up. Flesh-Eater corpses lay scattered across the dusty streets. Some looked merely asleep; others bloodied or even dismembered. The all-too-familiar shit-stink of gut wounds touched Andrew’s nose. Good Lord, some things never changed.
Something moved to the right, a Flesh-Eater sheltering behind an overturned barrel. He fired his repeater at Andrew and Tommy.
Andrew dropped like a stone. Tommy did likewise, but wasn’t fast enough. Hot blood spattered Andrew’s face. Tommy cried out in pain, most of his right ear clean gone. Andrew remembered how he’d lost some of his own left ear in the arroyo, before Carroll Town fell. We almost match.
Tommy clutched the side of his head. Blood trickled between his fingers. Tears ran from his eyes. His repeater slumped from his hands. Andrew struck him on the shoulder. “Goddamn it! Any Flesh-Eaters out there might have grenades! Every second they’re still breathing means they could kill us!”
Tommy reclaimed his repeater. They returned to the window. This time, they were quicker than the Flesh-Eater. Bullets from each gun caught the enemy in the chest. He toppled.
“Yes!” Tommy shouted. He grinned, but the grin faded. His hands began trembling.
“Not now!” Andrew shouted. “There’s still fighting to be done!” Tommy wasn’t as bad as Andrew had been when he failed to kill the fleeing Flesh-Eater — who then brought the enemy down on Carroll Town — but flaking out afterward was as dangerous as hesitating too long before.
Tommy quickly nodded. “Yes, corporal.”
Something whistled outside. Andrew’s heart skipped a beat. Mortars!
“Get down!” He grabbed Tommy and yanked him to the floor. They’d barely gotten out of the way when the shell exploded.
The building shook. The roar of the bursting shell and the crackling of broken wood mingled beyond the window. Shrapnel whistled over their heads and pounded against the walls like a horizontal rainstorm. Andrew could feel its furious heat.
More gunfire, quieter this time. Hopefully it was some cannibal spotter getting it. More whistling filled the air. Another mortar explosion, this one farther away. A moment passed. No more shells fell.
“Now!” Zeke and Andrew shouted. The men poured from hiding. When Andrew saw the street again, it was empty of all but corpses.
WITH THE FIGHTING over, the platoon gathered once more in the town square. Although the battle had been brief, the Flesh-Eaters’ mortars had still done a number. One house smashed to splinters by a mortar shell sat between two arson-gutted homes like a gap between two rotten teeth. Two dead Merrills were laid out in the square, while the wounded were tended to.
Last to arrive were those Hardy had sent away. Andrew’s gaze raced over them as they rode in. Two men led horses with their riders’ corpses slung over their saddles. He couldn’t see Alyssa. His heart pounded. Would he lose her just like he’d lost Cassie?
A rider with honey-colored hair brought up the rear. She waved when she saw him. He sighed in relief.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Will asked. Andrew turned. A bloodied Flesh-Eater officer lay on the ground. Though smaller repeater rounds had chewed up his shoulder, he was still alive. Blood spattered a single gold bar on his collar. He looked up at the troopers surrounding him, blue eyes wide with terror.
That got Zeke’s attention. “What are we going to do with you?” Zeke smiled, but it wasn’t an expression to inspire happiness in a fellow creature. It was the sort of smile one wore right before twisting the knife.
Will spat on the ground. “There’s an empty cross now. How about we put this son of a bitch on it?”
Zeke frowned. “Private, there’re things we don’t do. Ever.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
Hardy pointed his revolver in the cannibal’s face. “Did you do this?” He gestured with his free hand to the crucified corpses. The enemy officer shook his head. “If you didn’t, why are you here?” He thumbed back the hammer for emphasis.
The Flesh-Eater officer glanced around. “That was another platoon’s work, not ours,” he drawled. “We were running patrols to the west, looking for y’all.”
Hardy turned to Zeke. “Find the man we rescued. Let’s see what he has to say.”
Andrew noticed the Flesh-Eater starting to sweat. Zeke soon returned with his arm around the crucified man, who now wore mismatched duds and hobbled with Zeke’s support. When his gaze fell on the Flesh-Eater, his eyes bulged. Trembling, pain clear on his face, he pointed.
“That bastard. He’s the one who put us on crosses!”
Oh shit. Not that Andrew cared one bit for the comfort of an enemy officer, especially one who’d crucified people, but he wouldn’t want to be caught in such an obvious lie.
Hardy scowled and looked to Zeke. “Sergeant,” he said simply. Zeke stepped forward and kicked the Flesh-Eater in the crotch. The man screamed. Zeke pulled back his foot for another. “Enough,” Hardy ordered. He turned back to the Flesh-Eater. “Tell the truth now, or it’ll be a bullet there next.”
The officer’s jaw worked. No words came.
Will chuckled. “He looks like he’s going to cry. Little shit can dish it out, but he can’t take it.”
Zeke glared at Will. The redhead shut up immediately and backed away.
“Fuck you,” the Flesh-Eater spat. “Kill me if you dare. The Howling God will claim my blood as readily as yours. But Big Al will have you all up on crosses soon.”
Andrew frowned. “Big Al” Hardin was one of the generals contending for leadership after Clark’s death. Zeke said he’d risen from the ranks during the war that brought down the Merrills. Unlike the Flesh-Eater clergy, good only at sacrificing helpless men, this man should be feared.
“We’ll see about that,” Hardy said. “Truss him up. Once we settle in, there’ll be time to see just what he knows.”
