Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 13
One Flesh-Eater near the cannon’s mouth fell, but the other dashed backward. If he could light that fuse, it’d be more Merrills dead. And if that next shot was canister, they were all dead.
Someone blew out his right eye before he got the chance. The cannibal tumbled, leaving the gun loaded but unfired.
“Take it out before someone can shoot the damn thing!” Andrew fired over the enemy cannon, hopefully hitting Flesh-Eaters with artilleryman ambitions.
Then his weapon clicked empty. Shit. Andrew patted down a dead cannibal’s jacket for magazines. If Zeke was warning people about wasting ammo, best use the enemy’s and not their own.
Snarling fanatics surged his way. They were so close he could see their filed teeth. He snatched his revolver from his belt and fired six shots. One man went down, multiple rounds in his chest, but the last shot only winged the second man. Andrew brought up his repeater just in time to catch the fanatic’s saber on the stock. The blow bit into metal but didn’t sink deeply. Andrew kicked at the Flesh-Eater’s groin, but his blow had little effect. Were these people so insane they had their balls cut off to avoid the obvious target?
The fanatic tore his saber free with one hand, raising his revolver with the other. Andrew lunged, thinking to bayonet the bastard, but the Flesh-Eater pulled the trigger right as Zeke slammed into him. The bullet went wide. Someone screamed behind Andrew. A quick glance behind showed Owen stagger, hand to the right side of his head.
“Sutter, the fucking cannon!” Zeke shouted as he struggled with the Flesh-Eater on the ground. Beyond the brutal scrum of Harris’s men and the fanatics, more Flesh-Eaters rushed toward the unmanned weapon.
“Will, cover me!” Not even looking back to see if his order was heard, Andrew rushed forward. A fanatic rose in his path, but Andrew shouldered him aside. He passed Harris, who was in the process of unsheathing his bayonet from another Flesh-Eater’s gut. All that mattered was getting the cannon before some cannibal bastard did.
The Flesh-Eaters reached the cannon. Andrew threw himself flat. Hopefully whatever they fired would pass over his head and –
The cannibals weren’t trying to fire the cannon. Instead, they shot their repeaters from the little cover it provided. They hit both Harris’s men and their own.
Shit. These people are absolutely –
Something exploded behind the cannon, sending men flying. The back of one man’s skull had been caved in as if struck by a hammer. Andrew threw a glance over his shoulder.
Zeke had found the grenade launcher. The big sergeant threw the empty weapon aside and pointed. “Sutter! Get that cannon! Simmons, Gollmar, Sears! Get the cannon!”
As they rushed the gun, Andrew got a brief glimpse of a Flesh-Eater uniform sleeve tied around Owen’s head. Hopefully nobody would make any lethal mistakes.
Once beyond the cannon, they threw themselves down and fired their repeaters. Andrew could see a Sawyer gun and two crew beyond them. He scrambled over to the nearest Flesh-Eater Zeke had killed, tossed his own repeater aside, and snatched up the enemy’s. That one probably still had ammunition in it and –
Pop-pop-pop-pop. The Sawyer fired at them, brass barrels rotating. Bullets slammed into the cannon frame above the other soldiers’ heads. Wood cracked and splintered. Will took a splinter to the back of his calf, blood spreading throughout his pants leg. A bullet struck the ground near Andrew’s armpit. He rolled away, another shot hitting where his leg had been.
Then the Sawyer fell silent. Owen and Tommy advanced, Will swearing and limping behind. By the time Andrew got to the Sawyer gun, he found the dead crew beside it, mangled by shrapnel and one with a throat laid open by a knife. Andrew slowed. Could he turn the weapon around –
“Sutter, keep going!” Zeke ordered. “We’ll deal with that later. Get up there and kill the bastards first!”
IT WASN’T MUCH longer until the Flesh-Eater regiment disintegrated.
From what Andrew gathered, the enemy colonel and his sergeant major died attacking a Merrill squad that had captured a Sawyer. The enemy soon skedaddled, with the Merrills firing into their retreating backs with repeaters once they’d emptied the Sawyer. A few had gotten horses and rode north for the Armand, but he doubted it was many.
Andrew helped collect the wounded, putting the worst-hurt in stretchers hung between horses, each end hooked into the cinches of saddles. Eventually, every wounded Merrill who couldn’t walk or ride was in a stretcher. They draped the dead over the horses’ backs.
The enemy dead — and the wounded the Merrills finished off — were left for the scavengers. They had no time for prisoners or graves. At least the Flesh-Eaters coughed up enough repeater and rifle ammo to replace what the Merrills had lost, and some heavier guns in the bargain.
The battered regiment made its way to Sheridan, the nearest town up the road. Several Flesh-Eater heads — two wearing wide-brimmed officer’s hats — greeted them atop poles at the outskirts. The townsfolk were quick to volunteer homes for field hospitals. Dismounted men, many wounded themselves, guided the horses carrying the worst off to them.
“Fuck there are a lot,” Will said as he and Owen lifted another stretcher. The wounded man moaned, blood once more darkening the white dressings on his side and face. “Should’ve gone around the goddamn cannibals. Made them come to us if they wanted to get on that goddamn train so badly.”
Andrew couldn’t help but agree. Most of the Merrills, mounted or afoot, were wounded to varying degrees. The volunteered houses were filling up right quick. Going around the man-eaters seemed like a better plan than what they’d actually done.
He looked around. He didn’t see Harris or Zeke, but that didn’t mean they weren’t listening. “May be. Too late now.”
“The colonel ripped Hardy a new one for sticking around too long at Tom’s Ford,” Will griped. “Then he does this?” He stumbled trying to gripe and carry at the same time. The stretcher jerked, setting the wounded man loudly moaning.
“Bellyache less and you’ll see where you’re going better,” Owen retorted. “For his sake, if nobody else’s.”
Will’s scowl deepened, but before he could open his mouth, a small crowd of townsfolk — mostly women and a few older or younger men — caught his attention. They watched the grim parade of wounded soldiers and their helpers with horrorstruck faces.
“Maybe you could help?” Will called. “Considering we got the cannibals’ boot off your necks?”
Andrew stopped moving. Tommy stopped a second later. The sudden stop jolted the man they were carrying. “Private,” Andrew snapped. “Look at those heads on spikes outside the town. These people didn’t just sit around waiting for us to save them.”
“But they’re not — ”
“I’ll take care of it.” He cleared his throat. The crowd’s attention turned his way. “These men are hurt!” As if that weren’t obvious. “We need to get them to a field hospital soonest, or else they’ll die!”
That got some people helping move the wounded into the houses. Other townsfolk and what were hopefully sawbones took charge. From the brief glimpse Andrew got inside those houses, he was glad he didn’t have to handle that. He’d seen cleaner and less crowded pigpens. And seeing what passed for surgeons in Sheridan getting out their cutting tools reminded him of holding down David when they amputated his leg.
Andrew had barely caught his breath after escaping from the house of horrors when he saw Zeke gesturing for the men. They gathered around him, other, other squads joined their sergeants likewise.
“As you no doubt reckon,” Zeke told them once they assembled. “There are too many of us to billet in town, especially with so many houses needed for hospitals. We’re pitching camp outside.” Some gripes rumbled through the assembled men, but the sergeants’ glare silenced them. “We’re on the western side, near where we came in.”
At least that’s not far.
The different platoons sorted themselves, gathered their horses, and set up camp. The good people of Sheridan soon brought vittles to show their appreciation to their liberators.
Vittles and, more importantly, booze.
Andrew was glad to drink the day’s bad memories away. Although he still had coins liberated from dead Flesh-Eaters, he didn’t need to spend them. When he finished his first beer, he got another without a word. Then another, then another. It was good beer, not some horse’s piss brewed behind a tent, and …
“Corporal, time to slow it down,” Zeke ordered. “There’s fighting drunk, and then there’s drunk drunk.”
He pulled the mug from Andrew’s hands and brought it to his own mouth. A few seconds later and it was gone.
“Hypocrite,” Andrew muttered. He only realized his mistake the second the word escaped his lips.
Zeke fixed him with a glare. “Want to do gaspers, Sutter? Sweat some of that booze out?”
“No, sergeant.”
“Good.” Zeke flagged down the nearest townsman who wasn’t carrying a barrel. “Get the corporal some fucking toast. And no more than two drinks per trooper, no matter how much they ask. There might still be man-eaters out there.”
The townsman — a wiry, older man with a mustache who looked like somebody had done a number on his face a couple times — gandered at Zeke’s stripes a second too long before he nodded. He turned around and headed back into the town. Nobody would be giving Zeke any dirty looks, not on his watch. Andrew stumbled after him, only for Zeke’s strong hand to seize his arm.
“Sutter,” Zeke interrupted. “Corporal Andrew Sutter. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“But he was looking at you like — ”
“I know. But keep acting like this and you’ll lose those corporal’s stripes, understood?”
That sobered Andrew some. He’d earned those stripes fair and square. “Sorry, sergeant.”
The old man soon returned with a heaping pile of browned toast atop a cracked off-white plate. It didn’t look too toasted, but Andrew didn’t like it charcoal-black anyway.
Zeke handed it to Andrew. “Take this and go sit down.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
Andrew waded through the troopers and hangers-on from the town, trying not to trip or drop his toast, and eventually found a nice empty spot. Several other soldiers sat nearby, some stinking of alcohol and two with their own plates of toast. Andrew nearly laughed. Must be standard procedure. He’d been fighting alongside the Merrills for weeks now, and every day he learned something new.
Then a less pleasant thought hit him. Is everybody in the regiment getting sluiced? If more Flesh-Eaters showed up, we’ll be lunch. Pickled fucking beef.
Of course, keeping the man-eaters away if they could and warning the regiment if they couldn’t was the scouts’ job. That’s where Alyssa should be now. Andrew reckoned that was for the best. Men who were polite as pie to ladies when they were sober could act right different when they weren’t. He didn’t want to brawl with some oaf twice his size in defense of her honor, although he damn well would.
A big trooper with a white beard loudly held court not far from Andrew. “So,” he began, words starting to slur. “There we were, pinned down by a galloper gun. We’ve got these fancy-ass Old World repeaters, but I’m all out of ammunition. Happens there’s a dead man-eater with a regular rifle not more than five feet away…”
Andrew smiled at the old soldier’s antics, but his smile faded.
Another victory like that and we’re fucked, totally fucked.
The Flesh-Eaters’ heavy guns and mortars had been absolute murder even though the Merrills didn’t just run into them. If the enemy colonel hadn’t gotten scratched when he did, or they hadn’t already lost so many at O’Donnell or the cavalry ambush, would the Second Pendleton have even survived?
Andrew had barely made headway on his toast when several men Andrew didn’t know scurried past, swearing and grumbling but moving like they had a purpose.
Behind them came several sergeants, Zeke among them.
Andrew jumped up, pushing the half-eaten toast aside.
“Come on, Sutter,” Zeke ordered. “Got to get everybody cleaned up, billeted, and organized. There’s going to be an inspection.”
“Inspection?” Andrew felt weak in the knees. If Hardy, let alone the captain — or Good Lord forbid the colonel — saw him in this state, he’d lose his stripes for sure. “We just got here!”
“Special circumstances. The Merrill’s coming.”
DERAILING A TRAIN
“An armored train,” Nahed said from across a table covered in maps. “The Merrills have an armored train outside of town. How in the hell did we not know?”
Falki said nothing. Instead he looked at the fair-skinned young Obsidian Guard scout standing in the entrance of the black A-frame tent the company used as a command post outside Lone Rock.
The soldier swallowed and continued speaking. “From the look of it, it originally belonged to the Flesh-Eaters. All red and black, with shark’s teeth painted on the locomotive. It’s flying a green flag from the engine so we know it’s the enemy’s.” A pause. “It’s ugly as shit and ready to fight.”
“Well, we all know our valiant allies are not exactly the most subtle,” Falki added. Some company staff snickered, although a look from Nahed quieted them. He pointed to the map. “Where is the nearest bridge? If the train is on our side of the Armand, we go around. We take the bridge, and it is stranded.” That was an armored train’s major weakness, no matter how big and impressive. “The Flesh-Eaters can then take their property back.” Given how far-flung the former Merrill domains were, they’d need that train to reimpose their authority.
The scout pointed at a spot about six miles outside Lone Rock where the railroad passed through the forest before crossing the Armand. The trees had been cut back a good distance on either side of the tracks, wider than an ordinary flatlander’s rifle could fire. “It shouldn’t take us long to get to it. But there’s also a … ” His voice trailed away.
Falki stifled an exasperated sigh. He didn’t need people so afraid to bring him bad news that A Company missed vital information. “What? Spit it out.”
“The Merrills have a cottonclad.”
Of course they do. Block the bridge with a train. Keep a boat on hand if the train runs into more than it can handle. Oh, they’re clever. “Any dirigibles?” That would be logical, to defend such expensive assets from aerial attack.
The scout shook his head. “Balloon-poppers on the boat, but no air support I could see.”
I suspect there are owls in the bog. Although intelligence indicated the Merrills only had two functioning dirigibles, intelligence had been wrong before. It would make sense for them to keep the dirigible hidden until the Obsidian Guard or the Flesh-Eaters were engaged, then strike unexpectedly.
“Can the cottonclad get under the bridge?” Nahed asked. “If not, our dirigibles could strike from the other direction. Sink the ship, wreck the bridge, strand the train.”
“Capture the bridge, lieutenant,” Falki corrected. “Merrill strategy seems to be obstructing the Armand to keep us from reinforcing Jacinto. We destroy the bridge, we help them.” Although he wouldn’t usually care about destroying the bridge if it meant destroying an enemy ship or train, the higher-ups had drilled it into every company commander’s head not to play into the rebels’ hands. Even with local forced labor to replace it, destroying the bridge would cause delays. Father’s armies needed to reinforce Jacinto soonest or things would get a lot more complicated.
“Understood, sir.” Nahed returned his attention to the scout. “Can the cottonclad fit under the bridge?”
“Yes, sir. The bridge is designed to accommodate ship traffic.”
Good, Falki thought. They needed the Armand cleared yesterday if they wanted to hit the Merrill flank before Jacinto fell. Falki cleared his throat. “If we want to sail men toward Jacinto, this is a great big fucking bone in our throat. Pass this to Colonel Gyrdsson. Put the legs on your neck.”
Once the scout left, Falki turned to the others. “With this new information, we need to start planning. I imagine the colonel will have work for us soon enough.”
AS THE SCOUT had reported, the locomotive had been designed to intimidate. Bright white teeth bearing the occasional splatter of dirt or blood stood out against the dark metal, while a huge glaring eye watched from the flat black sides. The wedge-shaped cow-catcher at the locomotive’s front reminded Falki of an enormous blade. Anything obstructing the tracks wouldn’t be pushed aside, but sliced through. And it was painted red, like a huge tongue emerging from the painted-on mouth.
Falki lowered his binoculars. He’d never been an artist like Father — that more interested the little twit Logmar — but he could appreciate the design’s psychological value.
Atop the locomotive two Sawyers jutted from a round turret. Like the locomotive itself, it had been painted with a shark’s mouth. More turrets, each carrying a single cannon, rose from the three solid boxcars with narrow firing slits two-thirds of the way up. To the rear lay a stock car, large sections opened so horses could stick their heads out.
Falki narrowed his eyes. Now that’s clever. An armored train had to stick to the tracks, but if it could deploy cavalry, that gave the train its own scouts. Several horses grazed contentedly nearby, just as oblivious as the train’s men to the Obsidian Guard. For now. He stole a glance back toward the two mules bearing the company’s extra ammunition. Hopefully they’d stay as placid as the enemy’s mounts when the shooting started.
Falki’s company had managed to approach the enemy war machine undetected, something he’d have thought a miracle if he believed in Odin or the flatlanders’ Good Lord. No skirmishers in the woods and they never deployed these horses. Fucking amateurs.
He shifted his attention to the bridge they needed to take. Brick archways rose from the Armand’s dark waters, high enough to permit the passage of ships the cottonclad’s size or larger. The brown, desiccated remains of algae clung to the archways’ upper reaches, while green clawed its way up from below. The river must be running low this year.
