Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 19
NIGHT HAD FALLEN, but it was little darker than daytime. The horizon glowed in a burning line. Distant artillery lit up the sky like a thunderstorm. In a star-shell’s fading light, Merrill infiltration parties crept toward a long earthen berm topped with a messy assemblage of fallen trees and barbed wire.
Around Alonzo a company of troopers milled uneasily. He could appreciate their fears. Would the infiltrators take the Flesh-Eater position and give them an easy advance, or would they have to storm it?
The enemy earthwork comprised a substantial chunk of the outermost defensive line. It had been a miracle they’d managed to assemble it so quickly. Either they’d had help from within Jacinto or there was more to this Howling God than he’d thought.
“Just a little farther,” he muttered. Once the infiltrators were in repeater range, they could leapfrog the berm and –
Repeaters and Sawyer guns opened up, turning the ground below the enemy position into a killing zone. One infiltrator team was shredded in moments. Others attempted to defend them, felling a couple of Flesh-Eaters and attracting the gunfire of the rest.
Good men died in place or attempting to scramble back the way they came. Mortars clunked behind Alonzo, sending pillars of smoke rising behind the berm. Too little, too late. Whatever infiltrators survived wouldn’t be numerous enough to take that line, or hold it against enemy reserves.
The Asherton or the army’s heavy guns could have devastated the position, but they were busy elsewhere. Too many enemy defenses and too few weapons capable of breaching them.
“Sir,” one of his bodyguards said. “We need to keep moving. If you stay too long, it’ll draw the enemy here like a — ”
A bullet cut his words off, and he went down with blood burbling from his ruined throat. His jaw worked silently and his fingers clawed at the wound.
A hard blow struck Alonzo’s head. He wobbled but luckily kept his feet.
Shot in the head? It can’t be. I’d be dead.
Crouching, he felt for wounds. He felt heat when his fingers crossed his forehead. He removed his wide-brimmed hat. A bullet had torn through the brim, right above his eyes. Shit. They were that close.
Movement. Slithering through the churned earth between the Flesh-Eater and Merrill lines came a quintet of Obsidian Guard. All were blond-haired Sejer, maybe the type that thought their gods had already decided when they’d die. Nothing to be gained by fear. Nothing to be gained by shirking.
Good Lord, they brought in the fatalists.
“Obsidian Guard!” someone shouted. “Obsidian Guard! They’re after the Merrill!”
How’d they known? No, there was no time to worry about that now.
Kill them, or they’ll kill you.
Amid the din of repeaters and mortars, a guard threw himself atop Alonzo, taking them both to the ground. As they fell, bullets jerked the man’s body. Hitting the dirt knocked the wind out from Alonzo. The hilt of his saber jammed into his thigh. Enemy mortars continued shaking the earth.
Alonzo wriggled out from under the fallen man. He winced at the bullet wounds and chunks of shrapnel marring his savior’s broad back and head. He couldn’t remember the man’s name. Shit. He wiped blood and brains off his shoulder as he rose into a crouch.
Smoke shrouded what had once been open ground ahead. The gunfire abruptly stopped. Within the cloud, men yelled and screamed like banshees. Either the enemy was holding off until they could actually see or …
Or the Flesh-Eaters were sending their fanatics in first. Only pistols and sabers, close-quarters combat. Protected by the smoke, it’d be hard to hit them down before they closed. And those Obsidian Guard killers were still out there, probably waiting for the fanatics to weaken the Merrill line.
He looked around. There were a good number of troopers here, but not enough to counter the Flesh-Eaters’ ferocity. The screaming and shouting in the smoke grew louder. Gunfire erupted from behind Alonzo. “Get down!” someone shouted. “Hold the goddamn line!”
Alonzo knelt behind a wooden palisade with some younger soldiers.
“It’s the Merrill!” gasped a young man with the slightest wisps of black hair on his chin. He looked like he should be apprenticing in the House of Delegates, not out here waiting for a cannibal horde to eat him.
“Hobble your lip!” hissed a bigger man, probably a sergeant. “You want them on us?”
A new wave of gunfire crashed over Alonzo and his new companions as the fanatics boiled from the smoke. Bullets peppered the palisade. Someone cried out in pain as one punched through. “Hold!” someone else shouted. Merrill troopers popped up to return fire, but whenever one fanatic fell there was always another.
Alonzo flicked the switch on his repeater to “AUTO” and let loose. Though the weapon strained at his hands, man-eater after man-eater fell.
Still, they kept coming. Some were already scaling the palisade, with Merrill soldiers desperately holding them off with bayonets and shovels.
Before he had the chance to aim again, more whistling filled the air. “Final protective fires!” another trooper shouted. Alonzo winced. The Merrill artillery were practically shelling their own lines. Alonzo and the others ducked behind the palisade.
The ground shook. Alonzo counted the explosions and gave up after six. Shrapnel pelted the palisade like iron rain. Enemy screams stabbed the night air. Smoke drifted over the barricade, its scent mingled with blood. A few wounded fanatics tried to climb as the explosions faded. Merrill guns and blades swiftly dealt with them.
For a moment, one glorious moment, it was quiet. One by one, the troopers peeked over the palisade.
“HO LA OTHINN!!” Two wounded guardsmen erupted from the smoke, repeaters blazing. A few wounded fanatics followed. Although their uniforms were torn and tattered, the Sejer kept to their feet and moved like dancing cobras. The boy who’d recognized Alonzo went down, followed by the sergeant. More fell. “Obsidian Guard!” a panicked voice shouted. “It’s the fucking Obsidian Guard!” A few bolted for the rear.
Oh goddamn it. “They die like anybody else, boys!” Alonzo yelled. “Hold!”
“Hold!” others echoed amid the scene of slaughter.
The gunfire grew louder. The remaining fanatics were soon dispatched. Alonzo drew a bead on the tallest guardsman, an older man who must be their sergeant. As if he sensed it, the foe wheeled on Alonzo, raising his own weapon. Alonzo squeezed the trigger.
It clicked empty. “Fuck!” Alonzo tossed the weapon aside and drew his revolver. The guardsman pulled the trigger just as someone else’s repeater burst caught him in the belly.
Alonzo staggered as pain sliced above his left hip like a blade. His own shot went wide. Luckily the guardsman was already dead on the ground.
“They’ve emptied their lines!” A bearded officer wearing a wide-brimmed hat shouted, pointing into the fading smoke. “Throw carcasses and go!”
Alonzo clutched his wounded side and winced as the Merrill soldiers threw smoke grenades. Foul-smelling gray burst once more across the killing ground. Once it grew thick enough, men vaulted the palisade. A Sawyer growled amid the smoke, but quickly fell silent.
Despite his pain, Alonzo grinned. Hillbilly idiots emptied their line to get me and now they’ve lost it all. Alonzo inhaled and exhaled, deliberately calming himself and doing his best to ignore the pain in his side.
Alonzo turned to his remaining bodyguards. “We need to get back to the headquarters right away. There’s got to be more Obsidian Guard.”
The two remaining guards nodded. He’d have to warn all the unit headquarters about the guardsman. And get that wound examined before it mortified.
Doing his best to keep a stoic face, Alonzo holstered his revolver, retrieved his repeater from the bloody ground, and found his horse. He waved away any attempt to help and mounted the animal on his own.
They hadn’t gotten far when another rider appeared in their path. A short and blocky Jiao in Merrill brown. Probably one of the Sejeran exiles Pa took in, or one of their sprouts. His guards raised their weapons, but Alonzo waved them down. “Sir,” the messenger said. “General Hutton requests your presence right away. Urgent news from the west.”
FLICKERING KEROSENE LANTERNS lit up a sky of dark earth and knotted wooden beams. Alonzo, his wound cleaned and bandaged, repressed a shiver as he walked toward the command bunker. Men shouldn’t live like moles.
Pa made the mine owners build skylights, so those working long shifts underground could occasionally see the sky. And even though Hutton had assured him there was another stairwell on the other side of the bunker, he had no desire to be buried alive if a shell hit.
Hutton stood at the end of a long table, flanked by his ever-present staff. On a stand behind him was a map of the region between the Basin’s southern rim and Iron Desert, most of which had been Merrill. Pins of various colors represented the different armies, both his and Grendel’s.
Alonzo’s breath caught in his throat when he saw so many black pins — Obsidian Guard — further east than last time.
Hutton and his staff rose and saluted. Alonzo returned their salutes. “At ease.” He looked straight at his general. “Tell me the bad news first.”
“The dirigibles from Long Branch have begun bombing the main screening force in the northwest, just below the Grand River. Most look to be Obsidian Guard, but there are a few Flesh-Eaters and even the Leaden Host. Casualties are heavy, particularly in Fish Creek and Bell closest to the front line. When the Obsidian Guard leaves Long Branch in force, they’ll go right through.”
Shit. Grendel’s offensive is coming soon if it hasn’t already started, and I still don’t have Jacinto or Bisbee.
Hutton pointed at the brown pins well to the southwest. “The Leaden Host are hitting the parts of the old Southern Wall under our control. Gideon’s agents report some elements even farther east.”
Alonzo felt the color leaving his face. The Southern Wall alone was a big jump from the Leaden Host’s old border. Alexander Matthews must’ve been lashing his men hard to advance that fast, and have the manpower to crush enemies left in his rear to boot. The Leaden Host didn’t take prisoners. If any of those forts fell, those men were fucked.
Hutton lowered his voice. “I’m also getting reports of refugees crossing the Grand River at McAllen and Round Rock.” Much, much closer. “The Blood Alchemy Host has gathered enough troopers at their airheads to move south.”
A chill ran up Alonzo’s spine. He remembered the desperate masses fleeing Blood Alchemy and their unholy experiments. John had marched out to confront the monsters at Bluebell Creek, to protect his people from rape and mutilation like a chieftain should. The Blood Alchemy propaganda rags had claimed the monstrous Mangle had killed John himself, where the fighting was thickest. John’s wife Elena had nearly fainted upon seeing what the Blood Alchemy emissaries had brought, the spill she did take nearly causing her to miscarry.
Alonzo’s fingers, both metal and flesh, began curling into a fist.
Not now. Not now. “Any word from Rhoads?”
Hutton shook his head. If Rhoads could talk that old Sejer bastard into throwing the Flesh-Eaters under the locomotive and making him the tyrant’s man in Jacinto … well, that was something he could live with. It would end the war soonest; the cannibals couldn’t withstand his own men and those of first lord.
Enough dreaming. The enemy was coming in from three directions, and Grendel hadn’t sent in more than penny-packets of the Obsidian Guard. Hadn’t yet. The Blood Alchemy freaks were the closest threat. Once they started crossing the river in force, they’d be between the main army and its screen. Blocking them meant weakening one or the other. The Flesh-Eaters were no doubt emptying their mountains across the Grand River at Bisbee, with the Firebird Host on their heels. Alonzo would bet what was left of his hat there was another army gathering beyond Jacinto, if not reinforcing the city itself.
“Goddamn it.” Just like when Grendel and his cronies attacked before.
Only this time he didn’t have anywhere near the territory or manpower his father had. “How goes the First Cavalry? How many dirigibles do we have now?”
Hutton pondered the question. “We’ve captured another Flesh-Eater dirigible in the yard, which brings us to seven. Four operational and three undergoing repairs. We’ve barely gotten the Alonzo Merrill fixed up after Mossy Way, and that took a lot of spare parts.” He briefly examined the ceiling. “The Asherton is supporting the advance on Jacinto, while the remaining three are blooding the revived First Cavalry. We’ve got just enough experienced men as cadre and plenty of volunteers. What we don’t have are enough airframes and enough time.”
“Your estimate that the enemy had seven airships. Has that changed?” Hope sprang up. Maybe the seven he mentioned were all Grendel could spare.
Hutton’s words fell like hammer-blows. “Closer to thirty now, all active. The Flesh-Eaters around four, the Obsidian Guard fifteen or more, Blood Alchemy five, and the Leaden Host three. Men’ve also seen Legio Mortis dirigibles in the west, but Grendel seems to be using them for something else.”
“Or that sly dog Quantrill’s hedging his bets.” Pa’s best hope for beating Grendel had been killing the man himself and hoping his sons and subordinates fought each other after. If raiding Long Branch worked, well, it’d be years too late for Pa, but it’d still get done.
“Gideon’s got a better idea of his character, but I doubt Quantrill will try slipping the leash so long as Grendel’s winning.” He fixed Alonzo with a grim look. “And make no mistake, he is, even if some troopers have victory disease. We’re beating the Flesh-Eaters, but Alexander’s beating us in the southwest and Grendel’s airships are softening the rest up. Once he unleashes his armies, he could crush us against Jacinto’s walls within weeks. Maybe a month.”
“Meaning we need to capture more dirigibles and gum up his advance.”
“Easier said than done. Those three Flesh-Eater dirigibles are probably all they’ve got, and they’re all flying. Doubt we’ll be getting more from them.”
Alonzo studied the map. “From you’re telling me, we don’t have a prayer of a victory in the field. Either Rhoads can persuade Grendel or … ” He let his voice trail away.
He turned to look at Hutton. “As you’ve said, the men would need to be more experienced for this to work. Keep up the raids on enemy airbases and the bridges and rail hubs. This’ll will buy us time, season the men, and make Grendel think the bulk of our air operations are around Jacinto. They won’t suspect we’re planning an attack on Long Branch itself until our boys are up their ass.” Alonzo paused. “If Long Branch is a base for air raids, dirigibles will be in and out. They might be less suspicious of our boys flying in, especially if they look balled-up.”
Hutton pursed his lips. “We’ll come up with some convincing-looking battle damage that doesn’t impede the dirigibles’ function. And we might have to lay off targeting Flesh-Eater dirigibles. If the Flesh-Eaters lose all their airships and suddenly a bunch show up at Long Branch, the game’s over. That trick the Second Pendleton pulled on Clark won’t be easily repeated.”
There’s always a catch. And it will be the troopers paying for it, if we don’t destroy the Flesh-Eaters airships when we have the chance. “Understood.”
“Also, if Rhoads is still negotiating with Grendel, launching a raid is risky. If Grendel survives, he’ll be out for blood.”
“It’s a risk either way. If Grendel prolongs ‘negotiations’ while his armies advance, it puts us in a weaker position.” Weaker than we already are. “See if any of Gideon’s spies in Long Branch can ferret out what’s going on.” He paused. “And have them check on Catalina too.” If the old bastard was taking out his frustrations on his sister, he’d need to rustle up some important enough hostages.
Hutton nodded. “One more thing. If we are to attack Long Branch, we’ll need to start preparing now.”
“Do it. Whatever you need to pull this off, you speak with my voice.”
He’d send a telegram to Gideon in Pendleton to make sure this was understood. He didn’t need his top civilian — he should have formally named him chancellor by now — and his top commander operating at cross-purposes.
“Yes sir. What shall we call the operation?”
A heartbeat. Alonzo had seen the Nicor, Grendel’s great airship, in battle long ago. Its gondola bore a great dragon-head like the Sejer longships of old. It reminded Alonzo of the sand snakes on the desert fringes, attacking lost cattle and unwary travelers. Snakes that should lose their heads.
“Call it Operation Serpent Sword.”
CLEARING THE PATH
Falki lowered his binoculars. They’d been extraordinarily successful in helping the Flesh-Eaters maintain control over the Armand River. The water road to the Grand and ultimately Jacinto was almost clear.
So of course the Merrills had to make Lufkin, the last major town before the rivers joined, into a fucking fortress.
In particular, they’d used the Old World bridge to efficiently shift men and artillery back and forth across the Armand to parry Blood Alchemy attacks from the north and Flesh-Eater attacks from the south. The local Flesh-Eater bigwigs had contacted the Obsidian Guard. So now Falki and some of his men hunkered down a hundred yards upriver from the bridge. Through the shadows, Falki could make out red rusted metal atop stone pilings rising from the dark water. Patches of greenery painted the pilings’ sides.
Shadowed men in brown Merrill uniforms carrying a mix of repeaters and conventional rifles scurried back and forth atop the bridge. Falki could see a silhouetted galloper gun and would bet his next paycheck there were mortars too, harder to spot but just as deadly. And even though he couldn’t see Sawyers, that didn’t mean there weren’t any. At least it didn’t seem like there were sharpshooters atop the pilings.
