Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 24
One final bullet tore away part of the creature’s skull. Even then, its last bite nearly took the tip off Andrew’s boot.
He barely had time to exhale when Sajer screamed behind him. One giant weasel had him by the head and another by his hale leg. Blood poured from both ends as he struggled. With a quick twist of its head, one tore the poor bastard’s whole remaining leg off. The other dragged the rest of him off into the darkness, leaving a trail of blood in the dirt. Someone dispatched the weasel with the leg, but Sajer’s screams in the darkness continued a right while.
Where was Will? He’d told him to stay back with Sajer. Had the beasts gotten him?
Troopers clambered up the rope ladders into the dirigible. The last few weasels leaped for them like cats to strings. Occasionally one great beast would seize a man and drag him to the ground, though bullets took most of them.
Bullets now stabbed from the trees. The hellish light of gunfire and flame revealed enemies approaching through the forests. The dirigibles’ guns blocked their path with fallen trees and their own dead, but it was clear the enemy on the left alone outnumbered what was left of the Merrill platoon.
“Up you go, Sutter!” Harris shouted in his ear, pointing at a ladder hanging from the ramp.
Andrew fired one last burst into the burning woods before leaping onto the hanging ladder. Though his arms ached, he dragged himself up. Bullets snapped by, one slashing through his pant leg. Andrew hissed and kept climbing. He soon got his elbows and chest onto the metal. He looked back down.
Zeke and Harris were climbing madly now. Enemy bullets set the gondola shaking. Blood Alchemy men pushed from the woods and down the road, infantry and horsemen both. Bringing up the rear was another oxen-drawn balloon-popper, this one as big as the one from before.
“Shit!” Andrew hauled himself the rest of the way aboard, then turned to help Zeke. Though Andrew’s back screamed, he managed to get all but the lieutenant’s legs aboard.
“Thanks, Sutter. I’ll take it from here. You get Sergeant Harris.”
“Yes sir!”
Once Zeke was inside, Andrew grabbed both of Harris’s wrists. A bullet spanged off the metal beside his head. Another slashed past his bum ear. Zeke and others caught hold of Andrew and hauled him, Harris, and the ladder all the way inside. Another bullet ricocheted off the ramp where Harris had been.
“Don’t you leave me!” someone shouted from below.
An explosion silenced his pleas. At least he won’t be used for breeding.
What sounded like grenades went off, but Andrew would eat his hat if anybody could throw a grenade high and well enough to damage the dirigible. He laughed grimly. If the freaks wanted to waste their grenades, so be it.
Owen watched from a gondola window. “They clear those mines, they can bring the balloon-popper — ” A bullet snapped off the metal an inch from his forehead. He cried out in pain and slumped back down. Andrew’s heart jumped into his throat. Had something hit him? The bullet had hit metal, not meat, but –
Owen sat up, wiping blood from his forehead. There wasn’t much, and the cuts didn’t look too deep. Andrew exhaled. Must be just shrapnel.
As the airship rose, the explosions and gunshots grew quieter until they heard no more.
“Looks like we’ve gotten away,” Owen said. “Time to settle up. Hopefully it was worth it.”
His words further deepened Andrew’s worries. They’d killed a lot of freaks, liberated supplies, and gummed up the road for a while at least.
But had the mission been a bust anyway? There were as many wounded men as hale. Dodd was cleaning out a weasel bite on one man’s leg with a rag and a bottle of rotgut. Another trooper knelt beside a shirtless Will, examining slash marks on his chest. Tommy was dragging a dead man to a pile that already had four.
It sure looked like a bust.
UPPING THE STAKES
Alonzo stood beside a borrowed horse atop Truett’s Hill, mere miles from his family’s palace in the heart of Jacinto.
His bodyguards stood around him, shifting uneasily in the exposed position. Those who’d died taking the hill had long since been removed, but what was once a park still lay in blackened ruin.
He kept his eyes directly ahead, down the straight blacktopped road leading through stone houses shattered by artillery. The road joined another that rose from the ground, allowing other roads to pass beneath. The larger road soon pierced the old city’s smog-shrouded walls, the ones raised after the Fall the city had ultimately grown beyond.
The Flesh-Eaters were pulling back, the need to police Jacinto itself denuding their front lines. Mere hours before, this hill had been a strongpoint surrounded by barbed wire and breastworks, topped with two Sawyer guns and a heavy mortar. Now all that was gone, the barbed wire used to fortify the Merrill lines farther up and the guns given to the regiments advancing against the choke-points where roads passed through gaps in the walls or tunneled underneath them.
Of course, the goddamn man-eaters had left plenty to remember them by. The troopers had filled in two holes where crosses had stood, crosses bearing young men the cannibal bastards had feared might join him. One had been killed when the troopers stormed the hill, while the other somehow survived. They’d managed to get him down and back to the infirmary, but Alonzo doubted he’d live long.
The crack of a distant gunshot reminded him that, even with the horse and men between him and Jacinto’s core, he was still hideously vulnerable. The wound in his side twinged. I’ll have to clean that again. It had shown no signs of mortifying and was already starting to heal, but he’d been damn lucky. A couple inches deeper and it’d have ruptured his guts. Such wounds almost always killed, either through bleeding or mortification.
He led the horse down the hill, his men close behind. A cable snaked across the shredded grass and dirt where children once played. He followed it until he found two young women in Merrill uniforms operating a field telegraph. Both were dirty and looked too young to be there. Alonzo stopped himself from shaking his head. Without the scar running from her dark hair to her chin and cleaned up a bit, the taller of the two have been beautiful. Hell, she was still damn pretty.
Not now. Leave that thinking for Grendel.
They moved to salute, but Alonzo waved the gesture away. Bodyguards or not, there might still be man-eater sharpshooters hunting Merrill officers.
“Where’s the nearest fighting?” he asked.
“Pushing up Webster Street,” the shorter one said. “And under it, sewer drains and train tunnels. Men popping up behind each other’s lines, if they’re not stabbing each other in the dark. Machine guns are holding them up where Webster crosses Bouhi Avenue. They’re trying to go around through the buildings, but need more explosives.”
Perhaps I should make an appearance. The last time he’d gone out among his men, he’d baited the man-eaters into attacking a fortified position and forced a group of Obsidian Guard into revealing themselves. Now they were dead, and the Merrills had taken their trenches. Maybe he could make lightning strike twice.
Pain lanced through his side, reminding him of what else had happened. And that at the hands of just a squad. Grendel had to be flying in more guardsmen. He’d be the old bastard’s number one priority, and he was already wounded.
And even if he wanted to risk his life again, a cavalry charge was risky enough in city streets with enemies firing from overhead or from the storm drains. Against machine guns, it’d be worse than useless.
Webster and Bouhi weren’t far from the old palace. If the men broke through, the enemy would need to redirect reinforcements there, allowing the troopers to advance elsewhere. He shook his head. Giving orders to commanders in the field was Hutton’s responsibility.
“Thank you.” He tipped his hat. “Ladies.”
As he and his guards left the two telegraphers, he heard … giggling? His cheeks reddened. If he’d gotten hitched when John had, those two could’ve been his daughters. He walked a bit faster, then mounted up and headed back toward Hutton’s command bunker.
“START WITH THE good news or the bad?” Hutton asked from the opposite end of the table. Various staff officers flitted beneath the flickering kerosene lamps, leaving a bubble of space for the Merrill and his chief general to talk.
“I’m in a bad mood already,” Alonzo said. “Let’s start with the good.”
“The dirigible we sent to ball up the Blood Alchemy troopers moving south from the airheads made it back in one piece.”
“And the bad?”
“A number of men didn’t. And the attack didn’t seem to have slowed the freaks much. Obsidian Guard and more Blood Alchemy are flying into Jacinto and other cities, especially ones where the population’s getting uppity. Soon they’ll be arriving in trainloads.”
Alonzo repressed the urge to swear in front of Hutton’s staff. They’d come so far already. He didn’t need morale to falter when they were on the verge of breaching the old city.
“How many men are serving airmobile now?” Unasked hung the real question: How many could they throw at Long Branch?
“More or less a thousand. Won’t be so many if we keep up this tempo.”
The general had a point. Recalling the experienced men to help train more would have been the best solution, but that meant stopping, or at least significantly slowing, airmobile operations just when they were most needed.
Damn it. It had to be done. “Set the experienced men to training the new volunteers. I’m assuming we still have people streaming in?”
“That we do, sir.”
A messenger — a young woman with blonde hair cut short but not one of the telegraph operators, thank God — appeared in the doorway. “A message,” she said. “A message from Pendleton, from Gideon Paul himself.”
“What is it?” Hutton asked.
The young woman pulled an envelope with a thick waxen seal from her brown jacket. “Eyes only for the Merrill and General Hutton.”
Hutton looked at the staff swarming around the bunker. “Everybody out, and don’t linger by the door.”
With various muttered acknowledgements, they filed up the winding stair. The messenger handed the envelope to Hutton and followed, making sure to close the door behind her.
“We’ve had no word from Grendel about Rhoads,” Hutton said gravely. “I suspect this is where we find out why.”
Alonzo frowned. “I had the same feeling. Open it.”
Hutton peeled apart the heavy wax seal and slid the letter out. He stepped over to Alonzo so they both could read it.
“‘A source inside Long Branch citadel reports Grendel has rejected proposed peace terms and imprisoned Rhoads and his men. As far as we can tell, no violence has been done upon them beyond that. Catalina remains as safe as before.’”
“As safe as before,” Alonzo spat. “I know damn well what that means — ”
“We all do, sir. But don’t let it preoccupy you, or you might do something rash.” Hutton’s gaze returned to the letter. “Gideon says source requests no further communication for time being. Risk of discovery too great.”
Alonzo swore. Much as he wanted to keep up with his sister’s welfare and have as much inside information about the tyrant’s doings as possible, the old bastard would be sweeping his base for spies on the regular if he had the sense the Good Lord gave a turnip. Especially since he’d placed his command in Long Branch, a city no doubt itching to kick his barbarian ass out.
A city hostile towards him is friendly toward us. We can use that.
Unease began filling Alonzo’s chest like water in a drowning pit. He’d been pushing for the dirigible raid on Long Branch for weeks, while Hutton restrained him. Trying to kill the old bastard would scupper negotiations, he said.
Now it seemed negotiations were scuppered regardless.
Alonzo should have been glad circumstances had come together to make his plan the best choice. It could end the war … or it could call forth a wrath so terrible than none of the folk his family had ruled since the Fall could withstand it.
Alonzo cleared his throat. “General Hutton, we now have only one realistic option. Grendel isn’t negotiating, not even to string us along and screw us later. The way things are going, we’re going to get trapped here.” And then the old bastard will kill us all.
Hutton was too professional to sigh, but Alonzo could tell he wanted to. “Serpent Sword.” It was a statement, not a question.
Alonzo nodded, with much less enthusiasm than he would have expected. “We need to launch once we get the dirigibles in place. Like we discussed, the priority goals are to kill Grendel and rescue Catalina.”
If Grendel died, Falki would become first lord, at least for a time, and he didn’t want her anywhere near a vengeful — and by reputation, erratic — enemy. Nor did he want her caught up in the power struggle he’d hoped would break out if Grendel’s chief men didn’t obey an untested son.
“If possible, kill the Flesh-Eater General Hardin and retrieve Colonel Rhoads and his men,” he added.
Taking out Jasper had caused the hillbillies under him to backstab each other until Grendel smacked some heads together, so putting Hardin in boot hill might trigger a new round of backstabbing. Colonel Rhoads seemed like a decent fellow, another target for Falki’s wrath.
Diverting men for a third and fourth goal, however, risked the first two failing. “That said, Grendel and Catalina are the priority.”
“It will be done,” Hutton said. “We’re going to need to conserve men and equipment, on top of preserving experienced men for training.”
“Understood. No more dirigible raids beyond the immediate area around Jacinto. All uninvolved personnel to assist training new airmobile recruits until we have enough for Serpent Sword.”
They’d still need close air support in Jacinto. Even with the Shoemakers sniping Flesh-Eaters inside the city, it was taking too long. The enemy was able to send men and supplies over the bridges and from the east, and they didn’t have the manpower to —
A ghoulish thought occurred to Alonzo. “How long has it been since we last seasoned some turncoats?”
“About a month. Those two generals.”
Alonzo remembered them. One had enforced the collection of corpses from everybody who died in the city of Harper, and hanged all who’d tried to hide their dearly departed. The other had discovered members of the Menceir House Kriska trading with his havens in the high plains and built a pyramid from the men’s heads. The women were given to the troopers and the children taken to the Flesh-Eaters’ schools where they’d be indoctrinated.
He’d had around fifty enemy prisoners stone those two to death. Two platoons’ worth of replacements bound to him by the blood on their hands.
“We need to scale up,” Alonzo said. “The longer this goes on, the more horrors they inflict on our people. How many Flesh-Eaters might turn their coats if they knew we’d give them amnesty? Especially if they brought their officers over hogtied?”
Most turncoats they’d seasoned were prisoners they’d already taken, not defectors. A few here and there had crossed the lines, but not on the scale necessary to take Jacinto. Not counting irregulars scattered across the country, he had around twenty thousand men. The Flesh-Eaters for all their stumbling had more. Grendel had many, many more.
“Shoemakers say the man-eaters have been killing troopers they don’t trust and filling their larders with the corpses,” Hutton said. “They’ve probably got units they don’t trust but still need corseted tight. Not on the front lines against us, and not policing the city. Likely in the middle, moving supplies up and wounded men back.”
“How feasible would it be to drop leaflets from airships or fire them over enemy lines using cannon? Once we make those men aware of their options, we attack the positions up front. Clear the way for them.”
It’d be tricky, if he didn’t want his own men firing on those switching sides. Maybe stick to propaganda and safe-conduct passes. Send defectors back against the cannibal bastards once they’d gotten new uniforms.
“It’s doable. We’ll have to disperse them at twilight, light enough for the men to read them but dark enough their officers might not see. If we can print the first run fast enough, we can send some over via balloon tonight. If we want to use shells, we’ll need a few days.”
“Do it,” Alonzo ordered. “We need more men soonest. If we can rip a hole or two in the enemy lines all the better.”
WRONG SIDE OF THE RIVER
Looking out the dirigible window, Andrew once more refrained from sighing. Or swearing.
They’d barely had a day to rest and, here they were, off again.
He tried counting his blessings. At least it’s not a fortified airbase or an oncoming column.
According to the briefing after they took off, the Blood Alchemy Host had set up a fuel depot just south of the Grand. Lots of fuel and few troopers. If it weren’t for the orders to liberate enemy gear, they wouldn’t even need to land. Light up the facility from above and skedaddle.
The land below was flat, green grass starting to turn brown. Lots of grass. Endless grass …
Andrew yawned. That got Harris’s attention. “Close your eyes and rest while you can,” the sergeant ordered. “Can’t believe you haven’t learned that by now. Too busy woolgathering.”
Andrew nodded. He’d close his eyes for a moment …
“Sutter, we’re here!”
Andrew woke with a jolt, banging his shoulder on the gondola’s metal wall. Above him, Harris pointed. “There’s our target.”
In the distance, beneath the moon, sat several huge gray fuel tanks. One, smoother than the others, still bore the faint remains of a white star painted against a red background. A mooring tower stood beside each tank.
This isn’t just a depot. It’s a refueling station. If they could blast this place to hell, it’d put a serious crimp in the freaks’ ability to support those air raids he’d been hearing about. He made a note to ask Alyssa if they’d received any in his next letter.
