Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 29
Two different languages. He couldn’t understand either, but they sounded oddly musical. Gotta be Sejer and Jiao.
Above the armies, their fires and their songs, floated huge balloons attached by long metallic cables to the ground. Each balloon carried a Sawyer gun. Andrew watched them like a mouse eying a passing snake. They might not be able to maneuver like a dirigible, but if the Merrill dirigibles had to leave Long Branch in a hurry, they’d be a right pain in the ass.
“Hold your fire!” Zeke hissed. “I want a piece of these sons of bitches too, but we have to get as close to the citadel as possible undetected. Let the others draw Grendel’s fleet off the citadel!”
Andrew looked down the line of men gathered by the heavy guns. “You heard the L-T,” he said. “Do not give the game away!”
“Yes, sergeant!” Owen said. Although he wasn’t speaking at full volume, it was still too loud.
The singing and general noise below continued. Thank God. If the Obsidian Guard figured out what was going on or word reached Long Branch dirigibles in Flesh-Eater colors were blasting Obsidian Guard camps, the mission would go right into the shitter. It hadn’t been that long since the battle over the excavation site. The enemy should be worried about attackers in false colors.
The camps continued rolling by, and Andrew’s heart continued to sink. So many troopers, all carrying Old World repeaters and with enough ammunition they never had to worry. He caught glimpses of artillery grouped below. Enormous guns, smoother than anything the Merrills had. Smoother and bigger. Guns like that, they could fire so far the Merrills wouldn’t see what was killing them.
“Sutter,” Zeke interrupted. “You’re woolgathering again.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Zeke studied the enemy masses below. “This is why we’re doing this. Once Grendel orders that army to march, we are all absolutely fucked. But if we kill Grendel, and if there’s squabbling among his men, the Merrill has a chance. We have a chance. That is why we have to win here. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“And the old bastard has the Merrill’s sister. Not only do we need to get her away from that lecherous old bastard, but if we kill him, his bullies might take it out on her. We can’t have that.”
Anger flared in Andrew’s chest, although he’d never even met the woman. He remembered his own sister Sarah and Cassie, in the hands of the enemy for months now. If Grendel was doing anything to Lady Catalina like the man-eaters were probably doing to them, well –
“Sutter, don’t blow your top,” Zeke interrupted. “Fighting angry makes a man stupid. Bad enough against the man-eaters and the freaks. Absolute suicide now.”
Andrew drew a breath, then exhaled. “Yes sir.”
“Sir, we’re leaving the camp,” Tommy said. Below lay the camp’s outer defenses, zig-zagging trenches marked by wooden towers with Sawyers or small cannon.
Just like at the fort where we liberated that dirigible.
“Zig-zagging trenches,” Tommy continued. “I’ve never seen those before.”
“Be glad you haven’t,” Zeke said. “They’re good defense against strafing; you can’t just fly a straight line killing everything in your path. And they can hide some pretty nasty things behind those bends. Keep that in mind in case we have to deal with them in the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zeke’s comment gnawed at the back of Andrew’s mind. Was this how the Obsidian Guard always defended their camps?
Or were they expecting attack by dirigibles?
IT BEGINS
The dirigibles had slowed their engines to the point they barely moved. Andrew looked at Harris. “How long?” he whispered.
If he were among the guardsmen below, he’d be getting right suspicious about “allied” dirigibles arriving suddenly and then slowing dramatically. Perhaps the Obsidian Guard were too preoccupied with their singing and whatever else they did when they weren’t training to pay much mind, but somebody down there had to have their head on straight. Maybe another dirigible had used those flag signals to convince the enemy they were honest.
“Once we’re in place, it’s up to the other dirigibles, the ones in our colors.”
Andrew opened his mouth, then closed it again. What if the others had been delayed? What if they’d been bushwhacked? Did the officers have some kind of plan for that?
Then fireballs bloomed to the east, along the camp’s outer edge. Within seconds, the balloon-poppers and those floating guns began replying. Star-swallowing smoke billowed upward.
Andrew strained his eyes, but still couldn’t see who was attacking. But he could definitely see the effect. No more singing, only screaming and shouts of command. And clouds of smoke rising higher.
Signal flags raced up and down the sides of one of the other dirigibles. The Alonzo Merrill sped up and started to turn. Was part of the plan to make it look like they were responding to a Merrill attack? Hopefully the Flesh-Eaters and their Obsidian Guard masters wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, at least right away.
Will squinted as he watched the carnage. “We turning? The city’s that way. We’re going the wrong way.”
“The colonel knows what he’s doing,” Harris said. “Right now, I need everybody to hold fire.”
Andrew looked at the troopers lined up along the windows. Some manned the Alonzo Merrill’s Sawyer guns or cannon. Others loaded their repeaters. One word and they could rain hell onto the Obsidian Guard below them. These weren’t just hillbilly Flesh-Eaters or grotesques from Blood Alchemy, but Grendel’s top soldiers.
And that one word, if given too soon, would ball up the whole plan.
“Hold your fire,” Andrew repeated.
“Hold your fire,” Owen followed.
Others echoed the order. This dirigible at least wouldn’t give the game away. Instead, as the airship rumbled toward where fire drowned the moonlight, all they could do was watch.
The Obsidian Guard camp seethed with movement. Men in their hundreds streamed in the same direction Andrew’s dirigible flew. Hundreds of men with repeaters. Andrew tensed. A bullet to something this big was like the sting of a bee, but enough beestings killed.
The honest Merrill dirigibles appeared in the distance. There were four, three roughly equivalent to the Alonzo Merrill floating in a triangular formation ahead of the fourth, eating ground fire.
And the fourth was a monster.
Easily twice as big as the others, it bore the huge green Merrill banner with its golden horseshoe on its brown envelope. Cannon and Sawyer fire shouted from its enlarged gondola. Explosions sprouted from the enemy camp like mushrooms after a rainstorm and the air pounded like a coward’s heart. Fire rippled through the camps. Repeaters chattered. Sparks shrouded the hulls of the friendly dirigibles. If Andrew could see them at this distance, that meant a whole heap of repeater fire.
“That’s the Asherton!” Will cried. “The Merrill’s flagship!”
“They pulled out all the stops for this.” Andrew wondered if the Merrill was there himself. Had Sarah been in the hands of that wicked tyrant, he’d want to lie the bastard in boot hill personally. But that’d be a pretty big risk to take.
As the dirigibles drew near the fighting four, Harris stepped forward. “Sutter, this is going to be tricky, but we’ll have to fire on our own side.”
It seemed he wasn’t the only ones giving that order. Arguments erupted throughout the dirigible. The sergeants restored order with shouts, but some troopers looked at Harris like he were addle-headed.
“Aim the guns,” Andrew ordered. “Don’t shoot to hit. Shoot to miss, but not too obviously. We need to look like we’re Flesh-Eaters riding to the rescue of our valiant Obsidian Guard allies.” Nods all around. Good.
Will snickered. “Once the Grendel and the man-eaters are dead, you should run for office. You’d be right good at it.”
Andrew remembered when Pa back had been mayor of Carroll Town, before the horse threw him. Some dumbass was arguing against his plan to rebuild some roads leading north toward Pendleton. Pa had totally dismantled the man’s ideas point by point, all without raising his voice. Andrew had been about ten.
Despite the battle’s din, despite the rising smell of cooking meat as the Merrill dirigibles rained hell on the Obsidian Guard, the memory made Andrew smile.
“Maybe when Grendel is in boot hill,” he said. “Until then, we’ve got work to do.” He glanced to Harris. “When do we shoot?”
Harris watched the battle. “Not now.” He narrowed his eyes and spoke as though he were talking to someone who wasn’t there. “We can’t be too far away it’s obvious we’re taking impossible shots, but we can’t be close enough to risk hitting … NOW!”
“Don’t hit any friendlies,” Andrew shouted. “If your shots falls short, all the better!” He paused. “See if you can ‘accidentally’ hit some of those balloon-guns.”
Although they were a bit slower than Andrew would have liked, the men opened fire. Cheers in Sejer and Jiao broke out below, faint amid the roar of gunfire and flame. Andrew smirked. If only they knew. The honest Merrill dirigibles shielding the Asherton shifted backward. Although little of their fire hit, Andrew winced at every bullet sparking off the metal gondola, every explosion blooming off the envelopes. Hydrogen lifting gas burned, and each ship was loaded with ammunition.
The other Merrill airships’ assault on the camp slowed. Now they were firing back at the Alonzo Merrill and the other false Flesh-Eaters. Bullets struck the gondola, like rain on a tin roof. Sweat broke out underneath Andrew’s hair. If those bullets were a little higher or if the metal were a little weaker …
The dirigible shook again as it answered with another volley, then veered away from the Asherton’s flotilla. “Cease fire!” Harris ordered. “Cease fire!” Andrew laughed. From the ground, it’d look like Flesh-Eaters only briefly engaged the Merrills and then fled. Were he Grendel, he’d be right pissed.
“Look alive!” Owen interrupted. “We’ve got another problem.” He pointed out the far window.
Slowly, majestically, terribly, an enormous dark dirigible moved away from the towering distant citadel toward the raging battle. Just beneath a black envelope bearing the icon of a saber-cat skull hung a silver gondola. The head of a dragon leered from its bow.
That had to be the Nicor, the first lord’s flagship. “You think Grendel’s on board?” Andrew asked, mouth dry.
“Doubt it,” Harris said. “Nobody takes the field like our Merrill. Bastard’s probably gotten yellow in his old age.”
“Or smarter,” Zeke interrupted. “They outnumber us five to one, probably more. They don’t need their chief on the front lines to give them courage.”
Although Andrew’s mind processed the L-T’s words, his attention remained on the Nicor. Did its captain intend to herd them back toward the Merrills like an officer swatting yellowbellies with his saber? Something that big with that many guns would give the false Flesh-Eaters a hiding. Even if all the Merrill dirigibles managed to bring it down, Grendel could escape in the meantime, and take Catalina with him.
How many ways could this go wrong?
The Nicor rose, its envelope blotting out the moon. “Brace yourselves!” Harris ordered. Thunder cracked twice, then twice again. Then twice again. Grendel’s flagship was approaching them head on, guns booming on either side of the dragon-head. Andrew gripped his repeater tighter, even though he knew that’d do jack shit.
“Thank the Good Lord,” Harris said. “They’re not shooting at us.”
The Asherton and its escorts had surged forward, the escorts turning in midair to unleash broadsides. The Asherton turned too, its great bulk delaying it. Fireballs erupted from an escort’s envelope, fiery sheets billowing upward. Slowly, so slowly, it sank toward the enemy camp. Another explosion bloomed on its gondola as balloon-poppers joined the fun.
The two remaining escorts completed their turns and unleashed every gun against the Nicor. Flames burst on the tip of its envelope, but it kept coming, bow guns thundering. The second escort rocked beneath the blows but fired another broadside.
The Alonzo Merrill surged toward the citadel, the other dirigibles in false colors joining in.
“Looks like we’re taking our shot!” Zeke shouted.
The city grew rapidly in the windows as they left the embattled camp behind. Two dirigibles bearing the saber-cat on their envelope defended the citadel. Each was about the size of the Alonzo Merrill. But these were Obsidian Guard. They carried Old World weaponry. Not everybody would be landing on the citadel rooftop in one piece if they had to bull through that.
Zeke scowled as he watched the two foes. “Old bastard’s not taking chances.”
“He didn’t get to where he is by being plumb stupid,” Harris agreed. “They’ll realize we’re not on the level soon.”
The dirigible’s engines grew even louder as it took on speed. Andrew nearly stumbled. Some troopers spilled onto the deck, weapons clattering on the metal floor. Fortunately none went off. Real bad start if a repeater magazine went ricocheting through here.
Enemy gunfire rocked the Alonzo Merrill. Andrew stood on tiptoes to look over Owen’s shoulder and see what was going on.
The citadel rose from the center of Long Branch like a brick layer cake. Though it narrowed as it rose, each layer had a rampart full of enemy troopers pulling open evenly-spaced metal doors. Out rolled balloon-poppers. Some were already firing, their recoil pushing them partway back into their shelters. Flesh-Eaters spilled onto the walls, adding their rifles and repeaters to the din.
“Jig’s up!” Harris shouted. “Back to the guns! Cannon for dirigibles only! Use Sawyers and your repeaters against men.”
The gondola shook, emphasizing the sergeant’s point. Then it shook again, far sooner than it should have. Were both enemy dirigibles concentrating on them? Or were Obsidian Guard Old World guns just firing that much faster?
Andrew rushed to the nearest Sawyer and checked its ammo load. A long belt glittering with brass hung almost to the floor. He looked down the barrels, lining the weapon up with the Flesh-Eaters gathering on the rampart closest to the rooftop. Volleys of gunfire slammed into the gondola’s side, like buckets of screws slammed against a tin roof. The sheer amount shivered the gondola. A ricochet. Screams. Some must be punching through.
Andrew cranked the Sawyer. Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk. The gun lit up. Men in red and black uniforms fell like wheat before a scythe. The gunfire slamming into the gondola abruptly stopped. Andrew kept cranking the guns. Flesh-Eaters ran rather than die in place. They died anyway, backs stitched with bullets. For a moment Andrew’s hand slowed.
Then he remembered the Flesh-Eater he’d failed to kill, the one who’d brought the hammer down on Carroll Town. The men breaking and running before the fanatics, Sam stabbed to death in an alley, the sound of his mother’s cut throat. The man-eaters doing God knew what to Sarah and Cassie after they took them captive. He cranked the gun even faster.
Ground fire still poured in. A gout of flame spewed from one false-flagged ship’s envelope on Andrew’s right. Burning snakes slithered along the enormous balloon, reaching for the gondola below. Andrew remembered how they’d destroyed the Bailey Mines. Once those fires reached the gondola, it’d cook the ammo right off. At least death by explosion would be quick.
The wounded dirigible kept firing. Hell, it fired even faster. The crew down there must’ve had the same idea. Metal ballast rained down from the stricken airship’s gondola, but the descent barely slowed. Metal doors opened on the citadel’s lower ramparts. New guns fired on the airship as it sank below those higher up. With a final huge explosion, the dirigible slammed into the white stone surrounding the citadel. Its remaining envelope burned away, revealing red-hot metal bones. A single burning man escaped the ruined gondola, only to fall to gunfire from the citadel.
“New orders!” Zeke shouted. “Cannon on the rampart guns only! Shoot only if you can get direct hits!”
“Yes sir!” men shouted enthusiastically, levering the Alonzo Merrill’s cannon downward toward the Flesh-Eater guns. One airship — the one with the Old World guns — went to town on the enemy artillery. Several balloon-poppers were smashed in place, while crews frantically wheeled the remainder back into their shelters. Surviving crew, that is. The explosions sent men hurtling from the ramparts, often in pieces.
“Look at that fucker burn!” Will shouted.
One Obsidian Guard airship limped away from the citadel, envelope burning from tip to tail. Ropes unspooled from the gondola as men in black uniforms scrambled out. As the fires spread across the envelope and the metal skeleton became visible, it started careening down. Men jumped from the gondola. Some burned. The dirigible slammed into the ground, carving a path through the white stone until it came to a stop far too close to ordinary people’s homes for Andrew’s comfort.
“That still leaves the second one!” Harris shouted. “And plenty of targets groundside!”
As the dirigible approached the roof, Andrew spotted Flesh-Eaters piling sandbags around an arching entryway directly across from the mooring tower. Others dragged out another Sawyer gun.
Two Sawyers. The attack on the Flesh-Eater regiment that had time to dig in had been a slaughterhouse even though they’d won. Two Sawyers protecting one entrance was totally unthinkable.
“Sergeant!” Andrew pointed. “Look at that!”
Harris scowled. “Goddamn it.” He looked at Tommy, who manned a nearby cannon. “Sears, I want that entryway gone. Grendel and Catalina are probably deeper in the citadel.”
If they’re even still there, Andrew thought morosely. The circling Merrill dirigibles could keep anybody from crossing the white stone surrounding the fortress, but if the Flesh-Eaters had any brains, they’d have some kind of secret escape tunnel.
