Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 33
A blow to the face sent him staggering away from Catalina. The shadows enveloped the Merrill’s sister and bore her away before he could blink. A couple troopers gave chase, only to be cut down by repeater fire. Then they were gone.
“They’re taking her!” Will shouted. “After them!”
“We’ve got company!” Owen warned.
More fanatics howled. Pistol shots snapped in their direction. A bullet caught Dodd in the chest. Other Merrills fell. Andrew fired twice before another man-eater swung his saber right at him. He caught the blow on his repeater’s stock. A kick sought his crotch. Andrew caught it on his thigh, but the impact spun him into the wall. Strong hands tore him away and hurled him onto his back.
“Fresh meat!” a wild-eyed man with graying red hair down to his shoulders screeched. Each word revealed filed teeth. “Fresh meat for — ”
Bullets caught him in the chest. He dropped to his knees. Another oncoming Flesh-Eater tripped over him, nearly falling onto Andrew.
Andrew scrambled back, firing as he went. The weapon clicked empty. He tore the empty magazine out and grabbed another from his coat. A fanatic lunged to take advantage, only to end up on Andrew’s bayonet. A bullet finished the job.
Then it was quiet. “They went that way!” Will cried. “We can still catch up!”
“Don’t shoot unless you have to!” Andrew ordered. “They have Lady Catalina!”
They had barely gotten ten paces when boots thundered in the shadows ahead. The Obsidian Guard wouldn’t run like that. Those had to be more fanatics. Andrew felt the need to piss. Just how many where there?
“Grenades!” he shouted. “Grenades!”
Owen was out, but Will threw his, with Andrew following suit.
Two left.
The grenades rolled under the boots of the first fanatics turning the corner, but more kept coming.
“Fire goddamn it!” Andrew roared as the grenades went off. The Merrills loosed their repeaters, cutting down the fanatics who’d gotten ahead of the blast. More pushed through the gore-painted hall the grenades left behind, only to eat bullets. But one by one the repeaters began clicking empty.
“Reload!” Andrew shouted as he cut down another. He threw himself to the ground as the enemy began firing pistols. Someone shouted in pain behind him. Andrew blew another fanatic’s head off with his last round. He tore the empty magazine free and slapped in another.
By the time he was ready to fire, every Flesh-Eater was dead. Silence reigned as he pulled himself up. Corpses littered the hallway. Dodd was one, light blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Andrew counted the standing men. Ten. They’d started out with twenty. And many were wounded. Andrew drew a breath. “We need to get back up top.”
“What?” Will asked. “We were supposed to — ”
“We’ve been attacked from two directions and we’re at least one story down from friendlies, possibly two. We’ve got to get back up before we’re trapped down here.”
“But they’ll — ”
“Hopefully assume she was kidnapped rather than went willingly. You killed the only one who saw, remember?”
Will nodded.
“Good. We retreat back to the landing and report.” If anybody’s still alive to report to. “We know where they’re taking her and we know where Grendel is going. Delivering that information is better than dying pointlessly, right?”
“Aye.”
“Then let’s go. The sooner we find a big bug, the sooner we can unfuck this.”
GRENADES CLATTERED ON the floor ahead of the Obsidian Guard formation protecting Grendel. The guardsmen pulled back into a defensive formation, kneeling and firing. One brave guardsman broke ranks to kick the grenades back at what had to be Merrills. One skittered back the way it had come, but the other exploded. The first guardsman took most of the blast, but enough scythed into Grendel’s ranks that a direct path to him lay open.
Grendel snapped his own repeater up and fired into the gap as the first clouds of smoke poured into the hallway. A shout of pain rewarded him. Some guardsmen hurled grenades into the smoke, while others kept firing. Although his men filled the gap in front of him, Grendel looked over their shoulders at the shrouded floor. That was where the attack would come from, if anybody had survived the onslaught. He fired low and earned another cry of pain. Hopefully that was not a wounded guardsman from the first grenade.
“Pull our wounded back!” Grendel ordered. “We will cover you!” His men had his back, and he had theirs. He fired again into the smoke as several guardsman rushed forward to retrieve their fellows.
A brawl broke out as the guardsman collided with Merrills who had gotten much closer than he had anticipated. Grendel swore. So much for that. A figure in a brown uniform emerged from the smoke, repeater high. He fired before Grendel could react. A bullet to the gut folded a guardsman to Grendel’s left in half. Grendel avenged the man by blowing out the Merrill’s brain.
Bayonets flashed in the gaslight. Shouts of pain in Jiao and Sejer. Punches and kicks. A big man with the obvious bearing of a sergeant threw aside a guardsman and faced Grendel directly. His eyes widened as he focused on Grendel. Grendel’s stomach clenched. Although he was not wearing his armor, his civilian garb distinguished him from uniformed guardsman.
“He’s here!” the big man shouted. He raised his repeater, but Grendel battered the gun aside before he could pull the trigger. He head-butted the sergeant, knocking him backward, then pursued. Unable to raise his weapon, the big man swung a meaty fist, a manacle of all things glinting on his wrist. Grendel blocked the blow with an upraised arm, gritting his teeth against the pain. The big man kicked at Grendel’s crotch. The first lord pivoted to catch the blow on his outer thigh and head-butted him again. The man stumbled, and Grendel took the opportunity to raise his repeater for a killing shot.
Guardsmen surged around Grendel from behind, spoiling his aim. One lunged for the sergeant, but a butt-stroke to the throat sent him wheezing to his knees. Two more tried to flank him, only for gunfire from down the hall to strike one down. The sergeant scrambled back into the fading smoke, his final shot smashing the last guardsman’s shin. All was still.
“Do not let them escape!” Grendel snarled. His breathing came quicker. The bastards had come entirely too close. Guardsmen slipped forward, tossing grenades. Thunder cracked a heartbeat later, but there was no screaming. Too little, too late. The guardsmen pursued, but there was no gunfire. Slippery little raven-starvers.
Grendel did not speak. Before that skirmish in Carroll Town, just before everything went to shit, he had not heard a shot fired in anger in years. The last time he had led men in person was at Fairmont, not long before he had the pleasure of conceiving Havarth. His heart pounded. This was almost … exhilarating.
He frowned. Clark had put himself at undue risk trying to take the Merrill’s head personally. And because of his foolishness, it was his head taken instead. He had not become ruler of all between the mountains and the deserts and the sea by acting like he was still a line officer.
“We continue to the command post. Keep your eyes peeled for stragglers or wounded. Take prisoners if you can.”
Grendel’s mind churned darkly as the group resumed its advance through the corpse-strewn hallway. The Merrills almost certainly had inside help, but Loki was in the details. The citadel servants? Or perhaps traitors among the Flesh-Eaters? Grendel had spies inside Clark’s government for years. The Merrills would have done the same.
First things first. There were still raiding parties in the citadel and in the city outside. The command center was buried in the fortress’s foundations. Even if the Merrills regrouped and seized the upper fortress, it could be held against their numbers. And using the telegraph, he could discern just what they were up against.
It was not long before one guardsman who had gone forward appeared in his path. “Sir,” a young Sejer bleeding from a wound on his cheek said. “Sir, you’re bleeding.”
ESCAPING FAILURE
It hadn’t taken long to get to the stairwell. But when Andrew opened the door, he found a motley mix of guardsmen and Flesh-Eaters coming down. They’d gotten shots off before he slammed it shut.
“Company coming! Fall back, repeaters up and best shots up front! Get them when they open the door!”
It didn’t look like there were that many. Dribs and drabs of broken units? But they were still between them and the dirigibles.
The men formed up. Nothing happened. Each side seemed to be waiting for the other to move first.
Andrew looked back. Any minute they could be attacked by some new foe. “On my order,” Andrew hissed. “Fire through the door. Five, four — ”
The door burst open and Flesh-Eaters spilled out. Andrew’s men sent them sprawling. One guardsman among them opened fire. Will sank to his knees, clutching his side. The guardsman went down a moment later. Silence fell again. Andrew looked over his shoulder again. The noise hadn’t brought enemies. “Will, you all right?”
Will dragged himself up. “Winged me. Not bleeding much.”
His jacket showed only a little darkening, but they’d need to watch that. In the meantime, there were dead foes to loot. At least they looked dead. But they’d thought the same thing before, and that had killed Sergeant Harris.
“Kick each one in the balls,” Andrew ordered. “That’ll show right quick who’s dead. Bayonets, and take any ammo you can.”
“Aye,” Owen said. He stepped over to the dead enemies.
Before the ball-kicking could commence, the door swung open again. A wiry Sejer with blood trickling from his hair leaned out, a revolver in hand.
“Look out!” Will shouted.
Repeaters chattered, but the little bastard got some shots off before slamming the door shut.
Shots right into Owen’s upper leg and ass.
“Owen!” Will scrambled toward his fallen friend.
The door popped open again, but this time Andrew was ready. Two shots and the Sejer fell dead, repeater dropping from open hands.
“Cover me!” Andrew told the troopers who’d stayed with him. He rushed over to Owen, who lay bloody on the stone floor.
“Any broken bones?” he demanded. “Bleeding so bad we have to tie it off?” That’s what they had to do to David back at the Flesh-Eater fort, and it had led to amputation.
“I’m looking!” Will cut the length of Owen’s pant leg with his knife. If Owen was hurt so bad they’d need to take his leg, the odds weren’t good. Even if they could get to the dirigible and skedaddle, it’d be days before they could find a real sawbones. Plenty of time for putrefaction.
Will examined Owen’s leg. “No exit wounds. But fuck the leg’s broken.” He paused. “Bone didn’t break the skin, though. We can set this.”
“You’d make a lovely goddamn sawbones,” Owen grumbled through clenched teeth.
Andrew looked back down the hall. Enemies should be heading for the gunfire like bugs to a lamp.
“Staunch those wounds and see if there’s anything we could make a splint with.” He cleared his throat to address the others. “Sergeant Harris said if we were shot down and landed outside the citadel, try to get into the city. There are other troopers there cutting off enemy reinforcement. We can join them, maybe catch a ride.” He pulled the map from his jacket. “If we’re cut off from the roof, we’ll have to head for the ramparts.”
“MY LORD, THEY grazed your shoulder,” an angular Flesh-Eater doctor said as Grendel lay on the table in the command center.
They had had to cut his shirt away; the clotting blood was already fusing it to his skin. Scraps lay piled on a nearby table. No cannibal better have the bright idea to mix them in their tea or put them on a sandwich …
The doctor kept talking, raising his voice over the clicking telegraphs and the clanking calculating engines. “You’re damn lucky. A little lower and we might’ve had to amputate the arm.”
Grendel suppressed a shudder. He did not relish being a cripple. Such an obvious impairment might invite challenges and would give the damned Merrills something to crow about. And some damn Flesh-Eater would probably try to eat his arm.
“What next?” he asked.
“A vigorous application of whiskey and the wound shouldn’t mortify. Probably a nasty scar, though.”
A lifetime of living by the gun had left him plenty of those; he was less than concerned.
“We’ll need to lay it on right now, and it’s going to hurt. Want a drink? Or some ether?”
Grendel shook his head. He needed to be clear-minded, especially now.
“Understood, my lord.”
One of the doctor’s lackeys, a short man with a shaved head, brought him a clear glass bottle. He soaked a white pad and laid it over the wound. The width of Grendel’s shoulder lit up like someone had applied kerosene and lit a match. Grendel gritted his teeth. He refused to even open his mouth. He would not show weakness, not before a doctor serving those he intended to betray.
And, with this latest fuck-up, that might be coming soon. The Flesh-Eaters had let dirigibles he had helped pay for fall into Merrill hands. Then the Merrills had tried the same trick they had pulled on Jasper.
The burning whiskey in his wound reminded him they had nearly succeeded. And where was Catalina? If they had snatched her from his grasp ...
The wound kept burning. Grendel’s breathing accelerated, but he remembered the technique Cao had taught him before Falki was born. Qigong breathing. Deeply inhale, slowly exhale. He didn’t utter a word. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain ebbed. He spared the doctor a glance. The man seemed impressed. Good.
“Bring me the ranking guardsman.”
A second later, a full colonel Grendel did not know appeared. “Yes, sir?”
“As you can no doubt see, Alonzo Merrill’s attempt to kill me has failed. I want everybody between the mountains and the deserts and the sea to know that.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and passed the orders on his various dogsbodies.
A ripple of fear passed through Grendel. Although he had sent out orders when the attack began no rash action be taken unless his death were certain, in the chaos he had not gotten confirmation those orders had left the citadel. If Falki believed him dead, he might attempt to eliminate rivals among his siblings. He had warned Falki if anything happened to his half-brothers, he would be next. He had lost Delun sixteen years ago and had no desire to outlive any more children. “Colonel.”
“Sir?”
“Make sure the Pass — and my son Falki — are the first to know. Then Norridge.”
If Falki were itching to kill Logmar and any other brothers, this would stay his hand. And making sure the citadel knew would serve the dual purpose of making sure any rash commands from Falki were not obeyed and nobody else took advantage. Such as Lenora, who had ambitions for Logmar.
“Then Jacinto and Bisbee.” He did not want the Flesh-Eaters collapsing based on false reports. “Finally, inform Quantrill.” If anybody was going to take advantage of his death, it would be that reptile whose territory was entirely too close to Norridge. He wanted it made abundantly clear the option was not available.
“Yes sir.” He left Grendel alone on the table.
Grendel’s thoughts returned to his oldest son. Falki had proven his mettle in battle, against organized formations rather than just bandits. It was time to move him up. Strategy, not tactics. Once Grendel launched the expedition south of the desert, Falki would rule from Norridge for months if not years. If more uprisings broke out or if the Everetti tried anything, he would need to actually command. It would be Arne’s turn, then Logmar’s, to experience war on the front lines.
Falki would also have Isaac, who knew how to rule flatlanders, but the older man didn’t have a formal title. And if he died, Grendel had no candidates to replace him. Alexander competently governed his own realm, but his oldest son was not old enough to put on his father’s cloak in Hermiston should Grendel need his services. Quantrill was obviously not an option, and neither was Mangle. Finding someone from the Firebird Host would help integrate that restive region into his government more effectively, but he did not wish to remove loyal men from it. Though most regions under his rule had their own administration — and the Basin used Sejera’s — there was nothing for his entire realm.
Once the Merrill pests are dealt with, I will still be wearing two hats. Command the expedition south of the Iron Desert and make some needed changes here. If he took the ticket, he wanted a smoothly functioning machine for Falki to inherit. The system he had in place now simply was not good enough without him.
At least he had burnished his reputation. The guardsmen would talk among themselves about how they had fought alongside the great Grendel and sent the Merrills fleeing. The talk would spread until people believed him even more impressive than he already was.
Best make sure to publish that version in the newspapers.
ANDREW’S MEN SOON found a shell-hole opening onto the rampart. Andrew led, with Will helping Owen right behind him. His gorge rose when they stepped into the open air. The place stank of gunpowder, blood, and cooked meat. Mangled Flesh-Eaters lay among twisted steel that used to be guns. Splashes of browned blood painted the brick and stone around them. The flies were already eating their supper.
But overhead, the rear of the Alonzo Merrill jutted over the rooftop’s edge. Andrew nearly whooped with joy. “Merrills! We’ve got important information!”
A man in Merrill brown appeared. “What the fuck are you doing down there?” The worry was clear in his voice.
“We got caught between two sets of bastards and had to skin out. We’ve got intel the colonel needs. We know where they’re taking Grendel and Lady Catalina. Throw some ropes down.”
“Aye, sergeant.” Ropes fell from the rooftop. Andrew sighed with relief. Up there they’d have a better chance than …
A line of explosions marched down the dirigible’s spine as an Obsidian Guard airship dove at the grounded dirigible like a striking eagle. Only its bow gun fired, but Good Lord did it fire. With every heartbeat the Old World gun spoke, and it never missed. The dirigible’s ruined stern drooped over the scarred wall. The Alonzo Merrill wasn’t going anywhere ever again.
