Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 8
On the morning of the fourth day, Falki received orders for A Company to pack several days’ worth of flatbread, dried fish, and ammunition, then report to the landing ground. Lone Rock still held, but they wouldn’t last much longer. The men wrestled the flying titans to the ground, the big rear doors folded open, and the whole regiment boarded with a minimum of fuss.
While most of the company slept on the floor or against the gondola’s gray walls, Falki wrote letters. First to Signe, his mother in all but blood. Last he’d heard she was still in Sejera, visiting her family and no doubt taking care of political business on Father’s behalf.
She’s been gone a good while, Falki noted. Father’s lechery growing tiresome? She’d never concerned herself with Father’s younger women, but Father had seemed uneasy discussing her whereabouts when Falki left with the First Norridge.
Next was a letter for Arne, who’d be part of a regiment now, and Astrid. Her last letter had mentioned something about a visit to the botanical garden…
And of course, now Rosalyn, his…
Falki pursed his lips. He’d had one-night stands, but never a… Lover? Concubine? Father wouldn’t like the latter, not at all. Norah Matthews would be the right age for marriage about now, and Father wanted to ensure the bonds between himself and his old friend Alexander would still hold once his ashes were in the family mausoleum in Norridge and Alexander’s body in the ground. But although Father thought Rosalyn a spy for Stephen Quantrill, whom he’d forced into obedience at gunpoint years prior, he’d also thought it wiser to keep her in the dark and feed her bullshit than arrange for an accident.
Last Falki had heard, she’d settled in well at the First Norridge’s main quarters southeast of Norridge and was a quick study in her unofficial duties. She’d already sent letters about how the wives, girlfriends, assorted camp followers, and children were doing now the regiment was deployed. Checking with others showed her facts straight. Falki wasn’t as quick as Father to suspect treachery, but he wasn’t a fool.
A young Jiao guardsman standing beside a Sawyer gun pointed out the window. “Sergeant!” Falki’s head snapped up. The man’s shout grabbed the attention of those awake enough to register. Guardsmen snapped to their feet, weapons in their hands. Merrill dirigibles? Even though they outnumbered the enemy in the air, the fact the Ymirs were slow, unescorted, and carried too many men would make any battle a particularly dangerous affair, gunship-caliber weapons or not.
“Incoming enemy,” Fritjofsson reported. “Horsemen.”
Falki rose to tiptoes to peer over the top kick’s shoulder. In the west, three separate detachments of mounted Merrills rode across the open country. Each had a galloper gun pulled by a team of eight horses.
Nine-pounders. Although every Merrill detachment carried light mortars, Lone Rock must’ve been too much for those. Not designed for antiaircraft work, but if levered up enough they could strike true.
“Tell the bridge to signal other dirigibles. Inbound enemy,” Fritjofsson ordered. Then, louder. “Guardsmen, to arms! Three companies of horsemen, galloper guns!”
“Yes, sergeant!” The young Jiao dashed off toward the bridge. Guardsmen rushed to man the guns. One brushed past Falki with muttered apologies. Falki ignored him and kept his eyes on the enemy. The Merrill horsemen were too far to engage, but once they got close they were going to suffer.
Two dirigibles broke from the flotilla toward the enemy. Falki watched with some envy. Being on the colonel’s flagship had its downsides. Still, this was a chance to see the new dirigibles actually fight.
But as the two drew farther from the others, an unpleasant thought struck Falki. As much as they needed combat testing, Colonel Gyrdsson might be playing into the rebels’ hands. The rebels would not dare engage ten dirigibles with three galloper guns, but would they engage two? If the dirigibles were empty that was an acceptable risk, but a Merrill upset victory meant two hundred or so Obsidian Guard dead.
Screams rose into his mind, screams and the smell of burning flesh …
Smoke bloomed around the Merrill detachments. Cannon fire cracked the air. Some sharp-eyed rebel must’ve seen death coming and managed to unlimber a gun. One shot was followed by a second, then a third. Smoke spread across the envelope of one dirigible. Falki’s breath came quickly. No fire, not yet. More smoke, closer to the gondola. Rifles cracked in the distance. Although they had artillery, these rebels didn’t seem to have repeaters. Were the Merrills running out of captured Old World weapons? Or were these local opportunists rather than Alonzo’s die-hards? With the cannibals in disarray after Jasper Clark’s demise, it wouldn’t have been difficult for bushwhackers to overpower some scattered Flesh-Eaters…
If so, they’d soon wish they hadn’t.
Pop-pop-pop-pop. The cranking report of a Sawyer gun, soon joined by a second. A Merrill volley in reply. Then only Sawyer fire. The Merrill horsemen spilled back the way they’d come, fewer than before. In their haste, they’d abandoned their artillery.
One dirigible turned back to the floating convoy. The other continued pursuit. Those Merrills were fucked. There weren’t many places in the open country to hide and the horses would eventually tire. They’d slow to the point the dirigible could catch and slaughter them. Or they’d make a stand somewhere without their big guns…and the dirigible would slaughter them.
If the whole exercise consisted of splattering raiding parties from the air and helping a bunch of hillbilly cannibals hold port towns against the dregs, it was shaping up to be a dull campaign.
AN EXCITING AND DREADFUL NIGHT
Alyssa and Andrew sat on the fallen porch swing of an empty white clapboard house at the edge of O’Donnell, a town the Flesh-Eaters hadn’t had time to destroy. Shadows pooled beneath the eaves as the sun sank.
“So,” Alyssa began. “How’s your hearing now?”
“Better.” Andrew paused. “For the first couple days, it seemed like everybody was underwater, even though they were practically on top of me. Now everything’s back to normal in my right ear, at least close as I can tell. Left ear, things still sound muffled.” Part of his left ear had been shot off at Carroll Town, so it was almost appropriate it’d lose function as well as looks.
“And you didn’t see the sawbones?”
Andrew shook his head. “There were a whole heap of folk worse off. And it’s been getting better.”
Thankfully Alyssa and the cavalry had been able to catch up with the survivors as they retreated from Tom’s Ford. The Flesh-Eaters had been too battered to pursue — the blood on Alyssa’s saber and clothing gave him a right good idea of her contribution — but the retreat had still been a nightmare. Eight soldiers dead, five left to the enemy to no doubt eat. The remaining three had to be carried on horses along with twelve more seriously wounded. When they’d made it to O’Donnell where the Second Pendleton reassembled from the Armand raiding parties, it was clear four would be invalided. Andrew remembered the screaming as the sawbones had amputated one man’s shattered arm …
Hardy had been called on the carpet for sticking around too long once they’d lit up the port. He’d seemed right chastened after meeting the colonel. At least he hadn’t taken it out on Will. With a quarter of the platoon gone, they’d need replacements before they could do anything worth a damn.
Alyssa shrugged. “Fair.” She slid beside Andrew. Her warmth was so close. He looked around. There were troopers playing cards three houses down, but nobody paid him and Alyssa any mind. On the march there hadn’t been time or privacy, but right here, right now …
He curled an arm around her, pulling her against him. She laughed. “I just wanted to look at your ear, but this seems fine to me.” She kissed him on the cheek, then fully on the lips. It wasn’t long before their tongues were dancing. Andrew tried to keep an eye out in case some little pervert — the first person who came to mind was Tommy — tried to watch or poke fun later, but soon he didn’t even bother.
Alyssa pushed against him and he leaned back, letting her settle atop him. Slowly he slid his hands under her white shirt when it escaped her denim pants. One hand traced her spine, while the other drew circles on her flat belly. Alyssa wiggled. Was she ticklish? That could come in handy later.
Then the bugles blew. Even with his bum ear, Andrew could recognize the summons to form up.
Alyssa was already off him, tucking her shirttails back in. “Now isn’t that just peachy.” Her disappointment was obvious.
Andrew stood, hoping his pants didn’t betray him. The bugle again, more urgently. They snatched up their repeaters and rushed for their separate assembly points.
Hardy’s platoon gathered outside a big wooden building that served as the saloon and the undertaker. The grizzled, mustachioed saloon owner was nowhere to be seen. Probably a good idea.
“What’s going on?” Andrew asked.
“Patrol spotted Flesh-Eater scouts west of here,” Will replied. The fear from Tom’s Ford was gone. Seemed the old Will was back, for better or worse. “Based on their number, they reckoned there’s a full-on regiment behind them. They’re heading this way.” He jammed a magazine into his weapon and released the bolt. “We’re going to have a busy night.”
Owen had arrived just in time for that. “Fuck me. How many we got here?”
That question sent a chill through Andrew’s spine. The Second Pendleton wasn’t the skeleton it was when he’d first taken the Merrill’s dollar, but their raiding parties had been hurt bad. He mentally ran through the number of tents, the number of horses, they had…
“Belay that,” Zeke interrupted. “It takes three men attacking to overcome one man defending, and we’ve all got repeaters.” He looked at the troopers. “Any other circumstances we’d shoot and scoot, but the Merrill is heading for Jacinto. We need to keep the Flesh-Eaters from gathering regiments into armies and hitting him from the west.”
Andrew nodded. Despite the losses the man-eaters had taken, they probably still outnumbered the Merrills. And Grendel would be on his way, if he wasn’t already here. And far too many Merrill troopers were green.
“So we’re going to hold the town?” Tommy asked. Nervousness laced his voice. By Andrew’s reckoning he’d seen the elephant twice now. He hadn’t broken yet, but facing a full regiment would be the fiercest beast yet.
“Aye,” Zeke replied. “We’re going to let them think we don’t know they’re coming, then bushwhack them. Mortars, even galloper guns.”
Tommy quickly nodded. “Understood, sergeant.”
Once the whole platoon — such as it was — had gathered, Hardy and the sergeants hustled them down the narrow street to the town’s western edge. Other soldiers had cut trenches perpendicular to the main road and piled up debris up front. No barbed wire; what little there was in the town was blocking roads to the south.
Hardy directed men into not the first row of trenches, but the second. “We hold the bastards here.” Andrew dropped into a rifle pit behind several padded leather chairs requisitioned from the town’s barbershop and packed together with dry dirt.
Their barricades extended across the flat land in both directions for one hundred yards or so, eventually petering out. Andrew looked left, then right. Vital road crossings or not, the town didn’t have much natural defense. It might take the Flesh-Eaters time, but they’d get through, or around.
Maybe if there were enough mortar shells …
“Keep your heads goddamn down when you’re not firing,” Zeke ordered. “If they’ve got any brains, they’ll bring in artillery to smash the shit out of us before they send in their rankers.” Zeke indicated some wooden doors laid atop the trench. “Once we see them off, we’ll put some real protection over our heads.”
Andrew reckoned they needed more than that — a couple wooden doors didn’t provide much defense against mortars, let alone those “howitzers.” We’d at least need to pile some dirt up top.
Something grabbed Zeke’s attention. “Get the fuck down!”
The Merrill soldiers dropped into the trench. Andrew peeked over the lip. He briefly glimpsed a figure in red and black. He sank back, clutching his repeater tightly. A regiment. Unless they’d gotten hammered too, a man-eater regiment was stronger than the Second Pendleton. And more and more carried repeaters now …
A dog barked. Andrew tensed. Even if the Flesh-Eaters couldn’t see them, dogs would let them know something was afoot. So much for that plan.
Words drifted over, spoken in a drawling Flesh-Eater accent. “They’ve set up breastworks, so they have to be here. Boxer’s all riled.” A pause. “You think they’re trying to run a blazer on us?”
“Fuck,” said another. “We’ve got to get to Jacinto yesterday. Howling God above, damn cowboys always pulling shit.”
Andrew wished he could risk another look, see how close the bastards were. With his left ear still not hale, judging the distance would be a right bitch.
No. If the troopers kept quiet, the enemy might convince themselves the dog was just jumpy. He looked down the trench in both directions. Everybody else stayed stock-still. Good.
Zeke’s lips moved. Wait.
Time passed. The sun sank and the shadows grew, filling the trench floor. If the Flesh-Eaters had the sense the Good Lord gave a turnip, they’d salt the breastworks with mortars and then bum-rush the Merrills right after. Maybe they didn’t have enough shells?
Right as he thought it, whistling filled the air. Be careful what you wish for.
“Stay the fuck down!” Zeke almost-whispered almost-snarled. “Don’t give the game away!”
Thunder cracked all around. Andrew’s left ear hurt. Someone screamed. Several someones. So much for hiding.
A gleeful shout. “KILL FOR THE HOWLING GOD!”
Andrew’s hands trembled on his weapon. They were sending in the fanatics. He peeked over the breastworks. Ranks of enemy soldiers in red and black rushed from the twilight, bent over and carrying pistols and sabers. A few fell even before the first bullets, feet caught by hidden holes or caltrops, but there were far too many and they kept coming. He gritted his teeth. If the fanatics got among them, they were all dead.
He began to rise, flicking the switch on the side of the repeater to “AUTO.”
“Sutter, down!” Zeke snarled.
Andrew dropped back down right as another wave of whistling filled the air, this time coming from within O’Donnell. A chain of explosions rippled the earth. Now it was the Flesh-Eaters’ turn to scream.
“Sutter, now you give them hell!”
Repeaters chattered from the Merrill trench. More whistling, and another set of explosions further out. Hopefully it was the enemy mortarmen getting it this time.
Andrew pulled himself up behind a barber’s chair and swept the repeater across the killing ground. Its usual crackling rose to a staccato thunder as he held the trigger down, mowing through the disoriented Flesh-Eaters.
Although the enemy front ranks were powerful thin now, more came behind. Enemy repeaters chattered back at the Merrills, soon followed by the snap of rifles. More screams, far too close. Andrew ducked back into the trench. Bullets slammed into the breastworks. One buried itself in upholstery, inches from his head. Wood from other conscripted furniture splintered.
“Goddamn patrol didn’t say anything about repeaters,” Will snarled beside Andrew. “How’d they miss that?”
The chattering grew louder. Andrew spared a glance over the barricade. This bunch had more repeaters than the crew at Pleasanton and Tom’s Ford. More and more fire came from conventional rifles. They must be closing all along the line.
He looked down his sights directly at a Flesh-Eater carrying a repeater. He wouldn’t let them just sit there and shred his friends. He flicked the repeater off “AUTO” and squeezed the trigger twice. The cannibal went down with a scream Andrew could barely hear.
“Incoming!” someone shouted.
Andrew ducked, jamming his face into the dry tan earth as the dread whistling filled the air again. Thunder cracked directly ahead. His ears didn’t hurt like last time, thank the Good Lord. Another explosion to his left. Its false wind blew down the trench, rocks and shrapnel stinging exposed skin.
The Flesh-Eaters rallied with a ferocious roar. Far too many boots slammed into the earth. The ground actually shook.
Andrew looked around. One man slumped dead at his post, metallic shrapnel emerging from his body like quills on a porcupine, but everybody else seemed alive and fighting. Will fired into the oncoming enemy, finger pumping the trigger like a farmer trying to tear water from an aquifer during a drought.
“More fucking fanatics!” someone shouted. Muzzle flashes reflected off white teeth filed to points. Moonlight dappled pistols and sabers. However many the Merrills’ opening gambit had killed, there were still more. The regular troops hung back, firing between gaps on the fanatics’ line. Someone screamed not far from Andrew and he ducked. When he risked another glance, the fanatics were even closer. Even with his bum left ear he could hear their heavy breathing and growling.
Andrew flicked the repeater back to “AUTO.” He’d be empty in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, but they didn’t have a Sawyer gun. He gripped the weapon as tightly as he could, squared his shoulders, and pulled the trigger.
The charging fanatics went down like corn beneath a reaper, their banshee howls rising into death screams. A Flesh-Eater sergeant or officer — Andrew couldn’t tell in the dark but he was yelling orders — pointed at Andrew. Andrew killed him too. He shifted right, bullets carving into more fanatics. One, two ...
Then the gun clicked empty. Mad eyes locked on him like he was a lost lamb and they rippers. Andrew’s hand dove into his jacket and he tore a magazine free. He jammed it into the weapon and pulled back the lever right as a fanatic got close enough to fire a pistol in his direction. Andrew ducked as the bullets stitched across the barricade, one passing through where part of his left ear used to be and burning the skin underneath.
