Brimstone and Lily (Legacy Stone Adventures) (44 page)

The pelicans responded by clacking their beaks in unison and stamping their broad webbed feet. Ernie’s bird, a husky brown fellow with a white face, lowered his head toward me. His mouse rider ran along the neck and leaped onto the top of the trench. I swooped my friend up and rubbed noses with him.

“Hey! This in undignified in front of the men,” he complained with a half-smile.

“Too bad, boyo,” I said. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“Pfft! Lost? We just exercised discretion in pursuit of valor, that’s all.”

That was just what the Yankees had done, though not for long. Already they showed signs of reforming on the beach, bound and determined to avenge their disgrace. The gunboat’s shells no longer roared at us. I had to make myself talk softer with that din gone.

“What happened?”

“Jumped by ravens in the bloody dark, that’s what happened.” Ernie must’ve thought he looked fierce with his black pirate head scarf fluttering in the breeze. I expected him to start saying ‘Aargh’ any minute. “Three of ‘em kept Roberta and me busy while the rest went for yer. By the time we’d dealt with the tossers the Bullies popped up and near knocked us outta the blessed sky. Then yer flapped away with your handsome young grayback and we couldn’t keep up.”

I rolled my eyes and gave him a thin smile. “Turns out he ain’t so young, after all.”

“Yeah? Well, him and me both, dearie. Anyways, we fell farther and farther behind, so rather than hunt for yer we decided to go back to the
Kiss
. And a bloody good thing, too, I’d say.”

The rats scampered up and took their places on line between the pelicans, peeking out from between their toes. Up close they were a scruffy lot, looking tough with scars and matted fur. One that I took to be their leader, all black except for a white patch on his face that made him look like a raccoon, strutted out a couple of steps, came to attention, and saluted me by thumping his chest and sticking his arm out straight.

“Juwius Mawcus Gwaccus,” he announced, nose high in the air. “Weader of the Woyal Mawines of the Eweventh Woman Wegion, wepwesenting the
Penewope’s Kiss
.”

All the other rats saluted the same way, shouting, “Semper fidewis!” While I stared with my mouth hanging open, Ernie ran up my arm to stand next to my ear.

“Speech impediment,” he confided. “All rats talk that way. A holdover from the time of Emperor Claudius, I’m told. Sensitive subject. Try not to notice.”

Returning the salute, I sat up straight and replied in a low voice, “You have done great service this day, men. Your deeds will be inscribed in the annals of the bwavest wats.” I caught myself and winced. Ernie looked down and shook his head. “Uh, I mean the bravest rats.”
“Hoo-wah!” the little critters shouted, snapping to parade rest.

The head pelican, the bird that had carried Ernie into battle, now stepped out. He cleared his throat and gave the mouse an expectant look out of the corner of one eye. Ernie hopped back down onto the top of the trench. “And this,” he said in a grand manner, “is Bob.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just Bob? Not Major Robert W. Fitzroy, Esquire, or somethin’ snappy like that?”

“Naw,” the bird drawled in a deep backwoods southern accent, “jist Bob. But I do like the sound o’ that there Major Whatsis---”

“Fine, fine, fine,” said Ernie in a rush. “We’ll discuss that later. Right now we have to move, before Billy Yank over there gets his courage back. Where are we needed, Miss Verity?”

That reminded me with a jolt that we were flapping our gums while Tyrell held off some sort of flank attack. “Back this way,” I said, jerking my head north. “Leave part of the Flyin’ Squadron here as lookout. They can flap over and warn us if those Bluebellies start back this way. Give ‘em some Marines, too. The rest come with us to deal with whatever the trouble is yonder.”

That’s how ten pelicans ended up waddling behind me, Ernie perched on my shoulder, as we picked our way through the woods, with the Roman rats fanning out to left and right. The sergeant-major came with us, too, leaving the other trooper in the trench to watch the sea. As we walked I pointed out snares and other nasty surprises to everybody so that only our enemies might get caught in them. At the east edge of the clearing we stopped to survey the terrain. Nothing moved in the open space. I listened with my Stone-aided hearing. Sha’ira still chanted in a low deep voice.
Hope she’s about done with her dream messages.
Off to our right the Reb soldiers whispered in their rifle pits. Beyond them came the sounds of mass movement of feet, some of them awful big feet.
Now what?

Tyrell appeared amongst the pines and waved for us to hurry over. He kept a finger to his lips, so we moved as quiet as we could. When he saw the rats and pelicans he frowned and cocked his head, but didn’t ask any fool questions. With a quick finger he told us to get into his flank trench and spread out. When that had been done he got next to me and pointed into the forest.

I didn’t need magicked eyes to see our new foes. Their steel plate armor, even though painted green as camouflage, still caught the light in a way no tree ever could. Some had swords in hand, others gripped crossbows. Several carried ancient-style muskets, slow-matches glowing in their locks. Most wore curved-brim morion helmets, which made for easier breathing in the Virginia humidity. Now I could hear the creak and clank of metal against metal. The knights tried to be stealthy, but there was a limit to how hushed they could move.

Behind them and to the right, another formation of attackers was even easier to spot. White trousers and white waistcoats made them look like summer snowmen. Their blue cutaway coats carried red trim. White crossbelts made large X’s on each chest. Impressive in the open field, but awful inconvenient for sneaking through woods, their tall black fur hats kept getting caught in low-hanging limbs. Each man carried a long flintlock musket and sported a magnificent moustache.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that uniform,” Tyrell breathed. “I’m not sure I like seeing it coming at me instead of marching alongside.”

“Who are they?” I asked, squinting for a better look in the dying light. They seemed familiar.

“The best soldiers in the world,” he said, checking his pistol load. “Bonaparte’s Old Guard.”

I gulped. So the Merchantry had decided to get serious. Their stoutest troops advanced on us, soldiers Napoleon had always depended on to carry the day for him. That made me wonder who the knights were, to be found in such illustrious company. I asked Tyrell that very question.

“Infantry from Iberion. The very men who are driving the Moors from their land. The one who are conquering the New World. They have discipline and they are die-hard believers in their God and in their employer. Expect no mercy here today.”

This is bad.
From reading about both groups in school, I knew that one girl with a sword wouldn’t intimidate them much. About a hundred men faced us, none of them ragged desperate cannon fodder like the Hellfiend Legion. I could sense that more followed these and weren’t in sight yet. Plus, the Shades were due, probably as soon as it got dark. My hope of not having to kill anybody looked vain.

I sent Ernie with a small detachment of his fighters to keep a watch around Sha’ira’s thicket. Tyrell told me that Romulus already guarded her, but I didn’t want to take any chances. She looked to be my greatest hope for us all getting out of this mess in one piece. I didn’t want any enemies surprising her while she drifted in her dream trance. No sooner had they gone than a shell screeched over the trees to shake the whole forest as it exploded above the clearing. My sensitive eardrums howled. Musket balls rattled off the trees and dug up mud around us.

“Case shot!” the captain grimaced, picking up his cap and brushing it off. “Yankee artillery’s devilish good, even fired from a ship.”

A pelican flapped past, croaking that the Federal soldiers had recovered their nerve and were charging the seaward trench. The lone Reb there had fallen back to the western rifle pits. We were taking it from north and east now. Outnumbered about twenty-to-one, things looked about as black as they could be. If the Ostium spat out Pluto’s Bane now, that’d be the carving on my tombstone. I glanced back at the bushes where Sha’ira still worked. No sign of any success that way.

Our enemies abandoned all pretense of sneakiness and decided to end us once and for all. A volley from the Old Guard filled the forest with smoke. Crossbow bolts twanged through the twilight. None of us got hit, our heads had been well down behind the breastwork. Knowing from experience how slow a Charleville musket would be to reload, especially in bad light in the woods, Tyrell shouted the order to fire. Well-protected, and with those bright white crossbelts for targets, the eight troopers poured bullets into Napoleon’s men. Over a dozen went down at once. The breechloaders and pistols did terrible execution, being able to fire so quick. It looked obvious that neither the Gaulles nor the Iberions had ever faced such a thing. Both came from a time where guns had little accuracy and poor rates of fire. Their usual plan to fire a volley or two and then go in with a screaming bayonet charge. Watching their men drop like mown wheat, the Merchantry commanders ordered just that maneuver.

Tyrell had spent all day getting ready for such a thing. In the last light of day his preparations worked to perfection. The first line of onrushing attackers disappeared into a pit almost as deep as the one we sheltered in. But our trench didn’t have sharpened wooden stakes in the bottom. Shrieks of pain in various foreign languages jumped out of the hole, which the captain called a Malay Man Trap. When the soldiers just behind the first group of victims saw what had happened and tried to stop, many of them found themselves knocked into the pit by their comrades behind. Enraged screams and curses came our way, which grew louder as Tyrell’s sharpshooters picked off those foolish enough to stand still and shake their fists at us. Seeing that they were stymied, as the trench was too wide to jump across, the Old Guard hauled off their wounded and retreated out of range.

Not so the conquistadors. Without breaking stride they ignored their casualties and spun to their right, intent on getting around the trap and flanking us. With the musket firing reduced for a moment, and taking advantage of a break between shots from the Yankee ship, Tyrell stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Two Norn horses beat their wings and rose above the treetops. Tied to their saddles were the ends of a long piece of fish net we’d found washed up on the beach. Over a dozen Iberions found themselves stuck in it like flies on a web. The luckless fighters struggled with frantic desperation, but that just tangled their armor joints even more. A couple of their friends who’d been a step behind and thus not caught tried to slash them free with their swords. Reb musket men dropped them at once, then turned their attentions to those wriggling in the net. Soon nobody moved on our left. The survivors had pulled back like Bonaparte’s men had done. Just that quick our attackers had been reduced to almost half-strength.

“Where did these guys come from?” I asked, ducking low as another shell crashed behind us.

“Another ostium, maybe,” Tyrell answered with a shrug. “Up Jamestown way. Or possibly the Merchantry landed them by ship a while back. Kept them hidden until needed. With McClellan besieging Richmond, the Proprietor might’ve needed a force to influence events if things went contrary to his liking.”

I frowned, thinking of the stories I’d heard about the strange comings and goings at Washington’s Monument. “They do that? Plan that far ahead, just in case?”

“Course they do. That’s how they’ve stayed in power so long. Easier to manipulate things by plan than to react to the unforeseen.”

Another shell came in, sounding like a stagecoach full of gunpowder lobbed by an angry giant.
That’ll probably be next, the way my luck goes.
The things were getting closer to us. Somehow the ship received range corrections from our attackers. Maybe a raven, though I hadn’t noticed any nearby. Soon we’d be unable to stay in our rifle pits. Those cannonballs would be walked right on top of us. And the Federals from the beach would be on our rear any minute. I felt real glad that the Stone kept me from getting too girlie-hysterical from fear of what was about to happen.

I pointed to our right front. “Here they come again!”

In open formation this time, fighting as skirmishers to reduce their risk, the Old Guard returned. They moved from tree to tree, taking advantage of every bit of cover and minimizing the time each man was exposed to Reb fire.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
Kneeling behind protection, some of the Gaulles shot at us, keeping up a steady rate of balls that kept our heads down. The remainder split into two groups. One bunch, carrying ladders, made for the man trap. They held them in front of themselves and dove across the trench, lying down and making a footbridge. Their fellows ran across their backs and in the blink of an eye our dry moat had been defeated. Dashing to our right, the other bunch tried to flank us as the Iberions had tried to do. Learning from their sad example, this force kept their muskets, bayonets fixed, well in front of them, waving them back and forth in case another net had been readied. They also moved in teams of two, so that their whole contingent wouldn’t be lost if we sprung a new trap.
Clever. Guess that’s why Napoleon relied on ‘em so much.

But the Confederate Army had learned to be clever, too, given their shortage of every military necessity. I guessed the same was true of the Redeemers and the Equity. Though we were facing close to fifty of the world’s toughest troops, advancing on two fronts, Tyrell stayed cool. Now that the Iberions were out of the way for a while, the Rebs decided to surprise the closest wave of the Old Guard, the two dozen to our front. Popping up like groundhogs out of their holes, all the troopers threw mud balls at their foes. Mud balls with sputtering fuses. Thinking they were grenades, the Gaullic infantrymen backpedaled and dove to the swampy ground.