Conflagration (11 page)

As far as Raphael could see, nothing could prevent an overwhelming Albany victory. As soon as the second wave caught up with the first, they would punch a hole in the Mosul lines and the rest would be little more than a mopping-up operation. The riders around him seemed to share the same tangible sense of optimism. The Four were fairly near the rear of the massed cavalry, and surrounded by their guard of light horsemen, short-barreled carbines at the ready. As always, Cordelia rode ahead, straight-backed in the saddle and very aware of her red hair blazing in the afternoon sun. Raphael found that Lady Blakeney never ceased to amaze him. Even on the battlefield, she reveled in the admiring glances of the men around her. Jesamine and Argo rode together a short distance behind. They were actually talking to each, which seemed to Raphael, as always bringing up the rear, to be another good sign.

Dunbar had selected the same point at the base of the eastern ridge that he had picked for his mobile field guns to serve now as his new command position. The batteries had moved even further forward and turned their attention from the western ridge to the Mosul center. Intense fire was now hammering the heart of the enemy force, softening it up for the final Albany assault. The cavalry was marshaled around Dunbar, but directly a hole was opened in the Mosul lines, the charge would sound, and the horse soldiers would surge into the breach and administer the coup de grâce. A tension that was part anxiety and part anticipation gripped both men and horses. The cavalry had only played a peripheral role in the Battle of the Potomac, but here at Newbury Vale they were being given the chance to shine, to do what they had been trained for, and in some cases, what they had been born and bred for. Hands rested on the hilts of sabers and the butts of sidearms, and reins were tightly gripped in gauntlet-covered hands. Men who were keyed up but optimistic, certain the day was going to end in victory, laughed and joked nervously, and glances were constantly being cast in the direction of their commanders, waiting the order to go.

At first, the shouting was hardly audible amid the general roar of the guns, the screaming and yelling, and everything else that made up the cacophony of battle. The cadence was what initially made it noticeable. The same word repeated over and over, in unison and rhythmically intoned. Raphael couldn’t quite make it out, but everyone around him paused to listen. Argo and Jesamine had reined in their mounts, and Cordelia, who had been riding beside Sergeant Teasle, the leader of The Four’s escort, was now standing in her stirrups. The chant grew louder, and, as far as Raphael could tell, it was coming from the Mosul. Suddenly Jesamine turned in alarm. She had recognized the word. A second later he recognized it, too. The word was
“Mamalukes,”
and his stomach turned to ice.

The chant was now quite clear, rising to a pounding cadence.
“Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes!”

JESAMINE

She had heard and seen too much of the Mamalukes not to be afraid. The best of Albany’s cavalry surrounded her, but the knowledge hardly helped. Fear of the Mamalukes had been conditioned into her from birth, and reinforced by long and bitter experience. Their spiked helmets, steel breastplates, flowing cloaks, and hawk-nosed bearded faces had struck fear into her heart from the cradle. Born out of a military slave class in Nile, that had risen in revolt and massacred their masters, the Mamalukes had been a violent, brutal culture for more than three hundred years, dedicated to raising generation after generation of implacable and merciless warriors.

“Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes!”

The front ranks of the Mosul were parting. Faysid Ab Balsol was sending out his cavalry, a final play of fanatic desperation. Ranks of horsemen plunged through the gap. With the red and black flame banners of Hassan IX fluttering and streaming above them, they bore down on the front ranks of Albany. Bergmans barked and horseman after horseman went down in a wreck of thrown men and rolling, thrashing beasts, but they still managed to maintain a tight spearhead, with enough momentum to punch a temporary hole in the Albany lines, while roaring encouragement was bellowed from the Mosul trenches.

“Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes! Ma-ma-lukes!”

Although the Mosul mob was chanting for the Mamalukes, the cavalry racing across the battlefield was far from wholly Mamaluke. Almost as many Teuton
uhlans,
in their too-familiar plumed shakos, galloped flat out on their heavy chargers, firing long-barreled revolvers and slashing with bloody sabers. Regular Mosul horsemen, less flamboyant in drab khaki, and on shorter ponies, added their number to the wild and suicidal charge. When Ab Balsol’s cavalry had streamed out of the sudden gap in the lines like greyhounds from the slips, it had appeared that no plan existed beyond doing as much damage as possible before they were cut down by superior Albany weapons, but then, after a wild and costly ride through the Albany lines, they began to wheel. At first Jesamine was amazed that any discipline could remain after so many casualties, but, when the turn ended with the thrust of the continuing charge coming straight at her, she abandoned all objectivity and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do? She might be dressed like a solider, but, unlike maybe Argo and Raphael, she was hardly trained, or even prepared for bloody and mounted combat, and, unlike Cordelia, she had not ridden horses almost from birth. The Mamaluke breakout had plunged the Albany horsemen into an instant of milling confusion, but they were rapidly sorting themselves, coming back under the control of their officers, and, with the exception of Dunbar’s escort, deploying to counter the Mosul cavalry assault.

As the personal escort backed up to shield Dunbar and his people, The Four and their light horsemen moved back with them. Dunbar was standing in the open staff car, observing the Mosul and encouraging the men around him. “Stand firm, gentlemen, they won’t reach us. Our lads will stop them.”

The Albany horse soldiers were moving forward at an orderly walk. Slide had moved protectively up to The Four, and watched with them as their cavalry broke into a trot and slowly gathered speed, heading for the inevitable clash with Mamaluke and Teuton. Jesamine eased closer to Slide, finding an irrational comfort by the way he always smelled of oiled leather, cigars, and gunpowder. “Will our boys hold them?”

“You want truth or patriotism?”

“Truth.”

“They’ll be hard-pressed.”

“What are the Mosul trying to achieve by this?”

“Balsol has a sense of history.”

“What?”

“He’s emulating Alexander the Conqueror at Abban.”

The Albany cavalry was running at a full gallop. Sabers flashed, pennants fluttered, and the drumming of hooves was deafening. Jesamine fancied she felt the ground shake, and she had to shout so Slide could hear her. “I don’t understand.”

“The Macedonian used his cavalry to break through the Persian lines and go after their King Darius.”

The rattle of small-arms fire was added to the awesome din as the two sides came within range of each other, and cavalrymen fired from the saddle.

“Does Balsol think killing Dunbar will end it?”

“I figure…” His eyes became narrow and disbelieving. “Holy shit!”

Jesamine followed his gaze as Slide actually pushed back his hat and stared. The Mosul front line was dissolving and what appeared to be the entire compliment of Mosul infantry was charging at a run in one of their notorious human waves. Slide grimly shook his head. “Balsol’s going for Armageddon.”

“What’s Armageddon?”

The answer was uniquely Slide. “In other realities, it’s what they called The End.”

CORDELIA

The sound of two charging armies colliding head on was like nothing Cordelia had heard before. It was louder and more terrible than she might ever have imagined; a death-spawned symphony of collective momentum, muscle on bone, striking each other a thousand times over, the scream of men and horses likewise multiplied, the explosion of guns as though heard from inside the cannons’ mouth, the amplified crash of endless steel on endless steel, all the way to hell and beyond, as the impact went on and on. From where she sat the sound was all she had, the entire field was blanketed in an impenetrable maelstrom of dust and smoke in which dark figures grappled, and explosions flashed a lurid orange. Cordelia knew, inside the dreadful cloud, the Mosul human wave was being massacred by the Albany Bergman guns, and crushed under the treads of the Albany fighting machines. The crucial question was whether Albany could kill enough of the enemy before they were overrun and drowned by the weight of numbers.

A riderless horse plunged out of the smoke, and the small force around Dunbar raised their weapons. The frightening truth was that, if even a small squadron of Mamalukes overran the Albany cavalry, visibility was so poor that those around the commander would not know about it until the very last moment. His staff and escort sat their mounts or stood to beside automobiles, with weapons in their hands, vainly trying to make out any detail of the booming but hidden combat. The wireless and ticker tape machine had been reinstalled, but the airship, even from its vantage point in the sky, could only report what they already knew. The Mosul had thrown in their cavalry and an entire human wave, but beyond that, all was smoke and confusion and nothing was clear. Some of Dunbar’s staff were urging the Field Marshal to withdraw to some safer place, but, as Cordelia expected, he dismissed the idea out of hand. “If I leave now, I will concede the field. If our arms cannot prevail and hold their assault, then I have lost the Army of Albany.”

Another horse galloped out of the smoke and dust, this time with a rider. Cordelia saw him clearly, a gaunt Mamaluke on a tall but ill-fed black horse. His cloak was filthy, his breastplate and helmet were dull, but the edge of his scimitar gleamed. He was all but upon Dunbar and the Albany command before they knew it. Cordelia fancied he looked surprised as he reined in his horse, causing it to rear and paw the air. Turning in his saddle, the man let out an ululating roar that could only be a signal to others. Three officers fired and three bullets hit the Mamaluke, knocking him out of the saddle. Cordelia felt her life go into slow motion. Was this the end? Had the Mosul broken through? Would this first one be followed by a thousand, or was he merely a stray? She clutched her revolver and waited for an answer.

The wait was not long. Six riders came at them; two Teutons, leading on their heavy chargers, and four Mamalukes behind. Again Albany guns barked and chattered, and more riderless horses ran loose. Perhaps these were only dislocated outriders from the original charge. Certainly the distinctive Bergman guns could still be heard. Dunbar stood up, as though filled with a sudden resolve. “Mr. Fletcher.”

A young captain on a bay responded. “Sir.”

“I need your horse, boy. I’m not waiting here for them to come for me.”

“Sir?”

“Your horse, boy. I need your horse.”

“Yes sir.”

Fletcher’s face betrayed that the last thing he wanted was to give up his mount, but he was not about to argue with a Field Marshal. He dismounted, and Dunbar climbed into the saddle. He turned the horse, apparently relieved to be in motion. For a moment, he studied the faces of those around him. “Well, boys, shall we go and find the enemy?” He glanced down at the now unseated captain. “Don’t worry, Fletcher. You can catch yourself a runaway.”

No sooner had Dunbar spoken than at least a dozen riders, maybe as many as twenty, all Mamalukes, boiled from the reek of battle, and as many Albany horsemen leapt forward to counter them. Cordelia found herself part of a confusion of dirty sweating faces, pistols and sabers, flashes and smoke, bucking horses, and men fighting hand to hand. She was in the middle of unfocused, dangerous chaos. More Mamalukes seemed to be coming at them, but, in the immediate dust and smoke, it was hard to tell who was friend and who was foe. Yancey Slide was easy to spot. The reins of his horse were gripped between his bared teeth, and he had his oriental sword in one hand and one of his strange square-sided pistols in the other. He was hacking and shooting with a vengeance, but, at the same time, along with the light horsemen of their escort, attempting to herd The Four out and away from the mounted mêlée to some safer place. This was easier said than accomplished. The combatants were packed so tight that it was hard to go anywhere in the ebb and flow. Then Sergeant Teasle went down, and a Mamaluke, with gold teeth and a raised scimitar was on Cordelia. She did not hesitate. She brandished her revolver at the smoke-blackened face and wild bloodshot eyes, and pulled the trigger. The pistol bucked in her hand and the Mamaluke was knocked backward. Her gelding reared and Cordelia desperately fought him down, while still holding on to her gun. To be thrown and find oneself on the ground among so many stamping, frightened horses would amount to a death sentence.

Cordelia calmed the horse, and was surprised to see feathers and buckskins amid the cavalry uniforms. Warriors of the Ohio were in among them, bringing down Mamalukes left and right with lances and tomahawks. A fighting machine came lumbering towards them, guns stammering and flashing, but it initially created even more confusion as Mamalukes spun away from the fire of its heavy, side-mounted repeaters. The gunfire, grinding machinery, and belching exhaust was too much for Cordelia’s gelding. The gray bucked and plunged. Cordelia hung on for dear life, but then the horse collided with a riderless charger. The gelding stumbled, and she found herself pitched from the saddle, down amid the cruel stamping hooves.

ARGO

Slide had swung down from his saddle and was standing over Cordelia, blazing away with his twin pistols at anything that threatened them. Cordelia’s gelding had collided with a runaway and she had been thrown. Slide was the first to react. Straddling her body, he thrust his sword into the ground, and drew his second pistol. Argo spurred his horse forward in an attempt to cover both Slide and Cordelia from at least one side, but even as he moved to help, it became clear that the Mamalukes were turning. The fighting machine was too much for them. They might be insane fanatics, but they were not immortal. They wheeled and hightailed it into the smoke. Ohio warriors and Albany officers gathered around Dunbar, still watchful and protective. Slide pulled Cordelia to her feet and dusted her off, checking that no bones were broken, and that she did not have a concussion. Argo managed to grab the reins of the spooked gelding, and, when it had calmed a little, he led it to where Cordelia was standing and handed her the reins. She took them and spent some time stroking the animal’s muzzle before she attempted to remount. The fighting machine ground to a halt and a crewman popped the dorsal hatch. Dunbar saw him and pushed his commandeered horse through those packed around him.