Hope Renewed (14 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Allahu Akbar! Gur! Gur!”

The band of Colonials swept out of a side street in the maze of alleys. The morning sun burned bright on their scimitars and spiked helmets; beneath their djellabas they had wound tight linen strips, the winding-sheets of men determined to seek Paradise in battle with the unbelievers.

The main street was narrow and crooked as well; only one file of troopers was between Raj and the attack. Horace spun beneath him with a roaring growl, and his hand swept out saber and pistol. A grid of green lines clamped down over his vision, and the outlines of the Colonial troopers glowed. One strobed; the one with his carbine in his hands. Still a hundred paces away: a long pistol-shot but not impossible for a skilled man on dogback to make with a shoulder-weapon. And the Arab looked good. . . .

Raj moved his wrist. A red dot settled on the Colonial’s midriff. His finger squeezed the trigger.
Crack.
The carbineer flipped over the cantle of his saddle.
Crack.
Another down. Place the dot and the bullet went where Center indicated it would.
Crack—crack—crack.
The revolver was empty, and the Colonials were through.

A clang of steel on steel as a scimitar met his saber. He flexed his wrist to let the sharply curved blade hiss by, then cut backhand across the Arab’s face. A second was barreling in with his blade upraised. Horace lunged with open mouth for the Bazenji’s throat. Raj stabbed, and the point of his weapon went in below the breastbone. He ripped it free with desperate strength, wheeling. Suzette’s carbine clanged and nearly dropped from her hands as she used it to deflect a cut. Raj rose in the stirrups and chopped downward; there was a jar like the blade hitting seasoned oak, and a splitting sound. It nearly wrenched from his hand, sunk to brow-level in the Colonial’s skull, but the weight of the falling body pulled the metal free.

There had been no time for fear. Something contracted in a hard knot under his ribs when he saw his wife clutching at her upper arm.

“It’s nothing, light cut,” she said.

He checked; in the background rifles barked as the troopers put down the dogs of the dead Arabs where they stood snarling over their masters’ bodies. She was right; she held a dressing over the superficial wound while he tied it off.

“Damn, that was too close,” he said. “Anyone else wounded?”

His bannerman had gashed fingers where he’d used the staff to block a cut. Suzette heeled Harbie closer and went to work on that. The sergeant of the color-party was looking at him wide-eyed.

“Spirit, ser,” he blurted. “Five dead wit’ five shots!”

Raj felt a flush of embarrassment. He wasn’t actually a first-rate pistol-shot; the sword was his personal weapon of choice, and with that he was very good. With Center’s eerie trick, you didn’t
have
to be good. He didn’t much like the experience. It was too much like being a weapon yourself, in another’s hand.

Whatever works, he thought.

precisely.

“Keep moving,” he said sharply.

The suburbs of Ain el-Hilwa were burning already, as the Civil Government troops shot and hacked their way through the crowds who ran screaming towards the gates. Shells went by overhead in long ripping-canvas arcs, to crash on the massive stone-faced walls behind the moat. It was a wet moat, full of canal water, right now dark with the heads of refugees swimming across; and getting no help from the garrison. The gates were jammed tight with a press of humanity.

“Forward!” he said again. “Dammit, bugler, sound
Advance at speed!
”

The brazen scream cut through the white noise of the crowds, the gathering roar of the flames. Sheer press of numbers was slowing the advance despite complete surprise. The people ahead
wanted
to get out of the way of the sharp blades and snarling meter-long jaws and rifle fire; they
couldn’t
.

Should have stayed in their houses
, he thought—or in the sprawling city of reed shanties and tents outside the suburbs. There was no wisdom in panic.

A field gun bounced up behind him. The crew pulled the trail free of the limber and spun it around, running it forward with the long pole held up and the nose of the gun down. They pushed it through the front line of Civil Government troopers and let the trail fall.

“Stand clear!” the gun commander said. He skipped aside himself and pulled the lanyard.

Pomph.
The shock of discharge slapped at him, bouncing back and forth from the narrow walls.

So did the hundreds of lead shot in the canister charge. Men—and women and children—splashed away from the spreading scythe of it.

“Waymanos!”
Raj shouted again. “Forward!”

The buildings dropped away on either side as they came out into the broad cleared area around the moat. Cannon and pompoms were firing from the walls, but most of the shots went overhead, into the belt of houses, helping with the work of destruction. In the gates, the garrison were firing down into their own people, dropping handbombs and pouring burning naphtha from the murder-holes over the arched entrances to clear the press. The gates swung shut, and the bridges over the moats gaped as hinged sections were pulled up.

“Damn,” Raj said aloud. “Runner, to battalion commanders. Get the fires going and pull back.”

A shell burst twenty yards ahead. Raj stood in his stirrups and brought out his field glasses, sweeping along the walls. Chaos, but active chaos—groups in the crimson djellabas of Colonial regular troops, infantry from the looks of them, and the white-and-colored patchwork of city militia. More and more of the fortress guns were getting into operation, too.

He turned Horace to the rear. “Come on, let’s get out before the fires spread.”

He was conscious of a few odd looks. Technically, this was a defeat—they hadn’t been able to rush the gates, despite the shambolic panic of the Colonial garrison’s response. Raj grinned a little wider.

A reputation for having something up your sleeve could be quite helpful. Even when you
did
have something up your sleeve.

Suzette was flexing her arm, wincing only a little, as they turned and trotted back through the smoke and noise. Shells whirred by overhead; ash and bits of debris fell into the dirt streets about them.

I’m almost glad that happened, Raj thought. Something sounded an interrogative at the back of his mind. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d lost my capacity for strong emotion.

i am not contagious.

The hell you’re not, Raj thought. For example, I wouldn’t have dared to talk this way to an angel a few years ago. He looked down at the city. For another, I wouldn’t do what I’m going to do to Osterville a few years ago. Even to Osterville.

ah. that is the effect known as “life,” raj whitehall. and it is contagious; not only that, but fatal. for all of us.

“Should be ready in about three hours,
mi heneral,
” Dinnalsyn said.

The gunner and Raj stood together outside the earthworks, five kilometers from Ain el-Hilwa. Two thousand troopers and as many press-ganged Colonial refugees dug steadily, hauling the dirt from the growing ditch upslope in baskets, buckets, helmets, and cloth slings improvised from coats. The sun was high, and the men sweated as they worked; an hour on and an hour off, with the off spent standing guard or watering and feeding the dogs. The earthwork fort was two hundred meters on a side, a standard marching camp with a ditch as deep as a standing man, an earthwork rampart as high inside with a palisade on top, and bastions at the corners and gates with V-notches for the guns. The air was full of the smell of sweat and freshly turned earth.

He walked over to the edge. “Found that buried cask of beer yet, dog-brothers?” Raj called in Namerique.

The big fair men in the nearest section groaned laughter. “Don’t worry, lord,” one yelled back. “By the Spirit of Man of This Earth, we’ll have a grave big enough for all the enemy we kill if it takes us all day.”

Raj waved as he turned away.
Not bad,
he thought. Back home, these men scorned digging in the earth as fit for peons and women; real men fought, hunted, and drank. They’d learned something of soldiering, then—granted he’d had to kill about a third of the adult males in their nations to get their attention, but they were learning.

Within the enclosure medics were setting up, and tents being pitched in neat rows along the streets; everything necessary for a mobile military city of five thousand men. It could be made more elaborate the longer they stayed, but by midafternoon the camp would be ready to defend. It was said, not without truth, that watching a Civil Government army encamp was more discouraging for barbarians than fighting a battle with them. The Colonials wouldn’t be intimidated, but they’d know exactly how hard it was to storm this sort of earthworks.

“Good, Grammeck,” he said. “Keep pushing it. Gerrin, once we’ve got the wall up, let all these Colonials go—it won’t hurt the troops to finish up by themselves. Kaltin, you’ve got overwatch—”

“Ser,” his color-sergeant said.

Raj looked around. A party of Civil Government officers was riding up; not his own, Osterville’s banner. Raj waited in silence.

“General,” Osterville said.

“Colonel,” Raj replied. Formally: “Colonel Osterville, I’m ordering you to bring your command within the walls of this encampment.”

Osterville sneered, a rather theatrical expression. “I’ll have to deprive you and Messa Whitehall of that pleasure. As Commandant of the Military District of Sandoral, our authority is concurrent. These commands remain separate, and
I’m
not afraid of that lot of wogs over there.”

He pointed; his own four battalions were setting up camp on a hill no more than a kilometer from the walls. Beyond that was a dense pall of smoke, as the ruins of the suburbs beyond the wall smoldered. Not coincidentally, there was an orchard and pleasant little country villa on the hill.

“I warn you,” Raj went on, stroking his chin, “that the Colonials may try to sally. Your position is more vulnerable than mine.”

Osterville spat—toward the city, which made the gesture ambiguous. “They’re scum, with incompetent officers. Obviously, or they’d be over the river with Ali, wouldn’t they?” His voice took on a faint hectoring, lecturing note. “Look at the way they reacted when we attacked this morning. As I said,
I’m
not afraid of them, and neither are my men. We’re staying where we are.”

“By all means, Colonel Osterville,” Raj said mildly. “Perhaps it’s advisable, all things considered.”

From the ranks of officers around Raj a loud whisper continued the thought: “Considering what our men would do to those garrison pussies who’ve been shorting the take.”

Osterville’s head whipped around, finding a wall of bland politeness. He saluted and pulled his dog around, with a violence that brought a protesting whimper as the cheek-levers of the bridle gouged.

“Ser.” A messenger this time, from the heliograph detachment who’d been setting up a relay back to the bridgehead. “Message from Colonel Menyez.”

The silence grew tense. Raj read. “Ali’s arrived,” he said. “And tried the usual. So far—”

observe
, Center said.

“Noisy beggars,” Major Ferdihando Felasquez said.

The Colonial army was parading past the walls of Sandoral, fifty thousand strong.
Tabor
after
tabor
of mounted men in crimson djellabas and pantaloons, in a perfect order that rippled with the rise and fall of the trotting dogs. Between the blocks of men came guns, light pompoms and 70mm field pieces, with heavier siege weapons behind. Beyond that, on a hillock just out of medium artillery range, an enormous tent-pavilion in brilliant stripes was already going up. From the tallest pole flew the green crescent banner and the peacock of the Settlers.

And over it all came an inhuman pulse of drums, like the beating heart of some great beast. Beneath that the clang of cymbals and the brazen scream of long curled trumpets.

Felasquez tapped his gauntlets against his thigh. “Should we send them a few love-notes?” he asked. “Some of the heavier pieces on the wall could reach that far.”

“No,” Jorg Menyez said, scanning down the line of units with the big tripod-mounted field glasses. “We’re playing for time, so there’s no sense in poking the sauroid through the bars. Ah, yes. Notice something?”

He stepped aside and Felasquez bent to the eyepieces. A forest of banners was going up before the Settler’s pavilion. “Ali, Hussein the Wazir, the Grand Mufti of Sinnar, the Gederosian Dervishes . . . wait a minute.”

Menyez nodded. “No Seal of Solomon. Tewfik’s not here.”

“Unless they want us to think that.”

“No, that’s not the way Colonials think.”

Felasquez nodded. “I’d still feel easier if you weren’t splitting up so much of the 24th Valencia,” he went on.

“The garrison infantry need stiffening; we haven’t had enough time to work them into first-class shape.”

“You can’t stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of lead shot,” Felasquez said.

Menyez clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not as bad as all that. They’re trained men, sound at bottom; they’ve just been neglected recently. Standing behind a parapet and shooting is about the easiest type of combat for ’em. They just need some examples. How’re the militia-gunner volunteers showing?”

“Pretty well; still have to see how they stand fire, of course. But the ones who stayed were the ones who
wanted
to fight. A lot of them were with us when we fought Jamal, five years ago.”

Along the walls of Sandoral men stood to the parapet and looked out the merlons, but their numbers were sparse. Most of the garrison stood to in the cleared space within the walls, or waited in their billets. Apart from them the city was a ghostly place, where little moved but rats and cats almost as feral.

“It’s all waiting now,” Menyez went on, “and I want my supper. Runner; message to the
Heneralissimo—
”

This time the viewpoint shifted to a point on the rail line west. Raj recognized it: a long viaduct over a gully that was a torrent in the winter and spring. The burning remnants of the wooden trestle bridge lay scattered below.