Hope Renewed (24 page)
Authors: S.M. Stirling,David Drake
“Verbally, add that we can handle it for the present but would appreciate reinforcements. Report back immediately with his reply—and watch out, there may be wogs in these ravines.”
M’tennin screamed.
M’Telgez took one look over his shoulder and clapped his heels to Pochita’s ribs. The thing already had the younger man’s shoulders in its jaws and one clawed foot hooked into his dog’s side, ripping downward in a shower of blood and fur and loops of pink-gray gut. Pochita needed no urging; she brought her hindpaws up between her front and leapt off in a bounding gallop, teeth bared, ears flat, and eyes rolled back, right down the narrow floor of the canyon. Her rider whipped his head around as something screeched behind him, a sound like a steam-whistle gone berserk.
He could
smell
its breath, like a freshly-opened tomb in hot weather. It was bipedal and longer than a war-dog, probably heavier, but it ran with a birdlike stride—lightly, on the toe-pads of its three-clawed feet, so lightly that the shotgun blast of dirt and stones spraying back from each impact was a surprise. The body was a dusty orange-yellow, striped irregularly with vivid black; the open mouth was mottled purple and crimson. Teeth the size of his fingers reached for him, and the clawed forefeet on either side. Behind it another much like it—hunter’s reflex told him they were probably a mated pair—was tearing at the bodies of M’tennin and his mount with impartial gluttony. Its muzzle went skyward, the long narrow jaws dislocating as it swallowed a leg and hip.
“Hingada tho!”
M’Telgez screamed. “Fuck ye!” The carnosauroid shrieked back at him, another carrion-scented blast.
His rifle was in the crook of his left arm. He snatched the pistol out of his boottop with his right and thrust it backward, not three meters from the thing’s mouth. Even so half the rounds missed. Three did hit; none of them seemed to do much good. A blood-fleck appeared on the shiny black skin between the angry red of the nostrils, and one fang shattered into fragments of ivory. That got the beast’s attention, at least; it spun sideways for an instant, snapping and rearing on one leg as the other slashed at whatever had struck it.
Then it realized
he
had hurt it. Some of the bigger carnosauroids were too dumb to do anything but kill and eat; the smaller agile ones like this could be a lot smarter. There was more than simple hunger in the cry it gave as it bounded after him once more, body horizontal and long slender tail snapping behind it at the tip like a bullwhip.
“Fuck
me
,” M’Telgez muttered through a dry mouth, and hurled the revolver at the beast.
That
hadn’t been such a good idea.
He leaned left and then right as Pochita took the curves of the narrow gully at dangerous speed. The carnosauroid didn’t let little things like turns slow it down; it just ran right up the wall of the cut, letting momentum keep it upright with its head parallel to the ground for an instant. The man wound the sling of his rifle around his right forearm with desperate speed. He’d have only one chance, and that wasn’t much with a single-shot rifle. Reloading at the gallop . . . he might as well try to fly like a pterosauroid by flapping his arms.
The sides of the gully opened out a little. The carnosauroid screamed again and speeded up, half-overtaking the fleeing human.
Right. Likes t’knock yer over afore it bites.
Normally holding the long Armory rifle out one-handed would have made M’Telgez’s arm tremble. Now it was steady, everything diamond-clear to his sight. Even the sideways lunge of the predator seemed fairly slow, an arc drawn through the air to meet the questing muzzle of his weapon.
Bam.
The shock of recoil was a complete surprise, hard pain in his arm. The weight of the carnosauroid slammed into Pochita’s haunches, and the dog skittered in a three-sixty turn before resuming its gallop. The torque of the outflung rifle nearly dislocated M’Telgez’s shoulder, but the pain was negligible next to the horrifying knowledge that he’d failed. Footfalls still ripped the earth behind him, only a little further back—and Pochita’s tongue was hanging out in exhaustion.
He rounded another curve—
—and nearly ran into a screen of mounted men in blue jackets and round bowl-helmets. Their guns flicked up, but their eyes were behind him.
“Shoot, ye dickheads!” he screamed, as his dog braced its forelegs and sank down on its haunches to stop.
They didn’t. Bent over his pommel, gasping and wheezing, M’Telgez looked behind to see why.
The carnosauroid lay prone not five meters behind him, its muzzle plowing a furrow in the dry gritty dirt. One leg was outstretched and the other to the rear, as if it had done the splits in mid-stride. Tail and head beat the ground in an arrhythmic death-tattoo, then slumped into stillness. A neat hole drilled in the yellow scales just behind and above one ear-opening showed why.
“Well, fuck me,” M’Telgez mumbled again. It took three tries to return his rifle to the scabbard, and two to get his canteen open.
“There’s one’ll na try it, dog-brother,” one of the troopers said admiringly. Two rifles cracked as the corpse of the sauroid went through another bout of twitching, the jaws clashing with an ugly wet metallic sound. Carnosauroids took a good deal of killing.
A jingling and thump of paws sounded in the draw; the battalion standard came up. M’Telgez pulled himself erect with an effort and saluted.
“Colonel, message from C-captain Foley,” he said. “Ah, we’re, ah—”
“Take it easy, lad,” the Colonel said, not unkindly, looking at the dead predator and then at M’Telgez’s dog. “You had a close shave, there, Corporal.”
M’Telgez followed the lifted chin. Pochita’s tail was half-missing, ending in a bloody stump; now that the dog wasn’t running for its life it was trying to twist around and lick the injury. He dismounted and reached automatically into his saddlebags for ointment and bandages, a cavalry trooper’s reflex, and a lifelong
vakaro
’s.
One bite closer . . .
he thought. The image must have been clear on his face, because the Colonel leaned down and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good shot,” he said. “Anything with this?”
“Ah, t’Captain ‘uld want some reinforcements, loik,” M’Telgez said. In an effort to clear his mind: “We’nz goin’ t’push through ’em, ser?”
In many line outfits that might have been insolence; Descotters had an easy, unservile way with their squires, though. And he was a long-service man with a good record.
“No, Messer Raj knows a way around,” Colonel Staenbridge said. “We just have to block them while the main force gets through. I’ll come myself. Lead the way, Corporal.”
M’Telgez looked around at the bewildering tangle of blind canyons, sinkholes, and ragged hills.
The Spirit
must
be wit ‘im,
he decided. Which was a comforting thought.
“Cheer up, lad,” Staenbridge said, as the column formed up and passed the dead predator.
One of the troopers tossed him a fang as long as his hand, with a lump of bloody gum still on the base. M’Telgez dropped it into his haversack; it’d be something to show the girls, cleaned up and worn around his neck on a thong. Might as well get something out of that; that poor
fastardo
M’tennin wasn’t going to, not even a burial. There wouldn’t be anything left of him or much of his dog by the time they got there.
“Cheer up. Could have been worse—it could have been wogs.”
M’Telgez looked down at the four-meter length of tiger-striped deadliness lying in the dirt. He nodded. That was true enough. The carnosauroid had only wanted to kill and eat him.
Wogs might have taken him alive.
“Good,” Raj said. “That was clever of Tewfik, but he had to split his covering force up into too many detachments—there are a lot of badlands out there.”
Staenbridge nodded. “Only two or three hundred men on the route we actually took,” he said. “Still, it might have gotten sticky if we couldn’t go around—they had an excellent position. How
did
you know that section of earth was thin enough to cut through behind them?”
An angel told me, and
it
could tell the thickness of the gully walls by measuring how inaudible sounds passed through,
Raj thought sardonically. He wondered what Staenbridge would make of the explanation. Raj didn’t understand a word of it himself.
sound waves are—
Forget it. I know it works, I don’t have to know how or why.
“Lucky guess, Gerrin.” The tone ruled out any further questions. “We’re about—”
two point six kilometers.
“—two and a half klicks from the bridgehead, now. This is going to be tricky.”
“You expect Tewfik to catch us crossing?” Staenbridge said, raising a brow.
“No, but he’s not the only competent commander in the Colonial army, and he’ll be in heliograph contact with their main body. What I want you to do is—”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Come on lads, put your
backs
into it,” Colonel Jorg Menyez shouted. “Messer Raj needs this finished and ready to go by full sunrise!”
Arc lights hissed and kerosene lanterns cast their softer light across the chaos on the riverbank quays of Sandoral. Miniluna and Maxiluna were both on the horizon, paling to translucence as the sun cast bands of yellow and purple up into the fading dusk of night.
At least it’s a little cooler,
the infantry officer thought. That should speed things up. He’d had the preparations going on all night, what could be done without attracting attention.
There was no more point in trying for silence now, not with two thousand men splashing and clattering as they moved the big boxlike pontoon barges into position. Most of the supports had been beached along Sandoral’s long waterfront, just outside the river wall. Teams of men grunted and heaved, some pushing, others prying with beams and planks. One by one the square shapes surged out into the river, then jerked to a halt as the anchor-ropes caught them. Other ropes were payed out and men hauled in groaning unison to pull the barges to the growing eastern end of the bridge. North of it was a line of cable floating between barrels; each marked a line dropping down to an anchor on the riverbed. Naked boatmen swam out with more lines to secure the barges to the cable.
As each was tied off against the current, notched beams went into the cutouts in the bulwarks, and sections of planking were pegged down on top. Men scrambled forward to the next even while the mallets were still pounding on the one they ran on; water slopped over the upstream side as the weight of scores of infantrymen and their burdens of timber and cordage rested on the end barge alone. Down in the hulls others threw buckets of water overside and screamed abuse at the work teams above.
A long hollow
boooom
sounded from the southward, from where the nearest part of the Colonial siege line had anchored itself with an earthen fort on the riverbank. A long whirring crash followed, and men froze as a heavy roundshot hit the water and skipped like a thrown rock across the surface of the water by a playful boy. Once . . . twice . . . three times, and the final plume of water was shorter than the others. The Drangosh drank down the big cast-iron ball as easily as it would the boy’s pebble. Menyez blew out the breath he had not been aware of holding.
Two kilometers. A little too far.
There were ironic cheers from some of the men, and the hammering clatter of work resumed. He looked eastward. The bridge was nearly to the other shore, where a company of infantry was heaving at winches anchored in the dirt, hauling the last few barges.
Nice fast piece of work,
he thought. It helped that they’d done it before, of course.
Booooom.
A little sharper this time, a rifled piece. The sound of the shell was higher as well. It came much closer, only a few hundred meters south, but struck the water only once. A tall fountain of spray reached skyward, high enough that its top was touched red by the light of the sun rising in the west.
“Close, but that only counts with handbombs,” he said.
Far off and faint, trumpets spoke on the eastern bank. A message began to flicker in from the heliograph station there, as the light strengthened enough for the tripod-mounted mirrors to catch it.
The problem was that there were other heliograph relays farther down the river—Colonial ones.
“Come on,
mi heneral
,” Menyez said under his breath.
He looked back over his shoulder at Sandoral. The city was eerily quiet, hardly even a thread of smoke marking the hushed stillness of the morning. Not even a cock crowing; all the chickens had gone into the stewpots several days ago.
And nearly the whole garrison out here working on the bridge,
he added to himself. Pretty soon that thought was going to occur to somebody else.
Ali ibn’Jamal lowered his telescope. “My so-brilliant brother has let them escape,” he said bitterly. “Allah requite him for it. And their bridge of boats is nearly finished to receive the ravagers of the House of Peace.”
Everyone else in the clump of nobles and commanders maintained a tight silence. A cool morning wind ruffled robes and beards and the peacock and egret plumes in turbans and helmets, but many of them were sweating nonetheless.
Cowards,
Ali thought, and raised the telescope again. The
kaphar
were working like men possessed on their bridge, getting the surface laid before Whitehall appeared. Tewfik was going to let him ride back into Sandoral like a conquering hero!
“Commander of the Faithful.”
It was one of the cavalry generals, a protégé of Tewfik’s. Who cannot be Settler. But who could rule from behind the Peacock Throne, with a puppet Settler. It had happened before.
The man knelt and touched his forehead to the floor. “The deserters have told us the
kaphar
are on half-rations—they have been for a week. With another eight thousand men and eight thousand dogs within the walls, they will eat their stores bare in a few days. Then the city must fall.”
Eight thousand.
Tewfik hadn’t killed more than a few hundred of them, after they spent more than a week ravaging his lands.
His
lands!
I do not want them to surrender. I want them to
die.
Of course, they could die after they surrendered . . . but if he allowed them terms, it would be unwise to break them. Not with Tewfik and his officers so close around him—not when they absurdly, blasphemously valued a word given to an unbeliever.
He raised the telescope again. It was incredible how quickly the infidels had gotten their bridge put back together. Cannon were firing from the walls of the earth fort around him, but doing no damage—the range was so great that only sheer luck or divine intervention would land a shell where it could accomplish anything.
They must have their whole garrison working on that,
Ali thought. He could see them clearly now that the sun had risen.
Ali smiled suddenly. Those watching his face flinched and looked away, then forced themselves to turn their heads back; it was not safe to be unaware of the ruler’s moods.
Ah, Tewfik my brother, you did not think of that.
All his life he had been in Tewfik’s shadow in matters of war; blundering and hacking his way through the complex problems of the battlefield in confusion, while Tewfik cut to victory with a lambent clarity. But this time, he was the one to see.
“You,” he said to the kneeling officer. “Ubaydalla Said. I order an assault on the walls—an immediate assault. Rise, take command of the forward troops, and execute my commands.”
“I hear and obey, Settler of Islam,” the officer said. He paused thoughtfully. “That is an excellent suggestion. But the preparations—”
It was the expression on his face that moved the Settler; the surprise, that Ali could have come up with a workable plan. He plucked the ceremonial whip out of the man’s belt and lashed him across the face with it. An upflung hand saved Said’s eyes from the nine pieces of jagged steel on the ends of the thongs, but blood dripped heavily into his beard and from his gashed mouth.
“Are you a coward as well as a fool, pig? Are you
deaf
? I said immediately! If you have time to prepare, so will the enemy! And you are to lead the attack, personally.”
“As God wills,” the officer said quietly. He bowed again, blood dripping on the priceless carpets, and wheeled away sharply, calling for his subordinates.
A whistle blast jarred Corporal Minatelli out of exhausted sleep. It was much like waking up after a payday in Old Residence. For a moment he lay blinking in puzzlement. It must be Star Day, why were they calling him to work at the quarry already?
The whistle went on and on, sharp repeated calls. A trumpet joined in, sounding:
Stand to, Stand to
over and over again. Then he knew exactly where he was: on the parapet of the wall at Sandoral, with hot white sunlight slashing through the firing slits. He erupted up out of his blanket roll and grabbed his rifle and webbing in either hand, running to his duty station. His muscles ached from a night of hard labor, and the two hours of sleep seemed to have dumped a skullful of hot sand behind his eyes. He was hungry too, mortally hungry with the aching need of a man who had been using twice as many calories as he took in. None of it mattered.
He buckled his belt and leaned back slightly from the wall to make sure that everyone in the squad was at their posts—seven men to hold a section of wall that had been undermanned with forty. Seven men and the six militiamen left of the dozen that usually operated the big gun to his left. Probably the rest of the walls were just as empty. Spirit!
“Oh,
scramento
,” he said as he knuckled the crust out of his eyes and looked out the slit.
From left to right across his field of vision the Colonial earthworks were belching jets of smoke with lances of red fire at their hearts; the siege guns were cutting loose. Underneath their deep booms he could hear the sharper sounds of the field guns in the forward bastions, and the rapid
pom . . . pom . . . pom
of the quick-firers. Much of the ground between the Colonial outworks and the city moat and wall was still covered by bloating bodies, and the ripe oily stink was thick—the wog commanders had refused the usual truce to remove the dead. That didn’t seem to be slowing down the men who boiled out of the forward ends of the assault trenches any.
In the days since the first attempt at an escalade, the Colonials had braved constant sniping to rig overhead covers for the last few hundred meters of the trenches—platforms of palm logs and sandbags that wouldn’t stop a heavy shell but did quite well against rifle bullets and case shot. Now the last ten meters or so of that were jerked down, and the soldiers in crimson came out like red warrior ants. They didn’t seem to be as well organized this time, but there were an awful lot of them.
“Ready for it,” Minatelli called, clearing his eyes with the thumb of one hand. The fabric of the fortifications quivered underneath him as the heavy solid shot rammed into the granite facing of the concrete-and-rubble wall. Dust quivered up from every crack and crevice. He took an instant to gulp water from a dipper, stale and welcome as a mother’s love.
The wogs were running forward with their long ladders, built to cross the moat and not break even at an acute angle to the ground. The walls of Sandoral were not very high; they could not be, and be thick enough to resist modern rifled cannon. Others carried grapnel-throwing mortars.
“Now!” he shouted, and fired. Shots were crackling out all along the walls, and the deeper roar of cannon.
Booom.
The fortress gun fired. A swath of the enemy went down, but the scratch crew were cursing with the shrillness of panic as they struggled to reload and relay the huge piece; there just weren’t enough of them. Minatelli fired again and again, as fast as he could work the lever—worry about overheating and extraction jams later. Wogs fell, to lie among the bloated, swollen remnants of the previous attack, but they kept coming. Grapnels thumped out of the mortars and blurred up to the ramparts, trailing snakes of cable with knotted hand- and footholds. A shadow fell across his eyes as a ladder toppled toward the wall, slanting out to the ground beyond the moat. He dropped his rifle on the stone ledge for a moment and reached into a bin, pulling out a hand bomb and snagging the ring on top on a hook set into the wall. A quick jerk freed the ring, and the bomb began to hiss as the friction primer within burned.
Toss. A vicious
crack
over towards the base of the ladder. Men fell, and the heavy eucalyptus poles of the construct swayed. A dozen men cut loose with their repeaters at Minatelli’s gunslit. Thousands were kneeling all along the edge of the moat, bringing the fighting platform under direct aimed fire. A little way down from Minatelli a lucky pom-pom shell blasted right into a gunslit and exploded; an instant later so did the hand bombs in the bin there, blowing chunks of stone and flesh out into the moat and back down into the cleared zone below the city walls. He ducked down and back as ricochets buzzed through the narrow space, then dashed to the next slit. A file of wogs was already running up the ladder—it was no steeper than some stairways—toward the roof of the fighting platform overhead. He fired again and again. Men fell tumbling off the ladder and down into the foul water of the moat; some of them bobbed limply, others swam for the shore.
Boom.
The fortress gun cut loose again, and another swath of wogs went down back toward the assault trench—but there were far too many already near the wall. Almost at the same time an enemy shell struck right underneath the muzzle of the gun. The huge banded barrel jumped backwards; a trunnion cracked, and the weapon pivoted sideways with a squeal of ripped bronze and crackling timbers. A gunner’s legs were caught in the way, and the man smeared against the pavement and the iron guide-ring like liver paste on bread.
More carbine rounds flicked at Minatelli’s firing slit. He ducked back again, fixed the bayonet on his rifle, then slung it across his back. He filled his hands with hand bombs, slipping his fingers through the rings to carry them—dangerous, but fuck
that
right now for a game of soldiers.
“Saynchez! Hold ’em!” he screamed, and ran back down the covered walkway to the dismounted gun.
The other five militia gunners were standing gaping, looking at their dead comrade.
“Get yor fukkin’
guns
,” Minatelli screamed. His hands were full, so he kicked one of the gunners in the arse to get his attention; the man whirled, gaped, then went for his personal weapon. The gunners were equipped with shortswords, revolvers, and double-barreled shotguns: just the thing for the sort of short-range scrimmage that was all too likely in a moment. He could hear boots on the roof overhead.
“The wogs is over the wall,” Minatelli shouted, and leaped for the top of the gun.
There was a circular hole above it, with an iron ladder and an octagonal observation-point of timber and boilerplate above, usually for the master gunner. Minatelli scrambled up it, stuck his head out of the hatch, and began throwing hand bombs. There were wogs clambering up onto the roof of the fighting platform by the score—though many were cut down by the enfilade fire of the light swivel guns on the bastion towers to either side—and thank the
Spirit
, none of them looking at him!
