Rally Cry (50 page)

"All right, then," Andrew said, his voice slow and deliberate.
"All units to stand to, two hours before dawn.
We'll follow the plan as written.
Houston
along with the 35th and a battalion of artillery in reserve.
The other three divisions on the outside wall, headquarters linked to each division by telegraph. If they force a breech, we'll fight to contain it, but if it starts to spread, we pull everything back to the inner wall."

Andrew looked over at Kal and Casmar.

"I want all noncombatants evacuated from the outer circle starting at dark."

"We'll lose nearly half of all quarters," Kal said softly. "The city will be packed to overflowing."

"We knew that all along," Andrew said sadly. "They've got to stay out of the way of the troops, and they've got to stay calm no matter what. Your holiness, I hope you've got one powerful set of prayers to offer?"

Casmar forced a smile in reply.

"If it is the will of
Perm, it is His will," the prelate said evenly.

Without trying to wake her,
Hawthorne leaned over and gently kissed Tanya on the cheek. She stirred ever so slightly and then curled back up. Stepping to the cradle, he looked down lovingly at Andrea, straightened her blanket, and then left the room.

Is this what I fight for?
Hawthorne thought quietly. Is this what it finally all comes down to in the end? Could I ever stand by and watch my family disappear into the pits and not fight?

Reaching over to the corner, he took his sword and buckled it on.

Or is there more to it now?
his
other voice whispered. Have I become like the wild beast after all and tasted blood? It was becoming all so easy now, all so easy with the thrill, the cold-blooded thrill of facing death and dealing back to it.

Could he ever forget the moment when he had formed the square, the terrified men looking to him and taking something from him?
Taking that something and turning, fighting back.
He had never felt
so
alive as at that moment, every nerve tingling, exalting in life and the power it could give.

He tried to still the voice, but it would not go back to sleep as he wished it would, for even now that feeling was stirring again.

Opening the door, he stepped out into the night and returned Dimitri's salute.

"Your regiment is formed and ready, sir," Dimitri said, smiling broadly.

He loves this as well,
Hawthorne thought to himself.

"All right, major, now all we have to do is
wait
."

"I wish you'd go back into the inner city," Andrew said, a slight note of pleading in his voice.

Brushing the hair from her eyes, Kathleen looked up at Andrew and smiled.

"You know I can't do that," she said softly. "My place is here at the forward hospital. Don't worry—if anything happens I'll have plenty of time to get inside."

Both knew the lie in what she said, but neither could admit it.

Awkwardly they looked at each other, both afraid to admit their fears.

He reached out to hold her, but at his touch she felt herself go rigid.

"Go," she whispered, her voice choking. "Just go. I can't stand the thought this might be goodbye."

"I'll see you at the end of the day," Andrew replied, trying to keep the trembling of his own fears contained.

Kissing her lightly on the forehead, he turned and left.

I can't look at him, she thought, fearful that to do so would somehow be a portent of doom. But as he stepped out of the hospital hut her gaze came up to linger on his form receding into the dark.

"Please God," she whispered, "not again, please not again."

Looking to the hills north of town, he saw their tops bathed in the first red glow of dawn, the light streaking the bare trees, turning the snow the color of blood.

Without comment, Muzta Qar Qarth nodded to
Tula, who with a triumphant shout turned from his leader and galloped away. A single narga was given voice, followed by another and another until from one end of the lines to the other a thousand horns thundered and boomed with the call of death.

"As terrible as an army with banners," Andrew said, looking over at Emil.

The two stood atop the cathedral tower, spellbound by the pageantry of war spread out before them.

From one end of the city to the other the enemy host was drawn up, nearly two hundred thousand warriors, battle standards raised, weapons drawn, the deep rumbling boom of the horns reaching a bone-numbing crescendo.

A dark cloud seemed to
rise
heavenward, a hundred thousand arrows mingling with flaming bolts, catapult spears, and boulders. In response, a rolling thunder of artillery sounded as over a hundred guns let fly with their deadly loads, followed seconds later by another cloud of arrows and then another.

A wild roar rose up, and as one the horde rushed forward, swarming up out of the trenches and into the deadly killing field separating the two lines.

Onward they came, impervious to losses, waving their swords and axes on high, while behind them yet more clouds of arrows arched overhead.

In seconds the range closed, as the advance swept through the entanglements, leaping over the pitfalls, smashing aside the rows of sharpened stakes.

From the north end of the line a billowing cloud of smoke snapped out, and then like a quick fuse raced down the entire length of fortifications. Hundreds of Tugars tumbled to the ground, yet still they pressed forward, shrieking their terrifying cry.

"Better than reb infantry," Andrew said evenly.

"And more terrifying as well," Emil replied. The old doctor looked at Andrew and patted him on the shoulder.

"I'd best get to my post," Emil said evenly. "Looks like I'll have a lot of business today."

The two, sensing that somehow a parting was coming, looked at each other nervously, and then without comment Emil stepped onto the ladder and went below.

Volley after volley tore across the fields, and as quickly as a Tugar line went down, more rushed forward, driving ever closer to the breastworks.
The supporting archers, in block formations, started to weave their way through the entanglements, lowering their trajectories until finally they were shooting straight into the defensive lines.
Already Andrew could see casualties tumbling from the firing line, militia units helping to drag the wounded off into the protection of the sheltered ways that led back into the city.

The ground between the outer breastworks and inner wall was rapidly turning into a deadly killing ground, for anyone outside the sheltered paths was forced to run a gauntlet of indirect fire raining out of the skies.

Fires started to break out in the
new city between the two walls, those struggling to contain it falling victim to the deadly suppressive fire.

The thundering roar of battle seemed to wash over the city in waves, the horrible screams of the casualties, the unceasing cries of the enemy, and the now continual rattle of musketry and artillery blending into one inferno of sound unlike anything Andrew had ever experienced before.

Just north of the east bastion, dark forms appeared atop the breastworks, leaping into the fire-pit lines. A wild melee of hand-to-hand fighting broke out, reserves of spear-armed militia rushing up the side of the breastworks and pushing and shoving to close the sudden breach.

The telegraph key next to Andrew started to clatter, and Mitchell bent over and furiously started to take down notes.

"Barry, sir," Mitchell called out, "asking for another regiment of musketmen."

"Not yet, dammit," Andrew snapped. "It's only minutes old. Tell him he's got to hold with what he has."

The breach on the wall started to widen. Nervously, Andrew focused his field glasses on the endangered line. He could see Kal's command unit surging forward with thousands of men and prayed silently that they could somehow plug the line.
Before he had always stood in the line, caught up in the terrible thrill, losing himself in the strife.
Now he had to stand here alone, waiting to move his pieces, to hold as long as possible against the inexorable wave.

"The first breach, my Qarth,"
Tula roared triumphantly. "The sun not two handspans above the horizon and already we are winning."

Excited, Muzta fought to keep his mount in check, focusing his attention on the gradually expanding hole.

"Push more archers up on the flank to support them," Muzta shouted. "We must stop them from closing it. Keep the pressure up all along the line!"

Grim-faced, Kal stood in the open field, oblivious to the men who circled their leader, holding their shields aloft to protect him from the deadly rain which lashed down around them.

Militia by the thousands swarmed forward, shouting their defiance, and by the hundreds died before even reaching the breach.

The Tugars continued to swarm through the hole now fifty yards wide, some of them now completely off the wall and wading in on the level ground, swinging their swords with deadly ease, slaying two, even three with a single blow.

All was a wild mad press of confusion. From the high bastion to the right, field pieces were swung around, pouring their deadly load down into the swarming sea of confusion below, taking friend and foe alike with each blast.

Yet still the Tugars pushed forward. The militia started ta break, looking over their shoulders nervously to the eastern gate, which was aswarm with men coming out to close the gap.

"All right, my mice," Kal shouted, clumsily holding a sword up, "let's
see
what we can gnaw from them," and despite the protests of his staff, he started forward into the insanity.

"Let's go!" O'Donald shouted, racing out from the northeast bastion. Leaping onto the cab of the
Bangor
,
he roared with delight as Malady set the throttle down. The engine strained with the load, its wheels spinning, and then with a lurch the train pushed forward and started clicking down the tracks. Its whistle shrieking, the engine picked up speed, the militiamen swarming down toward the breach leaping to either side as the train, bearing its two metal-shrouded cars ahead and behind the engine, tore down the track.

The press of men around the track grew thicker by the minute, shouting and screaming as waves of arrows slashed into their ranks, while buildings to either side roared into flames. Coming around a bend between two infernos, consuming now-empty warehouses, O'Donald saw their goal a quarter mile away.

"Christ in heaven, Malady,
get
us there," O'Donald cried.

Crawling out of the cab, O'Donald climbed along the side of the engine, hanging on to the railing as the engine jostled and swayed. Steel-tipped shafts slammed against the engine, striking sparks. Reaching the front coupling, he leaped onto the car ahead of the train and clambered on top.

The track ahead was aswarm with men, who struggled to clear a way, the engine now going ahead at a crawl, its whistle shrieking incessantly.

"Clear it, goddammit!" O'Donald screamed. "Clear a way!"

Gradually they pushed forward, yet at the same time it seemed as if the battle was rushing outward to them as well.

Militia units started to break, struggling vainly to get out of the way of the dark horde. Hundreds of Tugars were now leaping over the battlement, oblivious to loss.

The train hit a low trestle that spanned a broad shallow gully and started to pick up speed again. When it reached the other side, the press of bodies started to give way as militiamen now pushed to the edge of panic started streaming by in the opposite direction.

A lone Tugar stood on the track, staring wide-eyed at the train. Raising his spear, he hurled it at O'Donald, who, ducking
low,
fired off a shot, sending the warrior staggering to one side.

The train hit the edge of the breach, so that ahead and to the left there was only a thin line of militia giving way, under the inexorable weight of the charge.

"Stop it here, Malady!"

There were still militiamen forward, fighting desperately, but he couldn't wait.

"Get down!" O'Donald screamed. "Get down!"

Those who could see or hear what was about to occur dived to the ground, covering their heads, but not all were aware of what was happening behind them.

"God forgive me," O'Donald whispered, crossing
himself
, and then, reaching down, he pulled open the hatch between his feet.

"Open up and let the bastards have it!"

The sides of the car dropped open, revealing the muzzles of four Napoleons.

A deafening roar snapped out, the guns firing in sequence, the recoil knocking O'Donald off his feet, and for an instant he feared that the entire car would tumble clear off the track. The other car followed suit with its six four-pounders. Over a thousand iron balls, along with hunks of chain, glass, and scrap metal, slammed into the breach.

The enemy attack was staggered by the blow.

Racing down the length of the car, O'Donald leaped back to the engine, burning his hands when they hit the hot metal. An arrow slashed by, tearing open his sleeve, and his arm suddenly felt like ice. A sheet of arrows came in as he leaped into the cab and ducked down beside Malady.

"Keep inching her forward," O'Donald shouted.

The train rocked again as one after another the four heavy guns forward and the six to the rear repeated their performance.

Behind the train, the militia, taking heart, started to swarm back into the breach. Climbing over the wood tender, O'Donald crawled through the hatchway into the aft car.

The Suzdalian
crew were
wild with excitement, loading
their pieces, pushing them up through the hatches, and firing into the enemy at near point-blank range.

Arrows skidded in through the firing ports, finding their marks, yet as quickly as a man
fell
another leaped in to finish the task and fire once again.

"Raise your sights for the walls!" O'Donald cried. "Sweep them damn archers off!"

Moving to the first gun, he sighted down the barrel, spinning the elevation gear down so that the barrel slowly climbed. Satisfied, he stepped back, grabbed hold of the lanyard, and gave a sharp yank. The flintlock trigger set into the breach snapped down. The gun exploded, punching out a whirling hunk of chain and nails that swept the wall clear for half a dozen paces.

Gradually the train inched forward, sewing up the breach as it passed, until finally, as they pushed their way to the edge of the parapet protecting the eastern gate, the Tugars started to break, falling back before the death-dealing dragon.

Heartened, the militia swarmed forward, oblivious to the losses caused by the arrows still raining down. From out of the gatehouse bastion a fresh regiment of musketmen swarmed, pushing up the wall to plug the hole. Within seconds their fire started to sweep outward, driving the last of the attackers back into the moat.

Covered in sweat, his face blackened with powder smoke, O'Donald crawled out of the armored car and forward to Malady, who looked at him, grinning broadly.

"Not the best ride I've had, but pretty damn close," Malady shouted, his voice pitched high like that of a man who was near deaf after the thunder of fire.

"Hold it here!" O'Donald shouted, and leaping from the train he ran toward the covered entryway into the gatehouse. A minute later he came back out, pointing southward.

"Another breach down by the
Fort
Lincoln
road!
Let's go!"

As the train pulled out, O'Donald looked back on the carnage they had wrought. For a hundred yards of line, barely a place could be found where the ground was visible. The buildings between the track and the wall were ablaze, casting their lurid light on the carnage.

So thick were the dead and wounded that O'Donald did not even notice a lone peasant who lay spread-eagled on the ground, the standard bearing the image of a mouse by his side.

"Keep pressing!"
Tula
shouted,
his voice near to breaking. "We cannot stop now—we cannot stop, do you hear me?"

The staff gazed at him, some with fear in their eyes.

Tula
looked back at Muzta, who sat expressionless on his mount.

"It is a question of who will break first, my Qarth. They cannot take this pounding much longer!"

Muzta did not even bother to spare his war leader a glance. The sun had shifted to the western sky, yet still the outer works of the cattle held. Half a dozen times they had slashed a way in only to be driven out, by the concentrated blasts of the dragon, or thunder weapons and gun men lined up behind the wall. This has got to end, it's got to end, Muzta thought grimly.

"Prepare the Olkta," Muzta said, looking at
Tula, "and send them in there," and as he spoke he pointed to the northeast bastion, wreathed in smoke. "Bring up as many catapults as possible to that position. We move in late afternoon before the sun disappears."