Fateful Lightning Page 23

  From what he judged to be four miles or more off to the north he saw them—a long line of Merki, moving southeast, swinging down toward the edge of the fire. Turning, he looked back. The other column was moving down into the valley, and beyond them a vast checkerboard array was cresting the hill which the advance guard had occupied only minutes before.

  A full umen, he realized.

  He looked back up at the aerosteamer, which was now hovering, drifting easterly. He spurred his mount again, the horse giving a cry of pain. Dennis turned the column straight toward the east and started toward it. The edge of the conflagration was straight ahead, the open steppe to the north. But far out across the steppe he saw a thin line of Merki picket riders closing the ring in. After several minutes he could see that he was clearly boxed, the fire to the east, the Merki angling in to either side, edging closer. Behind him no one needed now to be told; the men were riding hard, those with the best horses surging up around him, the weaker falling to the rear.

  A rider alongside him suddenly lost control of his mount, the horse stopping, rearing up, having stepped on a burning ember. Plumes of ash rose up around them, clouds of ash marking the Merki riders as well.

  The hard minutes passed, the horses weakening, the column slowing. The ground smoked, patches of flame still flared. They gained the next ridge. A long line of Merki was spreading out on the next hill, two miles off, with each passing second the line extending farther to the southeast. He reined in hard. He looked eastward. They were at the edge of the fire. He could try to get in front of it, go into the smoke. His mounts were exhausted—there was no possible way they could stay ahead of it all the way back to the Sangros a hundred and twenty miles away. If they stopped and tried to build a firebreak, once it cleared the Merki would be over them and his back would be to the fire again.

  They had to cut a way through to the forest, which stood out on the northern skyline, illuminated now by the low rays of the rising sun, the distant hills dark blue, inviting, offering safety.

  “Bugler sound halt!”

  The call carried down the line, the riders drawing up to Dennis, wide-eyed, confused.

  He looked back over his shoulder. The other horn of the Merki envelopment was still three or four miles off.

  “Battalion form front!”

  The troops were jumbled, confused. He should have changed formations while still moving, but it would have been impossible; the men simply were not trained for it.

  Troopers reined in, breaking from ragged column into an equally ragged line, the men fighting to control their mounts. He looked back again. Some of the men were still hundreds of yards to the rear. He couldn’t wait.

  Dennis stood up in his stirrups.

  “We’re going to charge straight through the bastards!”

  The men looked at him wide-eyed, their eyes filled with a sudden mad excitement.

  He drew his saber out of its scabbard.

  “Action to the front, forward at the trot. Follow me!”

  “No, Perm damn you, no!” Feyodor screamed. “Go into the smoke, the smoke!”

  “He thinks he can cut his way through,” Jack groaned, slamming his fist against the side of the cab.

  He was tempted to drop back down again to shout a warning, but a look over his right shoulder told him it was impossible. Five Merki ships were already across the Kennebec, still above him. Prudence told him he should turn and run for home. He couldn’t, not now.

  The massive airbag above him blocked his view straight up, but he knew that Flying Cloud II must be directly above him, providing cover. Elevator still all the way back, he continued to climb, turning his ship around, knowing that Dennis and his battalion were beyond his help.

  Gubta grinned sardonically.

  “Let them come!”

  Around him the battle chant started, stirring his blood: “Vushka, Vushka, Vushka.”

  He knew what battle sense told him he should do. But he wanted blood on his sword, for vengeance.

  He stood up tall, waving his scimitar, the red flag bearer spurring his mount out in front of the single line, waving it overhead and then pointing it straight down.

  “Vushka!”

  The Merki line charged.

  “Charge!”

  Dennis pointed his saber forward, spurring his mount, the exhausted animal offering one final spurt of energy. Around him, men with swords drew them, others unholstered their revolvers; many, still unsteady in a saddle, hung on tightly to their reins with both hands.

  A hundred yards ahead, the line of Merki came thundering down, growing larger by the second.

  It was incredible, he realized, too amazed by the sight of the charge, too carried away by the mad insane rush to feel fear. The lines closed in, Merki leaning forward, screaming hoarsely, scimitars flashing.

  A rider came straight at him, and for a brief instant he thought they’d collide. Screaming, he crouched low over his horse’s neck, sword up. The Merki filled the world before him, blade flashing. Dennis ducked low, blade cutting over his head. He felt a bone-numbing jar that almost pulled his sword from his hand, and heard a howl of pain.

  A wild insanity of noise exploded, men, Merki, horses screaming in panic, joy, pain. Mounts rearing up, a staccato burst of revolver shots snapping off. Dennis turned his mount. The two lines had gone completely through each other. To either flank he saw lines of Merki starting to swing in. But miraculously, straight ahead was clear. The Merki line they had charged through continued on, slowing, as if starting to turn, the ground between the two separating lines littered with dozens of bodies, most of them his own men.

  “Over the hill!” Dennis screamed. “Keep moving!”

  He pointed his saber forward, suddenly aware for the first time that blood was dripping off it, not sure if it was Merki, horse, or perhaps even his own.

  He urged his mount on, the guidon bearer swinging in beside him, bugler still blowing the charge. The men, seeing the way ahead clear, continued on up the slope.

  Dennis looked back over his shoulder.

  They weren’t pursuing, weren’t turning back. A deep-throated horn sounded, and a Merki standing tall in his stirrups was waving a red flag straight overhead. From the corner of his eye, Dennis saw another Merki flag bearer a quarter mile to the right flank, atop the ridge, waving a flag as well.

  The top of the crest was nearly straight ahead, and he raced toward it, dropping down into a low, nearly circular depression, and then back up a short steep rise to the top of the hill, his horse nearly losing its footing as it went up over the short steep embankment.

  Cresting the hill, he felt his heart skip over. Dennis Showalter realized with a cold sharp clarity that today he was going to die.

  A hundred yards away, at the bottom of the next valley, a solid wall of several thousand Merki was deployed.

  A dark cloud rose up from their ranks, soaring upward. Even before the wall of four-foot shafts came hurtling down he could clearly hear their whispered approach, growing louder. It appeared as if a forest of young saplings sprouted up all along the crest of the hill. Horses screamed, rearing up, riders tumbling, shouting, screaming. The charge disintegrated.

  Another wall of arrows rose up, hurtling in, the crest of the hill a mad confusion.

  Die game, dammit.

  “Dismount!” Dennis screamed.

  The bugler looked over at him in terror.

  “Goddammit, boy we’re going to die here. At least let’s try to shoot some of the bastards first! Dismount!”

  The final call sounded. Many of his men were already down on the ground, dead, wounded.

  Jack tossed his sword away and leaped down from his mount, pulling his Sharps out of its scabbard. He looked at his horse for a second, filled with a sudden pain. He’d be damned if they’d ever ride her again. Unholstering his revolver, he shot the horse in the head. The animal collapsed.

  “Shoot your horses, use them for cover!”

  Around him was mad confusion.
Another pistol shot sounded, the guidon bearer killing his mount, the animal kicking backward, nearly collapsing on top of Dennis. More shots rang out, animals going down, men lying down behind the still-quivering horses. There was the click of rifle breeches opening, and the first heavy crack of a carbine cut the air.

  Some of the men, mad with panic, turned and tried to ride off back to the east.

  “Damn you, stand and die!” Dennis screamed. The rush of men thundered past, followed by riderless horses and a number of men on foot.

  Back down the slope, a section of Merki broke from the line which was deploying out into a solid circle encompassing the beleaguered cavalrymen. Dennis could hear their sharp barking shouts of laughter as they rode to intercept the fleeing men, cutting out in front and then closing the net. Pistol shots rang out, the Merki staying back, firing arrows while at a full gallop, men pitching from the horses. The few who had tried to escape on foot turned and started back up the slope. None made it. The Merki swarmed in on the half a hundred men who had tried to flee, scimitars flashing.

  The curtain of arrows continued to thunder down. No one was still mounted. The top of the hill was littered with the dark forms of dead horses and the blue-clad bodies of what were now mostly the dead or dying cavalrymen.

  Another volley came in, and Dennis ducked down low against the belly of his horse and came back up. Several arrows were now buried in the animal’s flank. He raised his carbine and fired, unable to miss, so thick were the Merki at the bottom of the hill.

  He stood up, crouching low, and started to move down the line, pulling a section of men in to cover the south side, positioning his men in a circle in the small depression near the crest of the hill. The Merki broke off from volleys, firing independently. A continual rain of arrows came in, the line which had charged them and the flanking units now adding their weight, shafts screaming in from every direction.

  Dennis looked back to the south. A heavy line of Merki was charging down the opposite slope, the other horn of the closing trap, not much more than a mile away.

  Carbine fire crackled along the line. The men armed with shotguns raised their weapons high to fire, reloading with round ball to increase the range.

  He felt a stunning blow that nearly turned him half around. An arrow had gone clean through his shoulder. He straightened and continued on, feeling lightheaded, his knees weak, as if he were about to faint.

  He looked up and suddenly realized there was another battle going on overhead, five Merki aerosteamers swinging about, the smaller steamers of his own side wheeling about, circling.

  I should have been a flier, he thought wistfully.

  He could see that the fire of his own side was weakening. For every man still fighting, two or three to either side were dead or wounded.

  God forgive me for what I have to do now, he thought, feeling his voice go tight.

  “Shoot the wounded,” he shouted. “For God’s sake don’t let anyone get taken alive by those bastards. Save the last round for yourselves.”

  The men looked up at him.

  Dennis hesitated. A Rus trooper lay before him, an arrow sticking out of his chest, another pinning his leg to the ground.

  “Forgive me,” Dennis whispered, and to his horror the man made the sign of the cross, forced a smile, and then closed his eyes.

  Dennis pointed his revolver at the man’s forehead and fired.

  He looked back up at his men, who were finally stirred to action.

  Revolver shots started to snap. His eyes clouded with tears when he saw two boys, whom he knew were brothers, embrace, the older of the two shooting the younger even while he held him. The boy didn’t hesitate, putting the gun to his own head and firing.

  Dennis suddenly found himself looking straight up at the sky, an aerosteamer filling his vision, flame pouring out of it. Ours? theirs? I’m lying down, he realized. Why?

  He tried to sit up, the feathered tip of an arrow now blocking his view, a flame of agony causing him to try to double up, the arrow quivering as his movement caused it to cut deeper into his chest.

  He screamed, tasting blood.

  Pistol shots still echoed. A boy was praying, another singing defiantly, others crying, shouting.

  He rolled onto his side and came back up onto his knees, screaming in agony.

  Beside him the guidon bearer was dead, flagstaff planted into the ground, yellow banner fluttering in the morning breeze. The bugler lay spread-eagled on the ground, his features almost serene, as if asleep. A Rus trooper was kneeling beside them, on his knees, praying, making the sign of the cross, and then with shaking hand putting a revolver to his temple. Dennis looked away.

  The ground started to thunder, shake, and he looked back up.

  A solid wall of Merki closed in, coming up the slope, swords flashing, their harsh barking laughter filling his world.

  He tried to struggle to his feet, to face it.

  There was a final flurry, a few shots, a man standing up with carbine raised, screaming his defiance, a trooper kneeling beside him trying to aim a pistol at the charge, blood-soaked hands shaking.

  Dennis Showalter raised his revolver and pointed at the charging line, squeezing off a final round. The Merki filled his world, a high standard adorned with human skulls his entire universe.

  He turned his revolver, putting it to his temple.

  Suppose it’s empty, he thought. He squeezed the trigger.

  Fortunately the gun was still loaded.

  Jack tore his concentration away from his own fight to look back down. The solid wall of Merki came up the slope, a few puffs of smoke from pistol or rifle shots flashing out, the ground below covered with blue-clad bodies and dead horses. The charge pressed in, sweeping over the crest, swords flashing, the massed Merki covering the earth, Showalter’s command disappearing from view.

  A snapping jar cracked through his ship, splinters and torn fabric blowing out the port side twenty feet ahead. He looked back to starboard, where he saw the Merki aerosteamer passing him in the opposite direction. Feyodor aimed his swivel gun and fired. The spray of canister slammed into the Merki ship directly above the pilot, who ducked down low while his companion started to reload.

  There was a flash of fire, and Jack turned to look back to the left.

  An enemy aerosteamer was coming down, flame roaring out of it with an inferno-like intensity, the Merki pilot leaping out, wrapped in fire, plummeting down.

  “That’s it, burn!” Jack screamed.

  The airship continued down, the Merki on the ground scattering as the ship crashed on the crest of the hill less than a hundred yards from where Showalter’s command had died. A number of Merki, unable to get out of the way, were caught in the conflagration.

  “It’s Flying Cloud!” Feyodor screamed, and for an instant Jack thought that his companion was shouting an acknowledgment of the kill.

  Jack looked back and to his horror saw Flying Cloud coming down, nose pointed straight at the ground, the entire aft end of the ship exploding with flames. For a brief instant he saw the pilot, Sergei, his hand raised to Jack in a defiant salute.

  The ship continued down, flame pouring out in a long blue tongue more than a hundred yards in length. The forward half of the ship impacted in the valley where Showalter had gone into his final charge. A massive fireball erupted heavenward, mushrooming out, the wicker framework of the ship glowing hotly like a skeleton of some great beast now made of fire, collapsing in upon itself.

  He couldn’t mourn, not now, not for Dennis, Sergei, any of them in this madness. Hands still on the controls, he looked back to the other side. The enemy ship was ponderously turning, the gunner working to reload. Forward to the southeast he could see two of the ships going for height. He had lost track of China Star and wasn’t even sure if she was in the fight. The other ship might still be above him. A quick look forward told him they were leaking gas, Fortunately it hadn’t been a straight-down shot from above or they’d never get back to base.
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  It was time to get out.

  He hit the rudder hard, the ship slowly turning broadside to the wind, and then turning to the northeast, wind at their back. If he couldn’t get back he wanted to go down in the forest, where at least they’d have a chance.

  “We’re getting the hell out of here!” Jack shouted.

  He felt another shudder but couldn’t tell where the hit was. The nose of his ship was at nearly a forty-five degree climb. Leaning out of the cab, he looked up and saw the Merki ship off to his right, ready to block his escape toward home. He continued his turn, now heading straight north, aiming for the forest.

  The gun behind him thumped, Feyodor trying a long-distance shot at their last target. Seconds later he heard a return shot scream past, missing.

  Jack looked back down as the scene of the massacre drifted astern. The two aerosteamers were burning fiercely. He saw the blue-clad bodies of the men already being carried off. He turned away, trying to blot the image out, to concentrate on his own survival.

  Tamuka looked up at the battle raging overhead and back at the raging fires of the two cloud fliers.

  The loss of another ship had dulled the sense of triumph which had swept into his soul, causing him to lead the final charge personally. Around the burning ship, injured warriors were being pulled back, and already he could see that he had lost more there than in the destruction of the cattle horse riders, the airship crashing down upon a block of a warriors who were riding up to share in the final triumph.

  “A good fight,” Gubta shouted, edging his way through the press, bloodied sword still in hand.

  The commander of the Vushka, as was his right, pointed out a body to claim for his own, and a warrior on foot threw it up over the rump of Gubta’s horse.

  “Make sure everything is taken,” Tamuka ordered. “Every one of their guns, the ammunition, everything.”

  He looked at the hundreds of dead horses, raging at the slaughter, which was beyond his comprehension—to kill one’s own mount was beneath the honor of a warrior. Horses were the booty of battle, the taking of the horse by the victor a payment by the vanquished for the release of his soul into the next world.