Men of War Page 23

  “The humans you sent in secret to kill their president and Keane, a masterful move,” Zartak said.

  Even now that might be working, Jurak thought. A few additional refugees slipped across the line, trained and conditioned, knowing that if they did not come back within three moon feasts their entire families would die in the next one.

  “Yet never did I see this coming.”

  “Your dream of last night,” Zartak said, “it was a portent. You have the power, you know.”

  If I have the power, he wondered, then why do all the paths ahead now seem equally dark.

  “You told me that you have a weapon that can burn entire cities in one blinding flash. Could you make one now? That would end this.”

  Jurak was surprised at the casual mention of such a fearsome weapon.

  “No, that is the work of thousands, tens of thousands,” Jurak replied, his voice distant.

  To get these primitives to the point where they could make a magnetic separator, let alone a breeder reactor, maybe in a thousand years perhaps. As for the science? I can figure out how to make explosives, even a lathe to turn out guns, but that?

  And even if I did, he thought, would I unleash such a horror on this world?

  “The Yankees will make one someday,” Zartak announced.

  That thought had never crossed his mind. Yes, they most likely would. They were makers of machines, and machines begot more machines.

  “And this attack from Tyre?” Zartak asked, suddenly shifting the conversation back to more immediate concerns.

  “It might be a diversion, but if they gain the western shore of the Great Sea, create a base, combine that with ships captured from Xi’an, we are finished on this front. That was masterful as well. Letting us see it coming. The ironclads we sent from Xi’an, if they were there now, tonight, we would crush the rebellion.”

  “But the new railroad coming up from Nippon and connecting across the north of the Great Sea is finished. We won’t need the Sea.”

  Jurak shook his head. Here it was obvious that Zartak was thinking only as a warrior who fought on land and had never before faced a naval force.

  “We must hold the Sea. If they take the rail line we were building toward Tyre and combine that with holding Xi’an, they can move reinforcements up. I suspect that is why they are moving one of their corps overland along with the ironclads. If they’ve captured ships at Xi’an, they could have that equipment in Camagan within three days. Or they could strike us from behind, or even range northward, landing'troops to cut the new rail line along the northern shore. We have to crush the rebellion in Xi’an and at the same time beat back this attacking force.”

  Zartak slowly nodded in agreement.

  “Or send it straight into the heart of the Chin realm, toward Huan.”

  Jurak sighed, looking back at the map in the middle of the yurt.

  “What will they do next?” Jurak whispered, more to himself than his companion.

  Zartak stood up and looked at the map.

  “I think the one they call Hans is leading this,” Zartak said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  He smiled. “Call it that sense we believe in.”

  Hans. The thought chilled Jurak as he stared at the map. “If it is Hans, what do you think he’ll do next?” Jurak finally asked, looking back at his old friend.

  Zartak walked up to the map and jabbed at it with a bony finger.

  “He’ll go here. Straight for the heart. Why they did not do that in their first strike is beyond me.”

  “Most likely their flying machines could not range that far and carry enough men.”

  “If that is so, then by flying out of Xi’an such a move would now be possible. He will do this come first light tomorrow. What you saw at Roum, what is happening today at Xi’an. Tomorrow it will erupt there.”

  Jurak felt a cold chill.

  “We still have the railroad back to Nippon and from there back into the land of the Chin,” Zartak said, tracing the route out on the map. “The humans most likely don’t even know we completed that. Supplies can be shifted that way. Order every train on that line to reverse itself, to go back. There are two umens in Nippon with modern arms; send them down at once.”

  Jurak worked out the mental calculations, the number of trains that were moving those two umens up to the front. “They could be back in Huan by tomorrow night.”

  “Alert the commander of the city. Have him round up the human leaders. Have him make it clear that if the Yankees land and the local population does not join in the rebellion, they will all be spared. If they do join, all will die.”

  Jurak was surprised by the forcefulness of his voice. He nodded in agreement.

  “I’m going back there. I wanted to check with you first, but just in case I already ordered the track to be cleared and a train prepared.”

  The pieces seemed to be falling into place. He looked at his desk piled high with the messages of the day, and his thoughts focused on one in particular.

  “Did you know that Tamuka rode into Huan this morning?” Jurak asked.

  Zartak stiffened.

  “The usurper. The old Qar Qarth of the Merki?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is a mad beast. Why did he go there?”

  “I had a report that the Merki who were following him finally rebelled and drove him out. I assumed he had been killed or taken the honorable path and fallen upon his sword.”

  “You should have told me of this, my friend. Tamuka has not the courage to rid the world of his presence.”

  “When I heard that he was seen this morning I assumed he was riding east, perhaps even to join the Tugars in the empty lands to the east.”

  “Or to make problems for you. That is the more likely path.”

  “And he has wandered straight to where the fight will be tomorrow,” Jurak replied. “Are the gods of our fate spinning a thread here?”

  “I hope not. Order the commander there to seize him, kill him if need be.”

  Jurak nodded. He heard a train whistle sounding from the rail yard. Seconds later there was a clatter of hooves, his escort guards coming to tell him that the track ahead was clear and it was time to leave.

  “I’d best be leaving, old friend.”

  “By train, it will take days.”

  “Only till dawn. I’ve ordered a flyer to be waiting for me 150 leagues east of here. The train will reach there by dawn, and I’ll fly the rest of the way.”

  Zartak chuckled.

  “Better you than me. The only time I intend to fly is when my ancestors summon me home.”

  He scratched his balding mane.

  “Soon enough it will be, but not too soon. I wish to see how this all will end.”

  “I want you to command here, to press an attack.”

  “We’re not ready.”

  “Get ready, and press it. I would prefer this morning if possible.”

  Zartak shook his head.

  “The ironclads we diverted to Carnagan. We’ll need those. You’ll remember they started landing this afternoon.”

  Jurak sighed.

  “I don’t have time now for the details. Have the messages I’ve left on my desk sent. Send instructions to Huan as we discussed and one to Carnagan that they must press the attack there tomorrow and finish it. At least we can smash that army, then we launch the attack here. Win or lose at Huan, we smash their armies before they realize what they’ve accomplished and we can still win in spite of this setback.”

  Zartak formally bowed, and again the old roles were assumed.

  “My Qar Qarth. The machine of steam awaits you.” It was one of his guards, waiting respectfully outside the yurt. “So you see no alternatives other than this,” Jurak asked, dropping his voice, gaze locked on Zartak. “A war of total annihilation of one or the other.”

  “For the sake of an old friend of my youth, I wish I could,” Zartak whispered. “No. And I think she knew that, too. We and they are boun
d together in this world, and only one shall emerge triumphant.”

  “Then let it be us,” Jurak said coldly.

  Chapter Ten

  Though numbed with exhaustion Hans still felt a fierce exultation. Grim though war was, there were indeed moments, that in spite of the tragedy, nevertheless held a soul-stirring drama to them.

  During the night the Bantag had tried three assaults to break into the liberated city of Xi’an. The third assault had actually gotten over the walls until it was finally cut off by a reserve of several hundred Chin armed with revolvers hauled in by the airships. Most of them barely knew how to shoot their weapons, most of them died, but the Bantag died with them.

  Standing outside the wall, he looked back at the city. It was burning out of control, a vast pillar of light, like out of some biblical story, marking a place of vengeance and liberation, the flames a holy purging that would wipe away the stain of bondage.

  He felt strangely different this morning. It wasn’t just the exhaustion, or the gnawing pain in his chest. It was the fact that with his decision to press the attack the very nature of the war had changed within him and within his men. It was no longer a desperate defensive lunge to hold on to what they held. It was now truly a war of liberation, an all-or-nothing throw of the dice. He was never one for the false heroics of battle—he had always felt himself to be beyond such idiotic notions—but at that moment, as he watched the city burn, he felt a strange exultation, as if his small army was an avenging host going forth to purge this world of its sin.

  He nudged the flanks of his mount, a Bantag warhorse, the saddle far too big, the animal as exhausted as he was, and therefore docile. They slowly weaved their way through the wreckage of the rail yard east of the city. A string of boxcars still burned fiercely, thick oily smoke tumbling skyward, the air heavy with the smell of burning meat. Bantag rations. He preferred to think that it was salted beef, taken from the bisonlike herds that roamed the steppes in this part of the world, or even salted horse. The idea that they might actually slaughter humans, salt them down, and package them the same way his own army prepared rations was too horrid to contemplate.

  The wind shifted, the black cloud enveloping him for a moment, and he gagged on the smell. He nudged his mount again, cleared the smoke, and reined in for a moment. A knot of Chin were gathered around a shed by the side of the track. They were shouting, cursing. He drew closer. Three Bantag had been cornered inside, all of them wounded. They were dying slowly under the kicks and blows.

  Hans spotted one of his own men, a Chin in uniform, and roared at him to finish the wounded off. The soldier saluted, drew his revolver, and pushed his way through the crowd. Hans rode on, barely noticing the crack of the pistol behind him.

  Discarded equipment littered the rail yard, broken rifles, an upended box of cartridges, an overturned caisson, shells lying on the ground, a fieldpiece on its side, a stack of saddles smoldering, bundles of arrows, smashed-open barrels leaking oil, kerosene, flour, what even smelled like the rice wine of the Chin, and everywhere bodies, Bantag and human. All of it was illuminated by the lurid red glare of the city burning, a glow so bright he could have easily read one of Gates’s papers, reminding him of the night Fredericksburg burned just prior to the assault.

  The troops he had brought in were hard at work. Each man was now in charge of a unit of ten, sheperding them along, organizing details to pick up discarded equipment that might be useful, a group of them on their hands and knees picking up cartridges spilled from an ammunition box. One sergeant, a survivor of the escape from the factory prison the year before, had his men broken into two-man teams. One man was supposed to stand stock-still while the second man rested the barrel of a Bantag rifle on his shoulder, aimed, and shot. It looked ludicrous but the damn idea actually worked, enabling the diminutive and emaciated Chin actually to use the enemy weapons. They gleefully fired away, sniping at a scattering of Bantag who still lingered on the far side of the rail yard.

  If he had the time there was enough captured artillery here to field several batteries, but the thought was absurd. They might get one or two shots off, but anything beyond point-blank range was hopeless. Down deep he knew the entire idea was next to hopeless. It was one thing to come swooping in as they did, trigger a rebellion, and overwhelm the local garrison. If they ever had to face a disciplined umen of Bantag warriors, it would be a massacre.

  The trick was to keep moving, to roll them up before they had time to react. He had to keep moving in spite of his exhaustion.

  He rode around a line of half a dozen flatcars on a siding A couple of hundred Chin were piled on board, half of them armed with the precious revolvers carried in on the airships, others simply carrying makeshift spears, poles with a knife strapped to the end. As he rode past the engine he recognized one of his comrades, yet another survivor of the prison.

  “Ready to go back?” Hans asked.

  The old man flashed a grin.

  “I know this machine. Remember ride to there.” He gestured off to the south, where half a dozen miles away they had holed up after the escape. “I run it good.”

  Hans leaned up, shook the man’s hand, and rode on.

  Four trains were lined up, four engines pulling a total of thirty flatcars and boxcars, all of them crammed with over fifteen hundred Chin. The vast majority knew damn little of what they were doing. A day ago they were slaves, knowing that they’d live only as long as they could work. Now they were loaded aboard trains heading east, straight into the heart of the Bantag realm. If they had any sense about it at all, they undoubtedly knew they were going to die. He could see the fear and resignation with many, torn away from a numbed life, but a life nevertheless. A few were afire with the desire for revenge, clutching the pistols given out, holding them up as Hans passed, making him nervous. Several men had already been killed by accident.

  Reaching the forward engine, he returned the salute of Seetu, one of Ketswana’s men, who overnight had been promoted from sergeant to commander of an expedition. “Ready?” Hans asked.

  Seetu nodded eagerly.

  “All the engines are fired up. A couple of these Chin worked the rail line, so they know how to run the engines and what’s ahead.”

  “Remember. Until it’s full light, take it slow. If anyone up there’s thinking, they’ll have broken the track. At each junction or station you pass, make sure you cut the telegraph line. Round up any Chin you meet; if you capture any more trains, take them along.”

  “We’ll go all the way to Huan.”

  Hans said nothing.

  “This is gonna be the hard part, Seetu. I want you to get as far forward as you can. But remember, they might cut you off from behind once you pass. If you can get thirty or forty miles up that track and start tearing things up, it’ll buy a couple of days for the men here to get organized.” Seetu said nothing.

  “Son, I won’t lie. There isn’t much hope you’ll get through this one. They’ll most likely lay a trap, let you pass, cut the rail ahead and behind, then box you in and finish you. Try and spot that, stop, then slowly pull back, tearing up track, burning bridges as you go. If they do trap you,” he hesitated, “well, take as many of the bastards with you as you can and smash everything up good and proper.”

  “I was dead anyhow a year ago,” Seetu replied. “Every day you gave me since is extra gift from the gods. Hans, I’m not stopping. Expect to see me in Huan tomorrow.” Hans leaned up and shook his hand.

  He rode on. Strange how we all feel that way, he thought. You come back from the grave and after that, well it’s a gift. Hans turned his mount back and slowly trotted out of the rail yard, weaving his way past a skirmish line of Chin moving through the still-burning ruins of a Bantag encampment of wooden barracks.

  So they were even giving up their yurts. Strange, the vast circular buildings were wooden replicas of their tents. Yet another changing over to human ways. The Chin were little better than a swarming mob, led by half a dozen of his soldiers, wh
o were desperately shouting orders, trying to create some semblance of organization.

  It was the shock of the air assault, the riot of the tens of thousands in Xi’an, that had won this fight, Hans realized. Sheer numbers had dragged the Bantag down. He wondered how many were still lurking out beyond the city and the surrounding warehouses and encampments.

  As if in answer to his question a rifle ball slapped past. There were shouts ahead, a flurry of pistol shots. He rode on.

  Reaching the base of the eastern wall, he gingerly rode around mounds of Bantag killed trying to retake the city. A damned stupid assault. They should have just sat back, waited for reinforcements, then shelled the place until the defenders panicked. Stupid arrogance to attack like that.

  Riding along the wall, he reached the northern side of the city. In the glare of the inferno the airfield was clearly silhouetted. The machines were lined up, engines turning over. Jack, spotting his approach, slowly walked up.

  “I’m going to make this formal,” Jack announced, while reaching up to help Hans get off his horse.

  “I know, I know.” Hans sighed.

  “My crews and machines are finished. We were circling this damned town half the night while the fighting was going on down here.” He gestured to the bodies that littered the perimeter of the airstrip.

  “Then we come back in and land again, losing three more ships. Hans, I'm down to twenty-two aerosteamers, an average of two hundred Gatling rounds per gun.”

  “At least you got fuel,” Hans replied, nodding toward the empty barrels that had been saved from a burning train.

  “Yeah, great.”

  Hans wearily sat down on the grass, lowering his head for a moment. Again, the shortness of breath, the flutter of pain.

  Jack knelt by his side.

  “Hans? You all right?”

  He looked up bleakly.

  “No. I don’t think so, to tell you the truth.”

  “Hans, you need some rest. Everyone here needs rest. The men are staggering around like the walking dead. I’m going to ask this one last time. We’ve got Xi’an. Hole up here. I’ll take the airships back to Tyre. We’ll refit, load up on hydrogen we desperately need, and be back in two days with reinforcements.”