Firestorm

CHAPTER 14

New Ireland

M ajor Chack-Sab-At loved horses. Before he and his mixed “division” came ashore at the New Ireland town of Bray the night before, he’d never ridden an animal in his life; not a brontasarry, a paalka, and certainly not one of the terrifying me-naaks, or “meanies,” the Fil-pin cavalry used. He’d never had occasion to ride the first two, and he had no inclination to ride the latter. With his background as a wing runner of the People, he’d never imagined a reason to climb atop any animal before, but a Marine Major commanding almost two thousand troops needed mobility, and he’d been introduced to horses. He was entranced by the novelty of the experience. To sit upon so large a creature-that had absolutely no desire to eat him-and with which he could actually communicate after a fashion, gave him a feeling of warm benevolence toward the animal. He’d never understood the human preoccupation with “pets”; no Lemurian did. But though he was given to understand horses weren’t exactly pets, he began to grasp the attraction of “having” a companion animal that could think for itself to a degree. He’d heard a great deal about “dogs” and understood humans were particularly fond of them, but none existed in the isles. There were small cats, which did bear a vague resemblance to his people but no more than the pesky forest monkeys did to humans (or again to his own people). He finally knew where the human “Cat-monkey-Monkey-cat” diminutive for his People came from but he didn’t mind, despite the fact that he’d seen no evidence the little cats that roamed wild on New Scotland even had brains… but horses! He patted “his” animal on the neck.

He suspected by its twitchy responses to the distant, muffled booming that it was growing nervous. Chack doubted the hundred-odd horses attached to his “division” were alone in that. Many of his troops-virtually all the Imperials-had never faced combat. The first of his two regiments was composed of the remnants of his platoon from Walker and the Marine contingents from Simms, Mertz, Tindal, and the oilers. Some were hardened veterans, and he counted heavily on them to steady the two hundred completely green Imperial Marines attached to the regiment. The second regiment was almost entirely Imperial, but had a lot of the men who’d fought at the Dueling Grounds. All were “marching to the sound of the guns” in a sense, because the wind brought the heavy reports of the New Dublin defenses about fifteen miles east, over the Sperrin Mountains, and deposited the sound in such a way that it seemed to lie before them.

Chack knew it was an illusion, but there were enemies ahead, moving to resist “Major” Blair’s assault on the “Irish” town of Waterford on the banks of Lake Shannon. Blair had landed four days before, south of the west-coast town of Cork, just as planned. The landing caught the inhabitants completely by surprise, and, after a short, sharp action, the town was in Allied hands. Blair was greeted as a liberator by the inhabitants, cheering and weeping with relief. Cork was a fishing village of indentured females, mostly, but several hundred “True Irish” Company troops and a contingent of Dominion “Salvadores” had been billeted there, going about their grisly “pacification, conversion, and reeducation” process. Hundreds in the town had already been slain and their bodies carried away. This last act had been just as cruel and apparently irrational as the murders themselves.

In any event, the plan seemed to be working. Blair’s capture of Cork had drawn rebel troops from Easky, Bray, and Waterford down upon him, and he met them with prepared positions in Cork and on both sides of a pass through the Wiklow Mountains. Not only had he been punishing the enemy severely, he’d drawn all attention other than that focused on the fleet offshore of New Dublin, and Chack’s division had virtually strolled ashore at Bray. The reception there was similar to the one Blair received except there’d been no fight at all. The “garrison” had gone to Waterford in response to Blair’s attack at Cork. Chack’s most immediate problem after landing had been convincing the locals that he and his Lemurian troops weren’t “demons” and were there to help-and to keep them from lynching ayone suspected of collaborating with the Doms. His division had swelled by several hundred “auxiliaries” who knew the island intimately and who, regardless of their former leanings or associations with the Company, were practically rabid to destroy the murderous Doms.

Chack now had a great deal of experience with “plans,” but he was increasingly optimistic. Nobody knew what the enemy had at New Dublin. Doubtless, the bulk of the Dom troops and rebels were there, but their attention was fixed for now, and Chack’s scouts reported no effort to force the bottleneck between the northern Sperrin Mountains and the sea. As far as they knew, only whatever enemy troops might be in the western “panhandle” city of Belfast were unaccounted for.

Major Alister Jindal, commander of the Imperial regiment and Chack’s exec, galloped up alongside the shorter ’Cat and stopped his horse. Chack couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s horsemanship-and the animal’s willing cooperation.

“Good aafternoon, Major Jindal,” Chack said pleasantly. He liked Jindal, and the two had worked well together in preparation for this operation. Some Imperials still had reservations about the Alliance, and a few were openly antagonistic toward the Lemurians in particular, refusing to serve with them and unwilling to take orders from them under any circumstances. Governor-Emperor McDonald couldn’t fire them all, but he could put them to use where their attitudes wouldn’t be a distraction. Jindal was a good friend of Blair’s and perfectly prepared to accept Chack’s more experienced command.

“Good afternoon, Major Chack,” Jindal said, grinning. Chack had halted his horse under the shade of a massive tree of some kind; it looked much like a Galla, except for the leaves. Despite the wind that brought them the sounds of battle to the east, it was hot and sultry in the valley between the two craggy mountain ranges, and the dense forest harbored more than enough moisture to make the day oppressive. He’d been watching his division pass by. The Lemurian Marines wore one uniform, but probably represented every member of the Alliance. Some “artiller-ists” in the uniforms of various Army regiments walked or trotted alongside their paalka-drawn guns. The “tried and true” split-trail six-pounders were still moved by a single animal, but the new twelve-pounder field guns used a single stock trail and limber hitched to a team of paalkas. Horses pulled the Imperial artillery, and Chack considered that a waste. Even in the Empire, horses were rare, and paalkas were stronger, if slower. He foresaw a thriving horse/paalka trade.

Imperial Marines in their red coats with yellow facings marched side by side in column with Lemurian Marines in their white leather armor and blue kilts. Black tricorns and shakos contrasted with polished bronze “doughboy” helmets. The colorful nature of the force gave a festive impression, but there was no doubt it meant business. The Lemurian Marines had grown accustomed to war and the associated hardship and discipline. Even in this foreign land with its strange creatures and people, they knew what to do, even if the enemy was different. The Imperials didn’t have the experience or training, but they were motivated. Nearly all the Marines, Lemurian and human, were armed with muskets; Imperial flintlocks and “Baalkpan Armory” caplocks were all brightly polished and glittered silver as they swayed to the marching cadence under the hot afternoon sun.

“It’s a lovely sight,” Jindal said, mirroring Chack’s thoughts.

“It is,” he agreed. “Lovely, stirring… and terrible all at once.”

Jindal hesitated. “I’m… glad you’re here.”

Chack looked at him, surprised. His tail flicked alongside his right leg. That was one problem with riding horses. The saddle made his tail very uncomfortable, and he was constantly adjusting his kilt to maintain his modesty. Lemurians didn’t care as much about such things as humans, but even among them, it was undignified to run around with one’s “ass hanging out.”

“I’m not,” he said with a snort. “As you may have gathered, I consider this something of a ‘sideshow’ in a more important war… but it has become part of that war, regardless.”

“All the more reason I’m glad you’re here,” Jindal said.

Chack barked a laugh. “Thank you for that. It’s nice to be appreciated!” His tone grew somber. “And in truth, I don’t mind it much. I’ve developed my own… dislike… of these ‘Doms’ and their Company rebel… tools.”

“I can imagine!’ Jindal blurted. Blair had described the action at the Dueling Grounds in considerable detail.

Chack’s attention was diverted by a figure on a horse, racing toward them on the opposite side of the column. The animal jarred to a stop, and he was amazed to see Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar sitting atop as if she’d been riding horses all her life.

“Make way,” she shouted, and forced the horse through the marching troops. Reining in before Chack and Jindal, she saluted.

“How did you learn to control that animal so?” Chack demanded.

“I practiced, sir,” she answered simply. “Beg pardon, but scouts have encountered enemy pickets on the road ahead.” She paused. “They could have brushed them aside, but they left them be, per your orders. They were probably seen.”

“Any contact with Blair yet?”

“No, sir.”

Chack considered and wished again they had the new field communications equipment First Fleet had deployed. Soon they would, reportedly with the arrival of Maaka-Kakja. They’d managed only about five miles the night before, and they’d pushed on early that morning with little sleep. So far, they’d made eight or nine miles that day, but with the heat and humidity, he wasn’t sure his division was ready for a major pitched battle without some rest. “Let’s have a look,” he decided. “Stay back, Major Jindal, but push more scouts ahead on the flanks. We need to coordinate with Blair-and make sure there’s nothing moving up on the left. We want to draw defenders out of New Dublin, but not many, not yet.” His tail swished impatiently. “I do wish we had some ‘air,’ as Captain Reddy would say.” He shook his head. “Not for a few days yet, according to the last reports, so we’ll just have to muddle along the old-fashioned way for now.” He looked around at the confining forest alongside the road. “Be ready to go from column into line,” he said. “It will be hard, but do the best you can. The terrain should open up soon, closer to the town, I believe. If you have no word from me by then, deploy the troops at that point, regardless. But watch the flanks!” He nodded at Blas. “Come,” he said. “Show me.”

They trotted forward, Chack a little unsteady on his mount, parallel to the marching infantry and creaking guns. A sudden flurry of shots echoed in the woods ahead. Instead of dying away, however, such as would have happened if it had been just more pickets and scouts, the shooting intensified.

“It would seem someone has run into someone else,›

“What are you doing, sir?” Blas asked.

“I want to go forward and see what’s happening, but I don’t want this animal shot!”

“Major, we’re on the verge of a ‘meeting engagement’ as General Alden would call it. For the first time, we’re stumbling into a battle we know almost nothing about. You must stay on your horse so you can move quickly from one place to another. That’s why you have him!”

“But…” He looked at the horse. “ He didn’t volunteer to fight

… did he?”

“Do paalkas volunteer?” Blas retorted. Chack started to reply that it wasn’t the same, but Blas had already moved forward. The firing ahead continued to build; dull, thumping crackles of musketry. The troops around them on the road started to trot in response to orders shouted in two languages. The column began shaking out into a ragged line in the trees, facing south, and NCOs shouted and shoved men and ’Cats into position. Chack glanced behind him and saw the rest of the column had ground to a halt. Blas is right, he thought, patting the horse again. I have to stay mounted and find out what’s happening. He urged the horse forward with his heels.

Musket balls voomed through the woods, thwacking into trees and causing a gentle rain of leaves.

“Major!” Blas called. She was leaning over in her saddle, speaking to an Imperial lieutenant.

Chack joined them, and the Imperial lieutenant saluted excitedly. The former wing runner had gained a reputation much larger than his stature, and sitting calmly on a horse with musket balls whizzing by only reinforced it in this man’s eyes.

“Are you in command here?” Chack asked.

“No, sir. Captain Morris commanding Company E of the Fifth, and Company C of your own Second, sent me. They’re in contact with the enemy!”

“I can hear that. What does he face and how did he come to be engaged so closely?”

“Their pickets fled and when we advanced, we ran into a blocking force on the Waterford road.”

The musketry redoubled, and two thunderclaps stirred the brush and loosed more leaves.

“Six-pounders,” Chack decided. “Ours. Your captain Morris must be fully engaged and at least partially deployed. What have we run into, and why were our pickets and scouts not between us?”

“The scouts were… elsewhere,” the lieutenant admitted. “Captain Morris believes we face at least two companies, perhaps a regiment.”

“Artillery?”

“None yet, but it will doubtless arrive soon.”

Chack nodded. “Then we must displace them. They must’ve been expecting us, but maybe not this fast. If we give them time to dig in, this will be a costly fight.” He looked west, toward the mountains he couldn’t see through the trees. “And we have no contact with Major Blair-but he must see this fight; the rising smoke…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want this yet. I wanted to draw troops from in front of Blair but leave them confused about our movements, spread them out. That’s over. The fight has begun. I won’t ask troops to attack ‘gently’ to buy time with their lives.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Tell Captain Morris that the rest of the regiment is coming up. I’ll be there directly myself. In the meantime, he’ll reinforce the companies now in contact and extend his left with an eye toward turning the enemy flank. If he sees an opportunity to do that before I arrive, he will, if he wishes to remain an officer. If the opportunity does not arise, the movement should at least weaken the forces in front of him-and that’s where we will strike with all our might as soon as I join him.”

“What of Major Blair?” Blas-Ma-Ar asked.

“He’ll coordinate his attack with ours, I’m sure of it. We must push the enemy into the open around Waterford to gain the full effect from our artillery and mortars!”

The lieutenant saluted but stood there, waiting.

“What?” Chack asked.

“Uh… where will you be, sir?”

“Right here,” Chack said. He turned to Blas. “Inform Major Jindal of this… change in plans, and return as quickly as you can. I don’t want a battle in this oppressive forest. We must force the enemy out of it where we can see him-and kill him properly.”

The Doms and “rebels” were eventually pushed out of their rapidly improving position by a combined frontal and flank attack. They held determinedly until the fixed bayonets of Imperial and Lemurian Marines drove them from their hasty breastworks. The almost-fanatical courage of Dominion troops had been proven before, but they suffered a major technological disadvantage in a close-quarters fight: their bayonets were “stupid.” Their muskets were little different in function from those of the Imperials, but Imperial and “American” Marines used offset “socket” bayonets that slid on the outside of their weapons’ muzzles. Doms used “plug” bayonets shaped like short swords. They were better tools for everyday use and could hack brush and cut meat and serve as large knives. When “fixed,” however, they were inserted into the muzzles and held in place by friction. They usually had to be driven out. Firing a musket with one in place would rupture the barrel and likely injure or kill the shooter.

Socket bayonets with their triangular blades were virtually useless tools, but wickedly lethal weapons, and a musket could still fire when they were affixed. When the entire regiment under Chack’s personal command rushed the enemy works, running, screaming through the dense trees and shot, bayonets fixed-then stopped and fired a volley into the terrified, waiting defenders-just enough broke and ran to crack the dam. Once that occurred, the remaining Doms had no choice but to run or die, and the crack gave way to a torrent. After that, the race was on.

The bright yellow coats of Dom infantry made fine targets, and many were shot as they fled. Chack’s ’Cats and Imperials ran after them, shouting, shooting, stabbing at the fallen, and the woods grew dense with smoke even as the trees began to thin. The regiment had orders to halt at the clearing and regroup. Some, caught in the moment, continued chasing the enemy. Chack-still mounted and exhilarated by the experience of charging on horseback, despite having spent more time just holding on than slashing about with his Navy cutlass-shouted for the drummers to recall the overexuberant troops. The Doms were running away as fast as they could, oddly interspersed with monkeys of every size, blizzards of colorful parrots and other birds, and some other strange creatures Chack had never seen. The thundering drums were joined by Imperial horns, and slowly, most who’d continued their pursuit stopped, looked about, and realized how exposed they were. Quickly, they trotted back to the waiting raneven as a battery of six-pounders rattled down the road, drawn by gasping paalkas, and deployed in front of the infantry. Soon, exploding case shot pursued the fleeing enemy, reinforcing their terror.

“Beautiful!” shouted Major Jindal, galloping up to join Chack. “Stunning! Yet another famous victory, Major Chack!” he gushed.

“It was exciting,” Chack confessed, “but only the beginning. Look.”

A wide plain, checkerboarded with ripening grain and other crops, lay between them and the New Ireland village of Waterford. It was a quaint, spread-out place, reminiscent of the economical architecture Chack associated with Imperials; but interspersed with the occasional classical planters or Company mansion Imperial aristocracy seemed to favor. Beyond the town, in the distance, the large amoebic shape of Lake Shannon sprawled around the settlement, and spread nearly to the water’s edge was a sea of canvas tents that probably outnumbered Chack’s and Jindal’s force. Figure at least two men to a tent…

“Anything from Major Blair?”

“Not yet. I’ve sent scouts farther upslope. Perhaps they’ve made contact by now. But the enemy stands between us.” He paused. “I’m not sure we drew much of his attention away from Major Blair.”

“We will,” Chack promised. “Quickly, I want half your regiment and all your artillery up here. Leave two companies in the rear, guarding the approach from the north, and send the rest to the right and prepare to hit the enemy facing Blair on his right flank… Blair’s left.” Chack blinked, annoyed with himself for lecturing, but clarity was important. “Send a steady officer who will force his way to Blair if he must, and push hard when we advance!”

“I should go myself,” Jindal said.

“No, if something happens to me, you must be here. We’ll bombard the enemy before us, then advance across the entire front. That move should be unmistakable, and the enemy blocking Blair will have no choice but to defend his lines of communication and supply. I trust Major Blair to sense the proper moment and attack downhill, toward the town. Hopefully, your officer will have communicated this intent by then, but Blair should know what to do regardless. With luck, he may even catch them redeploying and add to the confusion. Ultimately, we should drive the enemy through the town and enclose him between us and the lake.”

Jindal shook his head. “Marvelous,” he confessed. “The scope of your planning…” He chuckled nervously. “The scope of this war is beyond anything I ever trained for!”

Chack blinked a sentiment Jindal hadn’t seen before-not that he remotely grasped any of the Lemurian blinking yet. “For all your naval power, your people have little more experience at this kind of war than mine did not long ago,” he said. “You’ll learn, as I was forced to; as Major Blair has done. I was lucky to have good teachers, but the lessons have been… hard.” He blinked something else. “Pray you never face a lesson such as Major Blair first endured; his might have destroyed a lesser person.” He paused, then gestured around. “This fight is a skirmish compared to what this war has become in the west; compared to what it’ll likely become here before all is done. Learn it well-however it turns out-because the most important points are these: plan for the best, but prepare for the worst, and every battle is won or lost in the planning, in the mind, before the first sword is ever drawn.”

Jindal gulped and felt a chill. A srmish? He was thoughtful a moment. “But this fight, your plan… will leave the enemy no avenue of escape. The rebels might surrender, but the Doms will fight ferociously if they can’t withdraw!”

“Very good! You think ahead. What you say is more than likely true,” Chack said. “It is in fact a… consequence of the ‘best case’ part of the plan. As a certain large… strange… man once told me, ‘Any we don’t kill today, we’ll have to kill tomorrow.’ You have your orders.”

The first battery to arrive had long since ceased firing, but within an hour, twenty-four guns had wheeled into place at the edge of the forest. Most were Allied six-pounders, but four were Imperial eight-pounders-their standard fieldpiece-and six were the new twelve-pounders. A hundred of the highly effective three-inch mortars came forward as well, each weapon with a crew of two, and each section with a squad of animal holders, ammunition bearers, crew replacements, and its own paalka, heavily laden with ammunition for the tubes. The enemy was throwing up a new defensive line on the outskirts of the town and emplacing a battery of their own guns there. That would be the first target.

“The division artillery is ready in all respects, Major,” Blas reported. To punctuate her words, the first Dominion piece fired and a cannonball struck the damp ground short of the Allied line, spraying dark earth in the air and sending the shot bounding into the trees.

“Commence firing,” Chack said, and Blas wheeled her horse and raced off. Moments later, amid shouted and repeated commands, the mortars erupted with a staccato pa-fwoomp! and twenty-four guns belched fire and smoke one after the other from the left, and recoiled backward as the case and roundshot soared downrange. The Imperials didn’t have case shot yet, and with their “nonstandard” bores, the allies couldn’t share. The eight-pound solid shot got there first, retaining its velocity better, and geysered earth and fragments of the breastworks around the enemy guns. The case shot was lighter for its diameter and bucked more wind for the weight, but there was only the slightest hesitation before white puffs detonated above the enemy line, spraying shards of iron and copper down on the defenders. Then the mortars fell.

Some of the bombs landed short. The range had been only a good estimate before, and some of the late arrivals had little time to make the crude elevation adjustments on the simple tubes. Despite their simplicity, however, the mortars were amazingly reliable, largely due to careful weighing of propulsive charges back in Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la, and the steadily improving quality control on the projectiles themselves. Bigger mortars were in the works that would reach a mile or more, but even though nine hundred yards was stretching the limit of the current model, seventy or more of the bombs fell right among the enemy.

The rippling detonation of the bursting charges sprayed dozens of prescored fragments from each bomb, decimating the Dominion defenders with the effect of a point-blank musket volley. None of the fragments were aimed, of course, so there were fewer real casualties, but the very… impersonal, utterly random nature of the projectiles unnerved the enemy like no volley could. And more were on the way. Section chiefs called range corrections, and the second barrage was more precise. The delayed, rippling blasts reached them long moments after the weapons blanketed the enemy position with white smoke once again. A third hail of mortars left their tubes even as the fieldpieces erupted with an earsplitting, rolling roar. So far, there’d been only that one cannon shot by the enemy.

“It is practically murder,

“There was a time when I would’ve agreed with you,” Chack said softly in the brief quiet imposed on the division artillery by the necessity of reloading. “My people long believed that to kill anyone was tantamount to murder, aside from the very rare duel. But Grik are not people; they’re brutal animals-and no one would call killing them murder. In self-defense, we killed some of the Jaaps that aided them, and I admit I felt… unhappy about that. But still, it wasn’t murder.” Another stream of mortars thumped into the sky, and he looked at the lieutenant. “And the Doms started this war with as clear a case of murder as I’ve ever seen one species commit against itself. Perhaps war distorts perceptions-I’m rather new at it myself, you know-but is it murder to kill a murderer? I think not. It has more the feel of justice to me.”

The lieutenant watched the mortars erupt among the enemy again. “But those are only soldiers, men like me. They follow orders. Their leaders are the murderers.”

“Do you really think so? Would you have obeyed orders to kill civilians? Innocent, noncombatant females and their younglings?”

“Of course not!”

“Then there you have the difference, Lieuten-aant. Those we kill are ‘only soldiers,’ but they protect and do the bidding of their murderous masters. While the masters may be chiefly to blame, their soldiers-their tools-must be destroyed.” Chack shook his head. “To kill them is not murder; it is war.” He cocked his head. “And it is a good war. I feel… a sense of righteous vengeance, a desire to punish them for what they’ve done-and for my troops they’ve killed today. Do you not feel it? To fight a war without that… sense.. . must be a terrible thing. Perhaps that is what makes a murderer?”

“I feel it,” replied the lieutenant, “but I do pity them.”

“As do I. As must anyone who desires to remain a person.” Chack paused. “Where is your captain?”

“Killed, sir. In the charge against the breastworks in the forest.”

“Then you must take his place,” Major Jindal said, rejoining the group. He turned to Chack. “The companies on the right have extended the line and made contact with Major Blair’s command at last. There is

… confusion there, but I believe all will be well. The enemy already seems to be reacting to our presence here, and a courier from the major indicated he may move more quickly than expected to take advantage.”

Chack had suddenly removed his battered old helmet to listen carefully for a moment, ears erect and alert. Jindal had no idea what he could possibly hear over the pounding guns and mortars nearby, but Blas-Ma-Ar was listening too.

“Assemble your companies,” Chack instructed the lieutenant, “if you think they have another charge in them.”

“They do, sir.”

“Very well. It would seem Major Jindal is correct. Blair is stirring! The division will soon advance!”

Blair unleashed his own mortars then, weapons no Dominion troops had faced until earlier that day. He’d been saving them sincehe arrived- unless he’d had no choice-until this very moment. White puff-balls appeared on the now-visible flanks of the mountains to the west, popping soundlessly, the smoke streaming back uphill toward Blair’s hidden force. The detonations became constant, creating a great, opaque cloud.

“The artillery will cease firing and prepare to advance with the infantry,” Chack bellowed, his order repeated down the line. “The mortars will continue to target the enemy position to cover our advance. When the signal to ‘cease firing mortars’ is given, their crews will advance with their weapons to the next line and commence firing on the enemy camp, or anywhere the enemy gathers!”

Jindal reached across, extending his hand to Chack. “God be with you, sir,” he said.

“May the Maker be with you!” Chack replied, grasping the offered hand. He looked at the lieutenant. “With you as well. Now see to your troops!”

The lieutenant saluted and galloped away, quickly followed by Jindal, who peeled off to the right.

“Now is an excellent time to dismount,” Blas said, grinning and hopping down from her horse. “Not only for the beast’s sake, but your own. Riding him in the open will make you both a target. Fear not,” she added. “They will be brought to us if we need them!”

Chack clumsily stepped down from the saddle, his legs feeling strange. “Good advice, Lieuten-aant… and may the Maker be with you as well!”

Most of the 2nd (largely Lemurian) and 5th Imperial Marine regiments-eight companies strong-crossed the wide fields of a grain Chack didn’t know amid a thunder of drums and behind a curtain of mortars. Some musket fire came from the enemy position, but it was ineffective across such a distance. There’d still been no more enemy artillery. Perhaps the guns were wrecked? The division advanced across a wide front with open files, four ranks deep. Furious firing erupted on the far right, where Jindal’s companies slashed unexpectedly into the enemy flank, just as Blair’s infantry struck the disorganized line head-on. The movement there was lost in the forest and beneath a growing fog of rising, swirling smoke. Ahead of Chack, there were still just the hasty breastworks.

They’d learned at the Dueling Grounds that the shield wall afforded some protection from Dom musketry, and they’d close files and use it here if need be. In the meantime, tightly massed troops only gave the enemy a better target. Three hundred yards separated the forces when Chack ordered the mortars to cease firing. The dirty white plumes were more impressive the closer they got, and by now they could even hear the screams amid the explosions. At two hundred yards, the barrage gradually lifted and for a time, all that was visible of the Dom position was a dark, hazy cloud drifting from left to right across their front. The sporadic musket fire gradually increased, forcing Chack to call his Lemurian Marines to the front rank to shield those behind. Balls struck their angled shields, ricocheting away with low, whirring moans. A man screamed and fell, just a few paces from Chack. Another fell without a sound other than that caused by a ball striking flesh. At one hundred yards, the Dom fire reached a fever pitch. They’d probably killed or wounded half the defenders, but there were more than enough left to take a terrible toll, and, despite the shields, men and ’Cats began falling with a wrenching regularity. Chack noticed the men around him literally leaning into the fire, as one would struggle against a gale, and he realized with surprise that he was doing it too.

They’d come far enough like this, hthere weded, unable to return fire. They’d pounded the Doms with their artillery and mortars, and now they were taking their turn. Much closer, and even the smoothbores of the enemy would be just as effective as the battered Krag Chack always carried. He unslung the weapon and affixed the long Springfield bayonet.

“Division!” he trilled in his best long-distance tone, only to hear the word race down the line, repeated half a dozen times. “Prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by an animalistic roar, and sixteen hundred glittering steel, two-foot spikes came down and leveled at the enemy.

“Remember to reserve your fire until you’re right on them!” an officer shouted from some distance away. “It seems to rattle the sods!”

“Charge!” screamed Chack.

He’d faced more Grik charges than he could remember, and no matter how often he endured and survived the primal force of the Ancient Enemy-its wicked swords, short, thrusting spears, claws and ravening jaws-he still felt a shadow of the visceral horror that struck him the very first time. Implacable and remorseless as the Grik were, however, they attacked as a mob, a “swarm” as even they described it. General Alden had long told Chack that, daunting as their charges were, nothing could be more terrifying-to people-than a disciplined bayonet charge, executed by thinking, committed, determined beings. Chack had faced Dom bayonets, but not yet in a charge. He’d seen the effect his charge had at the Dueling Grounds… and he saw it again now. As usual in such matters, General Alden knew what he was talking about. Of course, Chack had added his own little twist that seemed to shake the Doms as badly as anything else: the point-blank volley before the clash that the Doms, with their plug bayonets, never expected-yet-and couldn’t answer. The rippling blast was devastating, and delivered so close that even after their short sprint, the unsteady hands of gasping men and Lemurians simply couldn’t miss. Then, with another roar that all but shattered the remaining defenders, the bayonets went to work.

Despite Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s best attempts to stop him, Chack went in with the rest of them. He never fired the old Krag; the ammunition in its magazine was the “real stuff,” not the hard-cast black powder reloads. It was precious for its long-range accuracy and utter reliability, despite its age. He went in with the bayonet just like his Marines and fought with a savagery that frankly unnerved a few Imperials, and an economical proficiency and precision that came only with the hard experience he’d gained. Through it all, his diminutive female lieutenant and apparently self-appointed “protector” fought alongside him with similar competence and equal vigor. That would later unnerve some of Chack’s Imperials even more, when they had time to reflect on various things, such as their own attitude toward women-and the kind of combat that had taught Chack and Blas, and all the Lemurians, their skill. But more than that, if there’d been present any Imperial Marines who, despite the reputation Chack had gained at the Dueling Grounds, still clung to any concern or discontented notion that they were commanded by an “ape” or “wog,” it vanished in the swirling smoke and bloody ground north of Waterford, New Ireland, that day.

The sky was purple, with long bloody streaks, when Major Blair found Chack in a large Dominion tent that was spared the firestorm that engulfed most of the enemy encampment when the mortars turned their wrath there. As always, Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar stood beside the brindled Lemurian while he sat on a bench, his furry tso bare, stoically enduring the stitches “Doc-Selass-Fris-Ar” applied to the dark, shaved skin over his left shoulder blade. Other wounded were in the tent, being tended by more “corps-’Cats” as even they’d begun calling themselves, and Chack seemed annoyed that Selass was bothering with him when others needed her attention more. In the middle distance, at the south edge of town, mortars still burst with their distinctive crackling thuds, and all the artillery of two divisions now thundered continuously, pulverizing the final works of the enemy along the shore of Lake Shannon.

“I’m heartily glad to find you in one piece, my friend,” Blair said with a touch of reproach. “Or at least fit to be sewn back into one,” he added.

Chack snorted. “You chastise me, when you creep along like a freshly hatched grawfish in the mud!” Chack pointed at Blair’s leg. “You still limp from the wound you had at the Dueling Grounds! You hid that before.”

Blair chuckled and patted his leg. “Actually, this is new. Courtesy of a Dom musket butt.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not entirely new, then. The bugger hit me in the same blasted spot!”

“Do you need someone to look at it?” Selass snapped, her large eyes flashing.

Blair was taken aback, and wondered why she was so angry. Then it hit him. He suddenly remembered the rumors that she and Chack had a “history” of some sort; a history perhaps aggravated by her proximity, continued devotion, and Chack’s betrothal to the distant “General” Safir Maraan.

“Um, no, not at all. It’s just a slight ache.”

“Then, as soon as I’m finished with this foolish person, you can take him off somewhere where he can hurt himself yet again-and I can resume treating others!”

“I just came here to check on the wounded. I never asked…” Chack began.

“Be silent!” Selass ordered. “If you speak again… I will sew your arms together behind your back!”

Chack said nothing more until Selass clipped the thread and daubed the wound with the purplish polta paste that would prevent infection. Even then, he didn’t speak while he snatched his bloody armor from a hook and gathered his weapons. Only once he, Blas, and Blair were outside the tent and among his and Blair’s waiting staffs-and the horses!-did he mutter, “I have always been respectful to that… spiky female. I can’t imagine why she hates me so.” Blas turned her head to hide the blinking she couldn’t stop, but her tail twitched erratically. “What?” Chack demanded angrily.

“Nothing, Major,” Blas replied, hiding her eyes under the rim of her helmet. “I’m just a lowly Marine. Selass-Fris-Ar is almost royalty, as our Imperial allies reckon such things. Her father is the great Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, and ahd-mi-raal of First Fleet! Who am I to grasp the thoughts of one such as she?”

Chack growled with frustration, but went to his horse and patted the animal affectionately. He turned to Blair. “Come, it is time to finish this. The enemy here cannot escape and can no longer harm us.” He remembered the sincere, confused sentiments of an Imperial lieutenant he’d last seen lying facedown in the bloody mud at the bottom of a Dom trench. “Perhaps we are doing murder now,” he murmured, swinging stiffly into the saddle. Then his voice grew louder. “We must at least offer them surrender.”

“ Pity for the enemy?” Blair asked strangely as mal athe others mounted as well. “This from the hero of the Dueling Grounds who was physically dragged from the fighting?”

Chack sighed. “Of course I pity them. Hard as it may be to remember at times, the Doms are people. They’re not born evil. They do evil because they’re taught to, forced to, bred to…” Suddenly, Chack felt heat at the back of his neck, coursing into his head-along with a staggering revelation. “ Bred to evil,” he said again, a picture of Lawrence, cheerfully-and relentlessly-guarding Princess Rebecca from any possible harm springing to his mind. Lawrence wasn’t Grik… but he was as much like them as Imperials were to Doms-or the remnants of the New Britain Company. Lawrence was no more different from the Grik than the evil Rasik-Alcas had been from Lord Rolak, his beloved Safir, or all the good People he knew. “Maker above,” he whispered, “let us hurry and see if the enemy will let us save them.”

“Very well,” agreed Blair. “We must deal with them at any rate, and the less ammunition we expend, the better. The bulk of the enemy still infests New Dublin, across the Sperrin range. We must quickly prepare to threaten them there if the rest of the plan is to succeed-and every mortar bomb, roundshot, and musket ball we fire, not to mention the food to sustain us, must be brought over the Wiklow range from Cork, or all the way down the Waterford road from Bray.”

The group started down the central avenue of the mostly undamaged town, moving through groups of people whose reactions to seeing them ranged from exuberant joy to resentful silence, depending on whom they’d supported. The latter were few, at least they appeared to be, and there were cheers when they reached the city center, already guarded by Marines, and Chack ordered the Company flag, the virtual banner of New Ireland, cut down from the pole in front of the Director’s mansion. After that, he and the rest of his entourage rode purposefully on, toward the sound of the guns.