Battle for the Wastelands Page 13

  Will oriented the mortar at the enemy formation and cranked down its angle. “There’s a shell over here!” Andrew pointed. “Son of a bitch threw it at me!”

  Will snatched the shell up while Owen tore a pair of binoculars off a corpse. He gave the enemy square a quick look and shouted instructions to Will. The redhead made the final adjustments, shoved the shell into the mortar’s hot throat, and ducked out of the way.

  Whistling. A fireball bloomed amid the Flesh-Eater square. Bodies flew. Those left standing soon fell to flying bullets or cavalry sabers. “More shells!” Will screamed. “They’re not all dead!”

  Owen snatched up another while Andrew knelt by the Flesh-Eater’s corpse, thanking the Good Lord the enemy used the same rounds. He thumbed some bullets from the dead man’s cartridge box into his rifle.

  “Horsemen!” Hank shouted. Andrew turned. Three enemy cavalry surged toward them. One fired his carbine, while the others cut down isolated Merrills with their sabers. The noise and smoke of the battle had hidden their approach — they were only fifty yards away.

  “Simmons, keep at it!” Zeke shouted. “The rest of you, to me! Bayonets up!”

  Zeke, Hank, and Owen stood straight in the path of the horsemen, blades up. David quickly joined them.

  Andrew’s hands shook. Three horsemen bearing down on the squad would scatter them like bowling pins, crush them beneath their hooves…

  “Sutter!” Zeke shouted. The command pulled Andrew forward. He fell in beside Hank, raised his own rifle, and hoped for the best. “Fire!”

  The horses veered out of the way as Andrew squeezed the trigger. The bullets threw one rider from his saddle. Others struck the second horse, which screamed and surged away, carrying its rider with it.

  “Don’t just stand there!” the last horseman shouted as he wheeled his horse back toward the squad. “Crush these termites!”

  Three Flesh-Eater infantrymen, their own bayonets fixed, rushed out of the chaos behind the horseman toward the squad. Owen, Will, and Hank lunged to meet them, David close behind.

  Andrew aimed at the horseman. He’d bring the proud bastard down —

  The cavalryman raised his carbine. Andrew threw himself to the side. CRACK! Will shouted. Andrew’s heart sank. If the horseman got Will, who’d fire the mortar?

  Andrew fired at the horseman. The bullet clipped the Flesh-Eater’s waist. The man shouted in pain and turned toward Andrew, murder in his face.

  “Heeya!” a woman shouted over the din. The incongruous sound of a female voice grabbed Andrew’s attention.

  Another Merrill rider appeared out of the smoke, blood dripping from his saber. The long honey-colored hair tied behind the horseman’s head and finer features showed the “horseman” was actually a woman. She surged toward the mounted Flesh-Eater. The man wheeled to face her, abandoning Andrew for the moment.

  Andrew aimed for the horse – a bigger target — and pulled the trigger. The horse screamed, staggered, and fell. The Flesh-Eater leaped away as his mount collapsed, landing on his feet.

  That left him in just the right position for the horsewoman. She swept down like an eagle on a rabbit. He raised his carbine, but was too slow. Her saber flashed amid the dust and carnage as her horse blocked Andrew’s view. Her passage revealed the Flesh-Eater sinking to his knees, throat open almost to his neckbone.

  The fight didn’t last much longer. The enemy cavalrymen retreated with the footsloggers they could carry, using the few remaining fanatics as a screen. Once the zealots had been dealt with, the Merrill cavalry pursued. Andrew got a glimpse of honey-colored hair as the horsewoman vanished into the dust.

  Now came time to deal with the Flesh-Eater wounded.

  Several lay in front of Andrew amid the clearing smoke. One had already been killed for holding onto his rifle too tightly.

  “Still got your bayonets?” Zeke asked almost casually.

  Andrew looked to the wounded Flesh-Eaters. Some tried to scramble away, blood caking the dirt behind them. Will grinned. “I sure do.” Blood still dripped from a long cut across his forehead. He glared at the wounded Flesh-Eaters. “Where’s your god now? He going to save your ass, you cannibal sons of bitches?”

  Andrew looked from the wounded to Zeke. Though these men likely committed terrible crimes, killing helpless men didn’t sit right. Zeke stepped over. “Sutter, the Flesh-Eaters will return. We can’t leave them here for the enemy to save and we can’t take them prisoner without leaving valuables behind.”

  Andrew looked over his shoulder at Hardy. The short, tanned lieutenant with a missing front tooth oversaw soldiers from another squad looting a wagon. Maybe he didn’t know what Zeke and Will were going to do to the enemy wounded. Maybe he’d stop this.

  He didn’t. When he saw Andrew’s imploring look, he nodded and pointed to Zeke.

  Zeke took Andrew’s shoulder. The manacle on his wrist glinted in the sun. He steered Andrew’s attention away from Hardy and pointed at one of the fallen Flesh-Eaters.

  “That one there’s an L-T. Probably got a fine estate made out of other folk’s land, with the people who used to own the land sharecropping. If they’re lucky.”

  A lieutenant — an officer! The incongruous emotion of hope surged in Andrew’s chest. Maybe he knew what happened to the other Carroll Town survivors! Andrew stepped over to the wounded man. “I’ve got a question,” he snapped. “And I want it answered.”

  The man snorted, blood spattering his lips. “What you want to know, pup?”

  “When your crew took Carroll Town, you marched the survivors some place. Where? What did you do with them?”

  “I wasn’t there. Probably went to Fort Vallero.”

  “Then what?”

  The officer laughed. “They’ll go where they’re needed. Mines, the officers’ and vets’ farms, our beds if they’re pretty enough.” Andrew’s grip tightened on his rifle as he imagined the likely fate of Cassie and Sarah. The man was close, close enough to cut to pieces with his bayonet or just stomp to death. The officer laughed. “Looking for your sweetheart? She might be some lucky fort’s sweetheart right now.”

  Andrew saw red. The image of filthy Flesh-Eaters lining up to take turns with a weeping Cassie filled his mind. With a scream, he rammed his bayonet into the man’s throat. Blood poured around the blade and the Flesh-Eater’s last defiant words vanished in his dying gurgles. Andrew stabbed the Flesh-Eater over and over, tearing open the man’s throat and his belly.

  “Die you son of a bitch!” he screamed. He raised his blade for another stab before strong hands seized him.

  “He’s dead!” Zeke shouted. “He’s dead! No more!”

  Andrew stopped. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Around him the others set to their grisly task. Only Hank hesitated. He stood alone as the others’ bayonets flashed in the sun.

  “Come on!” Will called out, a nasty smile on his face.

  Hank swallowed. Gripping his rifle, he stepped forward and joined the slaughter.

  Andrew looked at one prisoner who had scrambled away, dragging a broken leg behind him. Andrew’s eyes widened. He remembered Sam, wounded in the leg back in Carroll Town. The man was older, but he had the same dark hair, similar enough eye color. Andrew paused.

  The wounded man locked eyes with Andrew. “Please,” he begged. He scooted away, wincing with every move. “Please. I have gold.” He reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a bloodstained bag.

  “That gold won’t be yours much longer,” Zeke interrupted. “Sutter, finish him.”

  Andrew looked at the wounded Flesh-Eater. He wasn’t Sam. Sam was dead, spitted through the lung!

  Andrew lunged. The Flesh-Eater threw the gold aside.

  “I have a fam —”

  His words turned into a scream as Andrew rammed the blade into his belly and angled it up. Blood poured from his mouth like it had from Sam’s. His howling rose higher as the blade sank deep. A second stab finished him.

  Once the grisly
work was done, the soldiers finished their looting. Besides the wagons, the enemy dead had weapons and ammunition to liberate, gold dollars, flasks of corn liquor, and other necessities. Andrew heard the Flesh-Eaters believed that to the victor went the spoils. It was fitting they end up on the receiving end.

  “Once you’re done, strip the bodies!” Zeke called out. “Ours and theirs. Pile them over there.” He pointed to a pair of damaged wagons the soldiers wouldn’t be taking with them. “Burn them.”

  Andrew smiled. No food for the enemy. He pocketed the dead man’s cash and began stripping the corpse. Once he finished, he grabbed the dead Flesh-Eater by both feet and pulled. Pain erupted across his back. Now he’d calmed down, all the licks he’d taken were making themselves known.

  Gritting his teeth all the while, he tried to pull the body onto the wagon by its armpits. It was heavy enough when he dragged it. Now it tore at his hands as he tried to lift it. The pain from his hurt shoulders and back grew worse.

  Ultimately, he left the corpse by the wagon for the hale prisoners the Merrills put to work. Then he took stock of the dead who hadn’t been stripped and heaped.

  Most wore the enemy’s red and black, but far too many wore the Merrills’ mix of day-to-day clothes or ragged brown uniforms. His squad hadn’t lost anyone, but that was a right miracle. The Flesh-Eaters had a big country to recruit from; the Merrills didn’t. Andrew frowned. At this rate, the Merrills would run out long before the enemy did.

  Once they’d piled up the bodies, they put the wagons to the torch. The Merrills rode away, black smoke smelling too much like roasting pork staining the blue sky behind them.

  Home Sweet Home

  Catalina Merrill stood naked in the shallow end of the pool in Grendel’s harem, the ends of her red hair just above the warm water behind her. In front of her, under his armpits, she held her three-year-old son. “Hayes” – Havarth is such an ugly name – she began. “Do you know what we’re going to do today?”

  A big grin crossed his thin face, so much like her brother Alonzo’s. “We're going to turn!” The grin lit up eyes that didn’t belong in his Merrill face. Gray eyes. His eyes.

  Catalina pushed that dark thought out of her mind and returned her son’s grin. It didn’t require as much effort as before. “Yes!” That was how she was first taught to tread water, in the Grand River in the shadow of the Merrill citadel. Before he came. Head to the sky, turn around and around. There was no open sky here, but the clean white ceiling would serve just as well. "You know what to do?" Hayes nodded. "Go!"

  The boy began kicking. Catalina let her hands drop to his hips. Hayes sank – her heart jumped – but soon his kicking and the efforts of his arms to keep him spinning pushed him higher, keeping his head well above the water. She kept her fingers on him just enough to gauge whether he was sinking or keeping himself up by his own efforts. So far, so good. This time last year she'd started teaching him with a customized piece of cork to keep him floating, but he clearly didn't need it anymore.

  Hayes laughed as he spun in the water. Soon Catalina found herself laughing as well. Sometimes this was almost enough to forget.

  Then a shadow fell on mother and son. Catalina's gut clenched and she pulled Hayes close. Was Grendel back from his trip already? Did he merely want to check on the progress of his – their – son, or did he have more amorous intentions? She drew her legs together under the water. Not that that would help much if that's what he’d come for.

  Nope. It was Lenora Starr, another one of the tyrant's women. One who actually gloried in having borne the despot children. Wearing only a white robe, she stood on the pool’s red brick lip and looked down on Catalina.

  "Getting some swim lessons in?" Catalina nodded, avoiding making eye contact with the older woman. "Good. Logmar was a bit younger than Havarth when I started him on turning." Catalina repressed the urge to scowl.

  Then Lenora opened her robe and let it puddle to the ground around her feet. Catalina turned her son's head away. He didn't need to see another grown woman naked. Lenora slipped into the pool and regarded Catalina with disdainful eyes. "It's not like anything he hasn't seen before." She gestured at Catalina. Catalina felt her cheeks redden. Swimming suits apparently weren't common in the tyrant’s northwestern homeland. And there were other reasons – sometimes when the women were swimming he'd come watch and choose the ones whose efforts pleased him for his bed that day. Often, too often, that had been her. Old dirty bastard.

  "I heard from Roderick that he's on his way back." Roderick was one of the Obsidian Guard assigned to guard Grendel's harem and in charge of assigning protectors to the women allowed freedom of the citadel. Like Lenora. Not like her. "He left the Flesh-Eater base a few hours ago." She smiled. "He'll be back before supper. I'll be here to meet him."

  Then she was off swimming laps, leaving Catalina and Hayes alone.

  "Let's get back to turning," Catalina said, pushing Hayes back out into the water. He was soon spinning and laughing like before, but the darkness hanging around Catalina kept his joy from spreading. She looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn't long until supper. "Let's swim to the edge." She took Hayes by the hands and pulled him chest-forward toward the edge of the pool. "Can you kick?"

  "Yes!" His voice bubbled the water, but his nose was clear. Catalina slowly drew him toward the cement steps leading out of the pool, Hayes kicking along all the while. Once she got to the edge, she set him at the middling step where the water was up to her chest and quickly pulled on the robe she'd left there. Then she pulled him out of the water. His face fell. "We done, Ma?"

  Catalina nodded. "It won't be long until...until your pa is home." Hayes beamed. Catalina's heart sank. It was only natural a boy love his father, and he was too young to know why the man didn't deserve it. "Let's get you ready." She wrapped him in one of the towels she'd brought, and they both set off toward her rooms.

  Falki Grendelsson stood in the long shadow beneath the mooring towers of Father’s citadel above bustling Norridge. The afternoon wind whipped through his black hair. The Nicor had just become visible in the south. The enormous airship passed over the two monoliths topped with the carved skulls of saber-cats marking off where the southwestern railroad left the city and now passed over the chronic smog of the factory quarter. He narrowed his angled eyes, the legacy of his mother Lin Cao. The dirigible — and Father — would arrive at the citadel soon.

  He shifted from foot to foot. His long Jiao sword banged against his leg. He frowned. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, willing himself to remain still. Father controlled both himself and a mighty empire. If he intended to put on the older man’s cloak, he would need similar self-control.

  “He’ll like this,” Falki said aloud. His hands tightened on the folder containing the report on the foiled plot against the Obsidian Guard district governor and the death sentences he’d signed. Twenty troublemakers from Hamilton would kneel before the axe, and the damned city council would pay the taxes and shut the hell up.

  “Aye,” said Lieutenant Thomas Nahed, the dark-skinned Nahada second-in-command of Falki’s company. The wind did not seem to bother him, even though being bulkier than Falki, he presented a bigger target. “Hamilton’s been complaining for too long. This should cow them for awhile.”

  “One would hope.”

  Astrid Grendelsdottir, Falki’s blonde half-sister, made her way onto the platform behind them. The wind whipped her blue dress about her ankles, but she walked into it regardless. A teasing smile broke out on Falki’s face. “Good afternoon, peanut. You finish your schoolwork?”

  Astrid fixed him with a gray-eyed glare. “I have. And don’t call me peanut!”

  Falki rolled his own gray eyes. At some point he couldn’t quite place, she’d stopped being his sweet little sister who’d always wanted him to read to her and become something else. She’d been at cross words with Signe — her mother, Falki’s stepmother — and been forbidden from joining her in a trip home to Sejera.
She wouldn’t dare act this way toward Father, but she has no problem taking it out on Signe or me.

  Well, if she thought entering adulthood meant she could be downright rude, treating her like a child would definitely piss her off. Falki reached over and ruffled her curly hair.

  She pushed him away. “Stop it, Falki!” She smoothed it back into place and scowled.

  Falki shrugged. He’d had his fun. And she was fifteen, not a little girl anymore.

  The sound of the Nicor’s engines grew loud. He turned to see the airship thread the last columns of smoke and begin the final approach. He fingered the folder with the death sentences. Father would see just how well he could rule on his own.

  Grendel spotted his son, daughter, and two guardsmen waiting as he and his entourage descended from the mooring tower. Falki, garbed in the black uniform of an Obsidian Guard officer, stepped forward to greet him.

  “Father,” the younger man said. He was tall like Grendel, but slimmer. He’d fill out. After all, he was only twenty and Grendel himself had not finished growing until he was twenty-five.

  Astrid was significantly less subtle. She rushed up and threw her arms around him, pushing him back a step. “Pappa!” she exclaimed in Sejer, Grendel’s birth tongue. While Grendel untangled himself from his daughter, Falki rose up on the balls of his feet, his eyes sweeping the men — and woman — clustered around his father.

  “It looks like you didn’t bring home any female souvenirs this time.” Falki had switched to Jiao for that comment.

  Grendel frowned. Not only was his son being impertinent, but the fact his present entourage lacked Jiao did not mean it lacked Jiao-speakers. “Not now,” Grendel ordered in the same language before switching back to flatlander. “How goes Norridge?”

  “Much the same ever.” His son fell in beside him as they walked off the platform. Astrid trailed closely. “However, there have been some issues outside the capital. The councils of Riverside and Stirling are complaining again.”