Battle for the Wastelands Page 19

  Hope arose unexpectedly inside Andrew. Maybe the Flesh-Eaters who’d killed Ellie had died in the fight at Carroll Town. Their replacements might be saner.

  “They might not be dead,” Andrew repeated. He took his hand off hers. “I can’t.” Hopefully that got the point across.

  It looked like it did. Alyssa withdrew her hand. “Suit yourself.” She sounded almost sad.

  She rose and moved around Andrew, sitting closer to Will. Hank’s lip curled in distaste, but she ignored him.

  “So,” she began. “Saw you liked the meat. What was it that was so good?”

  Anger rose in Andrew’s heart. Why the hell was she talking to Will now? She’d seen him antagonize David over the meat, the meat she’d brought in!

  At least she wasn’t flirting with Owen. He was swell — even if he was a pikey — but that wasn’t something he wanted to see.

  Alyssa glanced back at Andrew. She nodded to Will and then stepped over to Owen, avoiding Hank entirely.

  Andrew clenched his teeth.

  Well shit.

  Developing the Plan

  The new electric lights shone brightly in the room of Grendel’s concubine Cora Wilkes. Not only was electricity safer than gas but it did not flicker. This afforded Grendel a much better view of the naked blonde lying beside him. Cora was in a good mood, discussing their daughter Rose’s reading progress with her tutor while Grendel was away, how the sunny weather had been good for the flower garden she had on one of the balconies, and other news, besides.

  Though Grendel toyed idly with her curly hair and made the appropriate single-syllable responses, his thoughts were elsewhere. He had developed his plan further coming home, but it had not fully congealed. Mounting an invasion of a distant country across some of the most hostile terrain in the known world was not something done lightly, but he did not see any long-term alternative but civil war.

  Cora must have picked up on his not paying attention. She snuggled closer, her breasts pressing against his chest.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

  Cora did not immediately respond, at least with words. Instead, she let her hand drift toward Grendel’s crotch. Grendel exhaled at her touch, but his reaction was somewhat exaggerated. It was true he was sensitive there — no man alive was not — but he wanted her to think she really was manipulating him.

  “My lord,” Cora purred, her hand becoming more active. “If I knew what was bothering you, perhaps I can help you feel better?”

  “Can you keep my men from fighting each other?” He allowed only the barest hint of enjoyment of her ministrations to reach his face. “If it does not stop, all this could come crashing down.” He gestured toward the room around them and, by extension, to the palace and city beyond.

  Her movements slowed. Grendel knew she did not have an immediate answer. This did not bother him — it was Isaac’s job to help solve problems Grendel could not.

  Isaac. Isaac would help work out the details of his plan.

  “Catalina’s folk are still making trouble, aren’t they?” There was an edge to Cora’s voice. Catalina had given Grendel a son. She hadn’t. “Perhaps some of the men unhappy with the peace can go down there. They can help that savage Clark fight what’s left of the Merrills.”

  Grendel smiled, an expression bearing a fair amount of sincerity. He had not taken Cora into his harem for her brains, but she did have them. She had been a camp follower, daughter of another camp follower, but her mother did not raise a fool.

  Cora’s hand moved faster. Grendel’s breathing increased, an unfeigned reaction this time. He was sorely tempted to let her continue and talk to Isaac later.

  He covered her hand with his. He had not gotten where he was without learning to bridle his desires.

  Business before pleasure.

  “Not now. If I return within an hour, we will pick up where we left off. Otherwise, go to sleep.”

  Cora sighed. She withdrew her hand and rolled onto her back. Grendel leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. Helpfulness should be rewarded.

  Isaac sat across the table in his study within the citadel, an untouched glass of mead in front of him. Two guardsmen stood like statues just beyond the doorway. “We both knew this was coming,” the older man said.

  Grendel nodded. For a moment, he wished James Merrill had bothered excavating the Old World cities beneath the sands, at the least ones he could readily reach. The survival of a foe powerful enough to provide a good fight whenever a commander had the itch but not too powerful to threaten Grendel’s rule would have prevented all this.

  “Other than a few spots of banditry and the occasional revolt, the only enemy north of the Iron Desert is Alonzo Merrill,” Isaac continued. “And he’s not much better than a bandit himself.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I had thought to send the restless men south, to finish him off. What do you think about that?”

  Isaac pondered Grendel’s words. “It won’t keep them busy long. The Flesh-Eaters have reduced the Merrills to a gaggle of refugees. If you send the other Hosts, this contretemps will end all the faster.” Isaac paused. He scratched at his substantial salt-and-pepper sideburns with his right hand, a sure sign he was thinking. “If you sent in Mangle’s people, it might end all the faster. The Blood Alchemy Host passed through the land once before. The people must surely fear its return.”

  Grendel frowned. He had used the Blood Alchemy Host to force James Merrill to divide his armies, but kept Mangle’s army under strict supervision afterward. If he wanted an army of monsters to kill all the men bearing arms and drag everyone else to their overlord’s repulsive breeding pits, he would unleash the Blood Alchemy Host. But ravaged lands paid no taxes. Maintaining Havarth and his sons afterward would require a population loyal to the Merrill bloodline and grateful to be liberated from the Flesh-Eaters. Settlers from elsewhere would not do.

  Still, it was not as though the Blood Alchemy Host was his only option.

  “What are the most recent estimates of Merrill strength?”

  “The most recent information indicates only a few thousand active combatants. The plan to cut him off from resupply and recruitment has been bearing fruit. With the help we’ve been giving them, the Flesh-Eaters can probably finish the job themselves.” He paused. “Of course, that won’t deal with the short-term or the long-term problem.”

  “Isaac, while I was on the way north, I had an idea and I have been pondering it some more. I would like your opinion.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Everett’s ships have traded in the west for generations and caravans cross the Iron Desert from the south. All bring goods not made here, goods that are in many cases higher quality.” He paused. “Including that most precious commodity, coffee.” Chuckling circled the table. Good. “Those goods have a source.”

  “Are you proposing we invade, my lord?”

  “Not yet. There are maps of the desert and what lies beyond, but they are old. Some might even date back to the Old World. If we do not want to shove our dicks onto a clockwork saw, we will need more information.”

  “Reconnaissance, then?”

  “Aye. Getting spies into the caravans will take time. Everett doesn’t hire foreign sailors on principle and will certainly complicate any naval probe south. Airships will allow us to keep our recon secret, but deciding whose airships to borrow could prove…tricky.”

  If he sent dirigibles belonging to commanders he trusted, that would weaken those men. If he sent airships belonging to commanders whom he did not trust, they would interpret that as a move to weaken them. He wanted to heal the cracks in his realm, not deepen them.

  On the other hand, if he made it sound like an honor and offered them the rewards of conquest, Clark at least would not look the gift horse in the mouth. Quantrill might not. This would leave his loyal commanders at full strength and weaken the less trustworthy, and they would be none the wiser.
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br />   “Let’s start with Clark, then. He’s on the Iron Desert and he’d likely interpret that as a gesture of your confidence in him. Especially since you gave him territory in the north.” He paused. “However, the Flesh-Eaters don’t have many airships and they need them to hunt the Merrills. Might be better to start with the Blood Alchemy Host.”

  Grendel pursed his lips. That would weaken Mangle, but at the same time, it would look suspicious. The Blood Alchemy Host’s territory was far from the Iron Desert. They were not a logical choice for an extended reconnaissance mission.

  “If you send Blood Alchemy and Legio Mortis dirigibles, it’ll look like a team-building effort,” Isaac continued. “Be sure to send only men with families on the mission. Extra incentive not to be killed or captured, and they definitely won’t defect.”

  A reconnaissance mission could give the more restless men something to do. And it would provide the first real intelligence about the territory south of the Iron Desert in centuries. The trading folk and the sailors both local and Everetti provided some information, including at least one book, but firsthand intelligence was always better.

  Isaac smiled. “A longer war also presents its own possibilities. The unemployed will take your dollar and the threat of the press gang will keep workers from striking. And if you manage to conquer even part of the south? Not only will Everett’s trading monopoly be broken, but you might be able to fully centralize power.”

  Grendel nodded. If the cities where these manufactured goods were produced could be brought under his direct control, this would be a vast source of wealth and, consequently, power. He would keep Alexander and some others for old times’ sake, but he could be rid of Quantrill and Clark — and Mangle if he fucked up again — forever.

  “Begin gathering the needed resources, including dirigibles. You speak with my voice.”

  Isaac leaned forward. “You want the reconnaissance started now? What about the Merrills?”

  “As you said, the Flesh-Eaters can take care of the Merrills themselves. Besides, if Alonzo Merrill thinks we are distracted, he might stick his neck out enough we can swing the axe.”

  Isaac nodded.“Provided enough troops stay behind to do it.”

  Grendel nodded. “Enough will.” He rose from his chair, drinking the last of his mead. “I want all the Host commanders, Falki, Quantrill, and Clark here as soon as possible.”

  A Most Interesting Night

  Falki and his company rode across the broken and blasted ground back to their base camp. The wind had blown the day’s coal smoke away at last and the stars shined brightly overhead. “That’s one more problem solved,” Falki remarked to Nahed. “Getting the goddamn Flesh-Eaters to dig their latrines farther from the goddamn lake will keep them from getting dysentery.”

  Nahed nodded. “Or cholera.”

  Falki frowned. He knew all about cholera. It had come to Norridge when he was six, not long after Father had made the city his capital. His younger full brother Delun, a year old and barely walking, had died in the first days. Then it was Falki’s turn. He’d shat water, drunk more, and then shat it out again. And the water he didn’t shit he vomited. It got to the point they’d laid him on a bed with a hole under his ass and put needles in his arms. They’d done the same with Mother a few days later.

  She’d died, but he’d clung to life like a leech. He was just walking again when Father had blood-eagled the men who’d overseen Norridge’s sewage and water-treatment plants.

  “Sorry, sir,” Nahed said. Falki frowned. He must’ve let his face show his emotions.

  “It’s no matter. The past is carved in stone. All that can be done is to learn from it.”

  And that he had. His soldiers’ water was always boiled before drinking and clothes were kept free of the lice that brought typhus. The guardsmen under his command had the fewest deaths from disease.

  This meant everybody wanted his advice on keeping their own men healthy. According to his tutors, disease had killed as many men as bullets during Father’s wars. The fewer men who sickened, the more could fight. He’d learned that for himself when he’d seen the filthy camps of bushwhackers and piles of amputated limbs after battle.

  “Tomorrow morning, want to hunt? I’ve seen pterosaurs around, and raptors. Scuttlebutt’s some miners went up in the hills with rifles in case Quantrill agreed to bring in Mangle’s creatures. Hunting’s hunting, two legs or four.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that. Counterinsurgency was a lot like hunting, especially when dogs were involved. And although Falki took the lead, it wasn’t like Nahed lacked enthusiasm. If some of Quantrill’s miners thought they could decide with their guns who they worked alongside, they’d learn a permanent lesson.

  “Sir, there are still requests for information from the other commanders. Those shouldn’t be left to wait. We might get an outbreak.”

  Falki stiffened. He had no fewer than five left. Two came from the Flesh-Eaters, but the rest came from the Legio Mortis or Blood Alchemy Host.

  The ones I’m supposed to be getting out of here.

  Half of both armies had already left, but the rest were taking too damn long. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if typhus broke out in a couple of their camps. That’d get them back to their mountains and out of his hair all the faster.

  He frowned. Lots of things worked in the short run and caused problems later. Deliberately giving the Legio Mortis and Blood Alchemy bad advice would damage his reputation. He’d need support outside of the Obsidian Guard lest the lands beyond Sejera and the Basin fall away when Father died, or if he needed help from outside if the half-flatlander Logmar attempted treachery.

  “That’s a good point.” He thought for a moment. “The Legio Mortis and Blood Alchemy have more steam-powered machines, which can boil the water for drinking and washing. The Flesh-Eaters don’t have a lot of gear, but they do control the coal now. I think an arrangement can be worked out.”

  Nahed nodded. “Seems sensible. It’ll keep the soldiers healthy and your star will rise in everybody’s eyes. The hunting will still be there when you’re done.”

  The Old World bunker set in the side of a gray stony hill Falki used as a headquarters came into view. Falki brought his horse to a stop and dismounted. Falki walked across the stony ground toward the steel door.

  A soldier met him there. “Sir, you have a visitor. From Mary Grace.” The man pointed down the hall toward the tall flatlander woman standing in front of the room he’d claimed as an office.

  She wore a long teal dress that clung to her slender form. Over her shoulders hung a blue shawl whose shade reminded Falki of Quantrill. Her hair was gold. Falki’s heartbeat accelerated. A large wrapped package sat by her feet.

  “This her?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s got a gift for you.” Falki raised an eyebrow. Sending a woman was unusual. “Should I have her leave it here?”

  Falki would still get the gift if she left it there, but he wouldn’t get the chance to find out why the nearby town sent a woman to deliver it. He smiled. Perhaps the woman was part of the gift. That would be an excellent excuse for neglecting the paperwork.

  “I’ll discuss it with her.”

  He stepped into the office and sat at the desk. The woman followed, carrying the package. She set it down and bowed.

  Falki drew his knife from the sheathe on his calf. He doubted his men would allow something dangerous to be brought that close to him, but it didn’t hurt to take precautions. Especially when there was someone in Norridge who wouldn’t mind him dying if it brought her own son closer to Father’s steel throne. “Open it.”

  She took the knife and with practiced ease cut through the thick brown paper. Falki raised an eyebrow. She handled the blade like a trained soldier would.

  She pulled away the brown paper, revealing a mining pick. Lines of gold ran along the head and handle. A gemstone Falki didn’t recognize sat at the top where the wood would otherwise emerge. She set the pick on the desk
and stepped back, obviously watching for a reaction.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “The freaks raided Mary Grace. They carried off some of our people. Your father stopped them and got our people back before that monster Mangle could hurt them. And you’re making sure Mangle gets out of our lands. The city council wanted to express its appreciation.”

  As the son of Grendel, Falki didn’t want for much, but it was always nice when people gave him gifts. “The people of Mary Grace have my thanks. Miss…”

  “Rosalyn. Rosalyn Pleasant.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a pleasant name.” He smiled at his own joke. She smiled back. Just a smile, not laughing to obviously curry favor. This wasn’t something he saw much at all.

  Falki rose and gently set the pick in the corner, next to a long spear whose shaft was edged with gold. That got Rosalyn’s attention. “What’s that?” She pointed at the spear.

  “It belonged to Ejnar Irontooth. Not that useful in battles waged with guns, but it has a certain psychological effect.”

  Rosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

  “Father comes from Sejera, in the northwest. The Sejer — his folk — worship a god called Odin. If you throw a spear onto the battlefield before the fighting starts, you’re dedicating the enemy to him. No mercy.” Falki smiled. “I don’t believe in Odin. But I do believe in drama and I do believe in fear. No quarter means your enemies won’t surrender in the short run, but it generates fear in the long run. Each battle may be bloodier, but there’ll be fewer of them.”

  She nodded. Falki raised an eyebrow. He’d expected his candor to make her uncomfortable, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all.

  “Have you ever used the spear that way?”

  “Once. There was a group of rebels in the Basin, freeholders Father had cleared out to make room for Guard veterans. They’d killed Wang Fai — he was one of Father’s supporters from Sejera. Every single man died that afternoon.” He smiled. “Ho la Othinn.”