- Chapter 21






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Chapter Nineteen
Sharku's enhanced night vision leapt from one line of bonfire-lit fortifications to the next, and to the one after that. There were ten thousand campfires blazing in the dark of truenight, and Sharku did not like what he saw. "Those works will be brutally expensive to assault," he said.
Most of the command group remained silent; the truth of the Deathmaster's remark was obvious.
"They hold us from the Citadel, therefore they must be overwhelmed," Regiment Leader Lagduf replied sententiously. "Besides, there are only cattle in them. How can they hope to stand against us?"
Lagduf had never quite accepted Sharku as his commander. He obeyed, and was even gaining respect for the new Deathmaster, but he never neglected an opportunity to show that he considered himself Sharku's equal.
And yet Sharku could make use of Lagduf, who could lead when told where to go. It always surprised Mumak how Sharku could make use of everyone's abilities, not only friends, but those who hated him. Lagduf, for instance, who really did believe the Soldiers were invincible, and who would not hesitate to lead his Regiment blindly into battle—but who could get the Soldiers to follow him there, too.
"They can't stand against us," Sharku said evenly. "But these barbarian warriors—even men of the cattle—in good defensive positions can hurt us, if we are foolish enough to let them. The Race needs all of us, Regiment Leader." He stared moodily at the fortifications. "Those are good positions, and we do have to come to them. They will hurt us."
A quadruple ring of earthworks lay around the Citadel and Nûrnen, one lacing in, the other three outward. Each ring included a ditch too wide even for Soldiers to leap across, with pointed sticks and other unpleasantly sharp objects sticking up from the bottom. The dirt from the ditches had been piled into earth walls, topped with palisades similarly made from sharp and jagged things. The palisades were tall enough and thick enough to let men maneuver behind them without much danger of getting shot. Moving around in front of them was going to be something else again.
The Bandari had made their nomad pawns—and probably the survivors of Nûrnen—churn up incredible amounts of earth, even for a third of a million pairs of hands. Sharku felt irony again. Had the Soldiers forced such a project on their subjects, all Haven would have heard the tales of cruelty inside a cycle and a half.
"Very well, let's consider it as a tactical problem," Lagduf said.
Mumak ignored the irony in Lagduf's voice. "What shall we do, Deathmaster?"
Sharku came down from the camp wall and gathered the command group around a map laid out on a field desk. "We have no further word from the Citadel."
"And they cheer," Lagduf said. "Bonfires. Shouting." The bantering tone was gone now. "Deathmaster, our families—"
Sharku put his hand on Lagduf's shoulder. "We'll see to them. If there were really anything to fear, old Titus would have sent a dozen messengers, enough to be sure one got through. He didn't."
"But we don't know," Lagduf said.
"We don't know," Sharku agreed. "So we'll have to go find out." He looked down at the map. "We had at least nine thousand effectives as of nightfall, with more due to arrive before dawn. By then we should be on the move. Senior Battalion Leader Guthril, you will take your battalion and the Second Battalion of the Third Regiment to create a diversion. You will attack on a broad front and break through anywhere you find them weak to penetrate to the second ring. Get in there and dig in. We'll give the barbarians time to digest that, and while they're sending everything they've got to throw you back, I'll take First Regiment through their left flank toward what's left of Firebase One. Then we'll take the tunnel into the Citadel."
"What makes you think the tunnel is safe?" Lagduf demanded.
"Cadet Harad used it," Sharku said. "He closed every one of the barriers behind him on the way through."
"So how will you get through?"
"We'll send up rockets from Firebase One," Mumak said. "They'll see it's us, and come get us. Nothing to it."
"And my orders, Deathmaster?" Lagduf said.
"You hold here, and be ready to assist Guthril. Junior Regiment Leader Guthril, if you get out of this alive."
"Sir." Guthril grinned. "Nothing to it. Lagduf'll come get me. Won't you, Regiment Leader?"
"Senior Regiment Leader Lagduf," Sharku said absently.
Lagduf grunted. It was clear he wasn't happy with the plan, but he didn't have a better one. It was also clear that if he accepted promotion from Sharku, he could hardly question the Deathmaster's orders.
"The important thing is to stay alive," Sharku said. "Lagduf will open the route to bring you out, and when he does, you will come out. Instantly. This isn't a fight for glory, and it's not to kill cattle. We'll kill enough of them later. Right now, we've work to do at the Citadel. Any questions?"
There were none. Marln, the Senior Battalion Leader who was, now that Mumak was First Deputy, the nominal leader of First Regiment beamed, as did Guthril. Senior Assault Leader Snaga radiated silent disapproval. So did a few of the other commanders; but they would obey nonetheless. That sort of discipline had always been among the Soldiers' greatest advantages—the problem was, the cattle seemed to be picking it up as well.
 
"Fifty minutes," Mumak said. Except for the bonfires ahead the darkness was complete, but they could hear the sounds of battle far to their right, as Guthril's force penetrated the earthworks, and Lagduf laid down furious covering fire. If the cattle didn't think this was Sharku's entire force, it wasn't from lack of enthusiasm by the other three Regiments.
Sharku knew a strange sense of fatalism as he waited his turn to action. Three T-months before he'd have been cleaning his assault rifle and making sure he had extra magazines where he could get at them in a hurry. Now he was in command—
But he'd have to lead. He could send men to battle, but if he went with them, he'd have to lead, because he had to be the first into the Citadel. With the First, the loyalists who'd follow him anywhere—and against any enemy.
Enough. Soon he would be doing, too busy to think. Thinking led only to complication and confusion. The results of action, one way or another, would be clear.
The battle noises from the southeast grew louder. Guthril was attacking in the sector directly south of Nûrnen. The barbarians saw the threat to the city, and were sweeping down toward it to protect their loot. Sharku waited in silence. The longer he waited, the fewer enemies he'd have to fight through.
And that would still be too many.
The land ahead was not so well defended as was the direct route to Nûrnen, but even so there were three rings of earthworks between him and the place the cattle called Sauron Town: Firebase One from the first days the Race had come to Haven. Now they moved along the periphery of those earthworks, moving westward into the hills, the Soldiers loping in their ground-devouring trot. Scouts out ahead of the main body made sure no men of the cattle survived to get word back to the warriors within the fortifications.
They reached the point Sharku had chosen for the attack. The enemy lay just ahead.
 
Officers of the Race did not lead through fancy speeches, nor did the Soldiers require them. Everyone knew what was at stake. Deathmaster Sharku waved his hand. First Deputy Mumak said one quiet word—"Forward!"—and the assault parties loped into the firelight and leapt down into the trench in front of the first palisade.
"Listen to 'em scream," Mumak said. "We surprised 'em all right. Heh, like they think we're sendin' 'em all to that Hell they're so worried about."
"Maybe we are." Sharku waved the Soldiers on.
Nomads popped up onto the fire steps behind the parapet to blaze away at the Soldiers swarming toward them. Clouds of black-powder smoke swirled like hellish fog in the lurid orange light of the fires.
Out in the darkness, beyond the firelight, Soldiers fired at the men behind the earthwork, trying to sweep it clean so their fellows could advance. Plainsmen screamed and toppled, but every time one fell to the ground two seemed to take his place.
"Amazing," Mumak said. "Never knew there were this many on the whole planet. How'd they feed them all?"
"They're eating our crops now," Sharku said. "And they can't have left much behind them. If we drive them away from here they'll all starve."
"Serve 'em right. Except Breedmaster Titus will want some of 'em for stock."
"I think there are enough to go around," Sharku shouted as another band of nomads came over the ridge. Grimly they shot them down.
"Keep them moving, Mumak," Sharku ordered. "I expect most of them will keep on to Nûrnen when they hear the fighting here, but we can't count on all of them doing that."
"No, and the ones that do come here are going to be the smart ones," Mumak said.
"Good thinking. Look at all this stuff. Nomads wouldn't build breastworks. That's the Bandari's doing—and that's who'll come to see what we're up to over here, you can be sure of that." He stopped to point. "Who's that chasing nomads? Mumak, get those Soldiers off that. Keep them moving but when the fur-hats break, let 'em run." He raised his voice. "Plenty of chances for slaughter later. On to the Citadel. Home!"
"Sharku!" someone shouted. There were more cheers.
 
The first wave of Soldiers had torn down sections of the wall and knocked down many of the spikes. Sharku sent them ahead and waited for the second group, setting them to smashing a wider breach in the palisades, then moved forward again.
More Soldiers were down already than he'd ever seen in one narrow place. Bullets chewed the dirt around his feet and hummed by nastily; the nomads were stuffing their muzzle-loaders with heavy buckshot, lethal at close range. And along with the lead came a whispering danger no less deadly for being all but silent: arrows lofted by archers from the second ring of works. The range was long even for the nomad's composite bows and the barrage had to be random, but when enough shafts fell, some struck home.
Soldiers clawed their way up the dirt of the wall to close with the defenders. Some were hit and fell back, some were hit and kept on, some gained the crest. Most of the nomads had muzzle-loaders; once they'd fired, they couldn't reload fast enough to shoot again with the enemy clambering up at them. Some reversed their muskets and swung them club-fashion. Others tried cold steel, and some tried to run. Generally, any of the three options netted the same result.
A flintlock went off almost in Sharku's face as he grabbed one of the sharpened stakes at the top of the palisade. The report nearly deafened him; the muzzle flash played havoc with his augmented vision—the world seemed to go up in hot yellow flame. The bullet craaacked past his head, so close he felt the wind of its passage.
But it missed, and the stake meant to keep him at bay gave him a handhold with which to pull himself up to the top of the earthwork. He stuck his assault rifle over the edge, squeezed off a long unaimed burst. By the screams, by the stink of blood and shit and fear from the other side, the enemy had been packed tight enough for many of his bullets to find marks.
He tore aside the stake he'd been holding and the one next to it, flung himself down on the inner side of the palisade. Soldiers in camouflage uniforms were already dashing toward the second ring of fortification, trampling the felt-clad bodies—many still writhing—of the nomads who'd tried to hold them back.
The Soldiers had worked a fearful slaughter. Off to the right and south, the sounds of hard fighting were still intense. "Wonder how many Guthril's facing? Sure don't make much difference here!" Mumak shouted from behind him.
From right and left and from behind the second palisade, more gunfire raked them. And, as they crossed the open space between the two rings, lofted arrows dropped down on them once more. Sharku realized that the enemy had sited his lines so archers from the second could bear on the first, and those from the third on the second. The Bandari again, he thought: the nomads weren't sophisticated enough to create killing grounds like that.
"What do we do now, sir?" Assault Leader Vizgor shouted in battletongue.
"On to the Citadel. Home!"
More messengers found him. "Guthril's at the second ring. Pinned down there."
"As expected," Mumak said. "Deathmaster, do you get the feeling they expected us here?"
"It was the obvious route," Sharku said. "Forward."
"Not that we have any flipping choice. All right, you heard the Deathmaster. Forward. Go home, Soldiers."
Sharku wondered if anyone heard his orders. Or cared. It wouldn't matter; the Soldiers knew the Citadel had been attacked. It had taken iron discipline to keep them from going off on their own. They wouldn't need any more orders, because there weren't any clever orders to give. This wasn't a battle that would be won by tactics, it was going to be sheer hard fighting.
"We're losing a lot," Mumak said.
"Estimate?"
"Ten percent already out of action."
"Forward."
"Aye, Deathmaster."
 
They were approaching the second ring when an arrow pierced Sharku between the index and middle fingers of his left hand. He growled something under his breath as he willed away the pain. He snapped off the point, yanked out the shaft, willed the bleeding to stop, then moved his fingers. They worked—no tendons cut, then. He could forget that wound.
The second's pause gave him time to examine the arrow. It was not the usual handmade nomad product; the shaft was lathe-turned, the head stamped out of some thin sheet metal, the fletching crude.
The Bandari again. They'd used the manufacturing facilities in Nûrnen to turn out hundreds of thousands of shafts, cheap and simple but good enough for this massed blind shooting.
I'm getting sick of that thought, he decided.
He ran toward the second ditch, firing as he went. Harad stayed close behind him, as he had throughout the battle. Soldiers were already making their way through it toward the next palisade. One fell as he watched, shot through the head. No enhancements could do anything for that.
The nomads were still delivering enfilading fire from either flank. There was nothing to be done about that but get through as fast as they could.
 
They were at the second ring. As they had at the outer ring, the Soldiers who made their way through the spiked obstacle course clawed up the earthwork behind it, many of them tumbling backward with wounds before they could gain the crest. Here and there, though, and then in growing numbers, they used their superior firepower to drive the howling warriors back. One by one, Sharku among them, they dropped down onto the far side.
In the cold and dark of truenight, lit only by lurid watchfires and the stroboscopic glare of muzzle flashes, the fighting had a hellish quality Sharku had never known before. Like all Soldiers, he scorned religion as fit but for women and cattle, but now he had a referent for a place where lost souls might end up: somewhere like this, with noise and terror and anguish and—again—arrows falling like snowflakes to pierce fighters who never knew they were there until too late.
"Not the education I wanted," he said as he advanced. "Harad."
"Deathmaster." The boy was just behind.
Three paces right flank rear. Good lad. "We learn from mistakes. You leam from mine."
"Sir."
"Report," Sharku shouted.
"Thirty percent casualties," Mumak said from behind him.
Seventy percent left. Enough? The answer appeared in front of his eyes like a prediction from the Threat Analysis Computer: Enough. Just. Guthril's force had drawn enough of them, and now Lagduf would be renewing the attack. Not even the Bandari would be able to keep the nomads disciplined if they thought they were losing all their loot.
The enemy could not be strong enough everywhere along their perimeter, despite the massive fortifications. Augmentation and superior weapons gave the Soldiers tremendous fire superiority at the point of contact; the enemy's response was huge, but diffuse. And now they were at the third ring.
Nomads were up on the fire steps behind the barricade, blasting away for all they were worth. He heard the excited keening of women from behind it, which puzzled him for a moment—then he realized that they must be loading for their men. With a chain of four or five behind him passing forward new muskets, each warrior could keep up an almost continuous fire. Some of them had Bandari rifles, too; the muzzle-loading abortions that had defended the first two rings would never have put so much lead in the air, even in relays.
"More than ever," Mumak shouted. "Bastards are sharp, I'll give 'em that!"
Sharku nodded. In the time that the Soldiers had taken to get this far, the enemy had brought in more of their best troops.
"Still more facing Guthril and Lagduf," Mumak said. "Last messenger said they were dug in good, though."
And at some point the Bandari would realize that Guthril wasn't moving on Nûrnen, and Lagduf was only going to aid Guthril—but by then it would be too late. They'd be through. One more ring . . .
The sound of a bullet hitting frontal bone and then drilling through and making brain into blood pudding is strange, hard and wet at the same time. A couple of meters to Sharku's left, a Section Leader dropped his assault rifle and tumbled bonelessly to the ground.
Time to show them that the accursed Bandari aren't the only ones who can come up with surprises, Sharku decided. A shame they had so few.
"Grenadiers to the front!" he called. Officers took up the call and relayed it.
All along the axis of the Soldiers' attack, troopers reached into cloth bandoliers.
"Forward. Make ready. Prepare to throw."
"Throw!"
Soldiers' arms could duplicate a spring-driven catapult. Two-pound bombs arched out with mechanical precision. They burst over the inner lip of the enemy palisade with sullen crack sounds and a malignant whine of shrapnel; nails, stones, bits of broken ceramic. The volume of enemy fire fell off abruptly, amid a chorus of shrieks. Many of them were those of women, the loaders who'd been handing up muskets, or children scurrying about with bundles of arrows.
Sharku paused at the edge of the ditch to spray the earthwork with fire. He had only a couple of magazines left. Somehow that ammunition had to last until he'd fought through this ring and on to Firebase One. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a cliff lion's combat grin. It will have to do.
A handful of Soldiers, one by one, made their way to the top of the third barricade, dropped over. Battle-cries from the other side turned to screams of fear. A Soldier at close range was a cattle warrior's worst nightmare.
Bring all the reserves from the base forward now? he wondered. But if they failed, the Race failed with them, forever. And he had to act now. Hoarse shouts arose: "Allahu Akbar!" and another one, "haBandaaaar!" The enemy commanders wouldn't be deceived by the diversion forever. They would channel more and more of their reserves into this sector and turn it into a killing zone.
"Prepare to throw! Throw!"
Another volley of grenades, and another, arched out from the Sauron front line.
He wanted to kill them all, slowly. He wanted to kill Carcharoth, even more slowly. And none of that mattered, only cold calculation: Could the Soldiers take this position?
We must. "Forward. Runner."
"There's only me, sir," Harad shouted.
"Take the word to the reserves. All units, forward. Execute."
"Sir," Harad said. He darted away.
Another volley of grenades, then axes against the palisade stakes, through—
A ghastiy sight met him beyond the third palisade. The enemy had packed in their men—and the women who loaded for them—shoulder to shoulder, trying to match the density of the attacker's firepower. Five thousand grenades had wreaked a slaughter beyond comprehension; the darkened surface of the ground was heaving with screaming, moaning wounded for a thousand-meter stretch of wall. The reddish light of the bonfires made the blood seem black; there was enough of it, and enough ripped bowel, to stun his Soldier's sense of smell. The light volcanic soil beneath his feet was turned to mud.
This will be the most fertile ground on Haven for a generation, he thought.
"Form column of companies. Forward!"
And on, past the dead and dying. A few Soldiers couldn't resist shooting the wounded. Sharku wondered if they were acting in spite or mercy. Some of both, probably. "Move!" he shouted, and behind him Mumak waved the rankers forward. "Go. Go. Go. Go!"
"Deathmaster."
It still seemed odd to be addressed by that title—the first Soldier ever promoted to it by his own Soldiers. He could worry about the Cyborgs' reaction when he got to the Citadel. He faced the messenger. "Report."
"From Battalion Leader Guthril; diversionary force requests permission to withdraw. Senior Regiment Leader Lagduf is in position to support."
"Permission granted. Mumak, fire the signal rockets."
"Right, Sharku."
"Battalion Leader Guthril reports thirty percent casualties," the messenger continued.
A high price. Now to make it worth paying. "Tell Regiment Leader Guthril the word is 'well done.' "
And then more noises, this time from ahead.
"What?"
Mumak pointed. A Scout Leader was running to them from the dark ahead. "The Citadel has seen us, Deathmaster. They're firing in support. The enemy is scattering."
Sharku took a deep breath. "Let's go home."
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