“Your place is here,” Lizanne told Tekela, guiding her to a spot next to the rear wheel of the Thumper’s carriage. “You load the magazines. You do not do anything else and you do not raise your head above the edge of this trench. Do you understand?”
She received only a brief, pale-faced nod in response, the girl’s wide and overly bright eyes indicating she was all too aware of the dangers they faced today. “There will be explosions,” Lizanne said, taking a roll of cotton wool from her pocket and pressing it into Tekela’s hands. “Put some in your ears, and open your mouth wide when the shells start falling. You have your revolver?”
Tekela nodded again, reaching into her overalls to pull the pistol from the holster Jermayah had given her. Lizanne saw how her hand was shaking and reached out to clasp it, forcing a smile and meeting the girl’s eyes until the tremor faded. “Only if you have to,” Lizanne said, squeezing her hand before moving to Arberus’s side. He stood scanning the distant tree-line whilst Jermayah continued to tinker with the Thumper, Lizanne suspected more out of nerves than necessity. Like Tekela, he had never seen combat before.
“Anything?” Lizanne asked the major.
“It’ll be a while yet,” Arberus replied. “He’ll keep pounding the town to spread as much fear and panic as possible. May not even launch his assault until nightfall, though that’s always a risky option. It’s hard to control an army in the dark.”
Lizanne studied his face for a moment, seeing only the focused gaze of the professional soldier facing battle. “No qualms, Major?” she asked. “Once this starts you’ll be killing your own people.”
He replied with a quote, something she noticed he often did when notions of moral difficulty were raised, as if the mere repetition of dogma was enough to banish all doubts. “‘True change has never been bloodless.’”
“Bidrosin again. Do you know all her writings by heart, I wonder?”
Arberus’s eyes remained fixed on the tree-line but his voice took on an oddly nostalgic tone. “Oh yes. Even the poetry. That was her profession, you see, before the First Revolt. She found herself cast into prison for penning an amusing ditty concerning the Emperor’s excessive fondness for the company of young boys. Rather than kill her, the Emperor thought it more amusing to strip away all her family’s wealth. Every sibling, cousin, uncle and aunt reduced to poverty with a stroke of a pen and she cast out from prison, destitute. A singularly vindictive act I suspect he came to regret in time.”
“She changed her name,” Lizanne said, realisation dawning as she recalled her own history lessons. “Bidrosin was merely a pseudonym, adopted when her husband divorced her.”
“Indeed, though for a time she went by her maiden name until finding love with a fellow radical as her unending torrent of anti-Imperial pamphlets drew more and more attention. Her children adopted the name, partly to honour her but also to disguise their association.”
“Arberus.” Lizanne shook her head, voicing a laugh that drew a start from the surrounding conscripts. “So, you were born into revolution.”
He shrugged, his mouth forming a rueful grin. “Grandmother was a difficult woman, but also made some very compelling arguments. Certainly more compelling than the vapid Imperial bombast they drummed into us in school.”
“What became of her? The histories I’ve read are ambiguous regarding her fate.”
“Despite numerous unwise adventures during the Revolution, she survived to grow old hiding in my parents’ attic, eventually losing her sight which proved a great trial for she so loved to read. It was one of my chores to read to her, though in time I came to understand it as an honour. She died when I was fifteen, quietly in bed and as comfortable as we could make her. We laid her to rest in a grave crowned by a stone carved with a false name. One day I hope to replace it with the real one.”
Still, Lizanne thought but left unsaid, she had a better death than the millions who died in pursuit of her nonsensical scribblings.
“Leonis came to the funeral,” Arberus went on. “He had been one of her earliest acolytes. The whole notion of his joining the Imperial army had been Grandmother’s idea. It was hoped that he would win enough renown on the battlefield to place him in proximity to the Emperor one day. Sadly, the day never came. My parents were leery of any further involvement with the Brotherhood but Leonis found a willing accomplice in me, especially when he began to tell me of a great and powerful secret lurking in the depths of this continent, a secret that might resurrect our cause, provided we got to it first.”
Lizanne gave a mirthless laugh. “If you had found it, I suspect the result would have been anything but resurrection.”
“So, you think it best left buried? A wondrous discovery shunned by humanity, despite all it can teach us?”
“I have come to believe it should not be left buried, but destroyed. I believe the wonders that did indeed once flourish on this continent were brought down by the very thing we seek.” She stared at him until the weight of her gaze made him turn. “My employers do not share my concerns. When they come to light, I may need your assistance.” She cast a meaningful glance at Tekela, now busily engaged in arranging the Thumper’s magazines into a neat stack.
She saw calculation in his gaze rather than sentiment as he looked at the girl, though there was perhaps a small glimmer of affection. “Our prior arrangement?” he asked.
“To be negotiated with the Board. But I will need to appeal to them directly, in Feros. Once they hear my full account of this endeavour, I’m hopeful rational measures can be agreed.”
“Meaning, at some point, we will have to contrive an escape from this port, in the midst of a siege no less.”
Lizanne looked back at the city, realising the combined barrage of fleet and army had faded. There remained four hours until nightfall, which indicated Marshal Morradin had decided not to await the cover of darkness after all. “Meaning,” she said as they both crouched down beside the bulk of the Thumper, tensing in anticipation, “the city has to still be standing for us to escape it.”
He nodded as the first shell came down, tearing a hole into the earth just south of the outer trenches, quickly followed by a dozen more. Arberus’s reply was lost amidst the din, but she read his intent readily enough as he patted an affectionate hand to the base of the Thumper.
—
The barrage seemed to last an eternity but in fact couldn’t have gone on for more than a half-hour. The cotton in Lizanne’s ears did much to shield her from the noise but she could still feel it, the earth quaking with the continuous rain of destruction. The depth of the trench protected them from much of the shrapnel but not from the fountains of displaced earth and boulders which soon had them covered in dirt and wincing from bruising encounters with falling stone. Worse than the physical effects, however, was the gnawing uncertainty that grew into fear and then terror as the barrage continued. All in the trench quickly understood it to offer only a partial refuge when a Corvantine shell scored a direct hit on a neighbouring position occupied by Protectorate Regulars. Limbs and partially destroyed torsos had been amidst the debris that rained down, the ghastly sight enough to send one of the conscripts screaming for the rear, casting his rifle and ammunition away as he pelted off into the smoke. A few others had clearly been tempted to follow his example, edging closer to the rear of the trench and tensing for a rush. Their determination faded when one of them poked his head up to scan for an escape route only to have it split down the middle by an inch-long shard of shrapnel.
When it seemed it might never end, Tekela reached out a hand to Lizanne. She sat with knees drawn up and her back against the Thumper’s base, eyes closed tight and trembling arm extended. Lizanne took her hand, holding it tight, watching the girl’s lips move in an unheard prayer, or was it a song? The suspicion was confirmed when at last the final shell came slamming down and a thick wall of silence descended on the trenches, the sudden, al
most shocking stillness broken only by Tekela’s song. Lizanne’s estimation of her musical talents deepened upon hearing her voice. She recognised the tune, “The Leaves of Autumn,” the Eutherian lyrics sung with a captivating sweetness at odds with the landscape that greeted their gaze.
The defences had been transformed into a semblance of Morvia’s surface, every square yard seemingly cratered and pitted. In some places the barrage had been so intense the shell-holes overlapped. Predictably, the Protectorate artillery positions had borne the brunt of the fire, Lizanne seeing one in a state of near-complete destruction whilst the nearest battery lay in a shambles of shattered wheels and dismounted guns. She could see the harassed captain busily ordering his dazed men to rebuild the position and found herself impressed that he managed to get one piece sighted and ready by the time Arberus’s shout dragged her attention to the south.
At first she could see nothing but drifting smoke and the dim shadow of the tree-line, but then came the piercing wail of multiple bugles and the ominous growl of thousands of men charging into battle. The smoke seemed to vanish all at once, revealing the dark mass of Corvantine infantry emerging from the trees. They moved at a steady run, rifles levelled and bayonets fixed, sword-waving officers out in front, each blowing a shrill whistle. A ragged volley of shots came from the outer trenches as the Contractors recovered their dazed wits, a score or more Corvantines falling, mostly officers as far as Lizanne could tell. The Contractors evidently knew how to pick their targets. Despite its accuracy, their fire lacked the weight to stem the tide of onrushing infantry and soon dozens of duster-clad figures could be seen running to the second line of trenches.
The Protectorate artillery seemed to take this as the signal to open fire. Their numbers had been thinned by the Corvantine barrage but they still possessed enough fire-power to take a fearful toll on the attackers. Large rents were torn in the Corvantine ranks as they neared the trenches, men and parts of men cast into the air amidst the flame and exploding earth. But still they came on, at least a full brigade by Lizanne’s estimation, driven onward through the rain of shell and bullets either by blind duty or fear. As they came to the edge of the outer trenches the Protectorate infantry and Contractors manning the second line unleashed a deafening blast of rifle fire, cutting down the first rank of Corvantines like a scythe through wheat. Lizanne could hear the distinctive roar of Jermayah’s Growlers amidst the general cacophony, their worth proved by the mounds of dead piling up among the shell-holes.
Some Corvantines escaped the blizzard of lead to take shelter in the trenches vacated by the Contractors, whereupon they began to return fire, Lizanne ducking down as the bullets whined overhead.
“You lot waiting for something?” Arberus demanded of the conscripts, most now cowering beneath the lip of the trench. Some of the sailors duly bobbed up to fire an unaimed shot or two but the rest just gaped at him, the combined effects of the barrage and this new onslaught breeding a paralysis that couldn’t be shaken by a stern word. Arberus swore in Eutherian and strode towards the nearest conscript, a managerial type judging from his well-tailored hunting jacket. He stared at Arberus in white-faced shock as the major pressed his pistol against his head. “Get up!” Arberus ordered.
Some primal instinct seemed to warn the manager that this was no bluff, for he immediately got to his feet, albeit somewhat shakily. “Fire your rifle!” Arberus ordered, keeping his pistol pressed to the man’s temple until he raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired off an inexpert shot. “Again!” Arberus said. “And aim this time!”
The manager worked the bolt to open the breech, fumbled his first attempt to slot a bullet in place, succeeded at the second try and fired again. He flinched when a Corvantine bullet smacked into the ground near by, but nevertheless continued to fire as Arberus stepped back and pointed his revolver at the still-crouching conscripts. “All of you. If you want to live, get on your feet and start fucking fighting!”
Lizanne moved to the major’s side, fingers poised over the Spider’s buttons and Whisper in hand. However, further encouragement proved unnecessary as they all slowly got to their feet and began to fire at the Corvantines in the trenches below. Their position had been cleverly constructed at a greater height than the outer trench lines, allowing the defenders to fire down at the now-densely-packed Corvantines. The conscripts’ lack of expertise mattered little when presented with such an unmissable target. More than a dozen Corvantines fell at the first volley, quickly followed by many more as the conscripts realised they had the upper hand and their rate of fire increased.
“Not yet,” Arberus told Jermayah as his hand went to the Thumper’s lever. “This is just the first wave.”
Gazing down at the dreadful spectacle unfolding below, Lizanne thought of poor Mr. Drellic’s words regarding Grand Marshal Morradin and concluded the old butler hadn’t been so mad after all: The great commander, no more than a pig grown fat on the blood of wasted youth.
The trench below was now crammed with the dead or dying, in some places the corpses so densely packed they remained upright, the mass of bodies twitching continually under the unrestrained rifle fire. Yet more bodies littered the ground beyond, the wounded crawling or staggering about amidst the storm of shell and bullet. She saw one officer propping himself up on an upturned rifle, his leg missing below the knee but still waving his sword and blowing his whistle until a burst of Growler fire tore him apart.
The conscripts, blood-lust now stoked to full and not yet sated, continued to pour bullets into the mass of bodies below until Arberus barked at them to stop wasting ammunition. All along the line the crackle of gun-fire slowly ebbed as it became apparent the Corvantine assault had been stopped at the outer trench. A few shocked and wounded men could be seen through the haze, staggering or crawling back towards their own lines.
“I suppose they’ll ask for a truce now,” Lizanne commented. “To gather up their wounded before renewing the assault.”
Arberus’s laugh was hollow, his gaze fixed on the ground beyond the trenches in tense expectation. “Clearly, you don’t know our enemy that well, Miss Lethridge.”
A few seconds later came the tumult of a fresh assault, bugles, whistles and the shouts of charging men echoing through the smoke before they appeared. Another two brigades, Lizanne realised as she gauged their numbers, her unease deepening at the sight of the dark red tunics of the men directly in front of their trench. The Scarlet Legion.
Arberus had also been quick to spot the presence of the Imperial Elite, moving to the Thumper and patting Jermayah on the shoulder. “It’s time. You turn the handle, I’ll aim.” Jermayah had constructed an ingenious mounting for the weapon that enabled it to be swivelled about on lateral and vertical axes with minimal effort. Arberus took a second to align the Thumper then nodded at Jermayah. Lizanne had time to fumble some fresh cotton into her ears before the weapon began to roar. Its rate of fire was slower than the Growler’s but the harsh, percussive bark that accompanied the departure of every shell from the multiple barrels still made for a jolting experience. She was surprised by how little smoke it produced, Jermayah apparently having concocted a new form of propellant that allowed the gunner to observe their target as they fired. She was therefore treated to a full demonstration of the Thumper’s effectiveness as the first shells tore into the ranks of the Scarlet Legion.
Much of the first rank simply disintegrated, a line of tall men, maintaining impressively disciplined order as they charged with rifles levelled and bayonets gleaming, transformed into bloody ruin in the space of a few seconds. She saw four men explode in quick succession, the men behind and to the sides reeling away from the flying shrapnel and fragmented bone. It seemed that for every man the Thumper killed directly it took down three more with the force of the resultant explosion. By the time they had exhausted the first magazine, the centre of the Scarlet Legion’s line had been stopped completely. The legionnaires on the flanks, howe
ver, continued to charge on despite the shock of the Thumper’s attentions, rallied by sword-wielding officers to increase their pace.
“Reload!” Arberus said.
They had practised this over and over again in the workshop; Jermayah opened the breech, Lizanne removed the empty magazine and Tekela replaced it with a full one. All done in less than four seconds.
Arberus traversed the Thumper to the right as Jermayah began to turn the handle once more, then worked the weapon slowly from side to side to concentrate fire on the Legion’s flanks. More exploding men, more gaps torn in their ranks, but still, somehow, the survivors came on. Perhaps four hundred made it to the outer trench where they began to clamber over the bodies of those killed in the first assault. The Protectorate troops and Contractors in the second line opened a withering fire, exacting a heavy price for the legionnaires’ courage. But the Imperial Elite were not easily daunted, struggling on over the mounds of corpses and ascending the slope towards the second line. They were close enough for Lizanne to make out their faces now and they all seemed to be screaming, either through rage or madness, running forward as their comrades died around them.
Arberus ordered another fresh magazine and depressed the Thumper’s barrels by several inches before firing again. At this range the effect was too much even for the surviving legionnaires; whole platoons were wiped out at once, some men suffering multiple hits so that they were simply blasted out of existence. The Thumper’s shells raised a dust-storm, concealing the final moments of the Legion’s assault as Jermayah exhausted the last of the magazine. The pall settled slowly, revealing a scene of utter carnage. Men lay in pieces, heads, limbs, legs and rifles tangled up together like discarded meat from an abattoir.