Hells march, p.26
Hell's March, page 26
“What’s happening?” Zyan asked nervously, instinctively clutching his arm. A sense of wretchedness descended on Don Hurac as he realized he should have Zyan punished for such a display in front of others. He never would. After his long journey, as much philosophical as physical, he had to admit, he wondered how many other things he’d never be able to do again.
“Riders approach!” called a guard on the wall. If they’d been enemies, they couldn’t have stopped them. The gate wasn’t even closed. “It’s Obispo El Consuelo!” cried the guard in relief. “Heading a column of lancers and two coaches,” he added.
El Consuelo was a terrible horseman and nearly fell off his animal when it stopped in the courtyard. The carriages entered the gates as well, amid a clatter of hooves and creaking wheels, but the lancers remained outside, on guard.
“My dear Consuelo!” Don Hurac said, steadying the younger man. He seemed about to drop. “You’ve had no rest at all!”
“No, Your Holiness,” El Consuelo confessed. “There’s been no time.” His heavy-lidded eyes widened. “We’re under attack. By the demonios Americanos!”
“And others as well, no doubt. I gathered as much,” Don Hurac managed not to add “of course.”
“They’ve taken the fort, all the ships in the harbor, and are ashore in force,” El Consuelo said. “I . . . I’ve seen them myself! They fired at me!” His voice was rising, outrage mixed with panic.
“Perhaps they were only shooting at the lancers you brought,” Don Hurac soothed, knowing El Consuelo had never been in physical danger in his life. “Thank you for that. I presume you brought the coaches to evacuate my madres and hijos?” It dawned on him then that he hadn’t seen any of his children in a great while, and he felt a tinge of loss. They would’ve been presented to him in the morning. . . .
“Indeed, Your Holiness! Those wicked heretics cannot lay hands on such as you or your offspring!”
“How very thoughtful, Consuelo. Zyan? See that all your sisters and the children are loaded at once. No baggage, and there’s not a moment to lose.” He pointed southeast. “I’ve seen fighting on all the other roads in or out of the city. They’ll want to close this one as well.”
“I believe the ones who shot at us were coming to do just that,” El Consuelo said urgently. “Only a few were mounted. I doubt they brought horses ashore, but they’ll take enough in the city.”
“Indeed,” Don Hurac observed ironically. “How fortunate for them we stopped sending lancers to General Agon. Oh, we’ve been sending them—dismounted and armed as infantry—while we kept their animals here!” He sighed. “Quickly now, Zyan, do as I said. No baggage,” he reminded. “You’ll be well cared for in Techolotla.”
When Zyan left to herd all the women and children into the coaches, Don Hurac turned to Consuelo once more. “What was the news from the Dragon Monk?”
“Nothing of consequence, either from General Agon or His Holiness Don Datu. All continues as before, but both are waiting upon your latest thoughts.”
Don Hurac nodded, then, after a glance around to make sure no one else was close enough to hear, spoke quickly. “I was wrong not to champion you as my successor,” he confessed. “You are a good man and loyal.” He frowned. “Far more so than that . . . creature of the Blood Priests who defiles my temple in the Holy City! I’ll try to right that wrong, somehow. In the meantime, I have another request. You know where the Dragon Monks accommodate their animals, do you not?”
“I . . . Not exactly, Your Holiness. I can find it.”
“Go and dispatch a message to Don Datu only and report what’s happening here, in my name.” He paused, thinking fast. “When—if—the dragon returns, it must not land unless it sees the yellow pennant. Is that understood?”
“Not land?”
“No.” Don Hurac looked at the city again and saw the perimeter of musket flashes still widening. “This does not feel like a mere raid, somehow. In any event, once you accomplish that, make your way to Techolotla as best you can. My madres and hijos will need you.”
“But . . . you . . . ?”
Don Hurac sighed. “I’m simply too tired to flee and I confess a . . . curiosity. I’ll remain here to learn what I may. The only ones who know these Americanos are Don Frutos and Tranquilo on the one hand, who know absolutely nothing but what their twisted views inform them or they tell each other. General Agon respects them but knows them only as adversaries.”
“Are they not?” El Consuelo asked.
“Of course! But what kind?” He nodded at the calamity engulfing Vera Cruz. “They’re clearly competent and . . . imaginative. But they fight—they’ve done this—because we made them. How dangerous would they be if we simply left them alone? I must know that for the good of the Holy Dominion. I’m not yet certain they must be as great a peril to the existence of the Dominion and our whole way of life as Tranquilo and his Blood Priests are becoming. What the Blood Priests would make of the Americanos, for their own ends,” he added darkly.
El Consuelo only stared, mouth agape.
“Will you do as I ask?” Don Hurac pressed.
“Of . . . of course.”
“Very well. Half the lancers and all my mounted guards will escort my family to safety. Take the rest of the lancers with you, and stay safe as well!”
“I . . . Thank you, Your Holiness. I shall.” He paused. “What will you do?”
Don Hurac was staring at the city, hearing the clatter of hooves as the two coaches pulled out of the courtyard. He couldn’t watch. There was still a lot of shooting in the city, but the heavy fighting at its center had reached a crescendo and was tapering off, the apparent “defending” fire dying out. The peripheral shooting was dying as well, even as it spread. He felt a profound sadness, sure that whatever he did, the “way of life” he’d hoped to protect was doomed. Wrapping his robe of office tightly around him and tying the sash around his waist, he looked at El Consuelo. “I’ll go down and meet the enemy—before they come and take me. The appearance of that may be important. Farewell, Obispo El Consuelo!”
El Consuelo looked close to tears as he took his horse’s reins from the guard holding them and climbed painfully back in the saddle. At times like this, Don Hurac almost envied the heretics’ belief in a God who cared about the welfare of His creatures, not just how much misery they’d endure to glorify Him. It was a strange sensation, wanting to ask God to protect his young assistant and others he cared for rather than merely accepting them into His realm if they suffered enough to earn it. Just as strange, he found himself wishing that God would watch over him as he went down to meet this new enemy they’d made.
All alone, Don Hurac thought, except for the guards and lancers defending his villa, he watched the city a while longer. He didn’t know what he was looking for; perhaps a sign his people had turned the tide, or the enemy was satisfied with the destruction they’d wrought and were starting to leave? They’d spread out too thoroughly, and he didn’t get that sense. A great flash silently lit the waterfront, and a massive orange cloud full of flaming debris roiled into the sky. A moment later, he was buffeted by a thunderous boom that whipped his robe and shattered glass and crockery throughout the villa. A sign? No. Only that fool alcalde’s store of gunpowder bribes he hoped to sell back to the army. There’s no fighting nearby, and the enemy has had plenty of time to identify the contents of all the dockside warehouses. He shook his head and turned, only to see Zyan standing there. Firelit tears streaked her face, and she wore a look of determination like he’d never seen.
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you do as I told you?”
She held up a basket, covered with folded linen. “Here’s food,” she said simply. “Someone must look out for you.”
“But . . .” He blinked. “I’m going down there.” He pointed. “We know nothing of how the heretics will behave in situations like this! How they will . . . treat women!” He knew what his own people would do in their place and shuddered.
“I’m not afraid, Your Holiness,” she stated with finality. “If they treat me—us—harshly, perhaps I’ll earn enough grace to enter paradise at your side.”
Tears welled in his own eyes, and before he could stop, he damned himself to hell for eternity by sending a quick mental prayer to the Heretic God on her behalf. “That . . . that will not happen, my dear,” he said. “I don’t deserve your devotion, but if you’re determined to join me, we’ll go down to the sea together.” Looking at the still-exhausted teniente who’d led his escort of lancers, he gave what he expected to be his final orders in this world. “I’m going to treat with the enemy. I understand they’re prone to stop fighting to talk, on occasion. If I’m allowed to live, I may come away with information critical to the survival of the Dominion. I require two of your men to protect us from refugees fleeing the city, but they must be prepared to surrender their arms when we meet an enemy force,” he warned. “You’ll remain and guard my home from pillagers, but not the enemy. Do you understand?”
The teniente looked shocked. “Uh, no, Your Holiness, I don’t understand!”
“You needn’t,” Don Hurac told him brusquely. “Just do as you’re told.” He considered. “You may attempt to bluff the enemy to keep them out, but under no circumstances fire on them. It may be of the utmost importance to our cause.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” the trooper agreed doubtfully.
Don Hurac put his hand on Zyan’s back and aimed her toward the gate. “Come, my dear.”
* * *
“Jesus! What was that?” Captain Eric Holland demanded, working his jaw, trying to pop his ears as he looked back toward the burning dock and rising mushroom of firelit smoke.
“The warehouse full of gunpowder—and other naval stores,” Capitan Razine reminded shakily. He was hunkered down by Holland and Ixtla by a heavy freight cart the enemy had overturned to fight behind, and he’d made no secret of his displeasure at being dragged along in the thick of things. Oddly, the stupid cart—still attached to a maddened armabuey and actually being dragged down the cobbled street for a time—had served as a moving rally point for the stiffest resistance they’d met so far. The armabuey finally broke free, lumbering and gurgling into the night and half the Doms stayed with it, using the armored beast for protection. Ixtla’s infantry killed or drove off the rest of the cart’s defenders. Now, despite a few potshots from the gloom, they’d been deploying to press forward once more when the great blast sent everyone instinctively diving for cover.
“Good thing that night watchman was scareder o’ what was in them buildings than he was o’ us an’ told us about ’em,” Holland agreed. “Would’a been nice to roll some o’ them powder kegs outa there too, but the place was already catchin’.”
“Back on your feet! Let’s go!” Ixtla roared, a musket ball throwing splinters from the cart at him. He hardly flinched. Hooves clattered toward them, and a squad of Hayne’s dragoons skidded to a stop. They’d found hundreds of horses in pens behind the burning warehouses, and Ixtla and some of Hayne’s men had swept forward to secure the walled plaza around the alcalde’s palace to hold the animals. There wasn’t any tack, but the mounted troopers quickly fashioned bridles and took their pick, riding bareback. No one had even cleared the alcalde’s palace yet. Half a dozen men were watching it and the horses, and no one had shot at them. The alcalde himself was either still there or he wasn’t. They’d find out later.
Holland looked at Ixtla’s men. He had about a company with him: nearly a hundred, and they hadn’t taken many casualties. The rest were pushing forward to the west. “Don’t let me hold you fellas up,” he told the rough-faced Ocelomeh. “I’ll be here, for now.” He grinned. “This cart makes a good headquarters, an’ ever’body knows where it is—now that it ain’t movin’ anymore.”
Ixtla jerked a nod. “Forward!” he bellowed.
“Sir,” cried an Uxmalo dragoon. “Lieutenant Hayne’s Comp’mets an’ he’s stopped all the roads but the one runnin’ north. We’re headin’ that way to reinforce Sergeant Zuir, who we ain’t heard back from.” He shrugged. “Just because the roads’re stopped don’t mean nobody’ll get out, but we ain’t seen many slippin’ around.”
“People think only the roads are safe,” Razine explained. “Perhaps they are safer since predators often meet armed resistance there. Few people will travel elsewhere. Certainly unarmed. And unless they’re milicia or hidalgos or higher, you’ll find no armed civilians. Those won’t have any idea what’s happening,” he continued, “and few will even think to flee. They will very sensibly hide.”
“Roadblocks’re more pickets than anything,” Holland explained. “Keep us from gettin’ surprised by troops comin’ in. You said this is where most of the soldiers goin’ to Agon start from. That’s who we been fightin’. Don’t want more that were almost here sneakin’ up on us.” He looked back at the dragoon. “That said, remind Hayne his men’re just pickets, not there to fight anybody off. Just warn us. That’ll free up men to join the fight here. We’re pushin’, not squeezin’, hear? Any Dom soldiers want to run, that’s fine. Take ’em days to walk anywhere to raise an alarm—if they don’t get ate.”
The dragoon looked surprised. “You think they will run?” he asked, then quickly added, “Sir.”
Holland frowned. “Some already have. Ain’t seen any fightin’ to the last. Maybe they’re all militia.”
Razine shook his head. “Militia uniforms have no black cuffs or facings,” he reminded. They’d run into some of those, mostly spilling out of brothels, unarmed. They’d simply rounded them up and put them under guard with the horses.
“Then maybe these ain’t frontline troops, er they don’t fight as hard—or crazy—in smaller groups, which we’ve busted ’em into,” Holland speculated.
“I think, more important, they have no overall command, or Blood Priests among them, watching everything they do.”
“Could be.” Holland looked back at the squad of dragoons. “Carry on.” Even as the sound of their horses’ hooves began to fade, there came a heavier clatter from the direction of the alcalde’s palace. Perhaps forty mounted Rangers came around a corner, lit from behind by the towering flames. Holland was suddenly torn between watching them come and trying to distinguish what the wind was doing. It was swirling down in the street, but the higher, heavier smoke was tending in an ominous direction. “ ’Hoy there, Mr. Hernandez,” he greeted Sal. “I take it the fort an’ Isidra are secure?”
Sal nodded. “Heard you swiped some o’ my men. Figured I’d come an’ make sure you didn’t turn ’em into sailors.”
“Small chance o’ that,” Holland retorted. “Yer welcome to the horses, by the way.”
Sal grinned. “First fellas we came across said you were at the ‘palace.’ You weren’t, but we found all these horses just standin’ around with nothin’ to do. Fellas there said to look for you this way.” The grin faded, and Sal gestured behind him. “Things’re gonna get bad. Wind’s pickin’ up, fixin’ ta spread the fire. Liable ta burn half the city.”
“That’s what I’m thinkin’,” Holland agreed. “Our little raid might turn into a rescue, if we can ever stop fightin’ long enough.”
“Rescue?” Sal asked, surprised. “What the hell?”
“You might say we started this damn fire,” Holland grumbled. “Can’t just let people burn.”
Sal waved around. There were Dom bodies around the cart but no one else in view. “Who’s to save? Everybody’s gone.”
“Everyone’s hiding,” Razine said through clenched teeth. “Without a warning they believe, they’ll most certainly burn.”
“Madre de Dios,” Sal hissed, then added, “Shit.” None of them had come here to slaughter civilians, Doms or not. He pointed at Razine. “Can you help us shout ’em out before they do?” Before Razine could reply, he thought of something and told Holland, “There was a commotion back where we got the horses, some dragoons comin’ in from the north with important-lookin’ prisoners. Two Dom soldiers with a man an’ a woman.” He paused and arched an eyebrow. “The man’s wearin’ a fancy robe like that damn Don Frutos had.”
“You’ve caught Don Hurac!” Razine exclaimed in amazement.
“Who’s he?” Holland demanded.
“The Blood Cardinal responsible for this entire province!” Razine told him with what sounded like a mix of joy and terror. “He’s a prize beyond anything else we’ve accomplished! Beyond your steaming ship, beyond Vera Cruz itself! With him . . . You must keep him safe!”
Sal shook his head when Holland sent him a look. “Nobody was whuppin’ on him. Seemed fine to me.”
“Don Hurac will help you get people away from the fire,” Razine said with complete confidence.
“Why would he?” Sal asked, surprised. “I thought Blood Cardinals were pendejos, so far above everybody they don’t care who burns. Hell, they burn folks all the time.”
“That’s true for many,” Razine agreed, “but Don Hurac is . . . different. He presides over the traditional sacrifices prescribed by the faith, but doesn’t add more for his . . . amusement, as some do. He’s perhaps more ‘of the people’ than any of his kind, and the people have real affection for him.” He frowned. “Not the patricios and some of the other Blood Cardinals, perhaps, and the alcalde here resents his intrusions into city affairs, but the people will listen to him!”
Holland growled. He wasn’t a diplomat. Wasn’t a soldier, for that matter. He was just an old and very tired sailor who’d wound up in charge of a minor battle—and an escalating disaster. But he wouldn’t let hundreds, perhaps thousands of people—enemies or not—burn alive if he could help it. He’d tell the devil himself to carry a water bucket at the moment. “Give me ten o’ your Rangers, Mr. Hernandez. One o’ you fellas hoist me on your horse. I’ll go have a word with this ‘Don Hurac.’ You take Razine an’ get started roustin’ people out,” he told Sal. Musketry echoed back from the direction Ixtla went, and Holland spat. “Right in the middle of a god damn fight.”
