Hells march, p.39
Hell's March, page 39
“That’s likely the main reason for their entire ‘campaign’ upriver,” Varaa said, tail whipping.
Lewis collapsed his glass and looked at his watch. Every moment they waited allowed the Blood Priests to murder more people.
“Father was right, wasn’t he?” Leonor asked grimly, her pretty face contorted into a furious, impatient grimace. “This is the hard part.”
“Yes,” Lewis agreed, looking back at his watch. “And so was I, to order ‘no quarter.’ Well,” he continued, “I’m sure Mr. Anson and Mr. Beeryman know me well enough by now to understand when I say ‘an hour,’ I really mean ‘forty-five minutes,’ and they’ve had plenty of time. Deploy your lancers, if you please, Mr. Lara.”
“With pleasure, Coronel Cayce!” Lara barked, whirling his horse around. “Teniente Espinoza! Desplegar el regimiento!”
The 1st Yucatán Lancers, nearly seven hundred men, surged up on the plain and peeled out to the sides to form four lines, nearly four hundred yards long. A few family groups of smaller herbivores bolted. Only about twice the size of a cow, they looked something like Har-Kaaska’s strange mount going primarily on four legs instead of two. Even before the command to do so, troopers were whipping leather covers off razor-sharp lance heads and tucking them in valises. Many of those lance heads were iron, captured from the Doms, and despite daily polishing, wore a dusty red layer of rust from dew-damp covers. The rest were a kind of bronze, made from the same alloy that would hopefully make cannon one day, and they gleamed a bright reddish gold. All were quickly returned to an upright position, and those with carbines swiftly loaded and primed them. Those without them checked their swords. Leonor called on the Company H Rangers Boogerbear left to deploy behind the lancers, near the center. As quickly as this occurred, and despite the bushy-headed grass standing as tall as the stripey horses’ bellies, at some point the Doms took notice.
Pandemonium erupted in the village and red-robed Blood Priests surged back and forth like chickens chasing bugs, possibly hearing conflicting orders from surprised leaders. Dom soldiers looked just as confused at first before attempting to form a line, but then prisoners broke through the thinning cordon and attacked them or tried to run. At the same time the Blood Priests were shrieking for the soldiers to defend them, others were screaming at them to stop the prisoners. Muskets flashed and thumped.
“Uncase the colors!” Lewis roared, his order repeated down the lines. There were some Itzincabos and Techonos in the ranks, but most were still Uxmalos and Ocelomeh. In addition to company guidons, the Uxmal saltire was joined by the new “Jaguar Banner,” and the red, white, and green tricolor pennant, reminiscent of the Republic of Mexico, standing for Lara’s 1st Yucatán. The Rangers used the Stars and Stripes, like other American regiments in the army, and Lewis was struck by its proximity to one representing enemies on another world, side by side on this one.
“Advance your regiment, Mr. Lara,” Lewis said.
The Doms in the village grew more frantic when the lines of horses began to move at a purposeful, rippling trot, but there was very little they could do. Few were experienced soldiers. Those who were likely already knew they were doomed. About half the four hundred or so generally rear-area “city” troops the Blood Priests had collected formed a ragged line, but it immediately started melting when the men realized how few they were. “Senior” Blood Priests, as best they could be determined—most often by the bizarre hats they habitually wore, or staffs they carried topped with jagged crosses—were screaming for their own to join the line. Almost all Blood Priests were armed with short swords, but few had any idea how to use them against anything but cowering victims, so they started grabbing local hunting spears or farm implements, even a few dropped muskets they probably didn’t know how to use. When the relentlessly approaching lancers leveled their weapons and charged—one of the most terrifying things even seasoned soldiers can stand and face—most of them fled as well. An embarrassingly ragged and ill-aimed volley from less than two hundred muskets met the lancers as they drove their charge home, killing several horses and wounding a score or so more, while emptying half as many saddles. Just enough to further infuriate the men who’d come to kill them. And they did.
Lewis, Leonor, and Varaa had edged forward as they charged, leading a small wedge of Rangers in among the lancers and up around Capitan Lara. Lara would’ve preferred that Lewis stay back, but wasn’t in a position to suggest it since he was leading from the front as well. So it was that the four of them, surprised to be joined by the Holcano “war leader” Kisin, were galloping side by side at the center of the charge when it slammed into the crumbling Dom line. Lances bowed as blades struck home in chests (or backs) of screaming men and the lancers merely loosened their grip, letting their weapons slide in their hands as their horses pounded past, then pulled them from fallen bodies to bring them forward again. Some slowed among the scrambling enemy, stabbing downward, overhand, while carbines flashed and boomed.
Swords and sabers came out slashing, including the basket hilt “backsword,” or partially double-edged rapier, Varaa carried. She’d never even bothered with her musket, and it remained slung across her back. She fought like the demon the Doms thought she was, and her sword moved like a striking snake.
Leonor’s little Paterson Colts barked sharply, over and over, dropping the more fanatical Doms still trying to pull the leadership down. In less skilled hands, the .36 caliber weapons were underpowered for this kind of fight. They’d wound their victims, even kill them—eventually—but rarely stopped them at once. Leonor was very skilled, however, blowing bloody holes in heads and faces and chests without even aiming.
Lewis had drawn his prized, engraved M1840 artillery officer’s saber, and was hacking down about him on either side, the heavy blade striking deep to flay heads and shoulders and necks and backs. His mare, Arete, did her part, stomping and kicking and bowling men down with practiced ease.
Leonor could only watch in admiration. Her little “native” horse, Sparky, had learned not to jump or buck when her pistols fired, even right by his head, but he only endured the fight, didn’t actively join it. She absolutely adored Arete—the horse had surely once saved her life—and imagined the blood of some famous warhorse coursing through the mare’s veins. Her father’s gelding, Colonel Fannin, could participate in a fight as well (despite his name), and she wondered what it took, besides experience, to make them do that. A musket ball whizzed past her, and she refocused. Cocking her Paterson, she snapped a shot at a running Blood Priest. The back of his head seemed to explode, and his conical hat twirled away as he slammed down in the bloody village dirt, face-first.
Leonor’s might’ve been the last nearby shot. Most everyone else’s firearms were empty, and their desperate stand shattered, the defending Doms were streaming away just as Lewis predicted. There was still screaming, from wounded on the ground and people on crosses. Others joined them briefly when patrolling lancers stabbed down at crawling or squirming men, or chased those few who jumped up to run and took them from behind. Not a single Dom soldier or Blood Priest had tried to surrender—yet. Leonor figured some might before long, when they realized there was no escape.
Then Lewis was beside her, breathing hard and sweating, a kind of savage grin on his face. Bright white teeth gleamed in his brown, blood-spattered beard. His saber, already drying and crusted red, was in his hand and would remain there until he could clean it. “Short and sharp,” he said of the fight. “They’ve had quite enough, here.” He looked at her. “Most ran back the way they came, where your father will entertain them.” His expression clouded as he looked past her. “Stop that at once, Mr. Kisin! I thought you meant to set an example for your people, and all the others here.” He waved toward a fairly large number of villagers, still huddled where the Doms put them. They looked shocked, numbed, and had to be wondering what, if anything, had changed for them. Who were these fierce “blue” people? What kind of demon was the bloodstained furry one with a tail? But Kisin had jumped from his horse, dropped his bloody, flint-studded club, and been hooting loudly as he labored to sever a Blood Priest’s head with a dull copper knife. Now he stood, looking contrite.
“My apologies, Colonel. It’s just been so long since I enjoyed such a sweeping victory. . . . Even the fight at Cayal brought little joy. I wasn’t really one of you then, and not only was I fighting my own people, it didn’t end like this. I’m . . . afraid I let the moment move me too much.”
“I understand, but don’t do it again,” Lewis scolded. “Besides, this isn’t over. Where’s Mr. Kimichin? Ah, there he is, with more of the villagers. Go with him and help take those poor people down.” He pointed at a moaning form on a cross with his saber.
“What do you mean, not over?”
They felt a disconcerting pressure, and a deep poom-poom, poom-poom, poom-poom roared over them from the forest around the road to the northwest. Canister crackled through the woods toward the river, and more screams echoed in the trees. Then came the booming clatter of heavy carbine fire. Obviously, Anson and Captain Olayne had arranged their reception at a slight angle from the village so it wouldn’t be directly downrange.
“I thought you, of all people, understood,” Lewis replied. “Just as your Holcanos had to join us or die, this isn’t a war for glory—chasing the enemy from the field. Kill a few, take trophies and captives, and scatter the rest, only to fight them again. This isn’t a game. Look around you!” He pointed at the crosses with his saber again. “There can’t be peace with people who do that!” He scowled with distaste. “You may have eaten your enemies, but you ate your own dead as well. Disgusting? Yes. Savage? Yes. Unacceptable to the rest of us you chose to join? Absolutely. Evil? Not necessarily. It’s just the way you were. Some might say, ‘different cultures, different ways,’ and let you do as you want.” He shook his head. “But this is my army, and you’ll behave as I require if you want to be part of it. Your people will do the same if they wish to remain in the Alliance.” He frowned back at the traumatized villagers while Kimichin led others to help them. “Causing such suffering, heaping it on solely for the sake of it and to achieve more power through terror—and despite what they say, that’s the real reason for those behind it all—is pure satanic evil and must be destroyed. You can’t reason with it, play war with it, or hope it’ll leave you alone. You have to kill it.”
The firing in the woods was Ig louder, closer, and Lewis looked up. “And as I said, there’s still work to do. Many of those who ran away are about to be back.” The section of guns with Boogerbear, under Lieutenant Barca, roared as well. “From just about everywhere,” Lewis added wryly.
“Then I shall fight!” Kisin exclaimed, dashing back toward his horse.
“No, you’ll set the ‘example’ of doing what I told you,” Lewis countered more harshly. “Mr. Lara! Dismount your lancers and assemble across that road.” He pointed. “And detail half a company or so to search the village for Doms who’ve gone to ground. If there are locals sufficiently recovered from their ordeal to suggest likely hiding places, that’ll help.” He paused. “And remember: I want prisoners—but not many.”
Then he looked at Leonor, and her heart did a kind of double thump when she saw the grim expression his face had assumed suddenly brighten with a depth of fondness, directed at her, that she’d seen only a very few times. “Take your company of Rangers and block the road from the other direction, if you please, Lieutenant Anson.”
Leonor smiled back. Holstering the Paterson in her hand, she saluted. “Of course, Colonel Cayce.”
Varaa was grinning, blue eyes wide and bright as she watched the byplay between them. Everyone else knows. I think they’re finally starting to figure it out for themselves, she thought. Good. They need each other. I wish that I . . . She sighed. “I’ll remain with you, if you don’t mind.”
Lewis smiled at her as well. A different smile. “I appreciate it, as always.”
There was no more cannon fire after those first, thunderous rounds, but firing intensified in the woods to either side and down by the river as both detachments of Rangers converged on the village. Lewis expected a panicked surge of Doms and Blood Priests to lap back against the dismounted lancers, now reinforced by irate, almost frantically furious villagers who, if they had no idea who their saviors were, could clearly recognize them as such. As it turned out, only a few wounded, terrified Dom survivors filtered back, and at the insistent urging of the villagers and in accordance with Lewis’s orders, these were shot on sight. Eventually, a little after noon, the bulk of the Rangers came in, roughly leading a short string of yellow-and-black-clothed Doms and a few red-robed priests all roped together. They were followed by the clanking, creaking rumble of limbered guns. Consulting his watch, Lewis frowned and called for the supply wagons and their escorts to approach the village. More shots were still thumping and popping down by the river as Anson reported.
“You said you didn’t want many prisoners,” he said with a trace of irony, tilting his head toward the few they had. One of the biggest hurdles Anson and Lewis had had to overcome to become true friends dated to their old war against Mexico and Anson’s disinclination to bring in prisoners then. “Actually kinda knotty gettin’ as many as I did, after the fellas saw what was happening here. Hard to miss when we crossed in the open, and them that didn’t see for themselves heard it from others. Then again, though they were keen to get away, not many of the bastards wanted to surrender.” He shrugged. “Fair enough, an’ glad to oblige.” Another short flurry of shots echoed in the woods. “Boogerbear sent scouts to cast about as far as the ruckus should’ve carried, and he’s beatin’ the bushes for any we might’a missed. Not many.” He snorted. “Bright yellow an’ red is hard to hide.”
Lewis was aware of the irony and might even consider his own change of position hypocritical—he hated hypocrisy with a passion—but hated what he’d seen happening here even more. “Mr. Lara,” he barked, “see to your wounded and combine any prisoners you took with those Mr. Anson secured. Then bring Mr. Olayne and join Mr. Anson and myself with Mr. Kimichin over there. He seems to have collected some local representatives.”
Lara, Anson, and Olayne turned their commands over to their deputies, telling the men to refresh themselves and fall out in the shade but stay with their companies. No one knew if they’d be stopping.
“What about them?” Anson tilted his head toward the prisoners again. There were fourteen Dom soldiers and eleven priests, most with some wound or other. Lewis found it hard to believe there were so few, considering there might’ve been six to eight hundred of the enemy and the latest count of their own dead and wounded was twenty-six and forty-one respectively. Sure, there were plenty of Dom bodies scattered through the village, and there’d been a lot of shooting in the woods, but it was difficult to accept that their victory had been so one-sided and complete.
“Bring them,” Lewis replied, pulling Arete’s head around and urging her toward the growing group of villagers encircling Kimichin and Kisin. All those who’d been crucified had been taken down, and army healers, mostly women in the same uniforms as men but without any branch trim, were attending the ones still alive, as well as several wounded lancers. The impaling poles were coming down now.
“What’re you gonna do with ’em?” Leonor asked about the prisoners. Lewis didn’t answer as he, Varaa, and Leonor finally stepped down from their mounts. Varaa whispered aside to her, “I doubt he will do anything, except ask questions.” Leonor suspected she knew what the Mi-Anakka meant.
Tearfully grateful people surged around them, welcoming them as saviors and liberators. This was the first time that had happened. There’d been celebrations in Uxmal after the victory at the Washboard, and those who’d gone through Itzincab were welcomed with relief, but the Holcanos had received them with fire and death and even Kimichin’s people were reserved and afraid. These people knew they’d all be dead if not for the Allied Army.
“Just smile,” Lewis said as Corporal Willis shoved his way through the crowd of very smelly villagers. The soldiers were smelly in different ways, but all were clothed. Many of the villagers were still entirely naked, clutching at them, caressing and hugging them. Those wearing clothes dressed much like Kimichin’s people: in hides mixed with bright fabrics. Willis finally secured Lewis’s saber and started wiping it down with a grungy rag dampened in hot water.
“An’ keep yer hands on yer weapons,” Anson said, “to keep ’em from hurtin’ themselves,” he quickly added, gently slapping hands away from his revolvers. These folk were no deliberate threat.
A strained voice called for the people to part, and they quickly did so, revealing a tall, handsome older woman draped in a Blood Priest’s robe. Like many others, she’d been dragged from her home, where she’d been sleeping in the nude. Her long gray hair was clotted with blood, so she’d probably been bludgeoned as well.
“This is . . . You’d call her Alcaldesa Consela. She’s the . . . head woman here,” Kimichin advised.
“You saved us,” the woman said in strongly accented but understandable Spanya. “I owe you . . . everything,” she added simply.
Lewis, Anson, Lara, and Olayne all swept their hats from their heads and bowed. “It was our pleasure, ma’am,” Lewis replied. “We’re at war with the Dominion, and benefitting others by destroying some of them is reward enough for us.”
Consela bowed in return. “In that case . . . what will you do with the ones who still live?”
“I’ll question them,” said Lewis, “and deal with the soldiers in our own way. The Blood Priests will face your justice, of course.”
“Oh yes. I see,” Consela murmured, almost hungrily. “Then I beg you to question them quickly—so they can be mine.”
