Hope Renewed Page 4

  Terrible as an army with banners. Bartin Foley had quoted that to Raj, once; it was a fragment of Old Namerique, from the codices that survived the Fall.

  There were plenty of banners in the forefront of the Colonial host that crossed the Drangosh. The green flag of Islam, marked with the crescent, or with the house blazons of regiments and noble amirs. The peacock-tail of the Settlers; that meant Ali was present in person. And a black pennant marked with the Seal of Solomon in red. Tewfik. Ali’s brother, disqualified from the Settler’s throne because of the eye he’d lost in the Zanj Wars, but the Colony’s right arm nonetheless.

  Raj recognized the terrain instantly; he’d campaigned out east himself, five years ago. Generations of the Civil Government’s soldiers had taken their blooding in that ghastly lunar landscape of eroded silt, and all too many left their bones there. Just north of the border and the river forts, by the look of it, in one of the locations where the right—the western—bank was too high for irrigation. In consequence nothing grew there, except for a few bluish-green native shrubs.

  The oily-looking greenish-gray waters of the Drangosh were a kilometer and a half across. A bridge of boats had been built across it, big river-barges of the type used for trade up and down the river from Sandoral to Al Kebir and the far-off Colonial Gulf. Good engineering, Raj thought; as good as the Civil Government’s army, or a little better. The barges were lashed together with huge sisal cables as thick as a man’s waist; then timbers and planks were laid across to make a deck, and pounded clay half a meter thick on top of that to give the men and animals a firm surface. There were even straw balustrades on either side, chest high, to keep the beasts from spooking at the water curling up around the blunt prows of the barges.

  Men flowed across in a steady stream: Colonial dragoon tabors, battalions, riding in column of fours, mainly. Mounted on slender Bazenjis and greyhounds, lever-action repeating carbines in scabbards by their right knees, scimitars or yataghans at their belts, bandoliers over the chests of their faded scarlet djellabas. The sun glittered on the polished spikes of their conical helmets, and the pugarees wound about them fluttered in the breeze. Between the blocks of cavalry came guns: light pompoms, quick-firers throwing a two-kilo shell from a clip magazine; field guns, much like the Civil Government’s 75mms; and heavier pieces drawn by oxen. Those were cast-steel muzzle-loading rifles, heavy pieces up to 150mm, siege guns. And there was transport, light dog-drawn two-wheel carts, heavy wagons pulled by sixteen pair of oxen.

  Officers directed the traffic with flourishes of their nine-tailed ceremonial whips, each thong tipped with a piece of jagged steel.

  Where— Raj thought. Center’s viewpoint shifted to the western bank.

  In the Colony’s army, as in the Civil Government’s, infantry were usually second-line troops, good enough to hold forts and lines of communication. Ali—Tewfik, probably—had sent his over first, and they were hard at work. Swarms of men stripped to their loincloths or pantaloons, burned from their natural light brown to an almost black color, swinging picks and shoveling dirt into the baskets others hauled. They moved over the land like disciplined ants, and a pentagonal earthwork fortress was rising around the western end of the pontoon bridge. A fairly formidable one, too; deep ditch, ten-meter walls, ravelins and bastions at the corners with deep V-notches for the muzzles of the guns. The Colony’s green flag and the Settler’s peacock already flapped around a huge pavilion-tent in its center. Within, ditched roadways had been laid out, and neat rows of pup tents, heaps of stores, and picket-lines for the dogs were rising.

  Enough for—

  “Sixty thousand men,” Raj said. “Fifty thousand cavalry, ten thousand infantry or a little more to hold the bridgehead.”

  Heldeyz stopped, flustered. “Yes, heneralissimo,” he said; evidently the news of Raj’s demotion hadn’t reached the eastern marches yet. “That’s my estimate. How did you know?”

  “Logistics. If Ali’s planning on moving as far north as Sandoral, that’s the maximum number he can supply overland from the bridgehead. Our forts at the border can hold out for six months or more, even if the Colony put in a full attack—which they won’t or they couldn’t put that large a field army into action. They’ll have blockforces around the frontier strongpoints, but they can’t use river transport to supply Ali. So they moved north and crossed upstream of the forts.”

  Both the Colony and the Civil Government had put generations of effort into those defenses. The giant cast-steel rifles in the forts would smash anything that tried to steam past them on the river. That ruled out supply by riverboat.

  “Ali—Tewfik—must have built a railroad line to the east bank,” Raj said. “But on the western shore, it’ll be animal transport. Even with what they can forage, no more than fifty thousand men and riding dogs. They wouldn’t bring less, not for a full-scale invasion, and they couldn’t feed more.”

  Barholm shot Raj a considering look. “Go on,” he said to Heldeyz.

  The courier nodded. “I met—”

  observe, Center whispered in Raj’s mind:

  Heldeyz knelt before a throne. It was lightly built, of cast bronze fretwork, but inlaid with gold and gems in a pattern that flared out behind the seat like a peacock’s tail. A man in shimmering cloth-of-gold sat on it. Throne and man glittered when stray beams of light penetrated the lacework canopy that slaves held above it; a spray of peacock feathers sprang from the great ruby in the clasp at the front of his turban. Around the Settler stood generals and noblemen, a few Bedouin chiefs in goathair robes and ha’ik, mullahs in black, servants with flasks of iced sherbert, crouching clerks and accountants with paper and pen and abacus. None of them came within the ring of guardsmen, black slave-mamluks with great curved swords naked in their hands, or bell-mouthed riot guns at the ready.

  “Your master, the kaphar king, has offended me grievously,” Ali said, speaking fair Sponglish. “He has violated the terms of our treaty . . . and my father’s blood cries out for vengeance. No duty is more sacred. Yet Allah, the Merciful, the Lovingkind, enjoins us to peaceful deeds.”

  Ali’s face was heavy-featured but regular, the curved beak of the nose dominating, offset by full red lips and a forked beard. His eyes were large and brown, luminous and somehow disturbing. Apart from an occasional twitching tic of his right cheek, the expression was one of mild reason.

  An officer approached, going down on both knees and bowing until the point of his helmet-spike touched the glowing Al Kebir carpets that covered the ground before the Settler’s pavilion and campaign-throne.

  “Amir el Mumineen, Commander of the Faithful, the infidel emissaries from the city of Gurnyca crave the honor of your presence.”

  Ali’s eyebrows rose slightly. He leaned back in the portable throne, and servants stepped forward to spray rosewater from crystal ewers through rubber bulbs. He sipped sherbert from a glass globe through a silver straw and waited.

  “By all means, let them enter,” he said gently.

  The delegates ignored Heldeyz, prone on the carpet before the Settler. There were half a dozen of them, mostly in the dress of wealthy merchants, one in Civil Government uniform. They threw themselves prostrate; a gesture that only the ruler of the Gubernio Civil was legally due. In fact, it was forbidden to any other on penalty of death, but the Governor was in East Residence, and Ali was very much present before their gates with fifty thousand men.

  “Sovereign lord,” the head of the delegation mumbled into the carpet; he was an elderly man, sweating in the heat, the wattles under his chin sliding down into the expensive but dust-stained silver lace of his cravat. “Spare us.”

  Well, thought Raj. That’s straightforward enough.

  “Surely,” the alcalle of Gurnyca said, “we may make amends to Your Supremacy for any offense we have unwittingly given. We are but poor merchants, not the lords of State. We have no knowledge of high matters. Yet if wrong has been done you, we are willing to pay. Surely there can be peace—who would benefit
from war?”

  Ali smiled. “There may be peace, if God wills. There is but one God, and all things are accomplished according to the will of God.” He nodded, and added in his own tongue: “Salaam, insh’allah.”

  One ringed hand stroked his beard, and he flicked a finger at a clerk. “You spoke of payment. The tribute from you kaphar ingrates is in arrears to the extent of—”

  “—twenty-one hundred thousand gold dinars, O Lion of Islam,” the clerk said. “That is not counting interest on late payments at—”

  “Silence,” Ali purred, a lethal amusement in his voice. “Am I a merchant, to haggle? By all means, if this is made good, let there be peace.”

  Even under the Colonial guns, that brought a wail of protest. “Lord, Lord,” the alcalle said. “We are but one city! There is not that much gold in all Gurnyca, not if we stripped the dome of the cathedron and the fillings from our teeth.”

  “Both of which,” Ali pointed out genially, “will be done if the city is put to the sack.” He raised a hand. “It is the time of prayer. Surely, we may speak again of this later; and you shall return to your city with an escort and safe passage. In the morning, I shall give my final decision.”

  The scene shifted, the sun dropping toward the horizon and both moons high, looking like translucent glass against the bright stars. Date palms and orange groves stood in darkening shadow as the Gurnyca elders and Heldeyz rode their dogs through the belt of irrigated land surrounding the city. Water chuckled in the canals that bordered the fields, oxen lowed, but there was no sight or sound of human beings, no smoke from the whitewashed huts of the peasantry. Fields lay empty, scattered with tossed-aside hoes and pruning hooks; a manor stood ghostly among its gardens, with only the raucous sound of a peacock strutting along the tiled portico.

  Frontier reflexes, Raj thought grimly. They know when to make a bolt for the walls.

  There were no buildings or trees within a half-kilometer of the fortifications, only pasture and field crops; and the city defenses were first-rate. Raj remembered them well from the archives, which he’d memorized long before Center entered his life. Modernized a century ago, and then again in his father’s time. A clear field of fire, good moat, new-style walls sunk behind it, low and massive. Ravelins and bastions at frequent intervals, giving murderous enfilade fire all along the circuit, with a strong central citadel near the water. The guns were cast-iron muzzle-loaders like most fortress artillery, but formidable and numerous; there were some very up-to-date rifled pieces among them.

  Resolutely held by a strong garrison, the city could have held for months against the Colonial army—and it would be impossible to bypass. Taking it by siege would require full-scale entrenchments, pushing artillery positions forward inch by bloody inch, escalade trenches, until enough heavy howitzers were close to the wall and you could pound it flat. Even then, storming it would be brutally expensive. By that time, the Civil Government would have had time to mobilize its field armies in the East and march to the city’s relief. It was a strategy that had worked a dozen times in the endless eastern wars.

  If the garrison was up to strength and competently led.

  Center’s viewpoint switched to the escort, a full half-battalion of them, two hundred and fifty men. They didn’t look particularly impressive at first sight, dark bearded men, many with the tails of their pugarees drawn across their faces like veils. Raj looked for telltale signs: their hands, the wear on the hilts of scimitars and carbines, the way they sat their dogs, how often they had to check or spur to keep their dressing.

  These lads have been to school. Their commander was a stocky man, one of the ones with the tail-end of his turban drawn across his face. Scars seamed the backs of his hands, and another gouged down from forehead to nose . . .

  . . . and his eye was unmoving on that side. Tewfik. Raj cursed to himself. With a glass eye for once, rather than his trademark patch. He’d met the Colonial commander once, in a parley before the Battle of Sandoral, four years ago. What’s he doing there? It was a job for a minor emir, not the commander-in-chief.

  An image flickered through Raj’s consciousness, tinged somehow with irony: himself, leading the 2nd Cruisers through the tunnel under Lion City’s walls.

  Point taken, Raj noted dryly.

  The white dust of the road shone ruddy with the setting sun, streaked with the long shadow of the tall cypresses planted by its side. They came to the outer gatehouse of the city’s defenses, where the highway crossed the moat on stone arches. Civil Government troops opened the iron portals: infantrymen, slovenly-looking even for footsoldiers. Raj ground his teeth at the rust on one man’s rifle barrel. They eyed the Colonial troops with the prickly nervousness of a cat watching a pack of large dogs through a window. Heldeyz saluted their officer and opened his mouth to speak.

  Tewfik drew his revolver and shot the man in the face.

  A red spearhead seemed to connect the Arab’s hand and the guard officer’s nose for an instant, and then the footsoldier jerked backward as if kicked in the face by an ox. His helmet rang against the stone of the gatehouse, the last fraction of the clank lost in the snapping bark of carbines as the Colonials cut loose with their repeaters. They boiled forward, screaming in a wild falsetto screech. One of the Civil Government soldiers managed to get a round off, the deeper boom of his single-shot rifle painful in the confined space. Then he went down under a Colonial officer’s yataghan, still stabbing upward with his bayonet.

  The fight in the gateway lasted bare seconds, leaving Heldeyz and the city fathers sitting their dogs and gaping at the litter of bodies. Puffs of off-white smoke drifted by; the Colonials were wasting no time. Dozens of them stuck their carbines through gunslits in the doors and fired blind, as fast as they could work the levers, sending a lethal hail of the light bullets to ricochet off the stone walls within. Hand-bombs and axes pounded the doors open. The rest of the Colonial force formed a dense four-deep firing line at the inner gate, thumbing reloads from their bandoliers into the loading gates of their weapons. Heldeyz’s head whipped around at the high shrill scream of a Colonial bugle.

  Mounted men were pouring out of the orchards that ringed the city, spurring their dogs. The animals bounded forward at a dead run, covering the ground in huge soaring leaps as they galloped with heads down and hind legs coming up nearly to their ears on every jump. Rough hands threw the courier aside as the column poured into the strait confines of the gatehouse and broke out into the cleared ground beyond; a battery of pompoms followed, their long barrels jerking wildly as the gunners lashed their dogs. Iron wheels sparked on the paving stones, and behind them the roadway was red with crimson djellabas . . .

  Barholm’s fist hit the table as the courier’s words stumbled into silence. He didn’t have Center’s holographic visions to flesh them out, but there was nothing wrong with his wits.

  “They knew the wogs were there in force and they didn’t keep a better guard than that?” he said.

  “Sole Autocrat, the garrison was under-strength and badly trained,” Raj said quietly. “In any case, they paid for their folly.”

  “Yes,” Heldeyz said, his eyes remote. “They paid.”

  observe, Center said.

  The scimitar flashed in the sun. A heavy thack sounded, with the harsher wet popping of fresh bone underneath. The alcalle’s head rolled free; his body collapsed from its kneeling position, heavy jets of arterial blood splashing into the reddish mud that stained the ground. Clouds of flies lifted, then settled again. The executioner flourished his heavy two-handed curved sword ritually.

  The smoke from the burning buildings covered the smell, even from the pyramid of heads the Settler’s mamluks were building beside the outer gate. Few of the chained coffles of Gurnycians marching out paid much attention to it; their faces were mostly blank, eyes to the ground. Mounted Colonial guards urged them on with snaps of the kourbash, the long sauroid-hide whip. They were the lucky ones: pretty women, strong young men, craftsmen, and children
old enough to survive the trip south to the markets of Al Kebir.

  Ali pointed. “No, cut that one’s throat,” he said, indicating a Star priest with a thin white beard. The executioner lowered his sword.

  The old man’s eyes were closed; he was praying quietly as the black-robed mamluk stepped up behind him and drew the curved dagger. Ali giggled when the body toppled thrashing to the ground.

  “The halall,” he said, sputtering laughter. The ritual throat-cutting that made meat clean for Muslims to eat. “Is it not fitting, for these beasts?”

  Raj noted a mullah’s lips tightening at the blasphemy. Nobody spoke.

  The good humor on Ali’s face turned gelid as he gripped Heldeyz’s face in his hand and turned it to the heaps of severed heads.

  “Do you see, infidel?” he screamed. “Do you see?”

  A portly man in a green turban shoved his way through the crowd. A string of prisoners followed him, mostly girls in their early teens, with a few younger boys. He prostrated himself.

  “Oh guardian of the sacred ka’ba, you wished—” he began in a falsetto voice.

  Ali released the Civil Government courier. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. His hand flicked to a girl and a boy. “Those two, and don’t bother me again before the evening meal.” He jerked his head at his guards. “Come. Bring the pig-eating kaphar.”

  Wagons took up most of the roadway, oxen lowing under the load. Inside, in the cleared space within the walls that Civil Government law commanded, were huge heaps of spoils; officers were directing the troopers as they piled it in neatly classified heaps. Cloth, metalware, tools, coin, precious vessels from the Star churches and temples . . . Beyond, only a few buildings still stood. As Heldeyz watched, a merchant’s townhouse collapsed inward about the burning rafters, the thick adobe walls crumbling like mud. A ground-shaking thump, and the great dome of the Star temple followed; Raj recognized the sound of blasting charges.