“Why?”
“People are fleeing from that way as well. They said most of the Horde’s encampments are down that way, hundreds of thousands of them, their old ones, women and cubs, yurts as far as you can see. That’s their summer pasturing grounds on what had once been farms before everyone was herded into the compounds or slaughtered.”
That was out then.
No. The anchor was the railroad. We try to flee south, this mob will spread out run, in panic, and it will turn into a hunt.
“All right, pull our men together; we start retreating back along the tracks. We’ll push the trains back up the line three or four miles. We string the trains along the tracks between three or four of the compounds and upend them. Loot out what weapons we can. Get into the cartridge works, for example, and drag out as much ammunition as you can. Start culling out this mob, tell them reinforcements are coming up the rail line but we have to hold out.”
“Are they?”
“We both know the answer to that, but we got to give these people some hope, some reason to turn and fight like men, rather than be hunted down like the cattle they were. If we can get ten hours, even eight, we should be able to fortify a good position, and then let’s see what those bastards will do.”
“You’re talking about hundreds of thousands of people out here,” Fen cried. “They’ll all die once the Horde recovers and attacks.”
“Fen, a year ago we all figured we’d die anyhow. All I asked then was to die killing the bastards. I still feel that way; how about you?”
A grin creased Fen’s weary face, he came to attention, and saluted.
“Fine, let’s get to work.”
Fen raced off, disappearing into the mob, shouting orders. Ketswana looked over at the engineer and motioned for him to start backing the train up. As the machine slowly lurched into reverse, he looked down at Hans. Picking up a dirty blanket from the comer of the locomotive cab he gently draped it around his friend’s shoulders.
“My friend, today will be a good day to die,” he whispered.
It felt like the old days, the assault on Caradoga, the fifth year of the War of the False Pretender. The city had been hit by the third atomic to be used in the war, the air assault was dropped upwind to seal off the retreat of the refugees and drive them back in to the inferno, since Caradoga had been a center of stiff resistance. That was the battle where he had lost faith in the cause. Ha’ark had joined the unit shortly after that fight. Perhaps it would have tempered him more to have seen it, Jurak thought.
The Chin city of Huan looked the same now. It had been their beacon for the last fifty leagues of the flight, first a glow on the horizon, then a soaring pillar of light, so bright that it filled the cockpit of the aerosteamer with a hellish red glare. It reminded him as well of the Sacred Texts, the destruction of the city of Jakavu for its sinful ways.
Explosions ignited in the city, entire blocks of cramped derelict homes, abandoned as the population had been driven to work in the factories, rail lines, or to the feasting pits, were now consumed, flaring to explosive incandescence. From the north to southern wall the entire city was burning. By the glow he could make out snakelike columns moving out of the gates to the west of the city, where more fires burned.
Even as his attention turned to that direction a glaring white-hot explosion ignited, soaring heavenward in a giant fireball. It was the powder mill. Damn all, so they were into the factories. A dozen plants or more, foundries, cannon works, powder mill, cartridge works, rifle works, all of them burning.
It was hard to see the works to the east and south. He never should have left old Ugark as umen commander. He was far too much of the old ways, and bitter as well for not having command at the front. For that matter those who were there were, in general, warriors not fit for the front anymore, or those who were never fit, willing enough to torture a defenseless cattle, but not so willing to face one that just might be armed.
It was always the same mistake, to group together the less competent, then send them off to some forgotten front.
And yet the war was so damn close to victory, he could feel it within his grasp. The raids, both here and across from Tyre, though brilliant, were indicators of a final desperation. All that was needed now was to hang on, to contain this madness, save the factories that were left. Once that was done, return to the front and make a final push as if nothing had happened at all. That would shatter their morale once and for all, and they would give in.
The wind was building; the column of smoke ahead rose ten thousand feet or more to the heavens, then spread out in a dark mushroom cloud that blotted out the Great Wheel. Even from two leagues out bits of ash and smoldering embers were raining down. The machine lurched, bounced.
Firestorm, the outer edge of the winds being sucked into the heart of the inferno, he realized, and ordered the weary pilot to turn about and find a spot to land along the railroad tracks north of the city.
He could see the troop trains lined up, over two dozen of them. In the distance the headlight of another one came down from Nippon, winked, and shimmered. The pilot spi-raled down, deciding to alight on what appeared to be open land parallel to the track where the long line of trains were parked.
A volley of bullets slashed through the cabin. A red mist sprayed into Jurak’s eyes as the machine lurched over. Wiping his eyes clear he saw the pilot, the side of his head a shattered pulp, slumped over the controls.
More bullets slammed into the cabin as Jurak leaned over, trying to push the pilot to one side and free the wheel.
He caught a glimpse of a locomotive, sparks soaring up from the stack, winks of light flashing behind it, rifle fire, and for an instant he wondered how the damned humans had gotten this far, then realized his own men were shooting at him in blind panic.
Jerking the wheel back he banked sharply, closing his eyes for a moment and turning his head away as the forward glass panes exploded, showering him with fragments.
Damn, after all this, to be killed by your own warriors, he thought grimly as he opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of several yurts straight ahead, pulled back up to go over them and felt the shudder of a stall shaking his machine. The controls were mushy, and the machine started to settle, tail first, then slapped down hard.
The forward cabin snapped off from the front of the machine, and, covering his face, he fell.
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then he felt the heat. The hydrogen bags were burning.
Kicking, clawing, he tore himself free of the tangled wickerwork of the cab and crawled out onto the grass. A clump of dirt sprayed up into his face, the crack of another bullet whined overhead.
“You damned fools, it is your Qar Qarth!” he roared.
Another bullet snicked past so close that he felt the hollow sucking pop of it as it brushed his face and then the shouts of a commander echoed, screaming to the warriors to cease fire.
Hesitantly, he came to his knees, knowing that to cower on the ground would be a loss of face. He stood up, brushing himself off. A commander of ten raced up, slowed, turned to shout for everyone to ground arms, then fell to his knees.
“Forgive us, my Qarth.” His voice was trembling.
“We thought.
“I know, that it was a Yankee airship.”
“Yes, my Qarth. Take my life in atonement.”
Jurak reached down and grabbed the commander by the shoulder, pulling him up to his feet.
“If I killed everyone who made a mistake, I don’t think I would have much of an army left.”
The commander looked at him wide-eyed, and nodded.
“Your umen commander, where is he?”
The trembling leader of ten pointed to the train. He could see that hundreds were coming over out of curiosity. In the long history of the hordes, he realized, never had a Qar Qarth arrived in such a manner.