The screams, the chaos, and the blood raging across the fort’s parade ground in bubbles of Shartahk’s own hellfire was total. The garrison was already disintegrating, at least a dozen men flinging themselves through the open gate, running madly away from the inferno towards the beckoning safety of the portal to New Uromath. Makraik twisted around in that direction, lips drawn back in a furious snarl. He understood exactly why they were running, and it wasn’t simple cowardice, whatever his emotions might insist, but that couldn’t change the way he felt. He opened his mouth to curse them…then closed it with a snap as a solid line of mounted men came sweeping in from the southeast behind the high, shivering howl of the Wolves of Ternathia, sabers gleaming in the morning light.
* * *
“Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar has the fort, Sir!” Company-Captain chan Korthal announced sharply.
Arlos chan Geraith looked up from his discussion with his staff and brigade commanders, brown eyes narrowed, and chan Korthal grinned hugely.
“Second Battalion didn’t lose a man, Sir-not one-and the Distance Viewers and Plotters confirm that none of the Arcanans got away!”
“Arcanan losses?”
“The Battalion-Captain says initial reports are that they were very heavy, Sir.” There was less delight in chan Korthal’s reply, but he met chan Geraith’s eyes unflinchingly. “His current estimate is that at least half the garrison was killed, and many of the survivors are wounded.”
“Not too surprising, given chan Yahndar’s artillery, especially if the bastards never guessed it was coming, Sir,” Brigade-Captain chan Quay remarked. The 12th Dragoons was one of his regiments, and his expression was grimly satisfied.
“No, it isn’t,” chan Geraith agreed. “Your boys did well, Renyl.” He looked back at the chan Korthal. “What about their hummers?”
“The Distance Viewers say a shell or a mortar bomb must’ve landed directly on the hummer coop early in the attack, Sir.” Chan Korthal shook his head. “None of the Arcanans got to them to send off a message.”
“Good.” Chan Geraith’s voice was even more satisfied than chan Quay’s expression, and he turned back to his senior officers.
“As of this moment, we’ve just cut the Arcanans’ line of communications, gentlemen,” he said, resting the heel of his left hand on one of his bone-handled revolvers. “It’ll take them while to figure that out, though-or I hope to all the gods it will, anyway! And there’s always the pesky little problem of their dragons, isn’t there?”
His staff and brigade commanders chuckled harshly, and he thumped the palm of his right hand on the map before them.
“Renyl, your boys’ve had the lead all the way from Fort Salby. I don’t see any reason they shouldn’t keep it now. I want you on the way to Hell’s Gate within the next six hours.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Shodan,” chan Geraith turned to Brigade-Captain chan Khartan, 2nd Brigade’s CO, “I want the Twenty-Third on the way with Renyl. Three regiments should be enough to look after themselves, especially if the Arcanans are as lax in Hell’s Gate as they were here. I don’t want anyone shoving a hand into any buzz saws, but I want that swamp portal, and I want it nailed down hard. Clear?”
He looked back and forth between the two brigade-captains, his eyes hard, and they nodded back.
“Clear, Sir,” chan Quay said for both of them, and chan Geraith frowned at the map again.
“For the moment, I want you and the Ninth right here at Fort Ghartoun to secure this portal, Shodan. There’s probably going to be dragon traffic through it sometime in the next day or two, and what I really need you to do is to stop it dead, if you can.”
“Understood, Sir,” chan Khartan said. “We’ll do our best.”
“I know you will,” chan Geraith said, and glanced back at chan Korthal. “As for you, Lisar, pass the word to Brigade-Captain chan Sharys. I want him heading for the Failcham portal just as fast as he can move, starting fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Chan Geraith grunted in satisfaction. The two regiments of Brigade-Captain Losahl chan Sharys’ 3rd Brigade had remained behind east of Coyote Canyon. That position was actually almost four hundred miles closer to Failcham than Fort Ghartoun. Chan Sharys had been sitting there, champing at the bit to be off for Fort Brithik, for over a week now, but chan Geraith had been unwilling to send him on his way until he had Fort Ghartoun.
“As soon as I’m confident you and Shodan have the swamp portal locked down, Renyl, I’ll leave First Brigade in Hell’s Gate to keep an eye on it until the infantry can arrive while Shodan and I head for Fort Brithik in Losahl’s wake.”
His subordinates nodded, but their expressions showed what they were thinking, and chan Geraith didn’t blame them.
It’s twelve hundred miles from Ghartoun to Brithik, but Third Brigade’s only got eight hundred and fifty miles to go from Coyote Canyon. If the gods love us and every single thing breaks our way, he’ll already be on the Failcham portal before Harshu finds out he’s lost this one, but in the real world, some frigging dragon’s going to fly right over Third Brigade in the next few days and tell the bastards it’s coming. So it’s entirely possible chan Sharys will find himself taking the bastards on in an open field battle.
That was not a happy thought, and part of chan Geraith longed to be with 3rd Brigade precisely because of that probability. Unfortunately, it was even more critical to punch through Hell’s Gate and secure the swamp portal where Balkar chan Tesh and his men had died. That portal was far smaller than Hell’s Gate itself, which made it a much better “stopper” than Fort Ghartoun. And he had no intention of leaving the rest of that portal cluster in Arcanan hands, either.
Of course, they needed Fort Brithik just as badly as they needed the swamp portal. If they could close off Arcanan access to Thermyn from either direction, their own supply line along the steadily extending rail line from Kelsayr would allow them to build up a decisive superiority between Harshu and any possible reinforcements…or line of retreat.
Well, if chan Sharys has to fight, that’s why he’s got the Bison-mounted pedestal guns and the 37s. And the Arcanans won’t have the advantage of surprise this time, either. If they want to fuck around with my lads when we know they’re coming, they’re welcome to try it!
“All right,” he said now, returning his attention to his brigade-captains, “chan Bykahlar’s infantry ought to be on the ground here in Thermyn in the next week and a half, and Brigade-Captain chan Gorsad’s only twelve days behind him. Once the infantry takes over in Hell’s Gate we’ll move you and First Brigade up to support chan Sharys, as well, Shodan. And one way or the other, Third Brigade’s going to be rolling into Fort Brithik in about six days.”
He showed his teeth in a sharp edged, hungry smile.
“I would love to see Harshu’s face when he hears about that!”
Chapter Forty-Two
April 9
Not for the first time, Commander of Fifty Yoril Jerstan wished he’d been a battle dragon pilot. They got all the prestige, all the shiny medals, and-for that matter-all the girls. What transport pilots got was plenty of hard work, precious little thanks, and wind burn.
Transports lacked the cockpits formed into the back of battle dragons’ enormous, tree-trunk necks, and transport pilots got to ride in saddles, without the carefully sculpted scutes designed to protect strike dragon pilots from the airstream when their mounts reached maximum speed. Visored helmets and heavy leather flight suits made the transport pilot’s lot endurable, and there were times when the wild rush of air around his body as Grayscale’s mighty wings swept onward was as intoxicating as any whiskey. But over the long haul, day after day-especially given the hectic schedule necessary to keep the AEF supplied-windburn got old.