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Chapter the 12th

Siege: Smote, and Smote Again 
So strong in faith you dared
Defy the giant, scorn
Ignobly to be spared,
Though trampled, spoiled, and torn,

 

And in your faith arose
And smote, and smote again,
Till those astonished foes
Reeled from their mounds of slain . . . 

 

Still for your frontier stands
The host that knew no dread,
Your little, stubborn land's
Nameless, immortal dead.

Laurence Binyon
"To the Belgians"

 

 

 

Now the battle was begun in earnest.

Piers, with their access to Flatland and two-space, usually appear on high ground. Ambergris was an aquatic world with the Piers appearing on opposite ends of the world's one, long, low mountain range. Movement from the Lower Pier to the Upper Pier, here at AiEe, was mostly on high ground where the Guldur were at an advantage. Once they moved off this high ground they'd be in swamps, seas, and archipelagos where the aquatic Stolsh had an enormous advantage.

For hundreds of miles up and down stream, AiEe was the only point where the River Grottem was bridged, the only place where the river didn't have vast swamps on both banks. If the Guldur were coming across the river this was the only place it could be done without months of effort and vast amounts of engineering work to build roads and bridges in the swamps, where the Stolsh would be at a great advantage. The Guldur knew this, and they were not that stupid. So they selected the lesser of two evils and attacked head-on, struggling across the water and up the bluffs.

The low gray walls around Ai didn't so much loom over the river as lurk, clinging to the bluffs as though they were worried someone might try to steal them. Now their centuries of paranoid, stony diligence was paying off. They'd finally caught a thief, and they would make them pay.

It was like something out of a ancient epic poem. As Melville and his officers watched in amazement, the Guldur hordes attacked, and died. And died. And died.

 

A hundred thousand fighting men
They climbed the frowning ridges,
With their flaming swords drawn free
And their pennants at their knee
They went up to their desire,
To the City of the Bridges,
With their naked brands outdrawn
Like the lances of the dawn!
In a swelling surf of fire,
Crawling higher—higher—higher—
Till they crumpled up and died
Like a sudden wasted tide,
And the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide!

 

The batteries of mighty cannons atop the walls roared out defiance and death for days on end. Their stockpile of shot, shell and powder was immense. But so was the enemy army.

Their packmasters moved immediately behind each wave of Guldur. These were huge, brutal curs with long whips, goading their troops into a frenzy of bloodlust. Little was known about the distant Guldur empire. Even the most basic aspects of their culture and leadership were a mystery. The doggies who were now members of Fang's crew could do little but moan and hang their heads when asked about it. Clearly their leadership was brutal, goading the individual curs into acts that, without their leaders and ticks, they would ordinarily never be capable of.

The ticks were an even greater mystery to the alliance. They were foul-smelling little creatures with nasty habits, apparently not of basic humanoid stock. The Guldur leadership used them to control and incite the doggies, but exactly how this happened was an enigma.

Regardless of how they accomplished it, some highly effective combination of factors made it possible for the Guldur to goad their troops into endless, suicidal attacks. The Guldur hordes attacked in a rainbow of uniforms, each regiment dressed differently, with color-coordinated Goblan ticks on their backs. Each attacking figure needed to be killed twice, cur and tick. And they were. For all their pretty uniforms they died in great, horrid, ghastly gray heaps.

 

They had paid a thousand men,
Yet they formed and came again,
For they heard the silver bugles sounding
challenge to their pride,
And they rode with swords agleam
For the glory of a dream
And they stormed up to the cannon's mouth
and withered there, and died.

 

The might of a vast star empire was wasting away before their eyes. The Guldur members of Fang's crew couldn't bear to come to the ramparts and watch, as the others did on their off hours.

As the Stolsh defenders watched in horror, their resolution began to waver. Even the refugees from Scrotche, the Lower Pier city that had been conquered by the Guldur, were losing heart for the slaughter. Melville, Broadax and Hans found that even their fierce lust for vengeance was being fulfilled. The young captain was constantly busy in the councils of the allies. Encouraging them to fight and, yes, to kill their foes, now while they could. Churchill's admonishment was brought up again and again.

Fielder, self-centered as a tornado, as self-absorbed as a cat, was able to find complete comfort in his pragmatic, egocentric philosophy. "Do onto others before they do onto you" and "Better you than me," had served him well for a lifetime, and he saw no need to change now that a whole army was coming to kill him. But even he couldn't find delight in the enemy's slaughter. Only Ulrich, Melville's fierce coxswain, could continue to watch the enemy's death and destruction with undiluted pleasure.

 

The daylight lay in ashes
On the blackened western hill,
And the dead were calm and still;
But the Night was torn with gashes—
Sudden ragged crimson gashes—
And the siege-guns snarled and roared,
With their flames thrust like a sword,
And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver ford.

 

All too soon, the tide began to turn. Slowly but surely, inexorably, the enemy fought back. At great cost they emplaced siege guns. Vast batteries, battalions and brigades of siege guns, howitzers and mortars began to strike back at the besieged city. And the tide of public opinion began to turn. Each Stolsh soldier who died renewed the defender's determination, each civilian killed rekindled their hatred.

The curs had taught Melville to hate. Now they were teaching the Stolsh to hate. It was a lesson the Guldur taught well.

Each night the enemy attacked. Each night the assaults grew fiercer, ever more terrible and ferocious. The defenders' guns became worn, the crews grew weary, but the seemingly inexhaustible Guldur hordes attacked fresh each night.

* * *

What a fearful world was there,
Tangled in the cold moon's hair!
Man and beast lay hurt and screaming,
(Men must die when Kings are dreaming)—
While within the harrowed town
Mothers dragged their children down
As the awful rain came screaming,
For the glory of a crown!

 

The enemy counterfire became increasingly accurate. The defenders' guns were destroyed. Their crewmen died. Raw civilians filled the gaps and helped man the guns. Women bore ammunition up to the guns. Children carried water to their fathers and brothers.

Melville sighed and shook his head as he watched the defenders respond with shock and anger to their losses. It was as if they couldn't comprehend what their enemy would do to them. As though the reality of death and horror couldn't be grasped until it was upon them.

Early in World War II, back on Old Earth, Nazi Germany launched a series of aerial bombing attacks that became known as the Battle of Britain. These attacks on civilian targets accomplished little except to harden the hearts and steel the resolve of an entire nation, and it was this resolute determination which Churchill embodied in his famous speeches.

Islamic extremists made the same mistake early in the twenty-first century, launching attacks on civilian targets in the United States. These attacks unleashed the vast might of that huge, powerful nation in ways that the terrorists never dreamed possible.

Now the Guldur bombardment of the Ai population centers was having the same result. But the most resolute, determined people in the world could still be defeated. They just made the price higher. So they fought, and they died. And died. And died. Each day, as dusk fell, the ragged, exhausted, shell-shocked defenders wondered how they could survive another night.

It was then that the Honorable Milton Carpetwright chose to call Melville to his office. Closed curtains. No coffee. One question.

"Piss on golf?" a bemused Melville repeated.

"Yes. That's what he said. My marine detail seemed to think it was funny. Just what did he think he was doing, talking to me that way?"

Melville's brain spun, grasping for a way to communicate the concept. "Sir," he began, "you're from a mid-tech colony of Old Earth, so you may not understand the history behind the phrase. 'Piss on golf' is a term, a catchphrase, a political slogan. We studied this at the academy. The concept goes back to 1349 when King Edward III of England told the citizens of London that their 'skill of shooting' was being neglected, and he proclaimed that 'every one of the said city, strong in body, at leisure times on holidays, use in their recreation bow and arrows, or pellets or bolts, and learn and exercise the art of shooting . . . that they do not, after any manner apply themselves to the throwing of . . . handball, football, cambuck, or cockfighting, nor suchlike vain plays which have nor profit in them.' You see sir, the playing of such 'vain' pursuits is considered to be a sure sign of decadence in most worlds."

"Well," he blustered, "that's ancient history! None of the great leaders of any developed world would ever think that way!"

"Perhaps, sir. But many would consider Teddy Roosevelt to be one of the greatest leaders of the twentieth century, and he said, while he was President, that: 'We should establish shooting galleries in all the large public and military schools, should maintain national target ranges in different parts of the country, and should in every way encourage the formation of rifle clubs throughout all parts of the land . . . It is unfortunately true that the great body of our citizens shoot less and less as time goes on. To meet this [challenge] we should encourage rifle practice . . . by every means in our power. Thus, and not otherwise, may we be able to assist in preserving the peace of the world. Fit to hold our own against the strong nations of the earth, our voice for peace will carry to the ends of the earth. Unprepared and therefore unfit, we must sit dumb and helpless to defend ourselves, protect others, or preserve peace. The first step—in the direction of preparation to avert war if possible, and to be fit for war if it should come—is to teach our men to shoot.'"

The consul simply sat, with his mouth open, trying to digest this.

"Do you see, sir? In essence, what Teddy Roosevelt and King Edward III are saying is, 'Piss on golf.' " Melville continued, relentlessly, "most scholars believe that when the population starts playing games with no actual application to survival skills, and when they displace swordsmanship and shooting sports, then that's a certain sign that they have become decayed and are deserving of contempt. That's why, when you asked Ranger Westminster what was his 'secret,' he said the secret was to 'piss on golf.' It might overstate the position for rhetorical purposes, but that honestly is the standard answer. If you spend most of your time and energy on such pursuits, then in the minds of many people, it is a waste of human talent."

"Well," said the little man with a self-deprecating smile and a wave of his hand, "in my case, I have so little talent when it comes to golf that I'm not really wasting all that much." For just a moment Melville found himself liking the diplomat, as he continued earnestly, "Do people really think that way? Do they think that we are decayed and worthy of contempt if we aren't into shooting or fencing?"

"Well sir, there is nothing wrong with any sport, but if you spend most of your leisure time and take inordinate pride in these trivial sports then, perhaps, yes. And if your culture considers these 'vain sports' to be a higher good, while suppressing or deprecating the skills that contribute to a society's survival, then yes, across the galaxy such a world is subject to a degree of contempt. You think the Stolsh, or Sylvan, or any other major society respect you when you take them out on the golf course? The truth is just the opposite. Anyway, sir, let us hope the Stolsh have been living by that standard, because very soon now, our survival will depend upon the shooting skills of the average Stolsh militia member."

 

So the morning flung her cloak
Through the hanging pall of smoke—
Trimmed with red, it was, and dripping with
a deep and angry stain!
And the day came walking then
Through a lane of murdered men,
And the light fell down before her like
a cross upon the plain!
But the forts still crowned the height
With a bitter iron crown!
They had lived to flame and fight,
They had lived to keep the Town!
And they poured their havoc down
All that day . . . and all that night . . . 

 

Each morning when the dazed defenders looked out at the swarming, teeming enemy they felt despair, yet still they fought. One night the enemy finally succeeded in gaining a major bridgehead across the river, a salient that couldn't be dislodged, and the Guldur began to work their way up the slopes. Now vast numbers of hastily trained riflemen and musketeers manned the ramparts and added their fire to the withering barrages that swept down the bluffs. Yet still the enemy advanced.

 

So they stormed the iron Hill,
O'er the sleepers lying still,
And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns,
But the thunder flung them wide,
And they crumpled up and died,
They had waged the war of monarchs—and they died the death of pawns.

 

The sailors—Stolsh, Sylvan and Westerness—spent most of their time on board their ships waiting for any possible attack upon the Pier. They were under orders to stay out of the ground battle. They wouldn't tip the balance much on the ground. Barely trained militia could man the ramparts almost as well as a sailor.

Only Melville's two rangers were active in the front lines, happily serving as snipers to wipe out enemy gun crews and key leaders. Technically this was disobeying his orders, but the rangers' unique status as elite, attached, ground troops made this acceptable in his mind. Also, although it was dangerous on the battlements, Melville couldn't bring himself to stay away, and the Stolsh and Sylvan admirals were often there beside him.

As the battle unfolded it became increasingly clear that they would be defeated. The defenders' only real option was to hurt the hateful enemy as much as possible and then evacuate, and only well-trained sailors could do that. Militia couldn't fight through the blockading armada. And soldiers couldn't evacuate beloved family members. But first they would make the enemy pay, and pay, and pay.

 

But the forts still stood . . . Their breath
Swept the foemen like a blade,
Though ten thousand men were paid
To the hungry purse of Death,
Though the field was wet with blood,
Still the bold defences stood,
Stood!

 

Then one night at moonrise the Guldur king came to look upon that which he had wrought. He was a huge cur upon a white horse, dressed in a red-trimmed gray uniform. Surrounded by an elite cavalry regiment, he came down to the river's edge. All along the line the Stolsh cannons paused as the mortal personification of their foe looked across the river and gazed up at the bluffs. Arrogantly, without a flag of truce, he surveyed the battlefield.

 

And the King came out with his bodyguard
at the day's departing gleam—
And the moon rode up behind the smoke
and showed the King his dream.

 

For a moment the grim battle ceased, and only the constant, tragic cry of the wounded echoed down the slope. A writhing sea of maimed and wounded, crawling over the dead, envying the dead, cried out to their king.

 

Three hundred thousand men, but not enough
To break this township on a winding stream;
More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff
That built a nation's manhood may redeem
The Master's hopes and realize his dream.

 

Beside the Guldur king, riding as an equal, was a figure wearing a hooded black robe. Who could have dreamed that such a target would appear? Melville cursed and wished that his rangers were here, but they were contributing to the battle as snipers now; which was a daylight activity, and they were back at the ship getting some well deserved rest. The two BARs with expert gunners would have cut the enemy force to ribbons, but the precious BARs and their few thousand rounds of ammunition weren't here. They were being held back out of danger, for a key, future battle. Melville cursed himself. Who could have imagined that an opportunity like this would arise!

He yearned to give the order to strike down that distant figure, but only Broadax and Ulrich and his squad of marine bodyguards were with him. He grabbed a rifle from a nearby Stolsh soldier and took aim. Westminster or Valandil might have made it, but it was virtually an impossible shot for him, or for his marines. Nevertheless, he would try. He would do his best.

"On my command, open fire on the enemy leader!" he called out to his marines, and they eagerly leaned or knelt against the walls to take careful aim.

"No! Don't!" shouted the Sylvan admiral beside him. "We do not wage war on leaders."

Ulrich and Broadax gave synchronized snarls and drew their weapons, turning their backs to their captain, facing the surrounding Stolsh and Sylvan leaders and staff officers. The squad of Westerness marines never wavered as they waited patiently for their captain's order to fire.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" asked Melville. "War as you know it is over. Now you battle evil itself. Before you is an enemy who is no respecter of kings. They murdered our captain under a flag of truce, and they'll do the same to you. Here is an enemy who will intentionally, remorselessly butcher men, women and children, and then make the survivors envy the dead. You can no longer play by the old rules. Strike! Strike with every gun and pray that you slay your foe!"

The Sylvan admiral and the Stolsh commander exchanged glances. "He is riight," said the ancient commander, sadly. "The oold ways aare goone." With a deep, booming voice he continued fiercely, "Ie willl diee with this cityy, and befoore Ie diee Ie willl killl everyy Guulduur Ie caan! Aalll caannoon, aalll rifles, aat myy commaand, yoou willl fire aat the enemyy commaander!"

Many of the cannon had already been shifted to bear on this new target, the rest shifted eagerly, swiftly. The riflemen waited impatiently. The word rippled down the ramparts. Finally, as the moon rose and the enemy force began to pull back, the old general gave his order, in a deep booming voice, "FIIRE!!" Such a command would have echoed like a gunshot across the wide river valley, but in this case his "echo" was a vast array of cannons and muskets roaring out defiance and hate.

Melville and his bodyguards joined in the fusillade firing at the distant target. The Guldur bodyguards around the king staggered and fell. His mysterious, hooded comrade turned his horse and raced away. The king himself had his horse shot out from under him. He scrambled over the mounds of Guldur dead. He was a little gray louse upon a great, vast corpse. Then he disappeared into the darkness as a cloud came across the moon.

 

One barrow, borne of women, lifts them high,
Built up of many a thousand tragic dead.
Nursed on their mothers' bosoms, now they lie—
A Golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped,
A mountain for those royal feet to tread.

 

 

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