The Flying Warlord Read online

  Good God in Heaven! Nine and a half years had gone by since the thing had started, and they had to pick today of all days to show up.

  “Yes,” I said, “but it concerns something that happened long ago. Ask them what I can do for them.”

  They talked a while in hesitant Latin, their arms stiffly at their sides. Then they seemed to discover that they all spoke Italian and the conversation speeded up considerably, and their arms started waving. They brought out a thick sheaf of parchment, but wouldn’t let Father Thomas see it. They handed it to me. I looked it over. It was all in Latin.

  “They want you to read this and say if it is the truth,” the Father said.

  “Tell them that I’m sorry, but I don't speak Latin. I don't read it or write it, either.”

  They looked sheepishly at each other as Father Thomas translated what I had said. There was more conversation, and I finally got the idea that they weren’t allowed to tell Father Thomas what the case was about. They couldn't tell it to the interpreter and they couldn't speak my language. And it hadn't occurred to the silly twits until now that they might have a problem!

  They argued between themselves for quite a while, mostly in what had to be unfinished questions, for there were a lot of pregnant silences and glaring eyes. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, but I figured that either one could get me into trouble, so I just hung in there. Finally, they came up with what they thought was a suitable question, but maybe it didn't translate well.

  “What do you think is the truth of the matter in which you might think we are talking or”

  I had to puzzle that out a bit. Then I said, “If this is concerning the matter that I think it might be about, I regret to inform you that I made a solemn oath to Father Ignacy, who is now the Bishop of Cracow, in which I vowed to discuss the matter with absolutely no one. I therefore can’t answer what I think might be your question.”

  I had to repeat that three times before Father Thomas dared make a stab at translating it. Even then, they talked a long time in Italian before they got back to me.

  Father Thomas looked at me and said, “I think what they want to ask you is ’What should we do now?”

  “Tell them that they should talk the matter over with his excellency, the Bishop of Cracow. Draw them a nice map. Use small words and big letters. Point them on the road and wish them well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The clergy left and I got back to work. With any luck, the twits would run into a Mongol patrol and the next bunch the Church sent, in another ten years, might have some of the brains that God surely had intended to give them!

  We formed up at dawn on the morning of March first, the training completed. A hundred fifty thousand men stood at attention on the great concrete parade ground.

  I nodded to a priest, who said a quick mass without a sermon. Few of the men could have heard him, anyway. Then I nodded to Baron Vladimir, Hetman of the Army, and he led the troops in the oath that I had cribbed years ago from that of the Boy Scouts. It was fitting. Many of these troops weren’t much older than Boy Scouts.

  We raised our right arms to the rising sun, and a sixth of a million men chanted with me:

  “On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and to the Army. I will obey the Warrior’s Code, and I will keep myself physically fit, mentally alert, and morally straight. ”The Warrior's Code:“

  “A warrior is: Trustworthy, Loyal, and Reverent. Courteous, Kind, and Fatherly. Obedient, Cheerful, and Efficient. Brave, Clean, and Deadly.”

  Hearing that many men chant it, well, there was quite a difference from that first class of thirty-six men we graduated four years ago.

  “Hetman,” I said, “advance the army!”

  Vladimir raised his voice and shouted to his three kolomels, “Kolumns, advance!”

  And the three kolomels, the Banki brothers, turned to their eighteen barons and shouted, “Battalions, advance!”

  And eighteen barons turned to a hundred komanders and shouted, “Komands, advance!”

  And a hundred komanders turned to six hundred captains and shouted, “Companies, advance!”

  And six hundred captains turned to thirty-six hundred banners and shouted, “Platoons, advance!”

  And thirty-six hundred banners turned to twenty-one thousand knights and shouted, “Lances, advance!”

  And twenty-one thousand knights turned to a hundred twenty-six thousand warriors and shouted, “Warriors, advance!”

  And a hundred twenty-six thousand warriors shouted, “Yes, sir!”

  It made a nice ceremony with a good crescendo effect. It would have been nicer if we could all have swung out right then and there, but of course there were the war carts. The men marched out to them, and the first few hundred were already on the tracks, but it was almost noon before the last cart went out the gate. Not that the departure was disorganized, far from it. We were double-tracked and the men moved out at a quick march, but it takes time for thirty-six hundred big carts to move down a pair of tracks. The column was sixteen miles long.

  Yet once moving, they didn’t stop. Early on, we had found that eighteen armored men could easily tow a war cart filled with their arms and supplies, and with the rest of the platoon riding on it, so long as it was a railroad track. A cook stove was slung from the back of the cart, and three cooks could keep the men fed. There was room for the other half of the platoon to sack out on top of the cart or to be slung from hammocks below it. Working three hours marching and three hours resting, they could go on indefinitely, making six dozen miles a day without ever breaking into double-time. Most caravans were happy to do two dozen miles, and few conventional military columns could do that! Actually, providing we could stay on the rails, we could probably outrun the Mongols. Providing.

  I sat on Anna, watching them go out the gate. There was a big crowd outside cheering them on, dependents and refugees who were waiting to move into Hell as we left. Odds were that they were cheering more because we had vacated the premises than because we were going out against the enemy. Some of those people had been out there in the snow for days.

  But there were others whose job it was to worry about those left behind. My job was with the riverboats. I was about to leave for it when a strange company of troops came up. I say strange because they were out of uniform. They had turbans wrapped around their helmets. Then I spotted Zoltan sitting on one of the carts. I went up to him and rode by his side.

  “Zoltan, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Doing. sir? Why, I am riding off to war against my ancient enemies, the Mongols! We have many old scores to settle with them as you would say. And you must not call me Zoltan, sir. Not here. Now I am Captain Varanian of the two-tendy-eighth.”

  “But I never said that you could join the army! This is a Christian army!”

  “True, my lord, but you never said that we couldn’t, either. As to the Christians, we are not prejudiced, and we keep to our own company in any event.”

  “There’s a whole company of you? How is that possible? Eight years ago there were only fifty men in your band, and no children. How can there be two hundred fifty of you now?”

  “Oh, the word spread of your generosity and our security under your protection, my lord. Others of my people who were scattered over the world came to us in ones and twos and what could we do? Could we send them back to the cold and cruel world? So we took them in, even as you took us in. And now they repay you, with their lives, perhaps.”

  “I thought that there were only a hundred families of you.”

  “From Urgench yes, my lord. But there were many other cities in Khareshmia that is no more. Is it not enough that we join you in this Holy War?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is, Captain. Carry on.” I just hoped the Church never got wind of it.

  The last company in line were specialists in cart repair, set up to get stragglers back on the road. Once they went by, Anna and I rode the trail beside the track and the men cheered us
the whole way. I smiled and waved at them until my arm got sore, then switched arms. Good. Morale couldn’t be better.

  Halfway to East Gate, we passed the first of them, and Anna went over to the track. She said it was easier to run on the wood than on the ground. Springier.

  I got there to find the RB1 Muddling Through just rounding the bend with the RB14 Hotspur right beyond her. There were also three companies of troops waiting to board them. They hadn’t heard about the loss of the RB23 The Pride of Bytom, so I told the captain of the company that had been assigned to it that he would have to join up with the regular army. His boat fide was gone.

  I turned to Anna.

  “Well, girl, this is where we part company for a while.”

  She gave me an “I don’t like this” posture.

  “Now don’t start that again! We talked this over weeks ago. There wouldn't be anything you could do on a boat but take up space. Baron Vladimir needs your help. You like Vladimir, don't you?”

  She nodded YES, but sulkily.

  “I know you don’t want to leave me. I don't want to leave you either, but this is the sensible thing to do. Look, give me a hug.”

  I hugged her neck, her chin pressed firmly to my back.

  “Anna, you know I’ve loved you since we first met. You've always been my best friend, and no matter what happens, you always will be.”

  She signaled “ME TOO.” I felt a tear forming.

  “Good. Now be off with you, love, and take good care of Vladimir! I love you!”

  She galloped back west.

  Captainette Lubinski, the woman commanding East Gate, came out to report to me.

  “We have over twenty thousand people in there, sir. I tell you that they’re stacked up to the stone rafters! We can't possibly take any more!”

  “Then don’t,” I said. “There's plenty of room in Hell. Send all the newcomers there.”

  “But everybody wants to be in here!” she said. “They’ve all heard that this fort is invincible.”

  “It just might be. But there is a limit as to how many people it can hold. You’ll just have to shut your gates and tell them to walk another day to Hell. It's the only thing you can do! Oh, give them some food and water, of course, but send them on their way!”

  “Yes, sir, but some of them-”

  “But nothing, Captainette! It’s not what they want that counts! It's what we can possibly do! You have your orders. Dismissed.”

  She was crumbling already, and the battle hadn’t even started. I wondered if I should replace her, but I didn't know any of the other women here well enough to pick her replacement. Maybe she'd be all right.

  The boats pulled up to the dock and their front drawbridges went down. They must have been carrying a thousand refugees each.

  “Send those people on their way to the Warrior’s School!” I shouted to the troops standing around. “There's no room for them here!”

  Baron Piotr had gotten there before me, and he had his crew organized. He was to run Tartar Control, our command and control center, acting as my chief of staff. He only had two dozen radio operators and clerks under him, but in fact he would be running the Battle for the Vistula-under my occasional direction, of course.

  The RB1 Muddling Through was a command boat, the only one we had. It had six radios instead of the usual one, so we could cover all the frequencies that we used without retuning. It had an operations center with a big situation map, plus bedroom space for all the extra people. Aside from that, it was just another steamboat.

  It was late afternoon by the time the boats had taken on more coal and supplies, loaded the troops, and headed downstream. As we left, two other boats were coming up to replenish their coal. I gave their masters a chewing out over the radio for being so bunched up.

  RB1 EG TO RB18 EG AND RB26 EG. WHAT ARE YOU?

  TWO WOMEN WHO MUST HOLD HANDS ON THE WAY TO

  THE POTTY? THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOU SO CLOSE TO

  GETHER, I WILL PERSONALLY DRESS BOTH OF YOUR

  BOAT’S MASTERS IN BUNNY SUITS! CONRAD. OUT.

  Our range being as short as it was, the rules were that any boat between the sender and the receiver should relay the message onward. In this case, where all units concerned were at the same location, it shouldn’t have been relayed at all, but the substance of the message was such that I knew the radio operators would send it the full length of the line, which is what I wanted.

  Doctrine was that the boats should be evenly spaced.

  We had three-gross miles of river to patrol, upstream and down, with three dozen boats. They should have been two dozen miles apart!

  We got on the radios and had all boats report their positions and headings. If they bunched up, that meant long stretches of the river weren’t being patrolled. It also meant that boats might be so far apart that radio messages between them might not be received, and that could cut our communication lines in half. We put markers on a map and started getting things organized. By midnight, we had schedules for all of them, where they should be at what time, assuming they weren't involved with refugees or Mongols. Even then, they were supposed to try to make up the time, since the schedule had them moving at only half speed.

  At dawn, the RB9 Lady of Cracow reported a heavy enemy concentration across the river from Sandomierz. I told them to make a three-mile switchback, letting them hit the concentration three times. They complained vigorously when I ordered them to continue the patrol, but the RB20 Wastrel would be on station in minutes to take over the load.

  The next four boats by there did the same, while we saw only scattered patrols. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of boatmasters, excited at their first contact with the enemy, upset our schedules! As long as we could keep the bastards on the west side of the river, we'd get them all eventually.

  But when we got near Sandomierz, I saw that they hadn’t been exaggerating a bit. Through my telescope, I could see the Mongols had troops thirty deep along the shoreline. More importantly, at the shoreline men and horses were piled five and six high, and dead! There must have been twenty thousand dead along that sector of river, but they kept on coming. The riverboats were earning their pay!

  Chapter Fifteen

  I ran below decks and told Piotr to order the closest dozen boats to join the fun. We could just cruise up and down, raking them with everything we had except the flamethrowers, which had to be reserved for bridges.

  That done, I opened the hatch to go back up on deck. A dozen Mongol arrows flew in at me! Four stuck in my armor and by the time I had them pulled out, I had been hit two more times. But I wasn’t hurt. That armor really worked! So I ignored the arrows and pressed on.

  On deck, the men looked like pincushions and were laughing about it. The deck itself was so filled with arrows that you couldn’t take a single step without breaking some. Tadaos had the boat running a few dozen yards from shore, letting them hit us but making sure that we couldn't miss!

  I saw a warrior go down with an arrow in his eyeslit; and another man take his place at the gun before the first had hit the floor. But the medics were right there and there wasn’t anything I could do. Men running up ammunition moved with a skating motion that broke off the arrows so they wouldn't have to step on them.

  The noise was deafening. Both starboard peashooters were firing without letup, throwing six hundred rounds a minute into an almost solid mass of Mongol troops. Those iron balls had about the ballistics of a carbine bullet. When they hit a man, he was wounded or dead, armor or no armor. Shooting into that tangled mass, I don’t see how any of them could possibly have missed.

  The sides of the boat were two and a half stories high, with smooth surfaces so they couldn’t be climbed. But I saw a Mongol try to get in by grabbing on to the paddle wheel. I got my sword out, but before I could swing, the man was killed by one of the arrows flying at us. His body continued around and back into the water. I sent a runner to get a dozen men with pikes to guard the rear railing, and watched it until they
arrived.

  The Halmans were chunking away, and Tadaos was aiming one himself, laughing and shouting with every round that exploded above the mass. It was good shooting and better loading, because the loader had to time the fuse so that it exploded just above the heads of the enemy. Too high or too low and much of the effect was lost. The millions of rounds expended in training were paying dividends. Mongols were dying in droves.

  The gunners from our boat’s company of troops had their three dozen swivel guns set up on deck, adding joyfully to the carnage. Their rounds were far more powerful than those of the peashooters. You could see rows of three and four horsemen go down, all killed by the same bullet!

  I’d heard that in modem battles, a quarter-million rounds are fired for every enemy killed. We were averaging considerably better! In fact, I never saw anybody miss!

  And everything we were doing was soon multiplied by twelve, since the men in the other boats weren’t acting like old maids either!

  Any sane army would have run away from us, but these people weren’t that sane. A modem army might have dug in. but that hadn't occurred to these horsemen, and with luck, it never would.

  I could imagine Mongol commanders in the rear hearing about the slaughter and not believing it! I could imagine them sending observer after observer forward and not having any come back. Or better yet, going forward to see for themselves what the racket was and doing a bit of dying of their own!

  It was likely, since our gunners always went after anyone who wore a fancy outfit or looked like he was giving orders. Besides a loader, each gunner had an observer whose job it was to point out good targets, and a boat gunner’s helmet had “ears” on it pointing backward so he could hear what was being shouted at him.

  After a few miles of this, we started running out of Mongols, so Tadaos had the boat turned around and we went upstream for some more gleeful mayhem. The troops quickly remounted their swivel guns on the port railing and reloaded. There were so many arrows stuck to the inside of the port parapet that they had to get out their axes and clear away the gun ports before they could mount their weapons! The men on the port peashooters, who had been dying of frustration up to this point, got ready to get their inning in.