Chapter thirty
Tenacity Under Siege
Marchland, the same day
Outside the stronghold, artillery boomed in a relentless rhythm. Inside, the sound became something heavier—a trapped thunder that rolled along the corridors and settled in the lungs. Smoke drifted through the windows in greasy ribbons, mixing with the metallic tang of spent casings and hot iron. Roy Sutter narrowed his eyes and adjusted the scarf at his throat, though it did little to keep grit from his teeth.
Verdancia’s artillery rained lead and fire on the nearest Iron Army ranks, joined by AlgonCree ships blasting from the river. The attack—predominantly from the east this time, along the old I-20 corridor—had begun before dawn, rockets bursting like lightning against a dark sky.
Soldiers shifted on restless boots, sweaty fingers tightening on rifles and bows, as Roy and his platoon awaited orders. Messengers rushed. Shouts competed with the gunfire’s percussion.
“Sutter, Hanover!” Lieutenant Butler shouldered his way past huddles of troops in the open mess hall. “Reinforce point bravo, the eastern redoubt. We’re taking heavy casualties there, and they’re running low on ammo. Order from the top. I’m bringing C Company, and we must hold.”
“Yes, sir!” both sergeants replied. Roy caught Jean Hanover’s eyes, giving her a steady nod.
“You heard him, soldiers,” Roy called. “Move out and keep your heads down.”
They marched double-time to form up with the rest of C Company in the parade yard. An explosion hurled a plume of ochre dust and shattered timber skyward. Roy’s stomach roiled. It landed in town. Did the Iron Army’s artillery not have the range, or were they bombarding civilians on purpose?
The fortress gates groaned open, and Butler raised his saber. “For Verdancia, for freedom!”
Roy and Hanover jogged side by side, their archers and sharpshooters keeping pace behind them. They raced past houses, shops, and churches, some standing proud, others battered with holes, smoldering plumes punching through. A rocket tore through the sky with a sound like fabric ripping, striking a reinforced stone citadel wall, and the ground answered with a concussion that rattled Roy’s ribs. Smoke climbed in thick black fists. Horses shrieked. Civilians screamed, rushing chaotically through the streets, children clutched in their arms. Bodies lay untended in the dirt and swirling dust.
Reaching the redoubt—a city wall erected from wood, brick, old autos, sandbags, and stones—Roy motioned the recruits he’d trained into position. Some wore faces white as sheets; others wore granite determination. One young man vomited before crouching behind the barricade. They gripped rifles and bows, fingers hovering over triggers, tugging at bowstrings.
“Every shot counts!” Roy shouted. “Don’t fire for the hell of it. If they charge, take them down.”
Bolstering his ranged troops, Roy ensured each was properly positioned behind cover with a clear shot. Braziers had already been lit, adding to the heat and smoke. Tension grew as the din beyond the barricade increased. Wheels grinding. Men shouting. The staccato crack of rifles ricocheting across hard terrain. Splinters and bits of sand flew, chipping away at their protective wall.
“Think of your families!” Hanover encouraged. “They are your root. You are their resilience. We will hold!”
A flare of light burst through the redoubt twenty meters to their right. Screams, and several defenders fell. The stench of scorched flesh hit Roy full in the face. But where was the report? No deafening noise accompanied that blast. Another fired over the wall, slamming into a two-story structure, which burst into flames.
“What the hell is that?” hollered Lieutenant Butler. He raced to the fore, hopped on a crate, and slapped binoculars to his eyes.
Roy held his breath. A shrieking rocket, that must have come from an AlgonCree ship, zoomed overhead, crashing into the enemy line, followed by a fresh cloud of smoke.
At another silent streak of light, Butler exclaimed, “Lasers! Rust it all, they’ve got three—nope, only two now—laser cannons.”
Artillery from the fort roared overhead, spitting iron and flaming projectiles into the foremost Iron Army ranks. “Make that one.” Lieutenant Butler hopped down, dropping the binoculars to hang by their cord. Artillery fire waned. “Get ready!”
Roy double-checked his rifle. Machine gunners readied their weapons in their nests, grenadiers grabbing explosives from nearby crates.
“Wait for the lieutenant’s command!” Roy called. Dust choked his throat. Sweat stung his eyes. The stampede of boots and rumble of armored-vehicle engines grew closer. “Steady!” Roy ordered his nervous recruits. They’d seen action a few days ago, but this was different. The invaders weren’t stuck in a bog. They were coming straight for them.
“Now!” shouted Butler. Somewhere in the distance, a bell clanged.
Roy, Hanover, and their platoons fixed targets in their sights and fired. Through smoke and dust, enemy soldiers fell, but the armored vehicles advanced unhindered. Could they burst a hole through the redoubt? The enemy could never breach the fortress, but they had to protect the citizens of Marchland.
From a tower, a Verdancian bazooka upended a LAV-25. A major was on his radio. More discharges from the ships. Waves of Iron Army troops fell. Holes punched through the barricade took out defending soldiers as well. Ash rainedon their position, coating rifles and troops. A peppering of enemy fire zipped down the line, wounding two of Roy’s recruits and another three of Hanover’s.
Roy paused to rub his eyes and clear his face. The major barked into a radio. Within seconds, AlgonCree artillery boomed, and Republic armor went up in smoke.
At the same time in a different part of town
“This way!” shouted Cassandra Cade. Her long auburn hair pulled back beneath a hard hat, the Lady of Marchland donned khaki pants and riding boots and waved a hand-sized Verdancian flag. Acting against the protests of her steward and household staff, she’d left the precarious safety of her two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old mansion, with its solid brick and white columns, and taken to the streets.
However, she hadn’t stormed out alone. Benjamin Hollis, the ever-proper steward, shed his formal attire and donned an ancient pith helmet to remain at her side. Her cousin, Suzanne, refused to be left behind. “I’m no safer in here than out there,” she’d declared. Two private security men shouldered rifles, strapped on swords, and fell in behind them as they exited the estate.